ALLOW me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose poems, I dare say, have given you much pleasure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt not, you will relish the man as much as his works, in which there is a rich vein of intellectual ore. He has heard some of our Highland luinigs or songs played, which delighted him so much that he has made words to one or two of them, which will render these more po pular. pular. As he has thought of being in your quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it' labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a sample of those sweet artless melodies, which only want to be married (in Milton's phrase) to congenial words. I wish we could conjure up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into our bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those neglected airs, which do not suit the fastidious musicians of the present hour. But if it be true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof of their taste;-this, however, is going out of my province. You can shew Mr. Burns the manner of singing these same luinigs; and, if he can humour it in words, I do not despair of seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the original style, round a napkin. I am very sorry we are likely to meet so seldom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that one has so few opportunities of cultivating acquaintances at a distance. I hope, however, some time or other, to have the pleasure of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and of hauling you away to Paisley, &c. meanwhile I beg to be remembered to Messrs. Boog and Mylne. If Mr. B. goes by give him a billet on our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, does not dread the frowns of his diocesan. I am, Dear Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. No. No. XXXIII From MR. RAMSAY, To DR. BLACKLOCK. Ochertyre, 27th October, 1787. DEAR SIR, I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and give you many thanks for giving thanks for giving me an opportunity of conversing with a man of his calibre. He will, I doubt not, let you know what passed between us on the subject of my hints, to which I have made additions in a letter I sent him t'other day to your care. You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, that that Colonel Edmondstoune told me t'other day, that his cousin, Colonel George Crawford, was no poet, but a great singer of songs; but that his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, having written the words of The Bush aboon Traquair, and Tweedside. That the Mary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr. John Relches. The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty-five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and had lived long in France. Lady Ankerville is his niece, and may know more of his poetical vein. An epitaph-monger like me might moralize upon the vanity of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions. But I have hardly room to offer my best compliments to Mrs. Blacklock; and am, Dear Doctor, Your most obedient humble servant, J. RAMSAY. No. |