[Burns allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a degree of lyric merit which the world has refused to sanction.]

_December, 1794._

It is, I a.s.sure you, the pride of my heart to do anything to forward or add to the value of your book; and as I agree with you that the jacobite song in the Museum to "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame," would not so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-song to that air, I have just framed for you the following:--

Now in her green mantle, &c.[274]

How does this please you? As to the point of time for the expression, in your proposed print from my "Sodger's Return," it must certainly be at--"She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness, in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours,

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 274: Song CCx.x.xVIII.]

CCCX.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on Thompson one of the finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedom.]

_January_, 1795.

I fear for my songs; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c., of these said rhyming folks.

A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme.

Is there for honest poverty.[275]

I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of _vive la bagatelle_; for the piece is not really poetry. How will the following do for "Craigieburn-wood?"--

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn.[276]

Farewell! G.o.d bless you!

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 275: Song CCLXIV.]

[Footnote 276: Song CCXLV.]

CCCXI.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[Of this letter, Dr. Currie writes "the poet must have been tipsy indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate;" it is one of the prettiest of our Annandale villages, and the birth-place of that distinguished biographer.]

_Ecclefechan_, 7_th February_, 1795.

MY DEAR THOMSON,

You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you.

In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress: I have tried to "gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a sc.r.a.per has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them: like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed), I of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service!

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and, Heaven knows, at present have not capacity.

Do you know an air--I am sure you must know it--"We'll gang nae mair to yon town?" I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it.

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.

R. B.

CCCXII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, was accompanied by two others in honour of the poet's mistress: the muse was high in song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them.]

_May, 1795._

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay![277]

Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song.

Long, long the night.[278]

How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air, "Humours of Glen," is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the "Poor Soldier," there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows:--

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon.[279]