When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet HE. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, SHE. What's a' the joys that gowd can gie? And that's my ain dear Willie. Tell me honestly how you like it: and point out whatever you think faulty. I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name, Philly; but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity; whereas simplicity is as much eloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit, on the other. I agree with you as to the air, "Craigie-burn wood," that a chorus would in some degree spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not however a case in point with "Rothiemurchie;" there, as in "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes to my taste well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with "Roy's Wife," as well as "Rothiemurchie." In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhyme is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbal ance the want of. "The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any subject in a song go down; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, "Todlin hame" is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition; and "Andro and his cutty gun" is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown! It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish; I composed one yesterday for an air I like much-"Lumps o' pudding." Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from somebody. grown. The reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; while the stock; with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country. However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly: for we can make little use of it. If Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine; as I look on myself to be a kind of brother-brush with him. "Pride in Poets is nae sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr Allan and Mr Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish custom in the world. No. LXV. Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on earth), that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one; but it is a very rude instrument. It is composed of three parts; the stock which is the hinder thigh bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham; the horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the horn, until it be held 28th November, 1794. by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear sir, you are not only lastly, an oaken reed exactly cut and notched the most punctual, but the most delectable corlike that which you see every shepherd-boy respondent I ever met with. To attempt flathave, when the corn stems are green and full-tering you never entered my head; the truth Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this occasion the gentleman and the lady have exchanged the dialects of their respective countries. The Scottish bard makes his address in pure English; the reply on the part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we mistake not, by a young and beautiful Englishwoman. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. is, I look back with surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, however, you have all along condescended to invite my criticism with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget demands unqualified praise: all the songs are charming, but the duet is a chef d'œuvre. Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of my family dishes: you have cooked it so capitally, that it will please all palates. Do give us a few more of this cast, when you find yourself in good spirits: these convivial songs are more wanted than those of the amorous kind, of which we have great choice. Besides, one does not often meet with a singer capable of giving the proper effect to the latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to every body. I participate in your regret that the authors of some of our best songs are unknown; it is provoking to every admirer of genius. I mean to have a picture painted from your beautiful ballad, The soldier's return, to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most interesting point of time appears to me, when she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, "She gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines immediately following, are no doubt more impressive on the reader's feelings; but were the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe the animation and anxiety of her coun tenance is gone, and he could only represent, her fainting in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. Allan desires me to thank you, for your accurate description of the stock and horn, and for the very gratifying compliment you pay him, in considering him worthy of standing in a niche by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the rude instrument you describe, so does not want you to send it; but wishes to know whether you believe it to have ever been generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what part of the country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capable of any thing but routing and roaring. A friend of mine says, he remembers to have heard one in his younger days (made of wood instead of your bone), and that the sound was abominable. Do not, I beseech you, return any books. No. LXVI. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. December, 1794. Ir is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do any thing to forward, or add to the value of your book: and as I agree with you that the Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There'll ne'er be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to the air, I have just framed for you the following. MY NANNIE'S AWA. Tune-"There'll ne'er be peace," &c. Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless-my Nannie's awa. The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie-and Nannie's awa. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the grey breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa,' Give over for pity-my Nannie's awa. Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay; The dark dreary winter and wild driving snaw, A lane can delight me-now Nannie's awa. How does this please you? As to the point of time for the expression, in your proposed print from my Sodger's return: It must certainly be at-" She gazed." The interesting dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her countenance; and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours. No. LXVII. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. January, 1795. I FEAR for my songs: however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature, in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said rhyming folks. A great critic, Aiken on songs, says, that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently, is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. That hangs his head, and a' that; Our toils obscure, and a' that, What though on hamely fare we dine, Their tinsel show and a' that: Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that: His riband, star, and a' that, He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; 231 For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a that and a' that, Its comin' yet for a' that, I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry. will the following do for Craigie-burn wood? SWEET fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, I see the flowers and spreading trees, Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Farewell! God bless you. No. LXVIII. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. How MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 30th Jan. 1795. I THANK you heartily for Nannie's awa, as well as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in the same style, strikes me very forcibly; and it has again and again excited my wonder to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, For a' that, shall undoubtedly be included in my list. *Craigie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, and about three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal waters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," and that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. No. LXIX. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. February, 1795. Here is another trial at your favourite air. Tune--" Let me in this ae night." O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet, CHORUS. O let me in this ae night, Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, And shield me frae the rain, jo. The bitter blast that round me blaws HER ANSWER. O TELL nae me o' wind and rain, CHORUS. I tell you now this ae night, The snellest blast at mirkest hours, That's trusted faithless man, jo. The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, The weird may be her ain, jo. The bird that charm'd his summer-day, I do not know whether it will do. No. LXX. the tedious forenoons by song making. give me pleasure to receive the verses tend for, O wat ye wha's in yon town. It will you in MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. Ecclefechan, 7th February, 1795. MY DEAR THOMSON, You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress: I have tried to " gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man, (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed,) I, of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service! * I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and heaven knows, at present, I have not capacity. Do you know an air-I am sure you must know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town? I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. No. LXXI MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. 25th February, 1795. I HAVE to thank you, my dear sir, for two epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night; and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that drunk or sober, your " mind is never muddy." You have displayed great address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise would have attached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now stands, very much. I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. No. LXXII. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. Tune-"Where'll bonnie Annie lie." Or, "Loch-Erroch Side." O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, Thy soothing fond complaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, Sic notes o' woe could wauken. Thou tells o' never-ending care; Let me know your very first leisure how you like this song. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. Tune-" Aye wakin'." CHORUS. Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul's delight, Is on her bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care, Can I cease to languish, While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish ? Long, &c. Every hope is fled. Every fear is terror: Slumber e'en I dread, Every dream is horror. Long, &c. |