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, Blythe hae I been o'er the 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 works, 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, the tune; and nothing has surprised me so and always with the chorus to the low part of will not suit, as I proposed, we will lay two much as your opinion on this subject. If it of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow. "Fee him father"-I inclose you Fraser's he makes it the language of despair. I shall set of this tune when he plays it slow; in fact, here give you two stanzas in that style; mere 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 uni-ly to try if it will be any improvement. Were son or harmony with the cogitations of my fan- it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos cy, and workings of my bosom; humming which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make every now and then the air, with the verses an admirable pathetic song. .I I do not give have framed. When I feel my music beginthese verses for any merit they have. I comning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of posed them at the time in which "Patie Allan's my study, and there commit my effusions to mither died, that was about the back o' midpaper; swinging at intervals on the hind legs night;" and by the leeside of a bowl of punch, of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my except the hautbois and the muse. which had overset every mortal in company, own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this at home, is almost invariably my way. What cursed egotism! Gill Morice I am for leaving out. It is a plaguey 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 hand-writing 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 Italianized 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 Ginglan Johnnie; it being the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that You will find it in the Museum, I hae been at Crookie-den, &c. 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. name. Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place, The Quaker's wife. This song, so much admired by our bard, will be found in the future part of the volume. 02 THOU hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 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. FRAGMENT. Tune-"Saw ye my father." WHERE are the joys I hae met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early sang? Nae mair a-winding the course o' yon river, Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, No, no; the bees humming round the gay roses Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, CETERA DESUNT. Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. Gill 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; "Todlin' hame." Urbani mentioned an and which is mentioned as a well known air idea of his, which has long been mine; that in Scotland's Complaint, a book published bethis air is highly susceptible of pathos; accord-fore poor Mary's days. It was then called ingly, 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 "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. more and I have done. AULD LANG SYNE. SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, The banks o' Helicon;' an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see The tune to a learned ear, may have no great all this in Tytler's History of Scottish Music. merit; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things of this kind. No. XLIII. 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: BANNOCK-BURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; Or to glorious victory. Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw! Free-man stand, or free-man fa', Caledonian! on wi' me! By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! Forward! let us do, or die! differ, but there is no disputing about hobbyhorses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks you make; and to re-consider the whole with attention. "Daintie Davie" must be sung two stanzas together, and then the chorus-'tis the proper way. I agree with you, that there may be something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of" Fee him, father," when performed with feeling; but a tender cast may be given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, however, clearly and invariably for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous verses, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for "Fee him, father," which you began about the back of mid. night, I will publish as an additional one. Mr James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with " Fee him, father," and with "Todlin hame" also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from either of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. 66 Fy let us a' to the bridal," for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only to be sung in a company of drunken colliers; and Saw ye my father" appears to ine both indelicate and silly. One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, that a prudent general would avoid saying any thing to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is. Gory, presents a disagreeable image to the mind; and to tell them, "Welcome to your gory bed, seems rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding the alternative which follows. I have shown the song to three friends of excellent taste, and N. B.-I have borrowed the last stanza from each of them objected to this line, which embolthe common stall edition of Wallace. "A false usurper sinks in every foe, 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! No. XLIV. MR THOMSON to MR BURNS. 12th Sept. 1793. A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear sir, for your observations on the list of my songs. I am happy to find your ideas so much in unison with my own respecting the generality of the airs, as well as the verses. About them we dens me to use the freedom of bringing it again under your notice. I would suggest, "Now prepare for honour's bed, No. XLV. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. September, 1793 WHO will decide when doctors disagree?" My ode 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 re-considering it; as I think I have much improved it. Instead of "sodger! hero!" I will have it "Caledonian ! on wi' me !" I have scrutinized 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 pretension 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. The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular; my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. FAIR JENNY. Tune-" Saw ye my father." Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, That danced to the lark's early song? * Mr Thomson has very properly adopted this song (if it may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and perhaps among the existing airs he could not find a better; but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of mu. sic, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Handel, if any such should in future arise. The reader will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations proposed by his friend and correspondent in former instances with great readiness; perhaps, indeed, on all indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with determined resolution. With every respect for the judgment of Mr Thomson and his friends, we may be satis. fied that he did so. He who in preparing for an engagement attempts to withdraw his imagination from im. ages of death, will probably have but imperfect success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such men the conquerors at Bannockburn were not composed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that me. morable day, their spirits were without doubt wound up to a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the occasion; a pitch of enthusiasm at which danger becomes attractive, and the most terrific forms of death are no longer terrible. Such a strain of sentiment this heroic "welcome" may be supposed well calculated to elevate to raise their hearts high above fear, and to nerve their arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These observations might be illustrated and supported, by a reference to the martial poetry of all nations, from the spirit-stirring strains of Tyrteus, to the war-song of General Wolfe. Mr Thomson's observation, that "Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging address" seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat objectionable, not on account of its presenting a frightful but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great poet uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and is uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on the altar of the imagination. And it is the privilege of superior genius, by producing a new association, to elevate expressions that were originally low, and thus to triumph over the deficiencies of language. In how many instances might this be exemplified from the works of our immor. tal Shakspeare. "Who would fardels bear, It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such reflections is probably sufficient. | Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, No more a-winding the course of yon river, Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Adieu, my dear sir! The post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more lei. . me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you. "How can your flinty hearts enjoy "The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?" I am pleased that you are reconciled to the The song, otherwise, will pass. As to Mair of the Quaker's Wife, though, by the bye Gregoira Rua-Ruth, you will see a song of an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antimine to it, with a set of the air superior to quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known yours, in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The by the name of Leiger 'm choss. The followsong begins, ing verses I hope will please you, as an English song to the air. Raving winds around her blowing." Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they were like the Banks of Banna, for instance, though really Irish, yet, in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number: We could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of Roy's wife, for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. Deil tak' the wars is a charming song; so is Saw ye my Peggy. There's nae luck about the house, well deserves a place; I cannot say that O'er the hills and far awa strikes me as equal to your selection. This is no my ain house is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of I hae laid a herrin in sawt? I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty; and there are many others of the same kind pretty-but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert Fye let us a' to the bridal to any other words than its own. What pleases me, as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs-Fye let us a' to the bridul, with several others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing; while, Saw ye my Father, or saw ye my Mother, delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus, my song, Ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten? pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air; so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this; but, "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." No. XLVII. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. October, 1793. YOUR last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas,.poor Ers. kine! The recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publication, has, till now, scared This will be found in the latter part of this volume. + The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppress ed. THINE am I, my faithful fair, To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish ; Take away these rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure: What is life when wanting love? Your objection to the English song I pro posed for John Anderson my jo, is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. SONG, BY GAVIN TURNBULL. O CONDESCEND, dear, charming maid, While here, all melancholy, I heard of love, and with disdain, I laugh'd at every lover's pain, Those happy days are o'er; O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, |