No. 155.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

MY DEAR SIR,

LET me tell you that you are too fastidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you specify in your list have all, but one, the faults you remark in them; but who shall mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say-Go to, I will make a better? For instance, on reading over the Learig, I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which Heaven knows is poor enough :-*

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad to the air Nanie O, is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that, in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as 1 told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve, or reject, as you please) that my ballad of Nannie O, might, perhaps, do for one set of

• Here follows the Lea-rig.-See poems, p. 384.

verses to the tune.

Now don't let it enter into are under any necessity of have long ago made up my

your head, that you taking my verses. I mind as to my own reputation in the business of authorship; and have nothing to be pleased or of fended at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity.

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it,

'Behold yon hills where Lugar flows.'

Girvin is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables.

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business; but I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of postage, an expence that it is ill able to pay: so, with my best compliments to honest Allan, Good be wi ye, &c.

Friday Night.

Saturday Morning.

As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my conveyance goes away, I will give you Nannie O at length.*

Your remarks on Ewe-bughts, Marion, are just still it has obtained a place among our more classical Scottish songs; and what, with many

See Poems, p. 372.

beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it. In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits of Ewe-bughts; but it will fill up this page. You must know, that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion; and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully incribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race.

"Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary.'-See Poems, p. 389.

Galla Water, and Auld Rob Morris, I think, will most probably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on my verses, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opiniâtreté, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work.

songs

No. 156.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

November 8th, 1792.

IF you mean my dear Sir, that all the

in

your collection shall be poetry of the first

merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, My wife's a wanton wee thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it; and though, on farther study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink.

'My Wife's a winsome wee thing.'-See Poems, p. 387.

I have just been looking over the Collier's bonny Dochter; and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome.

'O saw ye bonnie Lesley," &c.-See Poems, p. 390.

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c.

No. 157.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

MY DEAR SIR,

14th November, 1792.

I AGREE with you that the song, Katharine Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The foregoing song* pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air, which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition.

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, sans ceremonie, make what use you choose of the productions. Adieu! &c.

* Highland Mary.'-See Poems, p. 381.