CCLXXVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[For "Fy! let us a' to the bridal," and "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," and "There's nae luck about the house," Burns puts in a word of praise, from a feeling that Thomson's taste would induce him to exclude the first--one of our most original songs--from his collection.]
_September, 1793._
I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find English songs.
For "Muirland Willie," you have, in Ramsay's Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, "Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" As for "The Collier's Dochter," take the following old bacchanal:--
"Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c."[250]
The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend thus:
How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
The song otherwise will pass. As to "M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins,
Raving winds around her blowing.[251]
Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank Irish. If they were like the "Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of "Roy's wife," for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. "Deil tak the wars" is a charming song; so is, "Saw ye my Peggy?" "There's nae luck about the house" well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and far awa" strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain house," is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of "I hae laid a herrin' in saut?" I like it much. Your jacobite airs are pretty, and there are many others of the same kind pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert "Fy! let's a' to the bridal," to any other words than its own.
What pleases me, as simple and _naive_, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," "Fy let's a' to the bridal," with several others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing; while "Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother?" delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, "Ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten?" pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this: but "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait."
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 250: Song CCXII.]
[Footnote 251: Song LII.]
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CCLXXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work.]
_October, 1793._
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine![252] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you.
I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of "Leiger m' choss." The following verses, I hope, will please you, as an English song to the air.
Thine am I, my faithful fair:[253]
Your objection to the English song I proposed for "John Anderson my jo," is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit.
SONG.--BY GAVIN TURNBULL.[254]
Oh, condescend, dear charming maid, My wretched state to view; A tender swain, to love betray'd, And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy, My passion I deplore, Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate, I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain The urchin's power denied. I laugh'd at every lover's pain, And mock'd them when they sigh'd.
But how my state is alter'd! Those happy days are o'er; For all thy unrelenting hate, I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield! No longer let me mourn; And though victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee, My wonted peace restore; And grateful I shall bless thee still, And love thee more and more.
The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air "There was a lass, and she was fair." By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, That ever tried the plaintive strain, Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid And teach him smoothly to complain, Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, In sport she wanders o'er the plain: Their tales approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain.
When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to "Lewie Gordon."
LAURA.
Let me wander where I will, By shady wood, or winding rill; Where the sweetest May-born flowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers; Where the linnet's early song Echoes sweet the woods among: Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.
If at rosy dawn I choose To indulge the smiling muse; If I court some cool retreat, To avoid the noontide heat; If beneath the moon's pale ray, Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.
When at night the drowsy god Waves his sleep-compelling rod, And to fancy's wakeful eyes Bids celestial visions rise, While with boundless joy I rove Thro' the fairy land of love; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.
The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 252: "The honorable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed."--CURRIE.]
[Footnote 253: Song CCXIII.]
[Footnote 254: Gavin Turnbull was author of a now forgotten volume, published at Glasgow, in 1788, under the title of "Poetical Essays."]
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CCLXXVIII.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,
WITH A PARCEL.
[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation of Burns.]
_Dumfries, [December, 1793.]_
SIR,
'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are the six guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man--or woman either. But for these d----d dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,[255] I had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face.
I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 255: Scottish Bank notes.]
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