so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets | Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There'll never of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not se if you had served me right, you would have well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent loveent me to the devil. On the contrary, how-song to that air, I have just framed for you the ever, you have all along condescended to invite following: '(My Nannie's awa, p. 212.) my criticism with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget demands unqualified praise: all the songs How does this please you? As to the point are charming, but the duet is a chief d'œuvre. of time for the expression, in your proposed Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of print from my Sodger's return: It must cermy family dishes; you have cooked it so capi-tainly be at" She gazed." The interesting tally, that it will please all palates. Do give dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her us a few more of this cast, when you find your-countenance; and the gushing fondness, with self in good spirits: these convivial songs are a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike more wanted than those of the amorous kind, me, as things of which a master will make a of which we have great choice. Besides, one great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, does not often meet with a singer capable of yours. giving the proper effect to the latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to every body. I participate in your regret that the authors of some of our best songs are unknown; it is provoking to every admirer of genius. I mean to have a picture painted from your beautiful ballad, The Soldier's return, to be engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most interesting point of time appears to me, when she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, "She gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines immediately following, are no doubt more impressive on the reader's feelings; but were the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe the animation and anxiety of her countenance is gone, and he could only represent her fainting in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter to you, and beg your opinion. No. LXVII. THE SAME TO THE SAME. 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, Aiken 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. Allan desires me to thank you for your aceurate description of the stock and horn, and for the very gratifying compliment you pay him in considering him worthy of standing in a niche by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. He has seen the rudé instrument you describe, so does not want you to send it; but wishes to know whether you believe it to have ever been generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what part of the I do not give you the foregoing song for your country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capa- book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle: ble of any thing but routing and roaring. A for the piece is not really poetry. How will friend of mine says, he remembers to have heard the following do for Craigie-burn-wood? one in his younger days (made of wood instead (A man's a man for a' that, p. 67.) of your bone), and that the sound was abomin-(Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, p. 224.) able. Do not, I beseech you, return any books. Farewell! God bless you. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good ty of original writing in a number of efforts, in No. LXIX. THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. February, 1795. HERE is another trial at your favourite air. (0 let me in this ae night, and Answer, p. 217.) I do not know whether it will do. No. LXX. THE SAME TO THE SAME. Ecclefechan, 7th Feb. 1795. MY DEAR THOMSON, No. LXXI. MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 25th February, 1795. I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night ; and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that drunk or sober, your "mind is never muddy." You have displayed great address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise would have attached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now stands very much. I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song making. It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for, O wat ye wha's in yon town? No. LXXII. THE POET TO MR. THOMSON: May, 1795. (The Woodlark, p, 237.) Let me know your very first leisure how you like this song. (Long, long the night, p. 207.) 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 scraper 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('Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, had not time then to tell you all I wanted to Bay; and heaven knows, at present, I 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. 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 Pear Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows: (Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign landı reckon, p. 195.) p. 237.) Let me hear from you. No. LXXIII. MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. You must not think, my good Sir, that I The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse have any intention to enhance the value of my sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. No. LXXIX. THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. ENGLISH SONG. Tune-" Let me in this ae night." FORLORN, my love, no comfort near, O wert thou, love, but near me, Around me scowls a wintry sky, Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, But dreary tho' the moments fleet, Can on thy Chloris shine, love. How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom? No. LXXX. THE SAME TO THE SAME. Such is the peculiarity of the rhyme of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it. I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare, MY DEAR SIR, No. LXXXI. MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 3d June, 1795. YOUR English verses to Let me in this ae night, are tender and beautiful; and your ballad to the "Lothian lassie" is a master-piece for its humour and naiveté. The fragment for the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I would rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the poet; but, nevertheless, for what we have received, Lord make us thankful! No. LXXXII. THE SAME TO THE SAME. 5th Feb. 1796. O Robby Burns are ye sleeping yet? Or are ye wauking, I would wit? THE pause you have made, my dear Sir, is awful! Am I never to hear from you again? I know and I lament how much you have been afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health and spirits will now enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with your musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish "married to immortal verse.' We have several true born Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our own good subjects. Indeed we have none bet (Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang ter. I believe I before told you that I have been glen, p. 206.). FRAGMENT. Tune-"The Caledonian Hunt's delight." much urged by some friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan; what is your opi nion of this? my remaining vol. of P. Pindar.-Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for. I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rb sody to another Hibernian melody, which I adn. re much. (Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, p. 233.) If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs, I dis No. LXXXV. THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. By April, 1796. ALAS, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever since I wrote you last: I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say, with poor Ferguson like one thing; the name Chloris-I meant it" Say wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven as the fictitious name of a certain lady; but," Light to the comfortless and wretched given?” on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyballad. Of this, and some things else, in my slop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which next; I have more amendments to propose. for these many years has been my howff, and What you once mentioned of "flaxen locks" where our friend Clarke and I have had many is just they cannot enter into an elegant de-a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with scription of beauty. Of this also again-God bless you! YOUR Hey for a lass wi' a tocher, is a most excellent song, and with you the subject is something new indeed. It is the first time I have seen you debasing the god of soft desire, into an amateur of acres and guineas. I am happy to find you approve of my proposed octavo edition. Allan has designed and etched about twenty plates, and I am to have my choice of them for that work. IndepenIdently of the Hogarthian humour with which they abound, they exhibit the character and. costume of the Scottish peasantry with inimitable felicity. In this respect, he himself says, they will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the etching he sees clearly what he is doing, but not so with the aquatinta, which he could not manage to his mind. The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more characteristic and natural than the Scottish figures in those etchings. Our Poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris.-Note by Mr. Thomson. Mr. Allan's etchings. Woo'd and married pearance No LXXXVI. MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 4th May, 1796. I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what concern the receipt of your last gave me, and how much I sympathize in your sufferings. But do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, nor speak the language of despair. The vigour of your constitution I trust will soon set you on your feet again; and then it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and the necessity of taking due care of a life so valuable to your family, to your friends, and to the world. Trusting that your next will bring agreeable accounts of your convalescence, and returning good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard yours. P. S. Mrs. Hyslop I doubt not delivered the gold seal to you in good condition. gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and strange coincidence is, that the little one who worthy artist, that the design and execution of is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, The Cotter's Saturday Night is, in my opi- is the most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, nion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's d-n'd, wee, rumble-garie, urchin" of mine, pencil. I shail be grievously disappointed if whom, from that propensity to witty wickedyou are not quite pleased with it. ness and manfu' mischief, which, even at twa The figure intended for your portrait, I think days auld, I foresaw would form the striking strikingly like you, as far as I can remember features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicoll, your phiz. This should make the piece inter-after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the esting to your family every way. Tell me masters of a grammar-school in a city which whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the shall be nameless. figures. I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I have read your pathetic Address to the Woodlark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chloris' illness. Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to Laddie lie near me, though not equal to these, is very pleasing, Give the enclosed epigram to my mue. valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, in a manner introduced me-I mean a well known military and literary character, Colonel Dirom. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned? No. LXXIV. THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. How cruel are the parents, p. 204.) No. LXXVI. MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 18th May, 1795. Ir gives me great pleasure to find that you Well! this is not amiss. You see how I duction. The chance resemblance of your little are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's proanswer your orders: your tailor could not be fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so more punctual. I am just now in a high fit very early, and suggested whom he should be of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of named after, is curious enough. I am acquaintcriticism don't cure me. If you can in a posted with that person, who is a prodigy of learnor two administer a little of the intoxicating ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though potion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment" holding high converse" with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. No. LXXV. THE SAME TO THE SAME. May, 1795. TEN thousand thanks for your elegant present; though I am ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My phiz is "sat kenspeckle," that the very joiner's apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful compliments to Allan, who has honoured my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. One no saint. you have not merited the drawing from me. I You really make me blush when you tell me do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem and respect you for the liberal and kind manner in which you have entered into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfected without you: So I beg you would not make a fool of me again, by speaking of obligation. I like your two last songs very much, and am happy to find you are in such a high fit of poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad of William and Margaret, and is to give it to me, to be enrolled among the elect. No. LXXVII. THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. IN Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad, the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement: |