Delphi Complete Works of Robert Burns (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) (153 page)

XII
.

August
1793.

That tune, “Cauld Kail,” is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses; when the muse that presides o’er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by my elbow, “smooth gliding without step,” and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila’s haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her; so I more than suspect she has followed me hither, or at least makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson’s
Museum
.

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than in all the year else. God bless you.

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XIII
.

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 Finder 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 taittie” may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer’s hautboy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, 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 that eventful morning.
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS,
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
Hey tuttie taittie
.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, (etc.)

So may God 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, associated 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 bass, you will find in the
Museum
; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection.

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XIV
.

September 1793
.

I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on it.
¹⁴³

“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.”

“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 repetition 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 Crawford; Robert was his Christian name.

“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 never can 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 in nature around me that are in unison or 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 fireside 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, besides 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 we more than either of them. It is sometimes called “Jinglan 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 Crookie-den,” etc. I would advise you in this 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” 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 lass in a’ the warld
in your collection.

“Daintie Davie” I have heard sung nineteen thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine times, and always with 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 propose, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow.

“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 admirable pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time at which
Patie Allan’s mither died
; that was
the back o’ midnight
; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in the company, except the hautbois and the muse.

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, (etc.)

“Jockie and Jenny” I would discard, and in its place would put “There’s nae luck about the house”, 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 bobbet”, 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 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”, etc.

My song is 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.

Fragment. — Tune— “
Saw ye my Father
”
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, (etc.)

“Todlin hame”: Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been mine; and 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 manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any air.
¹⁴⁴

AULD LANG SYNE.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (etc.)

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called, “Gil Morice”, “Tranent Muir”, “M’Pherson’s Farewell”, “Battle of Sheriff-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. It was then called “The Banks o’ 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.

¹⁴³
Songs for his publication. Burns goes through the whole; but only his remarks of any importance are presented here.

¹⁴⁴
It is believed to have been his own composition.

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XV
.

September
1793.

“Who shall decide when doctors disagree?” My ode
¹⁴⁵
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 scrutinised 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.

¹⁴⁵
Scots wha hae.

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XVI
.

May
1794.

My Dear Sir, — I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased. I would humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the
burin
, is quite charmed with Allan’s manner. I got him a peep of the “Gentle Shepherd”, and he pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence.

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan’s choosing my favourite poem for his subject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.

I am quite vexed at Pleyel’s being cooped up in France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by-and-by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls “The Banks of Cree.” Cree is a beautiful romantic stream, and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it: —
  Here is the glen, and here the bower, (etc.)

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