The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 263

CCCII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[The poet relates the history of several of his best songs in this letter: the true old strain of "Andro and his cutty gun" is the first of its kind.]

_19th October, 1794._

MY DEAR FRIEND,

By this morning's post I have your list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his opinion in general: you know his taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, so please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do--persuade you to adopt my favourite "Craigieburn-wood," in your selection: it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (_entre nous_) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him--a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I a.s.sure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine.

Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy--could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book?

No! no! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song--to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs--do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? _Tout au contraire!_ I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the G.o.dhead of Parna.s.sus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!

To descend to business: if you like my idea of "When she cam ben she bobbit," the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas:--

O saw ye my dear, my Phely.[261]

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the west country, but the old words are trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which "Roslin Castle" is composed. The second part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. "Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. "Donocht-Head" is not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine: the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it.

"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to which this is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore.

"How long and dreary is the night!" I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page.

How long and dreary is the night, &c.[262]

Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a ba.s.s to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collection.[263]

These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at "Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid.

For instance:--

Let not woman e'er complain, &c.[264]

Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and returning home I composed the following:

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature &c.[265]

If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood.

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a ba.s.s to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum.

Here follow the verses I intend for it.

But lately seen in gladsome green, &c.[266]

I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please: whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence?

VARIATION.

Now to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain, The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray; In twining hazel bowers, His lay the linnet pours; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

When frae my Chloris parted, Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky.

But when she charms my sight, In pride of beauty's light; When through my very heart Her beaming glories dart; 'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy!

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 261: Song CCXXVII.]

[Footnote 262: Song CCXXVIII.]

[Footnote 263: Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was published this year.]

[Footnote 264: Song CCXXIX.]

[Footnote 265: Song CCx.x.x.]

[Footnote 266: Song CCXVI.]

CCCIII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book for which he expresses his thanks, was the work of the waspish Ritson.]

_November, 1794._

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present; it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c., for your work. I intend drawing them up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, sc.r.a.ps of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for "My lodging is on the cold ground." On my visit the other day to my friend Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely G.o.ddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song.

My Chloris, mark how green the groves.[267]

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think it pretty well.

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of "_ma chere amie._" I a.s.sure you I was never more in earnest in my life, than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last.

Conjugal love is a pa.s.sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the pa.s.sion,

"Where love is liberty, and nature law."