The Letters of Robert Burns by Robert Burns

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V.

26_th January_ 1793.

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

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite
songs--but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think
that some of them, particularly "The Sow's Tail to Geordie", as an air,
with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of
lively songs?

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

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

LORD GREGORY.
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, (etc.)

Your remark on the first stanza of my "Highland Mary" is just, but I
cannot alter it, without injuring the poetry.

* * * * *

VI.

_20th March 1793._

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

What is become of the list, etc., of your songs? I shall be out of all
temper with you by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince
of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will
not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else.

* * * * *

VII.

_7th April 1793. _

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much
this business of composing for your publication has added to my
enjoyments. What, with my early attachment to ballads, your book, etc.,
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 cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with
whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, "Sae merry as we a' hae
been" and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words
of the voice of Coila shall be, "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!" So
much for my last words; now for a few present remarks as they have
occurred at random, on looking over your list.

The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the Moor", and several
other lines in it, are 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 Braes" 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 faes,
Far, far frae me, and Logan braes.

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

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

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, "Rigs of
Barley", to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can
mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it
to your consideration. The "Lass o' Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's
best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued
friend, Mr. Erskine, will take into his critical consideration. In Sir
J. Sinclair's statistical volumes are two claims, one I think, from
Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song.
The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William
Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon,
I can on such authorities believe.

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father to
Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his
lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irwine water, still
called "Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay, bareheaded
on the green." My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme
for a song, Ramsay took the hint, and lingering 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 banns published, as a
purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you that my
song, "There's nought but care on every hand," is much superior to
"Poortith Cauld." The original song, "The Mill, Mill, O," though
excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the
title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your
chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. The "Banks
of 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 always comparatively flat. If I could
hit on another stanza equal to "The small birds rejoice," etc., I do
myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. "John Anderson, my
jo"--the song to this tune in Johnson's _Museum_ is my composition, and
I think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your
collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very
complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are "Tullochgorum," "Lumps
o' Puddin'," "Tibbie Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble
judgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental
song of mine in the _Museum_, which never was known out of the immediate
neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing.
It is called "Craigie-burn Wood;" and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke is
one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it;
and I would take his taste in Scottish 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 a good while ago, which I think is the best love song[141]
I ever composed in my life; but in its original state it is not quite a
lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you
choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his "Lone Vale" is
divine.--Yours, etc.

Let me know just how you like these random hints.

[Footnote 141: "Yestreen I had a pint o' wine."]

* * * * *

VIII.

_April 1793._

My Dear Sir,--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 anything of mine.
One hint let me give you--whatever Mr. Peyel does, let him not alter one
_iota_ of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but
let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own,
frequently wild, and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that
very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect.

* * * * *

IX.

_June_ 1793.

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

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the "Mill, Mill, O."[142] What you
think a defect I esteem as a positive beauty; so you see how doctors
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with
your commands.

You know Frazer, the hautboy player in Edinburgh--he is here instructing
a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this country. Among
many of the airs that please me, there is one well known as a reel, by
the name of "The Quaker's Wife"; and which I remember a grand-aunt of
mine used to sing, by the name of "Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass".
Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I
became such an enthusiast about it that I made a song for it, which I
here subjoin, and inclose Frazer'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.

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, (etc.)

I should wish to hear how this pleases you.

[Footnote 142: The lines were the third and fourth--

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

* * * *

X.

_June 25th 1793_.

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

[Here follows "Logan Water."]

Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in
Witherspoon's _Collection of Scots Songs_?

Air--_Hughie Graham._

O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

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 Phoebus light.

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I know,
original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you
altogether, unless you gave it a place. 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 elbow-chair, I produced the following.
The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess; but if
worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every poet,
who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a
concluding stroke.

O were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

* * * * *

XI.

_July_ 1793.

I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary
parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would
savour of affectation; but as to any more traffic of that debtor or
creditor kind, I swear by that HONOUR which crowns the upright statue of
ROBERT BURNS'S INTEGRITY--on the least motion of it, I will indignantly
spurn the by--past transaction, and from that moment commence entire
stranger to you! BURNS'S character for generosity of sentiment and
independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which
the cold, unfeeling 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
admirably written; only, your partiality to me has made you say too
much: however, it will bind me down to double every eifort 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, beginning,

I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise the author of them,
who is an old lady[143] of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn; I forget of what place; but from
Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is

O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting,
Why, why torment us--_poor sons of a day_!

The old ballad, "I wish I were where Helen lies," is silly, to
contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better.

[Footnote 142: _Nee_ Rutherford, of Selkirkshire. She was then 81
years old.]

* * * * *

XII.

_August_ 1793.

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

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than in all the
year else. God bless you.

* * * *

XIII.

_Sept_. 1793.

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

You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of
nature's instincts, 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 your
connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious
din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many
little melodies which the learned musician despises as silly and
insipid. I do not know whether the old air "Hey tuttie taittie" may rank
among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer'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 Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed
me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and Independence,
which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one
might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic
followers on that eventful morning.

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS,
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
_Hey tuttie taittie_.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, (etc.)

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

P.S.--I showed 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
rhyming 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.

* * * * *

XIV.

_September 1793_.

I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on
it.[143]

"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 aye the tale.

With "Mary, when shall we return,
Sic pleasure to renew?"
Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,
And aye shall follow you."

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

"Cowden-knowes." 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 lie near me," must _lie by me_ for some time. I do not know the
air; and until I am complete master 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 expression, then
choose my theme, begin one stanza; when that is composed, which is
generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down
now and then, look out for objects in nature 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 strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home,
is almost invariably my way. What cursed egotism!

"Gil Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length; the air itself
is never sung, and its place can well be supplied by one or two songs
for fine airs that are not in your list. For instance,
"Craigieburn-wood" and "Roy's Wife". The first, besides its intrinsic
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
handwriting of the lady who composed it, and they are superior to any
edition of the song which the public has yet seen.

"Highland Laddie". The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best; and
the new an Italianised one. There is a third, and what Oswald calls the
"Old Highland Laddie", which pleases we more than either of them. It is
sometimes called "Jinglan Johnnie", it being the air of an old humorous
tawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, "I hae been at
Crookie-den," etc. I would advise you in this musical quandary, to offer
up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and, in the
meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bacchus, and
there is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice.
_Probatum est_.

"Auld Sir Simon," I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place "The
Quaker's Wife".

"Blythe hae I been on yon hill" is one of the finest songs ever I made
in my life; and, besides, is composed on a young lady positively the
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the
names and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future
edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly
include _the bonniest lass in a' the warld_ in your collection.

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

"Fee him, Father". I enclose you Frazer's set of this tune when he plays
it slow; in fact, he makes it the language of despair, I shall here give
you two stanzas in that style, merely to try if it will be any
improvement. Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos
which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an admirable pathetic
song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed
them at the time at which _Patie Allan's mither died_; that was _the
back o' midnight_; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had
overset every mortal in the company, except the hautbois and the muse.

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, (etc.)

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

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

My song is 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, (etc.)

"Todlin hame": Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been
mine; and this air is highly susceptible of pathos; accordingly, you
will soon hear him, at your concert, try it to a song of mine in the
_Museum_--"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon". One song more and I have
done: "Auld lang syne". The air is but _mediocre_; but the following
song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in
print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's
singing, is enough to recommend any air.[144]

AULD LANG SYNE.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (etc.)

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is
over, have a number of ballads, properly so called, "Gil Morice",
"Tranent Muir", "M'Pherson's Farewell", "Battle of Sheriff-Muir", or "We
ran and they ran" (I know the author of this charming 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 poor Mary's days. It was then called "The Banks o'
Helicon"; an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see
all this in Tytler's _History of Scottish Music_. The tune, to a learned
ear, may have no great merit; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good
many original things of this kind.

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