[Burns, as the concluding paragraph of this letter proves, continued to the last years of his life to think of the composition of a Scottish drama, which Sir Walter Scott laments he did not write, instead of pouring out mult.i.tudes of lyrics for Johnson and Thomson.]

MY LADY,

The honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given him, came very seasonably to his aid, amid the cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could use those old verses which please me more in their rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I ever saw.

"If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, Skill part from my right hand.

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, If I do thee forget, Jerusalem, and thee above My chief joy do not set."--

When I am tempted to do anything improper, I dare not, because I look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and family. Now and then, when I have the honour to be called to the tables of the great, if I happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squires, or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by calling to remembrance that I am patronized by the n.o.ble house of Glencairn; and at gala-times, such as new-year's day, a christening, or the kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with,--_The Countess of Glencairn!_ My good woman with the enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries, _My Lord!_ and so the toast goes on until I end with _Lady Harriet's little angel!_ whose epithalamium I have pledged myself to write.

When I received your ladyship's letter, I was just in the act of transcribing for you some verses I have lately composed; and meant to have sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my farm.

Those fears were indeed too true; it is a bargain would have ruined me, but for the lucky circ.u.mstance of my having an excise commission.

People may talk as they please, of the ignominy of the excise; 50_l._ a year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of the world; and I would much rather have it said that my profession borrowed credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my profession. Another advantage I have in this business, is the knowledge it gives me of the various shades of human character, consequently a.s.sisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when n.o.body knew me, but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled now that my lord Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to all the world. Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted my n.o.ble generous patron; but after acting the part of an honest man, and supporting my family, my whole wishes and views are directed to poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I were to give performances to the world superior to my former works, still if they were of the same kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse.

Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more amused with affectation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than manners which by far the greatest part of the audience can only know at second hand?

I have the honour to be,

Your ladyship's ever devoted

And grateful humble servant,

R. B.

CCLXXI.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[Peter Pindar, the name under which it was the pleasure of that bitter but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to write, was a man of little lyrical talent. He purchased a good annuity for the remainder of his life, by the copyright of his works, and survived his popularity many year.]

_Sept._ 1793.

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in my power is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you; the very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication, so get a verse from him now and then; though I have no objection, as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business.

You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason, many musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies in counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of your connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many little melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the old air "Hey tuttie taitie," may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer's haut-boy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in yesternight's evening walk, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on the eventful morning.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.[237]

So may G.o.d ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as he did that day! Amen.

P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, a.s.sociated with the glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his ba.s.s, you will find in the Museum, though I am afraid that the air is not what will ent.i.tle it to a place in your elegant selection.[238]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 237: Song CCVII.]

[Footnote 238: Song CCVIII.]

CCLXXII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns for the airs of the Highlands.]

_Sept._ 1793.

I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspondence is persecution. No matter, I can't help it; a ballad is my hobby-horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or post in the common race of men.

The following song I have composed for "Oran-gaoil," the Highland air that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well!--If not, 'tis also well!

Behold the hour, the boat arrive!

R. B.

CCLXXIII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottish song, which poets and musicians would do well to read and consider.]

_Sept._ 1793.

I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on it.[239]