SONG IN HONOUR OF MRS OSWALD. 155 OH, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN? TUNE-We'll gang nae mair to yon Town. Oh, wat ye wha's in yon town, Now haply down yon gay green shaw, How blest ye birds that round her sing, The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms And welcome Lapland's dreary sky! My cave wad be a lover's bower, And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. Oh, sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doomed to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me-spare me, Lucy dear! For while life's dearest blood is warm, She has the truest, kindest heart! 1 In original manuscript, ‘joy.' Lucy Johnston, daughter of Wynne Johnston, Esq., of Hilton, was married 23d April 1793, to Richard Alexander Oswald, Esq., of Auchincruive, in the county of Ayr. A portrait of the lady adorns the work entitled The Land of Burns, where a brief notice of her is wound up as follows: 'Alas for beauty, fortune, affection, and hopes! This lovely and accomplished woman had not blessed Mr Oswald above a year beyond this period, when she fell into pulmonary consumption. A removal to a warmer climate was tried, in the hope of restoring health, but she died at Lisbon, in January 1798, at an age little exceeding thirty.' It appears from this letter, that Burns was in the habit of submitting his verses to the judgment of his friend Syme, and abiding by the decision. It may be added, that he had likewise a critical friend in Collector Mitchell, who, having been educated for the church, possessed a mind not ill qualified to judge of literary compositions. At his death, a whole sheaf of first copies of poems and songs by Burns was found in the collector's repositories, on which it was understood that he had been asked to give his opinion. The bundle was lost by the family, and has never since been heard of. I had an opportunity, in 1826, of conversing with Mr Syme regarding Burns. He was a very good specimen of the Scotch gentleman of the latter part of the eighteenth century-a good deal of the bon-vivant, yet intelligent, well-bred, and full of anecdote. He referred with pride and pleasure to the meetings he had had with Burns in the same room in which I now found him living (in a villa called Ryedale, on the Galloway side of the river.) He expatiated on the electric flashes of the poet's eloquence at table, and on the burning satiric shafts which he was accustomed to launch at those whom he disliked, or who betrayed any affectation or meanness in their conversation. I particularly remember the old gentleman glowing over the discomfiture of a too considerate Amphytryon, who, when entertaining himself, Burns, and some others, lingered with screw in hand over a fresh bottle of claret, which he evidently wished to be forbidden to drawtill Burns transfixed him by a comparison of his present position with that of Abraham lingering over the filial sacrifice. Another souvenir of the poet's wit referred to a person who bored a company for a considerable time with references to the many great people he had lately been visiting No more of your titled acquaintances boast, INTIMACY WITH JOHN SYME. 157 Mr Syme, in 1829, thus wrote regarding the personal appearance of Burns at the time of their intimacy: 'The poet's expression varied perpetually, according to the idea that predominated in his mind; and it was beautiful to remark how well the play of his lips indicated the sentiment he was about to utter. His eyes and lips, the first remarkable for fire, and the second for flexibility, formed at all times an index to his mind, and, as sunshine or shade predominated, you might have told, a priori, whether the company was to be favoured with a scintillation of wit, or a sentiment of benevolence, or a burst of fiery indignation .... cordially concur with what Sir Walter Scott says of the poet's eyes. In his animated moments, and particularly when his anger was roused by instances of tergiversation, meanness, or tyranny, they were actually like coals of living fire.' I There is evidence from the bard himself, that he both looked up to Mr Syme as a judge of literature, and loved him as a companion. Sending him a dozen of porter from the Jerusalem Tavern of Dumfries, Burns accompanied the gift with a complimentary note Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind, At Syme's own house, being pressed to stay and drink more, Burns hesitated; then taking up a tumbler, he scribbled on it— There's Death in the cup, sae beware- The man and his wine's sae bewitching. So late as the 17th December 1795, when Burns was in declining health, being invited by Syme to dine, with a promise of the best company and the best cookery, he accompanied his apology with a similar compliment— No more of your guests, be they titled or not, Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Syme possessed vivid talents, which Dr Currie regarded with such respect, that he pressed him to undertake the editing of the poet's life and writings. That he was also a man of probity and honour, a long respectable life fully testifies. Yet it is also true, that Mr Syme, like many other men of lively temperament, could not boast of a historical accuracy of narration. He most undoubtedly was carried away by his imagination in his statement regarding the composition of Bruce's Address to his troops. So also he appears to have been in a story, of which several versions have been given to the public. It relates to a conversation on some particulars of Burns's personal conduct, which took place in one of their social evenings at Ryedale. 'I might have spoken daggers,' says Mr Syme, 'but I did not mean them: Burns shook to the inmost fibre of his frame, and drew his sword-cane, when I exclaimed: "What! wilt thou thus, and in mine own house?" The poor fellow was so stung with remorse, that he dashed himself down on the floor.' This anecdote having been unluckily communicated to the public in an article in the Quarterly Review by Sir Walter Scott, an undue importance has come to be attached to it. When the matter was rigidly investigated, nothing more could be substantiated than that Syme and Burns had one evening become foolishly serious in the midst of their merry-making-that some allusions by the one to the sins or irregularities of the other, led to a piece of mock-heroic very suitable to the occasion, Burns touching the head of his sword-cane, as implying that his honour might be avenged for any indignity, and Syme making a corresponding tragic start, with the words: What! in mine own house?' It was very natural for Mr Syme to retain but an obscure recollection of the incident; but he cannot be acquitted of culpable incautiousness in allowing it to come before the world with a shade of seriousness attached to what never was more than a piece of rodomontade. BURNS TO MR THOMSON.1 [After transcribing the song, Oh, wat ye wha's in yon Town? the poet goes on:-] Your objection to the last two stanzas of my song, Let me in this ae Night, does not strike me as just. You will take notice, that my heroine is replying quite at her ease, and when she talks of 'faithless man,' she gives not the least reason to believe that she speaks from her own experience, but merely from observation of what she has seen around her. But of all boring matters in this boring world, criticising my own works is the greatest bore. 1 In original, there is no date or post-mark. Currie gives as a date May 1795. SONG'ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.' ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. TUNE-Where'll bonnie Ann lie? or, Loch-Erroch Side. O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay! Again, again that tender part, Say, was thy little mate unkind, Thou tells o' never-ending care; Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song.1 159 ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. TUNE-Aye wakin 0. CHORUS. Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, Is on her bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish? Is on the couch of anguish? Every hope is fled, Every fear is terror; Slumber even I dread; Every dream is horror. This sentence appears in Currie's edition, but not in the original manuscript. |