THE WORKS

OF

ROBERT BURNS,

WITH

AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, &c. &c.

By JAMES CURRIE, M.D. RR.S.

THE EIGHTH EDITION,

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

WITH MANY ADDITIONS,

COMMUNICATED BY HIS BROTHEIJ,

Mk. GILBERT BURNS.

VOL. IV.

LONDON.

1820.

THE WORKS

OF

ROBERT BURNS;

WITH

AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE,

AND

A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS,

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED,
SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF

THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY.
By JAMES CURRIE, M. D. F. R. S.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IV.

THE EIGHTH EDITION.

TO WHICH ARE NOW ADDED, SOME FURTHER PARTICULARS OF

THE AUTHOR'S LIFE,

NEW NOTES, ILLUSTRATIVE OF HIS POEMS
AND LETTERS,

AND MANY OTHER ADDITIONS,

By GILBERT BURNS.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND; AND
A. CONSTABLE AND CO., MANNERS AND MILLER,
FAIRBAIRN AND ANDERSON, A. BLACK, W. AND C.
TAIT, AT EDINBURGH; AND G. CLARK, AT ABER-
DEEN.

1820.

J. M'Cicery, Printer,

lilackUorse-Court, LodJoh.

VOL. IV.
CORRESPONDENCE

WITH

Mr. GEORGE THOMSON,

INCLUDING

POETRY,

HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED OR UNCOLLECTED.

( ix )
CONTENTS OF VOL IV.

Correspondence between Mr. Thomson and Mr. Barns,

No. Page

I. Mr. Thomson to Mr. Burns, (1792) De-
siring the Bard to furnish verses for some of
the Scottish airs, and to revise former songs, 1

II. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Promising assistance, . 3

III. Mr. T. to Mr. B. sending some tunes, . . 6

IV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with "The Lea Rig," and

" Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary" . 8
V. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zoith " My wife's a ztinsome

wee thing,'' and " O saw ye bonnie Lesley," 14
VI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Highland Mary;' 17
VII. Mr. T. to Mr. B, Thanks, and critical ob-
servations, 20

VIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with an additional stanza

to " The Lea Rig," 24

IX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zoith " Juld Rob Morris,"

and " Duncan Gray," 26

X. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zeith " O Poortith caiild,"

^c. arid " Galla Water," 30

XI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Jan. 1793. Desiring
anecdotes on the origin of particular songs.
Tytler of Woodhouselee — Pleyel — sends P.
Pindar's " Lord Gregory." — Postscript

from the Hon. A. Erskine, S3

XII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Ty tier's anec-
dotes, and means to give his oz&n — sends his
own " Lord Gregory," 38

VOL, IV. C

CONTENTS.

No. Puge

Xrir. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith " Mary Modson," 42
XiV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Wandering

Willie;' 44

XV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith '' Open the door

to me, Oh!" 46

XV r. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith " Jessie" ... 47
XVII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. with a list of songs,

and " Wandering Willie" altered, . . 48
XVIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " When wild war's
deadly blast was blown," and " Meg o'

the Mill," 52

XIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of Coila- Cri-
ticism— Origin of '■^ The Lass o^ Patie's

Mill," 56

XX. Mr. T. to Mr. B 62

XXI. Mr. B. to JVIr. T. Simplicity requisite in
a so?ig — 0}ie poet should not mangle the

zcoiks of another, '63

XXII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Farewell thou stream
that winding fows" — Wishes that the
national music may preserve its native
features, 68

XX I II. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observa-

tions, 69

XXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Blithe hae I

^ been on yon hill," 71

XXV. Mr. B. to JMr. T. with " O Logan sweetly

didst thou glide." " O gin my love
were yon red rose," &)C 74

XXVI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note—

Thanks, 78

XXVI 1. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith " There was a

lass and she was fair " . . . • . 81

CONTENTS. XI

No. Page

XXVIir. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea
of pecuniary recompense — Remarks

on songs, 84

XXIX. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical expression, 87
XXX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. For Mr. Clarke, 88
XXXI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Phillis the

fair," 89

XXXIl. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Mr. Allan—
Drawitig from " John Anderson
my jo," 92

XXXIII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Had I a

cave," &jc. — Some airs common to
Scotland and Ireland, .... 94

XXX IV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " By Allan

stream I chanced to rove," . . . 96

XXXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zeith " Whistle and

I'll come to you my lad," and " Awa

wi your belles and your beauties," 99

XXXVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Come let me

take thee to my breast," . . , .103

XXXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. « Daintie Davie," 105

XXXVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delighted with

the 'productions of Burns's muse, . 107

XXXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Bruce to his

troops at Bannock-burn," . . . 109

XL. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Behold the

hour, the boat arrive," . . . . 1J2

XLI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Observations on

^' Bruce to his troops," . . . .114

XLI I. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Remarks on songs

in Mr. T.'s list — His ozcn method of

forming a song — " Thou has left me

ever, Jamie" — " Where are the Joys
c 2

Xll CONTENTS.

No. Page

I hae met in the morning*' — " Auld
lang syne" 117

XLllI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Kith a variation of

" Bajinock-hurn" 127

XLIV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and observa-
tions, 129

XLV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. On " Bannock-
burn" — sends " Fair Jenny" . . .131

X LVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zoith " Deluded swain,

the pleasure" — Remarks, .... 135

XLVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zmth " Thine am I,
my faithful fair" — " O condescend,
dear charming maid" — " The Nightin-
gale"— " Laura," — (the three last by
G. Turnbull) 139

XLVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions —

Thanks, 145

XLIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Husband, hus-
band, cease your strife," and, " Wilt
thou be my dearie," 146

L. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 1794. Melancholy
comparison betzceen Burns and Car-
Uni — Mr. Allan has begun a sketch
from the Cotter's Saturday night, . 149

LI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Allan

—" Banks of Cree," 151

LI I. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France—
" Here, zvhere the Scottish Muse im-
mortal lives," presented to Miss Gra-
ham, of Fintry, zcith a copy of Mr.
Thomson's collection, 153

CONTENTS. Xlll

No. Page
LIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Does not expect to hear
from Pleyel soon, hut desires to be pre-
pared with the poetry, 155

LIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " On the seas and

far away," . . .156

LV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism, . . . .159
LVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Ca the y owes to

the knowes" 160

LVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " She says she lo'es
me best of a'," — " O let me in," S^c. —

Stanza to Dr. Maxwell, l63

LVJH, Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising him to write

a Musical Drama, l68

LIX. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been examining
Scottish collections — Ritson — Difficult to
obtain ancient melodies in their original

state, 170

LX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for producing a
love-song — '' Sazc ye my Phely" — Re-
marks and anecdotes — " How lono; and
dreary is the night" — " Let not woman
e'er complain" — " The Lcver^s morning
salute to his mistress" — " The Auld
Man" — " Keen blazes the wind o'er Do-

7iocht-head,'" i?i a note, 173

LXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he knew the in-
spiring Fair One — Ritson's historical essay
not interesting — Allati — Maggie Lazoder, 1 B6
LXIl. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has begun his Anec-
dotes, S^c. — " My Chloris, mark how
green the groves" — Love — " It zcas the
charming month of May" — " Lassie zei'
the lint-white locks" — History of the

XIV CONTENTS.

No. Pftge

Air — " Ye batiks and braes o bonnie
Doou' — James Millar — Clarke — The
black keys — Instance of the difficulty
of tracing the origin of ancient airs, 188

LXIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Kith three copies of

the Scottish Airs, lyQ

LXIV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. rcith " O Philly,
happy be that day' — Starting note —
" Contented zci little, and cantie wi'
mair' — " Canst thou leave me thus,
my Katy" — (The reply, " Stay my
JVillie — yet believe me," in a note) —

Stock and horn, 201

LXV. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise— Desires
more songs of the humorous cast —
Means to have a picture from " The
Soldier s return," 211

LXVI. Mr. B. to Mr. T. zcith '' My Nanies

awa," 214

LXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. (1795) zcith'' For
a' that an a that," and " Sweet fa's
the eve on Craigie-burn," . . . .216
LXVIII. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . . . . 220

LXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " O Lassie, art thou

sleeping yet," and the Ansreer, . ,221
LXX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Praise of Eccle-

fechan," 224

LXXI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, .... 226

LXX 1 1. Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Address to the
Wood-lark"-" On Chloris beina, ill"—
" Their groves o' szceet myrtle, 8^c." —
" 'Tzras na her bonnie blue e'e,"^c. . 227

No.

Lxxiir.

LXXIV.

LXXV.

LXXVI.
LXXVII.

LXXVIII.

LXXIX.

LXXX.

LXXXI.
LXXXII.

LXXXIII.

LXXXIV.

CONTENTS. XY

Page
Mr. T. to Mr. B. with Jllcnis de-
sign from " The Cotter's Saturday

Night," 231

Mr. B. to Mr. T. zvith " How cruel
are the parents" and " Mark yon-
der pomp of costly fashion," . . Q,SS
Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Allan's

designs, 135

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Compliment, . . 237
Mr. B. to Mr. T. zaith an improve-
ment in " Whistle and I'll come to
yon, my lad" — " O this is no my
ain lassie" — " Now spring has clad
the grove in green" — " O bonnie was
yon rosy brier" — -" 'Tis friendship's
pledge, my young, fair friend," . 238
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introducing Dr.

Brianton, 245

Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Forlorn, my love,

no comfort near," 247

Mr. B. to Mr. T. " Last May a braw
zoooer cam down the lang glen" —
" Why, why tell thy lover," a frag-
ment, 249

Mr. T. to Mr. B 253

Mr. T. to Mr. B. (1796) after an

awful pause, 254

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for P.
Pindar, 8^c. — " Hey for a lass wi'

a tocher," 255

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has de-
signed some plates for an octavo
edition, 257

XVI

CONTENTS.

No. Page

LXXXV. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Affikted hy sick-
ness, but pleased with Mr. Allan's

etchings y 259

LXXXVI. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy— en-
couragement, 261

LX XXVII. Mr. B. to Mr. T. with " Here's a

health to ane I lo'e dear," . . . 262
LXXXVIir. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing Mr.
Lezcars — Has taken a fancy to ie-
view his songs — hopes to recover, . 264
LXXXIX. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading the
horrors of a jail, solicits the ad-
vance of Jive pounds, and encloses
" Fairest maid on Devon banks," 265
XC. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy—Ad-
vises a volume of poetry to be pub-
lished by subscription — Pope pub-
lished the Iliad so, ....

NOTE respecting the Scots Musical Museum, . . 270

Pages 27 1 to 407| contain

SONGS which have appeared in " The Scot's
Musical Museum," &c.

GLOSSARY,

415

( xvii )

INDEX TO THE POETRY,

ACCORDING TO THE TITLES,

IN VOL. IV.

SONGS.

Page

Addrkss to a Lady 393

Aftou "Water 331

A Mother's Lament 338

A red, red rose 343

Auld lang syne 124

Auld Rob Morris 26

Banks of Cree 152

Banks o' Doon 3:25

Banks of Nith 301

Bannock-burn 127

Bess and her spinning-wheel 317

Birks of Aberfeldy 271

Bonnie Bell 333

Braes o' Ballochmyle 294

Bruce to his Troops at Bannock-burn 110

A Variation of the same . , . 127

Caledonia 386

Country Lassie 319

Dainty Davie 105

Dumfries Volunteers 394

Duncan Gray 27

Fair Eliza 321

Fair

XVIU INDEX.

Page

Fair Jenny 134

Farewell to Ayrshire 406

Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, T.ubolton . . 373

The Fete Champetre 402

For a' that an' a' that 217

For tiie sake o' Somebody 336

Galla Water 32

Gloomy December 328

Green grow the rashes 363

Hey for a lass wi' a tocher 256

Highland IMaiy 17

I love my Jean 294

Jessie 47

John Barleycorn 344

Laura 143

Lord Gregory 40

Mary Morison 42

Meg o' the Mill 53

My Nanie's awa 214

My Nanie, O 360

My tocher's the jewel 309

O for ane and twenty Tani! 315

On the Seas and far away 157

On Chloris being ill 228

Phillis the fair 90

Saw ye my Pliely ? 175

She says she lo'es me best of a' . 554

Sic a wife as Willie had 3gg

Strathallan's Lament 274

Tarn Glen 305

Tiie Auld Man 184

The blue-eyed Lassie 299

The Dumfries Volunteers 394

The gallant \Veaver 334

The Lea Rig 9

The same, continued 05

The Lover's morning salute to his Mistress 182

The Nightingale 142

The Posie 323

Tlie Whistle 33q

The

INDEX. XIX

Page

The Young Highland Rover 276

Then Guidwife count the Lawin 311

Wandering Willie 44

The same, altered 50

POEMS.

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 408

On the Battle of Sheriff. Muir 411

INDEX

( XX )

INDEX TO THE POETRY,

IN THE ALPHABETICAL ORDER OF THE FIRST LINES.

Page

AniEu! a heart- warm, fond adieu ! 373

Adown winding Nitli I did wander 101

Again rejoicing nature sees 366

A rose-bud by my early walk 283

Ab ope, Lord Gregory, thy door ! 41

An' O for anc and twenty Tam ! 315

Ance mair I hail tbee, thou gloomy December ! 328

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire! 379

As down the burn they took their way 117

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 256

Behind yon bills where Lugar flows 360

Behold the hour, the boat arrive 113

Blithe, blithe and merry was slie 281

Blithe hae I been on yon hill 73

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing 314

But lately seen in gladsome green I81

By Allan-stream I chanc'd to rove .......... 97

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? . 208

Ca' the yowes to the knowcs 161

Clarinda, mistress of my soul 289

Come let me take thee to my breast lOj,

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair 206

Deluded swain, the pleasure 136

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 394

Duncan Grey cam here to woo 27

Fairest maid on Devon banks 2fi6

Farewell

INI>EX. XXI

Page

Farewell thou stream tliat winding flows 196

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 338

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 331

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near 247

From thee, Eliza, I must go 371

Gane is the day and mirk's the night, 311

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore 94

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie 44

The same, altered 50

Here is the glen, and here the bower 152

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear 262

Here where the Scottish Muse immortal lives 154

How can my poor haart be glad . l57

How cruel are the parents 233

How lang and dreary is the night 179

Husband, husband, cease your strife 146

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen . . 299

In simmer when the hay was mawn 319

I sing of a Whistle, a whistle of worth 381

Is there, for honest poverty '' 217

It was the charming month of May . 192

It was upon a Lammas uight 354

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss 398

John Anderson my jo, John 303

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donotht-head 176

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? 400

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 193

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 249

I«t mc wander where I will 143

Let not woman e'er complain 180

Long, long the night 228

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 276

Louis what reck I by thee 335

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 234

Maxwell, if merit here you crave 167

Musing on the roaring ocean £80

My Chloris, mark how green the groves 189

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie 305

My heart is sair I dare na tell 336

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 399

Nae

XXII INDEX.

Page

Nae gentle dames, tlio' e'er sae fair 390

No Cliurcliman am I for to rail and to write 376

Now in lier green mantle blithe nature arrays 214

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes 271

Now spring lias clad tiie grove in green 241

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 105

Now westlin winds, and slaugbt'ring guns 357

O bonnie was yon rosy brier 243

O cam you here the tight to shun 411

O condescend, dear, charming maid 141

O gin my love were yon red rose 76

O ken ye what INIeg o' the Mill has gotten 55

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet 221

O leeze me on my spinning wheel 317

O leeze me on my wee thing 22

O Logan, sweetly didSt thou glide 75

O Luve will venture in where it daur ca weel be seen .... 323

O Mary, at thy window be 42

O May, thy morn was ne'er so sweet 339

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 40

O nieikle thinks my luve^' my beauty 309

(J my hive's like a red, red rose 343

O Poortith cauld, and restless love 30

O Philly, happy be that day 202

O saw ye bonny Lesley 15

O saw ye my dear, my Pliely? 175

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay 227

O tell na me o' wind and rain 222

O this is no my ain lassie 239

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 287

() wat ye wha's iu yon town 340

O wlia will to St. Stephen's house , , 402

O wlia is she that lo'es me 395

O were I on Parnassus' hill! 292

O were my love yon lilac fair 77

O whistle and I'll come to you »iy lad 99

A Variation in the Chorus 238

O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut 297

Oh open the door, some pity to shew 46

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast 393

Of

INDEX. XXIU

Page

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 29-1

Raving winds around her blowing 278

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 161

Scenes of woe, and scenes of pleasure 406

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 110

She is a winsome wee thing 15

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 330

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 124

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou fairest creature 182

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 273

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me 209

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn 219

The Catrine woods were yellow seen 295

The day returns, my bosom burns 290

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast 368

The hunter lo'es the morning sun 25

The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare 408

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 291

The lovely lass o' Inverness 337

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing 333

The Thames flows proudly to the sea 301

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign land» reckon .... 229

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen 26

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes 32

There's nought but care on ev'ry han' 363

There was a lass and she was fair 81

There was once a day, but old Time then was young .... 386

ITiere was three kings into the east 344

They snool me sair, and baud nie down 315

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling! 274

Thine am I, my faithful fair 139

Thou has left me ever, Jamie 122

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove 142

'Tis fiiendship's pledge my youug, fair friend 243

'Twas nae her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin 230

True hearted was he the sad swain 0' the Yarrow 47

Turn again thou fair Eliza 321

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 312

When o'er the hill the eastern star 9

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn . . 52

Where

XXIV INDEX.

Page

Where are the joys I liae met in the itioniing 123

The same, with an additional stanza i . . . 134

When Guilford good oin- pilot stood 349

Where braving angry winter's storms 285

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea 334

While larks witli little wing 90

Why, why tell thy lover 252

Willie Wa»tle dwalt on Tweed 326

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? 13

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 148

Tlie same 329

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 17

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 325

Yestreen I got a pint of wine 62

CORRESPONDENCE

No. 1.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, September, 1792.
SIR,

For some years past, 1 have, with a
friend or two, employed many leisure hours in
selecting and collating the most favorite of our
national melodies for publication. We have
engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable composer
living, to put accompaniments to these, and
also to compose an instrumental prelude and
conclusion to each air, the better to fit them
for concerts, both public and private. To ren-
der this work perfect, we are desirous to have
the poetry improved, wherever it seems un-
VOL. IV. B worthy

worthy of the music ; and that it is so in many
instances, is allowed by every one conversant
with our musical collections. The editors of
these seem in general to have depended on the
music proving an excuse for the verses ; and
hence, some charming melodies are united to
mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are
accommodated with rhymes so loose and in-
delicate, as cannot be sung in decent company.
To remove this reproach would be an easy task
to the author of the Cotters Saturday Night;
and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain
hope he may be induced to take up the pen.
If so, we shall be enabled to present the Public
with a collection, infinitely more interesting than
any that has yet appeared, and acceptable to all
persons of taste, whether they wish for correct
melodies, delicate accompaniments, or charac-
teristic verses. — We will esteem your poetical
assistance a particular favor, besides paying any
reasonableprice you shall please to demand for it.
Profit is quite a secondary consideration with
us, and we are resolved to spare neither pains
nor expense on the publication. Tell me frankly
then, whether you will devote your leisure to
writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited to
the particular melodies which I am prepared
to send you. A few songs, exceptionable only
in some of their verses, I will likewise submit
to your consideration; leaving it to you, either

to

to mend these, or make new songs in their stead.
It is superfluous to assure you that T have no
intention to displace any of the sterling old
songs; those only will be removed, which ap-
pear quite silly or absolutely indecent. Even
these shall be all examined by Mr. Burns, and
if he is of opinion that any of them are deserving
of the music, in such cases no divorce shall
take place.

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to
be forgiven, for the liberty I have taken in ad-
dressing you, 1 am, with great esteem, Sir, your
most obedient humble servant,

G. THOMSON.

No. II.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Dumfries, Wth Sept. 17.92.
SIR,

I HAVE just this moment got your let-
ter. As the request you make to me will po-
sitively add to my enjoyments in complying
with it, I shall enter into your undertaking with

B 2 all

4

all the small portion of abilities I have, strained
to their utmost exertion by the impulse of en-
thusiasm. Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak
the hindmost" is by no means the cri de guerre
of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none
of you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry
and music of old Caledonia, and, since you
request it, have cheerfully promised my mite
of assistance — will you let me have a list of
your airs with the first line of the printed verses
you intend for them, that I may have an oppor-
tunity of suggesting any alteration that may
occur to me. You know 'tis in the way of
my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen, the un-
doubted right of publishers, to approve, or reject,
at your pleasure, for your own publication.
Apropos, if you are for English verses, there
is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether
in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of
the song, I can only hope to please myself in
being allowed at least a sprinkling of our na-
tive tongue. English verses, particularly the
works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are cer-
tainly very eligible. Tweedside ! — Ah I the poor
shepherds inournful fate ! — Ah ! Chloris, could I
7101V hut sit, &c. you cannot mend : But such
insipid stuff as 7\> Fanni/Jair could I impart,
&c. usually set to The Mill, Mill O, is a disgrace
to the collections in which it has already ap-
peared, and would doubly disgrace a collection

that

that will have the very superior merit of yours.
But more of this in the farther prosecution of
the business, if I am called on for my strictures
and amendments — I say amendments; for I
will not alter except where I myself at least
think that I amend.

As to any remuneration, you may think my
songs either above or below price; for they
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In
the honest enthusiasm with which 1 embark
in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages,
fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution
of soul! A proof of each of the songs that T
compose or amend, I shall receive as a favor.
In the rustic phrase of the season, " Gude speed
the wark !"

I am, Sir, your very humble servant,

R. BURNS.

P. S. I have some particular reasons for
wishing my interference to be known as little
as possible.

No.

6

No. III.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edmburgh, 13th Oct. 1792.
DEAR SIR,

I rp:ceived with much satisfaction your
pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm
with which you have entered into our under-
taking. We have now no doubt of being able
to produce a collection, highly deserving of pub-
lic attention, in all respects.

I agree with you in thinking English verses,
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new
verses are necessary ; because the English be-
comes every year, more and more, the language
of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ
from you. I should consider it unpardonable
to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish dialect,
to make room for English verses ; but, if we
can select a few excellent ones suited to the
unprovided or ill provided airs, would it not be
the very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject

such

such, merely because the authors were born
south of the Tweed ? Our sweet air My Nanie
O, which in the collections is joined to the
poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote,
beginning. While some for pleasure paivn their
health, answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beau-
tiful song, O Nancy ivilt thou go with me, that
one would think he wrote it on purpose for the
air. However, it is not at all our wish to con-
fine you to English verses : you shall freely
be allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue,
as you elegantly express it ; and, moreover,
we will patiently wait your own time. One
thing only I beg, which is, that however gay
and sportive the muse may be, she may always
be decent. Let her not write what beauty
would blush to speak, nor wound that charm-
ing delicacy, which forms the most precious
dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive
the song to be the most proper vehicle for witty
and brilliant conceits : simplicity, I believe,
should be its prominent feature ; but, in some
of our songs, the writers have confounded sim-
plicity with coarseness and vulgarity; although
between the one and the other, as Dr. Beattie
well observes, there is as great a difference
as between a plain suit of clothes and a bundle
of rags. The humorous ballad, or pathetic
complaint, is best suited to our artless melodies ;
and more interesting indeed in all songs than

the

8

the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions,
and riowery fancies.

Witli these trite observations, I send you ele-
ven of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi-
tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans-
mit the rest, and, at the same time, a prospectus
of the whole collection : and you may believe
we will receive any hints that you are so kind
as to give for improving the work, with the
greatest pleasure and thankfulness.

I remain, dear Sir, &c.

No. IV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

MY DEAR SIR,

Let me tell you, that you are too fasti-
dious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I
own that your criticisms are just; the songs
you specify in your list have all but o7ie the
faults you remark in them ; but who shall mend
the matter? Who shall rise up and say — Go to,
I will make a better ? For instance, on reading
over The Lea-rig, I immediately set about

trying

trying my band on it, and, after all, [ could
make nothing* more of it than the following,
which, Heaven knows, is poor enough.

When o'er the hill the eastern star,

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field,

Return sae dowf and Meary O ;
Down by the burn, where scented birks*

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I '11 meet thee on the lea-rig.

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirk est glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O ;
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee.

My ain kind dearie O.
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,f

And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

Your

* For " scented birks," in some copies, " birken buds."

E.

t In the copy transmitted to Mr, Thomson, instead of
wild, was inserted ivet. But in one of the manuscripts, pro-
bably written afterwards, wet was changed into wild; evidently
a great improvement. The lovers might meet on the lea-rig

" although

10

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr.
Percy's ballad to the air, Nanie O, is just. It
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad
in the English language. But let me remark
to you, that in the sentiment and style of our
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a
something that one may call the Doric style
and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of
our native tongue and manners is particularly,
nay peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and,
upon my honor, for this reason alone, I am of
opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion
is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as
you please) that my ballad of Nanie O might
perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune.

Now

" although the night were ne'er so uild," that is, although
the summer-wind blew, the sky loured, and the thunder mur-
mured : such circumstances might render their meeting still
more interesting. But if the night were actually Avet, why
should they meet on the lea-rig? On a wet night, the ima-
gination cannot contemplate their situation there with any
complacency — TibuUus, and after him Hammond, has con-
ceived a happier situation for lovers on a wet night. Pro-
bably Burns had in his mind the verse of an old Scottish song,
in which icet and weary are naturally enough conjoined.

" When my ploughman comes hame at ev'n,

" He 's often wet and weary :
" Cast off the wet, put on the dry,

*' And gae to bed my deary." E.

11

Now don't let it enter into your head, that you
are under any necessity of taking my verses.
I have long ago made up my mind as to my
own reputation in the business of authorship ;
and have nothing to be pleased or offended at,
in your adoption or rejection, of my verses.
Though you should reject one half of what 1
give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting
the other half, and shall continue to serve you
with the same assiduity.

In the printed copy of my Na7iie O, the name
of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it,

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows."

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most
agreeable modulation of syllables.

I will soon give you a great many more re-
marks on this business; but I have just now
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl,
free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to
pay : so, with my best compliments to honest
Allan, Good be wi' ye, &c.

Friday Night.

Saturday

12

Saturday Morning.

As I find I have still an hour to spare this
morning before my conveyance goes away, I
will give you Nanie O at length.

Your remarks on Ewe-hvghts, 3Iarion, are
just; still it has obtained a place among our
more classical Scottish songs ; and what with
many beauties in its composition, and more
prejudices in its favor, you will not find it easy
to supplant it.

In my very early years, when I was thinking
of going to the West-Indies, I took the follow-
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling,
and has nothing of the merits of Eice-hughts ;
but it will fill up this page. You must know,
that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings
of ardent passion, and though it might have
been easy in after-times to have given them a
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were,
and who perhaps alone cared for them, would
have defaced the legend of my heart, which
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their
uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines,
their race.

Wil:

13

Will ye go to the indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar?

0 sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine ;

But a' the charms o' the Indies
Can never equal thine.

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ;

And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When 1 forget my vow !

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily white hand ;

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,

In mutual affection to join,
And curst be the cause that shall part us !

The hour and the moment o' time!*

Galla Water, and Auld Rob Morris, I think,

will

* This song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in his collec-
tion. It deserves however to be preserved. E.

14

will most probably be the next subject of my
musings. However, even on my verses, speak
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying
bigot of opinidtrete, but cordially to join issue
with you in the furtherance of the work.

No. V.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

November 8th, 1792.

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the
songs in your collection shall be poetry of the
first merit, I am afraid you will find more diffi-
culty in the undertaking than you are aware of.
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our
airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to
the emphasis, or what I would call the feature-
notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay
him under almost insuperable difficulties. For
instance, in the air, 31i/ wife's a ivanton ivee
thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The

following

15

following were made extempore to it, and
though on farther study, I might give you
something more profound, yet it might not suit
the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this
random clink.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE
THING.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer ;

And niest my heart I '11 wear her,

For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't,
The wars tie and the care o't ;
Wi'her I'll blythly bear it,
And think my lot divine.

I have

16

I have just been looking over the Colliers
honny Dochter ; and if the following rhapsody,
which I composed the other day, on a charm-
ing Ayrshire girl. Miss , as she passed

through this place to England, will suit your
taste better than the Collier Lassie^ fall on and
welcome.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border ?

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever ;
For Nature made her what she is,

And ne'er made sic anither !

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee :

Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;

He 'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say, " I canna wrang thee.'*

The powers aboon will tent thee ;

Misfortune sha' na steer thee.
Thou 'rt like themselves so lovely,

That ill they '11 ne'er let near thee.

Return

17

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag, we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonnie.

1 have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However,
they are all put into your hands, as clay into
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to
honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c.

No. VI.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

HIGHLAND MARV.

Tune — " Katharine Ogie."

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around,

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

VOL. IV. c There

18

There simmer first unfald her robe$,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom !
As underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me, as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my i3ower sae early ;
Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay,

That wrajis my Highland Mary !

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kissed sae fondly !
And closd for ay the sparkling glance,

That dwelt on me sae kindly !
And mouldering now in silent dust,

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! I

But still within my bosom's core.

Shall live my Highland Mary.

14th

19

l^th November, 1792.
MY DEAR SIR,

I AGREE with you that the song, Katha-
rine Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy,
altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I
tried to mend it ; but the aukward sound, Ogie
recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every
attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece.
The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it
is in my happiest manner : you will see at first
glance that it suits the air. The subject of the
song is one of the most interesting passages of
my youthfid days; and, I own that 1 should
be much flattered to see the verses set to an air,
■which would insnre celebrity. Perhaps, after
all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart,
that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits
of the composition.

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses,
and am going on with the song on a new plan,
which promises pretty well. I take up one or
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes
in my bonnet-lug; and do you, sans ceremoiiiey
make what use you chuse of the productions.
Adieu! &c.

c 2 No.

20

No. VII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, Nov. 1792.
DEAR SIR,

I WAS JList going to write to you, that
on meeting with your Nanie, I had fallen vio-
lently in love with her. 1 thank you, therefore,
for sending the charming rustic to me, in the
dress you wish her to appear before the public.
She does you great credit, and will soon be
admitted into the best company.

I regret that your song for the Lea-rig is so.
short; the air is easy, soon sung, and very
pleasing : so that, if the singer stops at the end
of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost, ere it is
well possessed.

Although a dash of our native tongue and
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able
to present a considerable number of the very
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those
melodies, which, in England at least, will be

the

21

the means of recommending them to still greater
attention than they have procured there. But
you will observe, my plan is, that every air
shall in the first place have verses wholly by
Scottish poets ; and that those of English writers
shall follow as additional songs for the choice
of the singer.

What you say of the Eive-huglits is just; I
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All
1 requested was, that you would try your hand
on some of the inferior stanzas, which are ap-
parently no part of the original song ; but this
I do not urge, because the song is of sufficient
length, though those inferior stanzas be omitted,
as they will be by the singer of taste. You
must not think I expect all the songs to be of
superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable
expectation. I am sensible that no poet can
sit down doggedly to pen verses, and succeed
well at all times,

I am highly pleased with your humorous
and amorous rhapsody on JBonnie Leslie: it is a
thousand times better than the Colliers Lassie.
" The deil he ^cou'd na scaith thee," &c. is an
eccentric and happy thought. Do you not
think, however, that the names of such old
heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, un-
less in pompous or mere burlesque verse?

Instead

22

Instead of the line, " And never made anither,"
1 would humbly suggest, " And ne'er made sic
anither ;" and I would fain have you substitute
some other line for " Return to Caledonie," in
the last verse, because I think this alteration
of the orthography, and of the sound of Cale-
donia, disfigures the word, and renders it Hu-
dibrastic.

Of the other song. 3If/ wife 's a winsome tvee
thing, I think the first eight lines very good :
but I do not admire the other eight, because
four of them are a bare repetition of the first
verses. I have been trying to spin a stanza,
but could make nothing better than the follow-
ing: do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with
the love-letter, whip it up in your own way.

O leeze me on my wee thing.
My bonnie blithsome wee thing;
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing,
I'll think my lot divine.

Tho' warld's care we share o't,
And may see meikle mair o't,
Wi' her I'll blithly bear it,
And ne'er a word repine.

You

23

You perceive, my dear Sir, I avail myself of
the liberty, which you condescend to allow me,
by speaking freely what I think. Be assured,
it is not my disposition to pick out the faults of
any poem or picture I see : my first and chief
object is to discover and be delighted with the
beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine
critically, and at leisure, what, perhaps, you
have written in haste, I may happen to observe
careless lines, the reperusal of which might
lead you to improve them. The wren will often
see what has been overlooked by the eagle.

I remain yours faithfully, &c.

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary
are just come to hand: they breathe the genuine
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for
ever. Such verses, united to such an air, with
the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded,
might form a treat worthy of being presented
to Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story
of your Mary : you always seem inspired when
you write of her.

No.

24

No. VIH.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Dumfries, \st Dec. 179*2,

Your alterations of my Nanie O are
perfectly right. So are those of My wife's a
wanton ivee thins;. Your alteration of the
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now,
my dear Sir, with the freedom which charac-
terises our correspondence, 1 must not, cannot
alter Bonnie Leslie. You are riij;ht, the word
" Alexander," makes the line a little uncouth,
but [ think the thought is pretty. Of Alexan-
der, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in
the sublime language of Scripture, that " he
went forth conquering and to conquer."

" For nature made her zchat she is,

" And never made anither." (such a person as she is.)

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than
" Neer made sic anither." However, it is im-
material ; make it either way.* " Caledonie,"

I agree

* Mr. Thomson has decided on Ne'er made sic anither. E.

25

I agree with you, is not so good a word as
could be wished, though it is sanctioned in
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but
I cannot help it. In short, that species of
stanza is the most difficult that I have ever
tried.

The Lea-rig is as follows. (Here the Poet
gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 9, ivith
the following iji addition.)

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen.

Along the burn to steer, my jo ;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey.

It maks my heart sae cheery, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

I am interrupted. Yours, &c.

No.

26

No. IX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

AULD ROB MORRIS.*

There's aiild Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He'sthekingo'guid fellows and waleofauld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he hasowsenand kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But Oh ! she 's an heiress, an Id Robin 's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and

yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
Thewoundslmust hide that will soon bemy dead.

The

* The two first lines are taken from an old ballad — the
rest is wholly original. E.

27

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane :
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

0 had she but been of a lower degree.

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me !
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss.
As now my distraction no words can express!

DUNCAN GRAY.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the ivooing ot.
On blythe yule night Vrhen we were fu',

Ha, ha, the wooing ot.
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Duncan

28

Duncan fleecli'd, and Duncan pray'd ;

Ha, ha, SjC.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,*

Ha, ha, SfC.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ;

Ha, ha, 6fc.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, S^c.
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, S^c.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to — France for me !

Ha, ha, ^T.

How it comes let Doctors tell.

Ha, ha, ^^c.
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal,

Ha, ha, <SfC.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And O, her een, they spak sic things !

Ha, ha, ^c.

Duncan

A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. E.

29

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, Sfc.
Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, Sfc.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ;
Now they 're crouse and canty baith.

Ha, ha, the wooing ot*

4th December, 1792.

The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir,
to your better judgment. Acquit them or con-
demn them as seemeth good in your sight.
Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop
of an air, which precludes sentiment. The
ludicrous is its ruling feature.

JNo.

* This has nothing in common with the old licentious bal-
lad of Duncan Gray, but the first line, and part of the third.
— The rest is wholly original. E.

30

No. X.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

SONG.

Tune — " I HAD A Horse."

O pooRTiTH cauld, and restless lave,

Ye wreck my peace between ye ;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,

An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,

Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love.

Depend on Fortune's shining ?

This warld's wealth when I think on.
It's pride, and a' the lave o't;

Fie, fie on silly coward man.
That he should be the slave o't.
O why, ^c.

Her

31

Her een sae bonnie blue betray,
How she repays my passion ;

But prudence is her o'erword ay,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O IV hy, ^c.

O wha can prudence think upon.

And sic a lassie by him ?
O wha can prudence think upon,

And sae in love as I am?
O why, 6fc,

How blest the humble cotter's fate!*

He woos his simple dearie ;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,

Can never make them eerie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,

Life's dearest bands untwining !
Or why sae sweet a flower as love.

Depend on Fortune's shining ?

GALLA

" The wild- wood Indian's fate" in the original MS. E,

32

GALLA WATER.

There's braw braw lads, on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather ;

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws,
Can match the lads o' Galla Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,
Aboon them a' I loe him better;

And 1 '11 be his, and he '11 be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird,
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ;

Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ;

The bands and bliss o' mutual love,
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure !

Jan.

33

Jan. 1793.

Many returns of the season to you, my
dear Sir. How comes on your publication?
will these two foregoing be of any service to
you? 1 should like to know what songs you
print to each tune, besides the verses to which
it is set. In short, I would wish to give you
my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You
know, it is my trade ; and a man in the way of
his trade may suggest useful hints, that escape
men of much superior parts and endowments
in other things.

If you meet with my dear, and much-valued
C greet him, in my name, with the compli-
ments of the season,

Yours, &c.

No. XI.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, Jan. 20, 1793.

1 ou make me happy, my dear Sir, and

thousands will be happy to see the charming

, VOL. IV. D songs

34

songs you have sent me. Many merry returns
of the season to you, and may you long con-
tinue among the sons and daughters of Cale-
donia, to delight them and to honour yourself.

The four last songs with which you favoured
me, for Auhl Rob Mmris, Duncan Gray^ Galla
Water, and Caiild Kail, are admirable. Dun-
can is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour
will endear him to every body.

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the
happy shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an
excellent contrast: they speak from genuine
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart.

The number of songs which 1 had originally
in view was limited, but [ now resolve to in-
clude every Scotch air and song worth singing;
leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to
which the publishers of omnegatherum are wel-
come. I would rather be the editor of a
collection from which nothing could be taken
away, than of one to which nothing could be
added. We intend presenting the subscribers
with two beautiful stroke engravings; the one
characteristic of the plaintive, and the other
of the lively songs; and 1 have Dr. Beattie's
promise of an essay upon the subject of our
national music, if his health will permit him to

wTite

36

write it. As a number of our songs have doubt-
less been called forth by particular events, or
by the charms of peerless damsels, there must
be many curious anecdotes relating to them.

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I
believe, knew more of this than any body, for
he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a
taste for poetry, besides being a man of the
world, and possessing an enthusiasm for music
beyond most of his contemporaries. He was
quite pleased with this plan of mine, for 1 may
say it has been solely managed by me, and we
had several long conversations about it, when
it was in embryo. If I could simply mention
the name of the heroine of each song, and the
incident which occasioned the verses, it would
be gratifying. Pray will you send me any in-
formation of this sort, as well with regard to
your own songs, as the old ones ?

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac-
companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of
the comic and humorous class, I think accom-
paniments scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly
fitted for the conviviality of the festive board,
and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery
of the words, renders them perfect. Never-
theless, to these 1 propose adding bass accom-
D 2 paniments,

36

paniments, because then they are fitted either
for singing, or for instrumental performance,
when there happens to be no singer. I mean
to employ our right trusty friend Mr. Clarke
to set the bass to these, which he assures me
he will do con amove, and with much greater
attention than he ever bestowed on any thing
of the kind. But for this last class of airs I
will not attempt to find more than one set of
verses.

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has
started I know not how many difficulties, about
writing for the airs I sent to him, because of
the peculiarity of their measure, and the tram-
mels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I
subjoin for your perusal the only one I have
yet got from him, being for the fine air " Lord
Gregory." The Scots verses printed with that
air, are taken from the middle of an old ballad,
called, The Loss of Lochroyan, which I do
not admire. I have set down the air therefore
as a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite
songs are replete with wit and humour ; might
not the best of these be included in our volume
of comic songs?

POSTSCRIPT,

37

POSTSCRIPT,

From the Hon. A. ERSKINE.

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as
to give me a perusal of your songs. Highland
Mary is most inchantingly pathetic, and Dun-
can Gray possesses native genuine humour:
" spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself
that should make you immortal. I sometimes
hear of you from our mutual friend C. who is
a most excellent fellow, and possesses above
all men I know, the charm of a most obliging
disposition. You kindly promised me, about
a year ago, a collection of your unpublished
productions, religious and amorous; 1 know
from experience how irksome it is to copy. If
you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to
write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill
whatever money he asks for his trouble ; and I
certainly shall not betray your confidence.

I am your hearty admirer,

ANDREW ERSKINE.

No

S8

No. XII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

26th January, 1793.

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your
plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will of itself be a
treasure. On my part I mean to draw up an
appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing
my stock of anecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs.
All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes, I have by
me, taken down in the course of my acquain-
tance with him from his own mouth. I am
such an enthusiast, that in the course of my
several peregrinations through Scotland, I made
a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which
every song took its rise, Lochaber, and the
J^raes of JBallenden, excepted. So far as the
locality, either from the title of the air, or the
tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have
paid my devotions at the particular shrine of
every Scots muse.

I do not doubt but you might make a very
valuable collection of Jacobite songs, but would
it give no offence ? In the mean time, do not

you

89

you think that some of them, particularly The
sotvs tail to Geot'die, as an air, with other vvords,
might be well worth a place in your collection
of lively songs ?

If it were possible to procure song:s of merit,
it would be proper to have one set of Scots
words to every air, and that the set of words
to which the notes ought to be set. There
is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight
intermixture of Scots words and phraseology,
which is more in unison (at least to my taste,
and I will add to every genuine Caledonian
taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic spright-
liness of our native music, than any English
verses whatever.

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acqui-
sition to your work. His Gregory is beautiful.
I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in
Scots, on the same subject, which are at your
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists
with Peter; that would be presumption in-
deed. My song, though much inferior in
poetic merit has, I think, more of the ballad

s:

implicity in it.

LORD

40

LORD GREGORY

O MiKK, mirk is this midnight hour,

And loud the tempest's roar ;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,

Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha\

And a' for loving thee;
At least some piti/ on me shaw,

If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,

By bonnie Irvvine-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love

I lang, lang had denied ?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow

Thou wad for ay be mine ;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true.

It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,

O wilt thou give me rest !

i

Ye

41

Ye mustering thunders from above

Your willing victim see !
But spare, and pardon my fause love,

His vvrangs to heaven and me !*

My

* The Song of Dr. Walcott ou the same subject is as
follows :

Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door,

A midnight wanderer sighs,
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,

And lightnings cleave the skies.

Who comes with woe at this drear night —

A pilgrim of the gloom ?
If she whose love did once delight,

My cot shall yield her room.

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,

That once was priz'd by thee :
Think of the ring by yonder burn

Thou gav'st to love and me.

But should'st thou not poor Marian know,
I'll turn my feet and part; *

And think the storms that round me blow,
Far kinder than thy heart.

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, that his
song is the original. Mr, Burns saw it, liked it, and imme-
diately wrote the other on the same subject, which is derived
from an old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin. E.

42

My most respectful compliments to the
honourable gentleman, who favoured me with
a postscript in your last. He shall hear from
and receive his MSS. soon.

No. XIII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

IMh March, 1793.

MARY MORISON.

Tune — " Bide ye yet."

O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithly wad I bide tlie stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun ;
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen

43

Yestreen when to the trembling string,

The dance gaed thro' the hghted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard or saw :
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw.

And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',

** Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie.

At least be pity to me sho^yn ;
A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

MY DEAR SIR,

The song prefixed is one of ray juvenile
works. I leave it in your hands. I do not
think it very remarkable, either for its merits
or demerits. It is impossible (at least 1 feel it
so in my stinted powers) to be always original,
entertaining, and witty.

What

44

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs ?
I shall be out of all temper with you by and by.
1 have always looked on myself as the prince of
indolent correspondents, and valued myself ac-
cordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear rival-
ship from you, nor any body else.

No. XIV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

March, 1793.

WANDERING WILLIE.

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, hand awa hame;

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie,

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the
same.

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part-
in <r •

It was nae the blast brought the tear in my e'e :
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my
Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to iije.

Ye

I

45

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!

O how your wild horrors a lover alarms !
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows,

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my
arms.

But if he 's forgotten his faithfullest Nanie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring
main;

May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But dying believe that my Willie's my ain !

1 leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine
whether the above, or the old Thro' the lang
muir, be the best.

46

No. XV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Open the door to me, Oh !

WITH ALTERATIONS.

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew.

Oh, open the door to me, Oh !*
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,

Oh, open the door to me, Oh !

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh !

The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh !

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh !

False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee. Oh !

She

* This second line was originally.

If love it may na be, Oh. E.

47

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide';

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh !
My true love she cried, and sank down by his side.

Never to rise again, Oh !

T do not know whether this song be really
mended.

No. XVI.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.
JESSIE.

Tune — " Bonnie Dundee."

True hearted was he, the sad swain o* the
Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o* the
Ayr,
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair :
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ;
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover.
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

O fresh

48

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning.

And sweet is the lily at evening close ;
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie,

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ;

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law :
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger!

Her modest demeanor 's the jewel of a'.

I

No. XVII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

""■""""~ I

I WILL not recognise the title you give
yourself " the Prince of indolent correspon-
dents ;" but if the adjective were taken away, I
think the title would then fit you exactly. It
gives me pleasure to find you can furnish anec-
dotes

* The justly praised fair one of this song was Miss Jessie
Staig, Dumfries, afterward Mrs. Miller; but who died ia
early life. ^ G. B.

49

dotes with respect to most of the songs: these
w ill be a literary curiosity.

I now send you my list of the songs, which
I believe will be found nearly complete. I
have put down the first lines of all the English
songs, which I propose giving in addition to
the Scotch verses. If any others occur to you,
better adapted to the character of the airs,
pray mention them, when you favour me with
your strictures upon every thing else relating to
the work.

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the
songs, with his symphonies and accompani-
ments added to them, f wish you were here,
that I might serve up some of them to you
with your own verses, by way of dessert after
dinner. There is so much delightful fancy in
the symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity
in the accompaniments : they are indeed beyond
all praise.

I am very much pleased with the several
last productions of your muse : your Lord
Gregory, in my estimation, is more interesting
than Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here
awa Willie must undergo some alterations to
suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been

VOL. IV. E

50

conning it over ; he will suggest what is neces-
sary to make them a fit match.*

The

* WANDERING WILLIE.

As altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson.

Here avva, there awa, wandering Willie,

Hei'e awa, there aica, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our parting.

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'<?,
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,

As simmer to nature, so Willie to me.

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers.
How your dread howliny a lover alarms !

Blorv soft ye breezes ! roll gently ye billows !
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

Bid oh if he's faithless and minds na his Nanie,
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main I

May I never see it, may I never trow it.

While dying I think that my Willie's my ain.

Our poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some of these
alterations, and rejected others. The last edition is as fol-
lows :

Here

51

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well
pleased both with the musical and poetical
part of our work, that he has volunteered his
assistance, and has already written four songs
for it, which, by his own desire, I send for your
perusal,

E 2 No.

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,

Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ;
Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie.

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our 'edrting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e,

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

Hest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, ■

How your dread howling a lover alarms !

Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows.

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

But oh, if he 's faithless, and minds na his Nanie,
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main ;

May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain.

Several of the alterations seem to be of little importance
in themselves, and were adopted, it may be ])resumed, for
the sake of suiting the words better to the music. The
Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested by

Mr

52

No. XVIIl.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

When wild war's deadly blast was hlawm
Air — " The mill mill O."

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And mony a widow mourning.*

I left

Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as
more sublime than wide-roaring, which he has retained;
but as it is only applicable to a placid state of the sea, or
at most to the swell left on its surface after the storm is
over, it gives a picture of that element not so well adapted
to the ideas of eternal separation which the fair mourner
is supposed to imprecate. From the original song of Here
awa Willie, Burns has borrowed nothing but the second line
and part of the first. The superior excellence of this beau-
tiful poem will, it b hoped, justify the different editions of it
which we have given. E.

* Variation, lines 3rd and 4th:

And eyes again with pleasure beam'd.
That had been blear 'd with mourning.

See No. XXIV.

53

I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger.

My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,

My hand iinstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,

I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,

I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile

That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonny glen,

Where early life I sported ;
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,

Where Nancy aft 1 courted :
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,

Down by her mother's dwelling !
And turn'd me round to hide the flood

That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O ! happy, happy may he be.

That 's dearest to thy bosom :

My

54

My purse is light, I 've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger ;

I 've serv'd my king and country lang,
Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever;
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed,

Forget him shall 1 never :
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,

Ye freely shall partake it,
That gallant badge, the dear cockade.

Ye 're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd — she reddend like a rose —

Syne pale like ony lily ;
She sank within my arms, and cried.

Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky —

By whom true love 's regarded,
I am the man ; and thus may still

True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I 'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;

Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.

Quo'

55

Quo' she, my gramlsire left me gowd,

A mail en plenish'd fairly ;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,

The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the sodger's prize,

The sodger's wealth is honor;
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,

Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he 's his country's stay

In day and hour of danger.

MEG O' THE MILL.

Alt' ** O BONNIE LASS WILL YOU LIE IN A

BARRACK."

O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller.
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

The

56

The Miller was strappiii, the Miller was ruddy ;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady :
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ;
She s left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ;
The Laird d id address her wi' matter m air moving,
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing 5
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher 's nae w ord in a true lover's parle,
Butj gie me my love, and a fig for the warl !

No. XIX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Ith April, 1793.

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your
packet. You cannot imagine how much this
business of composing for your publication has
added to my enjoyments. What with my early

attachment

57

attachment to ballads, your book, &c. b allad
making is now as completely my hobby-horse,
as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I '11
e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of
my race, (God grant that 1 may take the right
side of the winning post !) and then cheerfully
looking back on the honest folks with whom I
have been happy, I shall say, or sing, " Sae
merry as we a' hae been," and raising my last
looks to the whole human race, the last words
of the voice of Coila^ shall be " Good night
and joy be wi' you a'!" So much for my last
words : now for a few present remarks, as they
have occurred at random on looking over your
list.

The first lines of The last time I came o'er
the moor, and several other lines in it are beau-
tiful ; but in my opinion — pardon me, revered
shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy of the
divine air. I shall try to make or mend. For
ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove, is a charming
song; but Logan burn and Logan hraes, are
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I '11 try

that

* Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coda, in imita-
tion of Ossian, who denominates himself the Voice ofCona.
Sae merry as ice a' hae been ; and Good night and joy be wi'
you a', are the names of two Scottish tunes. E.

58

that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song'
may class among the English ones, I remem-
ber the two last lines of a verse in some of the
old songs of Logmi Water (for I know a good
many different ones) which 1 think pretty :

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes,
" Far, far frae me and Logan braes."

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. *' His
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression
indeed. «

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate,
" And syne my cockernony."

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or
your book. My song. Rigs of Barley, to the
same tune, does not altogether please me, but
if I can mend it and thresh a few loose senti-
ments out of it, I will submit it to your con-
sideration. The lass o Patie s mill is one of
Ramsay's best songs ; but there is one loose
sentiment in it which my much-valued friend
Mr. Erskine will take into his critical considera-
tion. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes,
are two claims, one, I think, from Aberdeen- .
shire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the
honour of this song. The following anecdote,
which 1 had from the present Sir William

Cunningham,

59

Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the
late John, Earl of Loudon, 1 can, on such
authorities, believe.

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon
castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John ;
and one forenoon, riding, or walking out to-
gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet,
romantic spot on Irwine Water, still called,
" Patie's Mill," where a bonie lass was '* tedding
hay, bare headed, on the green.". My Lord ob-
served to Allan, that it would be a fine theme
for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lin-
gering behind, he composed the first sketch of
it, which he produced at dinner.

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine song ; but,
for consistency's sake, alter the name " Ado-
nis." Were there ever such banns published
as a purpose of marriage between Adimis and
Mary ? 1 agree with you that ray song, There 's
nought hut care on every hand, is much superior
to Poortith cauld. The original song The Milly
mill O, though excellent, is, on account of
delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the title,
and think a Scottish song would suit the notes
best ; and let your chosen song, which is very
pretty, follow, as an English set. The Banks
of the Dee, is, you know, literally, Langoleey

to

60

to slow time. The song is well enough, but
has some false imagery in it, for instance,

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from
the tree.''

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a
low bush, but never from a tree ; and in the
second place, there never was a nightingale
seen, or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or on
the banks of any other river in Scotland. Ex-
otic rural imagery is always comparatively flat.
If I could hit on another stanza, equal to The
small ^ birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly
avow that I think it a superior song.* John
Anderson my jo — the song to this tune in
Johnson's Museum, is my composition, and
I think it not my worst : If it suit you, take it
and welcome. Your collection of sentimental
and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very
complete; but not so your comic ones. Where
are Tullochgorum, Lumps o' puddin, Tihhie
Fowler, and several others, which, in my
humble judgment, are well worthy of preserva-
tion?

* It will be found in the course of this correspondence that
the Bard produced a second stanza of The Chevalier's Lament,
(to which he here alludes) worthy of the first. E.

61

tion? There is also one sentimental song of
mine in the Museum, which never was known
out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I
got it taken down from a country girl's singing.
It is called Cragiehurn Wood; and, in the
opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest
Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast
about it; and I would take his taste in Scot-
tish music, against the taste of most connois-
seurs.

You are quite right in inserting the last five
in your list, though they are certainly Irish.
Shepherds I have lost my love! is to me a
heavenly air — what would you think of a set of
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a
good while ago, which I think * ^ * * *
###^###*# i^y^ |j^ j^y original

state is not quite a lady's song. I inclose an
altered, not amended copy for you, if you chuse
to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses
follow.*

Mr.

* Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this
song, even in its altered state. It does not appear in the
correspondence ; but it is probably one to be found in his
MSS. beginning,

" Yestreen

62

Mr. Erskiue's songs are all pretty, but his
Lone Vale is divine.

Yours, &c.

Let me know just how you like these random
hints.

No. XX.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, April, 1793.

I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that
ballad-making continues to be your hobby-
horse.—

*' Yestreen I got a pint of wine,
" A place where body saw na !

" Yestreen lay on this breast of mine,
" The gowden locks of Anna."

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain of
sentiment does not correspond with the air to which he pro-
poses it should be aUied. E.

i

63

horse. — Great pity 'twould be were it other-
wise. ] hope you will amble it away for many
a year, and " witch the world with your horse-
manship."

I know there are a good many lively songs
of merit that I have not put down in the list
sent you ; but I have them all in my eye. My
Patie is a lover gay, though a little unequal, is
a natural and very pleasing song, and I humbly
think we ought not to displace or alter it, except
the last stanza.*

No. XXI.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

April, 1793.

I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this mo-
ment. I shall answer it and your former letter,

in

* The original letter from Mr. Thomson contains many
observations on the Scottish songs, and on the manner of
adapting the words to the music, which, at his desire, are
suppressed. The subsequent letter of Mr. Burns refers to
several of these observations. E.

64

ill my desultory way of saying whatever comes
uppermost.

The business of many of our tunes wanting
at the beginning what fiddlers call, a starting-
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers.

*' There \s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
" That wander thro' the blooming heather,"

You may alter to

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
" Ye wander, &c."

My song. Here awa, there awa, as amended
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re-
turn you.*'

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the
only thing in which it is, in my opinion, repre-
hensible. You know I ought to know some-
thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment,
and point, you are a complete judge ; but
there is a quality more necessary than either, in
a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad,

I mean

* The reader has akeady seen that Burns did iiot finaUy
adopt all of Mr. Erskine's alterations. E.

6b

I mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to

the foregoing.

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been
always equally happy in his pieces : still I can-
not approve of taking such liberties with an
author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The last
time I came oer the moor. Let a poet, if he
chuses, take up the idea of another, and work
it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the
works of the poor bard whose tuneful tongue is
now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow
house ; by heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I grant
that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; but,
I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ;
let him mend the song, as the Highlander
mended his gun : he gave it a new stock, a new
lock, and a new barrel,

I do not, by this, object to leaving out im-
proper stanzas, where that can be done without
spoiling the whole. One stanza in The lass o'
Paties milly must be left out : the song will be
nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can
take the same liberty with Corn rigs are honnie.
Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be
the better for it. Cauld hail in Aberdeen, you
must leave with me yet a while. 1 have vowed
to. have a song to that air, on the lady whom I

VOL. IV. F attempted

66

attempted to celebrate in the verses Poortith
cauld and restless love. At any rate, my other
song, Green grow the rashes, will never suit.
That song is current in Scotland under the old
title, and to the merry old tune of that name ;
which of course would mar the progress of
your song to celebrity. Your book will be
the standard of Scots songs for the future :
let this idea ever keep your judgment on the
alarm.

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you
also a ballad to the Mill mill O.*

The last time I came o'er the moor^ I would
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear
from me soon. When you go to London on
this business, can you come by Dumfries ? I
have still several MSS. Scots airs by me which
I have pickt up, mostly from the singing of
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but

your

* The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that in No.
XVI. The ballad to the Mill mill O is that beginning,

" \^Tien wild war's deadly blasts are blawn."

E.

67

your learned lugs* would perhaps be displeased
with the very feature for which J like them. I
call them simple; you would pronounce them
silly. Do you know a tine air, called Jackie
Humes Lament ? I have a song of considerable
merit to that air. 1 '11 inclose you both the
song and tune, as I had them ready to send to
Johnson's Museum. f I send you likewise, to
me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken
down from viva voce.^

Adieu !

P 2 No

Ears.

E.

t The song here mentioned is that given in No. XVIH,
O ken ye uluit Meg o' the Milt has gotten? This song ia
surely Mr. Burns's own writing, though he does not gene-
tally praise his own songs so much.

Note by Mr. Thomson.

X The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote the
ballad of Bonnie Jean, to be found p. 81. E.

08

No. XXII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

April, 1793.
MY DEAR SIR,

1 HAD scarcely put my last letter into
the post office, when I took up the subject of
The last time I came oer the moor, and ere I
slept drew the outlines of the foregoing.* How
far 1 have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every
other occasion, to you to decide. 1 own my
vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a
place in your elegant and superb work ; but to
be of service to the work is my first wish. As I
have often told you, I do not in a single instance
wish you, out of compliment to me, to insert any
thing of mine. One hint let me give you — what-
ever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota
of the original Scottish airs ; I mean in the song^
department; but let our national music preserve
its native features. They are, I own, frequently
wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ;
but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depend*
a great part of their effect.

No.

* The song alluded to here, will be found in a subsequent
part of this volume. E.

m

No. XXIII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793.

I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, for
your last two letters, and the songs which ac-
companied them. I am always both instructed
and entertained by your observations ; and the
frankness with which you speak out your mind,
is to me highly agreeable. It is very possible
I may not have the true idea of simplicity in
composition. I confess there are several songs,
of Allan Ramsay's for example, that I think
silly enough, which another person more con-
versant than I have been with country people,
would, perhaps, call simple and natural. But
the lowest scenes of simple nature will not
please generally, if copied precisely as they are.
The poet, like the painter, must select what will
form an agreeable as well as a natural picture.
On this subject it were easy to enlarge; but at
present suffice it to say, that I consider sim-
plicity

70

plicity, rightly understood, as a most essential
quality in composition, and the groundwork
of beauty in all the arts. 1 will gladly appro-
priate your most interesting new ballad When
ivild 2cars deadly blast, &c. to the Mill mill O,
as well as the two other songs to their respective
airs ; but the third and fourth lines of the first
verse must undergo some little alteration in or-
der to suit the music. Pleyel does not alter a
single note of the songs. That would be absurd
indeed ! With the airs which he introduces
into the sonatas, I allow him to take such
liberties as he pleases, but that has nothing to
do with the songs.

P. S. I wish you would do as you proposed
with your Higs of JBarley. If the loose sen-
timents are threshed out of it, I will find an
air for it ; but as to this there is no hurry.

INo.

71

No. XXIV.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

June, 1793.

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a
friend of mine, in whom I am much interested,
has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for
doing any good among ballads. My own loss,
as to pecuniary matters is trifling; but the total
ruin of a much loved friend, is a loss indeed.
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last com-
mands.

I cannot alter the disputed lines, in the Mill
mill O* What you think a defect, I esteem as

a positive

* The lines were the third and fourth. See p. 52.

*' Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
" And mony a widow mourning."

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the first num-
ber

72l

a positive beauty: so you see how doctors dif-
fer. I .shall now, with as much alacrity as I
can muster, go on with your commands.

You know Fraser, the hautboy-player in
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band of
music for a fencible corps quartered in this
country. Among many of his airs that please
me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the
name of The Quakers Wife ; and which 1 re-
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by
the name of Liggeram Cosh, my bomiie tvee lass.
Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and with an expression
that quite charms me. I became such an en-
thusiast about it, that I made a song for it,
which I here subjoin ; and inclose Fraser's set
of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they are
at your service ; if not, return me the tune, and
I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I think
the song is not in my worst manner.

T'une

ber of Mr. Thomson's 3Iusical Work was in the press, this
gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine's advice, to substitute
for them in that publication,

" And eyes again with pleasure beamed,
" That had been bleared with mourning."

Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferior
to the original. This is the only alteration adopted by Mr.
Thomson, which Burns did not approve, or at least assent to.

E.

73

Tune — " LiGGERAM Cosh."

Blythe liae I been on yon hill,

As the lambs before me ;
Careless ilka thought and free,

As the breeze flew o'er me :
Now nae langer sport and play,

Mirth or sang can please me;
Lesley is sae fair and coy.

Care and anguish seize me.

Heavy, heavy, is the task,

Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr,

Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws,

In my bosom swelling ;
Underneath the grass-green sod,

Soon maun be my dwelling.

I ^should wish to hear how this pleases you.

No.

74

No. XXV.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

June 2oth, 1793.

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your .
bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading
of those mighty villains who divide kingdom
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay
nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambi-
tion, or often from still more ignoble passions ?
In a mood of this kind to-day, 1 recollected the
air of JLogan Water ; and it occurred to me
that its querulous melody probably had its
origin from the plaintive indignation of some
swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic
strides of some public destroyer ; and over-
whelm'd with private distress, the consequence
of a country's ruin. If I have done any thing
at all like justice to my feelings, the following
song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's
meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have
some merit.

Tune

M

75

Tune — ** Logan Water."

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,'
That day I was my Willie's bride ;
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drnmlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month o' May,

Has made our hills and valleys gay ;

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers.

The bees hum round the breathing flowers :

Blythe, morning lifts his rosy eye,

And evening's tears are tears of joy :

My soul, delightless, a' surveys,

While Willie 's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile :
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow d nights and joyless days.
While Willie 's far frae Logan braes.

O wae

76

O wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate !
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return !
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?*
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie, hame to Logan braes !

Do you know the following beautiful little
fragment, in Witherspoon's collection of Scots
songs ?

Air — " HuGHiE Graham."

" O GIN my love were yon red rose,
" That grows upon the castle wa';

" And 1 mysel' a drap o' dew,
" Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

" Oh !

* Originally,

" Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys,

" The widow's tears, the orphan's cries."

E.

n

** Oh, there beyond expression blest,
** 1 'd feast on beauty a' the night ;

** Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
« Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light."

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether,
unless you gave it a place. 1 have often tried to
eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing
myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind-
legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I
frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion at all,
they might be first in place ; as every poet, who
knows any thing of his trade, will husband his
best thoughts for a concluding stroke.

O were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ;

And I, a bird to shelter there.
When wearied on my little wing :

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing.

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

No.

78

No. XXVI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Monday, \st July, 1793.

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir,
that any thing should happen to unhinge you.
The times are terribly out of tune, and when
harmony will be restored, heaven knows.

The first book of songs, just published, will
be dispatched to you along with this. Let me
be favoured with your opinion of it, frankly
and freely.

I shall certainly give a place to the song you
have written for the Quakers Wife; it is quite
enchanting. Pray will you return the list of
songs, with such airs added to it as you think
ought to be included. The business now rests

entirely

79

entirely on myself, the gentlemen who originally
agreed to join the speculation, having requested
to be off. No matter, a loser I cannot be.
The superior excellence of the work will
create a general demand for it, as soon as it is
properly known. And, were the sale even
slower than it promises to be, 1 should be
somewhat compensated for my labour, by the
pleasure I shall receive from the music. I can-
not express how much I am obliged to you for
the exquisite new songs you are sending me ;
but thanks, my friend, are a poor return for
what you have done : as I shall be benefited
by the publication, you must suffer me to inclose
a small mark of my gratitude,* and to repeat it
afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not
return it, for by heaven if you do, our corres-
pondence is at an end : and though this would
be no loss to you, it would mar the publication,
which, under your auspices, cannot fail to be
respectable and interesting,

Wednesday

80

Wednesdaif Morning.

I THANK you for your delicate additional
■verses to the old fragment, and for your excel-
lent song to Logan Water: Thomson's truly
elegant one will follow for the English singer.
Your apostrophe to statesmen is admirable,
but 1 am not sure if it is quite suitable to the
supposed gentle character of the fair mourner
who speaks it.

No.

81

No. XXVII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

July 2nd, 1793.
MY DEAR SIR,

I HAVE just finished the following bal-
lad, and, as I do think it in my best style, I send
it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air
from Mrs. Burns's wood-note wild, is very fond
of it ; and has given it a celebrity by teaching
it to some young ladies of the first fashion here.
\i you do not like the air enough to give it a
place in your collection, please return it. The
song you may keep, as I remember it.

There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen,

When a' the fairest maids were met.
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

VOL. IV. G And

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark.

And ay she sang sae merrilie:
The blithest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;

And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen ;

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jenny to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ;

And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream.

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ;

So trembling, pure, was tentler love
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.*

And

- In the original MS, our poet asks Mr. Thomson if this
staaza is not original ? M.

83

And now she works her mammie's wark,
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ;

Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad niak her weel again.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e'e,

As Robie tanld a tale o' love
Ae e'enin on the lily lea ?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ;

His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love :

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me !
Or wilt thou leave thy manimie's,cot,

And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee ;

But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.

Now what could artless Jeanie do ?

She had nae will to say him na :
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,

And love was ay between them twa.

G 2 I have

84

I liave some thoughts of inserting in your in-
dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair-ones,
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as
ingenuity may find them out.

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M.,
daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your sub-
scribers. I have not painted her in the rank
which she holds in life, but in the dress and
character of a cottager.

No. XXVIII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

July, 1793.

I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that yoU'
truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It
degrades me in my own eyes. However, to
return it would savour of affectation ; but, as
to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor
kind ; 1 swear, by that Honour which crowns
the upright statue of Robert Burns's Inte-
grity— on the least motion of it, I will indig-
nantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from
that moment commence entire stranger to you !

Burns's

85

BuRNs's character for generosity of sentiment
and independence of mind, will, I trust, long
outlive any of his wants, which the cold un-
feeling ore can supply : at least, I will take
care that such a character he shall deserve. .

Thank j'^ou for my copy of your publication.
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical
work, such elegance and correctness. Your
preface, too, is admirably written : only your
partiality to me has made you say too much :
however, it will bind me down to double every
effort in the future progress of the work. The
following are a few remarks on the songs in
the list you sent me. I never copj'^ what I write
to you, so I may be often tautological, or per-
haps contradictory.

The flowers o the forest^ is charming as a
poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the
notes, but, though out of your rule, the thre^
stanzas beginning,

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,"

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortal-
ize the author of them, who is an old lady of
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget

of

m

of what place ; but from Roxburghshire. What
a charming apostrophe is

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting,
" Why, why torment us — poor sons of a dayT

The old ballad, / ivish I were ivhere Helen
lies, is silly, to contemptibility.* My alteration
of it, iu Johnson's, is not much better. Mr.
Pinkerton, iu his, what he calls, ancient ballads
(many of them notorious, though beautiful
enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is full of
his own interpolations, but no matter.

In my next I will suggest to your considera-
tion, a few songs which may have escaped your
hurried notice. In the mean time allow me to
congratulate yon now, as a brother of the quill.
You have committed your character and fame ;
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters
of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music
charm.

Being

* There is a copy of this ballad given in the account of
the Parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleeming (which contains the tomb
of fair Helen Irvine) in the statistics of Sir John Sinclair,
vol. XIII. p. 275, to which this character is certainly not ap-
plicable. E.

87

Being a bard of nature, 1 have some preten-
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by
the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great-
grand-chikl will hold up your volumes, and say
with honest pride, " This so much admired
selection was the work of my ancestor."

No. XXIX.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, \st Aug. 1793.
PEAR SIR,

I HAD the pleasure of receiving your
last two letters, and am happy to find you are
quite pleased with the appearance of the first
book. When you come to hear the songs sung
and accompanied, you will be charmed with
them.

The honnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves
better verses, and I hope you will match her.
Cauld hail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night,
and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's
leisure: these are peculiarly worthy of her choice
gifts : besides, yau '11 notice, that in airs of this

sort

88

sort, the singer can always do greater justice to
the poet, than in the slower airs of 2^he hush
ahoon Traquair, Lord Gregory, and the like ;
for in the manner the latter are frequently sung,
you must be contented with the sound without
the sense. Indeed both the airs and words are
disguised by the very slow, languid, psalm-
singing style in M'hich they are too often per-
formed : they lose animation and expression
altogether, and instead of speaking to the mind,
or touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear,
and set us a yawning!

Your ballad, There was a lasSy and she was
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall un-
doubtedly grace my collection.

No. XXX.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

August, 1793.
MY DEAR THOMSON,

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke,
who, at present, is studymg the music of the

spheres

89

spheres at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus,
he thinks, is rather out of tune ; so, until he rec-
tify that matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial
affairs.

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects,
and if more are wanted he says you shall have
them.

Confound your long stairs !

S. CLARKE,

No. XXXI.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

August, 1793.

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the
passages in my song of Logan Water, is right
in one instance; but it is difficult to mend it: if
1 can [ will. The other passage you object to,
does not appear in the same light to me.

I have

90

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and,
you will probably think, with little success;
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way
measure, that I despair of doing any thing bet-

ter to it.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

Time — *' Robin Adair."

While larks with little wing,

Fann'd the pure air.
Tasting the breathing spring,

Forth I did fare :
Gay the sun's golden eye,
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ;
Such thy morn ! did 1 cry,

Phil lis the fair.

In each bird's careless song,

Glad, I did share;
While yon wild flowers among.

Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day.
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ;
^uch thy bloom! did 1 say,

Phillis the fair.

Down

91

Down in a shady walk,

Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk

Caught in a snare :
So kind may fortune be.
Such make his destiny !
He who would injure thee,

Phillis the fair.

So much for namby-pamby. 1 may, after all,
try my hand on it in Scots verse. TheVe I
always find myself most at home.

I have just put the last hand to the song 1
meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits you
to insert it, 1 shall be pleased, as the heroine is
a favorite of mine: if not, I shall also be pleased;
because I wish, and will be glad, to see you act
decidedly on the business.* 'Tis a tribute as a
man of taste, and as an editor, which you owe
yourself

No.

The song herewith sent, is that in p. 30 of this volume.

E.

92

No. XXXII.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

August, 1793,
MY GOOD SIR,

I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable
circumstances attending this publication of mine,
that it has procured me so many of your much
valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledg-
ments to St. Stephen for the tunes : tell him I
admit the justness of his complaint on my stair-
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your
jeu cFesprit; which I perused more than once,
without discovering exactly whether your dis-
cussion was music, astronomy, or politics:
though a sagacious friend acquainted with the
convivial habits of the poet and the musician,
offered me a bet of two to one, you were just
drowning care together; that an empty bowl
was the only thing that would deeply affect
you, and the only matter you could then study
how to remedy !

I shall be glad to see you give Rohin Adair

a Scottish

93

a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with
an English suit for a change, and you are well
matched together. Robin's air is excellent,
though he certainly has an out-of-the-way mea-
sure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued
with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a
single elegant stanza to be substituted for the
concluding objectionable verses of Down the
IBurn Davie, so that this most exquisite song
may no longer be excluded from good company.

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am to
have engraved as a frontispiece to the humorous
class of songs ; you will be quite charmed with
it, I promise you. The old couple are seated
by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great good
humour is clapping John's shoulders, while he
smiles and looks at her with such glee, as to
shew that he fully recollects the pleasant days
and nights when they vfexe first acquent. The
drawing would do honour to the pencil of
Teniers.

No.

94

No. XXXIII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

AiigHst, 1793.

That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin
Adair, has run so in my head, and 1 succeeded
so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured,
iu this morning's walk, one essay more. You,
my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate
part of our worthy friend C.'s story, which hap-
pened about three years ago. That struck my
fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice,
as follows.

SONG.

Had [ a cave on some wild, distant shore.
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing-
roar :
There would I weep my woes.
There seek my lost repose.
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest

95

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows—fleeting as air !

To thy new lover hie,

Laugh o'er thy perjury.

Then in thy bosom try,
What peace is there !

By the way, J have met with a Musical High-
lander, in Breadal bane's Fencibles, which are
quartered here, who assures me that he well re-
members his mother's singing Gaelic songs to
both Robin Adair and Gramachree. They
certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish
taste in them.

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver-
ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what
[ shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander-
ing minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go
frequently errant through the wilds both of
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favorite airs
might be common to both — A case in point —
They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish
air, as they say, called Caun du delish. The
fact is, in a publication of Corri's a great while
ago, you will find the same air, called a High-
land

96

land one, with a Gadic song set to it. Its
name there, 1 think, is Oran Gaoil, and a fine
air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev.
Gaelic Parson, about these matters.

No. XXXIV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

August, 1793.
MY DEAR SIR,

Let me in this ae night, I will reconsider.
I am glad that you are pleased with my song,
Had I a cave, &c. as I liked it myself.

I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume
of the Museum in my hand ; when, turning up
Allan Water, '* What numbers shall the muse
repeat, &c." as the words appeared to me rather
unworthy of so fine an air; and recollecting, that
it is on your list, I sat, and raved, under the
shade of an old thorn, 'till I wrote one to suit
the measure. 1 may be wrong ; but I think it
not in my worst style. Ton must know, that
in Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song

first

97

first appeared, the ancient name of the tune,
Allan says, is Allan Water or My love Annie 's
very bonnie. This last has certainly been a line
of the original song ; so I took up the idea, and,
as you will see, have introduced the line in its
place, which, I presume, it formerly occupied ;
though I likewise give you a chusing line^ if it
should not hit the cut of your fancy.

By Allan-stream I chanc'd to rove,

While Phoibus sank beyond Benleddi ;*
The winds were whispering thro' the grove.

The yellow corn was waving ready :
I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony;
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang —

O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie !|

O 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 !

VOL. IV. H Her

* A mountain west of Strath- Allan, 3,009 feet high.

R. B.

t Or, " O my love Annie 's very bonnie." R. B.

,98

Her liead upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine forever!"

While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,

The simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery, thro' 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 thro' 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, 1 make
more verses in it, than all the year else.

God bless you !

No.

99

No. XXXV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

August, 1793.

Is Whistle, and Til come to you, my lad,
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes-ter-
day I set the following verses to it. Urban],
whom 1 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 chuse to comply, flowever, if
the song does not suit your taste, 1 may pos-
sibly send it him. The set of the air which I
had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum.

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad,*
O whistle, and I 11 come to you, my lad :

H 2 Tho'

* In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus,

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo,
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo;
Tho' father and mother and a' should say no,
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jt>-
See also No. LXXVII.

100

Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and 1 11 come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back-stile and let nae body see.
And come as ye were na comin to me.
And come, &c.

O ivhisile, ^c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie ;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.
Yet look, &c.

O ivhistle, Sfc.

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me.
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ;
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be.
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O ivhistle^ Sfc.

Another fa\orite air of mine, is. The muckin
o' Geordies byre. When sung slow with expres-
sion, I have wished that it had had better poetry:
that, I have endeavoured to supply, as follows:

A down

101

Adown winding Nith 1 did wander,

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ;

Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sins:.

•&•

CHORUS.

Awa wi your belles and your beauties,
Tliey never wi her can compare :

Whaever has met wi my Phillis^
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy.
So artless, so simple, so wild ;

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis,
For she is simplicity's child.
Awa, Sfc.

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.
Awa, SfC.

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.
Away Sfc.

Her

102

Her voice is the song of the morning
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove,

"When Phffibus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
Awa, (^c.

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.*
Awa, <^'c.

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 P. M., sister to Sonnie
Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall
hear from me, the very first grist 1 get from my
rhyming mill.

No.

* This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to more
advantage without the chorus : as is indeed the case with
several other sonars of our author. E.

103

No. XXXVI.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Augtist, 1793.

That tune, Ccmld Kail, is such a favo-
rite of yours, that I once more roved out yes-
terday for a gloamin-shot at the muses;* when
the muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith,
or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila,
whispered me the following. 1 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
Coda's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet
has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by
catching inspiration from her; so 1 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 \ery

words

* Gloamin — twilight, probably from glooming. A beau-
tiful poetical word which ought to be adopted ia England. A
gloarain-shotj a twilight-interview. E.

104

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' a' thy charmvS,

1 clasp my countless treasure;
I '11 seek nae mair o' heaven to share,

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

1 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 favorite air, I shall be highly pleased.

The

105

The last time I came o'er the moor, I cannot
meddle with, as to mending it; and the musi-
cal world have been so long accustomed to
Ramsay's words, that a different song, though
positively superior, would not be so well re-
ceived. I [am not fond of chorusses to songs,
so 1 have not made one for the foregoing.

No. XXXVII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Angust, 1793.

DAINTY DAVIE.

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

CHORUS.

Meet me on the warlock knowe.
Dainty Davie, dainti/ Davie,

There 1 11 spend the day ivi you.
My ain dear dainty Davie.

The

106

The crystal waters round us fa'.
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.
3l€et me, ^^c.

When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me, 6fc.

When day, expiring in the west.
The curtain draws o' nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I lo e best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.

CHORUS.

Meet me on the warlock hnowe,
JBonnie Davie, dainty Davie,

There HI spend the day ici you,
My ain dear dainty Davie*

So

* Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, from
•yvhich Burns has taken nothing but the title and the mea-
sure. E.

107

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.

No. XXXVIII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 1st Sept. 1793.

MY DEAR SIR,

Since writing you last, I have received
half a dozen songs, with which I am delighted
beyond expression. The humour and fancy of
Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, will render
it nearly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray.
Come, let me take thee to my breast — A down

ivinding

108

winding NitJi, and By Allan stream, &c. are full
of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit the
airs for which they are intended. Had la cave
on some wild distant shore, is a striking and
affecting composition. Our friend, to whose
story it refers, read it with a swelling heart, 1
assure you. The union we are now forming, I
think, can never be broken ; these songs of yours
will descend with the music to the latest pos-
terity, and will be fondly cherished so long as
genius, taste, and sensibility exist in our island.

While the muse seems so propitious, I think
it right to inclose a list of all the favours I have
to ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three !
I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as
many as it is probable he will attend to : most
of the remaining airs would puzzle the English
poet not a little ; they are of that peculiar mea-
sure and rhythm, that they must be familiar to
him who writes for them.

No.

109

No. XXXIX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Sept. 1793.

1 ou may readily trust, my dear Sir,
that any exertion in my power, is heartily at
your service. But one thing 1 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.

You know that my pretensions to musical
taste, are merely a few of nature's instincts, un-
taught and untutored by art. For this reason,
many musical compositions, particularly where
much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; however
they may transport and ravish the ears of you
connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise
than merely as melodious din. On the other
hand, by way of amends, 1 am delighted with
many little melodies, which the learned musician
despises as silly and insipid. I do not know
whether the old air Heif tuttie laitie may rank

among^

no

among this number; but well I know that,
with Eraser's hautboy, it has often filled my
eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I
have met with in many places of Scotland, that
it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of
Bannock-burn. This thought in my solitary
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm
on the theme of Liberty and Independence,
which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode,
fitted to the air that one might suppose to be
the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic
followers on that eventful morning.*

Bruce to his Troops on the eve of the Battle of
BANNOCK-BURN.

TO ITS AIN TUNE.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has afteii led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now 's

* This noble strain was conceived by our poet during a
storm among the wilds of Glen-Ken, in Galloway. A more
finished copy will be found after-wards. £.

Ill

Now's the day, and now's the hour ;
See the front o' battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slaverie !

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee !

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa',
Let him follow me !

By oppression's woes and pains !
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free !

Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe !
Liberty 's in every blow !
Let us DO, or die !

So may God ever defend the cause of Truth
and Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen.

P. S.

11*2

P. S. I shewed the air to Urbaui, who was
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make
soft verses for it, but I had no idea of giving
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci-
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of
some other struggles of the same nature, not
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania.
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will
find in the Museum ; though 1 am afraid that
the air is not what will entitle it to a place in
your elegant selection.

No, XL.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Sept. 1793.

I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will
begin to think my correspondence is persecu-
tion. No matter, 1 can't help it; a ballad is
my hobby-horse; which, though otherwise a
simple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough,
has yet this blessed headstrong property, that
when once it has fairly made off with a hapless
wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-

gingle.

113

gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is
sure to niri poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey,
quite beyond any useful point or post in the
common race of man.

The following song I have composed for
Oran-gaoil, the Highland air that you tell me
in your last, you have resolved to give a place
to in your book. I have this moment finished
the song; so you have it glowing from the
mint. If it suit you, well ! — If not, 'tis also
well I

Tune — " Oran-gaoil."

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ;

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart !
Sever'd from thee can I survive ?

But fate has will'd, and we must part.
I'll often greet this surging swell,

Yon distant isle will often hail :
" E'en here, I took the last farew^ell ;

" There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."

VOL. IV. I Along

114

Along the solitary shore,

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,

I '11 westward turn my wistful eye :
Happy, thou Indian grove, I '11 say,

Where now my Nancy's path may be !
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,

O tell me, does she muse on me !

No. XLI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 5th Sept. 1793.

I BELIEVE it is generally allowed that
the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the
greatest merit. While you are sending me verses
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own,
you speak of them as if they were ordinary pro-
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest
composition of the kind in the Scottish language.

I happened

115

1 happened to dine yesterday with a party of
your friends, to whom I read it. They were
all charmed with it, intreated me to find out a
suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of
giving it a tune so totally devoid o interest or
grandeur as Hey tuttie taitie. Assuredly your
partiality for this tune must arise from the ideas
associated in your mind by the tradition con-
cerning it ; for I never heard any person, and I
have conversed again and again with the great-
est enthusiasts for Scottish airs — I say, I never
heard any one speak of it as worthy of notice.

I have been running over the whole hundred
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I
think Lewie Gordonis most happily adapted to
your ode; at least with a very slight variation
of the fourth line, which I shall presently sub-
mit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon more of
the grand than the plaintive, particularly when
it is sung with a degree of spirit, which your
"words would oblige the singer to give it. I
would have no scruple about sul^stituting your
ode in the room of Lewie Gordon, which has
neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry
that characterize your verses. Now the variation
I have to suggest upon the last line of each verse,
the only line too short for the air, is as follows :

Verse Ist, Or to glorious victorie.

I 2 Verse

116

Verse 2nd, Chains — chains, and slaverie.

3;t/, Let him, let him turn and flie.

4th, Let him hravely follow me.

bth. But they shall, they shall be free.

Qth, Let us, let us do, or die !

If you connect each line with its own verse,
I do not think you will find that either the
sentiment or the expression loses any of its
energy. The only line which I dislike in the
whole of the song is, " Welcome to your gory
bed." Would not another word be preferable
to ivelcome ? In your next I will expect to be
informed whether you agree to what I have
proposed. The little alterations I submit with
the greatest deference.

The beauty of the verses you have made for
Oran-gaoil will insure celebrity to the air.

No.

117

No. XLIJ.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

September, 1793.

1 HAVE received your list, my dear Sir,
and here go my observations on it.*

Doivn the burn Davie. I liave this moment
tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of
the third stanza, and the first half of the last
stanza, thus :

As down the burn they took their way,

And thro' the flowery dale ;
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,

And love was ay the tale.

With

* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. In his
remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes through the
whole ; but on many of them he merely signifies his appro-
bation. All his remarks of any importance are presented to
the reader. £.

118

With " Mary, when shall we return,

" Sic pleasure to renew?"
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn,

" And ay shall follow you."*

Thro the wood, laddie — I am decidedly of
opinion, that both in this, and There'll never
he peace till Jamie comes liame, the second or
high part of the tune being a repetition of the
first part an octave higher, is only for instru-
mental music, and would be much better omitted
in singing.

Cotvden-hiowes. Remember in your index,
that the song in pure English to this tune, be-
ginning,

" When summer comes, the swains on Tweed."

is the production of Crawford. Robert was his
Christian name.

JLaddie lie near me, must lie hy me for some
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am
complete master of a tune, in my own singing,

(such

* This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted, (or at least
intended to adopt) instead of the last stanza of the original
song, which is objectionable in point of delicacy. E.

119

(such as it is) 1 can never compose for it. My
way is : I consider the poetic sentiment corres-
pondent to my idea of the musical expression;
then chuse my theme ; begin one stanza! when
that is composed, which is generally the most
difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit
down now and then, look out for objects in
nature round me, that are in unison or harmony
with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings
of my bosom; humming every now and then
the air, with the verses I have framed. When
I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the
solitary fire-side of my study, and there commit
my effusions to paper; swinging at intervals
on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of
calling forth my own critical strictures, as my
pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost
invariably my way.

What cursed egotism !

Gill Morice, I am for leaving out. It is a
plaguy length ! the air itself is never sung; and
its place can well be supplied by one or two
songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For
instance, Cragieburn Wood, and Roys Wife.
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ;
and the last has high merit as well as great ce-
lebrity. I have the original words of a song for
the last air, in the hand-writing of the lady who

composed

120

composed it: and they are superior to any edi-
tion of the song which the public has yet seen.*

Highland-laddie. The old set will please a
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian-
ized one. There is a third, and what Oswald
calls, the old Highland-laddie, which pleases
me more than either of them, it is sometimes
called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being the air of
an old humourous tawdry song of that name.
You will find it in the Museum, I hae heen at
Crookieden, &c. I would advise you in this
musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to
the muses for inspiring direction; and in the
mean time, waiting for this direction, bestow a
libation to Bacchus; and there is no doubt but
you will hit on a judicious choice. Prohatum
est.

Auld Sir Simon, I must bes: vou to leave
out, and put in its place The Quakers Wife.

JBlythe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the
finest songs ever I made in my life; and besides,
is composed on a young ladj% positively the
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As

I purpose

* This song, so much admired by our bard, will be found
in a future part of the volume, No. LXIV. E..

121

1 purpose giving you the names and designa-
tions of all my heroines, to appear in some
future edition of your work, perhaps half a
century hence, you must certainly include the
honniest lass in a' the warld in your collection.

Daintie Davie, 1 have heard sung, nineteen
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times,
and always with the chorus to the low part of the
tune; and nothing has surprised me so much,
as your opinion on this subject. If it will not
suit, as 1 proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas
together, and then make the chorus follow.

Fee him Father — I inclose you Eraser's set of
this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact he
makes it the language of despair. I shall here
give you two stanzas in that style ; merely to
try if it will be any improvement. Were it pos-
sible, in singing, to give it half the pathos which
Fraser gives it in playing, it would make an
admirably pathetic song. I do not give these
verses for any merit they have. I composed
them at the time in which Patie Allans mither
died, that tvas, about the back o' midnight ; and
by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had
overset every mortal in company, except the
hautbois and the muse.

Thou

Jockie

* Hie Scottish (the Editor uses the word substantively, as
the English) employ the abbreviation 77/ for I shall as well
as In-ill; and it is for I sha Hit is used here. In Annandale
as in the northern counties of England, for / shall, they use
Fsc. E.

t This is the whole of the song. Tlie bard never proceeded
farther. Note by Mr. Thomson,

122

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left

me ever.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left |

me ever.
Aften hast thou vow'tl that death, Only should

us sever.
Now thou's left thy lass for ay — I maun see thee

never, Jamie,
I '11 see thee never.*

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me

forsaken.
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me

forsaken.
Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is

breaking :
Soon my weary e'en I'll close — Never mair to

waken, Jamie,
Ne'er mair to waken.f

i

123

Jockie and Jenny I would discard, and in its
place would put There's nae luck about the
house, which has a very pleasant air ; and which
is positively the finest love-ballad in that style in
the Scottish, or perhaps in any other language.
When she came ben she bobbet, as an air, is more
beautiful than either, and in the andante way
would unite with a charming- sentimental bal-
lad.

Saw ye my Father? is one of my greatest
favourites. The evening before last 1 wandered
out, and began a tender song; in what I think
is its native style. I must premise, that the old
way, and the way to give most effect, is to have
no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to
burst at once into the pathos. Every country
girl sings — Saw ye my father? &c.

My song is but just begun; and I should,
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion
of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish
dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct
JEnglish.*

Todlin hame. Urbani mentioned an idea of

his

* This song appears afterwards. It begins,
** Where are the joys I hae met in the morning." E.

124

his, which has long been mine ; that this air is
highly susceptible of pathos : accordingly, you
will soon hear him at your concert, try it to a
song of mine in the Museum ; Ye banks and
braes o bonnie Doon. One song more and I
have done ; Auld lang syne. The air is but
mediocre; but the following song, the old song
of the olden times, and which has never been
in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took
it down from an old man's singing ; is enough
to recommend any air.

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min' ?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne ?

CHORUS.

For auld lang syne, my dear.

For auld lang syne.
We 7/ tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We

126

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu't the gowans fine ;
But we've wandered mony a weary foot,

Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, ^-c.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin sun till dine :
But seas between us braid hae roar'd,

Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, Sfc.

And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie 's a hand o' thine ;
And we '11 tak a right guid willie-waught,

For auld lang syne.
For auld, Sfc.

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp,

And surely I '11 be mine ;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.*
For auld, Sfc.

Now,

* This song, of the olden time, is excelleut. It is worthy
of our bard. E.

126

Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a num-
ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice,
Tranent 31uir, M'Pherson's Farewell, ]3attleof
Sheriff ]\hiir, or We ran and they ran, (1 know
the author of this charming ballad, and his his-
tory) Hardiknute, Barbara Allan, (I can furnish
a finer set of this tune than any that has yet
appeared ;) and besides do you know that I
really have the old tune to which The Cherry
and the Slae w2iS sung; and which is mentioned
as a well known air in Scotland's Complaint, a
book published before poor Mary's days. It
was then called. The banks o' Helicon; an old
poem which Pinkerton has brought to light.
You will see all this in Ty tier's history of Scot-
tish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may
have no great merit ; but it is a great curiosity.
I have a good many original things of this kind.

No.

127

No. XLIIL

xMr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

September, 1793.

I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode
pleases you so much. Your idea, *' honour's
bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea;
so, if you please, we will let the line stand as
it is. I have altered the song as follows:

BANNOCK-BURN.

Robert Sruce's Address to his Army.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie.

Now 's the day, and now 's the hour ;
See the front o' battle lower ;
See approach proud Edward's power —
Edward! chains and slaverie !

Wha

128

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wlia can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Caledonian ! on wi' me !

By oppression's woes and pains !
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be — shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe !
Liberty 's in every blow !
Forward ! let us do, or die !

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from
the common stall edition of Wallace.

*' A false usurper sinks in every foe,
" And liberty returns with every blow:"

A couplet

129

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you
liad enough of my correspondence. The post
goes, and my head aches miserably. One com-
fort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world,
for last night's joviality, that I shall escape
scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen !

No. XLIV.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Vlili Sept. 1793.

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear
Sir, for your observations on the list of my
songs. I am happy to find your ideas so much
in unison with my own respecting the generality
of the airs, as well as the verses. About some
of them we differ, but there is no disputing
about hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit
by the remarks you make; and to reconsider
the whole with attention.

Dainty Davie must be sung, two stanzas to-
gether, and then the chorus ; 'tis the proper way.
VOL. IV. K I agree

130

1 agree with you, that there may be something
of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of
Fee Mm, Father, when performed with feeling :
but a tender cast may be given almost to any
lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively,
and with serious words. I am, however, clearly
and invariably for retaining the cheerful tunes
joined to their own humorous verses, wherever
the verses are passable. But the sweet song for
Fee him, Father, which you began about the
back of midnight, 1 will publish as an additional
one. Mr. James Balfour, the king of good fel-
lows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish
ballads, that ever existed, has charmed thou-
sands of companies with Fee him, Father, and
with Todlin hame also, to the old words, which
never should be disunited from either of these
airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard.
Fy let's a to the bridal, for instance, is so coaise
and vulgar, that 1 think it fit only to be sung in
a company of drunken colliers; and Saw ye my
Father appears to me both indelicate and silly.

One word more with regard to your heroic
ode. I think, with great deference to the poet,
that a prudent general would avoid saying any
thing to his soldiers which might tend to make
death more frightful than it is. Gory presents a
disagreeable image to the mind ; and to tell them,

" Welcome

131

" Welcome to your gory bed," seems rather a
discouraging address, notwithstanding the al-
ternative which follows. I have shewn the song
to three friends of excellent taste, and each of
them objected to this line, which emboldens
me to use the freedom of bringing it again under
your notice. I would suggest,

" Now prepare for honour's bed,
" Or for glorious victorie."

No. XLV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

September, 1793.

^' Who shall decide when doctors dis-
agree?" My ode pleases me so much that I
cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations
would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am
exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on
reconsidering it ; as I think I have much im-
proved it. Instead of " soger ! hero !" 1 will
have it " Caledonian! on wi' me!"

K 2 I have

13'i

I have scrutinized it, over and over; and to
he world some way or other it shall go as it is.
At the same time it will not in the least hurt
me, should you leave it out altogether, and
adhere to your first intention of adopting Lo-
gan's verses.*

I have

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this song (if it
may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. He has
attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and perhaps among:
the existing airs he could not find a better ; but the poetry is
suited to a much higher strain of music, and may employ the
genius of some Scottish Handel, if any such should in future
arise. The reader will have observed, that Burns adopted
the alterations proposed by his friend and correspondent in
former instances, with great readiness ; perhaps indeed, on
all indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however,
he rejected them, though repeatedly urged with determined
resolution . With every respect for the j udgment of Mr. Thom-
son and his friends, we may be satisfied that he did so. He
who in preparing for an engagement attempts to withdraw
his imagination from images of death, will probably have but
imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of
battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of
such men the conquerors at Bannock-burn were not com.-
posed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar with
all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that memorable
day, their spirits were without doubt wound up to a pitch of
enthusiasm, suited to the occasion ; a pitch of enthusiasm, at
which danger becomes attractive, and the most terrific form*
of death are no longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment,

this

135

I have finished my song to Saw ye my Father;
and in English, as you will see. That there is
a syllable too much for the expression of the air,

it

this heroic " welcome" may be supposed well calculated to
elevate — to raise their hearts high above fear, and to nerve
their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These ob-
servations might be illustrated and supported, by a reference,
to the martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring
strains of Tyrtaeus to the war-song of General Wolfe. Mr.
Thomson's observation, that " Welcome to your gory bed,
is a discouraging address," seems not sufiiciently considered.
Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is
somewhat objectionable, not on account of its presenting a
frightful, but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great
poet, uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasion,
seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and is uni-
formly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar
of the imagination. And it is the privilege of superior genius,
by producing a new association, to elevate expressions that
were originally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies
of language. In how many instances might this be exempli-
fied from the works of our immortal Shakspeare.

*' Who wovXd. fardels bear,
" To groan and sweat under a weary life ; —
" When he himself might his quietus make
" With a bare hodkinf

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest s«ich reflections is
probably sufficient. E.

134

it is true ; but, allow me to say, that the mere
dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet
and a quaver, is not a great matter: however,
in that, I have no pretensions to cope in judg-
ment with you. Of the poetry I speak with
confidence; but the music is a business where
I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence.

The old verses have merit, though unequal,
and are popular: my advice is to set the air to
the old words, and let mine follow as English
verses. Here they are —

FAIR JENNY

Seep. 123.
Tune — " Saw ye my Father?"

Where are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danc'd to the lark's early song?

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring,
At evening the wild woods among?

No more a-winding the course of yon river.
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair :

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure.
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

Is

135

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys,

And grim, surly winter is near?
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses,

Proclaim it the pride of the year.

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have 1 known,

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom.
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
]\or hope dare a comfort bestow :

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish,
JEnjoyment I'll seek in my woe.

Adieu, my dear Sir! The post goes, so I shall
defer some other remarks until more leisure.

No. XLVI.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

September, 1793.

I HAVE been turning over some volumes
of songs, to find verses whose measures would

suit

136

suit the airs for which you have allotted me to
find English songs.

For Muirland Willie you have, in Ramsay's
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning, *' Ah
why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" As for The
Colliers Dochter, take the following old Bac-
chanal,

Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle Fair can give thee,

Is but a fairy treasure,

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,

The clouds' uncertain motion.
They are but types of woman.

O ! art thou not ashamed,

To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,

Despise the silly creature.

Go, find an honest fellow ;

Good claret set before thee:
Hold on till thou art mellow,

And then to bed in glory.

The

137

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend thus :

*' How can your flinty hearts enjoy,
*' The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?"

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to
M*Gregoira Hua-Ruth, you will see a song of
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to
yours in the Museum. Vol. ii. p. 181. The
song begins :

*' Raving winds around her blowing." *

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are down-
right Irish. If they were like the Sanks of
Jiaitnu, for instance, though really Irish, yet in
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since
you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to
twenty-five of them in an additional number?
We could easily find this quantity of charming
airs; I will take care that you shall not want
songs; and I assure you that you would find it
the most saleable of the whole. If you do not
approve of Roys Wife, for the music's sake, we
shali not insert it. Deil tak the wars, is a
charming song; so is, Saw ye my Peggy?
There's nae luck about the housCy well deserves

a place.

* This will be found in the latter part of this volume. E.

138

a place. I cannot say that. O'er the hills and
far aiva, strikes me as equal to your selection.
This is no my ain house, is a great favorite air
of mine ; and if you will send me your set of
it, 1 will task my muse to her highest effort.
What is your opinion of, / hae laid a herrin in
satvt? I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are
pretty ; and there are many others of the same
kind, pretty ; but you have not room for them.
You cannot, I think, insert, Fie let us a to the
bridal, to any other words than its own.

What pleases me as simple and naive, dis-
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this
reason, Fie gie me my coggie. Sirs, Fie let us a
to the bridal, with several others of that cast,
are, to me, highly pleasing; while. Saw ye my
Father, or saw ye my 3Iother? delights me with
its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song.
Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? pleases
myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at
another song to the air ; so I shall not attempt
it. I know you will laugh at all this ; but,
*' Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait."

No.

139

No. XLVIT.
Mr, burns to Mr. THOMSON.

October, 1793.

Your last letter, my dear Thomson,
was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor
Erskine !* The recollection that he was a co-
adjutor in your publication, has, 'till now,
scared me from writing to you, or turning my
thoughts on composing for you.

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the
air of the Quakers Wife; though, by the by,
an old Highland gentleman and a deep anti-
quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known
by the name of Leiger m' choss. The following
verses, 1 hope, will please you as an English
aong to the air : —

Thine am I, my faithful fair,

Thine, my lovely Nancy ;
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,

Ev'ry roving fancy.

To

* The honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly,
whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in
an excellent letter which he has suppressed. E.

140

To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish :

Tho' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away these rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure:

Turn away thine eyes of love.
Lest I die with pleasure.

What is life when wanting love?

Night without a morning :
Love 's the cloudless summer sun,

Nature gay adorning.

Your objection to the English song I pro-
posed for John Anderson my jo, is certainly
just. The following is by an old acquaintance
of mine, and I think has merit. The song was
never in print, which [ think is so much in
your favor. The more original good poetry
your collection contains, it certainly has so
much the more merit.

SONG,

141

SONG,

By Gavin Turnbull.

0 CONDESCEND, dear, charming maid,
My wretched state to view ;

A tender swain to love betray 'd,
And sad despair, by you.

While here, all melancholy,

My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate,

[ love thee more and more.

1 heard of love, and with disdain,
The urchin's power denied ;

I laugh 'd at every lover's pain.

And mock'd them when they sigh'd

But now my state is alter'd !

Those happy days are o'er ;
For all thy unrelenting hate,

I love thee more and more.

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield,

No longer let me mourn ;
And, tho' victorious in the field,

Thy captive do not scorn.

Let

142

Let generous pity warm thee,
Mj^ wonted peace restore ;

And gratefnl, I shall bless thee still.
And love thee more and more.

The following address of Turnbull's to the
nightingale, will suit as an English song to the
air, There ivas a lass and she icasfair. By the
by, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS.
which I can command, if you like his manner.
Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may
be prejudiced in his favor; but I like some of
his pieces very much.

THE NIGHTINGALE,
By G. Turnbull.

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,
That ever tried the plaintive strain,

Awake thy tender tale of love,

And soothe a poor forsaken swain.

For, tho' the muses deign to aid,

And teach him smoothly to complain ;

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.

All

143

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons,
In sport she wanders o'er the plain ;

Their tales approves, and still she shuns
The notes of her forsaken swain.

When evening shades obscure the sky,
And bring the solemn hours again,

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody.
And sooth a poor forsaken swain.

I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's,
which would go charmingly to Leivie Gordon.

LAURA.

By G. Turnbull.

Let me wander where I will,
By shady wood, or winding rill ;
Where the sweetest May-born flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ;
Where the linnet's early song
Echoes sweet the woods among :
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.

If

144

If at rosy dawn I chuse
To indulge the smiling muse ;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noon-tide heat ;
If beneath the moon's pale ray,
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray;
Let me wander where 1 will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.

When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod.
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise ;
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro' the fairy land of love :
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some
other opportunity.

No.

145

No. XLVin.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Ith November, 1793.
MY GOOD SIR,

After so long a silence it gave me
peculiar pleasure to recognise your well-known
hand, for I had begun to be apprehensive that
all was not well with you. I am happy to find,
however, that your silence did not proceed from
that cause, and that you have got among the
ballads once more.

I have to thank you for your English song to
Leiger m c/ioss, which I think extremely good,
although the colouring is warm. Your friend
Mr. Turnbull's songs have doubtless consider-
able merit ; and as you have the command of
bis manuscripts, 1 hope you may find out some
that will answer as English songs, to the airs
yet unprovided.

VOL. IV. L No.

146

No. XLIX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Decetnber, 1793.

Tell me, how you like the following
verses to the tune of Jo Janet.

Husband, husband, cease your strife,

Nor longer idly rave, sir ;
Tho' I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.

" One of two must still obey,

" Nancy, Nancy;
" Is it man, or woman, say,

" My spouse, Nancy ?"

If 'tis still the lordly word,

Service and obedience ;
1 '11 desert my sov'reign lord,

And so, good b'ye allegiance !

Sad

147

" Sad will I be, so bereft,

*' Nancy, Nancy,
" Yet I '11 try to make a shift,

" My spouse, Nancy."

IVIy poor heart then break it must,

My last hour f 'm near it :
When you lay me in the dust,

Think, think, how you will bear it.

*' 1 will hope and trust in heaven,

*' Nancy, Nancy :
" Strength to bear it will be given,

" My spouse, Nancy."

Well, sir, from the silent dead,
Still I '11 try to daunt you;

Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.

*' I '11 wed another, like my dear

" Nancy, Nancy;
" Then all hell will fly for fear,

" My spouse, Nancy."

L 2 Air

148

Air — " The Sutor's Dochter."

Wilt thou be my dearie ?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,

Wilt thou let me cheer thee?

By the treasure of my soul,

That 's the love I bear thee !

I swear and vow that only thou

Shall ever be my dearie.

Only thou, I swear and tow,

Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo'es nie;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain.
Say na thou 'It refuse me :
If it winna, canna be.
Thou, for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.

No.

149

No. L.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, VJth April, 1794,
MY DEAR SIR,

Owing to the distress of our friend for
the loss of his child, at the time of his receiving
your admirable but melancholy letter, I had
not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it.*
How sorry I am to find Burns saying, " canst
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" while he
is delighting others from one end of the island
to the other. Like the hypochondriac who
went to consult a physician upon his case — Go,
says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, who
keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas! Sir,
replied the patient, I am that unhappy Carlini !

Your plan for our meeting together pleases

me

A letter to Mr. Cunningham, to be found in vol. ii.

E.

150

me greatly, and I trust that by some means or
other it will soon take place; but your Bac-
chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I
am a miserable weak drinker !

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch from
your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it pleases
himself in the design, he will probably etch or
engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral and
humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any
artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty
and grace to his females, and his colouring is
sombre, otherwise his paintings and drawings
would be in greater request.

I like the music of the Sutors Dochter, and
will consider whether it shall be added to the
last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; but
your humorous English song to suit, Jo Janet,
is inimitable. W'hat think you of the air. Within
a mile of Edmhiirgh. It has always struck me
as a modern English imitation, but it is said to
be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I be-
lieve I must include it. The verses are little
better than namhy immhy. Do you consider it
worth a stanza or two ?

No. I

i

151

No. LI.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

May, 1794.
MY DEAR SIR,

I RETURN you the plates, with which
I am highly pleased ; 1 would humbly propose,
instead of the younker knitting stockings, to
put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend
of mine, who is positively the ablest judge on
the subject I have ever met with, and, though
an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the
JBurin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner.
1 got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd ; and
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of
great excellence.

For ray part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing
my favorite poem for his subject, to be one of
the highest compliments I have ever received.

I am

152

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped
up in France, as it will put an entire stop to
our work. Now, and for six or seven months,
I shall he quite in song, as you shall see by and
by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by
Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she
calls The banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful
romantic stream : and as her Ladyship is a
particular friend of mine, I have written the fol-
lowing song to it.

BANKS OF CREE.

Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade ;

The village-bell has told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ;

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mixt with some warblers dying fall

The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear !

So calls the wood lark in the grove.
His little, faithful mate to cheer,

At once 'tis music— and 'tis love.

And

153

And art thou come ! and art thou true !

O welcome, dear to love and me !
And let us all our vows renew,

Along the flowery banks of Cree.

No. LIE.

Mr. burns to Mr. TPIOMSON.

July, 1794.

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is
your work to be at a dead stop, until the allies
set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the
savage thraldom of democratic discords? Alas
the day ! And woe is me ! That auspicious
period, pregnant with the happiness of mil-

I * ■iU .4£. .U. -IL ■U- ■tf- Cf- -Ig-

I I rf^ v^ tj ^„^,^^J^ ^ "ff "TP TT "fv* Tl*

I have presented a copy of your songs to the
daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured

friend

* A portion of this letter has been left out, for reasons
that will be easily imagined. E.

J 54

friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. \
wrote, on the blank side of the title-page, the
following address to the young lady.

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian* feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest.
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears.

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ;

While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

* It were to have been wished, that instead of ruffian
feeling f the bard had used a less rugged epithet, e. g. ruder.

E.

No.

155

No. LIII.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, \Qth August, 1794.
MY DEAR SIR,

I OWE you an apology for having so
long delayed to acknowledge the favour of your
last. I fear it will be as you say, I shall have
no more songs from Pleyel 'till France and we
are friends; but, nevertheless, 1 am very de.
sirous to be prepared with the poetry, and as
the season approaches in which your muse of
Coila visits you, 1 trust I shall, as formerly, be
frequently gratified with the result of your amo-
rous and tender interviews !

No.

156

No. LIV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

30^^ August, 1794.

The last evening, as I was straying
out, and thinking of, O'er the hills and far
away^ 1 spun the following stanza for it; but
whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up
in store, like the precious thread of the silk-
worm, or brushed to the devil like the vile
manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir,
to your usual candid criticism. 1 was pleased
with several lines in it, at first : but I own that
now, it appears rather a flimsy business.

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether
it be worth a critique. We have many sailor
songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they
are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not
the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must
here make one sweet exception — Sweet Annie
frae the Sea-beach came. Now^ for the song.

ON

157

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

Tune — " O'er the hills, &c."

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad ?
How can 1 the thought forego,
He 's on the seas to meet the foe ?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love ;
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day
Are with him that 's far away.

CHORUS.

On the seas and far away^
On stormy seas and far away ;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are ay with him that 'sfar away.

When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor 's thund'ring at his gun:
Bullets, spare my only joy !
Bullets, spare my darling boy !

Fate

158

Fate do with me what you may,
Spare but him that 's far away !
On the seas, SfC,

At the starless midnight hour,
When winter rules with boundless power ;
As the storms the forest tear,
And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All 1 can — I weep and pray,
For his weal that 's far away.
On the seas, Sfc.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet :
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales,
Fill my sailor's welcome sails.
To my arms their charge convey,
My dear lad that 's far away.
On the seas, Sfc.

J give you leave to abuse this song, but do it
in the spirit of Christian meekness.

No.

159

No. LV.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 16th Sept. 1794.
MY DEAR SIR,

I ou have anticipated my opinion of, On
the seas and far away ; T do not think it one of
your very happy productions, though it cer-
tainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all
acceptation.

The second is the least to my liking, particu-
larly, " Bullets, spare my only joy." Confound
the bullets. It might, perhaps, be objected to
the third verse, " At the starless midnight
hour," that it has too much grandeur of imagery,
and that greater simplicity of thought would
have better suited the character of a sailor's
sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered,
is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole,
therefore, in my humble opinion, the song would
be better adapted to the tune, if it consisted
only of the first and last verses, with the
chorusses.

No.

160

No. LVI.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Sept. 1794.

I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and
far away, altogether: it is unequal, and un-
worthy the work. Making a poem is like
begetting a son : you cannot know whether you
have a wise man or a fool, until you produce
him to the world to try him.

For that reason 1 send you the offspring of
my brain, abortions and all ; and as such, pray
look over them and forgive them, and burn
them.* I am flattered at your adopting, Ca

the

* This Vir^lian order of the poet, should, I think, be
disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the second
stanza excepted. Note by Mr. Thomson.

Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza does
not strike the Editor. E.

161

the yoii^s to the knoives, as it was owing to me
that ever it saw the light. About seven years
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung
it charmingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke
took it down from his singing. When I gave
it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song,
and mended others, but still it will not do for
you. In a solitary stroll, which I took to-day,
I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, follow-
ing up the idea of the chorus, which I would
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and
imperfections on its head.

CHORUS.

Ca' the yowes to the knoives,
Co£ them whare the heather growes,
Cd them whare the hurnie roives.
My bonnie dearie.

Hark, the mavis' evening sang
Sounding Clouden's woods amang f
Then a faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.
Ca' the, 6fc.
VOL. IV. M We'll

* The river Clouden, or Cluden, a tributary stream to the
Nith. E.

162

We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
Ca' the, 6fc.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Co! the, SfC,

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ;
Thou 'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near.
My bonnie dearie.
Ca' the, Sfc.

Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart ;
1 can die — but canna part.
My bonnie dearie.
Ca the, ^c.

I shall give you my opinion of your other
newly adopted songs, my first scribbling fit.

No.

163

No. LVII.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

September, 1794.

Do you know a blackguard Irish song,
called Onaglts Water-fail? The ah* is charming,
and I havexiften regretted the want of decent
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort
of hers shall have merit : still I think that it is
better to have mediocre verses to a favorite air,
than none at all. On this principle I have all
along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum ;
and as that publication is at its last volume, I
intend the following song, to the air above men-
tioned, for that work.

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may
be pleased to have verses to it that you can
sing before ladies.

M 2 SHE

164

SHE SAYS SHE LOES ME BEST
OF A'.

Tune — •' Onaoh's Water-fall.**

Sae flaxen were her ringlets,

Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchiugly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling sae wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ;
What pleasui'e, what treasure.

Unto these rosy lips to grow:
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face.

When first her bonnie face I saw,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,

She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Like harmony her motion ;

Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion,

Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ;
Ilk feature— auld nature

Declar'd that she could do nae mair:

Hers

165

Her's are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering beauty's sovereign law ;

And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy shew at sunny noon ;
Gie me the lonely valley.

The dewy eve, and rising moon
Fair beaming, and streaming,

Her silver light the boughs amang ;
While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,

And say thou lo'es me best of a'.

Not to compare small things with great, my
taste in music is like the mighty Frederic of
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de-
cried, and always, without any hypocrisy, con-
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar,
because people of undisputed and cultivated
taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes.
Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that

any

166

any reason why I should deny myself that
pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient
and modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment,
where you and other judges would probably
be shewing disgust. For instance, I am just
now making verses for Roihemurches Ranty
an air which puts me in raptures ; and, in fact,
unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can
make verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my
side, who is a judge that I will pit against any
of you. Rothemurche, he says, is an air both
original and beautiful ; and on his recommenda-
tion I have taken the first part of the tune for a
chorus, and the fourth, or last part, for the
song. I am but two stanzas deep in the work,
and possibly you may think, and justly, that
the poetry is as little worth your attention as
the music*

I have begun anew, Let me in this ae night.
Do you think that we ought to retain the old
chorus? I think we must retain both the old
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I
do not altogether like the third line of the first
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I
am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you

have

* In the original follow here two stanzas of a song, be-
ginning, " Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks ;" which will be
found at full length afterwards, p. 193. E.

16t

have the denouement to be successful or other-
wise ? Should she " let him in" or not?

Did you not once propose The Sow's Tail to
Geordie, as an air for your work ? I am quite
delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is
no mark of its real excellence. I once set about
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alternate
way of a lover and his mistress chanting to-
gether. I have not the pleasure of knowing
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours I
am afraid is rather burlesque for sentiment,
else I had meant to have made you the hero
and heroine of the little piece.

How do you like the following epigram,
which I wrote the other day, on a lovely young
girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell
was the physician who seemingly saved her from
the grave; and to him J address the following.

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's recovery.

Maxwell, if merit here you crave,

That merit I deny ;
You save fair Jessie from the grave ? —

An angel could not die.

God grant you patience with this stupid
epistle !

No.

168

No. LVIII.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now-
attendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood-
notes icild are become as enchanting as ever. She
says she lo'es me best of a, is one of the pleasant-
est table songs I have seen, and henceforth
shall be mine when the song is going round.
I'll give Cunningham a copy; he can more
powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from
undervaluing your taste for the strathspey
music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani-
mating and agreeable, and that some of the
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as
yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the
same way that rough Christians are tempered
and softened by lovely woman, without whom,
you know, they had been brutes.

I am clear for having the Sozvs Tail, particu-
larly as your proposed verses to it are so ex-
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe,
is a name only fit for burlesque composition.
Mrs. Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at all

poetical.

I

169

poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and make
the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agree-
ably.

Your CcC the etves, is a precious little morceau.
Indeed I am perfectly astonished and charmed
with the endless variety of your fancy. Here
let me ask you, whether you never seriously
turned your thoughts upon dramatic writing?
That is a field worthy of your genius, in which
it might shine forth in all its splendor. One or
two successful pieces upon the London stage
would make your fortune. The rage at present
is for musical dramas : few or none of those
which have appeared since the Duenna, possess
much poetical merit : there is little in the con-
duct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inte-
rest the audience. They are chiefly vehicles
for music and pageantry. I think you might
produce a comic opera in three acts, which
would live by the poetry, at the same time that
it would be proper to take every assistance
from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, of
course, would be to our favourite Scottish
airs ; the rest might be left to the London
composer — Storace for Drury-lane, or Shield
for Covent-garden ; both of them very able and
popular musicians. 1 believe that interest and
manoeuvring are often necessary to have a
drama brought on : so it may be with the

namby-

170

namby-pamby tribe of flowery scribblers ; but
were you to address Mr. Sheridan himself, by
letter, and send him a dramatic piece, I am
persuaded he would, for the honour of genius,
give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me
for obtruding these hints upon your considera-
tion.*

No. LIX.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1794.

The last eight days have been devoted
to the re-examination of the Scottish collections.
I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and con-
sidered, 'till I am half blind, and wholly stupid.
The few airs I have added, are inclosed.

Peter Pindar has, at length, sent me all the

songs

* Our bard had before received the same advice, and cer-
tainly took it so far into consideration, as to have cast about
for a subject. E.

171

songs I expected from him, which are, in general,
elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a
London collection of Scottish airs and songs,
just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman?
I shall send you a copy. His introductory es-
say on the subject is curious, and evinces great
reading and research, but does not decide the
question as to the origin of our melodies ;
though he shews clearly that Mr. Tytler, in
his ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort
of proof of the hypothesis he wished to esta-
blish ; and that his classification of the airs
according to the aeras when they were composed,
is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Pinker-
ton, Esq. he has no mercy; but consigns him
to damnation! He snarls at my publication,
on the score of Pindar being engaged to write
songs for it; uncandidly and unjustly leaving
it to be inferred, that the songs of Scottish
writers had been sent a packing to make room
for Peter's ! Of you he speaks with some res-
pect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for
daring to dress up a little, some old foolish
songs for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish
airs are taken, he says, from the oldest collec-
tions and best authorities : many of them, how-
ever, have such a strange aspect, and are so
unlike the sets 'which are sung by every person
of taste, old or young, in town or country,
that we can scarcely recognize the features of

our

172

our favourites. By going to the oldest collec-
tions of our music, it does not follow that we
find the melodies in their original state. These
melodies had been preserved, we know not how
long, by oral communication, before being col-
lected and printed : and as different persons
sing the same air very differently, according to
their accurate, or confused recollection of it, so,
even supposing the first collectors to have pos-
sessed the industry, the taste and discernment,
to choose the best they could hear, (which is
far from certain,) still it must evidently be a
chance, whether the collections exhibit any of
the melodies in the state they were first com-
posed. In selecting the melodies for my own
collection, I have been as much guided by the
living, as by the dead. Where these differed, I
preferred the sets that appeared to me the most
simple and beautiful, and the most generally
approved : and, without meaning any compli-
ment to my own capability of choosing, or
speaking of the pains I have taken, I flatter
myself that my sets will be found equally freed
from vulgar errors on the one hand, and affected
graces on the other.

No.

173

No. LX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

\mi October, 1794.
MY DEAR FRIEND,

By this morning's post I have your list^
and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall,
at more leisure, give you a critique on the
whole. Clarke goes to your town, by to-day's
fly, and I wish you would call on him and take
his opinion in general : you know his taste is a
standard. He will return here again in a week
or two ; so, please do not miss asking for him.
One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to
adopt my favorite, Cragie-burn Wood,' in your
selection : It is as great a favorite of his as of
mine. The lady on whom it was made, is one
of the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact,
(entre nous) is in a manner to me, what Sterne's
Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or
what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Pla-
tonic

174

tonic love. (Now don't put any of your squint-
ing constructions on this, or liave any clishma-
claiver about it among our acquaintances.) I
assure you that to my lovely friend you are
indebted for many of your best songs of mine.
Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine
of existence, could inspire a man with life, and
love, and joy— could fire him with enthusiasm,
or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of
your book ? — no ! no ! — Whenever I want to be
more than ordinary m song ; to be in some de-
gree equal to your diviner airs ; do you imagine
I fast and pray for the celestial emanation?
Tout au contraire ! 1 have a glorious recipe ;
the very one that for his own use was invented
by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst
he piped to the flocks of Admetus. J put my-
self in a regimen of admiring a fine woman;
and in proportion to the adorability of her
charms, in proportion you are delighted with
my verses. The lightning of her eye is the
godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her
smile, the divinity of Helicon !

To descend to business ; if you like my idea
of, Whe7i she cam hen she bohbit, the following
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they
were formerly, when set to another air, may,
perhaps, do instead of worse stanzas.

SAW

175

SAW YE MY PHELY.

(Quasi dicat Phillis.)

Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit."

O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ?
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot.
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The
Posie, (in the Museum) is my composition ; the

air

176

air was takeu down from Mrs. Burns's voice.*
It is well known in the West Country, but the
old words are trash. By the by, take a look
at the tune again, and tell me if you do not
think it is the original from which Roslin Castle
is composed. The second part, in particular,
for the first two or three bars, is exactly the
old air. Strathalla7is Lament is mine : the
music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-
beloved, Allan Masterton. Donocht-Head is
not mine : 1 would give ten pounds it were. It
appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald; and
came to the editor of that paper with the New-
castle post-mark on it.f Whistle o'er the lave
o't is mine: the music said to be by a John

Bruce,

* The Posie will be found afterwards. This, and the other
poems of which he speaks, had appeared in Johnson's Mu-
seum, and Mr. T. had inquired whether they were our
bard's. E.

t The reader will be curious to see this poem, so highly
praised by Burns. Here it is :

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,t
The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale,

The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck.
And shivering tells his waefu' tale.

" Cauld

X A mountain in the North. E.

177

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.

Andretv and his cutty gun. The song to which
VOL. IV. N this

" Cauld is the night, O let me in,

" And dinna let your minstrel fa',
" And dinna let his winding sheet

" Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

" Full ninety winters hae I seen,

" And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew,
" And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,

" To lilts which from my drone I blew."
My Eppie waked, and soon she cry'd,

* Get up, guidman, and let him in ;
* For weel ye ken the winter night

' Was short when he began his din.'

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet.

Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee ;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,

O, haith, it's doubly dear to me !
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame ;
Your bluid is thin, ye 've tint the gate,

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

" Nae

178

this is set, in the Museum, is mine ; and was
composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lint-
rose, commonly and deservedly called, the
Flower of Strathmore.

Hoiv long and dreary is the night! I met
with some such words in a collection of songs
somewhere, which I alter'd and enlarged ; and,
to please you, and to suit your favorite air, I
have taken a stride or two across my room,
and have arranged it anew, as you will find on
the other page.

Tune

" Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
" Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha";

" And, weeping at the eve of Ufe,
" I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw."

^ ^ * -rT * -JF 'SF

This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author
need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy of Burns,
or of Macneill. E.

A writer in the Monthly Magazine for October, 1800, in-
forms us that the author of this fragment is Mr. George
Pickering, then of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. G. B.

179

Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen."

How lang and dreary is the night,

When I am frae my dearie;
I restless lie frae e'en to morn,

Though I were ne'er sae weary.

CHORU s.

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ;

And oh^ her dreams are eerie ;
And oh, her widow'd heart is sah\

That 's absent frae her dearie.

When J think on the lightsome days

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ;
And now what seas between us roar

How can I be but eerie.
For oh, Sfc.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ;

The joyless day how dreary !
It was na sae, ye glinted by.

When I was wi' my dearie.
For oh, Sfc.

N 2 Tell

180

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 collection.*

These English songs gravel me to death. I
have not that command of the language that I
have of my native tongue. 1 have been at Dun-
can 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,
Of inconstancy in love;

Let not woman e'er complain,
Fickle man is apt to rove ;

Look

Mr. Ritson. E.

181

Look abroad through nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change ;
Ladies, would it not be strange,
Man should then a monster prove ?

IMark the winds, and mark the skies ;

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow:
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go :

Why then ask of silly man.
To oppose great nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can —
You can be no more, you know.

Since the above, I have been out in the
country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I
met with the lady whom 1 mentioned in the se-
cond page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. As
usual, I got into song ; and, returning home, I
composed the following :

The

182

The JLovers Morning Salute to his Mistress,

Tune — " Deil tak the Wars."

Sleep'st tliouj or wak'st thou, fairest creature ;

Kosy morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy :

Now through the leafy woods,

And by the reeking floods ;
Wild nature's tenants, freely, gladly, stray;

The lintwhite in his bower

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

* Variation. Now to the streaming fountain,

Or up the heathy mountain.
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wiklly-wanton stray;
Tn twining hazel bowers
His lay the linnet pours :
The lav'rock, &c. E.

183

Phcebus 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.

She meets my ravish'd sight.

When thro' my very heart

Ber beaming glories dart ;
'Tis then 1 wake to life, to light, and joy *

If you honor my verses by setting the air to
them, I will vamp up the old song and make
it English enough to be understood.

1 inclose

* Variation. When frae my Chloris parted.

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
Then night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky :
But when she charms my sight,
In pride of beauty's light ;
When thro' my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;
Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy. E.

184

I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East
Indian air, which you would swear was a Scot-
tish one. 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 base to it, and I intend putting
it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the
verses I intend for it.

THE AULD MAN.

But lately seen in gladsome green

The woods rejoic'd the day.
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,

Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe

**lhall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield.

Sinks in time's wintry rage.

Oh

185

Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain !

Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again ?

I would be obliged to you if you would
procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of
English songs, which you mention in your let-
ter. I will thank you for another information,
and that as speedily as you please: Whether
this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle
has not completely tired you of my correspon-
dence ?

No.

186

No. LXI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 21th October, 1794.

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a
genuine poet can no more exist without his
mistress than his meat. [ wish I knew the
adorable she, whose bright eyes and witching
smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish
bard ! that I might drink her sweet health when
the toast is going round. Cragie-hurn Wood
must certainly be adopted into my family, since
she is the object of the song : but, in the name
of decency, I must beg a new chorus verse from
you. O to he lying beyond thee dearie, is, per-
haps, a consummation to be wished, but will
not do for singing in the company of ladies.
The songs in your last will do you lasting credit,
and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am
perfectly of your opinion with respect to the
additional airs. The idea of sending them into
the world naked as they were born, was un-
generous.

187

generouf?. They must all be clothed and made
decent by our friend Clarke.

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cun-
ningham in sending you Ritson's Scottish col-
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you
with his English collection, which you will
receive by the coach. 1 do not find his histori-
cal essay on Scottish song interesting. Your
anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am
sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched
a charming design from Maggie Lauder. She
is dancing with such spirit as to electrify the
piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he
is playing with the most exquisite glee. 1 am
much inclined to get a small copy, and to have
it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints.

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say con-
cerning Maggie Lauder? Was she a real per-
sonage, and of what rank ? You would surely
spier for her^ if you cad at A?istruther town.

No.

1B8

No. LXII.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

November, 1794.

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for
your present : it is a book of the utmost import-
ance to me. 1 have yesterday begun my anec-
dotes, &c. for your work. I intend drawing it
up ill the form of a letter to you, which will save
me from the tedious dull business of systematic
arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say,
consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes,
scraps of old songs, &c. it would be impossible
to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an
end ; which the critics insist to be absolutely
necessary in a work.* In my last I told you
my objections to the song you had selected for.

My

* It does not appear whether Burns completed these anec-
dotes, &c. Something of the kind (probably the rude
draughts) was found amongst his papers, and appears in
Vol, ii. E.

189

My lodging is on the cold ground. On ray
visit the other day to my fair Chloris, (that is
the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my in-
spiration) she suggested an idea, which I, in
my return from the visit, w^rought into the fol-
lowing song.

My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair :

The balmy gales awake the flowers.
And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay.

And o'er the cottage sings :
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,

To shepherds as to kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string

In lordly lighted ha' :
The shepherd stops his simple reed,

Blithe, in the birken shaw.

The princely revel may survey

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ;
But are their hearts as light as ours,

Beneath the milk-white thorn ?

The

190

The shepherd, in the flowery g;len,
In shepherd's phrase will woo :

The courtier tells a finer tale,
But is his heart as true?

These wild-wood flowers I 've pu'd, to deck

That spotless breast o' thine :
The courtier's gems may witness love —

But 'tis na love like mine.

How do you like the simplicity and tender-
ness of this pastoral ? — I think it pretty well.

I like you for entering so candidly and so
kindly into the story of 3Ia chere Amie. I
assure you, I was never more in earnest in my
life, than in the account of that affair which I
sent you in my last. — Conjugal love is a passion
which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; but,
somehow, it does not make such a figure in
poesy, as that other species of the passion,

** Where Love is liberty, and Nature law."

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but
the tones inexpressibly sweet; while the last

has

191

has powers equal to all the intellectual modu-
lations of the human soul. Still, I am a very
poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The
welfare and happiness of the beloved object is
the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades
my soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish
for, or whatever might be the raptures they
would give me, yet, if they interfere with that
first principle, it is having these pleasures at a
dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and gene-
rosity disdains the purchase f ****** *

Despairing of my own powers to give you
variety enough in English songs, I have been
turning over old collections, to pick out songs
of which the measure is something similar to-
what I want ; and, with a little alteration, so as
to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give
you them for your work. Where the songs
have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have
ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair
one. A song, which, under the same first verse
you will find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany,
I have cut down for an English dress to your,
" Daintie Davie" as follows.

SONG,

192
SONG,

Altered from mi old English one.

It was the charming month of May,
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay,
One morning, by the break of day,
The youthful, charming Chloe ;

From peaceful slumber she arose.
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o'er the flowery mead she goes.
The youthful, charming Chloe.

CHORUS.

Lovely tvas she by the dawn,

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe,

The feather'd people you might see,
Perch'd all around, on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody
They hail the charming Chloe ;

'Till, painting gay the eastern skies.
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Lovely was she, Sec.

You

193

You may think meanly of this, but take a look
at the bombast original, and you will be surprised
that I have made so much of it. I have finished
my song to Rothemurches Rant ; and you have
Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for

LASSIE WITHE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

T'une — " Rothemurche's Rant."

CHORUS.

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks^

£onnie lassie, artless lassie.
Wilt thou ivt me tent the Jiocks ?

Wilt thou he my dearie O ?

Now nature deeds the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee;
O wilt thou share its joy wi' me,
And say thou 'It be my dearie O ?
Lassie wi\ ^c.

And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower.
We '11 to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.
Lassie wi, Sfc.

VOL. IV. o When

194

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way ;
Thro' yellow waving fields we '11 stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie O.
Lassie wi\ Sfc.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I '11 comfort thee, my dearie O.*

Lassie wi the lint-ivhite locks,
Honnie lassie, artless lassie.

Wilt thou ivi me tent the flocks ?
Wilt thou be my dearie O ?

This piece has at least the merit of being a
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter

night,

• In some of the MSS. this stanza runs thus :

And should the howling wintry blast
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest ;
I '11 fauld thee to my faithfu' breast,

And comfort thee, my dearie O. E.

195

night, are regularly rounded. If you like it,
well: if not, J will insert it in the Museum.

I am out of temper that you should set so
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tak the Wars,
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli-
ness oi Sawye my Father : by heavens, the odds
is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though
now pretty well modernized into the Scottish
language, is originally, and in the early editions,
a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner,
by that genius Tom D'Urfey ; so has no pre-
tensions to be a Scottish production. There is
a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the
Duenna, to this air, which is out of sight supe-
rior to D'Urfey's. It begins,

" When sable night each drooping plant restor-
ing."

The air, if I understand the expression of it
properly, is the very native language of sim-
plicity, tenderness, and love. 1 have again gone
over my song to the tune, as follows.*

o 2 Now

* See the song in its first and best dress in page 182. Our
bard remarks upon it, " I could easily throw this into an
" English mould ; but, to my taste, in the simple and the
" tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scot-
*' tish has an inimitable effect" E-

196

Now for my English song to Nancy's to the
Greenwood, Sfc.

Farewell thou stream that vvindins: flows
Around Eliza's dwelling!

0 mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling :

Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain,

And yet in secret languish,
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein,

Nor dare disclose my anguish.

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,

I fain my griefs would cover:
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan^

Betray the hapless lover.

1 know thou doom'st me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer,
For pity's sake forgive me !

The music of thy voice 1 heard.

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,

'Till fears no more had sav'd me:
The unwary sailor thus aghast,

The wheeling torrent viewing ;
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last

In overwhelming ruin.

There

197

There is an air, The Caledonian Hunt's De-
light^ to which I wrote a song that you will find
in Johnson. Ye banks and braes o bonnie Doon ;
this air, T think, might find a place among your
hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you
know the history of the air? It is curious
enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James
Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman
whom, possibly, you know, was in company
■with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scot-
tish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition
to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke,
partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the
black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve
some kind of rhythm ; and he would infallibly
compose a Scots air. Certain it is, that, in a
few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments
of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches
and corrections, fashioned into the tune in ques-
tion. Kitson, you know, has the same story of
the Black Keys; but this account which I have
just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of,
several years ago. Now, to shew you how dif-
ficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have
heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an
Irish air ; nay, 1 met with an Irish gentleman
who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among
the old women ; while, on the other hand, a
Countess informed me, that the first person who
introduced the air into this country, was a

baronet's

193

baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took
down the notes from an itinerant piper in the
Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain
the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I,
myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads
sung- through the streets of Dumfries, with my
name at the head of them as the author, though
it was the first time I had ever seen them.

1 thank you for admitting, Cragie-hurn Wood;
and I shall take care to furnish you with a new
chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work,
but a part of some old verses to the air. If I
can catch myself in a more than ordinarily pro-
pitious moment, I shall write a new Cragie-hurn
Wood altogether. My heart is much in the
theme.

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the
request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but, in
a moment, when I had forgotten whether I was
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you
this; but an ungracious request is doubly so,
by a tedious apology. To make you some
amends, as soon as I have extracted the neces-
sary information out of them, I will return you
Ritson's volumes.

The lady is not a little proud that she is to

make

199

make so distinguished a figure in your collection,
and I am not a little proud that I have it in my
power to please her so much. Lucky it is for
your patience that my paper is done, for when
I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when
to give over.

No. LXIII.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

\bth November, 1794.
MY GOOD SIR,

Since receiving your last, I have had
another interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long
consultation. He thinks the Caledonian Runt
is more Bacchanalian than amorous in its nature,
and recommends it to you to match the air ac-
cordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how
peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted
for verses in the form of a dialogue ? The first
part of the air is generally low, and suited for
a man's voice, and the second part in many in-
stances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but
by a female voice. A song, thus performed,
makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are

"written

200

written in this form : I wish you would think
af it in some of those that remain. The only
one of the kind you have sent me, is admirable,
and will be an universal favorite.

Your verses for Rothemurche are so sweetly
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for Deil
tak the Wars, so passionately tender, that I have
sung myself into raptures with them. Your
song for, My lodging is on the cold ground, is
likewise a diamond of the first water; \ am quite
dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your
Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxen hair, from your
partiality for this colour ; else we differ about
it ; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to
be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-white
locks !

Farewell thou stream that ivinding jlows, I
think excellent, but it is much too serious to
come after Nancy : at least it would seem an
incongruity to provide the same air with merry
Scottish, and melancholy English verses ! The
more that the two sets of verses resemble each
other in their general character, the better.
Those you have manufactured for Daiyity Davie
will answer charmingly. I am happy to find
you have begun your anecdotes : I care not
how long they be, for it is impossible that any
thing from your pen can be tedious. Let me

beseech

201

beseech you not to use ceremony in telling me
when you wish to present any of your friends
with the songs : the next carrier will bring you
three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty
as to a pinch of snufF.

No. LXIV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Vdth November, 1794.

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual
correspondent I am ; though indeed you may
thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as
you have so flattered me on my horsemanship
with my favorite hobby, and have praised the
grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely
ever off his back. For instance, this morning,
though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before
breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were
pleased to praise so much. Whether I have
uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but here
it is for you, though it is not an hour old.

Ti

U7ie

202

Tune—'' The Sow's Tail."

HE.

O Philly, happy be that day
When roving through the gather'd hay,
My youthfu' heart was stown away,
And by thy charms, my Philly.

SHE.

O Willy, ay I bless the grove
Where first I own'd my maiden love,
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above
To be my ain dear Willy.

HE.

As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear
And charming is my Philly.

SHE.

As on the brier the budding rose
Still richer breathes and fairer blows.
So in my tender bosom grows
The love I bear my Willy.

HE.

203

HE.

The milder sun and bluer sky,
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy,
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye
As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE.

The little swallow's wanton wing,
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring.
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring,
As meeting o' my Willy.

HE.

The bee that thro' the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor,
Upon the lips o' Philly.

SHE.

The woodbine in the dewy weet
When evening shades in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
As is a kiss o' Willy.

HE.

Let fortune's wheel at random rin,
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win ;
My thoughts are a' bound up in aue,
And that 's my ain dear Philly.

SHE.

204

SHE.

What's a' the joys that gowd can gie!
I care na wealth a single flie;
The lad I love 's the lad for me,
And that's my ain dear Willy.

Tell me, honestly, how you like it ; and point
out whatever you think faulty.

I am much pleased with your idea of singing
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that
remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember
your objections to the name, Philly ; but it is
the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally,
the only other name that suits, has, to my ear,
a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any
thing except burlesque. The legion of Scottish
poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor,
Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals,
have always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity :
whereas, simplicity is as much eloignee from
vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected
point and puerile conceit on the other.

I agree with you, as to the air Cragie-bum
Wood, i\\dX a chorus would, in some degree,

spoil

205

spoil the effect ; and shall certainly have none
in my projected song to it. It is not, however,
a case in point with Rothemurche ; there, as in
Roys Wife of Aldivaloch, a chorus goes, to my
taste, well enough. As to the chorus going
first, that is the case with Rofs Wife, as well
as Rothemurche. In fact, in the first part of
both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irre-
gular, and on that irregularity depends so much
of their beauty, that we must e'en take them
with all their wildness, and humour the verse
accordingly. Leaving out the starting note, in
both tunes, has I think, an effect that no regu-
larity could counterbalance the want of.

Try,
and

{I

Rofs Wife of Aldivaloch.
lassie wi' the lint-white locks,

jy .^j Ci2o?/'s Wife of Aldivaloch.

Compare ivitn, < '^

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable
strike you ? In the last case, with the true
furor of genius, you strike at once into the
wild originality of the air; whereas in the first
insipid method, it is like the grating screw of
the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune.
This is my taste ; if I am wrong I beg pardon
of the cognoscenti.

The

206

The Caledonian Hunt, is so charming that it
would make any subject in a song go down ;
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot-
tish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though
the few we have are excellent. For instance,
Todlin Hame, is, for wit and humour, an un-
paralleled composition ; and, Andrew and his
cutty Gun^ is the work of a master. By the
way, are you not quite vexed to think that
those men of genius, for such they certainly
were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics,
should be unknown ? It has given me many a
heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in
Scottish ; I composed one yesterday, for an
air 1 like much — JLumps o' pudding.

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they 're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish
sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught :
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch
dare touch.

A towmond

207

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' :
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her

way;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae :
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or

pain ;
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome

again !"

If you do not relish the air, I will send it to
Johnson.

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed
a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng-
lish song to Roys Wife. You will allow me
that in this instance, my English corresponds
in sentiment with the Scottish.

Cansl

2oa

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Tune—'' Roy's Wife."

CHORUS.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Well thou knoivst my achi?ig heart.
And canst thou leave me thus for pity 1

Is this thy plighted, fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy?

Is this thy faithful swain's reward —
An aching, broken heart, my Katy?
Canst thou, ^c.

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy !
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear —
But not a love like mine, my Katy !
Canst thou, 6fc*

Well!

♦ To this address in the character of a forsaken lover, a
reply was found on the part of the lady, among the MSS. of
our bard, evidently in a female hand-writing ; which is doubt-
less that referred to in] p. 120 of this volume. The tempta-
tion to give it to the public is irresistible ; and if in so doing,

offence

209

Well ! I think this, to be done m two or three
turns across my room, and with two or three
pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss.
You see, I am determined to have my quantum
of applause from somebody.

VOL. IV. P Tell

offence should be given to the fair authoress, the beauty ur
her verses must plead our excuse.

Tune—" Roy's Wife."

CHORUS.

Stay my Willie — yet believe me^

Stay my Willie — yet believe me.

For, ah ! thou knovo'st no' every pang

Wad wring my bosom, shouldst thou leave me.

Tell me that thou yet art true.

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven,

And when this heart proves fause to thee,
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven.
Stay my Willie, Sfc.

But to think I was betrayed,

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder!
To take the flow'ret to my breast,

And find the guilefu' serpent under.
Stay my Willie, ifc.

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive.
Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em,

1 'd slight, nor seek in other spheres
That heaven I 'd find within thy bosonu
Stay my Willie, 8fc.

It

210

Tell my friend Allan (for 1 am sure that we

only want the trifling circumstance of being

known to one another, to be the best friends

on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his

plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and

horn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very

rude instrument. It is composed of three parts ;

the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a

sheep, cixoli as you see in a mutton-ham ; the

horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn,

cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be

large enough to admit the stock to be pushed

up through the horn, until it be held by the

thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an

oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that

which you see every shepherd-boy have, when

the corn-stems are green and full-grown. The

reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held

by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end

of the stock ; while the stock, with the horn

hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands

in playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges

on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like

the

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this occasion
the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the dialects of
their respective countries. The Scottish bard makes his
address in pure English : the reply on the part of the lady,
in the Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by a young
and beautiful Englishwoman. £.

211

the common flute. This of mine was made by
a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly
what the shepherds wont to use in that country.

However, either it is not quite properly bored
in the holes, or else we have not the art of
blowing it rightly ; for we can make little of it.
If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of
mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro-
ther-brush with him. " Pride in Poets is nae
sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan
and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real
painters of Scottish costume in the world.

No. LXV.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

2Qth November, 1794.

1 ACKNOWLfeDGE, my dear Sir, you are
not only the most punctual, but the most delec-
table correspondent J ever met with. To
attempt flattering you never entered my head ;
the truth is, I look back with surprise at my
impudence, in so frequently nibbling at lines

p 2 and

212

and couplets of your incomparable lyriV:^, for
which, ]5erhaps, if you had served me right,
you would have sent me to the devil. On th^
contrary, however, you have, all along, condes-
cended to invite my criticism with so much
courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful if 1 have
sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer.
Your last budget demands unqualified praise:
all the songs are charming, but the duet is a
chef d'ceuvre. Lumps of pudding, shall cer-
tainly make one of my family dishes: you haVe
cooked it so capitally, that it will please all
palates. Do give us a few more of this Cast,
when you find yourself in good spirits : these
convivial songs are more w^anted than those of
the amorous kind, of which we have great choice.
Besides, one does not often meet with a singer
capable of giving the proper eflfect to the latter,
while the former are easily sung, and acceptable
to every body. I participate in your regret that
the authors of some of our best songs are un-
known : it is provoking to every admirer of
genius.

I mean to have a picture painted fi'om your
beautiful ballad, The Soldiers Return, to be
engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most
interesting point of time appears to me, Wheft
she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three

lines

213

lines immediately following are, no doubt, more
impressive on the reader's feelings, but were
the painter to fix on these, then you '11 observe
the animation and anxiety of her countenance
is gone, and he could only represent her faint-
ing in the soldier's arms. But 1 submit the
matter to you, and beg your opinion.

Allan desires me to thank you for your accu-
rate description of the stock and horn, and for
the very gratifying compliment you pay him, in
considering him worthy of standing in a niche,
by the side of Burns, in the Scottish Pantheon.
He has seen the rude instrument you describe,
so does not want you to send it ; but wishes to
know whether you believe it lo have ever been
generally used as a musical pipe, by the Scot-
tish shepherds, and when, and in what part of
the country chiefly. I doubt much if it was
capable of any thing but routing and roaring.
A friend of mine says he remembers to have
heard one in his younger days (made of wood
instead of your bone) and that the sound was
abominable.

Do not, I beseech you, return any books.

No.

214

No. LXVI.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

December, 1794.

It is, [ assure you, the pride of my heart
to do any thing to forward, or add to the value
of your book : and as I agree with you that the
Jacobite song in the Museum, to There 11 never
be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-
song to that air, I have just framed for you
the following:

MY NAME'S AW A.

Tune — " There'll never be peace," &c.

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays.
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ;
But to me it's delightless — my Nanie's awa.

The

215

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands

adorn,
And violets bathe in tlie weet o' the morn ;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw.
They mind me o' Nanie — and Nanie's awa.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the

lawn.
The shepherd to warn o'the grey-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa',
Give over for pity — my Nanie 's awa.

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey,
And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay :
The dark, dreary winter, and wild driving snaw,
Alane can delight me — Now Nanie *s awa.

How does this please you ? As to the point
of time, for the expression, in your proposed
print from my Sodger's Return : It must cer-
tainly be at — " She gaz'd." The interesting
dubity and suspense, taking possession of her
countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a
mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me
as things of which a master will make a great
deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours.

No.

216

No. LXVII.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

January, 1795,

I FEAR for my songs ; however, a few
may please, yet originality is a coy feature in
composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in
the same style, disappears altogether. For
these three thousand years, we, poetic folks,
have been describing the spring, for instance ;
and as the spring continues the same, there
must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. of
these said rhyming folks.

A great critic, Aikin on songs, says, that
love and wine are the exclusive themes for
song-writing. The following is on neither sub-
ject, and consequently is no song; but will be
allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty
good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme.

FOR

FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by.

We dare be poor for a' that !
For a' that, and a' that.

Our toil's obscure, and a' that.
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man 's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hod din grey, and a' that ;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man 's a man, for a' that :
For a' that, and a' that.

Their tinsel show, and a' that ;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor.

Is kina: o' men for a' that.

*&

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ;
Though hundreds worship at his word,

He 's but a coof for a' that :
For a' that, and a* that,

His ribband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind.

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince

■218

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that ;
But an honest man 's aboon his might,

Guid faith he mauna fa* that !
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth.

Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

It 's comin yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er.

Shall brothers be for a' that.

I do not give you the foregoing song for your
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ;
for the piece is not really poetry. How will
the following do for Craigie-burn Wood ?

Sweet

2jd

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blithe awakes the morrow,

But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.

I see the flowers and spreading trees,

I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please.

And care his bosom wringing ?

Fain, fain would 1 my griefs impart,

Yet dare na for your anger ;
But secret love will break my heart,

If I conceal it langer.

If thou refuse to pity me,

If thou shalt love anither,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree.

Around my grave they '11 wither.*

Farewell ! God bless you.

No.

* Craigie-burn Wood is situated on the banks of the river
Moffat, and about three miles distant from the village of that
name, celebrated for its medicinal waters. The w^oods of
Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, v^^ere, at one time, favourite
haunts of our poet. It vk^as there he met the '* Lassie v^i' the
lint-white locks," and that he conceived several of his beau-
tiful lyrics. £.

920

No. LXVIII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 'iOth January, 1795.
MY DEAR SIR,

I THANK you heartily for Nanie 's awa,
as well as for Craigie-hurn, which I think a very
comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty
of original writing in a number of efforts, in the
same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has
again and again excited my wonder to find you
continually surmounting this difficulty, in the
many delightful songs you have sent me. Your
vive la bagatelle song, For a' that^ shall undoubt-
edly be included in my list.

No.

air.

221

No. LXIX.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

February, 1795.

Here is another trial at your favorite

Tune — " Let me in this ae night/'

O lassie, art tbou sleeping yet,
Or art thou wakin, 1 would wit.

For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.

CHORUS.

O let me ifi this ae nighty

This ae, tie, ae night;
For- pity's sake this ae night,

O rise and let me in, jo.

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet:
Tak pity on my weary feet,

And shield me frae the rain, jo.
O let me in, Sfc.

The

222

The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ;
The cauldness o' thy heart 's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in, Sfc.

HER ANSWER.

O tell na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
1 winna let you in, jo.

CHORUS.

I tell you now this ae night.
This ae, ae, ae night ,*

And ancefor a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rek* pours.
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That 's trusted faithless man, jo.
1 tell you now, SfC,

The

223

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed :
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.
/ tell you now J Sfc.

The bird that charm'd his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ;
Let witless, trusting, woman say
How aft her fate 's the same, jo.
I tell you now, SfC.

I do not know whether it will (lo.

No.

224

No. LXX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Ecclefechan, 1th February, 1795.

MY DEAR THOMSON,

You cannot have any idea of the predi-
caJTient in wbich I write to you. In the course
of my duty as Supervisor (in which capacity I
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this
unfortunate, wicked, little village. J have gone
forward, but snows, of ten feet deep, have im-
peded my progress : 1 have tried to " gae back
the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle
has shut me up within insuperable bars. To
add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper
has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on
that very account, exceeding good company.
In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get

drunk.

225

drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang
myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man,
(a character congenial to my every thought,
word, and deed) I, of two evils, have chosen
the least, and am very drunk, at your service !*

I wrote you yesterday, from Dumfries. 1
had not time then to tell you all 1 wanted to
say ; and, heaven knows, at present 1 have not
capacity.

Do you know an air — I am sure you must
know it, TVe 'II gang nae mair to yon town. I
think, in slowish time, it would make an ex-
cellent song. I am highly delighted with it;
and if you should think it worthy of your at-
tention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom
I would consecrate it.

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good
night.

* The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet
£ccl«fechan at this rate. £.

VOL. IV.

Q No.

226

No. LXXI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

loth February, 1795.

1 HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for
two epistles, one containing", Let me in this ae
flight; and the other from Ecclefechan, proving,
that, drunk or sober, yonr " mind is never
muddy." You have displayed great address in
the above song. Her answer is excellent, and
at the same time takes away the indelicacy that
otherwise would have attached to his entreaties.
1 like the song as it now stands, very much.

1 had hopes you would be arrested some
days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile
the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will
give rcie pleasure to receive the verses you intend
for O wat ye wha 's in yon toivn.

No.

227

No. LXXII.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

May, 1795.

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.

Tune — " Where'll bonnie Ann lie."
Or, " Loch-Eroch Side."

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part.
That I may catch tliy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

Say, vvas thy little mate unkind,
AwA heard thee as the careless Avind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

Q 2 Thou

228

Thou tells o' never-ending care ;
C speechless grief, and dark despair :
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken !

Let me know, your very first leisure, how
you like this song.

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.

Tune — " Ay wakin o."

CHORUS.

JLong, long the night,
Heavy comes the morroiv,

While my souVs delight,
Is on her bed of sorrow.

Can I cease to care?

Can I cease to languish ?
While my darling fair

Is on the couch of anguish?
Long, 6cc.

Every

229

Every hope is fled,
Every fear is terror ;

Slumber even I dread,
Every dream is horror.
Lo7ig^ Sfc.

Hear me, Pow'rs divine !

Oh, in pity hear me!
Take aught else of mine,

But my Chloris spare me!
Long, 6fc.

How do you like the foregoing? The Irish
air, Humours of Glen, is a great favorite of
mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor
Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it,
1 have written for it as follows.

SONG,

Tune^'* Humours of Glen."

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands
reckon.
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the
perfume,
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow
broom :

Far

230

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,

Where the blue bell and govvan lurk lowly

unseen :

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild

flowers,

A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho'rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,

And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the

proud palace.

What are they? — The haunt o' the tyrant

and slave!

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling
fountains.
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his
Jean.

SONG.

Tune — " Laddie, lie near me."

*TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ;
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing :

'Twas

231

Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind ns,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o'
kindness.

Sair do [ fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me !
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever.
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Mary, I 'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest !
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

Let me hear from you.

No. LXXIII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

You must not think, my good Sir, that
I have any intention to enhance the value of
my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious
and worthy artist, that the design and execution
of the Cotter's Saturday Night, is, in my opinion,
one of the happiest productions of Allan's pencil.
I shall be grievously disappointed if you are
not quite pleased witli it.

Thy

232

The figure intended for your portrait, I think
strikingly like you, as far as I can remember
your phiz. This should make the piece inter-
esting to your family every way. Tell me
whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the
figures.

I cannot express the feeling of admiration
with which I have read your pathetic Address
to the Wood-lark, your elegant Panegyrick on
Caledonia, and your aflfecting verses on Chloris's
illness. Every repeated perusal of these gives
new delight. The other song, to " Laddie, lie
near me," though not equal to these, is very
pleasing.

No.

233

No. LXXIV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Altered from an old English song.
Tune — " John Anderson my jo.'*

How cruel are the parents,

Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby.

Poor woman sacrifice !
Meanwhile the hapless daughter

Has but a choice of strife;
To shun a tyrant father's hate.

Become a wretched wife.

The ravening hawk pursuing.

The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin

A while her pinions tries ;
'Till of escape despairing,

No shelter or retreat.
She trusts the ruthless falconer,

And drops beneath his feet !

SONG.

234

SONG.
Tune — " Deil tak the Wars."

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion,

Round the wealthy, titled bride :
But when compar'd with real passion.

Poor is all that princely pride.

What are the showy treasures ?

What are the noisy pleasures ?
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art :

The polish'd jewel's blaze

May draw the wond'ring gaze,

And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,

In simplicity's array;
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.
O then, the heart alarming.
And all resistless charming.
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the will-
ing soul !
Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown.
Even Avarice would deny
His worshipp'd deity.
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll.

Well!

235

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I an-
swer your orders : your tailor could not be
more punctual. I am just now in a high lit of
poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of cri-
ticism don't cure me. If you can in a post or
two administer a little of the intoxicating: notion
of your applause, it will raise your humble ser-
vant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am
at this moment ** holding high converse" with
the Muses, and have not a word to throw away
on such a prosaic dog as you are.

No. LXXV.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

3Iay, 1795.

Ten thousand thanks, for your elegant
present; though I am ashamed of the value of
it, being bestowed on a man who has not by
any means merited such an instance of kind-
ness. I have shewn it to two or tinve judges
of the first abilities here, and they all agree
with me in classing it as a first-rate production.

My

236

My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner's
apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to
break up the parcel (I was out of town that
day) knew it at once. My most grateful com-
pliments to Allan, who has honored my rustic
muse so much with his masterly pencil. One
strange coincidence is, that the little one who
is making the felonious attempt on the cat's
tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill-
deedie, d — wW, wee, rumhle-gairie, urchin of
mine, whom, from that propensity to witty
wickedness and manfu* mischief, which even at
twa days auld I foresaw would form the striking
features of his disposition, I named Willie Ni-
col ; after a certain friend of mine, who is one
of the masters of a grammar-school in a city
which shall be nameless.

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-va-
lued friend Cunningham, and tell him that on
Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me,
in a manner introduced me — 1 mean a well-
known military and literary character. Colonel
Dirom.

You do not tell me how you liked my two
last songs. Are they condemned ?

No.

237

No. LXXVI.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

\1ith May, 1795.

It gives me great pleasure to find that
you are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's
production. The chance resemblance of your
little fellow, whose promising disposition ap-
peared so very early, and suggested whom he
should be named after, is curious enough. I
am acquainted with that person, who is a pro-
digy of learning and genius, and a pleasant fel-
low, though no saint.

You really make me blush when you tell me
you have not merited the drawing from me. I
do not think I can ever repay you, or suffi-
ciently esteem and respect you for the liberal
and kind manner in which you have entered
into the spirit of my undertaking, which could
not have been perfected without you. So I beg
you would not make a fool of me again, by
speaking of obligation.

I like your two last songs very much, and
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of

poetizing.

238

poetizing. Long may it last ! Clarke has made
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad
of William and Margaret, and is to give it to
me, to be enrolled among the elect.

No. LXXVH.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

In, Wfiistle, and 111 come to ye, my lad,
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear.
Here goes what I think is an improvement :

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ;
Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae

mad,
Thy Jeany will venture wi* ye, my lad.

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par-
nassus ; a dame whom the Graces have attired
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed
with lightning, a Fair One, herself the heroine

of

239

of the song, insists on the amendment; and dis-
pute her commands if you dare !

SONG.

Tune — " This is no my ain house."

CHORUS.

O this is no my ain lassie ^

Fair thoi' the lassie be;
O iveel ken I my ain lassie.

Kind love is in her e'e.

I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place :
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this no, Sfc.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall ;
And ay it charms my very saul.
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is no, ^c.

A thief

240

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ;
But gleg as light are lovers' een,
When kind love is in the ee.
O this is no, <^c.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this no, 6fc.

Do you know that you have roused the tor-
pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me
to write three or four songs for him, which he
is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet
contains two songs for him, which please to
present to my valued friend Cunningham.

I enclose the sheet open, both for your in-
spection, and that you may copy the song, O
honnie was yon rosy brier. I do not know
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me,
and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's
newly roused celestial spark will be soon smo-
thered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the
song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air

of

241

of I wish my love was in a mire; and poor
Erskine's English lines may follow.

I inclose you, a For a' that and a' that,
which was never in print : it is a much su-
perior song to mine. I have been told that it
was composed by a lady.

To Mr. CUNNINGHAM.

SCOTTISH SONG.

Now spring has clad the grove in green,

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers :
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen

Rejoice in fostering showers ;
While ilka thing in nature join

Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine

The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling bum

Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn

Defies the angler's art:
My life was ance that careless stream,

That wanton trout was I ;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorch'd my fountains dry.
VOL. IV. R The

"242

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,

In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot^

Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past,

And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the with'ring blast

My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs

And climbs the early sky.
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye ;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,

Until the flowery snare
O' witching love, in luckless hour.

Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,

Or Afric's burning zone,
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,

So Peggy ne'er I'd known !
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair,'

What tongue his woes can tell I
Within whase bosom, save despair,

Nae kinder spirits dwell.

SCOTTISH I'

243

SCOTTISH SONG.

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier,

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ;
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear !

It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew

How pure, amang the leaves sae green ;

But purer was the lover's vow

They witness'd in their shade yestreen.

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair !

But love is far a sweeter flower
Amid life's thorny path o' care.

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn,
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ;

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the
last edition of my poems, presented to the lady,
whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion,

R 2 but

244

but with the most ardent sentiments of real
friendship, I have so often sung under the name
of Chloris.

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend,

Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend

The moralizing muse.

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,

Must bid the world adieu,
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)

To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,

Chill came the tempest's lower;
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast

Did nip a fairer flower.)

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,

Still much is left behind ;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store,

The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow,

On conscious honour's part ;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,

Thine friendship's truest heart.

The

245

The joys refin'd of sense and taste,
With every Muse to rove :

And doubly vt^ere the poet blest
These joys could he improve.

line bagatelle de Vamitie.

COILA.

No. LXXVIII.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 3rd August, 1795.
MY DEAR SIR,

Xhis will be delivered to you by a
Dr. Brianton, who has read your works, and
pants for the honour of your acquaintance. I
do not know the gentleman; but his friend,
who applied to me for this introduction, being
an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is
worthy of all acceptation.

My

246

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my
mind feasted, .with your last packet — full of
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination is
yours ! it is superfluous to tell you, that 1 am
delighted with all the three songs, as well as
with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris.

I am sorry you should be induced to alter, O
whistle and Til come to ye, my lad, to the pro-
saic line, Thy Jeany ivill venture wi' ye, my lad.
1 must be permitted to say, that I do not think
the latter either reads or sings so well as the
former. I wish, therefore, you would in my
name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she
be, to let the line remain unaltered.*

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke pro-
duce a few airs to be joined to your verses.
Every body regrets his writing so very little, as
every body acknowledges his ability to write
well. Pray was the resolution formed coolly

before

* The Editor, who has heard the heroine of this song
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that it
requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's petition unreasonable. If
we mistake not, this is the same lady who produced the
lines to the tune of Roys Wife, p. 225. E.

247

before dinner, or was it a midnight vow made
over a bowl of punch with the bard ?

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what
you have sent him.

P. S. — The lady's, For a' that and a' that,
is sensible enough, but no more to be compared
to yours than I to Hercules.

No. LXXIX.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

ENGLISH SONG.

Tune — " Let me in this ae Night.'

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.

CHORUS.

248

CHORUS.

O ivert thou, love, hut near me ;
Hut near, near, near me ;
Hoiv kindly thou ivouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs icith mine, love.

Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
O wert, SfC.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison fortune's ruthless dart,
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
O ivert, <SfC.

But dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
O ivert, Sfc.

How

249

How do you like the foregoing? I have
written it within this hour: so much for the
speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his
bottom ?

No. LXXX.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.
SCOTTISH BALLAD.

T^une — " The Lothian Lassie."

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang
glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;

I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce gae wi 'm, to believe, believe me,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me.

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en,
And vow'd for my love he was dying ;

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean,
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying.
The Lord forgie me for lying !

A weel-

250

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers :

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur

offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think ? In a fortnight or less.
The deil tak his taste to gae near her !

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,*
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her,

could bear her,
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her.

But

* In the original MS. this line runs, " He up the Gateslack
to my black cousin Bess," Mr. Thomson objected to this word,
as well as to the word Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr.
Burns replies as follows :

" Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of
" passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confines of
" this county. Dalgarnock is also^ the name of a romantic
" spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a
*' burial-ground. However, let the first line run. He up the
" lang loan," &c.

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives locality
to our poet's verses. E.

251

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
I glowr'd as I 'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Least ncebors might say I was saucy ;

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

T spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recovered her hearin.

And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin.
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin.

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow :

So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor-
row,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

FRAGMENT.

252

FRAGMENT.

Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's
Delight."

Wliy, why tell thy lover,

Bliss he never must enjoy ;
Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie ?

O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers,
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,

Why, why wouldst thou cruel
Wake thy lover from his dream ?

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this
air, that 1 find it impossible to make another
stanza to suit it.

I am at present quite occupied with the
charming sensations of the tooth-ache, so have
not a word to spare.

No.

253

No. LXXXI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

ZrdJunCy 1795.

MY DEAR SIR,

Your English verses to Let me in this
ae night, are tender and beautiful; and your
ballad to the " Lothian Lassie," is a master-
piece for its humour and naivete. The fragment
for the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the
original measure of the air, and, as it plagues
you so, the fragment must content it. I would
rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian
words, had it so pleased the poet; but, never-
theless, for what we have received, Lord make
us thankful.

a^o.

254

No. LXXXir.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

bth Feb. 1796.

O Rohhij Burns, are ye sleeping yet ?
Or are ye zcaukin, I would wit ?

The pause you have made, my dear
Sir, is awful ! Am I never to hear from you
again ? J know and I lament how much you
have been afflicted of late, but I trust that
returning health and spirits will now enable
you to resume the pen, and delight us with
your musings. I have still about a dozen
Scotch and Irish airs that I wish '* married to
immortal verse." We have several true born
Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they are now
naturalized, and reckoned our own good sub-
jects. Indeed we have none better. I believe I
before told you that I have been much urged by
some friends to publish a collection of all our
favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished
with a number of etchings by our ingenious
friend Allan ; what is your opinion of this?

No.

255

No. LXXXIII.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Fefrruary 17, 1796.

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your

handsome, elegant present, to Mrs. B , and

for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. — Peter
is a delightful fellow, and a first favorite of
mine. I am much pleased with your idea of
publishing a collection of our songs in octavo,
with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend
every assistance in my power. The Irish airs
I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding
verses for.

I have already, you know, equipt three with
words, and the other day T strung up a kind of
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which
I admire much.

HEY

256

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER.

Tune — " Balinamona ora."

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms :
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.

CHORUS.

Then hey for a lass ivi a tocher, then hey for a

lass ivi a tocher.
Then hey for a lass tvi a tocher ; the nice yel-

loiv guineas for me.

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that

blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ;
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green

knowes.
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white

yowes.
Then hey, Sfc.

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has

blest.
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos-

sest ;

But

257

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im-
prest,
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest.
Then hey, ^c.

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish
engagement. In my by-past songs, T dislike one
thing ; the name Chloris — I meant it as the fic-
titious name of a certain lady ; but, on second
thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a
Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral bal-
lad.— Of this, and some things else, in my
next : I have more amendments to propose. — -
What you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" is
just : they cannot enter into an elegant descrip-
tion of beauty. — Of this also again — God bless
you!*

No. LXXXIV.
Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Y OUR Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, is a

most excellent song, and with you the subject

VOL. IV. s is

* Our poet never explained what name he would have sub-
stituted for Chloris.

Note by Mr. Thomson,

258

is something new indeed. It is the first time I
have seen you debasing the god of soft desire
into an amateur of acres and guineas. —

I am happy to find you approve of my pro-
posed octavo edition. Allan has designed and
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have
my choice of them for that work. Indepen-
dently of the Hogarthian humour with which
they abound, they exhibit the character and
costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimit-
able felicity. In this respect, he himself says,
they will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did
for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the etch-
ing he sees clearly what he is doing, but not so
with the aquatinta, which he could not manage
to his mind.

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely
more characteristic and natural than the Scot-
tish figures in those etchings.

259

No. LXXXV.

Mr. burns to MR. THOMSON.

April, 1796.

Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will
be some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By
Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost
ever since I wrote you Jast : 1 have only known
existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of
sickness; and have counted time by the reper-
cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever,
have formed to me a terrible combination. I
close my eyes in misery, and open them with-
out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say
with poor Fergusson —

*' Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven
" Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?"

This will be delivered to you by a IMrs.
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here,
whicii for these many years has Ijeen my howff^

s 2 and

2G0

and where our friend Clarke and I have had
many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted
with Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd and married
an' a\ is admirable! The grouping is beyond
all praise. The expression of the figures, con-
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely
faultless perfection. I next admire, Turnim-
spike. What I like least is, Jenny said to J ocky.
Besides the female being in her appearance
***** if you take her stooping into the
account, she is at least two inches taller than
her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely sympa-
thize with him ! Happy I am to think that he
yet has a well-grounded hope of health and en-
joyment in this world. As for me — but that is
j^ * * # * * subject !

261

No. LXXXVI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Ath May, 1796.

I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what
concern the receipt of your last gave me, and
how much I sympathise in your sufferings.
But do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to
despondency, nor speak the language of de-
spair. The vigour of your constitution, f trust,
will soon set you on your feet again; and then
it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom, and
the necessity of taking due care of a life so
valuable to your family, to your friends, and to
the world.

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable
accounts of your convalescence, and returning
good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard,
yours.

P. S. — Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered
the gold seal to you in good condition.

No.

262

No. Lxxxva.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

MY DEAR SIR,

I ONCE mentioned to you an air which I
have long admired. Here 's a health to them
that 's awa, hiney, but 1 forget if you took any
notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it
with verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the
air to your attention once more. 1 have only
begun it.

CHORUS.

Here 's a health to ane I loe dear.

Here 's a health to ane I loe dear ;

Thou art sweet as the smile ivhen fond lovers

meet,
And soft as their parting tear — Jessy !

Although

263

Altho' thou iiiann never be mine,

Altho' even hope is denied ;
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,

Than aught in the world beside— Jessy !
Here 's a health, ^c.

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day.
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ;

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then 1 am lockt in thy arms — Jeasy!
Here 's a health, S)C.

I guess by the dear angel smile,
I guess by the love rolling e'e ;

But why urge the tender confession

*Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy !
Here 's a health, Sfc*

* In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first stanzas
only are given, and Mr. Thomson supposed our poet had
never gone farther. Among his MSS. was, however, found
the fourth stanza, which completes this exquisite song, the
last finished offspring of his muse. !'•

No.

264

No. LXXXVIII.

Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars,
a young fellow of uncommon nierit. As he
will be a day or two in town, you will have
leisure, if you chuse to write me by him ; and
if you have a spare half hour to spend with
him, I shall place your kinduess to my account.
I have no copies of the songs I have sent you,
and I have taken a fancy to review them all,
and possibly may mend some of them ; so
when you have complete leisure, I will thank
you for either the originals or copies.* I had
rather be the author of five well-written songs
than of ten otherwise. [ have great hopes that
the genial influence of the approaching summer
will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast
of returning health. I have now reason to be-
lieve

* It is needless to say, that this revisal Burns did not
lire to perform. E.

265

lieve that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad
business !

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re-
member me to him.

This should have been delivered to you a
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should
like much to hear from you.

No. LXXXIX.
Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON.

Brow, on the Solway-frith, 12tk July, 1796.

After all my boasted independence,
curst necessity compels me to implore you for
five pounds. A cruel ***** of a haberdasher,
to whom 1 owe an account, taking it into his
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro-
cess, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do,
for God's sake, send me that sun), and that by
return of post. Forgive me this earnestness,
but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis-
tracted.

•266

tracted. 1 do not ask all this gratuitously ;
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise,
and engnge to furnish you with five pounds
worth of the neatest song genius you have seen.
1 tried ray hand on Rothemurche this morning.
The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible
to infuse much genius into the lines ; they are
on the other side. Forgive, forgive me !

SONG.

Time — " Rothemurche."

CHORUS.

Fairest maid on Devon hanks,
Crystal Devon, ivinding DevoUy

Wilt thou lay that frown aside ,
And smile as thou were wont to do ?

Full well thou knowest I love thee, dear!
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear !
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear,
" Nor use a faithful lover so."
Fairest maid, <^c.

Then

267

Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ;
And by thy beauteous self I swear,

No love but thine my heart shall know.

Fairest maid, ^c *

No.

* These verses, and the letter enclosing them, are written
in a character that marks the feeble state of Burns's bodily
strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he couid not have
been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he
had many firm friends, nor under any such necessity of im-
ploring aid from Edinburgh. But about this time his reason
began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail per-
petually haunted his imagination. He died ou the 21st of this
month.

268

No. XC.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

\Ath July, 1796.
MY DEAR SIR,

Ever since I received your melancholy
letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating
in what manner I could endeavour to alleviate
your sufferings. Again and again I thought of
a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of
your letters on this subject, and the fear of
offending your independent spirit, checked my
resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for
the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and
with great pleasure inclose a draft for the very
sum I proposed sending. Would I were Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer but for one day, for
your sake !

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you
to muster a volume of poetry? If too much
trouble to you, in the present state of your

health,

269

health, some literary friend might be found here,
who would select and arrange from your manu-
scripts, and take upon him the task of Editor.
In the mean time it could be advertised to be
published by subscription. Do not shun this
mode of obtaining the value of your labour:
remember Pope published the Iliad by sub-
scription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and
do not reckon me intrusive with my advice.
You are too well convinced of the respect and
friendship 1 bear you, to impute any thing I
say to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully.

The verses to Rothemurche will answer finely.
1 am happy to see you can still tune your lyre

270

In the beginning of the year 1787, another work had com-
menced at Edinburgh, entitled. The Scots Musical Museiim,
conducted by Mr. James Johnson ; the object of which was
to unite the songs and the music of Scotland in one general
collectiou. The first volume of this work appeared in May,
1787, when our poet was in Edinburgh ; and in it appeared
one of his printed songs, to the tune of Green grow the rashes,
beginning, " There 's nought but care on every hand." He
appears also to have furnished from his MSS. the last song
Ih that volume, which was an early production, and not
thought by himself worthy of a place in his works. The
second volume appeared in the spring of 1783, and contained
several original songs of Burns ; who also contributed
liberally to the third, fourth, and fifth volumes, the last of
which did not appear till after his death. In his communi-
cations to Mr. Johnson, to which his name was not in general
affixed, our Bard was less careful than in his compositions
for the greater work of Mr. Thomson. Several of them he
never intended to acknowledge, and others, printed in the
Museum, were found somewhat altered afterwards, among
his manuscripts. In the selection which follows, attention
has been paid to the wishes of the author as far as they are
known. The printed songs have been compared with the
MSS., and the last corrections have been uniformly inserted.
The reader will probably think many of the songs which fol-
low, among the finest productions of his muse.

THE

271

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, ivillye go, ivill ye go,
Sonnie lassie, ivill ye go to the JBirks of Aber-
feldy?

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Honuie lassie, Sfc.

While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blithely sing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Sonnie lassie, 6fc.

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's.
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws.
The birks of Aberfeldy.
JSonnie lassie, 6fc.

Th<?

272

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers.
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.
Sojmie lassie, <^'c.

Let fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me.
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonnie lassie, Sfc*

STAY,

* This is written in the same measure as the Birks of
Abergeldie, an old Scottish song, from which nothing is bor-
rowed but the chorus. E.

273

STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU
LEAVE ME?

Tune — *' An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me?

Cruel, cruel to deceive me !

Well you know how much you grieve me;

Cruel charmer, can you go?

Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill requited ;

By the faith you fondly plighted ;

By the pangs of lovers slighted ;

Do not, do not, leave me so !

Do not, do not, leave me so !

VOL. IV. T STRATHALLAN'S

274

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling!

Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave !

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind.

Western breezes softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged.
Wrongs injurious to redress,

Honor's war we strongly waged,
But the Heavens denied success.

Ruin's

275

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend!

The wide world is all before us —
But a world without a friend !*

T 2 THE

* Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of
the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying concealed
in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of CuUoden.
This song was written before the year 1788. E.

276

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

Tmie—" MoRAG."

Loud blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover;

Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over.

Where'er he go, where'er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden :

Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon I

The trees now naked groaning.
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,

The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blithely singing.
And every flower be springing.

Sae

277

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty warden

My youth's retiirn'd to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon *

* The young Highland Rover is supposed to be the young
Chevalier, Prince Charles-Edward. E.

RAVING

278

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER
BLOWING.

Tune — *' M'Grigor of Rero's

Lament."

Raving winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,
Isabella stray'd deploring.
" Farewell, hours that late did measure
" Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ;
*' Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,
** Cheerless night that knows no morrow.

" O'er the past too fondly wandering,
" On the hopeless future pondering;
*' Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
*' Fell despair my fancy seizes.

Life,

279

" Life, thou soul of every blessing,
" Load to misery most distressing,
" O how gladly I'd resign thee,
"And to dark oblivion join thee!'*

MUSING

280

MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.

Tune — " Druimion dubh."

Musing on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me ;

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal where'er he be.

Hope and fear's alternate billow
Yielding late to nature's law,

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that's far awa.

Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,

Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is dear.

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ;

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ;
Spirits kind, again attend me.

Talk of him that's far awa !

BLYTHE

281

BLITHE WAS SHE.

JBlithe, hlithe and merry was she,
Slit he was she but and ben :

JBlithe by the banks of Em,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.

By Oughtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw;

But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
JBlithe, Sfc.

Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn ;

She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
JBlithe, Sfc.

Her

282

Her bonnie face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lee ;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
JBlithe, Sfc.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o er the Lowlands J hae been ;

But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blithe, Sfc.

283

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head.
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood.
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd.
Awake the early morning.

So

284

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning.

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day.
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning.*

WHERE

* This song was written during the winter of 1787. Mise
J. C, daughter of a friend of the bard, is the heroine.

285

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S
STORMS.

Tune — " N. Gow's Lamentation for Aber-

CAIRNY."

Where braving angry winter's storms,

The lofty Ochels rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms.

First blest my wondering eyes.
As one who by some savage stream,

A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd doubly marks its beam,

With art's most polish'd blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,

Where Peggy's charms I first survey 'd.
When first I felt their pow'r !

lie

286

The tyrant death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath ;

But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

TIBBIE,

287

TIBBIE, 1 HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Tune — " Invercald's Reel.'

O Tihhie, I hae seen the day^
Ye would nae been sae shy ;

For laik o' gear ye lightly me^
Sut, trowthj I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor.
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ;
Ye geek at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.
O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think.
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink.
Whene'er ye like to try.
O Tibbie, I hae, ^c.

But

288

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibbie, I hae, ^c.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
O Tibbie, I hae, ^c.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear.
Be better than the kye.
O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice.
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ;
The deil a ane wad spier your price.
Were ye as poor as [.
O Tibbie, I hae, ^c.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For thee, wi' a thy thousan mark ;
Ye need na look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae, Sfc.

CLARINDA.

289

CLARINDA.

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run !

The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie :

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy !

We part — but by these precious drops

That fill thy lovely eyes !
No other light shall guide my steps,

'Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex.
Has blest my glorious day :

And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray ?

VOL. IV. V

200

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM
BURNS.

Tune — " Seventh of November.''

The day returns, my bosom burns,

The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd.

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line ;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,

Or nature aught of pleasure give !
While joys above, my mind can move,

For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part ;
The iron hand that breaks our band,

It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart. -

291

THE LAZY MIST.

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ;
flow languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap-
pear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown :
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse.
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur-
sues ;
How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in

vain;
How little of life's scanty span may remain :
What aspects, old Time, in his progress has

worn ;
What ties, cruel Fate in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd,

how pain'd !
This life 's not worth having with all it can giv**
For something beyond it poor man sure must
live.

V 2

292

O, WERE 1 ON PARNASSUS' HILL!

Tune — " My love is lost to me.'

O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill !
Or had of Helicon my fill ;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ;
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell.

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay,
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day,
I coudna sing, I coudna say,

How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean.
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en —

By heaven and earth I love thee !

By

293

By night, by day, a-field, at hame.
The thoughts o* thee my breast inflame ;
And ay I muse and sing thy name,

I only live to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
^Till my last weary sand was run ;

'Till then — and then I love thee.

294

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Tune — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strath-
spey."

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row.

And mony a hill between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair :
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air :
There 's not a bonnie flower, that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green.
There 's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

THE

295

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee,*
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green.

But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang,

Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle !

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye '11 flourish fresh and fair ;•

Ye birdies dumb, in with 'ring bowers,
Again ye 'II charm the vocal air.

But

* Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq.
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edin-
burgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John White-
foord, now of Alexander, Esq. E.

296

But here, alas ! for me nae mair,

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;

Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle !

WILLIE

* The Maria of this song was the eldest daughter of Sir
John Whitefoord, now (1819) Mrs. Cranston; and the song
was written on the occasion of that respectable family leaving
Ballochmyle. G. B.

297

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut.
And Rob and Allan cam to see:

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are nafou, zve're nae thatfou^
JBiit just a drappie in our ee;

The cock may craw, the clay may daWy
And ay we 11 taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;

And mony a night we 've merry been,
And mony raae we hope to be!
We are naJbUf Sfc.

It

298

Jt is the moon, I ken her horn,
That 's blinkin in the lift sae hie ;

She shines sae bright to vvyle us hame.
But by my sooth, she '11 wait a wee !
TVe are najou, ^c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa*,
A cuckold, coward loun is he !

Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three !
We are nafou, ^c *

THE

* Willie, who " brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr. Wil-
liam Nicol; and Rob and Allan, were our poet and his friend
Allan]' Masterton. This meeting took place at'LAGGAN, a
farm purchased by Mr. Nicol, in Nithsdale, on the recom-
mendation of our bard. These three honest fellows — all men
of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf. (1799.)

E.

And it may be added, that the feeling heart that dictated
the above remark is itself (1809) numbered with the dead.

299

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.

I GAED a waefu' gate, yestreen,

A gate, I fear, 1 11 dearly rue ;
I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en,

Twa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright;

Her lips, like roses, wat \vi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white —

Jt was her e'en sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd;

She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And ay the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam frae her e'en sae bonnie blue.

But

300

But spare to speak, and spare to speed ;

She '11 aiblins listen to my vow :
Should she refuse, I '11 lay my dead

To her twa e'en sae bonnie blue.*

THE

* The heroine of thia song was Miss J****^ of Lochmaban.
This lady, now Mrs. R*****^ after residing some time in
Liverpool, is settled with her husband in New- York, North
America. E.

301

THE BANKS OF NITH.

Tune,

*' RoniE DONNA GORACH.'

The Thames flows proudly to the sea,

Where royal cities stately stand ;
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command :
When shall I see that honor'd land.

That winding stream 1 love so dear !
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand

For ever, ever keep me here.

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gayly bloom ;

How sweetly wind thy sloping dales.

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom !

Tho'

302

Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes,

May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days !

JOHN

303

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.

JOHN Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent ;
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is held, John,

Your locks are like the snaw ;
But blessings on your firosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;

And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither :

Now

304

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go ;
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson ray jo*

TAM

* In the first volume of a collection, entitled, Poetry Ori-
ginal and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid, of Glasgow,
this song is given as follows :

John Anderson, my Jo, Improved.

By ROBERT BURNS.

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en.
Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, and why should you do so?
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And you amang them a' John, sae trig frae tap to toe ;
She prov'd to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit.
And ye need na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim

and neat;
Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye're ay the same to me, John Anderson, my

jo-
John

305

TAM GLEN.

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len'.

To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

VOL. IV. X I 'm

John Anderson, my jo, John, we 've seen our bairns' bairns.
And yet, my deai- John Anderson, I 'in happy in your arms.
And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye '11 ne'er say no,
The' the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson,
my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie,
To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me,
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go.
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent.
Your locks were like the raven, your hounie brow was brent,
Bntnoiv your head's turn'd bauld, John, your locks are like the

snow.
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, viy jo.

John

SOS

I'm thinking, \vi' sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen' ;

What care I in riches to wallow,
If 1 mauna marry Tarn Glen ?

There's

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we've past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last:
But let na' that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe,
"While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, nay jo.

John Anderso7i, my jo, John, tee clamb the hill theyither.
And inony a canty day, John, iveve had icV ane anither ;
Noic tee maun totter down, John, but hand in hand ivcll f/o ;
And we'll sZeep thegitker at the foot, John Anderson, viy jo.

The stanza with which this song, inserted by Messrs.
Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under
this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but
witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate
and tender sentiment of this improved song. In regard to
the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit
of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our bard's, yet
every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior
hand ; and the real author of them ought neither to have
given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as
the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of
their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line in the
sfiventh stanza, our hearts were neer our foe, would be proof
sufficient. Many are the instances in which our bard has
adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be
produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a
feeble thought in false gramiuar. These additional stanzas

are

307

There '« Lowrie the laird o' Driimeller,
" Guicl day to you, brute," he comes ben :

He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ?

My minnie does constantly deave me.
And bids me beware o' young- men ;

They flatter, she says, to deceive me.
But wha can tliink sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him.
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten :

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
O wha will 1 get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing.
My heart to my mou gied a sten ;

For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ;

His likeness cam up the house staukin.
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen !

X 2 Come

are not, however, without merit, and they may serve to pro-
long the pleasure which eveiy person of taste must feel, from
hstening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with
moral sentiments that are singularly interesting. E.

308

Come counsel, clear Tittie, don't tarry ;

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly. Tarn Glen.

MY

309

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ;
But little thinks my luve T ken brawlie,

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ;

It 's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee,
My laddie 's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,

He can na hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer a' luve 's an airl-penny,
My Tocher 's the bargain ye wad buy ;

But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,
Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.

Ye're

310

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,

Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,
And yell crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

VHEN

311

THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE
LAWIN.

Gane is the day and mirk 's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon.
And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun.

Then guidivife count the lawin, the lawin, tht

lawin.
Then guidivife count the laivin, and hring a

coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ;
But here we're a' in ae accord,
For ilka man that 's drunk 's a lord.
21ien guidivife county SfC. *

My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ;
And pleasure is a wanton trout.
An' ye drink it a* ye'll find him out.
Then guidivife county ^x.

WHAT

312

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO
Wr AN AULD MAN?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young
lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' !
Sad luck on the pennie, 6fc.

He 's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin,
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ;

He 's doy'lt and he 's dozin, his bluid it is frozen,
O, dreary 's the night wi' a crazy auld man !

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he
cankers,
I never can please him, do a' that I can ;
He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fel-
lows,
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man !

My

313

My aiild auntie Katie upon me takes pity,
J'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ;
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-
break him,
And then his auld brass will buy me a new
pan.

THE

.314

THE BONNIE WEE THING.

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thmg, wert thou mine;

I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wishfully I look and languish
Tn that bonnie face o' thine ;

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,

In ae constellation shine ;
To adore thee is my duty.

Goddess o' this soul o' mine !
Bonnie wee, ^c.

•

O, FOR

315

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM!

Tune — " The Moudiewort."

An O, for ane and twenty. Tarn !

An hey^ sweet ane and twenty. Tarn!
l^ll learn my kin a rattlin sang,
Ati I saiv ane and twenty, Tarn.

IHEY snool me sair, and hand me down,
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam !

But three short years will soon wheel roun',
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam.
An O, for ane, ^c.

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear.
Was left me by my auntie, Tam !

At kith or kin I need na spier,
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.
An Ojfor ane, (^c.

They '11

3li6

They 'II hae me wed a wealthy coof,
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ;

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof,
1 'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam !
An O, for ane, 6fc.

.^

BESS

317

BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL.

O LEEZE me on my spinning wheel,

0 leeze me on my rock and reel ;
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien,
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en !

1 '11 set me down, and sing and spin.
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal —
O leeze me on my spinning wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot,
And meet below my theekit cot ;
The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite.
Alike to screen the birdie's nest.
And little fishes' caller rest :
The sun blinks kindly in the biel'.
Where, blithe, I turn my spinning wheel.

On

318

On lofty aiks the cushats wail.
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes.
Delighted, rival ither's lays :
The craik amang the claver hay,
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley.
The swallow jinkin round my shiel.
Amuse me at my spinning wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,
O wha wad leave this humble state.
For a' the pride of a' the great ?
Amid their flaring, idle toys.
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys.
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ?

COUNTRY

i1^

COUNTRY LASSIE.

In simmer, when the hay was mawn,

And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
While claver blooms white o'er the lea,

And roses blaw in ilka bield ;
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what w ill ;
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild,

O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

Its ye hae wooers mony ahe,

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,

A routhie butt, a routhie ben :
There 's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ;
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen.

It 's plenty beets the luver's fire.

For

320

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,

I dinna care a single flie;
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye,

He has nae luve to spare for me :
But blithe 's the blink o' Robie's e'e,

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear:
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear.

O thoughtless lassie, life 's a faught ;

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ;
But ay fu' han't is fechtin best,

A hungry care 's an unco care :
But some will spend, and some will spare,

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ;
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair.

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land,

And gear will buy me sheep and kye;
But the tender heart o' leesome luve,

The gowd and siller canna buy:
We may be poor — Robie and I,

Light is the burden luve lays on ;
Content and luve brings peace and joy.

What mair hae queens upon a throne ?

FAIR

321

FAIR ELIZA.

A GAELIC AIR,

Turn again, thou fair Eliza,

Ae kind blink before we part,
Rue on thy despairing lover !

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart?
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ;

If to love thy heart denies.
For pity hide the cruel sentence

Under friendship's kind disguise !

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ?

The offence is loving thee :
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,

Wha for thine wad gladly die ?
While the life beats in my bosom,

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe :
Turn again, thou lovely maiden,

Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

VOL. IV. Y Not

322

Not the bee upon the blossom,

In the pride o' sinny noon ;
Not the little sporting fairy,

All beneath the simmer moon ;
Not the poet in the moment

Fancy lightens on his e'e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,

That thy presence gies to me.

THE

323

THE POSIE.

O LUVE will venture in, where it danr na weel
be seen,

0 luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has

been ;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood
sae green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose J will pu', the firstling o' the year,

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear,

For she 's the pink o' womankmd, and blooms

without a peer ;

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

1 '11 pu' the budding rose, when Phcebus peeps

in view,

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie
mou ;

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging-
blue,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

- ^ Y 2 The

324

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi'its locks o'siller grey,

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day,

But the songster's nest, within the bush, I winna

tak away ;

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The w oodbine 1 will pu' when the e'ening star

is near,
And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her

een sae clear ;
The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's

to wear,
And a' to be a posie te my ain dear May.

I '11 tie the posie round wi' the silken band o*

luve,
And I '11 place it in her breast, and 1 '11 swear

by a' above,
Thtit to my latest draught o' life, the band shall

ne'er remuve,
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

I

THE

325

THE BANKS O' DOON.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ?
Thou 'It break my heart thou warbling' bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn :
Thou minds me o' departed joys.

Departed, never to return !

Oft hae [ rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ;
And my fause luver stole my rose,

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me.

SIC

326 I

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

I

VViLLiE Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Liiikumdoddie,

Willie was a wabster guid,

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ;

He had a wife was dour and din,
Tinkler Madgie was her mither ;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gie a button for her.

She has an e'e, she has but ane.
The cat has twa the very colour ;

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller;

A whiskin beard about her niou,

Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wifCy ^c.

She's

^327

She's bow-hough'd, she's hem-shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ;

She 's twisted right, she "s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter :

She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther ;
Sic a wife, Sfc.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,

An' wi' her loof her face a washin ;
Bui Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels.
Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her.

GLOOMY

328

GLOOMY DECEMBER.

i

Ance niair I hail thee, thou gloomy December !

Alice mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ;
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember,

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair.
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure,

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever !

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure.

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom.

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone !
Still as 1 hail thee, thou gloomy December,

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ;
For sad was the parting th ou makes me remember,

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair.

WILT I

329

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?

Wilt thou be my dearie ?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ?

]^y the treasure of my soul,
And that's the love I bear thee !

I swear and vow, that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.

Only thou, I swear and vow,

Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ;

Or, if thou wilt na be my ain,
Say na thou'lt refuse me :

If it winna, canna be,
Thou, for thine, may choose me ;

Let me, lassie, quickly die.
Trusting that thou lo'es me.

Lassie, let me quickly die,

Trusting that thou lo'es me.

SHE'S

330

SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE.

She's fair and fause that causes my smart,

I lo'ed her raeikle and lang ;
She 's broken her vow, she 's broken my heart.

And I may e'en gae hang.
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear,
But woman is but warld's gear,

Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,

To this be never blind,
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,

A woman has't by kind :
O woman lovely, woman fair !
An angel form 's faun to thy share,
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair,

I mean an angel mind.

AFTON

331

AJPTON WAtER.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green

braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ;
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the
glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den.

Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming for-
bear,

I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding

rills ;
There daily I wander as noon rises high.
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in ray eye.

How

332

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys

below,
"Where wild, in the woodlands, the primroses

blow :
There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and

me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides.
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;*
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave.
As gathering sweet ilow'rets, she stems thy
clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green

braes.
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ;
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream.
Flow gently, sweet Aston, disturb not her

dream.

* Afton-Water is the stream on which stands Afton-
lodge : to which Mrs. Stewart removed from Stair. — Afton-
lodge was Mrs. Stewart's property from her father. The
song was presented to her in return for her notice, the first he
ever received from any person in her rank of life.

E.

THE

333

BONNIE BELL.

The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,

And surly Winter grimly flies ;
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ;
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morn-
ing,

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ;

All creatures joy in the sun's returning.
And J rejoice in my Bonnie Bell.

The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer,

And yellow Autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,

'Till smiling Spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,

Old Time and Nature their changes tell,
But never ranging, still unchanging,

I adore my Bonnie Bell.

THE

334

THE GALLANT WEAVER.

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me.
He is a gallant weaver.

Oh, I had wooers anght or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine.
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band.
To gie the lad that has the land,
But to my heart I'll add my hand,
And gie it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ;
While bees delight in op'ning flowers ;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver *

LOUIS

* In some Editions sailor is substituted for weaver.

333

LOUIS WHAT RECK I BY THEE?

Louis what reck I by thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean ?

Dyvor, beggar louns to me,
I reign in Jeanie's bosom.

Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me :

Kings and Emp'rors, swith awa !
Reif randies I disown ye \

FOR

336

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. .

My heart is sair, I dare na tell.

My heart is sair for somebody ;
1 could wake a winter night
For the sake o' somebody.
Oh-hon ! for somebody !
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 1

I could range the world around.
For the sake o' somebody.

Ye Powers, that smile on virtuous love,

O, sweetly smile on somebody !
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody.
Oh-hon ! for somebody !
Oh-hey ! for somebody !
I wad do — what wad I not ?
For the sake o' somebody !

THE

337

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

The lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas !

And ay the saiit tear blins her e'e :
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,

A waefu' day it was to me ;
For there [ lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see :
And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e !
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be ;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

VOL. IV. z A

338

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE
DEATH OF HER SON.

Twie — " FiNLAYSTON HousE."

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,

And pierc'd my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled

Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling drops,

In dust dishonor'd laid :
So fell the pride of all my hopes.

My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake

Bewails her ravish'd young ;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,

Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,

Now, fond I bare my breast,
O, do thou kindly lay me low

With him I love, at rest !

O MAY,

339

O MAY, THY MORN.

O May, tliy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December ;

For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber :

And dear was she J dare na name,
But I will ay remember.
And dear, <Sfc.

And here 's to them, that, like oiirsel.
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish us weel.
May a' that 's guid watch o'er them I

And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.
Atid here 's to, ^c.

z 2 O WAT

340

O, WAT Y£ WHA S IN YON TOWN ?

O, WAT ye wha 's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?

The fairest dame 's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw.
She wanders by yon spreading tree :

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e !

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,

And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.

i

The

341

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;

But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy ;

But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky !

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;

And she a lovely little flower,

That I wad tent and shelter there.

0 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 1 am doom'd to bear;

1 careless quit auglit else below,

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear !

For

342

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,

And she — as fairest is her form !
She has the truest, kindest heart!*

A RED

* The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly Miss L. J.)
died lately at Lisbon, This most accomplished and most
lovely woman, was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility,
which will convey some impression of her attractions to other
generations. The song is written in the character of her hus-
band, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter
to Mr, Syme, inclosing this song, in Vol. ii. (1799.) E.

343

A RED, RED ROSE.

Oj MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That 's newly sprung in June :

O, my luve 's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I :
And I will luve thee still, my dear,

'Till a' the seas gang dry.

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun :

I will luve thee still, my dear.
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve !

And fare thee weel, a-while !
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

JOHN

344

JOHN BARLEYCORN,*

A BALLAD.

I.

There was three kings into the east.
Three kings both great and high,

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

II.

They took a plough and plough'd him down.

Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath,

John Barleycorn was dead.

III. But

* This is partly composed on the plan cf an old song
known by the same name.

I

345

III.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on.

And show'rs began to fall ;
John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris'd them all,

IV.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears.
That no one should him wrong.

V.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale ;

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age ;
And then his enemies began

To shew their deadly rage.

VII. TheyVe

346

VII.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut bim by the knee ;
Then ty'd bim fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

VIII.

They laid bim down upon his back,
And cudgeird bim full sore ;

They bung him up before the storm.
And turu'd bim o'er and o'er.

IX.

They fdled up a darksome pit,
With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

X.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe ;

And still, as signs of life appear'd.
They toss'd him to and fro.

XI. They

I

347

XL

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones ;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

XII.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round ;

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

XIII.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold.

Of noble enterprise ;
For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise.

XIV.

'Twill make a man forget his woe ;

'Twill heighten all his joy ;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

Tho' the tear were in her eye.

XV. Then

348

XV.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand ;

And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland !

A FRAGMENT

349

FRAGMENT.

Tune " GiLLICRANKIE."

I.

When Guilford good our pilot stood,

And did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea.

Within America, man :
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,

And in the sea did jaw, man ;
An' did nae less, in full congress,

Than quite refuse our law, man.

II.

360

II.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,

I wat he was na slaw, man ;
Down JLowries hum he took a turn,

And Carleton did ca', man :
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,

Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,

Amang his en'mies a', man.

III.

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage.

Was kept at Hoston ha\ man ;
'Till Willie Hoive took o'er the knowe

For PJiiladelphia, man ;
Wi' sword an' gan he thought a sin

Guid christian blood to draw, man ;
But at New-York, wi' knife an' fork,

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.

IV.

Hargoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,
'Till Fraser brave did fa', man ;

Then lost his way, ae misty day.
In Saratoga shaw, man.

Corniuallis

351

Cornwallis fought as lang 's he dought,
An' did the buckskins claw, man ;

But Clintons glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.

V.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too,

Began to fear a fa', man ;
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure,

The German chief to thraw^, man :
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk,

Nae mercy had at a', man ;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

VI.

Then Rockingham took up the game ;

Till death did on him ca', man ;
When Shelhurne meek held up his cheek,

Conform to gospel law, man :
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,

They did his measures thraw, man,
For North an' Fox united stocks.

An' bore him to the wa', man.

VII.

352

vri.

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlies cartes,
He swept the stakes awa\ man,

'Till the diamond's ace, of Itidian race,
Led him a sairjaux pas, man :

The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,
On Chathanis hoy did ca', man :

An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew,

* Up, Willie, waur them a', man !'

VIII.

Behind the throne then Grenville 's gone,

A secret word or twa, man ;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class

Be-north the Roman wa,' man :
An' Chatham'^ wraith, in heavenly graith,

(Inspired bardies saw, man)
Wi' kindling eyes cried, ' Willie, rise!

* Would I hae fear'd them a', man !'

IX.

But word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,
'Till Suihron raise, and coost their claise

Behind him in a raw, man,

An'

353

An' Caledon threw by the drone,
An' did her whittle draw, man :

An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood
To make it guid in law, man.

VOL. IV.

2 A SONG.

364

SONG.

Tioie — " Corn rigs are bonnie."

Jt was upon a Lammas night,

When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,

1 held awa to Annie :
The time flew by \vi' tentless heed,

'Till 'tween the late and early ;
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed.

To see me thro' the barley.

II.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly ;

I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley :

I

Iken't^

I

I ken't her heart was a' iny ain ;

I lov'd her most sincerely ;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

HI.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace !

Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,

Amang the rigs o' barley !
But by the moon and stars so bright,

That shone that hour so clearly !
She ay shall bless that happy night,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

IV.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ;

I hae been merry drinkin ;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear ;

I hae been happy thinkin :
But a' the pleasures e'er T saw,

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',

Amang the rigs o' barley.

2 A 2 CHORUS.

366

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an* harley rigs^
An' corn rigs are bonnie :

Til ne' er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wV Annie.

SONG,

357

SONG,

COMPOSED IN AUGUST.

Tune — " I HAD A HORSE, 1 HAD NAE MAIR.'

I.

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,

Amang the blooming heather :
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,

Delights the weary farmer ;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at
night.

To muse upon my charmer.

JJ. The

358

IT.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ;

The plover loves the mountains ;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;

The soEft'ing hern the fountains :
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves

The path of man to shun it ;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,

The spreading thorn the linnet.

III.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,

The savage and the tender ;
Some social join, and leagues combine ;

Some solitary wander :
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic man's dominion ;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry.

The fluttring, gory pinion !

IV.

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning 's clear.
Thick flies the skimming swallow ;

The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow :

Come,

359

Come, let us stray our gladsome way.
And view the charms of nature ;

The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

V.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,

'Till the silent moon shine clearly ;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest.

Swear how I love thee dearly :
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,

Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me.

My fair, my lovely charmer !

b

SOx\G.

360

SONG.

Tune—'' My Nannie, O."

I.

Behind yon hills, where Liigar* flows,
'Mang' Kioors an' mosses many, O,

The wintry sun the day has clos'd.
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.

II.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ;

The night 's baith mirk and rainy, O ;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O.

III. Mv

Originally, Stinchar.

361

III.

My Nannie 's charming, sweet, an' young
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ;

May ill befa' the flattering tongue,
That wad beguile my Nannie, O.

IV.

Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O :

The opening gowan, wet wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

V.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me, O ;

But what care I how few they be ?
I 'm welcome ay to Nannie, O.

VI.

My riches a's my penny-fee.
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ;

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.

VJI. Our

362

VII.

Our auld Guidraan delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ;

But I 'm as blithe that bauds his pleugh^
An' has nae care but Naunie, O.

VIII.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I '11 tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ;

Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an' love my Nannie, 0»

GREEN

363

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

A FRAGMENT.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O !

Green grow the rashes, O !
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend.

Are spent amang the lasses, O

There 's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O :

What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

Green grow, SfC.

II. The

364

II.

The warly race may riches chase.

An' riches still may fly them, O ;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast.

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Green grow y SfC.

III.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O ;

An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O !

Green grow y Sfc.

IV.

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye 're nought but senseless asses, O :

The wisest man the warl* saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Green grow, 6fc.

V. Auld

365

V.

Auld JVature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O :

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow t ^c.

TP ^W ^*r T(P

SONG.

366

SONG.

I.

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in naorning dews.

n.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ;

In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lint white sing.

III.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,

But life to me *s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.

IV. The

367

IV.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

V.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shill,

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
1 meet him on the dewy hill.

VI.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark.
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,

And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

VII.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree :

Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me !

SONG.

368

SONG.

Tune — *' RosLiN Castle/

I.

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars tlie wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain ;
The hunter now has left the moor.
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

11. The

369

II.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn,
By early Winter's ravage torn ;
Across her placid, azure sky.
She sees the scowling tempest fly :
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave.
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

III.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ;
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear.
The wretched have no more to fear !
But round my heart the ties are bound.
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

IV.

Farewell, old Coilas hills and dales.
Her heathy moors and winding vales ;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves.
Pursuing past, unhappy loves !

VOL. IV. 2 B Farewell,

370

Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes !
My peace with these, my love with those —
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.

SONG

371

SONG.

Tune — " GiLDEROY."

I.

From thee, Eliza, ] must go.

And from my native shore ;
The cruel fates between us throw

A boundless ocean's roar :
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,

Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide

My heart and soul from thee !

2 B 2 II. Farewell,

372

II.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,

The maid that I adore !
A boding voice is in mine ear,

We part to meet no more !
But the latest throb that leaves my heart,

While death stands victor by.
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh !

THE

373

THE

FAREWELL,

TO THE

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,

TARBOLTON.

Tune — " Good-night and Joy be wi' you a' !"

L

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu !

Dear brothers of the mystic tie !
Ye favour'd, ye enlighteiid few.

Companions of my social joy !

Tho'

374

Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',

With melting heart, and brimful eye,
ril mind you still, tho' far awa'.

II.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful, festive night ;
Oft, honor'd with supreme command,

Presided o'er the so7is of light :
And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw !
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write

Those happy scenes when far awa'.

III.

May freedom, harmony, and love,

Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' omniscient eye above,

The glorious architect divine !
That you may keep tli' unerring line.

Still rising by the phwimefs laiv.
Till order bright completely shine.

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.

IV.

375

IV

And you farewell ! whose merits claiin,

Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heav'ii bless your honor'd, noble name,

To Masonry and Scotia dear !
A last request permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a*.
One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the Bard that 'sfar awaJ

SONG.

376

SONG.

Tune — " Prepare, my dear Brethren, to
THE Tavern let 's fly.

I.

No churchman am 1 for to rail and to write.
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare.
For a big-belly'd bottle 's the whole of my care.

IT.

The peer 1 don't envy, I give him his bow ;
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are

here.
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here

377

III.

Here passes the squire on his brother — his

hoi'se ;
There centum per centum, the cit with his

purse ;
But see you the croivn how it waves in the air,
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

IV.

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ;
For sweet consolation to church I did tly ;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That abig-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

V.

I once was persuaded a venture to make ;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up

stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

VJ.

*' Life's cares they are comforts"* — a maxim

laid down
By the bard, what d'ye call him ? that wore the

black gown ;
And faith, 1 agree with th' old prig to a hair ;
For a big-belly'd bottle 's a heav'n of care.

A Stanza

* Young's ]N ight Thoughts.

378

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honors masonic prepare for to throw ;
May every true brother of the compass and

square
Have a big-belly*d bottle when harass'd with

care.

SONG.

179

SONG.

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care ;

But, ah ! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiv'n ;

For sure 'twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of Heav'n.

THE

380

THE

WHISTLE,

A BALLAD.

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I
shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when
she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came
over also a Danish gentleman, of gigantic stature and great
prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had
a little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the
orgies, he laid on the table ; and whoever was last able to
blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of
the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of vic-
tory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, with-
out a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock-
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in
Germany ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the
alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging
their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the
Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of
Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that
name ; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest,
left the Scandinavian under the table.

And blew on the Whistle his Requiem shrill.

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, after-
wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who

had

381

had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday, the 16tU
of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once
more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present
Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of
Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter
Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had
continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch,
likewise descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last gen-
tleman carried off the hard-won honors of the field.

1 SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I Bing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish

king.
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall

ring.

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his

hall—
"This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland

get o'er,
" And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me
more!"

Old

S«c Ossian's Caric-thura.

382

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still.
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

'Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the
Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has
gain'd ;
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ;
'Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear

of flaw ;

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ;

And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old ^vines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as
oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan.
And once more, in claret, try which was the
man.

"By

383

* ' By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel
replies,
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
" I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,*
" And bumper his horn with him twenty times

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre-
tend.

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his
friend.

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the
field.

And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd
yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes re-
pair,

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ;

But for wine, and for welcome not more known
to fame,

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet
lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,

And tell future ages the feats of the day ;

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had

been.

The

* See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

384

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ;
In the bands of old friendship, and kindred so

set,
And the bands grew the tighter, the more they

were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot, as bumpers ran o'er ;
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core.
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite

forlorn,
'Till Cynthia hinted he 'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night.
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red.
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ;
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine !
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ;

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con-
tend?

Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ;

So uprose bright Phcebus — and down fell the
knight

Next

385

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in
drink :
" Craigdarroch, thou 'It soar when creation shall

sink!
" But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
" Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub-
lime !

'* Thy line, that have struggled for freedom
with Bruce,
" Shall heroes and patriots ever produce :
" So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ;
" The field thou hast won, by yon bright god
of day!"

VOL. IV. 2 c CALEDONIA.

386

CALEDONIA.

Time — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight.'

There was once a day, but old Time then
was young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung,
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia 's
divine?)
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain.

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would :
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign,
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant
it sood.

©'

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war ;

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew :
Hergrandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, —

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter

shall rue !"

With

387

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling
corn ;
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort,
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the
horn.

Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers

A flight of hold eagles from Adria's strand :"*
Repeated, successive, for many long years,

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd
the land :
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,

They' d conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,

The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-Raven took wing from the north.
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of
the shore ; "j"

The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : J

2 c 2 O'er

* The Roruaiis. f The Saxons.

I The Danes.

388

O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,
No arts could appease them, no arms could
repel ;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie
tell.*

The Canieleon-savage disturb'd her repose,

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last s,he arose,

And robb'd him at once. of his hopes and his
life:t
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver
flood;
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance.

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd^ and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run :

For brave Caledonia immortal must be ;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun :

Rectangle-

* IVo famous battles in which the Danes or Norwegians
were defeated. E.

i The Picts.

389

Rectangle-triangle, the figure we '11 choose,
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the
base;
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse;

Then ergo, she '11 match them, and match
them always !*

SONG.

* This singular figure of poetry, taken from the mathe-
matics, refers to the famous proposition of Pythagoras, the
47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of
the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two
other sides. E.

590

SONG.

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,*
Shall ever be my muse's care ;
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my Highland Lassie, O.

Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O,
I set me down wi right good will.
To sing my Highland Lassie ^ O.

0 were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine !
The world then the love should know

1 bear my Highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, ^c.

But

* Gentle is used here in opposition to simple, in the Scot-
tish and old English sense of the word. !Nae gentle dames
— No high-blooded dames. E.

391

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I '11 love my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen, Sfc.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
1 know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honour's glow,
My faithful Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen, SfC.

For her I '11 dare the billows' roar,
For her I '11 trace a distant shore.
That Indian wealth may lustre throw.
Around my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen, 6fc.

She has my heart, she has my hand.
By sacred truth and honor's band !
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I 'm thine, my Highland Lassie, O.

Farewell

392

Farewell the glen sae hus/iy, O !
Tareivell the "plain sae rush?/, O f
To other lands I noiv must go,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O !*

ADDRESS

* This is an early production, and seems to have been
written on Highland Mary. E.

393

ADDRESS TO A LADY.

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ;
My plaidie to the angry airt,

I 'd shelter thee, I 'd shelter thee :
Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to rtiign ;
The brightest jewel in my crown,

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

THE

3.04

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

I
Tune — *' Push about the Jorum."

Aiprily 1795.

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?

Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There 's wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,*

And Criffel sink in Solway,t
Ere we permit a foreign foe

On British ground to rally !

Fall de rail, Sfc.

O let us not like snarling tykes

Jn wrangling be divided ;
Till slap come in an unco loon

And wi' a rung decide it.

Be

* A high hill at the source of the Nith.
t A well-known mountain at the mouth of the same
river.

395

Be Britain still to Britain true,

Amang oursels united ;
For never but by British hands

Maun British wrangs be righted.

Fall de rally Sfc.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,

Perhaps a claut may fail in 't ;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun

Shall ever ca' a nail in 't.
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,

And wha wad dare to spoil it ;
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog

Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fall de rail, <J'c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne.

May they be damned together !
Who will not sing, " God save the King,"

Shall hang as high's the steeple;
But while we sing, " God save the King,"

We'll ne'er forget the people.

Fall de rail, SfC.

396

SONG.

Tune—'' MoRAG."

O WHA is she that lo'es me,
And has my heart a keeping ?

O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As clews o' simmer weeping.
In tears the rose-buds steeping.

CHORUS.

O that '5 the lassie o my heart.

My lassie ever dearer,
O that '5 the queen o' woman kind,

And ne'er a ane to peer her.

If thou shalt meet a lassie,

In grace and beauty charming,

That e'en thy chosen lassie,

Ere while thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming.
O that's, SfC.

If

397

If thou hadst heard her talkmg,
And thy attentions plighted,

That ilka body talking,

But her by thee is slighted ;
And thou art all delighted.
O that's, 6fc.

If thou hast met this fair one;
When frae her thou hast parted,

If every other fair one

But her, thou hast deserted.
And thou art broken-hearted.
O that's, Sfc.

O that 's the lassie o' my heart,

My lassie ever dearer,
O that 's the queen o' ivoman kind.

And ne'er a ane to peer her.

SONG

398

SONG.

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss,
O'er the mountains he is gane ;

And with him is a' my bliss,

Nought but griefs with me remain.

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating rain !

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting o'er the frozen plain.

When the shades of evening creep
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e,

Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blithe his waukening be!

He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he *11 repeat her name ;

For where'er he distant roves.
Jockey's heart is still at hame

SONG.

399

SONG.

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm ;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Here face so truly, heavenly fair.
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye.
The kindling lustre of an eye ;
Who but ovs^ns their magic sway,
Who but knows they all decay !
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose, nobly dear.
The gentle look, that rage disarms.
These are all immortal charms.

Written

400

Writteri in a Wrapper enclosing a Letter to
Capt. Grose, to be left ivith Mr. Cardonnel^
Antiquarian.

Tmie — " Sir John Malcolm."

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose?

Igo, ^ ago.
If he 's amang his friends or foes ?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he South, or is he North ?

Igo, (Sf^ ago.
Or drowned in the river Forth ?

Irani, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies ?

Igo, ^ ago.
And eaten like a weather-haggis ?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ?

Igo, 6f- ago.
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ?

Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er

401

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him !

Igo, Sf ago.
As for the deil, he daur na steer him.

Irani, coram, dago.

But please transmit th' inclosed letter,

Igo, ^ ago.
Which will oblige your humble debtor.

Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,

Igo, ^ ago.
The very stanes that Adam bore.

Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,

Igo, Sfago.
The coins o* Satan's coronation !

Iram, coram, dago.

VOL. IV. 2 D FAREWELL

402

THE FETE CHAMPETRE*

Tune — *' GiLLICRANKIE."

I.

O WHA will to Saint Stephen's house,
To do our errands there, man ?

O wha will to Saint Stephen's house,
O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man?

Or

* The occasion of this ballad was as follows. When Mr.
Cunninghame of Enterkin, came to his estate, two Mansion-
Houses on it, Enterkin and Anbank, were both in a ruinous
state. Wishing to introduce himself with some eclat to the
country, he got temporary erections made on the banks of
Ayr, tastefully decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a
supper and ball, to which most of the respectable families in
the county were invited. It was a novelty in the county,
and attracted much notice. A dissolution of parliament was
soon expected, and this festivity was thought to be an in-
troduction to a canvas for representing the county. Several
other candidates were spoken of, particularly Sir John
Whiteford, then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pronounced
^leucaird, and Mr. Boswell, the well known biographer of
Dr. Johnson. The political views of this festive assemblage,
which are alluded to in the ballad, if they ever existed, were
however laid aside, as Mr. C. did not canvass the county.

403

Or will we send a man-o'-law ?

Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'

The meikle Ursa-Major?*

II.

Come, will ye court a noble lord,

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ?
For worth and honor pawn their word,

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ?
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,

Anither gies them clatter ;
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste,

He gies a Fete Champetre.

III.

When Love and Beauty heard the news.
The gay green-woods amang, man ;

Where gathering flowers and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird's sang, man ;

2 D 2 A vow

* This alludes to an anecdote told of Lord Auchinleck,
the father of Mr. Boswell. It was said, that after Dr.
Johnson retired, on the first evening of his arrival at Auchin-
leck-House, Mr. Boswell, with his characteristic enthu-
siasm, asked his father, " Well, what docs your Lordship
think of the Doctor? — Is he not a great luminary, quite a
constellation ?" — The venerable Judge humorously replied ,
" If he is a constellation, Jamie, 1 think he must be the
Ursa-Major."

404

A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss

Sir PoUticks to fetter,
As their's, alone, the patent-bliss,

To hold a Fete Champetre.

V

IV.

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing,

O'er hill and dale she flev\', man ;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man :
She sumraon'd every social sprite.

That sports by wood or water,
On th' bony banks of Ayr to meet,

And keep this Fete Champetre.

V.

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew,

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ;
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu',

Clamb up the starry sky, man :
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,

Or down the current shatter ;
The western breeze steals thro' the trees,

To view this Fete Champetre.

VI.

How many a robe sae gayly floats !

What sparkling jewels glance, man !
To Harmony's enchanting notes.

As moves the mazy dance, man.

The

405

The echoing wood, the winding flood,

Like Paradise did glitter.
When Angels met, at Adam's yett,

To hold their Fete Champetre.

Vll.

When Politics came there, to mix

And make his ether-stane, man !
He circled round the magic ground,

But entrance found he nane, man :
He blushed for shame, he quat his name,

Foreswore it, every letter,
Wi' humble prayer to join and share

This festive Fete Champetre.

FAREWELL

406

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE*

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure.
Now a sad and last adieu !

Bonny DooN, sae sweet at gloamin,
Fare thee weel before I gang !

Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming,
First I weav'd the rustic sang !

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying,
First inthrall'd this heart o' mine,

There the saftest sweets enjoying, —
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne !

Friends,

This song is not Burns's. It was composed by

Richard, printer, in Edinburgh ; and appears among his poems
published since his death, two or three years ago. G. B.

407

Friends, so near my bosom ever.
Ye hae render'd moments dear :

But alas ! when forc'd to sever.
Then the stroke, O how severe!

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it,
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me !

Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be !

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu I

ON

408

ON THE DEATH

OF

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening
air,
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;*

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd,
well,f
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred Fane.J

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling
rocks,
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry
sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The

* The King's Park, at^HoIyrood-house.
t St. Anthony's Well. St. Anthony's Chapel.

409

The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form,

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast.
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd :

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe.
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd.

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar.
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !"

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ;
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to
save.
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest
pride !

A weeping country joins a widow's tear.

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ;
The drooping arts surround their patron's
bier.
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt
sigh.—

I saw

410

I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ;

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow ;
But ah how hope is born but to expire I

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. —

My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,

While empty greatness saves a worthless
name !

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame

And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Thro' future times to make his virtues last;

That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — -
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

411

ON THE

BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,*

Between the Duke of Ar gyle and the Earl of

Mar.

O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ?

Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle, sair and tough.
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, ,

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades
To meet them were na slaw, man ;

They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd.
And mony a bouk did fa', man :

The

* This poem, I am pretty well convinced, is not my Bro-
ther's, but more ancient than his birth. G. B.

412

The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles :
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords

clash'd.
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd,
'Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man ;
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs

And covenant true blues, man ;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath.

They fled like frighted doos, man.

" O how deil Tarn can that be true ?

The chase gaed, frae the north, man ;
I saw myself, they did pursue

The horsemen back to Forth, man ;
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a* their might,
And straught to Stii'ling winged their flight ;
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ;
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,

For fear amaist did swarf, man !"

My

413

My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
She swore she saw some rebels run

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man :
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' blood to spill ;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes,
And so it goes you see, man.

They 've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man ;

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain.
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man :

Now wad ye sing this double fight,

Some fell for wrang, and some for right;

But mony bade the world guid-night ;

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,

By red claymores, and muskets' knell,

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.

415

GLOSSARY.

A.

A.BEIGH, at a shy distance.
Airl-penny, earnest-money.
Asklent, asquint, aslant.
Athort, athwart.
Auld lang syne, olden time, days
of other years.

B.

JBaUDRANS, a cat.

Buivk, a piece of unploughed land

anioug corn.
Beld, bald.

Ben, into the spence, or parlour.
But and btn, the country kitchen

and parlour.
Bield, bhelter.
Bien, wealthy, plentiful.

Birk, birch.

Birkie, a clever fellow, a forward
conceited fellow.

Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw,
a »mall wood.

Bleerl and blin, bleered and blind.

Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum.

Bluntie, snivelling.

Bock, vomiting, gushing out.

Bogles, spirits, hobgobHns.

Breckan, fern.

Brent, smooth.

Bughtin-time, the time of collect-
ing the sheep in the pens to be
milked.

Bught, a pen.

Burn, or burnie, a water, a ri-
vulet.

Buskie, bushy.

Busks, dresses.

Buss, shelter.

Byre, a cow-house, a shippen.
CALLAN,

416

GLOSSARY.

C.

C ALLAN, a boy.

Valler, fresb, sound, refreshing.

Canie, gentle, mild, dexterous,

Cantie, cheerful, merry.

Cesses, taxes.

Chiel, a young fellow.

Claut, to clean, to scrape.

Clovers, idle stories.

deeds, clothes.

Cluds, clouds.

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied up

on a girl's head, a cap.
Ccft, bought.
Cog, a wooden dish.
Coggie, dimin. of cog.
Collieshangie, quarrels.
Coqf, a blockhead, a ninny.
Const, did cast.
Couthie, kind, loving.
Craik, name of a bird.
Crouse, cheerfully, courageous.
Crowdie, a dish made of oatmeal.
Cushats, doves, or wood-pigeous.
Cutty, short.

D.

Daft, merry, giddy, foolish.

Daroc, David.

Dights, cleans.

Dool, sorrow; to sing dool, to

lament, to mourn.
Doos, doves.
Doup, backside.
Doup-skelper, one that strikes

the tail.

Dour and din, sullen, sallow.

Douser, prndenter.

Dowff, pithless, wanting force.

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue.

Doylt, stupid.

Vrone, part of a bagpipe.

Droukit, wet.

Drauniing, drawling.

Drumlie, muddy.

Duds, rags, clothes.

Dunted, boxt.

jE^EiiJE, dreading spirits, fright-
ed.

Eild, old age.

F.

f

Fa\ fall, lot, to fall.
Fa's, does fall, water-falls.
Fash, trouble, care, to trouble,

to care for.
Fecht, to fight.
Fechtin, fighting.
, Fecket, waistcoat.
Feckly, weakly.
Fen, successful struggle, to make

a shift.
Ferlie, to wonder ; a wonder, a

term of contempt.
Fiel, soft, smooth.
Fient, fiend, a petty oath.
Fiei-e, sound, healthy ; a brother,

a friend.
FleecKd, supplicated.
Forgather, to meet, to encounter

with.

For-by,

GLOSSARY.

417

For-hf, besides.
Father, fodder.
Fyle, to soil, to dirty.

G.

QaRT, forced to.

Gar, to make, to force to.

Gaber-lunzie, an old man ill dress-
ed, a beggar. •

Gadsman, plough-boy, tbe boy
that drives the horses in the
plough.

Geek, to toss the head in wan-
tonness, or scorn.

eights, playful girls.

Glaiket, inattentive, foolish.

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched.

Gleg, sharp, ready.

Gkib, glebe, a field.

Glen, dale, deep valley.

Glinted, peeped.

Gloamin, twilight.

Glowr, to look, stare.

Gowans, flowers of the daisy,
dandelion, hawkweed, &c.

Gowany, Gowany glens, daisied
dales.

Grained andgaunted, groaned and
yawned.

Graith, gear.

Grat, wept, shed tears.

Gree, to agree, to bear the gree,
to be decidedly victor.

Giunzie, the face, the counte-
nance.

H.

HaLY, holy.

Hallan, a partition wall in a cot-
tage.

Vol. IV.

Hecht, oflFered.

Heckle, a board in which are fixed
a number of sharp pins, used
in dressing hemp, flax, &c.

Hiney, honey.

Hoddin, the motion of a sage
countryman riding on a cart-
horse, humble.

Hosts, coughs.

Howff, a house of resort,a hiding,
place.

Howlet, an owl.

Hushion, an old stocking, with
the foot, or sole of the foot,
worn out.

Ilk, or ilka, each, every.

J.

JiNKIN, dodging.

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head.

K.

KeNSPECKLE, well known.
Ken, to know ; fcen'd or ken't,

knew, known.
Kintra-cooser, country stallion.
Knurl, dwarf.
Kith, kindred.

L.

LaIGII, low.

Lawin, shot, reckoning bill.

2 B

Lave,

418

GLOSSARY.

Lave, the rest, the remainder,

the other.
Lea-riff, grassy ridge,
Leesome, pleasant.
Libbet, gelded.
Lift, sky.

Lilts, ballads, tnnes to sing.
Linn, a precipice, water running

over a precipice.
Loan, or loanin, the place of

milking.
Loof, the palm of the hand^
Loup, jnnip, leap.
Lugs, the ears.

MaILEN, farm.

Meikle, much.

Mirk, or mirkest, dark, darkest.

N.

NeIVES, or nieves, fists,
Noict, black cattle.

O.

(jCHEL^, name of mountains-.
O haith ! O faith ! an oath.

PaITRICK, a partridge.
Parlt, speech.

Pawkie, cunning, sly.

Pettle, to cherish, a plough staff.

Philibegs, short petticoats worn

by the Highlandmen.
Poortith, poverty.

R.

RaX'D, stretched.

Reek, smoke.

Reeking, smoking.

Rue, repent.

Rief-randies, sturdy beggars.

Routhie, plentiful.

Routhd' gear, plenty of goods.

Rowth, plenty.

Rung, a cudgel.

Runkled, wrinkled.

^CAITH, to damage, to injure
injury.

Screed, to tear, a rent.

Shaw, a small wood, wooded
bank of a river.

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a
sluice.

Stiiel, a shed.

Sicker, sure, steady.

Skeigh, proud, nice, high-met-
tled.

Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk
with a smart tripping step ; a
smart stroke.

Skinklin, a small portion.

Snapper, stumble.

SncU,

GLOSSARY,

419

Snell, bitter, biting.

Snick, latch of a door.

Snool, one whose spirit is broken

■with oppressive slavery; to

submit tamely ; to sneak,
Sonsie, having sweet, engaging

looks ; lucky, jolly.
Sough, a sound dying on the ear,

or a continued sound like the

noise of high wind.
Spates, swollen streams.
Speel, to climb.
Stalwart, strong, stout.
Sten, to rear as a horse, to stride.
Steer, to molest, to stir.
Stents, tribute, dues of any kind.
Stoure, dust, more particularly

dust in motion.
Stown, stolen.
Stowp, a kind of jug or dish with

a handle.
Stoyte, stumble.
Swarf, swoon.
Swats, liquor.
Swith, get away.
Syne, since, ago, then.

T.

TaIRGE, target.

Tamtallan, the name of an old

castle or fortress, on the coast

of East-Lothian'
Tedding, spreading after the

mower.
Tentie, heedful, cautious.
Theekit, thatched.
Thud, to make a loud intermit-

teut noise.

Tine, or tyne, to lose.

Tint, lost.

Tint the gate, lost the way.

Tirl, to make a slight noise, to

uncover.
Tocher, marriage portion.
Trig, spruce, neat.
Trysted, appointed; totryste, tg

make an appointment.
Trews, trowsers.

U.

UNCO, strange, uncouth, very,
very great, prodigious.

Unweeting, unwitting, unknow-
ing.

Vnsicker, unsure, unsteady.

Urchin, a hedge-hog.

W.

Waft, woof.

tVale, ciioice, to choose.
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; nk»

an interjection of distress.
Warlock, a wizard.
JVarstle, wrestling, struggle.
IVaught, draught.
JVee, little.
fVeet, rain, wetness.
IVeird, fate.
JVhyles, sometimes.
ti'ickei; willow (the smaller

sort).

JVow,

420

GLOSSARY.

If'ow^an exclamatjon of plea-
sure or wonder.

Wons, dwells.

Wrack, to teaze, to vex.

Wraith, a spirit, a ghost ; an ap-
parition exactly like a living
person, whose appearance is
said to forebode the person's
approaching death.

Wyle, beguile.

Y.

J: ETT, a gate, such us is vsudlly
at the entrance into a farm-yard
or f eld.

Yill, ale.

Yird, earth.

Yowe, an ewe.

Yule, Christmas.

F I N I S.

J. M'Crefry, PriiUfr,
Black'llol!^r-Courl, Loudun.

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