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The Complete Works

CCXLIV. TO MRS. DUNLOP

[Burns was ordered, he says, to mind his duties in the Excise, and to hold his tongue about politics—the latter part of the injunction was hard to obey, for at that time politics were in every mouth.]

Dumfries, 31st December, 1792.

Dear Madam,

A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my absence, has until now prevented my returning my grateful acknowledgments to the good family of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness which rendered the four days I spent under that genial roof, four of the pleasantest I ever enjoyed.—Alas, my dearest friend! how few and fleeting are those things we call pleasures! on my road to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a friend whom I much valued; a man whose days promised to be many; and on Saturday last we laid him in the dust!

Jan. 2, 1793.

I have just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your situation. However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though not quite free of my complaint.—You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough; but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. Against this I have again and again bent my resolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned: it is the private parties in the family way, among the hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, that do me the mischief—but even this I have more than half given over.

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present; at least I should be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for several years. I must wait the rotation of the list, and there are twenty names before mine. I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a settled supervisor was ill, or aged; but that hauls me from my family, as I could not remove them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself too much in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, henceforth, a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my sentiments. In this, as in everything else, I shall show the undisguised emotions of my soul. War I deprecate: misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon.

R. B.

CCXLV. TO MR. THOMSON

[The songs to which the poet alludes were “Poortith Cauld,” and “Galla Water.”]

Jan. 1793.

Many returns of the season to you, my dear Sir. How comes on your publication?—will these two foregoing [Songs clxxxv. and clxxxvi. be of any service to you? I should like to know what songs you print to each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I would wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful hints that escape men of much superior parts and endowments in other things.

If you meet with my dear and much-valued Cunningham, greet him, in my name, with the compliments of the season.

Yours, &c.,

R. B.

CCXLVI. TO MR. THOMSON

[Thomson explained more fully than at first the plan of his publication, and stated that Dr. Beattie had promised an essay on Scottish music, by way of an introduction to the work.]

26th January, 1793.

I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie’s essay will, of itself, be a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor’s essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler’s anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, “Lochaber” and the “Braes of Ballenden” excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots muse.

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think that some of them, particularly “The sow’s tail to Geordie,” as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs?

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a navïeté, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever.

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His “Gregory” is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter—that would be presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it.

[Here follows “Lord Gregory.” Song clxxxvii.]

My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon.

Yours,

R. B.

CCXLVII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM

[The seal, with the coat-of-arms which the poet invented, is still in the family, and regarded as a relique.]

3d March, 1793.

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to write you further. When I say that I had not time, that as usual means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five minutes’ fragment to take up a pen in.

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson’s songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much admired old Highland air called “The Sutor’s Dochter?” It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with great applause in some fashionable circles by Major Roberston, of Lude, who was here with his corps.

There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend which vexes me much.

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make a very decent one; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it; will you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business? I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all; but I have invented arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of the name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shepherd’s pipe and crook, saltier-wise, also proper in chief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood lark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottos; round the top of the crest, Wood-notes wild: at the bottom of the shield, in the usual place, Better a wee bush than nae bield. By the shepherd’s pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan’s quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius—Why is he not more known?—Has he no patrons? or do “Poverty’s cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy” on him! I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world; and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as the day; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man’s, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this, is the idea, of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches us a nabob or government contractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it.

R. B.

CCXLVIII. TO MR. THOMSON

[Burns in these careless words makes us acquainted with one of his sweetest songs.]

20th March, 1793.

My dear Sir,

The song prefixed [“Mary Morison”^[210]] is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty.

What is become of the list, &c., of your songs? I shall be out of all temper with you, by and bye. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondence, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot, bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else.

R. B.

CCXLIX. TO MR. THOMSON

[For the “Wandering Willie” of this communication Thomson offered several corrections.]

March, 1793.

 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o’ your slumbers!
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes! blow gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But if he’s forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide, roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain!
 

I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the old “Thro’ the lang muir I have followed my Willie,” be the best.

R. B.

CCL. TO MISS BENSON

[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a visit to Arbigland, the beautiful seat of Captain Craik; she is now Mrs. Basil Montagu.]

Dumfries, 21st March, 1793.

Madam,

Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, many happy meetings with them in after-life.

Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a moment’s repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well-known that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt he is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: how much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again.

Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c.

R. B.

CCLI. TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., OF DALSWINTON.

[The time to which Burns alludes was the period of his occupation of Ellisland.]

Dumfries, April, 1793.

Sir,

My poems having just come out in another edition, will you do me the honour to accept of a copy? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a gentleman to whose goodness I have been much indebted; of my respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion of the liberties of my country; and of my veneration for you, as a man, whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature.

There was a time, Sir, when I was your dependent: this language then would have been like the vile incense of flattery—I could not have used it. Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to accept this honest tribute of respect from, Sir,

Your much indebted humble servant,

R. B.

CCLII. TO MR. THOMSON

[This review of our Scottish lyrics is well worth the attention of all who write songs, read songs, or sing songs.]

7th April, 1793.

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby’s; so I’ll e’en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race—God grant that I may take the right side of the winning post!—and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, “Sae merry as we a’ hae been!” and, raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of “Coila”^[211] shall be, “Good night, and joy be wi’ you a’!” So much for my last words: now for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list.

The first lines of “The last time I came o’er the moor,” and several other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion—pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay!—the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend.

“For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,”^[212] is a charming song; but “Logan burn and Logan braes” is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery; I’ll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of “Logan Water” (for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty:—

 
“Now my dear lad maun faces his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.”^[213]
 

“My Patie is a lover gay,” is unequal. “His mind is never muddy,” is a muddy expression indeed.

 
“Then I’ll resign and marry Pate,
And syne my cockernony—“
 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay or your book. My song, “Rigs of barley,” to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. “The lass o’ Patie’s mill” is one of Ramsay’s best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. In Sir John Sinclair’s statistical volumes, are two claims—one, I think from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire—for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe:

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking, out together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still called “Patie’s mill,” where a bonnie lass was “tedding hay, bare-headed on the green.” My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner.

“One day I heard Mary say,”^[214] is a fine song; but, for consistency’s sake, alter the name “Adonis.” Were there ever such banns published, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary! I agree with you that my song, “There’s nought but care on every hand,” is much superior to “Poortith cauld.” The original song, “The mill, mill, O!”^[215] though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow as an English set. “The Banks of the Dee” is, you know, literally “Langolee,” to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it: for instance,

 
“And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree.”
 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat.^[216] If I could hit on another stanza, equal to “The small birds rejoice,” &c., I do myself honestly avow, that I think it a superior song.^[217] “John Anderson, my jo”—the song to this tune in Johnson’s Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst:^[218] if it suit you, take it, and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are “Tullochgorum,” “Lumps o’ puddin,” “Tibbie Fowler,” and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl’s singing. It is called “Craigieburn wood,” and, in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most connoisseurs.

You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. “Shepherds, I have lost my love!” is to me a heavenly air—what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I have made one to it a good while ago, which I think * * *, but in its original state it is not quite a lady’s song. I enclose an altered, not amended copy for you,^[219] if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.

Mr. Erskine’s songs are all pretty, but his “Lone-vale”^[220] is divine.

Yours, &c.

R. B.

Let me know just how you like these random hints.

CCLIII. TO MR. THOMSON

[The letter to which this is in part an answer, Currie says, contains many observations on Scottish songs, and on the manner of adapting the words to the music, which at Mr. Thomson’s desire are suppressed.]

April, 1793.

I have yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I shall answer it and your former letter, in my desultory way of saying whatever comes uppermost.

The business of many of our tunes wanting, at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting-note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers.

 
“There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the blooming heather,”
you may alter to
“Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander,” &c.
 

My song, “Here awa, there awa,” as amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and return you.

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad—I mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing.

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his pieces; still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. Walker proposes doing with “The last time I came o’er the moor.” Let a poet, if he choose, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own; but to mangle the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house—by Heaven, ’twould be sacrilege! I grant that Mr. W.’s version is an improvement; but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much; let him mend the song, as the Highlander mended his gun—he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel.

I do not, by this, object to leaving out improper stanzas, where that can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in “The lass o’ Patie’s mill” must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with “Corn rigs are bonnie.” Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. “Cauld kail in Aberdeen,” you must leave with me yet awhile. I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, “Poortith cauld and restless love.” At any rate, my other song, “Green grow the rashes,” will never suit. That song is current in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name, which, of course, would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the standard of Scots songs for the future: let this idea ever keep your judgment on the alarm.

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit “Bonnie Dundee.” I send you also a ballad to the “Mill, mill, O!”^[221]

“The last time I came o’er the moor,” I would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay’s be the English set. You shall hear from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come by Dumfries? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me, which I have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly; but your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which I like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air called “Jackie Hume’s Lament?” I have a song of considerable merit to that air. I’ll enclose you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson’s Museum.^[222] I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce^[223].

Adieu.

R. B.