?-5«c^K'-<. ^■<'J r-vtv^W .«S^ &^ yxi-^^^ i tiMim, I Hill *i IVinter-ivinds blezu loud and caul at our parting, Fears for my fVillie brought fears in my t'e. Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. Resiye wild storms in the cave o' your slumbers, How your dread bowling a lover alarms ! Blow soft ye breezes ! roll 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 dark-heaving main ! 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 a* follows : Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie. Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; Come to my bosom my ain only dearie. Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. ( 50 ) No. XVIII. Ms- BURNS TO Mr. THOMSON. When "mid war^s deadly blasi was blawn. ^ir— "The Mill mill O." When wUd war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' raony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mouniing. I Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The sinmier to nature, my Willie to me. Rest^ 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. ( 51 ) 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 unstain'd wi' plunder; And for fair Scotia, hame again, I cheery on did wander. E 2 But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nanie, Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main j 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 impor- tance in themselves, and were adopted, it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested by Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime than zuide^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 IVillie Burns has borrowed nothing but the second line and part of the first. The superior excellence of this beau- tiful poem will, it is hoped, justify the diiferent editions of it which we have given . E. ( S2 ) I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nanc}", I thought upon the witching smile- That caught my youthful fancy: At length t feach'd the bonny glen, Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I 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 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 mc, And lovelier was than ever ; Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, Forget him shall I never: Our ( 53 ) Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Yc freely shall partake it. That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't. She gaz'd — she redden'd 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 hamc. And find thee still true-hearted ; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, A mailin 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 ( 54 ) 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. Air-^" O BONIE 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 Miller was strappin, 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 gude-fellow and taen the churl. The Miller he hecht her, a heart leal and loving : The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. O ( 5* ) O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; And wae on the love that's lix'd on a mailin ! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. But, gie me my love, and a fig for tlv: war! ! No. XIX. Mr. burns to Mk. THOMSON. 7ih uipril, 1793. Thank you, my dear sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much this busi- ness of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attaichment to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race, (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning-post !) and then cheer- fully 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 ( 56 ) ofCoila* 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 look- ing over your list. The first lines of The last time I cafne oer the moor, and several other lines in it, are beautiful ; 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'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of Logan Water, (for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty : ^* Now my dear lad maun face his facs, " Far, far frae me and Logan braes." My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. " His " mind * Burns here calls himself the Voice of Co'ila, in imita- tion of Ossian, who denominates himself the Voice of Cona. Sue merry as we a' hae been ; and Good night and joy be •wi' you a', are the names of two Scottish tunes. ( 57 ) " mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression in- deed. " 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 sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. The lass o Vat'ies 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, arc two claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honor of this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the pre- sent Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Low don, I can, on such authorities believe. Allan Ramsay was residing at Lowdon castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and one fore- noon, riding, or walking out together, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine water, still called, " Patie's Mill," where a bonic lass was " tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme ( 58 ) theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and h'n- 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 " Adonis." Was there ever such bans pubHshed, as a purpose of mar- riage between Adonis and Mary ? I agree with you that my song. There's nought hut care on every hand, is much superior to Poortith cauld. The original song The Mdl mill 0, though excellent, is, on ac- count of delicacy, inadmissable ; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, fol- low, as an English set. The Banks of the Dee, is, you know, literally, Langolee, 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. Exotic rural imagery is al- ways comparatively fiat. If I could hit on another stanza, equal to The small birds rejoice^ &c. I do my- self ( 59 ) self honestly avow that I think it a superior song.* John Anderson my jo — the song to this tune in John- son's Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst : If it suit you, take it aixi welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very compleat ; but not so your comic ones. Where are Tullochgorwn, Lumps d' pud- din, Tibbie Fowler, and several others, which in my hunible judgment, are well worthy of preservation. There is also one sentimental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the imme- diate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It is called Craigieburn Wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthu- siast about it ; and I would take his taste in Scot- tish music against the taste of most connoisseurs. 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 * 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. ( Oo ) think *******.****■*** but in it» original state is not quite a lady's song. I inclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you chuse to get the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.* Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his Lone VaU is divine. Yours, &c. / J Let mc know just how you like these random hints. No. * 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 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 proposes it should be allied. £. ( 61 ) No. XX. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh f April j 1793. I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad-making continues to be your hobby-horse. — Great pity 'twould be, were it otherwise. I hope you will amble it away for many a year, and " witch *^ the world with your horsemanship." 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. * 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 re- ftrs to several of these observations. E. ( 62 ) No. XXL Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. April 1793. I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I shall answer it and your former letter, in my desul- tory 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 return you. * Give * The reader has already seen that Burns did not finally adopt all of Mr. Erskine's alterations. E. ( 63 ) Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is in my opinion reprehensible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment and point, you are a com- plete judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either, in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, 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 al- ways equally happy in his pieces : still I cannot ap- prove of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The last time 1 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 improper stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in The Lss o" Fatles mill, must be left out : the song will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with Com ( 64 ) Com rigs are honie. Perhaps It might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. CauJd kail in Aher- deen^ you must leave with me yet a while. I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I 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 Bo/iie Dundee. I send you also a ballad to the Mill mill 0. * The last time I came oer the moor, I would fain at- tempt 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 * The song to the tune of Bonie Dundee, is that in No. XVI. The ballad to the Mill mill is that beginning, '^ When wild wars deadly blasts are blawn." E. ( 65 ) singing of country lasses. They please me vastly ; but your learned lugs * would perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which I like them. I call them simple ; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air, called Jackie Humes Lament ? I have a song of considerable merit to that air. I'll inclose you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson's Museum.-^ I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce.'i^ Adieu ! VOL. IV. F No. * Ears. E. t The song here mentioned is that given in No. XIX. hen ye what Meg o' tbe mill has gotten. This song is surely Mr. Burns's own writing, though he does not ge- nerally praise his own songs so much. Note bji Mr. Thomson. X The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote the ballad oi Bonny Jean, to be found p. 79- E. ( G6 ) No. XXII. Mr. ;BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. Jj>ri/, 1793. Tune — ^^The last time I game o'er the Moqr/^ Farewell thou stream that winding flows Around Maria's dwelling ! Ah cruel mem'ry ! spare the throes Within my bosom swelling : Condemned to drag a hopeless chain And still in secret languish, To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, Yet dare not speak my anguish. The wTetch of love, unseen, unknown^ I fain my crime would cover : The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groant, Betray the hopeless lover. ( fir ) I know my doom must be despair. Thou wilt, nor canst relieve mc ; But oh, Maria hear one prayer, For pity's sake forgive me. The music of thy tongue I 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 yields at last To overwhelming ruin. My dear Sir, I 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 I have succeeded, 1 leave on this, as on every other occasion, to you to decide. I 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 F 3 thin^ ( 68 ) thing of mine. One hint let me give you — whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one /'o/i? of the ori- ginal 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 eccen- tricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect. No. XXIII. Mr. THOMSON to Me. BURNS Edinburgh y l^th A;^ri1, l/QS. I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, ibr your last two letters, and the songs which accom- panied them. I am always both instructed and en- tertained 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 ( 69 ) 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 simplicity, rightly understood, as a most es- sential quality in composition, and the ground work of beauty in all the arts. I will gladly appropriate your most interesting new ballad When iviJd wars deadly blast, &c. to the Mill mill 0, as well as the two other songs to their respective airs ; but the third and fourth line of the first verse must undergo some little alteration in order 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 Rigs of Barley. If the loose sentiments are threshed out of it, I will find an air for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. No. ( 70 ) No. XXIV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. JuKe, 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 pecuniaiy matters, is trifling ; but the total ruin of a much loved friend, is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming inatten- tion to your last commands. I cannot alter the disputed lines, in the Mil/ mill 0, * What you think a defect, I esteem as a positive > ■'''■ ' .... ■ ■ . * The lines were the third and fourth. See p. 50. ^f Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, ** And mony a widow mourning." As our poet had maintained a lon^ silence, and th^ first ( 71 ) pQsitive beauty : so you see how doctors differ. 1 shall now with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your commands. You know Fraser, the hautboy player in Edin- burgh — 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 Tbe Quaker s Wife ; and which I remember a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by the name oi Liggeram cosh, my home wee lass. Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an enthu- siast 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. Tune number of Mr. Thomson's Musical IVorh 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. ( 72 ) Tune — " LiGGERAM COSH.' Blythe hae 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 nochtbut 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. ( 73 ) No. XXV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. June 2bth, 1793. Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on read- ing of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay na- tions waste out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air oi Logan Water \ and it occurred to me that its querulous me- lody probably had its origin from the plaintive in- dignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer ; and overwhelmed 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, com- posed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit. Tune ( 74 ) 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 flowery banks appear Like drumHe 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 vallles gay ; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, The beesjium 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. Q ( 75 ) O vvae 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 frag- ment, in Witherspoon's coilcction of Scots songs ? ^ir — " Hugh IE Graham". ^* O gin my love were yon red rose, " That grows upon the castle wa' " And I mysel' a drap o' dew, *' Into her bonie breast to fa* ! " Ob, * Originally, " Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys ** Tlie widow's tears, the orphan's cries." E. ( 70 ) ** Oh, there beyond expression blest " I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; *' Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, " 'Till fley'd awa by Phebus' 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, un- less you gave it a place. I 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 el- bow-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 lilack 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 rencw'd. No. ( 77 ) No. XXVf. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Monday \st July^ 17 93. I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any thing should happen to unhinge you. The times are terribly oat 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 fa- voured with your opinion of it frankly and freely. I shall certainly give a place to the song you have written for the Quaker s Wife; it is quite inchanting. 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 on myself, the gentlemen who originally agreed to join in the speculation hav- ing requested to be off. No matter, a loser I can- not be. The superior excellence of the work, will create a general demand for it^ as soon as it is pro- perly ( 78 ) perly known. And were the sale even slower than it promises to be, I should be somewhat compensat- ed for my labour, by the pleasure I shall receive from the music. I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exquisite new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- turn 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 after- wards when I find it covenient. Do not return it, for by heaven if you do, our correspondence 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 interest- ing. Wednesday morning, I thank you for your delicate additional verses to the old fragment, and for your excellent song to Lo- gan water : Thomson's truly elegant one will follow for the English singer. Your apostrophe to states- men, is admirable, but I am not sure if it is quite suitable ^^5. ( 79 ) suitable to the supposecl gentle character of the fair mourner who spealf.^ it. No. XXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. JuJyidy 1793. My Dear Sir, I HAVE just finished the following bal- lad, and as I do think it in my best stile, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. Bums's wood-note ivild, is very fond .of it; and has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion here. If you do not like the air enough to give it a place in your collec- tion, 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 bonie Jean, ( 80 ) And ay she wrought her mammie's wark, And ay she sang sae merrilie ; The blythest bird upon the bush. Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little lintvvhite'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' Jeanie to the tryste. He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; And lang e'er 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 tender love Within the breast o' bonie Jean. * And * In the original MS our poet asks Mr. Thomson if thi» stanza is not original ? 5:. ( 81 ) 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 mak her weel again. But did na Jeanie's heart loup light. And did na joy blink in her e'e, As Robie tauld 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 loe thee dear ; O canst thou think to fancy me ! Or wilt thou leave thy mammie'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 na will to say him na : At length she blush'd a sweet consent, And love was ay between them twa. VOL. IV. G ( sa ) I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, 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 MissM. daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscribers. I have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager. No. xxviir. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. July, 1793. 1 ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- grades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would savour of affectation ; but, as to any more traf- fic of that debtor and creditor kind ; I swear by that Honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert Burns's Integrity — on the least mo- tion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past trans- action, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you! Burns's character for generosity f>f sentiment and independence of mind, will, I trust, long ( 83 ) long outlive any of his wants, which the cold, unfeel- ing ore can supply : at least, I will take care that such a character he shall deserve. Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is ad- mirably 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 copy what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory. The flowers of the forest, is charming as a poem.; and should be, and must be, set to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three stanzas, be- ginning, " I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling" are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them, who is an old lady of my acquain- tance, and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget of what place ; but from Roxburgh-shire. What a charming apos- trophe is " O fickle fortune, why this cmel sporting, " Why, whv torment us — '^oor sons of a day /'* G 2 The ( 84 ) The old ballad, 1 wish 1 were where Helen lies, is "silly, to contemptibility. * My alteration of it in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of them notori- ous, though beautiful enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations, but no mat- ter. In my next I will suggest to your consideration, a few songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. In the mean time, allow me to congratulate )^ou now, as a brother of the quill. You have cofn- mitted your character and fame ; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the Soxs and Daughters of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music charm. Being a bard of nature, I have some pretensions to second sight ; and I am warranted by the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great-grand-child will hold * There is a copy of this ballad given in the account of the Parish of Kirkpatrick- Fleming, (which contains the tomb of fair Helen Irvine,) in the statistics of Sir John Sinclair, vol. xiii. p. 275, to which this character is cer- tainly not applicable. ( 85 ) hold up your volumes, and say with honest pridC;, ^- This so much admired selection was the work of " my ancestor." No. XXIX. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, \st ^ug. 1793. Dear Sir, 1 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. Thebonie bruclet Lassie, certainly deserves better verses, and I hope you will match her, Canhl kail i?i Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, and several of the livelier airs, wait the muses leisure : these are pecu- liarly worthy of her choice gifts : besides, you'll no- lice that in airs of this sort, the singer can always do greater { 86 ) greater justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of The Bush aboon 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 which they are too often performed : they lose anima- tion and expression altogether, and instead of speak- ing to the mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawning ! Your ballad. There was a lass ajid she was fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubtedly 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 studying the music of the spheres at ( 87 ) at my elbow. The Georgium S'tdm he thinks is ra- ther out of tune ; so until he rectify 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 dciir Sir, to the pas- sages in my song of Logan-waier, is right in one instance ; but it is difficult to mend it : if I can I will. The other passage you object to, does not .appear in the same light to mc. I ( 88 ) I have tried my hand on Rohm 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 better to it. PHILLIS THE FAIR. T»w^— " 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 I cry, Phillis 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 ; Such thy bloom, did I say, Phillis the fair. Down ( 89 ) 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. I may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I always find myself most at home. I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits you to insert it, I 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 bu- siness.*' '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. 2y of this vo- lume. ( 90 ) No. XXXII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. August, 1793. My good Sir, I CONSIDER it one of the most agree- able circumstances attending this publication of mine, that it has procured me so many of your much va- lued epistles. Pray make my acknowledgments to St. Stephen for the tunes : tell him I admit the just- ness of his complaint on my stair-case, conveyed in. his laconic postscript to your jeu d'esprii\ which I perused more than once, without discovering exactly whether your discussion was music, astronomy, or politics: though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial habits of the poet and the musician, of- fered me a bet of two to one, you were just drown- ing care together; that an empty bowl was the only thing that would deeply effect you, and the only matter you could then study how to remedy ! I shall be glad to see you give Rohin Adair a Scottish ( 91 ) -Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with an Eng- lish suit f r a change, and you are well matched to- gether. Robin's air is excellent, though he certainly has an oul of the way measure as ever poor Parnas- sian wight was plagued with. I wish you would in- voke the muse for a single elegant stanza to be sub- stituted for the concluding objectionable verses of Dow 71 the burn 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 Andersofi my Jo, which I am to have en- graved 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 h.^ fully recollects the pleasant days and nights when they were first ac- quent. The drawing would do honour to the pen- cil of Teniers. No. ( Q2 ) No. XXXIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August 1793. That cnnkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured in this morn- ing's walk, one essay more. You my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend C.'s story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice as follows. SONG. Had I 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 ( 93 ) 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, I have met with a musical Highlan- der, in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which arc quartered here, who assures me that he well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs to both Robin Adair and Gra?nachree. They certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish taste in them. This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness ; so it could not be any intercourse with Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering 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 pub- lication of Corn's, a great while ago, you will find the same air, called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is Ora?^ Gaoil, ( 94 ) Gaoilj and a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these matters. No. xxxrv^ Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August, 1793. My Dear Sir, Let me hi this ae ?iight, I will reconsider, I am glad that you are pleased with my song. Had I a caiey &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. I may be wrong ; but I think it not in my worst style. You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune. { 95 ) tune, Allan says, is Allan Water, or. My love An- nies very honie. 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 Phoebus 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. -j- 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 \ Her *A mountain west of Strath- Allan 3009 feet high. R.B. fOr, *' O my love Annie's very bonie." R. B. ( 96 ) Her head upon my throbbing breast. She, sinking said, " I'm thine for ever!" 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. I make more verses in it, than in all the year else. God bless you ! No. No. XXXV. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August i 1793. Is Whistle and Yll come to you my lad, one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yesterday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much ; but as I understand that he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I did not chuse to comply. However, if the song does not suit your taste, I may possibly 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'll come to you my lad : VOL. IV. H 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 j The' father and mother and a' should say no, O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. E, ( 98 ) Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle and I'll come to you my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me. And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee ; Syne up the back-style and let nae body see. And come as ye were na comin to me. And come^ &c. whistle, ^c, At kirk, or at market whene'er ye meet me. Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ; But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e. Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. Yet look, &c. O ivhisth, ^c. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me. And whiles 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. zvhistle, &c. Another favorite air of mine, is, T/ie muckin o' Geordies byre. When sung slow with expression, I have wished that it had had better poetry : that, I have endeavoured to supply, as follows. Adown ( 99 ) Adown winding Nith I did wander. To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; Adown winding Nith I did wander, Of Phillis to muse and to sing. CHORUS. Awa wi^ your helles and your beauties, They never wt 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, ^c. 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, ^c. 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. Awa, &c. H 2 Her ( 100 ) Her voice is the song of the morning That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. On music, and pleasure, and love. But beauty how frail and how fleeting. The bloom of a fine summer's day ! While worth in the mind o' my Phillrs Will flourish without a decay. * Mr. Clarke begs you ta give Mifs Phillis a cor- ner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss P. M. sister to Bonie Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me, the very first grist I get from my rhyming mill. * This song, certainly beautiful, would appear to more advantage without the chorus ; as is indeed the case with several other sonsrs of our author. ( 101 ) No. xxxvr. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August^ 1793. 1 HAT tune, Cauld hail, is such a favorite of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses;* when the muse that presides o'er the shores ofNith, or rather my old in- spiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the fol- lowing. I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet simple inspirer that was by my elbow, *^ smooth gliding without step," and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her ; so I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes me oc- casional visits : secondly, the last stanza of this song I * Gloamin — twilight, probably from glooming. A beautiful poetical word which ought to be adopted in Engjand. A gloamin-shot, a twilight-interview. E. ( 102 ) I send you, is the very words that Coila taught mc many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. Jir—'' 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 charms, I clasp my countless treasure ; I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share. Than sic a moment's pleasure : And by thy een, sae bonie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never. If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. The last time ( 103 ) time 1 came oer the Moor, I cannot meddle with, as to mending it ; and the musical world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well received. I am not fond of chorusses to songs, so I have not made one for the foregoing. No. XXXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. August, 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, dainty Davie, '^riiere Vll spend the day wC yon, Mv ain dear dainty Davie. The ( 104 ) The chrystal waters round us fa*. The merry birds are lovers a'. The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie. Meet 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, ^c. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' nature's rest, ^ I flee to his arms I loe best. And that's my ain dear Davie. CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Bonie Davie, dainty Davie, There Til spend the day wi you, My ain dear dainty Davie, * So * Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch song, from which Burns has taken nothing but the title and the measure. E. ( 103 ) 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 * * * * non- sense. Four lines of song, and four of chorus, is the way. No. XXXVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Editihurgh, \st Sep. 1793. My Dear Sir, Since writing you last, I have received half a dozen songs, with which I am delighted be-, yond expression. The humour and fancy of Whistle and ril come to you my lad, will render it nearly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. Come let me take thee to my breast, Adoivn winding Kith, and By Allan stream. ( 106 ) stream^ &c. are full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit the airs for which they are intended. Had I a 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 I 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 posterity, and will be fondly cherished so long as genius, taste, and sensi- bility 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 bur- dened the pleasant Peter with as many as it is pro- bable he will attend to : most of the remaining airs would puzzle the English poet not a little ; they are of that peculiar measure and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him who writes for them. No. ( 107 ) No. XXXIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Sep. 1793. You may readily trust, my dearSir_, that any exertion in my power, is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you ; the very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication, so get a verse from him now and then ; though I have no objection, as well as I can, to bear the bur- den of the business. You know that my pretensions to musical taste, are merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught 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 m.elodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many little melodies, which the learn- ed musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the old air Hey tut lie taitie may rank among ( 108 ) among this number; but well I know that, with Fraser'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 In- dependence, 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 fol- lowers 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 aften 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 afterwards. E. ( 109 ) 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 1 — Amen. I ( no ) P. S. I shewed the air to Urbani, 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 accidental 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 rhym- ing mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in the Museum ; though I 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. 1 DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspondence is persecution. No matter, I 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 ( 111 ) the tinkle-glngle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or post in the com- mon 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 ! Tune — " Oean-gaoil." Be^iold 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 farewell; ." There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.' Along ( iia ) Along the solitary shore. While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. Across the rolling, dashing roar 1*11 west-ward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. Where now my Nancy's path may be I While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me ! No. XLI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, 5tb 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 Shakespeare might be proud to own, you speak of them as if they were ordinary productions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine ( 113 ) 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 of interest or grandeur as Hey tutt'ie taitie. Assuredly your partiality for this tune must arise from the ideas as- sociated in your mind by the tradition concerning it, for I never heard any person, and I have conversed again and again with the greatest 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 Gordon is most happily adapted to your ode ; at least with a very slight variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon more of the grand than the plaintive, parti- cularly 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 substituting your ode in the room of Lewie Gordon, which has neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that charac- tarize your verses. Now the variation I have to sug- gest upon the last line of each verse, th£ only line too short for the air, is as follows : Verse \Jt, Or to glorious victorie. idy Chains — chains, and slaverie. VOL. IV. I Verst ( 114 ) Ferse 3d, Let him, lef hm turn and flie. Ath, Let him bravely follow me. 5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 6th, 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 welcome f 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. ( 115 ) No. XLII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Seftemher, 1793. I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir^ and here go my observations on it. * Down the burn Davie. I have 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. I 2 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 approbation. All his remarks of any importance are pre- sented to the reader. E. ( 116 ) 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 Will Jamie comes hame, the second or high part of the tune be- ing a repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much bet- ter omitted in singing. Cozv den- know es. Remember in your index that the song in pure English to this tune, beginning " When summer comes the swains on Tweed," is the production of Crawford. Robert was his Christian name. Laddie He 7iear me, must lie hy me for some time. I do not know the air; and until lam complete mas- ter of a tune, in my own singing, (such as it is) I never can compose for it. My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical * This alteration ]\Ir. Thomson has adopted, (or at least intended to adopt) instead of the last stanza of the ori- ginal song, which \% objectionable in point of delicacy. E. ( 117 ) musical expression ; then chusc my theme ; begin one stanza ; when that is composed, which is gene- rally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature around 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 fireside 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 stric- tures, 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 plaguv 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, Craigie- hurn-JVood, and Roys ii'ife. The first, beside its In- trinsic merit, has novelty ; and the last has high merit as well as great celebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air. In the hand-writing of the lady who composed it ; and they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen. * Highlaml *This song, so much admired by our bard, will be found in a future part of the volume. K. ( 118 ) Highland- laddie. The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best; and the new an Italianized 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 5ong of that name. You will find it in the Museum, Iliae been 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 W'aiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bac- chus ; and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. Vrohatum est. Aula Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place The Quaker s wife. Blythe hae 1 been oer the hill, is one of the finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides, is com- posed on a young lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the nam-es and designations of all my heroines, to ap- pear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include the boniest lass in a" the war Id in your collection. Dainty Davie, I have heard sung, nineteen thou- sand, nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and al- ways with the chorus to the low part of the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much, as your opinion ( "9 ) Opinion on this subject. If it will not suit, as I pro- posed, 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 stan- zas, in that style ; merely to try if it will be any im- provement. Were it possible, 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 com- posed them at the time in which Patie Allans mither died, that ivas about the hack 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 has left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should us sever. Now thou's left thy lass for ay — I maun see thee nevxr, Jamie. I'll see thee never. * Thou '■^ The Scottish (the Editor uses the word substantively, ( 120 ) Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me for- saken : Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me for- saken. 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. * 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 fin- est love-ballad in that stile in the Scottish, or per- haps in any other language. When she came hen she hohhet, as an air is more beautiful than either, and in the andante way, would unite Avith a changing sen- timental ballad. Saw ye my father, is one of my greatest favourites. The as the English) employ the abbreviation!/'// for / shall as well as J iri//; and it is for I shall it is used here. In Annandale, as in the northern counties of England, for I shall they use Fse, E. * This is the whole of the song. The bard never pro- ceeded farther. Note by Mr. Thomson. ( 121 ) The evening before last, I wandered out, and began a tender song ; in what I think is its native stile. 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 English. FRAGMENT. Tune — " Saw ye my Father." Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early sang ? Where is the peace that awaited my wandering. At e'enin the wild-woods amang. Nae mair a winding the course o' yon river, And marking sweet flowrets sae fair ; Nae mair I trace the light footsteps o' pleasure. But sorrow and sad-sighing care. Is ( 122 ) Is it that simmer's forsaken our vallies. And grim surly winter is near ? No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses Proclaim it the pride o' the year. Fain wad I hide, what I fear to discover. Yet lang, lang too well hae I known ; A' that has caused the wreck in my bosom Is, Jenny, fair Jenny, alone. CETERA DESUNT. TodJin hame. Urbani mentioned an idea of 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 hanks and hraes o honie 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 re- commend any air. AULD ( 123 ) 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. Well tak a cup o kmdness yet. For auld lang syne. 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, (Sc. We twa hae paidlet i' the burn, Frae mornin sun till dine : But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin auld lang syne. For auld, ^c. And ( 124 ) And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. And gie's a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right gude willie-waught. For auld lang syne. For auJdy &c. And surely ye'll be your pint-stovvp. And surely I'll be mine ; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. * For atild^ &c. Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice, Tranent Muir, M-Fhersons farezvell, Battle of Sheriff-muir, or tVe ran and they ran, (I know the author of this charm- ing ballad, and his history) 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 was sung; and which is mentioned as a well known air in Scotland's complaint, a book published before * This song, of the olden time, is excellent. It is wor- thy of our bard. E. ( 125 ) before poor Mary's days. It was then called, The hanks o' Helicon\ an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytler's history of Scottish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; but it is a great cu- riosity. I have a good many original things of this kind. No. XLIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Septet?iher, 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 al- tered the song as follows. BANNOCK-BURN. Rolert Bruce 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 ( 126 ) Novv*s the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power- Edward ! chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha 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 ( 127 ) " A false usurper sinks in every fc^e, " And liberty returns with every blow." A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. One comfort : I suf- fer 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. \1th Sep. 1793. A THOUSAND thanks to you my dear Sir, for your observations on the list of my songs. I ain 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 ( 1-28 ) to profit by the remarks you make; and to reconsider the whole with attention. Dainty Davie must be sung, two stanzas together, and then the chorus, 'tis the proper way. I agree with you, that there may be something of pathos, or tenderness at. least,, in the air of Fee him 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 humourous verses, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for Fee him Father, which you began about the back of midnight I will publish as an additional one. Mr. James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with Fee him Father, and with TodJin hame also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from either of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to dis- card. Fy let's a to the bridal, for instance is so coarse and vulgar, that I 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 wi:th regard to your heroic ode. r think, with great deference to the poet, that a pru- dent general would avoid saying any thing to his sol- diers ( 129 ) diers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is. Gor}'^, presents a disagreeable image to the mind ; and to tell them, " Welcome to your gory bed," seems rather a discouraging address, not- withstanding the alternative 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 VOL. IV. K opinion ( 130 ) opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on reconsidering it ; as I think I have much improved it. Instead of "soger! hero!" I will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me!" I have scrutinized it, over and over ; and to the world some way or other it shall go as it is. At the !?ame time it will not in the least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first in- tention of adopting Logan's verses. * * 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 per- liaps 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 sucli 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 aJl indifferent occa- sions. In the present instance, however, he rejected them^ though repeatedly urged, with determined resolution. With every respect for the judgment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, we may be satisfied that he did so. He who in preparing for an: engagement attempts to with- ( 131 ) 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, is true; K 2 but. draw 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 composed. 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 attrac- tive, and the most terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment, this heroic " wel- come" 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 re- ference to the martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit- stirring strains of Tyrteus, to the war- song of General Wolfe. Mr. Thomson's obsen'ation, that ^* Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging address," seems not suf- ficiently considered. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, not on ac- count of its presenting a frightful, but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great poet uttering his concep- tions on an interesting occasion, seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice ( 132 ) 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 preten- sions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence ; but the music is a busi- ness where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffi- dence. The old verses have merit, though unequal, and arc popular : my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. Here they are — FAIR 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 ori- ginally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies of language. In how many Instances might this be exem- plified from the works of our Immortal Shakespeare. ^* Who would fardels bear, " To groan and sweat under a weary life ; — *' When he himself might his quietus make " With a bare bodkin." It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such reflec- tions is probably sufficient. E. ( 133 ) FAIR JENNY. Time — " 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 flowrets so fair : No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, But sorrow and sad-sighing care. Is it that summer's forsaken our vallies. 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 I known : All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. Is Jennyj fair Jenny alone. Time ( 134 ) Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish. Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. - Adieu, my dear Sir ! The post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure. No. XLVL Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1793. 1 HAVE been turning over some vo- lumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would 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 ( 135 ) tears in Nelly's eyes.'* As for The Collier s dochter, take the following old Bacchanal. 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 (136 ) 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 Riia-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 Banks of Banna 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 zvife, for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. Deil tak the wars, is a charm- ing song ; so is, Sazv ye my Peggy. There s nae luck about the house^ well deserves a place. I cannot say that, Oer the hills and far awa, strikes me, as equal to vour * This will be found in the latter part of this volume. E. ( 137 ) your selection. This is no my am house, is a great favorite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of, / hae laid a herrin in sawt. 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, Fye let us a' to the bridal, to any other words than its own. What pleases me, as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, Fye gie me my coggie Sirs, Fye let us a to the bridal, with se- veral others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing; while. Saw ye ?tiy father or saw ye my mother, delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, Ken ye what Meg d the 7?nll 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 I know you will laugh at all this ; but, " Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." No. ( 338 ) XLVII. 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 coadjutor 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 Quaker s Wife, though by the by, an old high- land gentleman and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of Leiger in doss. The following verses, I hope will please you, as an English song to the air. Thine am I, my faithful fair. Thine, my lovely Nancy ; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy. To * Tlie honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had Gommunicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. E. ( 139 ) 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 proposed for, John Anderson myjo^ is certainly just. The follow- ing is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favor. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. SONG, ( 140 ) SONG, By Gavin Turnbull. 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 stem resistless fate, I 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 how 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 ( 141 ) Let generous pity warm thee. My wonted peace restore ; And grateful, I shall bless thee still. And love thee more and more. The following address of Turnbull's to the night- ingale, will suit as an English song to the air. There was a lass and she was fair. By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS which I can com- mand, 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 ( 142 ) 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 soothe a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to Lewie 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 ( 143 ) 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 I 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. ( 144 ) No. XLVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Tth Nov. 1793. My good Sir, After so long a silence it gave me pecu- liar pleasure to recognize 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 choss, which I think extremely good, al- though the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr. Turnbull's songs have doubtless considerable merit ; and as you have the command of his manuscripts, I hope you may find out some that will answer as English songs, to the airs yet unprovided. No. ( 145 ) No. XLIX. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 'Decemb.er, 1793. J/ELL me, how you like the following verses to the tune of, Jo Janet. Husband, husband, cease your strife. Nor longer idly rave, sir; o 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 ; I'll desert my sov'reign lord. And so, good b'ye allegiance ! VOL. IV. L " Sad ( 146 ) " Sad will I be, so bereft, " Nancy, Nancy, " Yet I'll try to make a shift, " My spouse Nancy." My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it : When you lay me in the dust. Think, think how you will bear it. '^ I 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'll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. ^' I'll wed another, like my dear, " Nancy, Nancy ; *' Then all hell will fly for fear, " My spouse, Nancy. jiir ( 147 ) 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 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 chuse me. Let me, lassie, quickly die. Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie let me quickly die. Trusting that thou lo'es me. L 2 No ( 148 ) No. L. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, \']t'h 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 op- portunity '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 greatly * A letter to Mr. Cunningham to be found in vol. ii. ( 149 ) greatly, and I trust that by some means or other it will soon take place; but your Bacchanalian chal- lenge 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 vo- lume ; your verses to it are pretty ; but your hu- morous English song to suit, Jo Janet, is inimitable. What think you of the air, JVith'm a ?nile of Edm- burgh. It has always struck me as a modern Eng- lish imitation, but it is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I believe I must include it. The verses are little better than na??ihy pamby. Do you consider it worth a stanza or two ? No ( 150 ) No. LI. Mk. burns to Mr. THOMSON. May, 1794. My Dear Sir, I RETURN you the plates, with which I am highly pleased ; I would humbly propose in- stead 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 Burin, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got him a peep of the Gen- tle Shepherd ; and he pronounces Allan a most ori- ginal artist of great excellence. For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's chusing my favorite poem for his subject, to be one of the high- est compliments I have ever received. I ( 151 ) 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, / shall he quite hi song, as you shall see by and bye. I got an air, pret- ty 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 follow- ing 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 w^arbler's dying fall The dewy star of eve to haiL It is Maria's voice I hear ! So calls the woodlark in the grove. His little, faithful mate to cheer. At once 'tis music— and 'tis love. And ( 152 ) 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. LII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. July, 1794. Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work to be at a dead stop, vmtil the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thral- dom of democratic discords ? Alas the day ! And woe is me ! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions.'^ — * *****# I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued, and much-honoured friend t A portion of this letter has been left out, for reasons th^t will be easily imagined. E. ( 153 ) friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I 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 extatic 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. No. * It were to have been wished that instead of ruffian feeling J the bard had used a less rugged epithet, e. g. ruder, E. ( 154 ) No. LIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh y \Oth jiugust, 1794. My Dear Sir, 1 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, I am very desirous to be prepared with the poetry, and as the season approaches in which your muse of Coila visits you, I trust I shall as formerly be frequently gratified with the result of your amorous and tender interviews ! No. ( 155 ) 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, I 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. I was pleased with several lines in it at first ; but I own that now, it ap- pears 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 wail- ings of his love-lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet exception — Szveet Annie frae the Sea-heacb came. Now for the song. On ( 156 ) 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 I 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 hy day Are ay with him that'' s far away. When in summer's noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun My bailor's thund'ring at his gun : Bullets, spare my only joy ! Bullets spare my darling boy ! Fate ( 157 ) Fate do with me what you may. Spare but him that's far away ! On the seas, &c. 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 I can — I weep and pray. For his weal that's far away. On the seas, ^c. 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, ^c. I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. No. ( 158 ) No. LV. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, l6tb Sept. 1794. My Dear Sir, You have anticipated my opinion of, On the seas and far away ; I do not think it one of your very happy productions, though it certainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. The second is the least to my liking, particularly " 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 remem- bered 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. ( 159 ) No. LVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Sept. 1794. I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and far away, altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy 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 and try him. For that reason I 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 * This Virgilian 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. ( i6o ) flattered at your adopting, Ca theyowts to the knowes, 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. Clunzie, 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, following 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 y owes to the knowes, Ca^ them whare the heather grmioes^ Ca^ thefn whare the bur?ue rowes, My honie dearie. Hark, the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; * Then a faulding let us gang. My bonie dearie. Ca the &r. We'll * The river Clouden, a tributary stream to the Nith. E. ( i6l ) 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 ^c. Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O'er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance sae cheary. Cd the ^c, Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, ■ My bonie dearie. Cd the &c. Fair and lovely as thou art. Thou hast stown my very heart j I can die — but canna part. My bonie dearie. Cd the &c. I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, my first scribbling fit. VOL. IV. M No. ( i<52 ) No. LVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. September, 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called Ofiagfis waterfall. The air is charming, and I have often 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 mu- sical Museum, and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above mentioned, 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 be- fore ladies. SHE ( 163 ) SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. Tune — " Onagh's water-fall." Sae flaxen were her ringlets. Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laughing een o' bonie blue. Her smiling sae wyling. Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; What pleasure, what treasure. Unto these rosy lips to grow : Such was my Chloris' bonie face. When first her bonie face I saw. And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She say^ 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 fautless form and graccfu* air; Ilk feature — auld nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair : M 2 Her's ( l64 ) 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 bought ^W^S i : While falling, recalling, ,:;',,,, r ... , r- The amorous thrush concludes his sang There dearest Chloris, wilt thou rovje By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say, thou. Ip'es.^e best. p{ a'. - ^ • - *- ')i{f(i(f •"■-'' '-■■ ■ '■ 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 tha.the frequently ad- mired what the connoisseurs decried^ and always without any h}'pocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inele- gant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes* ( 1(55 ) tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that 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 in- stance, I am just now making verses for Rothemurches Rant, 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. Rothe- murche, he says, is an air both original and beautiful ; and on his recommendation 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 * In the original follow here two stanzas of a song, be- ginning '* Lassie wi' the lint white locks ;" which will he found at full length afterwards. E. ( 166 ) to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be successful or otherwise ? should she '^ let him in" or not ? Did you not once propose The Sows tail to G£ordie, as an air for your work ? I am quite de- lighted 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 together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours I am afraid is rather burlesque for senti- ment, 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 re- covery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell, was the physician who seemingly saved her from the grave ; and to him I address the following. To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's recovery. Maxwell, if nnerit 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. ( 167 ) LVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now attendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood-notes wild are become as enchanting as ever. Shs says she ]oes me best of a\ is one of the pleasantest 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 thiifk it highly animating 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 Christi- ans are tempered and softened by lovely woman, without whom, you know, they had been brutes. I am clear for having the Sows tail, particularly as your proposed verses to it are so extremely promis- ing. Geordy, as you observe, is a name only fit for burlesque composition. Mrs. Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie therefore. ( 168 ) therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agreeably. Your Ca^ the ewes, 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 conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest 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 Gar- den ; both of them very able and popular musicians. I believe that interest and manoeuvring are often ne- cessary to have a drama brought on : so it may be with the namby pamby tribe of flowery scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. Sheridan himself by fetter, and send him a dramatic piece, I am persuad- ed ( 1(59 ) cd he would, for the honour of geniu^, give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints upon your consideration. * No. LIX. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinburgh, lAih Octoher, 1794. The last eight days have been devoted to the re-examination of the Scottish collections. I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and considered, '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 I * Our bard had before received the same advice, and certainly took it so far into consideration, as to have cast about for a subject. E. ( 170 ) I expected from him, which are in general elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a London collec- tion of Scottish airs and songs, just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman. I shall send you a copy. His introductory essay on the subject is curious, and evinces great reading and research, but does not de- cide the question as to the origin of our melodies ; though he shews clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his in- genious dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; and that his classification of the airs according to the aeras when they were composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, esq. he has no mercy ; but con- signs him to damnation ! He snarls at my publica- tion, 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 respect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little, some old fool- ish songs for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest collections and best authorities : many of them, however, 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 favorites. By going to the oldest col- l€u:^tions of our music, it does not follow that wc find the melodies in their original state. These melodies had ( 171 ) had been preserved, we know not how long, by oral communication, before being collected and printed: and as different persons sing the same air very dif- ferently, according to their accurate or confused re- collection of it, so even supposing the first collectors to have possessed the industry, the taste and discern- ment to chuse 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 composed. 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 ge- nerally approved : and without meaning any com- pliment to my own capability of chusing, or speak- ing 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. ( 172 ) loa //■ No/lX''"'' fi3V0 () Mh. burns to Mr. THOMSON. 19//^ October, 17 gA. My DEAR Friend, By this morning's post I have your ligt^ 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 ge- neral : you know his taste is a standard. He will re- turn 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, Craigiehirn' •■joood, 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 {eyitre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in ( 173 ) in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clish'macraiver about it among our ac- quaintances.) 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 jby-^could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? — ^na! no! — Whenever I want, to be more than ordinary m son^ ; to be in some degree equal to your- diviner airs; do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout.au c^ntraire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for his own use waa«inyented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst be piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportiopfothe adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is, the godhead of Parnasg&s, and the witchery, pf;h[er smile, thp divinity of Helicon ! To descend to, \)usiness ; if you like my idea of. When she cam hen she hohhit, the follov.ing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were for- merly when set to another air, may perhaps do in- stead of worse stanzas. No, ( 174 ) SAW YE MY PHELY. (^asi dicat Phillis.) Tung—^^ When she cam ben she bobbit.** O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ? O saw ye my clear, 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, iin the Museum) is my composition ; the air was taken ( 175 ) taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. * It is well known in the West Country, but the old words are trash. By the bye, take a look at the '^ne again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which Roslm Castle is composed. The second part, in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exact- ly the old air. Strathallans Lament is mine: the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-be- loved, Allan Masterton. Donochfhead, is not mine : I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor t)f that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it.-J- IVhistle * The Posie, will be found afterwards. This, and the other poems of which he speaks, had appeared in John- son's museum, and Mr. T. had inquired whether they were our bard's. E. t The reader will be curious to see this poem so higli ly praised by Burns. Here it is. Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, * The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale^ The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck. And shivering tells his waefu' tale. * A mountain in the North. E. ( J76 ) Whistle oer the lave 6't is mine : the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player, in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it ; and by *' 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 piped 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, gudeman, and let him in ; * For weel ye ken the winter night ' Was short when he began his din.' My Epple's voice, O wow its sweet. Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee ; But when its tuned to sorrow's tale, O, haith, its 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 strav sae far frae hame. ( 177 ) by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it. Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to which this is set in the Museum, is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called, the Flower of Strathmore. How long and dreary is the night, I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit your 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. VOL. IV. N Tun$ *' Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, '* Sad party-strife o'erturned my ha' ; '* And, weeping at the eve of life, *' I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." ^'P TV tF -^ ^ V vF 'ff This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy ©f Burns, or of Macneill . ( 178 ) 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 mom. Though I were ne'er sae weary. CHORUS. ¥or oh, her lanely nights are lang ; And oh, her dreams are eerie ; And oh, her widow' d heart is sair. That's abseyU frae her dearie. When I 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, &c. 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, ^c. Tell ( 179 ) Tell me how you like thi^. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to mc, 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 nev'^er 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. I have been at Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance. Time — " Duncan Gray." Let not woman e'er complain, Of inconstancy in love ; Let not woman e'er complain, Fickle man is apt to rove ; N 2 Look * Mr. Ritson. E. ( 180 ) Look abroad through nature's range, Nature's mighty law is change ; Ladies would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove ? Mark 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 I mentioned in the second page of this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got mto song ; and returning home, I composed the following. Ihc { 181 ) The Lover s morning salute to his Mistress. Tune — " Deil tak the "wars." Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou fairest creature; Rosy 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 3tray ; 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, wildly-wanton stray; In twining hazel bowers His lay the linnet pours : Th© lay 'rock, &c. E. ( 18'2 ) PhtEbus gilding the brow o' morningj 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 through my very heart Her beaming glories dart i 'Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. * If yon honor my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song and make it English enough to be understood. I * 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 thea I wake to life and joy. E. ( 183 ) I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish 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 bass 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 Shall melt the snaws of age ; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. Sinks in time's wintry rage. Oh. ( 184 ) 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 letter. 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 correspondence. No. ( 185 ) No. LXI. Mr, THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinhcrgh, lyh October, 1794. I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a ge- nuine poet can no more exist without his mibtress than his meat. I 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. Craigie-biirfi-woody 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 re- spective 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 ( 186 ) born was ungenerous. They must all be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunning- ham in sending you Ritson's Scottish collection. Permit me, therefore, to present you with his Eng- lish collection, which you will receiv^e by the coach. I do not find his historical essay on Scottish song in- teresting. 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. I am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved in the stile of Ritson's prints. P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say concern- ing Maggie Lauder ? was she a real personage, and of what rank? You would surely spier for her if you cd ed at Anstruther town. Ne. ( 187 ) No. LXIL Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. November, 1794. Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present : it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedi- ous dull business of systematic arrangement. In- deed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected re- marks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a mid- dle, and an end; which the critics insist to be abso- lutely necessary in a work. * In my last I told yoa my * It does not appear whether Burns completed these anecdotes. Sec. Something of thekitid (probably the rude draughts) was found amongst his papers, and appears in vol. II. E. ( 188 ) my objections to the song you had selected for. My lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration) she suggested an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, wrought into the following 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 ( 189 ) The shepherd, in the flowery glen^ 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 tenderness of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well, I like you for entering so candidly and so kind- ly into the story of Ma chere Amie. I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my life, than in the ac- count 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 powers equal ( 190 ) equal to all the intellectual modulations of the hu- man 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 generosity disdains the purchase ! * * *=)«=*#* 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 mea- sure 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, " Dain- tk Davie,'' as follows. SONG, ( 191 ) SONG, Altered from an 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 was she hy the daxvn, Yotithfid 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 W(is she, (^d. You ( 19^ ) 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, Rothemurche s Rant ; and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for singing. LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. Tune — " Rothemurche's Rant." CHORUS. hassle wi' the Tmt-white locks, Bofiie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi me tent the flocks ^ Wilt thou he my dearie 0. Now nature deeds the flowery lea. And a' is young and sweet like thee.; O wilt thou share its joys wi' mc. And say thou'lt be my dearie O, Lassie ivi\ &c. And when the welcome simmer-shower Has chear'd ilk drooping little flower. We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. Lassie wi', &c. When ( 193 ) When Cynthia hghts, wi' silver ray. The weary shearer's hameward way ; Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O. Lassie ivi, i^c. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. * Lassie wi* the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou w'l me tent the flocks. Wilt thou he my dearie 0. This piece has at least the merit of being a regu- lar pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, VOL. IV. O the * In some of the MSS this stanza runs thus : And should the howling wintry blast Disturb my lassie's midnight rest; I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, And comfort thee, my dearie O. E. ( 194 ) the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are re- gularly rounded. If you like it, well : if not, I will insert ii in the Museum. I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as, Dcil tak the wars, to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of, Saiv ye my father : by heavens, the odds is, gold to brass ! Be- sides, the old song, though now pretty well mo- dernized 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 pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan in the Duenna, to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, " When sable night each drooping plant restoring.'* The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity tenderness and love. I have again gone over my song to the tunc as follows. * No\v- * See the song in its first and best dress in page 181. 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 Scottish, has an inimitable effect.''' ( 195 ) Now for my English song to, Nancy's to the Greehwood, (ffc. * There is an air. The Caledonian hunfs delight^ to which I wrote a song that you will find in John- son. Ye hanks and braes o borne Doon; this air, I 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 Scottish music. Miller expressed an ardent ambition to 02 be * Here our poet gives a new edition of the song in p. 6G of this volume, and proposes it for another tune. The al- terations are unimportant. The name, Maria, he changes- to Eliza. Instead of the tenth and eleventh lines, as in p. Q6j he introduces, *^ Love's veriest viretch, unseen, unknown, ^' I fain my griefs would cover.'' Instead of the fourteenth line, which seems not perfectly grammatical as it is printed, he has, more properly, *' Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me.'^ This edition ought to have been preferred, had it been ob- served in time. E. s ( 196 ) 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 question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the Black keys ; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of, se- veral years ago. Now to shew you how difficult It is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it re- peatedly asserted that this was an Irish air ; nay I 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 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 Dum- fries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them. I thank you for admitting, C7'a'tgie-htrii-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 ( ^97 ) some old verses to the air. If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a new Craigie-hirn-wood altogether. My heart is much in the theme. I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the re- quest ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in a mo- ment, 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 ungraci- ous request is doubly so, by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the necessary information out of them, I will return ■you Ritson's volumes. The lady is not a little proud that she is to 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. ( m ) No. LXin. Mb, THOMSON to Mr. BURNS, 15ih November, 1 7 94 . My good Sie, Since receiving your last, I have had another interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long con- sultation. He thinks the Caledonian hunt is more Bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, and recom- mends it to you to match the air accordingly. 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 instances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by a female voice. A song thus performed makes an agreeable variety, but few of ours are writ- ten in this form : I wish you would think of it in spme of those that remain. The only one of the kin4 ( 199 ) kind you have sent me, is admirable, and will be an universal favorite. Your verses for Rothenmrche are so sweetly pasto- ral, and your serenade to Chloris, for, Deil tak ihe wars, so passionately tender, that I have sung myself into raptures with them. Your song for, My loJging is on the cold ground, is likewise a diamond of the first water; I 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 winding flows, I think excellent, but it is much too serious to come after Nancy : at least it would seem an uncongruity to provide the same air with merry Scottish and melan- choly English verses ! The more that the two sets of verses resemble each other in their general cha- .racter, the better. Those you have manufactured for. Dainty 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 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. ( 200 ) No. LXIV, Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. igth November J 17 q4. You sec, 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 ofFhis back. For in- stance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet which you were pleased to praise so much. Whe- ther I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but ))ere it is for you, though it is not an hour old. Turn ( 201 ) Tune — " The Sow's tail." HE. O Philly, happy be that day When roving through the gather'd hay. My youthfu' heart was stovvn 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. ( 204 ) HE. The milder sun and bluer sky. That crown my harv^est 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 wect 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 ane, And that's my ain dear Philly. SHE. ( 203 ) 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 soon^. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objec- tions to the name, Philly ; but it is the common ab- breviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has to my ear, a vulgarity about it, whi^ih 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 : where- as, simplicity is as much eh'ignee from vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile con- ceit, on the other. I agree with you as to the air, Cra'igie-hurn-wood, that ( 204 ) that a chorus would in some degree spoil the effect ; and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not however a case in point with, Rothe- murche ; 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 Roys ivife, as well as Rothemurche. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their W'ildness, and hum'our the verse accordingly. Leav- ing out the starting note, in both tunes, has I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbalance the want of. Try, and O Roy's wife of Aldivaloch. O lassie wi' the lint-white locks. ^ .7 1 i^o/i- wife of Aldivaloch. Compare with, I ^ Lassie wi' the hnt- 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 tunc. This is my taste : if I am wrong I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. The C 205 ) T'hs Caledonian hunt, is so charming, that it would make any subject in a song go down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are ex- cellent. For instance, Todlen hajne, is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition ; and, Andreisi 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 com- posed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ? It has given me many a heart-ach.. Apropos to Bac- chanalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one yester- day, for an air I like much — Lumps o pidd'tng. Contented wi' little, and can tie wi' mair. Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, Wi'a cog o'gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. I whyles clav/ the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a soger, and life is a faught : My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa'_, A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' : When ( 206 ) When at the blythe end of 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 warstword 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 English song to, Roy's If^tfe. You will allow me that in this in- stance, my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish. Canst thou leave me thus, my Katyf Tune — " Roy's wife." CHORUS. Cafist thou leave me thus, 7?iy Katy ? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy f Well thou knoiv'st my aching heart. And canst thou leave 7?ie thus for fity f Is ( 207 > 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, i^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, &c, * 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 doubtless that referred to in p. 117 of this vo- lume. The temptation to give it to the public is irre- sistible ; and if in so doing, offence should be given to the fair authoress, the beauty of her verses must plead our excuse. Tune—" Roy's wipe.*' CHORUS. Stay my Willu—yet believe me. Stay my Willie— yet believe me, 'Tiveel thou knowst no* every pang Wad luring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. Tell ( 208 ) Well ! I think this, to be done in 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. 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. Siaj' my Willie, ^c. 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 IVillie, ^c. Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. Stay my iVillie, &^c. It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this occa- sion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the dia- lects of their respective countries. The Scottish bard makes his address in gure English : the reply on the part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if Ave mistake not, by a young and beautiful Englishwoman. E. ( 209 ) Tell my friend Allan (for I 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 fi- gure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude instrument. It is com- posed of three parts ; the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such 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 ven- tiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like 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 litde of it. If Mr. Allan ehuses, I will send him a sight of mine : as I look VOL. IT. P on ( 210 ) on myself to be a kind of brother-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 tte world. No. LXV. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. ISth November, 1794. I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear sir, you are not only the most punctual, but the most delec- table, correspondent I 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 and couplets of your in- comparable lyrics, for which perhaps if you had serv- ed me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, however, you have all along con- descended to invite my criticism with so much cour- tesy. ( ai'i ) tesy, that it ceases to be wonderful^, If I have some- times given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget demands unqualified praise : all the songs are charming, but the duet is a chef S^mivre. Lumps of pudding, shall certainly 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 wanted than those of the amorous kind, of which we have great choice. Be- sides, one does not often meet with a singer capable of giving the proper effect 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 unknown : it is provoking to every admirer of genius. I mean to have a picture painted from your beautiful ballad. The Soldier s Return, to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most interesting point of time appears to me, when she first recog- nizes her ain dear Willy, " She gaz'd, she redden'd " like a rose." The three lines immediately following are no doubt more impressive on the reader's feel- ings, but were the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe the animation and anxiety of her counte- nance is gone, and he could only represent her faint- ing in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. P 2 Allan ( 212 ) Allan desires me to thank you for your accurate 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 docs not want you to send it ; but wishes to know whether you believe it to have ever been generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what part of the country chiefly. I doubt much if it was ca- pable 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. ( 213 ) No. LXVI. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. December, 1794. IT is, I 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 Jaco- bite song, in the Museum, to, There'll never he 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 NANIE'S AWA. Tune — " There'll never be peace, &c.*^ Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; But to me its delightless — my Nanie's awa. The ( '214 ) The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the 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 wi' 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 Sogers return'. It must certainly be at — "She " gaz'd." The interesting dubiety ^nd suspence, taking possession of her countenance ; and the gush- ing 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. ( 215 ) 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 com* position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thou- sand 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 subject, and consequent- ly is no song ; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. FOR ( 216 ) 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 toils obscure, and a' that. The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine. Wear hoddin 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 king q' 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, lie looks and laughs at a' that. A. I ( 217 ) A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Gude 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. Its 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 poetr}^ How will the following do for Crai^le-burn-wood. Sweet ( ai8 ) Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blythe 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 I 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'll 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 vil- lage of that name, celebrated for its medicinal vi'^aters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, w^ere at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It vi'as there he met ( 219 ) No. LXVIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. Edinhurghy 30th January, 1795. My dear Sir, I THANK you heartily for Nanie's awa, as well as for Craigie-h/^rn, 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 sur- mounting this difficulty, in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, For a' that, shall undoubtedly be included in my list. No. the '^ Lassie wi' the lint- white locks," and that he con- ceived several of his beautiful lyrics. ( 220 ) No. LXIX. Mr. burns TtD Mr. THOMSON. February y 1795. Here is another trial at your favorite air. Vwie — " Let me in this ae night." O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet. Or art thou vvakin, I would wit, For love has bound me, hand and foot. And I would fain be in, jo. CHORUS, let me in this ae night. This ae, ae, ae night ; For fltys sake this ae night, rise and let ?ne in, jo. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weef, Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; Tak pity on my weary feet. And shield me frae the rain, jo. O let me In, &c. The ( 221 ) The bitter blast that round me blaw5 Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Of a' my grief and pain, jo. let me in, &c. HER ANSWER. O tell na me o' wind and rain. Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain, Gae back the gate ye cam agaii), I winna let you in, jo. CHORUS. J tell you now this ae nighty This ae, ae, ae 7iight ; And ance for a this ae flight , 1 imnna let you in, jo. The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. That round the pathless wand'rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures That's trusted faithless man, jo. / tell you now, ^c. Tlie ( 222 ) 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. I tell you now, ^c. 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, &c. I do not know whether it will do. No. ( 221 ) LXX. Mk. burns to Mr. THOMSON. Ecclefechan, 7 th Fehruarjy I795, My dear Thomson, You cannot have any idea of the predica- ment in which 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. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress : I have tried to " gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insu- perable bars. To add to my misfortune, since din- ner, 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, 10 ( 224 ) to forget these miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man (a character con- genial 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. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say ; and heaven knows, at present I have not capacity. Do you know an air — I am sure you must know it, fVe^ll gang nae mair to yon town P I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it ; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, 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. No. * The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. E. ( 225 ) No. LXXI. Mk. THOMSON TO Mr. BURNS. 'Ibth February, 1795. I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, one containing. Let me in this ae night % and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that drunk or sober, your " 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 intreaties. I like the song as it now stands, very much. I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for, ivat ye whas in yon town. VOL. IV. Qi No. ( 226 ) No. LXXII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. May, 1795. ADDRESS TO TflE WOOD -LARK. Tune — "Where'll bonie Ann lie." Or, " LocHERocH 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 thy melting art ; For surely that wad touch her heart, Wha kills me wi' disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind ? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd. Sic notes o' woe could wauken. Thou ( 227 ) Thou tells o' never-ending care ; O' 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 wakjn o." CHORUS. hong, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow. 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, &c. Q 2 Every ( 228 ) Every hope is fled, Ev'ry fear is terror ; Slumber even I dread. Every dream is horror. Long, ^c. Hear me, powVs divine \ Oh, in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine. But my Chloris spare me ! Long, &c. How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish air. Humours of Glen, is a great favorite of mine, and as, except the silly stuiF in the Voor Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, I 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 ( 229 ) Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan 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 vallies. 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 bonic blue e'e was my ruin ; Fair tlio' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. Sai? ( 230 ) Sair do I 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 grievouslj- disappointed if you are not quite pleased with it. The ( 231 ) The figure intended for your portrait, I think strikingly Hke you, as far as I can remember your >. phiz. This should make the piece interesting 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 Panegyric on Caledonia, and your af- fecting verses on Chhris'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 ( 232 ) 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 ( 233 ) SONG. Tune — " Deil tak the wars." Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. Round the weakhy^ titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion. Poor is all that princely pride. What are their showy treasures ? What are their 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 v/ilHng soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown. Even Av'rice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. Well! ( 234 ) Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders : your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment " holding high con- verse" with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. Na. LXXV. Mk. burns to Mil. THOMSON. May, 1795. 1 EN thousand thanks, for y^ur 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 kindness. I have shewn it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first- rate ( 235 ) rate production. 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 compliments 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- deediCf d — rid, wee, riind^h-game, urchin of mine, whom, from that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu' mischief, which even at twa days auld I fore- saw would form the striking features of his dispositi- on, I named Willie Nicol ; 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 inclosed epigram to my much-valued 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 — I mean a well-known military and literary cha- racter, Colonel Dirom. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned ? No. ( 236 ) No. LXXVI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 13^b Maj', 1795. It gives me great pleasure to find that you are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's produc- tion. The chance resemblance of your little fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so very early, and suggested whom he should be named after, is curious enough. I am acquainted with that person, who is a prodigy of learning and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 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 sufficiently es- teem and respect you for the liberal and kind man- ner 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 ©f me again, by speaking of obligation. I like your two last songs very much, and am happy ( 237 ) happy to find you are in such a high fit of poetizing. Xiong 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 in rolled among the elect* No. LXXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. I N, Whistle and Vll 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 madj Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, off'er up the incense of Parnassus ; a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightening, a ( 238 ) a Fair One, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment ; and dispute her commands if you dare ! SONG. Tune — " This is no my ain house." CHORUS. this is no my ahi lassie^ Fair tho' the lassie he ; nsoeel hen 1 my ain lassie, Kind love is in her ee. 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. this is no, ^c. She's bonie, blooming, straight and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall ; And ay it charms my very sauI, The kind love that's in her e'e. this is no, &f. A ( 239 ) 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 e'e. 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 is no, ^c. Do you know that you have roused the torpidity ef Clarke at last ? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The inclosed sheet contains twd songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cunningham. I inclose the sheet open, both for your inspec- tion, and that you may copy the song, home •was yon rosy brier. I do not know whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, and as it is ex- tremely probable that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as, Scottish verses, to the air of, I wish my love was in a mire \ and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. I ( 240 ) I inclose you a. For a thai, afid a that, which was never in print : it is a much superior song to mine. I have been told that it was composed by a lady. To Mk. 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 burn Glides swiftj 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. Th( ( 241 ) The little flowVet's peaceful lot. In yonder cHfF 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, Winnowipg blythe 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 ! Within whase bosom save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. VOL. lY. R SCOTTISH •( 242 ) SCOTTISH SONG. O BON IE was yon rosy brier. That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; And bonie 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 ; Bu'l 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 ipy poems, presented to the kidy, whom, in ( 243 ) in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris. 'Ti s 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 lour ; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern bla^t 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 ?mnd ! Thine is the self-approving glow. On conscious honour's part ; And, dearest gift of heaven below. Thine friendship's truest heart, R 2 The ( 244 ) xhe joys refin'd of sense and taste, -^ ^ With every muse to rove : And doubly were the poet blest These joys could he improve. U/^e Vagatelh de VamiUe. CoiLA. No. LXXVIir. Mr. THOMSON to Mk. BURNS. Edinburgh, o^d Aug. 1795. My dear Sir, This 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 ^ave no doubt he is worthy of all acceptation. My I ( 245 ) 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 su- perfluous to tell you, that I 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 prosaic line. Thy Jeany will venture iso't ye, my lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do not think the latter either reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, there- fore, you would in my name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain un- altered.* I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a few songs to be joined to your verses. Every body regrfcts his writing so very little, as every body ac- knowledges his ability to write well. Pray was the resolution formed coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight * 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 Uie tune of Roys Wife, p. 224. E. ( 246 ) 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. ( 247 ) CHORUS. wert fhoUi love, hut near me. But near, near, near me ; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. And mingle sighs with mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry sky. That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; And shelter, shade, nor home have ^, Save in these arms of thine, love. wert, &c. 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. wert, &c. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall mqet ! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. wert, &c. How ( 248 ) How do you like the foregoing ? I have writ- ten 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. Tune — " 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 me, believe me. The deuce gae wi' m, to believe me. He spak o' the darts in my bonie 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 wee! ( 249 ) A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird. And marriage afF-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kcnd it, or car'd, But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I mio-ht 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, thejad ! 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 Gate- ^* s/dzr/^ to my black cousin Bess," Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the \A'ord 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 ro- *' mantic 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^ Sec." It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives"; locality to our poet's verses. ( 150 ) But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care^ I gaed to the trystc 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 lefi: shouther I gae him a blink. Least neebors 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. I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. Gin she had recover'd her hearin, And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl'tfect. 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-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. FRAGMENT I ( 251 ) Ji'RAGMENT. Turn — " The Caledonian hunt's delight.' Why, 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 I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it. I am at present quite occupied with the charm- ing sensations of the tooth-ach, so have not a word to spare. No. ( 252 ) No. LXXXI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS ^d Juiw, 1795. My dear Sir, Your English verses to, Let me in this ne nighty are tender and beautiful ; and your ballad to the " Lothian lassie" is a master-piece for its hu- mour 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 con- tent it. I would rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the poet ; but nevertheless, for what we have received, Lord make us thankflil. No. ( ^53 ) No. LXXXII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. bth Feb. 1796. O Rohhy Bums are ye shepngyetf Or are ye washing, I would wit f The pause you have made, my dear sir, is awful ! Am I never to hear from you again ? I know and I lament how much you have been afflict- ed of late, but I trust that returning health and spi- rits will now enable you to resume the pen, and de- light 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 Irish- Tnen on the Scottish list ; but they are now natura- lized, and reckoned our own good subjects. 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. ( *54 ) No. LXXXIII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. February^ 1796. Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs. B and for my remaining vol. of P. Pindar. — Peter is a delight- ful 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 I strung up a kind of rhap- sody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much. HEY { 255 ) HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. Tz/» I am happy to find you approve of my proposed octavo edition. Allan has designed and etched about twenty plates, and I am to have my choice of them for that work. Independently of the Hogarthian humour with which they abound, they exhibit the character and costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable felicity. In this respect, he himself says, they will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the etching he sees clearly what he is doing, but not so with the aqua- tinta, which he could not manage to his mind. The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more characteristic and natural, than the Scottish figures in those etchings. vOL. iV No, ( 258 ) No. LXXXV. Mb. burns to Mr. THOMSON. April, 1796. Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be sometime ere I tune my lyre again ! " By Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever since I wrote you last : I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; and have counted time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheu- matism, cold, and fever, have formed to me a terri- ble combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Ferguson — " Say wherefore has an all indulgent heaven " Light to the comfortless and wretched given?" This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and where our friend Clarke ( 259 ) Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. Wood ajid married and a\ is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire, Turnim-spike, What I like least is, Jenny said to Jocky. Besides the female being in her appearance ***** if ^ou take her stooping into the account she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleg- horn ! I sincerely sympathise with him^ Happy I am to tnink that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me — but that is a ***** subject ! No. ( 260 ) 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 sympathize in your sufferings. But do not I beseech you give yourself up to despondency, nor speak the language of despair. The vigour of your constitution I 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 valuble to your family, to your friends, and to the world. Trusting that your next will bring agreeable ac- counts of your convalescence, and returning good spirits. I remain with sincere regard yours. P. S. Mrs. Hyslop I doubt not dejivered the gold seal to you in good condition. No. ( 201 ) No. LXXXVII. Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. My dear Sir, I ONCE mentioned to you an air which I have long admired. Heres a health to them that's awa, hlnej, but I 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 •nee more. I have only begun it. CHORUS. Heres a health to ane I loe dear, Heres a health to ane I loe dear ; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet * And soft as their partmg tear — Jessy ! Although ( 262 ) Although thou maun never be mine. Although even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! Heres 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 I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! Heres a health, &c. I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love rolling c'e ; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy ! Heres a health, &c. * No. * 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. E. ^1^ I ( 2(53 > No. LXXXVIIL Mr. burns to Mr. THOMSON. This will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will havx leisure, if you chuse to write me by him ; and if you have a spare half hour to spend with him, I ^hall place your kind- ness 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 sonsrs than of ten o otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influ- ence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad business ! *■ Do * It is needless to say, that riiis revisal Burns did not live to perform. E. ( 264 ) Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- ber 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. \1th July, 1796. After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel ***** of a haberdasher to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will in- fallibly put me into jail. Do for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gra- tuitously ; ( 2^5 ) tuitously; for upon returning health, I hereby pro- mise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen. I tryed my 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, Chrystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou wert 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 ( 266 ) 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 maidy ^c. * No. * These verses and the letter inclosing them, are \vx\\.- ten in a character that marks the very feeble state of their author. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had many firm friends, nor under any such necessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about this time his mind began to be at times unsettled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted his imagination. He died on the 2l8t of this month. E. ( '^^7 ) No. XC. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. lAth July, 1796. My dear Sir, JbiVER sinoe I received your melancholy letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in what manner I could endeavour to alleviate your suf- ferings. Again and again I thought of a pecuniary olFer, but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your inde- pendent 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 Chancellor 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 ( 268 ) you in the present state of your health, some literary friend might be found here, who would select and arrange from yofur manuscripts, and take upon him the task of Editor, In the mean time it could be adv^ertised to be published by subscription ? Do not shun this mode of obtaining the value of your la- bour ; remember Pope published fhe 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 I bear you, to impute any thing I say to an unworthy mo- tive. Yours faithfully. The verses to Roihemurche will answer finely. I am happy to see you can still tune your lyre. In ( 269 ) In the beginning of the year ITS', another work had commenced at Edinburgh, entitled, The Scots Musical Museum, conducted by Mr. James Johnson, the object of which was to unite the songs and the music of Scot- land in one general collection. The first volume of this work appeared in May 1787, when our poet was in Edin- burgh ; and in it appeared one of his printed songs, to the tune of, G?-een grozu the rashes, beginning " There's nought but care on every hand." He appears also to have furnished from his MSS the last song in that volume, which was an early production, and not thought by him- self worthy of a place in his works. The second vo- lume appeared in the spring of 1788, and contained seve- ral 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 communications to Mr. Johnson, to which his name was not in general af- fixed, 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 com- pared with the MSS, and the last corrections have been uniformly inserted. The reader will probably think manr of the songs which follow, among the finest productions 4)f his muse. THE ( Vo ) THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonny lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Bonny lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldyf Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the chrystal streamlet plays. Come let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonny lassie, &c. While o'er their heads the hazels hing. The little birdies blythely sing. Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonny lassie, &'r. 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. Bon/iv lassie, is'e. The ( ^71 ) 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. Bonny lassie, &^. 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. Bonny lassie, &e. * STAY * This is written in the same measure as the Birh, of Abergeldie, an old Scottish song, irom which nothing is borrowed but the chorus. { ^7« ) 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 ! sricATHMJAN'S ( 273 ) STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night overhang my dwelling! Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. Still surround my lonely cave ! Chrystal 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 deny'd success. VOL. IV. T Ruin's ( 274 ) Ruin's \^heel has driven o'er us. Not a hope that dare attend. The wide world is all before us — But a world without a friend ! * THE * Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young chevalier, and is supposed to be lying con- cealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This song was written before the year 1788. E. ( 275 ) THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. Tune—'' 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 bonie Castle-Gordon ! The trees now naked groaning. Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a' be blythely singing, And every flower be springing. T2 Sae ( VQ ) Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. When by his mighty warden My youth's return'd to fair Stathspey, And bonie Castle-Gordon.* RAVING *The young highland rover, is supposed to be th« young chevalier, Prince Charles Edward. E. ( 277 ) RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. Tune — "M'Grigor op 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 G:loomv ni2:ht 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 ( 278 ) " 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 * The occasion on which this poem was written is un- known to the Editor. It is an early composition. E. ( V9 ) 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 ( 280 BLYTHE WAS SHE. Ely the, My the and 7?ierry was she, Ely the was she hut and hen : Blythe hy the batiks of Em, And hlythe in Glenfurit glen. By Oughtertyre grows the aik. On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; But Phemie was a bonier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Blythe, &c. 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. Blythe, &e. Her ( 281 ) Her bonie 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. Blythe, &c\ The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trode the dewy green. Blythe, c^c. ( 282 ) A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. A ROSE-bud by my early walk, Adovvn a corn-inclosed bawk, Sac 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 frfesh green leaves bedew'd, Awak the early morning. So ( 283 ) 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. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of the Bard, is the heroine. E. ( 284 ) WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. Tune — '^N. Cow's Lamentation for Abercairny/ 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 it 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 ! Th« ( 285 ) The tyrant death with grim controiil May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. TIBBIE, ( ^86 ) TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Tune — " Invercald's Reel." Tihhie, I hae seen the day, Ye would na been sae shy ; For laik o gear ye lightly me^ But trowth, 1 care na hy. 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. OTibUe, I hae, &c. I dovibt 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. • Tihhie, I hae, ^e. But ( -is; ) 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, Tibbie, 1 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. Tibbie, 1 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. Tibbie, 1 hae, l^c. 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 I. Tibbie, I hae, ^c. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her under sark. For thee wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; Ye need na look sae high. Tibbie, 1 hae^ &c. . CLARINDA. ( 288 ) 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 fliir sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day : And shall a glimmering planet ft\ My worship to its ray ? THE ( ^89 ) THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune—'"'- Seventh of November/ J- HE 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 tof pleasure give ! While joys above, my mind can mxove. 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. YOL. IV. U THE ( 290 ) THE LAZY MIST. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear. 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 pursues ; How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'din 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, hov/ weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! This life's not worth having with all it can give. For something beyond it poor man sure must live. O, ( 291 ) O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. '^une — '^^ My love is lost to me." O WERE I on Parnassus' hijl ! Or had of Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill. To sing how clear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse's well. My muse maun be thy bonnie sell ; 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. U2 ( 292 ) 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 night, by day, a-field, at hame. The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; And ay I muse and sing thy name, I onlvlive 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. ( ^ga ) I LOVE MY JEAN. Tune — ''Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.'^ 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 sinjrs. But minds meo' my Jean. THE ( '^94 ) THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 1 HE Catrine woods were yellow seen. The flower's 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'll flourish fresh and fair ; Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. Again ye'll charm the vocal air. But * Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugal Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edin- burgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whiteford, now of Alexander, Esq. E. ( 295 ) But here alas ! for me nae mair ; Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! WILLIE ( 296 ) WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. O Willie brew'd a peck o* maut, And Rob and Allan cam to see ; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are nafou, we're nae that fou But just a dr apple hi our ee ; The cock may craiv, the day may daw. And ay we'll taste the barley hree. Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we ; And mony a night we've merry been. And mony mae we hope to be ! We are na fou, &c. It ( 297 ) It is the moon, I ken her horn. That's bhnkin in the lift sae hie ; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! We are nafou, &c. Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he ! Wha first beside his chair shall fa'. He is the king among us three ! fVe are nafou^ &c, * THE * Willie, who " brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr. William Nicol ; and Rob and Allan, were our poet, and his friend, Allan Cleghorn. These three honest fellows — all men of uncommon talents, are now all under the turf* (1799.) £. ( 298 ) THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. I GAED a waefa' gate, yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll 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 wi' dew. Her heaving bosom, lily-white — It 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 ( ^99 ) But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; She'll aiblins listen to my vow : Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead To her twa e'en sae bonnie blue. * THE * The heroine of this song was Miss J. of Lochmaban. This lady, now Mrs. R., after residing some time in Liver- pool, is settled with her husband in New-York, North America. E. ( 300 ) THE BANKS OF NITH. Tune — " RoBiE 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 I 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' ( 301 ) 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 ( S02 ) JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. J OHN 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 frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegithcr ; And mony a canty day John, We've had wi' ane anither : Not^' ( 303 ) Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo, * TAM * In the first volume of a collection entitled. Poetry Original and Selccied, printed by Brash and Reid of Glas- gow, this song is given as follows : John Andersoji, 7ny joy improved, By ROBERT BURNS. JOHN Anderson, myjo, 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, myjoe^ John Anderson, my joe, John, whan 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 proved to be nae jourHey-work, John Anderson, myjog. { 304 ) 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' Tarn Glen, I'm John Anderson, my joe, 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 joe. John Anderson, my joe, John, we've seen our bairns'* bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms. And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye'll ne'er say nOj Tho' the days are gane th:it we have scvn, John Ander- son, my jo. ( 305 ) Vm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow. In poortith I might mak a fen : What care I in riches to wallow. If I mauna marry Tam Glen. VOL. IV. X There's John Anderson, my joe, 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 joe. John Anderson, my joe, John, when we were first acqusant, Your locks were like the raven, your honnu hrow was hrent. But now your head's turn'd bald, John, your locks are like the snow. Vet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my joe, .Tohn Anderson, my joe, John, frae year to year we've past. And soon that year maun come, John, wijl bring us to our last : But let na' that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe, ^Vhile in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my joe. ( 30G > There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, " Gude day to you brute," he comes ben : He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? My John Anderson, my joe, John, we clamh the hill thegither, Andmony a canty day, John, lue've had wi' ane anither; NozL) IV e maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go, And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my joe. The stanza with which tliis 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 yK\\\ 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 ori- gin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh stanza, our hearts were ne'er our foe, would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances In which our bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be pro- duced, in which to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought, in false grammar. These additional stan- r ( 307 ) My minnie does constantly deave me. And bids me beware o' young men ; They flatter, she says to deceive me. But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen. My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. He'll gie me gude hundcr marks ten But, if its ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tarn 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 zas are not however without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel, from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with moral sentiments that are singularly interest- inn;. E. ( 308 ) Come counsel, dear 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 I 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 airle-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. Yc'i-e ( 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 ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor mc. THEN ( 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 blude red wine's the rysin sun. Then guidwife count the Jawiuy the laivin, the lawin, Then guidwife count the Jawin, and bring a coggie rnair 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. Then guidwife cozmt, i^c. 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' 11 find him out. The?! guidwife count, ^c, WHAT ( 312 ) What can a young Lassie do wi" an aiild 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' ! Bad luck on the fmnie, &c. He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, He hosts and he hirples the weary day Ling ; He's doyl't and he's dozin, his blude 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 fellows, O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! MY ( 313 ) My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, and wrack him untill 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 thing was thou mine ; I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face of 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 we, i^c. o. ( 315 ) O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY TAM ! Tune — "The Moudiewort." An 0, for ane and twenty Tarn ! An hey, sweet ane and twenty. Tarn ! Til learn my kin a raftlin sang, An I saw ane and twenty Tarn, They snool me sair, and baud me down. And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ; But three short years will soon wheel roun'. And then comes ane and twenty Tarn. u4fi O,for ane, &c. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. Was left me by auntie, Tam ; At kith or kin I need na spier. An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. A?i 0, for ane, ^c. They'll ( 316 ) They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel hae plenty. Tarn ; But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, I'm thine at ane and twenty. Tarn ! j!n 0, for ane, &s. BESS ( 317 ) BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. O LEEZE me on my spinning wheel, O leeze me on my rock and reel ; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! I'll 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, blythe I turn my spinnin wh«el. 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 spinnin wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha w^ad leave this humble state,. For a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flairing, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ! COUNTRY ( 319 ) 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 ; Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. Says rU be wed come o't what will ; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, O' gude advisement comes nae ill. Its ye hae wooers mony ane. And lassie ye're but young ye keiVr Then wait a wee, and canie 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 loes sae weel his craps and kye He has nae luve to spare for me : But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e. And weel I wat he loes me dear : Ae blink o' him I wad na 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' leesomc 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 ( 311 ) FAIR ELIZA, A GAELIC Am, Turn again thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part^ Rew 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 Hfe beats in my bosom^ Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. YOL. 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 I ( 323 ) THE POSIE. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O 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 I will pu', the firstling o' the year. And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms with- out a peer ; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phebus 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 Til place the lily there; The daisy's for siir.plicity 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 woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near. And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear ; The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear. And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. ni tie the posie round v/i' the silken band o' luve. And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above. That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. THE ( 325 ) THE BANKS O' DOON. lE 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'U break my heart thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys. Departed never to return. Oft hae I rovM 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 ) SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they ca d it Linkumdoddie, Wilhe was a wabster gude, . Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; He had a wife was dour and din, Tinkler Madgie was her mither; •S/V a wife as Willie had, 1 ivadnagle a hut ton for her. She has an e'e, she has but ane. The cat has twa the very coloiu* ; Five rusty teeth forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; A whiskia beard about her mou, Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; Sic a wife, &c. She's ( 327 ) She's bow-hough*d, she's hein shinn'd, Ae limpin leg a hand breed shoiter; 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, &c. Auld baudrans by the ingle sits. An' wi' her loof her face a washin ; But 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. ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! Ance 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, 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 I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; For sad was the parting thou makes me remember. Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. EVAN ( 32P ) EVAN BANKS. Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires. The sun from India's shore retires ; To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray Home of my youth, it leads the day. Oh I banks to me for ever dear ! Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! All, all my hopes of bliss reside, Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. And she, in simple beauty drest, Whose image lives within my breast ; Who trembling heard my parting sigh. And long pursued me with her eye ! Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine. Oft in the vocal bovvers recline ? Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. Ye ( 330 ) Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! Ye lavish woods that wave around, And o'er the stream your shadows throw. Which sweetly winds so far below ; What secret charm to mem'ry brings, All that on Evan's border springs ? Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde. Can all the wealth of India's coast Atone for years in absence lost ? Return, ye moments of delight, With richer treasures bless my sight ! Swift from this desartlet me part. And Hy to meet a kindred heart ! Nor more may aught my steps divide From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. WILT ( 331 ) WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. Wilt thou be my dearie ; When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee ; By 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 mc : If it winna, canna be. Thou, for thine, may chuse 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 { 332 ) SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. She's fair and fause that causes my smart, I lo'ed her meikle 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 foirm's faun to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, I mean an angel mind. AFTON ( 333 ) AFTON 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 drenm. Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen. Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, 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 my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green vallies 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 X ( 334 ) Thy chrystal 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 flowerets 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 Afton, disturb not her dream. BONNIE ( 335 ) BONNIE BELL. 1 HE smiling spring comes in rejoicing. And surly winter grimly flies ; Now chrystal clear are the falling waters, And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning. The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; All creatures joy in the sun's returning, And I 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 tellj But never ranging, still unchanging I adore my bonnie Bell. TUK ( 336 ) THE GALLANT WEAVER. W' HERE 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 aught 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 give it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees delight in opening flowers ; While corn grows green in simmer showers I'll love my gallant weaver. * LOUIS * In some Editions sailor is substituted for weaver. ( 337 ) LOUIS WHAT RECK I BY THEE. IjOUIS 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 nations, swith awa ! Reif randies I disown ye ! VOL. IV, Z FOR ( 338 ) FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair I dare na tell. My heart is sair for somebody ; I could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 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 ( 339 ) THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. The lovely lass o* Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; For e'en and mom she cries, alas ! And ay the saut tear blins her e'e : Drumofsie moor, Drumofsie day, A vvaefu' day it was to me ; For there I 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. Z 2 ( 340 ) A Mother 5 Lament for the Death of her So7i. Tune — '^ 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 ( 341 ) O MAY, THY MORN. O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sac sweet, As the mirk night o* December ; For sparkling was the rosy wine. And private was the chamber : And dear was she I dare na name. But I will ay remember. And dear, ^c. And here's to them, that, like oursel. Can push about the jorum ; And here's to them that wish us weel. May a' that's gude watch o'er them ; And here's to them, we dare na tell. The dearest o' the quorum. And here s to, ^c. O ( »42 ) O WAT YE 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. The ( 343 ) The sun blinks blythe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; But my delight in yon town. And clearest 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. sweet is she in yon town. Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; A fairer than's in yon town. His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe. And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 1 careless quit aught else below, But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. For ( 144 ) 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 tlje truest, kindest heart. * * 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 husband, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr. Syme in- closing this song, in VOL. II. (1799) E. ( 345 ) A RED RED ROSE. O MY luve's like a red, red rose. That's newly sprung in June. my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. So deep m 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 : 1 will love 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. ( 346 ) A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa*-flower scents the dew)^ air. Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill. And the distant-echoing glens reply. The stream adown its hazelly path. Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, * Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The * Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. ( 347 ) The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights^ wi' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift. Like fortune's favors, tint as win. * By heedless chance I tum'd mine eyes. And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane. His darin look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet graved was plain. The sacred posy — Libertie ! And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear ; But oh, it was a tale of woe. As ever met a Briton's car ! He Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd j When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. ( 348 ) He sang wi' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur't in my rhymes. * ^ THE * This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abby, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV, of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's tour in Scotland, or Grose's antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive its being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Libertie, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. E. ( 349 ) 1 HE following poems, found among the MSS of Mr. Burns, are now for the first time presented to the Public. ( 351 ) Copy of a poetical address to Mr. IVilUam Tytler, with the present of the hard's picture. Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected^ A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected : Tho* some thing like moisture conglobes in my eye. Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh. Still more, if that wand'rer were roval. My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son^ That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still ( 352 ) Still in prayefs for K — G — I most heartily join. The Q — f and the rest of the gentry. Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; Their title's avovv'd by my country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss. But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous ground. Who knows how the fashions may alter. The doctrine, to day, that is loyalty sound. To-morrow may bring us a halter. I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard. Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night ; But you like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. My I ( 353 ) My muse jilted me here, and turned a comer on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere in my grate- ful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honor to be Revered Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant. R. BURNS. Edinhurgh, 1787« VOL. IV. A a CALEDONIA. ( 354 ) CALEDONIA. Tune — " 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 good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of iicr kindred, the heroine grew : Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — '•^ Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue !" With ( 355 ) With tillage or pasture at times she would sporty 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 reigntd ; 'till thitherward stefers A flight of bold 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 tliey died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. The scourge of the seas^ and the dread of the shore; *{- The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : ;|: 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. ^ A a 2 The * The Romans. f The Saxons. | The Danes. § Two famous battles in which the Danes or Norwegians were defeated. E. ( 356 ) The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: * 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 ow^n 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-triangle, the figure we'll chuse. The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match ther» always, -jf The * The Highlanders of the Isles. t This singular figure of poetry, taken frora the mathe- matics, refers to the famous proposition of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides. E. ( 357 ) The folloiioing Poem was written to a Gentleman who had sent him a news-paper, and offered to continue it free of expense. Kind Slr^ I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! How guessed ye. Sir, what maist I wanted ? This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted. To ken what French mischief was brcwin ; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; That vile doup-skelper. Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt. Would play anither Charles the twalt : If Denmark, any body spak o't ; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin ; How libbet Italy was singin ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin or takin aught amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame. In Britain's court kept up the game : How ( 358 ) How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin. Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cooking If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. Or if bare a — yet were tax'd ; The news o' princes, dukes and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds and opera-girls ; If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, Was threshin still at hizzies tails. Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. And no a perfect kintra cooser. A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair'd of. So gratefu', back your news I send you. And pray, a' gude things may attend you ! ElUsIand, 'Monday morning, 1790. POEM ( 359 ) POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAJL Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd \ In chase o' thee, what crouds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers ; And och i o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd. Mid a' thy favors ! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud, the trump's heroic clang. And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage ; Scare© ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage ? In ( 360 ) In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. But thee, Theopocritus, wha matches ? They're no herd*s ballats, Maro's catches ; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters : I pass by hunders, nameless wretches. That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and Icar, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace ; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share A rival place ? Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever ; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, But thou's for ever. Thou ( 361 ) Thou paints auld nature to the nines. In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines. Her griefs will tell ! In gowany glens thy burnie strays. Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray. Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day. Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin love. That charm, that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. ON ( 362 ) ON THE BATTLE OF SHJIRIFF-MUIR, Between the Duke of Argyle and the 'Earl of Mar, '^ O CAM ye here the fight to shun> " Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? " Or ware ye at the Sherra-muir, " And did the batde see, man ?" I saw the battle, sair and tough. And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh, My he-art for fear gae sough for sough. To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Whaglaum'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 ( 363 ) The great Argyle led on his files, I vvat 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 oppos'd 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 Tam can that be true ? " The chace 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 Stirling winged their flight; " But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; ** And mony a huntit, poor red-coat " For fear amaist did swarf, man." Mi- ( 364 ) My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; She swoor 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 neebers 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 Pan mure 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 gude-night ; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. By red claymores, and muskets knell, Wi* dying yell, the torics fell. And whigs to hell did flee, man.''*^ SKETCH. * This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787. E. ( 365 ) SKETCH. NEJV YEJRS DAY. To Mrs. DUNLOP. This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. To run the twelvemonth's length again : — I see the old, bald-pated fellow. With ardent eyes, complexion sallow. Adjust the unimpair'd machine. To wheel the equal, dull routine. • The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer. Deaf as my friend, he sees them press. Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coiln''* ( S66 ) Coila's fair Rachel's care to day,* And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ;) From housewife cares a minute borrow — — That grandchild's cap will do tomorrow — And join with me a moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise iu^ First, what did yesternight deliver ? " Another year is gone for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion ? " The passing moment's all we rest on !" Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, Add to our date one minute more ? A few days may — a few years must — Repose us in the silent dust. Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of nature loudly cries. And many a message from the skies. That something in us never dies : That on this frail, uncertain state. Hang matters of eternal weight : That future-life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone ; Whether * This young lady was drawing a picture of CoiJa from the vision, vol. in. p. gy. ( 3(57 ) Whethe'r as heavenly glory bright, Or dark as misery's woeful night — Since then, my honorM, first of friends, On this poor being all depends ; Let us th' important now employ, And live as those who never die. Tho' yon^ with days and honors crown'd. Witness that filial circle round, (A sight life's sorrow's to repulse, A sight pale envy to convulse) Others now claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward. EXTEMPORE ( 368 ) EXTEMPORE, On the late Mr. WilTiam SmelUe, author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and memher of the Antiquarian and Royal Societies of Edinburgh , To Crochallan came * The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving-night. His uncombed grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd, A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd ; Yet tho' his caustick wit was biting, rude. His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. POETICAL * Mr Smellle, and our poet, were both members of a club in Edinburgh, under the name of Crochallan Fencibles. E. ( 369 ) POETICAL INSCRIPTION, FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, At Kerrouchtry, the seat of Mr. Heron, zvritten in Summer 1795. XHOU of an independent mind With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; Prepar'd power's proudest frown to brave. Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; Virtue alone who dost revere. Thy own reproach alone dost fear. Approach this shrine, and worship here. VOL. IV. B b SONNET ( 370 ) SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. rsO more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : Thou young-eyed spring, thy charms I cannot bear ; More welcome were to me grim winter's wildest roar. How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dies ? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.* MONODY, * Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friars' Carse, a very worthy character, and one to whom our bard thought himself under many obligations. E. ( 371 ) MONODY, ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired. How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glistened ; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired. How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened. If sorrow and anguish their exit await. From friendship and dearest affection removed ; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unloved. Loves, graces and virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. B b 2 We'll ( 372 ) We'll search through the garden for each silly flower. We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; But chiefly the nettle so typical, shower. For none e'er approached her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam Want only of wisdom denied her respect^ Want only of goodness denied her esteem. Answer ( 373 ) Answer to a mandate sent by the Surveyor of the windowSy carriages^ &'c. to eaeh farmer, ordering htm to send a signed list of his horses, servants, •wheel-carriages, &c, and whether he was a married man or a bachelor, and "what children they had. Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list. My horses, servants, carts and graith, To which I'm free to tak my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew before a pettle. My hand-afore,* a guid auld has-been, And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; My *The fore-liorse oti the left hand, in the plough. ( 374 ) My hand-a-h'm,* a gude brown filly, Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ; -f- And your auld borough mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime : yiy fnr-a-h'm,^ a guid, gray beast. As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wale, As ever ran before a tail ; An' he be spar'd to be a beast. He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. Wheel carriages I hae but few, Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; I made a poker o' the spindle, And my auld mither brunt the trundle. For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; A gadsman ane, a thresher tother. Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in fother. * The hindmost on the left hand, in the plough. t Kilmarnock. § The same on the right hand, in the plough. ( 375 ) I rule them as I ought discreetly, And often labour them compleatly. And ay on Sundays duly nightly, I on the questions tairge them tightly, 'Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, (Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) He'll screed you off effectual callings As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servant station. Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation ! I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; For weans I'm mair than weel contented. Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddie in her face. Enough of ought ye like but grace. But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, I've said enough for her already. And if ye tax her or her mither, By the L~d ye'se get them a' thegither ! And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence out I'm taking. Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. E'er I sae dear pay for a saddle ; I've ( 37^ ) I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked ! And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. This list wi' my ain hand IVe wrote it. The day and date as under noted ; Then know all ye whom it concerns Suhscripsi hide ROBERT BURNS. SONG. ( 377 ) 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, 0, Aboon the plain sae rushy, 0, I set me down wC right good will i To sing my highland lassie, 0. were yon hills and vallies mine. Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! The world then the love should know 1 bear my highland lassie, O. JVithin the glen, &'e. 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. ( 378 ) But fickle fortune frowns on me. And I maun cross the raging sea; But while my crimson currents flow I'll love my highland lassie, O. Within the glen, ^c. Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change. For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful highland lassie, O. Within the glen, &c. For her I'll dare the billows' roar. For her I'll trace a distant shore. That Indian wealth may lustre throw. Around my highland lassie, O. Within the glen y &c. 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 ( 379 ) Farewell the glen sue btishy, ! Farewell the plain sae rushy, ! To other lands 1 now must go To sing my highland lassie, 0. * IMPROMPTU, * This is an early production, and seems to have been written on Highland Mary. E. ( 380 ) IMPROMPTU, On Mrs. V hirlh day, Ath Nov. 17 93. Old winter with his frosty beard. Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred ; What have I done of all the year. To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow : ' My dismal months no joys are crowning. But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now Jove for once be mighty civil. To counterbalance all this evil ; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day ! That brilliant gift will so enrich me. Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match mc ; *Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story. And \v^inter once rejoic'd in glory. ADDRESS ( 381 ) 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 desart 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 reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown. Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. TO ( 382 ) TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY L' , DUMFRIES; With Books which the Bard presejited her. Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. And with them take the poet's prayer ; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage. Of future bliss, enroll thy name : With native worth, and spotless fame, And wakeful caution still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward ; So prays thy faithful friend, the hard. SONNET, ( 383 ) SONNET, Written on the Ibth January^ 1793, the birth -day of the Author f on hearing a thrush sing in a morning walk. Sing on sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. See aged winter 'mid his surly reign. At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow. So in lone poverty's dominion drear. Sits meek content with light unanxious heart. Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part. Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. I thank thee, author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. What wealth could never give nor take away ! Yet come thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. EXTEMPORE. ( 384 ) EXTEMPORE. TO MR. S**E, On refusing to dine with him^ after having been promised the first of company ^ and the first of Cookery. 17 th Dece?nber, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not. And cook'ry the first in the nation : Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. Is proof to all other temptation. To Mr. S**E, With a present of a dozen of Porter, O HAD the malt thy strength of mind. Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 'Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e'en for S**e were fit. Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. THE ( 385 ) THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. Tune — " Push about the jorum.' ^^r/7, 1795. JjOES 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,-j- E'er we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! Fall derail, ^c, O let us not like snarling tykes In wrangling be divided ; 'Till slap come in an unco loon And wi' a rung decide it. VOL. IV. Cc Be * A high hill at the source of the Nith. t A well-known mountain at the mouth of th& same river. ( 386 ) Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united ; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted. Fall de rail, &c. The kettle o' the kirk and state, Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Our fathers blude the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it ; By heaven the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. Fallde rail, ^c. The wretch that wad a tyrant a 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. POEM, ( 387 ) POEM, Addressed io Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excisf, Dumfries, 17 96. Friend of the poet tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee might beg or steal ; Alake, alake the meikle dell Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel. In my poor pouches. I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. That one pound one, I sairly want it ; If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. It would be kind ; And while my heart wi' life-blood dun ted I'd bear't in mind. C c 2 So ( 388 ) So may the auld year gang out ^noaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin To thee and thine ; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hail design. POSTSCRIPT. YeVe heard this while how I've been licket. And by fell death was nearly nicket : Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk ; But by gude luck I lap a wicket. And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't. And by that life, I'm promised mair o't. My hale and weel I'll take a care o't A ten tier way : Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't For ance and ay. Sent ( 389 ) Sent to a Gentleman whom he had amended. The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. POEM ( 3go ) POEM ON LIFE, Addressed to Colonel De Peyster, Dumfries, 179^. JMY honored colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet's weal ; Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it. Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; And fortune favor worth and merit. As they deserve : (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha would starve ?) Dame ( 391 ) Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her. And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still. Ay wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole auld Satan^ Watches, like bavvd'rons by a rattan. Our sinfu' saul to get a claute on Wi' felon ire ; Syne, whip ! his tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on. He's off like fire. Ah ! Nick, ah Nick it is na fair. First shewing us the tempting ware. Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. To put us daft ; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare O' hell's damned waft. Poor man the fiie, aft bizzes bye, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. Thy auld damned elbow yeuks wi joy. And hellish pleasure ; Already in thy fancy's eye. Thy sicker treasure. Soon ( 392 ) Soon heels o*er gowdie ! in he gangs, And like a sheep-head on a tangs. Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murdering wrestle, As dangling in the wind he hangs A gibbet's tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil. To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil, I quat my pen : The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! Amen ! amen ! ADDRESS ( 393 ) ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. MY curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance ; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. Like racking engines ! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan ; But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. Ay mocks our groan ! Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle. As round the fire the giglets keckle. To see me loup ; While raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. VOL. IV. Dd O' a' { 394 ) O' a' the numVous human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. Sad sight to see ! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools. Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be priests ca' hell. Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. And ranked plagues their numbers tell. In dreadfu' raw. Thou, TooTH-AcHE surely bear'st the bell Amang them a' ! O thou grim mischief-making chiel. That gars the notes oi discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ; — Gic ,a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Tooth-Ache ! ON ( 395 ) 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 dews o' summer weeping, In tears the rose buds steeping. Chorus. that's the lassie o* my hearty My lassie ever dearer, thafs the queen o' woman kind^ And ne^er a ane to feer her^ Dd2 If ( 396 ) 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. that's, &c. If thou hadst heard her talking. And thy attentions plighted. That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted ; And thou art all delighted. O thafs, &c. If thou hast met this fair one ; When frae her thou hast parted. If every other fair one. Bat her thou hast deserted, And thou art broken hearted. — O ihafs the lassie o my hearf, My lassie ever dearer, that's the queen &' ivoman kind, And ne'er a ane to ■peer her. SONG. ( 397 ) SONG. Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountains he is gaae ; And with him is a' my bHss, Nought but griefs with me remain. Spare my lu\;e 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 blythe his waukening be ! He will think on her he loves. Fondly he'll repeat her name ; For where'er he distant roves. Jockey's heart is still at hame. SONG. ( 398 ) 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. Her 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 owns 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 ( 399 ) Written in a ivrapper inclosing a letter to Capt. Grose, to he left ivith Mr. Cardonnel, Anti- quarian, Tune — ^ Sir John Malcom.' K.EN ye ought o' Captain Grose ? Igo, ^ ago. If he's amang his friends or foes ? Irar/iy coram, dago. Is he South, or is he North ? Igo, iff ago. Or drowned in the river Forth ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highland bodies ? Jgo, & 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 ( 400 ) Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! Jgo^ ^ ago. As for the deil he daur na steer him, IraWj coram, dago. But please transmit fh' inclosed letter, Igo, & ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor, Iram, coram, dago. So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 1 go, &? ago. The very stanes that Adam bore, Irani, coram, dago. So may ye get in glad possession ; 1 go, & ago. The coins o' Satan's coronation ! Jrafti, coram, dago. TO ( 401 ) TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRY, On receiving a Favor. I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, And all. the tribute of my heart returns. For boons accorded, goodness ever new. The gift still dearer, as the giver you. Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; If aught that giver from my mind efface ; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres. Only to number out a villain's years ! EPITAPH ( 402 ) EPITAPH OK A FRIEND. — *««s«^©»SK«»*— An honest man here lies at rest, As e'er God with his Image blest, The friend of man, the friend of truth ; The friend of age, and guide of youth : Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; If there is none, he made the best of this. { 403 ) A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. O THOU, who kindly dost provide For every creature's want ! We bless thee, God of nature wide. For all thy goodness lent : And, if it please thee, heavenly guide, May never worse be sent ; But whether granted, or denied. Lord bless us with content ! Amen ! ( 404 ) TO My dear and much honored friend, Mks. DUNLOP, of DUNLOP, ON SENSIBILITY. Sensibility how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; But distress with horrors arming, Thou hast also known too well ! Fairest flower, behold the lily. Blooming in the sunny ray : Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. See it prostrate on the clay. ( 405 > Hear the wood lark charm the forest. Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow ; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. Thrill the deepest notes of woe. ^ verse ( 406 > Averse composed and repeated by Burns, to the Master of the house, on taking leave at a place in the Highlands, where he had heen hospitally entertained. When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come ; In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more. Than just a Highland welcome. GLOSSARY. GLOSSARY. GLOSSARY. A Bien, wealthy^ plentiful j4bEIGH, At a shy dis- Blrk, birch tance Birkie, a. clever fellow Ah-l-pemiy, earnest-money Birken-shaiu^Birchen-iuood- Asklenti asquint, aslant shaw, a small wood Athort, athwart Bleert and hltrii bleered and Auld lang syne, olden time, blind days of other years Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum B Bluntiej snivelling Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins BaUDRANS, a cat Bouk, vomiting, gushing Baivk, bank out Beld, bald Breckan, fern Ben, into the spence, or Brent, smooth parlour Bugktin-time, the time of But and Ben, the country collecting the sheep in kitchen and parlour the pens to be milked. B'leldj shelter Lught, a pen VOL. IV. E e Burn, 410 GLOSSARY. Burn, or Burnie, a water, Crowdie, a dish made of a rivulet oat -meal Bushie, bushy Cushats, doves, or wood Busks, dresses pigeons Buss, shelter Cutty, short 5>T^, a cow-house, a shippen D C C ALLAN, A boy DaFT, Merry, giddy. Caller, fresh, sound, re- foolish freshing Davoc, David Caiiie, gentle, mild, dex- Dights, cleans trous Dool, sorrow, to sing dool, Cantie, cheerful, merry to lament, to mourn Cesses, taxes Doos, doves Chiel, a young fellow Doup, backside Clauf, to clea.n, to scrape Doup-skelper, oi^etha.tstnkes Clavers, idle stories the tail Cleeds, cloaths Dour and din, sullen, sal- Cluds, clouds low Cockernony, a lock of hair Douser, prudenter tied up on a girl's head, Dotuff, pithless, wanting a cap force Coft, bought Dowie, worn with grief, fa- Co^, a wooden dish tigue Coggie^ diniin. of cog Dojilt, stupid Collieshangie, quarreling Drone, part of a bag-pipe Coof, a blockhead, a ninny Droukit, wet Coost, did cast Draunting, drawling Couthy, kin loving Dru7nlie, muddy Craik, name of a bird Duds, rags, clothes Grouse, cheerfully, coura- Dunfed, boxt geous EERIE, GLOSSARY. 411 E Gar, to make, to force to Gaher-lunzie, an old man -Eerie, Dreading spirits, Gadsman, plqugh-boy, the frighted boy that drives the korses Eild, old age in the plough Geek, to toss the head in F wantonness or scorn Gigleis, playful girls Fa', Fall, lot, to fall Glaiket, inattentive, foolish Pa'5,does fall, water-falls Glaum' d, aimed, snatched Fash, trouble, care; to Gleck, sharp, ready trouble, to care for Glc'ih, glebe Techt, to fight Glen, dale, deep valley Fechtin, fighting Glinted, peeped Fecket, v^'aistcoat Gloamin, twilight Feckly, weakly Glozur, to look, stare Fen, successful struggle, Goiuans, flowers of the fight daisy, dandelion, hawk- Ferlle, to wonder, a won- weed, Sec. der, a term of contempt Goiuqny, goiuany glens, 4*i- Fiel, soft, smooth sied dales Ftent, fiend, a petty oath Grained cS Gaunted, groaned Fiere, sound, healthy, a and grunted brother, a friend Graith, geer Fleech'd, supplicated Grat, wept, shed tears Flickering, to meet, to en- Gree, to agree, to bear the counter with g'ree, to be decidedly For-hy, besides victor Father, fodder Grunzie, mouth Fyle, to soil, to dirty H HaLY, holy GaRT, Forced to Hallan, 412 GLOSSARY. Hallan, a partition wall in Kintra cooser, country staU a cottage lion Hecht, offered Knurl, dwarf Hecklcj a board in which Kith, kindred are fixed a number of sharp pins, used in dress- L ing hempt, flax, &c. Himy, honey IjAIGH, low Hoddin, the motion of a Lawin, shot, reckoning bill sage country man riding Lave, the rest, the remain - on a cart horse, humble der, the other Hosts, coughs Lea-rig, grassy ridge Howff, a landlady, a house Leesome, pleasant of resort Lihbet, gelded Howlet, an owl Lift, sky Hushion, cushion Lilts, ballads, tunes to sing Linn, a precipice I Loan, or loanin, the place of milking ILK, or Bka, each, every Loof, the palm of the hand Loup, jump, leap J Lugs, the ears JiNKIN, Dodging ^ Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head MaILEN, Farm Meichle, much K Mirk, or mirkest, dark, darkest KeNSPECKLE, Well known N Ken, to know, ie?id, or ken'f, knew, known 1\EIFES, or Nieves, fists Nozvf.. GLOSSARY. 413 Nowty black cattle O OcHELS.'^^mQ of moun- tains O haith, O faith ! an oath PaITRICK, a partridge Parle, speech Pazukie, cunning, sly "Fettle, to cherish, a plough staff Pbilibegs, short petticoats worn by the Highland- men Poortithy poverty R RaX'D, stretched Reekf smoke Reeking, smoking Rezu, repent Rief randies, sturdy beggars Routhie, plentiful Routh o' gear, plenty of goods Roivtb, plenty Rung, a cudgel Runkled, wrinkled SCJTTH, To damage, to injure, injury Screed, to tear, a rent Shaw, a small wood Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice Shtel, a shed Sicker, sure, steady Skeigh, proud, nice, high- mettled Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart trip- ping step ; a smart stroke Skinklin, a small portion Snapper, stumble Sneck, latch of a door Snell, bitter, biting Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppressive slavery ; to submit tame- ly, to sneak Sonsie, having sweet, en- gaging looks ; lucky, jolly Sough, a sigh, a sound dy- ing on the ear Spates, swollen streams Speel, to climb Stahuart, strong, stout Sten, to rear as a horse, to stride Steer, 414 GLOSSARY. Steer, to molest, to stir Trjsfed, appointed ; to trystfy Stents, tribute, dues of any to make an appointment kind Trews, trowsers Sloure, dust, more particu- larly dust in motion U Sto^un, stolen 5/0 If/), a kind of jug or dish UNCO, strange, uncouth. with a handle Stoyte, stumble Swarf, swoon Swats, liquor Switb, get away Sjne, since, ago, then very, very great, prodi- gious JJnweeting, unwotting, un- knowing Unsicker, unsure, unsteady Urchin, a hedge -hog TaIRGE, target Tamtallan, the name of a mountain Tedding, spreading after the mower Tentie, heedful, cautious Theektt, thatched Thud, to make a loud in- termittent noise Tine or Tjne, to lose Tint, lost Tint the gate, lost the way Tirl, to make a slight noise, to uncover Tocher, marriage portion Trig, spruce, neat W Waft, Woof Wale, choice, to chuse iValte, ample, large, jolly ; also an interjection of dis- tress JVarlock, a wizzard Wars tie, wrestling, struggle PFanght, draught Wee, little Weet, rain, witness Weird, fate Whjles, sometimes Wicker, willow (the smaller sort) Wozu, an exclamation of pleasure pr wonder Wbns, GLOSSARY. 415 IVons, dwells Y Wrack, to teaze, to vex Wraith, a spirit, a ghost ; YETT, a gate, such as is an apparition exactly like tisually at the entrance into a living person, whose a farm yard or field appearance is said to Yill, ale forebode the person's ap- Yird, earth preaching death YQ%ue, an ewe Wyle, beguile. Yule, Christmas FINIS. -TV (^I ■^■'^ ■^■'^