Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor's thundering at his gun :
Bullets spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away!
On the seas, &c

At the starless midnight hour,

When winter rules with boundless power;
As the storms the forest tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,
Surging on the rocky shore,
All I can-I weep and pray,
For his weal that's far away.
On the seas, &c.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end
Man with brother man to meet,
And as a brother kindly greet:

Then may heaven, with prosp'rous gales,
Fill my sailor's welcome sails,
To my arms their charge convey,
My dear lad that's far away,
On the seas, &c.

I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness.

No. LVI.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

September, 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 send 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 yewes 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 Clunzie, 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.

No. LV.

MR THOMSON to MR BURNS.

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 16th Sept.1794. You have anticipated my opinion of "On the seas and far away;" I do not think it one of your very happy productions, though it certain. ly contains stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation.

The second is the least to my liking, particularly, "Bullets, spare my only joy." Confound the bullets. It might perhaps be objected to the third verse," At the starless midnight hour," that it has too much grandeur of imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought would have better suited the character of a sailor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered, is of the brisk cheerful kind. Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the song would be better adapted to the tune, if it consisted only of the first and last verses, with the choruses.

CHORUS.

Ca' the yewes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.

Hark the mavis' evening sang
Sounding Clouden's woods amang †
Then a-faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie
Ca' the, &c.

We'll gae down by Clouden side,
Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
Ca' the, &c.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ca' the, &c.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae deal,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.

Ca' the, &c.

*This Virgilian order of the poet should, I think, be disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the second stanza excepted.-Note by Mr Thomson.

Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza does not strike the Editor.

The river Clouden, a tributary stream to the Nith.

September, 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called Onagh's Water-fall? The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit: still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum, and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work.

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing before ladies.

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'.

Tune-"Onagh's Water-fall."

SAE flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling sae wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto these rosy lips to grow; Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Like harmony her motion :

Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion,

Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form and graceful air; Ilk feature-auld Nature

Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o' love,

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon.

Fair beaming and streaming,
Her silver light the boughs amang;
While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang
There dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove
By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,
And say thou lo'es me best of a'.

Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me the most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for "Rothiemurche's Rant," an air which puts me in raptures; and in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I Here I have never can make verses to it. Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit against any of you. "Rothiemurche," he says, " is an air both original and beautiful ;" and on his recommendation I have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention as the music."

I have begun, anew, "Let me in this ae night." Do you think that we ought to retain the old chorus? I think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the "denouement" to be successful or otherwise ;-should she "let him in" or not.

Did you not once propose "The Sow's tail to Geordie," as an air for your work; I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for it, which I meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had meant to have made you the hero and heroine of the little piece.

How do you like the following epigram, which I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell

• In the original follow here two stanzas of a song, beginning, "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks;" which will be found at full length afterwards.

was the physician who seemingly saved her fromthe grave, and to him I address the following:

TO DR MAXWELL,

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY.

MAXWELL, if merit here you crave,
That merit I deny :

You save fair Jessy from the grave!
An angel could not die!

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle!

be to our favourite Scottish airs; the rest might be left with the London composer-Storace for Drury Lane, or Shield for Covent garden; both of them very able and popular musicians. I believe that interest and manoeuvring are often necessary to have a drama brought on: so it may be with the namby pamby tribe of flowery scribblers; but were you to address Mr Sheridan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these hints upon your consideration.*

No. LVIII.

MR THOMSON to MR BURNS.

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now attendant upon her favourite poet, whose "woodnotes wild" are become as enchanting as ever. "She says she lo'es me best of a'," is one of the pleasantest table songs I have seen, and henceforth shall be mine when the song is going round. I'll give Cunningham a copy, he can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far from undervaluing your taste for the strathspey music; on the contrary, I think it highly animating and agreeable, and that some of the strathspeys, when graced with such verses as yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the same way that rough Christians are tempered and softened by lovely woman, without whom, you know, they had been brutes.

I am clear for having the "Sow's tail," particularly as your proposed verses to it are so extremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, is a name only fit for burlesque composition. Mrs Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds agreeably.

Your" Ca' the yewes," is a precious little morceau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished and charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. Here let me ask you, whether you never seriously turned your thoughts upon dramatic writing. That is a field worthy of your genius, in which it might shine forth in all its splendour. One or two successful pieces upon the London stage would make your fortune. The rage at present is for musical dramas; few or none of those which have appeared since the " Duenna," possess much poetical merit: there is little in the conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to interest the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for music and pageantry. I think you might produce a comic opera in three acts, which would live by the poetry, at the same time that it would be proper to take every assistance from her tuneful sister. Part of the songs of course would

No. LIX.

MR THOMSON to MR BURNS.

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1794. THE last eight days have been devoted to the re-examination of the Scottish collections. I have read, and sung, and fiddled, and considered, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The few airs I have added, are enclosed.

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the songs I expected from him, which are in general elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a London collection of Scottish airs and songs, just published by Mr Ritson, an Englishman. I shall send you a copy. His introductory essay on the subject is curious, and evinces great reading and research, but does not decide the question as to the origin of our melodies; though he shows clearly that Mr Tytler, in his ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish; and that his classification of the airs, according to the eras when they were composed, is mere fancy and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq. he has no mercy; but consigns him to damnation! He snarls at my publication, on the score of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent a-packing to make room for Peter's! Of you he speaks with some respect, but gives you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest collections and best authorities: many of them, however, have such a strange aspect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung by every person of taste, old or young. in town or country, that we can scarcely recog nise the features of our favourites. By going to the oldest collections of our music, it does not follow that we find the melodies in their original state. These melodies had been preserved, we know not how long, by oral communication, before being collected and printed: and as different persons sang the same air very differently,

* Our bard had before received the same advice, and certainly took it so far into consideration, as to have cast about for a subject.