income;[130] and with my large family this is to me a distressing matter.
R. B.
[Footnote 130: Never more than 70 UK pounds.]
* * * * *
CLXXXVII.–To MRS. RIDDEL.
Dear Madam,–I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those lobster-coated puppies[131] sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the visit.
Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine–a shrine, how far exalted above such adoration–permit me, were it but for rarity’s sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent mind; and to assure you that I am, thou most amiable, and most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, etc.
R. B.
[Footnote 131: Military officers.]
* * * * *
CLXXXVIII.–To MRS. RIDDEL.
I will wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment for a poet’s pen! There is a species of human genus that I call _the gin-horse class_: what enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round they go,–Mundell’s ox, that drives his cotton mill, is their exact prototype–without an idea or wish beyond their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a damn’d melange of fretfulness and melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold– “And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!” If my resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak; and if–….
Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of
R. B.
* * * * *
CLXXXIX.–To MRS. RIDDEL.
I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it; even perhaps while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could any thing estrange me from a friend such as you?–No! To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting on you.
Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women I even with all thy little caprices!
R B.
* * * * *
CXC.–To MRS. RIDDEL.
Madam,–I return your commonplace book. I have perused it with much pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value.
If it is true that “offences come only from the heart,” before you I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most accomplished of women, and the first of friends–if these are crimes, I am the most offending thing alive.
In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly confidence, _now_ to find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn–is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, that while _de-haut-en-bas_ rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy.
With the profoundest respect for your abilities, the most sincere esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable manners, and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, Madam, your most devoted humble servant.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCI.–TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
25_th February_ 1794.
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me?
For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, _ab origine_, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition.
Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. _A heart at ease_ would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility.
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The ONE is composed of the different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in a man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The OTHER is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul; those _senses of the mind_ if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful obscure realities–an all-powerful, and equally beneficent God; and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field: the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure.
I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty FEW, to lead the undiscerning MANY; or at most, as an uncertain obscurity which mankind can never know anything of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a musical ear, I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of a view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the glowing luxuriance of the spring; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature’s God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson,
These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee.
And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask, what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCII.–To MRS. DUNLOP.
CASTLE DOUGLAS, _25th June 1794._
Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard’s favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens, that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken.
I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing, as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it an irregular ode for General Washington’s birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms I come to Scotland thus:
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death; Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep,
Disturb ye not the hero’s sleep.
You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCIII.–To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
DUMFRIES, 1794.
My Dear Friend,–You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that _I have almost hung my harp on the willow trees_.
I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.
I send you by my friend, Mr. Wallace, forty-one songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot finish it any other way, what would you think of Scotch words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the meantime, at your leisure, give a copy of the _Museum_ to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel’s, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the _Museum_ a book famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
I have got a highland dirk, for which I have great veneration, as it once was the dirk of _Lord Balmerino_. It fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew.–Yours, etc.,
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCIV.–To MR. PETER MILLER, JUN., OF DALSWINION.[131]
DUMFRIES, _Nov. 1794._
Dear Sir,–Your offer is indeed truly generous, and sincerely do I thank you for it; but in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services; I then could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued.
My prospect in the Excise is something; at least, it is–encumbered as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of helpless individuals–what I dare not sport with.
In the meantime, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt, if he will give me an address and channel by which anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into the world through the medium of some newspaper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which, by-the-by, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed.
With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, Dear Sir,
R. B.
[Footnote 131: He had offered Burns a post on the staff of _The Morning Chronicle_, of which newspaper Mr. Perry was proprietor.]
* * * * *
CXCV.–To MRS, RIDDEL,
Madam,–I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of hell, amid the horrors of the damn’d. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel–his name I think is _Recollection_–with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apology.–Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me, and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to apologise. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I—too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners–do make, on my part, a miserable damn’d wretch’s best apology to her. A Mrs. G–, a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness.–To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them that my errors, though great, were involuntary–that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts–that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one–that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me–but–
Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me! spare me!
Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your humble slave,
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCVI.–To MRS. DUNLOP.
_15th December 1795._
My Dear Friend,–As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sympathise with it: these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day a week or less threatened to terminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of fate! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am–such things happen every day –Gracious God! what would become of my little flock! ‘Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on his deathbed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I–but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!
To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad–
O that I had ne’er been married,
I would never had nae care;
Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns,
They cry crowdie evermair.
Crowdie ance, crowdie twice:
Crowdie three times in a day:
An ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.
_25th, Christmas Morning._
This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes; accept mine–so Heaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my favourite author–“The Man of Feeling,” “May the Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest!”
Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? Is not the “Task” a glorious poem? The religion of the “Task,” bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Nature; the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your _Zeluco_ in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCVII.–To MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON.
DUMFRIES, _2Oth December 1795._
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of yours…. Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take up the pen and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish songs, which is making its appearance in our great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does over the English.
_December 29th._
Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of business, and what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, and during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form: a consummation devoutly to be wished! My political sins seem to be forgiven me.
This is the season (New Year’s day is now my date) of wishing, and mine are most fervently offered up for you! May life to you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your friends! What a transient business is life! Very lately I was a boy; but t’other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o’er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I look on the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom and Goodness superintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot–I felicitate such a man for having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress; and a never-failing anchor of hope when he looks beyond the grave.
R. B.
* * * *
CXVIII.–To THE HON, THE PROVOST, ETC., OF DUMFRIES.
Gentlemen,–The literary taste, and liberal spirit, of your good town has so ably filled the various departments of your schools, as to make it a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my large family, and very stinted income, to give my young ones the education I wish, at the high-school fees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me.
Some years ago, your good town did me the honour of making me an honorary Burgess. Will you allow me to request that this mark of distinction may extend so far, as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of the town, in the schools?
If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve you; and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have the honour to be, Gentlemen, your devoted humble servant,
R. B.[132]
[Footnote 132: With the Poet’s request the Magistiates of Dumfries very handsomely complied. He was induced to make the request through the persuasions of Mr. James Gray and Mr. Thomas White, Masters of the Grammar School, Dumfries whose memories are still green on the banks of the Nith.–CUNNINGHAM.]
* * * *
CXCIX.–To MRS. DUNLOP.[133]
DUMFRIES, _3lst January 1796._
These many months you have been two packets in my debt–what sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas! Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her.[133a] I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before my own door in the street.
R. B.
[Footnote 133: Cunningham says–“It seems all but certain that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the Poet with some little displeasure during the evening of his days.”]
[Footnote 133a: This child died at Mauchline.]
* * * * *
CC.–To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
DUMFRIES, _4th July 1796._
How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume?[134] You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care has these many months lain heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia.
You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world–because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me will, I doubt much, my dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to far more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of sentiment! However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I can.
I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the _Scots Musical Museum_. If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon.–Yours ever,
R. B.[135]
[Footnote 134: Of the _Musical Museum_.]
[Footnote 135: “In this humble manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work to which he had contributed, gratuitously, not less than 184 original, altered, and collected songs!”–CROMEK.]
* * * * *
CCI–TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
BROW, _Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July_ 1796.
My Dear Cunningham,–I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you mention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair– my spirits fled! fled!–but I can no more on the subject–only the medical folks tell me that my last and only chance is bathing and country quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter is this–when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead of £50. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters, with a wife and five children at home, on 35 pounds? I mention this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise to grant me the full salary; I dare say you know them all personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly _en poete_; if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger.[136]
I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy here, but I shall be at home soon, when I will send it you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable designation of _Alexander Cunningham Burns_. My last was _James Glencairn_, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell.
R. B.
[Footnote 136: _Not_ granted.]
* * * * *
CCII.–To MR. GILBERT BURNS.
_10th July 1795._
Dear Brother,–It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, and will continue there, or in a friend’s house in the country, all the summer. God keep my wife and children; if I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town, that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me to my mother.–Yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIII.–To MRS. BURNS.[137]
BROW, _Thursday._
My Dearest Love,–I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me; but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday.–Your affectionate husband,
R. B.
[Footnote 137: One evening, while at the Brow, Burns was visited by two young ladies. The sun, setting on the western hills, threw a strong light upon him through the window. One of them perceiving this, proceeded to draw the curtain; “Let me look at the sun, my dear,” said the sinking poet, “he will not long shine on me.”]
* * * * *
CCIV.–To MRS. DUNLOP.
BROW, _Saturday, 12th July 1796._
Madam,–I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCV.–To MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.
DUMFRIES, _12th July._
MY DEAR COUSIN,–When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O James, did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely. Melancholy and low spirits are half my disease. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCVI.–To HIS FATHER-IN-LAW, JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, MAUCHLINE.[138]
DUMFRIES, _18th July 1799._
MY DEAR SIR,–Do, for heaven’s sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately. My wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God! what a situation for her to be in, poor girl, without a friend! I returned from sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost persuade me that I am better, but I think and feel that my strength is so gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me.–Your son-in-law,
R. B.
[Footnote 138: Mrs. Burns’s father. This is the very last of Burns’s compositions, being written only three days before his death.]
* * * *
THE THOMSON LETTERS.
PREFATORY NOTE.
This correspondence began in September 1792, when Burns had already been domiciled nine months in the town of Dumfries, and ended only with his death in July 1796. It originated in the request of a stranger for a series of songs to suit a projected collection of the best Scottish airs. The stranger was George Thomson, a young man of about Burns’s own age, and head clerk in the office of the Board of Manufactures in Edinburgh. Thomson outlived his great correspondent by more than half a century. He died so recently as 1851, at the advanced age of ninety-two. Robert Chambers has described him as a most honourable man, of singularly amiable character and cheerful manners. It may interest some people to know that his granddaughter was the wife of Dickens, the famous novelist.
THE THOMSON LETTER.
I.
DUMFRIES, _16th September 1792._
Sir,–I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don’t hurry me. “Deil tak the hindmost” is by no means the _crie de guerre_ of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance–will you let me have a list of your airs, with the first line of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur to me? You know ’tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen,[139] the undoubted rights of publishers, to approve or reject at your pleasure, for your own publication. _Apropos_ if you are for _English_ verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligible. “Tweedside;” “Ah! the Poor Shepherd’s Mournful Fate;” “Ah! Chloris, could I now but sit,” etc., you cannot mend; but such insipid stuff as “To Fanny fair, could I impart,” etc., usually set to “The Mill, Mill, O,” is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the very superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution of the business, if I am to be called on for my strictures and amendments–I say, amendments; for I will not alter, accept where I myself, at least, think that I amend.
As to any renumeration, you may think my songs either above or below price; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, etc., would be downright sodomy of soul! A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, “Gude speed the wark!”–I am, Sir, your very humble servant,
R. BURNS.
P.S.–I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be known as little as possible.
[Footnote 139: Thomson in his letter spoke of coadjutors, but in less than a year he became sole editor of the collection.]
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II.
My Dear Sir,–Let me tell you that you are too fastidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you specify in your list have, _all but one_, the faults you remark in them; but how shall we mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say–Go to, I will make a better? For instance, on reading over “The Lea-rig,” I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough:–
When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, (etc.)
Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy’s ballad to the air, “Nannie O,” is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly apposite. For this reason, and upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours to approve or reject as you please) that my ballad of “Nannie, O”, might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don’t let it enter into your head that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the business of authorship; and have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity.
In the printed copy of my “Nannie, O”, the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it,
Behind yon hills where _Lugar_ flows.
Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables.
I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business; but I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay; so, with my best compliments to honest Allan,[140] goodbye to ye.
_Friday night.
Saturday morning._
As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my conveyance goes away, I will give you “Nannie, O”, at length.
Your remarks on “Ewe-bughts, Marion”, are just; still it has obtained a place among our more classical Scottish songs; and what with many beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it.
In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits of “Ewe-bughts”, but it will fill up this page. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their _race_.
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, (etc.)
“Gala Water,” and “Auld Rob Morris,” I think, will most probably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on _my verses_, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of _opiniâtretè_, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. Gude speed the wark!
Amen.
[Footnote 140: David Allan, the artist.]
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III.
_November_ 8_th_, 1792,
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the _feature-notes_ of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, “My Wife’s a wanton wee Thing”, if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The enclosed were made extempore to it; and though, on farther study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink.
I have just been looking over the “Collier’s bonny Dochter”, and if the enclosed rhapsody which I composed the day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the “Collier Lassie”, fall on and welcome.
I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve a greater effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, etc.
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IV.
Inclosing “Highland Mary”.–Tune–_Katharine Ogie_.
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, (etc.)
14_th November_ 1792.
My Dear Sir,–I agree with you, that the song “Katharine Ogie”, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it; but the awkward sound “Ogie,” recurring in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you will see at the first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all,’tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition.
I have partly taken your idea of “Auld Rob Morris”. I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, _sans ceremonie_, make what use you choose of the productions. Adieu! etc.
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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.
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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.
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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.”]
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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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.
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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.
[Footnote 143: Songs for his publication. Burns goes through the whole; but only his remarks of any importance are presented here.]
[Footnote 144: It is believed to have been his own composition.]
* * * * *
XV.
_September_ 1793.
“Who shall decide when doctors disagree?” My ode[145] pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on reconsidering it; as I think I have much improved it. Instead of “sodger! hero!” I will have it “Caledonian! on wi’ me!”
I have scrutinised it over and over; and to the world some way or other it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan’s verses.
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; but allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter; however, in that, I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence.
[Footnote 145: Scots wha hae.]
* * * * *
XVI.
_May_ 1794.
My Dear Sir,–I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased. I would humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the _burin_, is quite charmed with Allan’s manner. I got him a peep of the “Gentle Shepherd”, and he pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence.
For my part, I look on Mr. Allan’s choosing my favourite poem for his subject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.
I am quite vexed at Pleyel’s being cooped up in France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by-and-by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls “The Banks of Cree.” Cree is a beautiful romantic stream, and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it:–
Here is the glen, and here the bower, (etc.)
* * * * *
XVII.
_Sept_. 1794.
I shall withdraw my “On the seas and far away” altogether; it is unequal, and unworthy of 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 have sent you the offspring of my brain, abortions and all; and as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn them. I am flattered at your adopting “Ca’ the yowes to the knowes”, as it was owing to me that it ever saw the light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung it charmingly: and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its head.
Ca’ the yowes, (etc.)
I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, my first scribbling fit.
* * * * *
XVIII.
19_th October_ 1794.
My Dear Friend,–By this morning’s post I have your list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day’s fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his opinion in general; you know his taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, so please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do–persuade you to adopt my favourite, “Craigie-burn wood”, in your selection; it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and, in fact (_entre nous_), is in a manner to me what Sterne’s Eliza was to him–a mistress, a friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don’t put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy–could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary _in song_–to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs–do you imagine I fast and pray for the divine emanation? _Tout au contraire_! I have a glorious recipe–the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself on a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!
To descend to business; if you like my idea of “When she cam ben she bobbit”, the enclosed stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas.
Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. “The Posie” (in the _Museum_) is my composition; the air was 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 tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which “Roslin Castle” is composed. The second part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. “Strathallan’s Lament” is mine; the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well beloved, Allan Masterton. “Donocht head” is not mine; I would give ten pounds if it were. It appeared first in the _Edinburgh Herald_; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it[146]
“Whistle o’er the lave o’t” is mine; the music is said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a redwud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it.
“Andrew and his cutty gun”. The song 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 lang and dreary is the night.” I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across the room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page.
Tune–_Cauld Kail in Aberdeen_.
How lang and dreary is the night, (etc.)
Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it.
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.
[Footnote 146:
“Keen blaws the wind o’er Donocht head, The snaw drives snelly thro’ the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,
And, shivering, tells his waefu’ tale. “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.”(etc.)]
* * * * *
XIX.
_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, etc., for your work. I intend drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, etc., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end; which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for “My 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, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song:–
My Chloris, mark how green the groves, (etc,)
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 kindly into the story of _ma chlre amie_. I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my life than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion,
Where Love is liberty, and Nature law,
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet, in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains, the purchase!
* * * * *
XX.
I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as “Deil tak the wars,” to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of “Saw ye my father:” by heavens, the odds is gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernised 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 tune as follows.[147]
There is an air, “The Caledonian Hunt’s delight”, to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. “Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie 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 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 several years ago. Now, to shew you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly 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 Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them.
I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; ’tis dunning your generosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so, by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the 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.
[Footnote 147: 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.”]
* * * * *
XXI.
19_th Nov_. 1794.
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 figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one; but it is a very rude instrument. It is composed of three parts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 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 up by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back ventige, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the Braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country.
However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine; as I look on myself to be a kind of 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 the world.
* * * * *
XXII.
_January_ 1795.
I fear for my songs; however a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and, as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, etc., 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 consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme.
FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.
Is there for honest poverty, (etc.)
* * * * *
XXIII.
Ecclefechan,[148] 7_th Feb_. 1795.
My Dear Thomson,–You cannot have any idea of the predicament 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 insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them; like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed) I of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk at your service!
I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. 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, “We’ll gang nae mair to yon town?” 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.
[Footnote 148: The birthplace of Carlyle.]
* * * * *
XXIV.
You see how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetising, 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 frenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment “holding high converse” with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are.
* * * *
XXV.
_April_ 1796.
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! “By Babel streams I have sat and wept” almost ever since I wrote you last. I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say, with poor Fergusson–
Say, wherefore has an all indulgent Heaven Light to the comfortless and wretched given?
This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my _howff_, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan’s etchings. “Woo’d and married 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 Jockey”. Besides the female being in her appearance quite a virago, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathise with him! Happy am I to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me–but that is a damning subject!
* * * * *
XXVI.
[_Probably May_ 1796.]
My Dear Sir,–Inclosed is a certificate which (although little different from the model) I suppose will amply answer the purpose, and I beg you will prosecute the miscreants[149] without mercy. When your publication is finished, I intend publishing a collection, on a cheap plan, of all the songs I have written for you, The Museum, and others–at least, all the songs of which I wish to be called the author. I do not propose this so much in the way of emolument as to do justice to my muse, lest I should be blamed for trash I never saw, or be defrauded by false claimants of what is justly my own. The post is going.–I will write you again to-morrow. Many thanks for the beautiful seal.
R. B.
[Footnote 149: For infringement of copyright.]
* * * * *
XXVII.
BROW-ON-SOLWAY, 4_th July_ 1796.
My Dear Sir,–I received your songs; but my health is so precarious, nay, dangerously situated, that, as a last effort, I am here at sea-bathing quarters. Besides an inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone, and I am so emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs. Alas! Is this a time for me to woo the muses? However, I am still anxiously willing to serve your work, and if possible shall try. I would not like to see another employed–unless you could lay your hand upon a poet whose productions would be equal to the rest. Farewell, and God bless you.
R. BURNS.
* * * * *
XXVIII.
BROW, on the Solway Firth, 12_th July_ 1796.
After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly 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 gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on “Rothiemurchie” 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![150]
Fairest maid on Devon banks,
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
And smile as thou wert wont to do? (etc.)
[Footnote 150: These verses, and the letter inclosing them, are written in a character that marks the very feeble state of their author.]