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The Complete Works

CCLXXIV. TO MR. THOMSON

[Burns listened too readily to the suggestion of Thomson, to alter “Bruce’s Address to his troops at Bannockburn:” whatever may be the merits of the air of “Louis Gordon,” the sublime simplicity of the words was injured by the alteration: it is now sung as originally written, by all singers of taste.]

September, 1793.

I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea, “honour’s bed,” is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the song as follows:—^[251]

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace—

“A false usurper sinks in every foe,

And liberty returns with every blow.”

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my correspondence. The post goes, and my head aches miserably. One comfort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for last night’s joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen.

R. B.

CCLXXV. TO MR. THOMSON

[The poet’s good sense rose at last in arms against the criticisms of the musician, and he refused to lessen the dignity of his war-ode by any more alterations.]

September, 1793.

“Who shall decide when doctors disagree?” My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on reconsidering it, as I think I have much improved it. Instead of “sodger! hero!” I will have it “Caledonian, on wi’ me!”

I have scrutinized it over and over; and to the world, some way or other, it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan’s verses.

I have finished my song to “Saw ye my father?” and in English, as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the expression of the air, is true; but, allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter: however, in that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence.

The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular: my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. Here they are:—

Where are the joys I have met in the morning?^[252]

Adieu, my dear Sir! the post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure.

R. B.

CCLXXVI. TO MR. THOMSON

[For “Fy! let us a’ to the bridal,” and “Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs,” and “There’s nae luck about the house,” Burns puts in a word of praise, from a feeling that Thomson’s taste would induce him to exclude the first—one of our most original songs—from his collection.]

September, 1793.

I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find English songs.

For “Muirland Willie,” you have, in Ramsay’s Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, “Ah, why those tears in Nelly’s eyes?” As for “The Collier’s Dochter,” take the following old bacchanal:—

 
“Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c.”^[253]
 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend thus:

How can your flinty hearts enjoy

The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry?

The song otherwise will pass. As to “M’Gregoira Rua-Ruth,” you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins,

Raving winds around her blowing.^[254]

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank Irish. If they were like the “Banks of Banna,” for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of “Roy’s wife,” for the music’s sake, we shall not insert it. “Deil tak the wars” is a charming song; so is, “Saw ye my Peggy?” “There’s nae luck about the house” well deserves a place. I cannot say that “O’er the hills and far awa” strikes me as equal to your selection. “This is no my ain house,” is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of “I hae laid a herrin’ in saut?” I like it much. Your jacobite airs are pretty, and there are many others of the same kind pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert “Fy! let’s a’ to the bridal,” to any other words than its own.

What pleases me, as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, “Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs,” “Fy let’s a’ to the bridal,” with several others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing; while “Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother?” delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, “Ken ye what Meg o’ the mill has gotten?” pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this: but “ilka man wears his belt his ain gait.”

R. B.

CCLXXVII. TO MR. THOMSON

[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of talent, and joint projector of Thomson’s now celebrated work.]

October, 1793.

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine!^[255] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you.

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the “Quaker’s wife;” though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of “Leiger m’ choss.” The following verses, I hope, will please you, as an English song to the air.

Thine am I, my faithful fair:^[256]

Your objection to the English song I proposed for “John Anderson my jo,” is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit.

SONG.—BY GAVIN TURNBULL.^[257]

 
Oh, condescend, dear charming maid,
My wretched state to view;
A tender swain, to love betray’d,
And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy,
My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg’d by stern, resistless fate,
I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain
The urchin’s power denied.
I laugh’d at every lover’s pain,
And mock’d them when they sigh’d.
But how my state is alter’d!
Those happy days are o’er;
For all thy unrelenting hate,
I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield!
No longer let me mourn;
And though victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee,
My wonted peace restore;
And grateful I shall bless thee still,
And love thee more and more.
 

The following address of Turnbull’s to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air “There was a lass, and she was fair.” By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

 
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,
That ever tried the plaintive strain,
Awake thy tender tale of love,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid
And teach him smoothly to complain,
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion’s gaudy sons,
In sport she wanders o’er the plain:
Their tales approves, and still she shuns
The notes of her forsaken swain.
When evening shades obscure the sky,
And bring the solemn hours again,
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
 

I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull’s, which would go charmingly to “Lewie Gordon.”

LAURA.

 
Let me wander where I will,
By shady wood, or winding rill;
Where the sweetest May-born flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers;
Where the linnet’s early song
Echoes sweet the woods among:
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
If at rosy dawn I choose
To indulge the smiling muse;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noontide heat;
If beneath the moon’s pale ray,
Thro’ unfrequented wilds I stray;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod,
And to fancy’s wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise,
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro’ the fairy land of love;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
 

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.

R. B.

CCLXXVIII. TO JOHN M’MURDO, ESQ., WITH A PARCEL

[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation of Burns.]

Dumfries, [December, 1793.]

Sir,

’Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr’s account, and here are the six guineas; and now I don’t owe a shilling to man—or woman either. But for these d–d dirty, dog’s-ear’d little pages,^[258] I had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face.

I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King’s Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.

I have the honour to be, &c.

R. B.

CCLXXIX. TO JOHN M’MURDO, ESQ., DRUMLANRIG

[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a blank leaf of the poet’s works, published in two volumes, small octavo, in 1793.]

Dumfries, 1793.

Will Mr. M’Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever claim as mine:—to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of truth.

The Author.

CCLXXX. TO CAPTAIN –

[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is copied from my kind friend Chambers’s collection of Scottish songs.]

Dumfries, 5th December, 1793.

Sir,

Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaintance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. “He is the father of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour to the business, at the same time that the business does honour to him,” said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was talking of your coming to this county with your corps. “Then,” I said, “I have a woman’s longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, ‘Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are sacred.’”

In times like these, Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman. To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of a man can view with equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corruption.

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it. Accept it, Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind.

I have the honour to be,

R. B.

CCLXXXI. TO MRS. RIDDEL. Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at the Dumfries Theatre.

[This clever lady, whom Burns so happily applies the words of Thomson, died in the year 1820, at Hampton Court.]

I am thinking to send my “Address” to some periodical publication, but it has not yet got your sanction, so pray look at it.

As to the Tuesday’s play, let me beg of you, my dear madam, to give us, “The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret!” to which please add, “The Spoilt Child”—you will highly oblige me by so doing.

Ah, what an enviable creature you are! There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits—

 
“To play the shapes
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form
Those rapid pictures, assembled train
Of fleet ideas, never join’d before,
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise;
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself,
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve.”
 

Thomson.

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend.

R. B.

CCLXXXII. TO A LADY. IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER’S BENEFIT

[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, has not transpired.]

Dumfries, 1794.

Madam,

You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your presence on his benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday first: the play a most interesting one! “The Way to Keep Him.” I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage: he is a poor and modest man; claims which from their very silence have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity! that from the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want! Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of nature, by far the most enviable is—to be able “to wipe away all tears from all eyes.” O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousness of having made one poor honest heart happy!

But I crave your pardon, Madam; I came to beg, not to preach.

R. B.

CCLXXXIII. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, With a Copy of Bruce’s Address to his Troops at Bannockburn.

[This fantastic Earl of Buchan died a few years ago: when he was put into the family burial-ground, at Dryburgh, his head was laid the wrong way, which Sir Walter Scott said was little matter, as it had never been quite right in his lifetime.]

Dumfries, 12th January, 1794.

My Lord,

Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honour me? Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with anything in history which interests my feelings as a man, equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-injured people; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her.

Liberty! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable! for never canst thou be too dearly bought!

If my little ode has the honour of your lordship’s approbation, it will gratify my highest ambition.

I have the honour to be, &c.

R. B.

CCLXXXIV. TO CAPTAIN MILLER, DALSWINTON

[Captain Miller, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of Commons for the Dumfries district of boroughs. Dalswinton has passed from the family to my friend James M’Alpine Leny, Esq.]

Dear Sir,

The following ode is on a subject which I know you by no means regard with indifference. Oh, Liberty,

 
“Thou mak’st the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv’st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.”
 

Addison.

It does me so much good to meet with a man whose honest bosom glows with the generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I could not forbear sending you a composition of my own on the subject, which I really think is in my best manner.

I have the honour to be,

Dear Sir, &c.

CCLXXXV. TO MRS. RIDDEL

[The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply a military officer, who, with the courtesy of those whose trade is arms, paid attention to the lady.]

Dear Madam,

I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the visit.

Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine—a shrine, how far exalted above such adoration—permit me, were it but for rarity’s sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent mind; and to assure you, that I am, thou most amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, &c.

R. B.

CCLXXXVI. TO MRS. RIDDEL

[The patient sons of order and prudence seem often to have stirred the poet to such invectives as this letter exhibits.]

I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but whether in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment for a poet’s pen! There is a species of the human genus that I call the gin-horse class: what enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round they go,—Mundell’s ox that drives his cotton-mill is their exact prototype—without an idea or wish beyond their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d—mn’d melange of fretfulness and melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor, my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold—“And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!” If my resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and if— * * * * *

Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of

R. B.

CCLXXXVII. TO MRS. RIDDEL

[The bard often offended and often appeased this whimsical but very clever lady.]

I have this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him anything again.

I have sent you “Werter,” truly happy to have any the smallest opportunity of obliging you.

’Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea; and that once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on him could only have envied my feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak on it.

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her.

R. B.