"Down the burn, Davie." I have this moment tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of the last stanza, thus:

As down the burn they took their way, And thro' the flowery dale; His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale.

With "Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew?"

Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you."[240]

"Thro' the wood, laddie"--I am decidedly of opinion that both in this, and "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame," the second or high part of the tune being a repet.i.tion of the first part an octave higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much better omitted in singing.

"Cowden-knowes." Remember in your index that the song in pure English to this tune, beginning,

"When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,"

is the production of Crawfurd. Robert was his Christian name.[241]

"Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for some time. I do not know the air; and until I am complete master of a tune, in my own singing (such as it is), I can never compose for it. My way is: I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression; then choose my theme; begin one stanza: when that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects of nature around me that are in unison and harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom; humming every now and then the air with the verses I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire-side of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at intervals on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on.

Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably my way.

What cursed egotism!

"Gil Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length; the air itself is never sung; and its place can well be supplied by one or two songs for fine airs that are not in your list--for instance "Craigieburn-wood" and "Roy's wife." The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty, and the last has high merit as well as great celebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air, in the handwriting of the lady who composed it; and they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen.

"Highland laddie." The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best; and the new an Italianised one. There is a third, and what Oswald calls the old "Highland laddie," which pleases me more than either of them.

It is sometimes called "Ginglin Johnnie;" it being the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, "I hae been at Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, in the musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and in the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. _Probatum est._

"Auld Sir Simon" I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place "The Quaker's wife."

"Blythe hae I been on yon hill,"[242] is one of the finest songs ever I made in my life, and, besides, is composed on a young lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the names and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include "The bonniest la.s.s in a' the warld," in your collection.

"Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always with the chorus to the low part of the tune; and nothing has surprised me so much as your opinion on this subject. If it will not suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow, exactly as Lucky Nancy in the Museum.

"Fee him, father:" I enclose you Frazer's set of this tune when he plays it slow: in fact he makes it the language of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas, in that style, merely to try if it will be any improvement. Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an admirably pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which "Patie Allan's mither died--that was about the back o' midnight;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company except the hautbois and the muse.

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie.[243]

"Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in its place would put "There's nae luck about the house,"[244] which has a very pleasant air, and which is positively the finest love-ballad in that style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other language. "When she came ben she bobbit," as an air is more beautiful than either, and in the _andante_ way would unite with a charming sentimental ballad.

"Saw ye my father?" is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before last, I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think is its native style. I must premise that the old way, and the way to give most effect, is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings "Saw ye my father?" &c.

My song is but just begun; and I should like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct English.[245]

"Todlin hame." Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been mine, that this air is highly susceptible of pathos: accordingly, you will soon hear him at your concert try it to a song of mine in the Museum, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and I have done; "Auld lang syne." The air is but mediocre; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in ma.n.u.script, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air.[246]

Now, I suppose, I have tried your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. "Gil Morice,"

"Tranent Muir," "Macpherson's farewell," "Battle of Sherriff-muir,"

or, "We ran, and they ran," (I know the author of this charming ballad, and his history,) "Hardiknute," "Barbara Allan" (I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared;) and besides do you know that I really have the old tune to which "The cherry and the slae" was sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known air in "Scotland's Complaint," a book published before poor Mary's days?[247]

It was then called "The banks of Helicon;" an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytler's history of Scottish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things of this kind.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 239: Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication.]

[Footnote 240: This is an alteration of one of Crawford's songs.]

[Footnote 241: His Christian name was William.]

[Footnote 242: Song CXCV.]

[Footnote 243: Song CCIX.]

[Footnote 244: By William Julius Mickle.]

[Footnote 245: The song here alluded to is one which the poet afterwards sent in an entire form:--

"Where are the joys I hae met in the morning."]

[Footnote 246: Song CCX.]

[Footnote 247: A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwards edited.]

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:--[248]

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 248: Song CCVII.]