Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (152 page)

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.

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.

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.

¹⁴²
Nee
Rutherford, of Selkirkshire. She was then 81 years old.

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