No. XXX. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. MY DEAR THOMSON, August, 1793. I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who, at present, is studying the music of the spheres at my elbow. The "Georgium Sidus," he thinks, is rather out of tune; so, until he rectify that matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, and if more are wanted he says you shall have them. Confound your long stairs! S. CLARKE. [The writer of this old note was Stephen Clarke, teacher and composer of music; who superintended the publication of the Musical Museum, and through Burns was introduced to several good families in Dumfries-shire. He had a high opinion of his own merit, and a humble opinion of the merit of most of his brethren. He spoke contemptuously of the musical powers of the laird of Friars-Carse; though "The blue-eyed lass," as well as some other airs, might have saved him from the sarcasms of a brother composer.-ED.] No. XXXI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August, 1793. YOUR objection, my dear Sir, to the passages in my song of "Logan Water," is right in one instance; but it is difficult to mend it; if I can I will. The other passage you object to does not appear in the same light to me. I have tried my hand on "Robin Adair," and you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing any thing better to it. Down in a shady walk Doves cooing were, He who would injure thee, So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I always find myself most at home. I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for "Cauld kail in Aberdeen." If it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the heroine is a favorite of mine: if not I shall also be pleased; because I wish, and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, which you owe yourself. [One of our poets inspires his writing-desk with the power of speech, makes it complain of being obliged to endure all the fulsome compliments which he pays to beauty,-the flattering dedications which he makes to wealth,-and humorously begs a remission from what is painful, because affected or unjust Beauty is, in like manner, obliged to endure much at the hands of the wayward sons of song. It is, perhaps, not unfair for a poet to sing of his own sufferings: but a young lady has cause to complain, when a bard volunteers to embody in verse the imaginary woes of some fantastic person, and accuses her of inflicting visionary wounds on the fiddler to whose music she moves upon the floor, or on the musician who conducts her voice through a labyrinth of crotchets and quavers. Phillis M'Murdo is the heroine of this song: Burns wrote it at the request of Stephen Clarke, the musician, who believed himself in love with his "charming pupil."-ED.] No. XXXII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. August, 1793. MY GOOD SIR, I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable circumstances attending this publication of mine, that it has procured me so many of your much valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledgments to St. Stephen for the tunes: tell him I admit the justness of his complaint on my staircase conveyed in his laconic postscript to your jeu d'esprit; which I perused more than once, without discovering exactly whether your discussion was music, astronomy, or politics: though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial habits of the poet and the musician, offered me a bet of two to one you were just drowning care together; that an empty bowl was the only thing that would deeply affect you, and the only matter you could then study how to remedy! I shall be glad to see you give "Robin Adair" a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with an English suit for a change, and you are well matched together. Robin's air is excellent, though he certainly has an out-of-the-way measure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued with.-I wish you would invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza to be substituted for the concluding objectionable verses of "Down the Burn, Davie," so that this most exquisite song may no longer be excluded from good company. Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing from your "John Anderson, my jo," which I am to have engraved as a frontispiece to the humorous class of songs; you will be quite charmed with it, I promise you. The old couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great good humor, is clapping John's shoulders, while he smiles and looks at her with such glee, as to show that he fully recollects the pleasant days and nights when they were "first acquent." The drawing would do honor to the pencil of Teniers. [The "Mrs. Anderson" on whom this praise is bestowed, is what the old ballad calls "A carlin-a rig-widdie carlin," and seems fitter for a wife to him of Linkumdoddie than to be spouse to cantie and douce John. She has the look of an ogress: her nose resembles a ramhorn, and the fingers which she is about to apply to her husband's lyart-locks are as hard as lobster-claws.-Ed.] No. XXXIII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. August, 1793 THAT crinkum-crankum tune, "Robin Adair," has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham's story, which eappened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the dea justice, as follows: HAD I A CAVE. Tune-" Robin Adair." I. Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, II. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, Laugh o'er thy perjury, Then in thy bosom try What peace is there! By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander, in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs to both "Robin Adair" and "Gramachree." They certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish taste in them. |