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Oh, happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, 'I'm thine for ever!'
While mony a kiss the small imprest,

The sacred vow, we noor should sever.
The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae,

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery through her shortening day,

Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow !
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ?
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ?
Bravo! say I; it is a good song. Should you think so too (not else),
you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses.
Autumn is my propitious season.

I make more verses in it than all the year else. God bless you!!



August 1793. You may readily trust, my dear sir, that any exertion in my power is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you: the very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication ; so get a verse from him now and then, though I have no objection, as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business.2

Is Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad, one of your airs ! I admire


• While he lived in Dumfries, he had three favourite walks : on the Dock-Green by the river-side-among the ruins of Lincluden College--and towards the Marting. don-ford, on the north side of the Nith. This latter place was secluded, commanded a view of the distant hills, and the romantic towers of Lincluden, and afforded soft greensward banks to rest upon, and the sight and sound of the stream. Here he composed many of his finest songs. As soon as he was heard to hum to himself, his wife saw that he had something in his mind, and was prepared to see him snatch up his hat, and set silently off for his musing-ground. Woen by himself, and in the open air, his ideas arranged themselves in their natural order-words came at will, and he seldom returned without having finished a song. In case of interruption, he set about completing it at the fireside ; he balanced himself on the hind-legs of his arm-chair, and rocking to and fro, continued to hum the tune, and seldom failed of success. When the verses were finished, he passed them through the ordeal of Mrs Burns's voice; listened attentively when she sang; asked her if any of the words were difficult; and when one happened to be too rough, he readily found a smoother-but he never, save at the resolute entreaty of a scientific musician, sacrificed sense to sound.

The autumn was his favourite season, and tho twilight his favourite hour of study. -A. Cunningham.

2 Dr Currie has transferred this paragraph from the present, its proper placo, to the head of a subsequent letter.

it much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much ; but as I understand that he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. However, if the song does not suit your taste, I may possibly send it him. He is, entre nous, a narrow, contracted creature; but he sings so delightfully, that whatever he introduces at your concert must have immediate celebrity. The set of the air which I had in my eye is in Johnson's Museum.


TUNE-Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad.
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;
Though father and mither and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye

meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye cared nae a flie ;
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though jokin' ye be,

For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.1
Another favourite air of mine is The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre.
When sung slow with expression, I have wished that it had had
better poetry: that I have endeavoured to supply as follows :-


TUNE--The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre.
Adown winding Nith I did wander,

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,

Of Phillis to muse and to sing.


Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,

They never wi' her can compare :
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The two first stanzas of this song had appeared in the second volume of the Scots Musical Museum


The daisy amused my fond fancy,

So artless, so simple, so wild ;
Thou emblem, said I, omy Phillis !

For she is simplicity's child.
The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,

Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,

But fairer and purer her breast.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,

They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie :
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,

Its dew-drop o diamond her eye.
Her voice is the song of the morning,

That wakes through the green-spreading grove,
When Phæbus peeps over the mountains,

On music, and pleasure, and love.
But, beauty, how frail and how fleeting-

The bloom of a fine summer's day!
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis

Will flourish without a decay.

Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M‘Murdo, sister to · Bonnie Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me the very first grist I get from my rhyming-mill.

A modern reader will be surprised by the terms in which Burns speaks of Peter Pindar, whose works are now condemned to oblivion. He certainly was a remarkable example of the extent to which moderate abilities, exerted in subserviency to popular prejudices, and with a ribald recklessness towards all true taste in literature, will carry their possessor on the way to what appears for the time literary distinction. It must ever be a humiliating consideration that this modern Aretin was richly pensioned by the booksellers, while Burns, the true sweet singer, lived in comparative poverty.


[28th] August 1793. THAT tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the Muses ;1 when

1 Gloamin, twilight-probably from glooming. A beautiful poetic word, which ought to be adopted in England. A gloamin-shot, a twilight interview.-CURRIE.

the Muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet simple inspirer that was by my elbow, smooth gliding without step,' and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her, so I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum.


AIR-Cauld Kail.

Come, let me take thee to my breast,

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust

The warld's wealth and grandeur :
And do I hear my Jeanie own

That equal transports move her ?
I ask for dearest life alone

That I may live to love her.
Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,

I clasp my countless treasure ;
I'll seek nae mair o'heaven to share,

Than sic a moment's pleasure :
And by thy een sae bonnie blue,

I swear I'm thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,

And break it shall I never ! If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. The last Time I came o'er the Moor I cannot meddle with as to mending it; and the musical world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well received. I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not made one for the foregoing.


[28th] August 1793.


TUNE-Dainty Davie.
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
And now come in my happy hours,

To wander wi' my Davie.




Meet me on the warlock knowe,

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,

My ain dear dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw

A-wandering wi' my Davie.
When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then through the dews I will repair,

To meet my faithfu’ Davie.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I loe best,

And that's my ain dear Davie.

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set of it in the Museum.

N.B.-In the Museum, they have drawled out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of chorus, is the way.

The tune of Dainty Davie had been in Burns's hands some years before, when he composed to it a song with the awkward burden, The Gardener wi' his Paidle. His taste suggesting to him the impossibility of any such song becoming popular, he now put the verses into the above improved fashion. It is understood that the homely old song which Burns thus superseded was composed upon an adventure of the Rev. David Williamson, in the time of the Persecution.' Williamson died minister of St Cuthbert's, near Edinburgh, after having married seven wives.

The letters of this month shew a remarkable activity in songwriting. The commercial distresses of the country were great ; the government was preparing to try Muir and Palmer for sedition, and no mercy was expected; the world, in Burns's opinion, was out of joint. Yet we see him full of enthusiasm in writing and criticising Scottish songs, and making only that faint glance at politics, in the remark on the Georgium Sidus. It must not be supposed from this fact, that he had forced himself into an indifference towards either the state of affairs in France, where the unfortunate Girondists were now perishing in the


* See volume iii., p. 109.

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