't is mine: the music is said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player, in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it. Andrew and his cutty gun. The song The song to which this is set in the Museum, is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore. How long and dreary is the night. I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page. My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet, I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame; Ye should nae stray sae far frae hame. "Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, "Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha'; And, weeping at the eve of life, I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of Macneill. E. Tune-" Cauld kail in Aberdeen." How lang and dreary is the night, I restless lie frae e'en to morn, CHORUS. For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; When I think on the lightsome days How slow ye move, ye heavy hour's! The joyless day how dreary! It was na sae ye glinted by, Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time, so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collec tion*. *Mr. Ritson. E. These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance: Tune-" Duncan Gray." Let not woman e'er complain Look abroad through nature's range, Man should then a monster prove? Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Round and round the seasons go: Why then ask of silly man, Since the above, I have been out in the country taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with the lady whom I mentioned in the second page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and returning home, I composed the following: The Lover's morning salute to his Mistress. Tune-" Deil tak the wars." Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature; Waters wi' the tears o' joy : Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray; Chants, o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day*. Phoebus, gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning ; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent frae my fair, The murky shades o' care With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; But when in beauty's light, "Tis then I wake to life, to light and joyt. * Variation. Now to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain, The hart, hind, and roe freely, wildly-wan- In twining hazel bowers The lav'rock, &c. E. Variatton. When frae my Chloris parted, If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood. I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air which you would swear was a Scottish I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musieal Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it. THE AULD MAN. But lately seen in gladsome green Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled, On winter blasts awa! Yet maiden May, in rich array, But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh, age has weary days, And nights o' sleepless pain! Thou golden time o' youthful prime, Why com'st thou not again! Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky; But when she charms my sight, In pride of beauty's light; Her beaming glories dart; 'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy. E. |