The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence. With a New Life of the Poet, and Notices, Critical and Biographical by Allan Cunningham (part 9 of 9)
R. B.
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CCLXX.
TO LADY GLENCAIRN.
[Burns, as the concluding paragraph of this letter proves, continued to the last years of his life to think of the composition of a Scottish drama, which Sir Walter Scott laments he did not write, instead of pouring out multitudes of lyrics for Johnson and Thomson.]
MY LADY,
The honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given him, came very seasonably to his aid, amid the cheerless gloom and sinking despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could use those old verses which please me more in their rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I ever saw.
"If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, Skill part from my right hand.
My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, If I do thee forget, Jerusalem, and thee above My chief joy do not set."--
When I am tempted to do anything improper, I dare not, because I look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and family. Now and then, when I have the honour to be called to the tables of the great, if I happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squires, or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by calling to remembrance that I am patronized by the noble house of Glencairn; and at gala-times, such as new-year's day, a christening, or the kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with,--The Countess of Glencairn! My good woman with the enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries, My Lord! and so the toast goes on until I end with Lady Harriet's little angel! whose epithalamium I have pledged myself to write.
When I received your ladyship's letter, I was just in the act of transcribing for you some verses I have lately composed; and meant to have sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my farm. Those fears were indeed too true; it is a bargain would have ruined me, but for the lucky circumstance of my having an excise commission.
People may talk as they please, of the ignominy of the excise; 50_l._ a year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of the world; and I would much rather have it said that my profession borrowed credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my profession. Another advantage I have in this business, is the knowledge it gives me of the various shades of human character, consequently assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when nobody knew me, but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled now that my lord Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to all the world. Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted my noble generous patron; but after acting the part of an honest man, and supporting my family, my whole wishes and views are directed to poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I were to give performances to the world superior to my former works, still if they were of the same kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse.
* * * * *
Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more amused with affectation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than manners which by far the greatest part of the audience can only know at second hand?
I have the honour to be,
Your ladyship's ever devoted
And grateful humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Peter Pindar, the name under which it was the pleasure of that bitter but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to write, was a man of little lyrical talent. He purchased a good annuity for the remainder of his life, by the copyright of his works, and survived his popularity many year.]
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 Pindar 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 taitie," may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer's haut-boy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in yesternight's evening walk, 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 the eventful morning.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.[237]
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.[238]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 237: Song CCVII.]
[Footnote 238: Song CCVIII.]
* * * * *
CCLXXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns for the airs of the Highlands.]
Sept. 1793.
I dare say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspondence is persecution. No matter, I can't help it; a ballad is my hobby-horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or post in the common race of men.
The following song I have composed for "Oran-gaoil," the Highland air that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well!--If not, 'tis also well!
Behold the hour, the boat arrive!
R. B.
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CCLXXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottish song, which poets and musicians would do well to read and consider.]
Sept. 1793.
I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on it.[239]
"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."[240]
"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 Crawfurd. Robert was his Christian name.[241]
"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 can never 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 of nature around me that are in unison and 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 fire-side 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, 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 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 me more than either of them. It is sometimes called "Ginglin 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 Crookieden," &c. I would advise you, in the 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,"[242] 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.
"Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always with the chorus to 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 proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow, exactly as Lucky Nancy in the Museum.
"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 admirably pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which "Patie Allan's mither died--that was about the back o' midnight;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company except the hautbois and the muse.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie.[243]
"Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in its place would put "There's nae luck about the house,"[244] 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 bobbit," 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.[245]
"Todlin hame." Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been mine, that 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.[246]
Now, I suppose, I have tried your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. "Gil Morice," "Tranent Muir," "Macpherson's farewell," "Battle of Sherriff-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?[247] It was then called "The banks of 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 239: Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication.]
[Footnote 240: This is an alteration of one of Crawford's songs.]
[Footnote 241: His Christian name was William.]
[Footnote 242: Song CXCV.]
[Footnote 243: Song CCIX.]
[Footnote 244: By William Julius Mickle.]
[Footnote 245: The song here alluded to is one which the poet afterwards sent in an entire form:--
"Where are the joys I hae met in the morning."]
[Footnote 246: Song CCX.]
[Footnote 247: A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwards edited.]
* * * * *
CCLXXIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Burns listened too readily to the suggestion of Thomson, to alter "Bruce's Address to his troops at Bannockburn:" whatever may be the merits of the air of "Louis Gordon," the sublime simplicity of the words was injured by the alteration: it is now sung as originally written, by all singers of taste.]
September, 1793.
I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea, "honour's bed," is, 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:--[248]
N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace--
"A false usurper sinks in every foe, And liberty returns with every blow."
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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 248: Song CCVII.]
* * * * *
CCLXXV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet's good sense rose at last in arms against the criticisms of the musician, and he refused to lessen the dignity of his war-ode by any more alterations.]
September, 1793.
"Who shall 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 reconsidering 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 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.
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. Here they are:--
Where are the joys I have met in the morning?[249]
Adieu, my dear Sir! the post goes, so I shall defer some other remarks until more leisure.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 249: Song CCXI.]
* * * * *
CCLXXVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[For "Fy! let us a' to the bridal," and "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," and "There's nae luck about the house," Burns puts in a word of praise, from a feeling that Thomson's taste would induce him to exclude the first--one of our most original songs--from his collection.]
September, 1793.
I have been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find English songs.
For "Muirland Willie," you have, in Ramsay's Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, "Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" As for "The Collier's Dochter," take the following old bacchanal:--
"Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c."[250]
The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend thus:
How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
The song otherwise will pass. As to "M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins,
Raving winds around her blowing.[251]
Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank 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 saut?" 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 "Fy! let's 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, "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," "Fy let's a' to the bridal," 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."
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 250: Song CCXII.]
[Footnote 251: Song LII.]
* * * * *
CCLXXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work.]
October, 1793.
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine![252] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you.
I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of "Leiger m' choss." The following verses, I hope, will please you, as an English song to the air.
Thine am I, my faithful fair:[253]
Your objection to the English song I proposed 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.[254]
Oh, condescend, dear charming maid, My wretched state to view; A tender swain, to love betray'd, And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy, My passion I deplore, Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate, I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain The urchin's power denied. I laugh'd at every lover's pain, And mock'd them when they sigh'd.
But how my state is alter'd! Those happy days are o'er; For all thy unrelenting hate, I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield! No longer let me mourn; And though victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee, My wonted peace restore; And grateful I shall bless thee still, And love thee more and more.
The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air "There was a lass, and she was fair." By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, That ever tried the plaintive strain, Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid And teach him smoothly to complain, Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, In sport she wanders o'er the plain: Their tales approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain.
When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to "Lewie Gordon."
LAURA.
Let me wander where I will, By shady wood, or winding rill; Where the sweetest May-born flowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers; Where the linnet's early song Echoes sweet the woods among: Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.
If at rosy dawn I choose To indulge the smiling muse; If I court some cool retreat, To avoid the noontide heat; If beneath the moon's pale ray, Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.
When at night the drowsy god Waves his sleep-compelling rod, And to fancy's wakeful eyes Bids celestial visions rise, While with boundless joy I rove Thro' the fairy land of love; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.
The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 252: "The honorable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed."--CURRIE.]
[Footnote 253: Song CCXIII.]
[Footnote 254: Gavin Turnbull was author of a now forgotten volume, published at Glasgow, in 1788, under the title of "Poetical Essays."]
* * * * *
CCLXXVIII.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,
WITH A PARCEL.
[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation of Burns.]
Dumfries, [December, 1793.]
SIR,
'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are the six guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man--or woman either. But for these d----d dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,[255] I had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face.
I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 255: Scottish Bank notes.]
* * * * *
CCLXXIX.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,
DRUMLANRIG.
[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a blank leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small octavo, in 1793.]
Dumfries, 1793.
Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever claim as mine:--to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of TRUTH.
THE AUTHOR.
* * * * *
CCLXXX.
TO CAPTAIN ----.
[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is copied from my kind friend Chambers's collection of Scottish songs.]
Dumfries, 5th December, 1793.
SIR,
Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaintance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. "He is the father of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour to the business, at the same time that the business does honour to him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was talking of your coming to this county with your corps. "Then," I said, "I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, 'Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are sacred.'"
In times like these, Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman. To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of a man can view with equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corruption.
I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it. Accept it, Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind.
I have the honour to be,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXI.
TO MRS. RIDDEL,
Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at the Dumfries Theatre.
[This clever lady, whom Burns so happily applies the words of Thomson, died in the year 1820, at Hampton Court.]
I am thinking to send my "Address" to some periodical publication, but it has not yet got your sanction, so pray look at it.
As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear madam, to give us, "The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret!" to which please add, "The Spoilt Child"--you will highly oblige me by so doing.
Ah, what an enviable creature you are! There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits--
"To play the shapes Of frolic fancy, and incessant form Those rapid pictures, assembled train Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, Where lively wit excites to gay surprise; Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve."
THOMSON.
But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXII.
TO A LADY.
IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT.
[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, has not transpired.]
Dumfries, 1794.
MADAM,
You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your presence on his benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday first: the play a most interesting one! "The Way to Keep Him." I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage: he is a poor and modest man; claims which from their very silence have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity! that from the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want! Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of nature, by far the most enviable is--to be able "to wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousness of having made one poor honest heart happy!
But I crave your pardon, Madam; I came to beg, not to preach.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIII.
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN,
With a Copy of Bruce's Address to his Troops at Bannockburn.
[This fantastic Earl of Buchan died a few years ago: when he was put into the family burial-ground, at Dryburgh, his head was laid the wrong way, which Sir Walter Scott said was little matter, as it had never been quite right in his lifetime.]
Dumfries, 12th January, 1794.
MY LORD,
Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honour me? Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with anything in history which interests my feelings as a man, equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-injured people; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her.
Liberty! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable! for never canst thou be too dearly bought!
If my little ode has the honour of your lordship's approbation, it will gratify my highest ambition.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIV.
TO CAPTAIN MILLER,
DALSWINTON.
[Captain Miller, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of Commons for the Dumfries district of boroughs. Dalswinton has passed from the family to my friend James M'Alpine Leny, Esq.]
DEAR SIR,
The following ode is on a subject which I know you by no means regard with indifference. Oh, Liberty,
"Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day."
ADDISON.
It does me so much good to meet with a man whose honest bosom glows with the generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I could not forbear sending you a composition of my own on the subject, which I really think is in my best manner.
I have the honour to be,
Dear Sir, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXV.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply a military officer, who, with the courtesy of those whose trade is arms, paid attention to the lady.]
DEAR MADAM,
I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the visit.
Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine--a shrine, how far exalted above such adoration--permit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent mind; and to assure you, that I am, thou most amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVI.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The patient sons of order and prudence seem often to have stirred the poet to such invectives as this letter exhibits.]
I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but whether in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment for a poet's pen! There is a species of the human genus that I call the gin-horse class: what enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round they go,--Mundell's ox that drives his cotton-mill is their exact prototype--without an idea or wish beyond their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d--mn'd melange of fretfulness and melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor, my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold--"And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!" If my resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and if-- * * * * *
Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The bard often offended and often appeased this whimsical but very clever lady.]
I have this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him anything again.
I have sent you "Werter," truly happy to have any the smallest opportunity of obliging you.
'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea; and that once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on him could only have envied my feelings and situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak on it.
One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Burns often complained in company, and sometimes in his letters, of the caprice of Mrs. Riddel.]
I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it; even perhaps while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could anything estrange me from a friend such as you?--No! To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting on you.
Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women; even with all thy little caprices!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIX.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The offended lady was soothed by this submissive letter, and the bard was re-established in her good graces.]
MADAM,
I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value.
If it is true that "offences come only from the heart," before you I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most accomplished of women, and the first of friends--if these are crimes, I am the most offending thing alive.
In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly confidence, now to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn--is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, and while de haut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy.
With the profoundest respect for your abilities; the most sincere esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable manners; and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most devoted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXC.
TO JOHN SYME, ESQ.
[John Syme, of the stamp-office, was the companion as well as comrade in arms, of Burns: he was a well-informed gentleman, loved witty company, and sinned in rhyme now and then: his epigrams were often happy.]
You know that among other high dignities, you have the honour to be my supreme court of critical judicature, from which there is no appeal. I enclose you a song which I composed since I saw you, and I am going to give you the history of it. Do you know that among much that I admire in the characters and manners of those great folks whom I have now the honour to call my acquaintances, the Oswald family, there is nothing charms me more than Mr. Oswald's unconcealable attachment to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O.? A fine fortune; a pleasing exterior; self-evident amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous upright mind, and that informed, too, much beyond the usual run of young fellows of his rank and fortune: and to all this, such a woman!--but of her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of saying anything adequate: in my song I have endeavoured to do justice to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald, but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, might, from the well-known character of poverty and poetry, be construed into some modification or other of that servility which my soul abhors.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCI.
TO MISS ----.
[Burns, on other occasions than this, recalled both his letters and verses: it is to be regretted that he did not recall more of both.]
Dumfries, 1794.
MADAM,
Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with the friend of my soul and his amiable connexions! the wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wanderings of a weary world! and the cutting reflection of all, that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight!
These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish.--However, you also may be offended with some imputed improprieties of mine; sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me.
To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me, is not the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and against direct malevolence I can be on my guard; but who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly?
I have a favour to request of you, Madam, and of your sister Mrs. ----, through your means. You know that, at the wish of my late friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written. They are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust may live when the hate of those who "watch for my halting," and the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has made my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion; I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts--Will Mrs. ---- have the goodness to destroy them, or return them to me? As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed; and that circumstance indeed was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer possess; and I hope that Mrs. ---- 's goodness, which I well know, and ever will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man whom she once held in some degree of estimation.
With the sincerest esteem,
I have the honour to be,
Madam, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted, but at times it burst out, as in this letter, with eloquence and fervour, mingled with fear.]
25th February, 1794.
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst thou give to a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me?
* * * * *
For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition.
Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility.
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a certain noble stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful, obscure realities--an all-powerful, and equally beneficent God; and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field: the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure.
I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning MANY; or at most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of spring; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson,
"These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God.--The rolling year Is full of thee."
And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCIII.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
[The original letter is in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Halland, of Poynings: it is undated, but from a memorandum on the back it appears to have been written in May, 1794.]
May, 1794.
MY LORD,
When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, and on the title-page of the book I do myself the honour to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me that it must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity: he introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; and to him I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess not the same dignity of man, which was your noble brother's characteristic feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in town:--allow me to present it you.
I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the world of letters, that professions of respect from an author, particularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of an honest man, I come before your lordship with an offering, however humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of you, my lord,--'tis all I have to ask of you,--that you will do me the honour to accept of it.
I have the honour to be,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The correspondence between the poet and the musician was interrupted in spring, but in summer and autumn the song-strains were renewed.]
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 bye. 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.[256]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 256: Song CCXXIII.]
* * * * *
CCXCV.
TO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ.
[The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows in what far lands it has travelled:--"Given by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1810. A. Fraser." "Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain Frazer's widow, by me, Thomas Rankine." "Transmitted to Archibald Hastie, Esq., London, March 27th, 1824, from Bombay."]
Dumfries, 21st June, 1794.
MY DEAR SIR,
My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or three o'clock, I shall be happy to take a draught of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme will be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your honourables and right honourables.
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland, England, and America.]
Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794.
Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may.--Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken.
I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus:--
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, Disturb not ye the hero's sleep.
with additions of
That arm which nerved with thundering fate, Braved usurpation's boldest daring! One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.
You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVII.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a new edition of his poems.]
Dumfries, 1794.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees.
I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.
I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Sir. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it once was the dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew.
Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad.--Our friend Clarke has done indeed well! 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with anything that has pleased me so much. You know I am no connoisseur: but that I am an amateur--will be allowed me.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The blank in this letter could be filled up without writing treason: but nothing has been omitted of an original nature.]
July, 1794.
Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Or is your work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of democrat discords? Alas the day! And woe is me! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions. * * * *
I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I wrote on the blank side of the title-page the following address to the young lady:
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, &c.[257]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 257: Song CCXXIX.]
* * * * *
CCXCIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson says to Burns, "You have anticipated my opinion of 'O'er the seas and far away.'" Yet some of the verses are original and touching.]
30th August, 1794.
The last evening, as I was straying out, and thinking of "O'er the hills and far away," I spun the following stanza for it; but whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it at first, but I own that now it appears rather a flimsy business.
This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a critique. We have many sailor songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet exception--"Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came." Now for the song:--
How can my poor heart be glad.[258]
I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 258: Song CCXXIV.]
* * * * *
CCC.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The stream on the banks of which this song is supposed to be sung, is known by three names, Cairn, Dalgonar, and Cluden. It rises under the name of Cairn, runs through a wild country, under the name of Dalgonar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine scenes, and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of Lincluden College, and then unites with the Nith.]
Sept. 1794.
I shall withdraw my "On the seas and far away" altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy the work. Making a poem is like begetting a son: you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you produce him to the world to try him.
For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions and all; and, as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn them. I am flattered at your adopting "Ca' the yowes to the knowes," as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its head.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, &c.[259]
I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 259: Song CCXXV.]
* * * * *
CCCI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises of the poet, had the honour of being named by Burke in the House of Commons: he shared in the French revolution, and narrowly escaped the guillotine, like many other true friends of liberty.]
Sept. 1794.
Do you know a blackguard Irish song called "Onagh's Waterfall?" The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work.
If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing in the company of ladies.
Sae flaxen were her ringlets.[260]
Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for "Rothemurche's rant," an air which puts me in raptures; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit against any of you. "Rothemurche," he says, "is an air both original and beautiful;" and, on his recommendation, I have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention as the music.
[Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks." Song CCXXXIII.]
I have begun anew, "Let me in this ae night." Do you think that we ought to retain the old chorus? I think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be successful or otherwise?--should she "let him in" or not?
Did you not once propose "The sow's tail to Geordie" as an air for your work? I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real excellence. I once set about verses for it, which I meant to be in the alternate way of a lover and his mistress chanting together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had meant to have made you the hero and heroine of the little piece.
How do you like the following epigram which I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the physician who seemingly saved her from the grave; and to him I address the following:
TO DR. MAXWELL,
ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY.
Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny: You save fair Jessy from the grave?-- An angel could not die!
God grant you patience with this stupid epistle!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 260: Song CCXXVI.]
* * * * *
CCCII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet relates the history of several of his best songs in this letter: the true old strain of "Andro and his cutty gun" is the first of its kind.]
19th October, 1794.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
By this morning's post I have your list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his opinion in general: you know his taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, so please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do--persuade you to adopt my favourite "Craigieburn-wood," in your selection: it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (entre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him--a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy--could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song--to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs--do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Tout au contraire! I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!
To descend to business: if you like my idea of "When she cam ben she bobbit," the following stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas:--
O saw ye my dear, my Phely.[261]
Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the west country, but the old words are trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which "Roslin Castle" is composed. The second part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. "Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. "Donocht-Head" is not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine: the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it.
"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to which this is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore.
"How long and dreary is the night!" I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page.
How long and dreary is the night, &c.[262]
Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his London collection.[263]
These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at "Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance:--
Let not woman e'er complain, &c.[264]
Since the above, I have been out in the country, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and returning home I composed the following:
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature &c.[265]
If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood.
I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it.
But lately seen in gladsome green, &c.[266]
I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please: whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence?
VARIATION.
Now to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain, The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray; In twining hazel bowers, His lay the linnet pours; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.
When frae my Chloris parted, Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky. But when she charms my sight, In pride of beauty's light; When through my very heart Her beaming glories dart; 'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 261: Song CCXXVII.]
[Footnote 262: Song CCXXVIII.]
[Footnote 263: Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was published this year.]
[Footnote 264: Song CCXXIX.]
[Footnote 265: Song CCXXX.]
[Footnote 266: Song CCXVI.]
* * * * *
CCCIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book for which he expresses his thanks, was the work of the waspish Ritson.]
November, 1794.
Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present; it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c., for your work. I intend drawing them up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for "My lodging is on the cold ground." On my visit the other day to my friend Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song.
My Chloris, mark how green the groves.[267]
How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think it pretty well.
I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of "ma chere amie." I assure you I was never more in earnest in my life, than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion,
"Where love is liberty, and nature law."
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids and generosity disdains the purchase.
Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of which the measure is something similar to what I want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English dress to your "Dainty Davie," as follows:--
It was the charming month of May.[268]
You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to "Rothemurche's rant," and you have Clarke to consult as to the set of the air for singing.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c.[269]
This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in the Museum.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 267: Song CCXXXI.]
[Footnote 268: Song CCXXXII.]
[Footnote 269: Song CCXXXIII.]
* * * * *
CCCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, "that at last the writing a series of songs for large musical collections degenerated into a slavish labour which no talents could support."]
I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as "Deil tak the wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of "Saw ye my father?"--By heavens! the odds is gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernized into the Scottish language, is originally, and in the early editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey, so has no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the "Duenna," to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins,
"When sable night each drooping plant restoring."
The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune.
Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the greenwood," &c.
Farewell thou stream that winding flows.[270]
There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," to which I wrote a song that, you will find in Johnson, "Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon:" this air I think might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me, that the first person who introduced the air into this country, was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them.
I thank you for admitting "Craigieburn-wood;" and I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a new "Craigieburn-wood" altogether. My heart is much in the theme.
I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes.
The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 270: Song CCXXXIV.]
* * * * *
CCCV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this letter contained, carry on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce, and the lovers are reduced to silence.]
19th November, 1794.
You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspondent I am; though, indeed, you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old.
O Philly, happy be the day.[271]
Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out whatever you think faulty.
I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name Philly, but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has to my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits it, for anything except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity; whereas, simplicity is as much eloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit on the other.
I agree with you as to the air, "Craigieburn-wood," that a chorus would, in some degree, spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with "Rothemurche;" there, as in "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with "Roy's Wife," as well as "Rothemurche." In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbalance the want of.
Try, {Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. {O lassie wi' the lint-white locks.
and
compare with {Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. {Lassie wi the lint-white locks.
Does not the lameness of the prefixed syllable strike you? In the last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild originality of the air; whereas, in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscenti.
"The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any subject in a song go down; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, "Todlin hame," is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition; And "Andrew and his cutty gun" is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to bacchanalian songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air I like much--"Lumps o' pudding."
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.[272]
If you do not relish this air, I will send it to Johnson.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 271: Song CCXXXV.]
[Footnote 272: Song CCXXXVI.]
* * * * *
CCCVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems of an order as rude and incapable of fine sounds as the whistles which school-boys make in spring from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree.]
Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an English song to "Roy's Wife." You will allow me, that in this instance my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish.
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?[273]
Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from somebody.
Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude instrument. It is comprised of three parts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton ham; the horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the horn until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd boy have, when the corn-stems are green and full grown. The reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventages on the upper side, and one back-ventage, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country.
However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother-brush with him. "Pride in poets is nae sin;" and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 273: Song CCXXXVII.]
* * * * *
CCCVII.
TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ.,
OF DALSWINTON.
[In a conversation with James Perry, editor of the Morning Chronicle, Mr. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, kindly represented the poverty of the poet and the increasing number of his family: Perry at once offered fifty pounds a year for any contributions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the reasons for his refusal are stated in this letter.]
Dumfries, Nov. 1794.
DEAR SIR,
Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank you for it; but in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services: I then could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued.
My prospect in the Excise is something; at least it is, encumbered as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport with.
In the mean time, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me.--Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into the world though the medium of some newspaper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed.
With the most grateful esteem I am ever,
Dear Sir,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCVIII.
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN.,
DUMFRIES.
[Political animosities troubled society during the days of Burns, as much at least as they disturb it now--this letter is an instance of it.]
Sunday Morning.
DEAR SIR,
I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Capt. ---- made use of to me, had I had no-body's welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children in a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread lest last night's business may be misrepresented in the same way.--You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns' welfare with the task of waiting as soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was the obnoxious toast? "May our success in the present war be equal to the justice of our cause."--A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning you will wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estimation as Mr. ----, should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has done.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[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 assure 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 CCXXXVIII.]
* * * * *
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! God 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 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 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]
Let me hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 277: Song CCXLIX.]
[Footnote 278: Song CCL.]
[Footnote 279: Song CCLI.]
* * * * *
CCCXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The poet calls for praise in this letter, a species of coin which is always ready.]
How cruel are the parents.[280]
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.[281]
Well, this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders--your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can, in a post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrensy 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 280: Song CCLIII.]
[Footnote 281: Song CCLIV.]
* * * * *
CCCXIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson at this time sent the drawing to Burns in which David Allan sought to embody the "Cotter's Saturday Night:" it displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist.]
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 sae 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 music so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d--n'd, wee, rumblegairie urchin of mine, whom from that propensity to witty wickedness, and man-fu' mischief, which, even at twa days auld, I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be nameless.
Give the enclosed epigram to my much-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?
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In allusion to the preceding letter, Thomson says to Burns, "You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited the drawing from me." The "For a' that and a' that," which went with this letter, was, it is believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.]
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:--
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad.
In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus--a dame whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning--a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare?
This is no my ain lassie,[282] &c.
Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of Clarke at last? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cunningham.
I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, and that you may copy the song "Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier." I do not know whether I am right, but that song pleases me; and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's newly-roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses to the air of "I wish my love was in a mire;" and poor Erskine's English lines may follow.
I enclose you a "For a' that and a' that," which was never in print: it is a much superior song to mine. I have been told that it was composed by a lady, and some lines written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris:--
To Chloris.[283]
Une bagatelle de l'amitie.
COILA.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 282: Song CCLV.]
[Footnote 283: Poems, No. CXLVI.]
* * * * *
CCCXVI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[In the double service of poesy and music the poet had to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.]
FORLORN my love, no comfort near, &c.[284]
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?
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 284: Song CCLVIII.]
* * * * *
CCCXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The unexampled brevity of Burns's letters, and the extraordinary flow and grace of his songs, towards the close of his life, have not now for the first time been remarked.]
LAST May a braw wooer.[285]
Why, why tell thy lover.[286]
Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm 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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 285: Song CCLIX.]
[Footnote 286: Song CCLX.]
* * * * *
CCCXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
Supposes himself to be writing from the dead to the living.
[Ill health, poverty, a sense of dependence, with the much he had deserved of his country, and the little he had obtained, were all at this time pressing on the mind of Burns, and inducing him to forget what was due to himself as well as to the courtesies of life.]
MADAM,
I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time and the manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apology.--Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I----, too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners--do make on my part, a miserable d--mned wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. G----, a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness.--To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them that my errors, though great, were involuntary--that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts--that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one--that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me--but--
* * * * *
Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell-hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me! spare me!
Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your humble slave.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXIX.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Mrs. Riddel, it is said, possessed many more of the poet's letters than are printed--she sometimes read them to friends who could feel their wit, and, like herself, make allowance for their freedom.]
Dumfries, 1795.
Mr. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel--is much obliged to her for her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B.'s being at present acting as supervisor of excise, a department that occupies his every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beautiful song, "To thee, loved Nith"--which it so well deserves. When "Anacharsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public library, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of it previous to her sending it to the library, as it is a book Mr. B. has never seen: he wishes to have a longer perusal of them than the regulations of the library allow.
Friday Eve.
P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have seen.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXX.
TO MISS LOUISA FONTENELLE.
[That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deserve the high praise which Burns bestows may be guessed: the lines to which he alludes were recited by the lady on her benefit-night, and are printed among his Poems.]
Dumfries, December, 1795.
MADAM,
In such a bad world as ours, those who add to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are positively our benefactors. To you, Madam, on our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would insure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical talents would insure admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious compliment of the frivolous or interested; I pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime of nature excites my admiration, or her beauties give me delight.
Will the foregoing lines be of any service to you in your approaching benefit-night? If they will I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore: I know they have no great merit; but though they should add but little to the entertainment of the evening, they give me the happiness of an opportunity to declare how much I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Of the sweet girl to whom Burns alludes in this letter he was deprived during this year: her death pressed sorely on him.]
15th December, 1795.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sympathize in it: these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or less, threatened to terminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of fate! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am--such things happen every day--gracious God! what would become of my little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune.--A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I--but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!
To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad--
"O that I had ne'er been married, I would never had nae care; Now I've gotten wife and bairns, They cry crowdie! evermair.
Crowdie! ance; crowdie! twice; Crowdie! three times in a day; An ye crowdie! ony mair, Ye'll crowdie! a' my meal away."--
* * * * *
December 24th.
We have had a brilliant theatre here this season; only, as all other business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical complaint of the country, want of cash. I mentioned our theatre merely to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows:--
ADDRESS,
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES.
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &c.
25th, Christmas-Morning.
This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes--accept mine--so heaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my favourite author, "The Man of Feeling," "May the Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest!"
Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? Is not the "Task" a glorious poem? The religion of the "Task," bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and nature; the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your "Zeluco," in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms.
I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters; I mean those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which, from time to time, I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which yet at the same time I did not care to destroy; I discovered many of these rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXII.
TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER,
SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES.
[The person to whom this letter is addressed, is the same who lately denied that Burns was harshly used by the Board of Excise: but those, and they are many, who believe what the poet wrote to Erskine, of Mar, cannot agree with Mr. Findlater.]
SIR,
Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not have troubled you with the collector's one, but for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine promised me to make it right, if you will have the goodness to show him how. As I have no copy of the scheme for myself, and the alterations being very considerable from what it was formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this scheme I send you, when I come to face up my new books. So much for schemes.--And that no scheme to betray a FRIEND, or mislead a STRANGER; to seduce a YOUNG GIRL, or rob a HEN-ROOST; to subvert LIBERTY, or bribe an EXCISEMAN; to disturb the GENERAL ASSEMBLY, or annoy a GOSSIPPING; to overthrow the credit of ORTHODOXY, or the authority of OLD SONGS; to oppose your wishes, or frustrate my hopes--MAY PROSPER--is the sincere wish and prayer of
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXIII.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.
[Cromek says, when a neighbour complained that his copy of the Morning Chronicle was not regularly delivered to him from the post-office, the poet wrote the following indignant letter to Perry on a leaf of his excise-book, but before it went to the post he reflected and recalled it.]
Dumfries, 1795.
SIR,
You will see by your subscribers' list, that I have been about nine months of that number.
I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, seven or eight of your papers either have never been sent to me, or else have never reached me. To be deprived of any one number of the first newspaper in Great Britain for information, ability, and independence, is what I can ill brook and bear; but to be deprived of that most admirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, when he made the great though ineffectual attempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too true), "to save a SINKING STATE"--this was a loss that I neither can nor will forgive you.--That paper, Sir, never reached me; but I demand it of you. I am a BRITON; and must be interested in the cause of LIBERTY:--I am a MAN; and the RIGHTS of HUMAN NATURE cannot be indifferent to me. However, do not let me mislead you: I am not a man in that situation of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to whom SITUATION OF LIFE ALONE is the criterion of MAN.--I am but a plain tradesman, in this distant, obscure country town: but that humble domicile in which I shelter my wife and children is the CASTELLUM of a BRITON; and that scanty, hard-earned income which supports them is as truly my property, as the most magnificent fortune, of the most PUISSANT MEMBER of your HOUSE of NOBLES.
These, Sir, are my sentiments; and to them I subscribe my name: and were I a man of ability and consequence enough to address the PUBLIC, with that name should they appear.
I am, &c.
* * * * *
CCCXXIV.
TO MR. HERON,
OF HERON.
[Of Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, something has been said in the notes on the Ballads which bear his name.]
Dumfries, 1794, or 1795.
SIR,
I enclose you some copies of a couple of political ballads; one of which, I believe, you have never seen. Would to Heaven I could make you master of as many votes in the Stewartry--but--
"Who does the utmost that he can, Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more."
In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the foe, I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and have sent them among friends all about the country.
To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter dereliction of all principle, in a profligate junto which has not only outraged virtue, but violated common decency; which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry iniquity below their daring;--to unmask their flagitiousness to the broadest day--to deliver such over to their merited fate, is surely not merely innocent, but laudable; is not only propriety, but virtue. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on the heads or your opponents; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule!
I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. At present my situation in life must be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The statement is this--I am on the supervisors' list, and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be appointed of course. Then, a FRIEND might be of service to me in getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's income varies from about a hundred and twenty to two hundred a year; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's list; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A collector-ship varies much, from better than two hundred a year to near a thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list; and have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent competency, is the summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say that I do not need, or would not be indebted to a political friend; at the same time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situation on your benevolence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where the good offices of a gentleman of your public character and political consequence might bring me forward, I shall petition your goodness with the same frankness as I now do myself the honour to subscribe myself
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP,
IN LONDON.
[In the correspondence of the poet with Mrs. Dunlop he rarely mentions Thomson's Collection of Songs, though his heart was set much upon it: in the Dunlop library there are many letters from the poet, it is said, which have not been published.]
Dumfries, 20th December, 1795.
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of yours. In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take this route; and now I know not what is become of you, or whether this may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you and yours in prospering health and good spirits! Do let me hear from you the soonest possible.
As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish songs which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does over the English.
December 29th.
Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of business, and what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, and during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form: a consummation devoutly to be wished! My political sins seem to be forgiven me.
This is the season (New-year's-day is now my date) of wishing; and mine are most fervently offered up for you! May life to you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your friends! What a transient business is life! Very lately I was a boy; but t'other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I look on the man, who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, superintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot--I felicitate such a man as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the grave.
January 12th.
You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have just been reading over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and Manners; and still I read it with delight. His humour is perfectly original--it is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of anybody but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluco, remember that, when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of my laziness.
He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last publication.[287]
* * * * *
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 287: Edward.]
* * * * *
CCCXXVI.
ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS
TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT.
[This ironical letter to the prime minister was found among the papers of Burns.]
SIR,
While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweating under the weight of heavy addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, not with venal approbation, but with fraternal condolence; not as what you are just now, or for some time have been; but as what, in all probability, you will shortly be.--We shall have the merit of not deserting our friends in the day of their calamity, and you will have the satisfaction of perusing at least one honest address. You are well acquainted with the dissection of human nature; nor do you need the assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to inform you, that man is always a selfish, often a perfidious being.--This assertion, however the hasty conclusions of superficial observation may doubt of it, or the raw inexperience of youth may deny it, those who make the fatal experiment we have done, will feel.--You are a statesman, and consequently are not ignorant of the traffic of these corporation compliments--The little great man who drives the borough to market, and the very great man who buys the borough in that market, they two do the whole business; and you well know they, likewise, have their price. With that sullen disdain which you can so well assume, rise, illustrious Sir, and spurn these hireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best they are the compliments of a man's friends on the morning of his execution: they take a decent farewell, resign you to your fate, and hurry away from your approaching hour.
If fame say true, and omens be not very much mistaken, you are about to make your exit from that world where the sun of gladness gilds the paths of prosperous man: permit us, great Sir, with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your passage to the realms of ruin.
Whether the sentiment proceed from the selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial; but to point out to a child of misfortune those who are still more unhappy, is to give him some degree of positive enjoyment. In this light, Sir, our downfall may be again useful to you:--though not exactly in the same way, it is not perhaps the first time it has gratified your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly despiteful.--At an age when others are the votaries of pleasure, or underlings in business, you had attained the highest wish of a British statesman; and with the ordinary date of human life, what a prospect was before you! Deeply rooted in Royal favour, you overshadowed the land. The birds of passage, which follow ministerial sunshine through every clime of political faith and manners, flocked to your branches; and the beasts of the field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys) crowded under your shade. "But behold a watcher, a holy one, came down from heaven, and cried aloud, and said thus: Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit; let the beasts get away from under it, and the fowls from his branches!" A blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But turn your eyes, Sir, to the tragic scenes of our fate:--an ancient nation, that for many ages had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle for independence with her much more powerful neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should ever after make them one people. In consideration of certain circumstances, it was covenanted that the former should enjoy a stipulated alleviation in her share of the public burdens, particularly in that branch of the revenue called the Excise. This just privilege has of late given great umbrage to some interested, powerful individuals of the more potent part of the empire, and they have spared no wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what they dared not openly to attack, from the dread which they yet entertained of the spirit of their ancient enemies.
In this conspiracy we fell; nor did we alone suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A number of (we will say) respectable individuals, largely engaged in trade, where we were not only useful, but absolutely necessary to our country in her dearest interests; we, with all that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed without remorse, to the infernal deity of political expediency! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition! Your foes, Sir, were avowed; were too brave to take an ungenerous advantage; you fell in the face of day.--On the contrary, our enemies, to complete our overthrow, contrived to make their guilt appear the villany of a nation.--Your downfall only drags with you your private friends and partisans: in our misery are more or less involved the most numerous and most valuable part of the community--all those who immediately depend on the cultivation of the soil, from the landlord of a province, down to his lowest hind.
Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at another rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions of adversity;--the gratulations of an approving conscience. In a certain great assembly, of which you are a distinguished member, panegyrics on your private virtues have so often wounded your delicacy, that we shall not distress you with anything on the subject. There is, however, one part of your public conduct which our feelings will not permit us to pass in silence: our gratitude must trespass on your modesty; we mean, worthy Sir, your whole behaviour to the Scots Distillers.--In evil hours, when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the sense, let that, Sir, come like an healing angel, and speak the peace to your soul which the world can neither give nor take away.
We have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers,
And grateful humble servants,
JOHN BARLEYCORN--Praeses.
* * * * *
CCCXXVII.
TO THE HON. PROVOST, BAILIES, AND
TOWN COUNCIL OF DUMFRIES.
[The Provost and Bailies complied at once with the modest request of the poet: both Jackson and Staig, who were heads of the town by turns, were men of taste and feeling.]
GENTLEMEN,
The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably filled the various departments of your schools, as to make it a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my large family, and very stinted income, to give my young ones that education I wish, at the high fees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me.
Some years ago your good town did me the honour of making me an honorary burgess.--Will you allow me to request that this mark of distinction may extend so far, as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of the town, in the schools?
If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve you; and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have the honour to be,
Gentlemen,
Your devoted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Mrs. Riddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the great cause of human liberty, and lamented with him the excesses of the French Revolution.]
Dumfries, 20th January, 1796.
I cannot express my gratitude to you, for allowing me a longer perusal of "Anacharsis." In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me so much; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our society; as "Anacharsis" is an indispensable desideratum to a son of the muses.
The health you wished me in your morning's card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him.
The muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached stanza I intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[It seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of Burns, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld or delayed her usual kind and charming communications.]
Dumfries, 31st January, 1796.
These many months you have been two packets in my debt--what sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly-valued a friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas! Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep in the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before my own door in the street.
"When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, Affliction purifies the visual ray, Religion hails the drear, the untried night, And shuts, for ever shuts! life's doubtful day."
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the "handsome, elegant present" mentioned in this letter, was a common worsted shawl.]
February, 1796.
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for my remaining volume 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 rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much.
Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms.[288]
If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing, the name Chloris--I meant it as the fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more amendments to propose. What you once mentioned of "flaxen locks" is just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty. Of this also again--God bless you![289]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 288: Song CCLXVI.]
[Footnote 289: Our poet never explained what name he would have substituted for Chloris.--Mr. Thomson.]
* * * * *
CCCXXXI.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[It is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan's illustrations: but at that time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments of books.]
April, 1796.
Alas! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! "By 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 Fergusson,
"Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven Light to the comfortless and wretched given?"
This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. "Woo'd an' married an' a'," is admirable! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire "Turnim-spike." What I like least is "Jenny said to Jockey." Besides the female being in her appearance * * * *, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathize with him. Happy I am to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me--but that is a sad subject.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXXII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want,--his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his early compositions.]
MY DEAR SIR,
I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired--"Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney," but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it.
[Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, beginning,
Here's a health to ane I loe dear;[290]
the fourth was found among the poet's MSS. after his death.]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 290: Song CCLXVII.]
* * * * *
CCCXXXIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[John Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, was a brother gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentleman; Jessie Lewars was his sister, and at this time but in her teens.]
This will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, if you choose, to write me by him: and if you have a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them; so when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies.[291] I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout--a sad business!
Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him.
This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 291: "It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not live to perform."--Currie.]
* * * * *
CCCXXXIV.
TO MRS. RIDDEL,
Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assembly on that day to show his loyalty.
[This is the last letter which the poet wrote to this accomplished lady.]
Dumfries, 4th June, 1796.
I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam--"Come, curse me Jacob; and come, defy me Israel!" So say I--Come, curse me that east wind; and come, defy me the north! Would you have me in such circumstances copy you out a love-song?
I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball.--Why should I? "man delights not me, nor woman either!" Can you supply me with the song, "Let us all be unhappy together?"--do if you can, and oblige, le pauvre miserable
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXXV.
TO MR. CLARKE,
SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR.
[Who will say, after reading the following distressing letter, lately come to light, that Burns did not die in great poverty.]
Dumfries, 26th June, 1796.
MY DEAR CLARKE,
Still, still the victim of affliction! Were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke! I begin to fear the worst.
As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and would despise myself, if I were not; but Burns's poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones--helpless orphans!--there I am weak as a woman's tear. Enough of this! 'Tis half of my disease.
I duly received your last, enclosing the note. It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good, as, by return of post, to enclose me another note. I trust you can do it without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remembrance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improbable.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXXVI.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON,
EDINBURGH.
["In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed gratuitously not less than one hundred and eighty-four original, altered, and collected songs! The editor has seen one hundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the 'Museum.'"--CROMEK. Will it be believed that this "humble request" of Burns was not complied with! The work was intended as a present to Jessie Lewars.]
Dumfries, 4th July, 1796.
How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume? You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what we have so well begun.
* * * * *
You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world--because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to other and far more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of sentiment! However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as I can.
Let me hear from you as soon as convenient.--Your work is a great one; and now that it is finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or three things that might be mended; yet I will venture to prophesy, that to future ages your publication will be the text-book and standard of Scottish song and music.
I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the "Scots Musical Museum." If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon.
The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready) or any message you may have. I am extremely anxious for your work, as indeed I am for everything concerning you, and your welfare.
Farewell,
R. B.
P. S. You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags miscarried.
* * * * *
CCCXXXVII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[Few of the last requests of the poet were effectual: Clarke, it is believed, did not send the second note he wrote for: Johnson did not send the copy of the Museum which he requested, and the Commissioners of Excise refused the continuance of his full salary.]
Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July, 1796.
MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM,
I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you mention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me--Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair--my spirits fled! fled! but I can no more on the subject--only the medical folks tell me that my last only chance is bathing and country-quarters, and riding.--The deuce of the matter is this; when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to 35_l._ instead of 50_l._--What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters--with a wife and five children at home, on 35_l._? I mention this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our commissioners of excise to grant me the full salary; I dare say you know them all personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poete--if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger.
I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy here; but I shall be at home soon, when I will send it you.--Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable designation of Alexander Cunningham Burns. My last was James Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXXVIII.
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS.
[This letter contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns: the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, was not all, though the worst.]
10th July, 1796.
DEAR BROTHER,
It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, and I will continue there, or in a friend's house in the country, all the summer. God keep my wife and children: if I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much thoughtlessness as to expense, when I came to town, that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me to my mother.
Yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXXXIX.
TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR,
MASON, MAUCHLINE.
[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, the hands of the poet's son, Major James Glencairn Burns.]
July 10th [1796.]
For Heaven's sake, and as you value the we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour to come if possible. My wife thinks she can yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people order me, as I value my existence, to fly to sea-bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thousand chances to one that I shall not be within a dozen miles of her when her hour comes. What a situation for her, poor girl, without a single friend by her on such a serious moment.
I have now been a week at salt-water, and though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.
Your most affectionate son,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXL.
TO MRS. BURNS.
[Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was injudicious: but it was felt that Burns was on his way to the grave, and as he desired to try the influence of sea-water, as well as sea-air, his wishes were not opposed.]
Brow, Thursday.
MY DEAREST LOVE,
I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me; but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday.
Your affectionate husband,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXLI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
["The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of this lady's silence," says Currie, "and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship to his widow and children."]
Brow, Saturday, 12th July, 1796.
MADAM,
I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart.
Farewell!!!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXLII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet's request, and transmitted the exact sum which he requested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was afraid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he would, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, however, told us how much he sent to the all but desolate widow and children, when death had released him from all dread of the poet's indignation.]
Brow, on the Solway-firth, 12th July, 1796.
After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on "Rothemurche" this morning. The measure is so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me!
Fairest maid on Devon's banks.[292]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 292: Song CCLXVIII.]
* * * * *
CCCXLIII.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
WRITER, MONTROSE.
[The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July--he sent five pounds afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the boys, and educate him in his own profession of a writer. All this was unknown to the world till lately.]
Brow, 12th July.
MY DEAR COUSIN,
When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease; guess then my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use the language to you, O do not disappoint me! but strong necessity's curst command.
I have been thinking over and over my brother's affairs, and I fear I must cut him up; but on this I will correspond at another time, particularly as I shall [require] your advice.
Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post;--save me from the horrors of a jail!
My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look it over again.
Farewell.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCCXLIV.
TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ.
[James Gracie was, for some time, a banker in Dumfries: his eldest son, a fine, high-spirited youth, fell by a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to the attack on Washington.]
Brow, Wednesday Morning, 16th July, 1796.
MY DEAR SIR,
It would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it already; but alas! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer this week, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry.
So God bless you.
R. B.
* * * * *
REMARKS
ON
SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS.
* * * * *
[The following Strictures on Scottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, in the interleaved copy of Johnson's Musical Museum, which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friars Carse; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques.]
* * * * *
THE HIGHLAND QUEEN.
This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Solebay man-of-war.--This I had from Dr. Blacklock.
* * * * *
BESS THE GAWKIE.
This song shows that the Scottish muses did not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Oswald, as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this.
* * * * *
OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY.
It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkudbright, and Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c., can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these countries. This, I conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called, both by tradition and in printed collections, "The Lass of Lochroyan," which I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway.
* * * * *
THE BANKS OF THE TWEED.
This song is one of the many attempts that English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appellation of Anglo-Scottish productions. The music is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt.
* * * * *
THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES.
This song, as far as I know, for the first time appears here in print.--When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I remember to have heard those fanatics, the Buchanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air.
* * * * *
ROSLIN CASTLE.
These beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anecdote, kept for some years as amanuensis. I do not know who is the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune.
* * * * *
SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? QUO' SHE.
This song, for genuine humour in the verses, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old.
* * * * *
CLOUT THE CALDRON.
A tradition is mentioned in the "Bee," that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, nothing would soothe his mind so much by the way as to hear "Clout the Caldron" played.
I have met with another tradition, that the old song to this tune,
"Hae ye onie pots or pans, Or onie broken chanlers,"
was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of
"The blacksmith and his apron,"
which from the rhythm, seems to have been a line of some old song to the tune.
* * * * *
SAW YE MY PEGGY.
This charming song is much older, and indeed superior to Ramsay's verses, "The Toast," as he calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading.
The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song familiar from the cradle to every Scottish ear.
"Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie Linkin o'er the lea?
High kilted was she, High kilted was she, High kilted was she, Her coat aboon her knee.
What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken her be?"
Though it by no means follows that the silliest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song; yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be old verses. The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never to be met with in the fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection.
* * * * *
THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH.
This song is one of the many effusions of Scots Jacobitism.--The title "Flowers of Edinburgh," has no manner of connexion with the present verses, so I suspect there has been an older set of words, of which the title is all that remains.
By the bye, it is singular enough that the Scottish muses were all Jacobites.--I have paid more attention to every description of Scots songs than perhaps anybody living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the families of Nassau or Brunswick; while there are hundreds satirizing them.--This may be thought no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I would always take it as a compliment to have it said, that my heart ran before my head,--and surely the gallant though unfortunate house of Stewart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme * * * * * *
* * * * *
JAMIE GAY.
Jamie Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo-Scottish piece.
* * * * *
MY DEAR JOCKIE.
Another Anglo-Scottish production.
* * * * *
FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE.
It is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by.
To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard:
"Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae; But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae.
Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae: An' gin ye meet dirty hizzie, Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae."
* * * * *
THE LASS O' LIVISTON.
The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.--It begins,
"The Bonnie lass o' Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, And she has written in her contract To lie her lane, to lie her lane." &c. &c.
* * * * *
THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.
Ramsay found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air.
* * * * *
JOCKIE'S GRAY BREEKS.
Though this has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the north of Ireland, called "The Weaver and his Shuttle O," which, though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune.
* * * * *
THE HAPPY MARRIAGE.
Another, but very pretty Anglo-Scottish piece.
* * * * *
THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.
In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localized (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayrshire.--The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place called Patie's Mill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would be a fine theme for a song.--Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song.
* * * * *
THE TURNIMSPIKE.
There is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour, omitted in this set.--Where I have placed the asterisms.
"They tak the horse then by te head, And tere tey mak her stan', man; Me tell tem, me hae seen te day, Tey no had sic comman', man."
* * * * *
HIGHLAND LADDIE.
As this was a favourite theme with our later Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs of that name. That which I take to be the oldest, is to be found in the "Musical Museum," beginning, "I hae been at Crookieden." One reason for my thinking so is, that Oswald has it in his collection, by the name of "The Auld Highland Laddie." It is also known by the name of "Jinglan Johnie," which is a well-known song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by the name of "Highland Laddie;" while everybody knows "Jinglan Johnie." The song begins
"Jinglan John, the meickle man, He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonie."
Another "Highland Laddie" is also in the "Museum," vol. v., which I take to be Ramsay's original, as he has borrowed the chorus--"O my bonie Highland lad," &c. It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus; and has humour in its composition--it is an excellent, but somewhat licentious song.--It begins
"As I cam o'er Cairney mount, And down among the blooming heather."
This air, and the common "Highland Laddie," seem only to be different sets.
Another "Highland Laddie," also in the "Museum," vol. v., is the tune of several Jacobite fragments. One of these old songs to it, only exists, as far as I know, in these four lines--
"Where hae ye been a' day, Bonie laddie, Highland laddie? Down the back o' Bell's brae, Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie."
Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, called the new "Highland Laddie."
* * * * *
THE GENTLE SWAIN.
To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable verses, is downright prostitution of common sense! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable.
* * * * *
HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY.
This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no means a bad one.
* * * * *
FAIREST OF THE FAIR.
It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charming song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song.--I was not acquainted with the editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had I known in time, I would have prevented such an impudent absurdity.
* * * * *
THE BLAITHRIE O'T.
The following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing.
"O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand To sing you a song which you did me command; But my memory's so bad I had almost forgot That you called it the gear and the blaithrie o't.--
I'll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride, I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride; For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't.--
Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne; I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smock, Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.--
Tho' we hae nae horses or menzies at command, We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand; And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot, And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.--
If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent; Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content; For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins bu groat, Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't--
I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs of the kirk or the queen; They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim; On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it stil remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't."
* * * * *
MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN.
"Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, "as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true.
* * * * *
TWEED SIDE.
In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &c.--Old Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France.--As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side is Mr. Crawfurd's, and indeed does great honour to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Crawfurd; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Ritchie.
I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of which I still recollect the first--
"When Maggy and I was acquaint, I carried my noddle fu' hie; Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain, Nor gowdspink sae happy as me: But I saw her sae fair and I lo'ed: I woo'd, but I came nae great speed; So now I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed."--
* * * * *
THE POSY.
It appears evident to me that Oswald composed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this air.--In the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, he has either hit on a wonderful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed the three first bars of the old air; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country girl's voice, had no great merit.--The following is a specimen:
"There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went; Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black hair; And she has met a young man a comin o'er the bent, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May.
O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black hair? Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May.
What if I gang alang with thee, my ain pretty May, Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, any thy coal-black hair; Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May."
* * * * *
MARY'S DREAM.
The Mary here alluded to is generally supposed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. John Lowe, who likewise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost.--I have seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.--By the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude to some love affair.
* * * * *
THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS.
BY MR. DUDGEON.
This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in Berwickshire.
* * * * *
I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE.
I never heard more of the words of this old song than the title.
* * * * *
ALLAN WATER.
This Allan Water, which the composer of the music has honoured with the name of the air, I have been told is Allan Water, in Strathallan.
* * * * *
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.
This is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots, or any other language.--The two lines,
"And will I see his face again! And will I hear him speak!"
as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by anything I ever heard or read: and the lines,
"The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw,"--
are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior to Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much anterior to that period.
* * * * *
TARRY WOO.
This is a very pretty song; but I fancy that the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much older than the rest of the words.
* * * * *
GRAMACHREE.
The song of Gramachree was composed by a Mr. Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the "Molly," who is the subject of the song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manuscript of his most beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line that has more true pathos than
"How can she break that honest heart that wears her in its core!"
But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do in this collection.
* * * * *
THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE.
The first half stanza is much older than the days of Ramsay.--The old words began thus:
"The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's wonder bonnie! A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands and money. She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady, But she wad hae a collier, the colour o' her daddie."
* * * * *
MY AIN KIND DEARIE-O.
The old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these inserted; which were mostly composed by poor Fergusson, in one of his merry humours. The old words began thus:
"I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat, And I were ne'er sae weary, O; I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O."--
* * * * *
MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW.
Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dryhope, and married into the Harden family. Her daughter was married to a predecessor of the present Sir Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heathfield.
There is a circumstance in their contract of marriage that merits attention, and it strongly marks the predatory spirit of the times. The father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for some time after the marriage; for which the son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits of the first Michaelmas moon!
* * * * *
DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.
I have been informed, that the tune of "Down the burn, Davie," was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale.
* * * * *
BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTIE.
The old words, all that I remember, are,--
"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night: It rains, it hails, it thunders, The moon, she gies nae light: It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, That ever I tint my way; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee Until it be break o' day.--
O, Betty will bake my bread, And Betty will brew my ale, And Betty will be my love, When I come over the dale: Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me, And while I hae life, dear lassie, My ain sweet Betty thou's be."
* * * * *
THE BLITHSOME BRIDAL.
I find the "Blithsome Bridal" in James Watson's collection of Scots poems, printed at Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the publisher says, is the first of its nature which has been published in our own native Scots dialect--it is now extremely scarce.
* * * * *
JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE.
John Hay's "Bonnie Lassie" was daughter of John Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, and late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh.--She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the years 1720 and 1740.
* * * * *
THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE.
The two first lines of this song are all of it that is old. The rest of the song, as well as those songs in the Museum marked T., are the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon; a mortal, who, though he drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of-God, and Solomon-the-son-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed at half a guinea a week!
* * * * *
SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN.
This song is beautiful.--The chorus in particular is truly pathetic. I never could learn anything of its author.
CHORUS.
"Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, Sae merry as we twa ha'e been; My heart is like for to break, When I think on the days we ha'e seen."
* * * * *
THE BANKS OF FORTH.
This air is Oswald's.
* * * * *
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.
This is another beautiful song of Mr. Crawfurd's composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shows the old "Bush;" which, when I saw it, in the year 1787, was composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls "The New Bush."
* * * * *
CROMLET'S LILT.
The following interesting account of this plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Riddel by Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee.
"In the latter end of the sixteenth century, the Chisolms were proprietors of the estate of Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of Ardoch.
"At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother-tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education. At that period the most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay-brother of the monastery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus; and, by misinterpreting or keeping up the letters and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connexion was broken off betwixt them; Helen was inconsolable, and Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad called 'Cromlet's Lilt,' a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love.
"When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate: but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother, with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probably very well pleased to get her off his hands--she submitted, rather than consented to the ceremony; but there her compliance ended; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out, that after three gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, 'Helen, Helen, mind me!' Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered,--her marriage disannulled,--and Helen became Lady Cromlecks."
N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty-one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 years.
* * * * *
MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE.
Another beautiful song of Crawfurd's.
* * * * *
SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN.
The old set of this song, which is still to be found in printed collections, is much prettier than this; but somebody, I believe it was Ramsay, took it into his head to clear it of some seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more chaste and more dull.
* * * * *
GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION.
I am not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. There is a song, apparently as ancient us "Ewe-bughts, Marion," which sings to the same tune, and is evidently of the North.--It begins thus:
"The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, Mary, Marget, and Jean, They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, But awa to Aberdeen."
* * * * *
LEWIS GORDON.
This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes comes to be composed out of another. I have one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has prefixed,
"Tune of Tarry Woo."--
Of which tune a different set has insensibly varied into a different air.--To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line,
"'Tho' his back be at the wa',"
--must be very striking. It needs not a Jacobite prejudice to be affected with this song.
The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie.
* * * * *
O HONE A RIE.
Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song was composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe.
* * * * *
I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE.
This is another of Crawfurd's songs, but I do not think in his happiest manner.--What an absurdity, to join such names as Adonis and Mary together!
* * * * *
CORN RIGS ARE BONIE.
All the old words that ever I could meet to this air were the following, which seem to have been an old chorus:
"O corn rigs and rye rigs, O corn rigs are bonie; And where'er you meet a bonie lass, Preen up her cockernony."
* * * * *
THE MUCKING OF GEORDIE'S BYRE.
The chorus of this song is old; the rest is the work of Balloon Tytler.
* * * * *
BIDE YE YET.
There is a beautiful song to this tune, beginning,
"Alas, my son, you little know,"--
which is the composition of Miss Jenny Graham, of Dumfries.
* * * * *
WAUKIN O' THE FAULD.
There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, which I take to be the original song whence Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that name in the Gentle Shepherd.--It begins
"O will ye speak at our town, As ye come frae the fauld."
I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its wit and humour.
* * * * *
TRANENT-MUIR.
"Tranent-Muir," was composed by a Mr. Skirving, a very worthy respectable farmer near Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and answer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. "Gang away back," said the honest farmer, "and tell Mr. Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look o' him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht him; and if no, I'll do as he did--I'll rin awa."--
* * * * *
TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO.
The chorus of this song is old, the rest of it is mine. Here, once for all, let me apologize for many silly compositions of mine in this work. Many beautiful airs wanted words; in the hurry of other avocations, if I could string a parcel of rhymes together anything near tolerable, I was fain to let them pass. He must be an excellent poet indeed whose every performance is excellent.
* * * * *
POLWARTH ON THE GREEN.
The author of "Polwarth on the Green" is Capt. John Drummond M'Gregor, of the family of Bochaldie.
* * * * *
STREPHON AND LYDIA.
The following account of this song I had from Dr. Blacklock.
The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the "Gentle Jean," celebrated somewhere in Hamilton of Bangour's poems.--Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena.
The author of this song was William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire.
* * * * *
I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET.
The chorus of this song is old. The rest of it, such as it is, is mine.
* * * * *
M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL.
M'Pherson, a daring robber, in the beginning of this century, was condemned to be hanged at the assizes of Inverness. He is said, when under sentence of death, to have composed this tune, which he called his own lament or farewell.
Gow has published a variation of this fine tune as his own composition, which he calls "The Princess Augusta."
* * * * *
MY JO, JANET.
Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish delicacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this humorous ballad.
* * * * *
THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT.
The words by a Mr. R. Scott, from the town or neighbourhood of Biggar.
* * * * *
THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.
I composed these stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness.
* * * * *
THE HIGHLAND LASSIE O.
This was a composition of mine in very early life, before I was known at all in the world. My Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent the day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her last illness.
* * * * *
FIFE, AND A' THE LANDS ABOUT IT.
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well as I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough perhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the music.
* * * * *
WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE.
Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George Baillie, of Jerviswood.
* * * * *
THE YOUNG MAN'S DREAM.
This song is the composition of Balloon Tytler.
* * * * *
STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.
This air in the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living--Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause.
To tell the matter-of-fact, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.
* * * * *
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
The chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are mine.
* * * * *
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
Dr. Blacklock told me that Smollet, who was at the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these beautiful and pathetic verses on the infamous depredations of the Duke of Cumberland after the battle of Culloden.
* * * * *
WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE DIE.
Dr. Walker, who was minister at Moffat in 1772, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural History in the University of Edinburgh, told the following anecdote concerning this air.--He said, that some gentlemen, riding a few years ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Moss Platt, when they were struck with this tune, which an old woman, spinning on a rock at her door, was singing. All she could tell concerning it was, that she was taught it when a child, and it was called "What will I do gin my Hoggie die?" No person, except a few females at Moss Platt, knew this fine old tune, which in all probability would have been lost had not one of the gentlemen, who happened to have a flute with him, taken it down.
* * * * *
I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING.
These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces.
* * * * *
AH! THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE.
Tune--"Gallashiels."
The old title, "Sour Plums o' Gallashiels," probably was the beginning of a song to this air, which is now lost.
The tune of Gallashiels was composed about the beginning of the present century by the Laird of Gallashiel's piper.
* * * * *
THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.
These verses were composed on a charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., physician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon. I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work.
* * * * *
MILL, MILL O.
The original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay's is still extant.--It runs thus,
CHORUS.
"The mill, mill O, and the kill, kill O, And the coggin o' Peggy's wheel, O, The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leave, And danc'd the miller's reel O.--
As I came down yon waterside, And by yon shellin-hill O, There I spied a bonie bonie lass, And a lass that I lov'd right well O."
* * * * *
WE RAN AND THEY RAN.
The author of "We ran and they ran"--was a Rev. Mr. Murdoch M'Lennan, minister at Crathie, Dee-side.
* * * * *
WALY, WALY.
In the west country I have heard a different edition of the second stanza.--Instead of the four lines, beginning with, "When cockle-shells, &c.," the other way ran thus:--
"O wherefore need I busk my head, Or wherefore need I kame my hair, Sin my fause luve has me forsook, And sys, he'll never luve me mair."
* * * * *
DUNCAN GRAY.
Dr. Blacklock informed me that he had often heard the tradition, that this air was composed by a carman in Glasgow.
* * * * *
DUMBARTON DRUMS.
This is the last of the West-Highland airs; and from it over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a tune or song that one can say has taken its origin from any place or transaction in that part of Scotland.--The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stewarton Lasses, which was made by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunningham, alias Lord Lysle; since which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty.--Johnie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the extensive county of Ayr.
* * * * *
CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.
This song is by the Duke of Gordon.--The old verses are,
"There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strathbogie; When ilka lad maun hae his lass, Then fye, gie me my coggie.
CHORUS.
My coggie, Sirs, my coggie, Sirs, I cannot want my coggie; I wadna gie my three-girr'd cap For e'er a quene on Bogie.--
There's Johnie Smith has got a wife, That scrimps him o' his coggie, If she were mine, upon my life I wad douk her in a bogie."
* * * * *
FOR LAKE OF GOLD.
The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the line--
"She me forsook for a great duke,"
say
"For Athole's duke she me forsook;"
which I take to be the original reading.
These were composed by the late Dr. Austin, physician at Edinburgh.--He had courted a lady, to whom he was shortly to have been married; but the Duke of Athole having seen her, became so much in love with her, that he made proposals of marriage, which were accepted of, and she jilted the doctor.
* * * * *
HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &c.
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He told me that tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scotland.
* * * * *
HEY TUTTI TAITI.
I Have met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn.
* * * * *
RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.
I Composed these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon; who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances.
* * * * *
TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE.
A part of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare.
* * * * *
YE GODS, WAS STREPHON'S PICTURE BLEST?
Tune--"Fourteenth of October."
The title of this air shows that it alludes to the famous king Crispian, the patron of the honourable corporation of shoemakers.--St. Crispian's day falls on the fourteenth of October old style, as the old proverb tells:
"On the fourteenth of October Was ne'er a sutor sober."
* * * * *
SINCE ROBB'D OF ALL THAT CHARM'D MY VIEWS.
The old name of this air is, "the Blossom o' the Raspberry." The song is Dr. Blacklock's.
* * * * *
YOUNG DAMON.
This air is by Oswald.
* * * * *
KIRK WAD LET ME BE.
Tradition in the western parts of Scotland tells that this old song, of which there are still three stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting clergyman out of a scrape. It was a little prior to the revolution, a period when being a Scots covenanter was being a felon, that one of their clergy, who was at that very time hunted by the merciless soldiery, fell in, by accident, with a party of the military. The soldiers were not exactly acquainted with the person of the reverend gentleman of whom they were in search; but from suspicious circumstances, they fancied that they had got one of that cloth and opprobrious persuasion among them in the person of this stranger. "Mass John" to extricate himself, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike the gloomy strictness of his sect; and among other convivial exhibitions, sung (and some traditions say, composed on the spur of the occasion) "Kirk wad let me be," with such effect, that the soldiers swore he was a d----d honest fellow, and that it was impossible he could belong to those hellish conventicles; and so gave him his liberty.
The first stanza of this song, a little altered, is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted at country weddings, in the south-west parts of the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up like an old beggar; a peruke, commonly made of carded tow, represents hoary locks; an old bonnet; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw rope for a girdle; a pair of old shoes, with straw ropes twisted round his ankles, as is done by shepherds in snowy weather: his face they disguise as like wretched old age as they can: in this plight he is brought into the wedding-house, frequently to the astonishment of strangers, who are not in the secret, and begins to sing--
"O, I am a silly auld man, My name it is auld Glenae," &c.
He is asked to drink, and by and bye to dance, which after some uncouth excuses he is prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which here is commonly called "Auld Glenae;" in short he is all the time so plied with liquor that he is understood to get intoxicated, and with all the ridiculous gesticulations of an old drunken beggar, he dances and staggers until he falls on the floor; yet still in all his riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on the floor, with some or other drunken motion of his body, he beats time to the music, till at last he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk.
* * * * *
MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.
I composed these verses out of compliment to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an officer in the East Indies.
* * * * *
BLYTHE WAS SHE.
I composed these verses while I stayed at Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray.--The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lentrose; she was called, and very justly, "The Flower of Strathmore."
* * * * *
JOHNNIE FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE.
The people in Ayrshire begin this song--
"The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett."--
They have a great many more stanzas in this song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy.--The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life.
* * * * *
TO DAUNTON ME.
The two following old stanzas to this tune have some merit:
"To daunton me, to daunton me, O ken ye what it is that'll daunton me?-- There's eighty-eight and eighty-nine, And a' that I hae borne sinsyne, There's cess and press and Presbytrie, I think it will do meikle for to daunton me.
But to wanton me, to wanton me, O ken ye what it is that wad wanton me-- To see gude corn upon the rigs, And banishment amang the Whigs, And right restor'd where right sud be, I think it would do meikle for to wanton me."
* * * * *
THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME.
"The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," was composed on an amour of Charles II. when skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the time of the usurpation. He formed une petite affaire with a daughter of the house of Portletham, who was the "lass that made the bed to him:"--two verses of it are,
"I kiss'd her lips sae rosy red, While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e; I said, My lassie, dinna cry, For ye ay shall make the bed to me.
She took her mither's holland sheets, And made them a' in sarks to me; Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me."
* * * * *
ABSENCE.
A song in the manner of Shenstone.
This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock.
* * * * *
I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR.
This story is founded on fact. A John Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family, who live in a place in the parish, I think, of Galston, called Bar-mill, was the luckless hero that "had a horse and had nae mair."--For some little youthful follies he found it necessary to make a retreat to the West-Highlands, where "he feed himself to a Highland Laird," for that is the expression of all the oral editions of the song I ever heard.--The present Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the great-grandchild of our hero.
* * * * *
UP AND WARN A' WILLIE.
This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expression "Up and warn a' Willie," alludes to the Crantara, or warning of a Highland clan to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the west and south say, "Up and waur them a'," &c.
* * * * *
A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruikshank, only child of my worthy friend Mr. William Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edinburgh. This air is by a David Sillar, quondam merchant, and now schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to whom I address my printed poetical epistle in the measure of the Cherry and the Slae.
* * * * *
AULD ROB MORRIS.
It is remark-worthy that the song of "Holy and Fairly," in all the old editions of it, is called "The Drunken Wife o' Galloway," which localizes it to that country.
* * * * *
RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE.
The last stanza of this song is mine; it was composed out of compliment to one of the worthiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments.
* * * * *
WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER STORMS.
This song I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers, that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh.
* * * * *
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
This song I composed about the age of seventeen.
* * * * *
NANCY'S GHOST.
This song is by Dr. Blacklock.
* * * * *
TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, ETC.
This song was composed by the Rev. John Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart, near Peterhead. He is likewise author of "Tullochgorum," "Ewie wi' the crooked Horn," "John o' Badenyond," &c., and what is of still more consequence, he is one of the worthiest of mankind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical history of Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, butler to the Duke of Gordon; the first composer of strathspeys of the age. I have been told by somebody, who had it of Marshall himself, that he took the idea of his three most celebrated pieces, "The Marquis of Huntley's Reel," his "Farewell," and "Miss Admiral Gordon's Reel," from the old air, "The German Lairdie."
* * * * *
GILL MORICE.
This plaintive ballad ought to have been called Child Maurice, and not Gil Maurice. In its present dress, it has gained immortal honour from Mr. Home's taking from it the ground-work of his fine tragedy of Douglas. But I am of opinion that the present ballad is a modern composition; perhaps not much above the age of the middle of the last century; at least I should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the present words prior to 1650. That it was taken from an old ballad, called "Child Maurice," now lost, I am inclined to believe; but the present one may be classed with "Hardyknute," "Kenneth," "Duncan, the Laird of Woodhouselie," "Lord Livingston," "Binnorie," "The Death of Monteith," and many other modern productions, which have been swallowed by many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by Mr. M'Gibbon, the selector of a collection of Scots tunes. R. B.
In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, I add, that of the songs which Captain Riddel mentions, "Kenneth" and "Duncan" are juvenile compositions of Mr. M'Kenzie, "The Man of Feeling."--M'Kenzie's father showed them in MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the productions of his son, from which the Doctor rightly prognosticated that the young poet would make, in his more advanced years, a respectable figure in the world of letters.
This I had from Blacklock.
* * * * *
TIBBIE DUNBAR.
This tune is said to be the composition of John M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it after his own name.
* * * * *
WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN.
This song was the work of a very worthy facetious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, near Muirkirk; which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connexion as security for some persons concerned in that villanous bubble THE AYR BANK. He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting o'er their misfortunes.
* * * * *
MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.
Tune--"Highlander's Lament."
The oldest title I ever heard to this air, was, "The Highland Watch's Farewell to Ireland." The chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane; the rest of the song is mine.
* * * * *
THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER.
This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, and called by him "The Highland, or 42d Regiment's March." The words are by Sir Harry Erskine.
* * * * *
LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW.
There is in several collections, the old song of "Leader-Haughs and Yarrow." It seems to have been the work of one of our itinerant minstrels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of his song, "Minstrel Burn."
* * * * *
THE TAILOR FELL THRO' THE BED, THIMBLE AN' A'.
This air is the march of the corporation of tailors. The second and fourth stanzas are mine.
* * * * *
BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.
I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strathallan's Lament, and two or three others in this work.
* * * * *
THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE.
The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ramsay's. The old words are--
"This is no mine ain house, My ain house, my ain house; This is no mine ain house, I ken by the biggin o't.
Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks; Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, And pancakes the riggin o't.
This is no my ain wean; My ain wean, my ain wean; This is no my ain wean, I ken by the greetie o't.
I'll tak the curchie aff my head, Aff my head, aff my head; I'll tak the curchie aff my head, And row't about the feetie o't."
The tune is an old Highland air, called "Shuan truish willighan."
* * * * *
LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.
This song is by Blacklock.
* * * * *
THE GARDENER AND HIS PAIDLE.
This air is the "Gardener's March." The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine.
* * * * *
THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Tune.--"Seventh of November."
I composed this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this country put together; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours of my life.
* * * * *
THE GABERLUNZIE MAN.
The "Gaberlunzie Man" is supposed to commemorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. Callander, of Craigforth, published some years ago an edition of "Christ's Kirk on the Green," and the "Gaberlunzie Man," with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was suspected by his contemporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that part of the country, he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neighbourhood), were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the following advice to his majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon.
"Sow not your seed on Sandylands, spend not your strength in Weir, And ride not on an Elephant, For gawing o' your gear."
* * * * *
MY BONNIE MARY.
This air is Oswald's; the first half stanza of the song is old, the rest mine.
* * * * *
THE BLACK EAGLE.
This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as a prose writer are well known.
* * * * *
JAMIE, COME TRY ME.
This air is Oswald's; the song mine.
* * * * *
THE LAZY MIST.
This song is mine.
* * * * *
JOHNIE COPE.
This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope's defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the Clans.
The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remember the title, which was,
"Will ye go the coals in the morning."
* * * * *
I LOVE MY JEAN.
This air is by Marshall; the song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.
N.B. It was during the honeymoon.
* * * * *
CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO EXPLORE.
The song is by Dr. Blacklock; I believe, but am not quite certain, that the air is his too.
* * * * *
AULD ROBIN GRAY.
This air was formerly called, "The bridegroom greets when the sun gangs down." The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balcarras family.
* * * * *
DONALD AND FLORA.
This is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, preserved from time immemorial in the Hebrides; they seem to be the ground-work of many of our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written to commemorate the unfortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in America, in 1777.
* * * * *
O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.
This air is Oswald's; the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.
* * * * *
THE CAPTIVE ROBIN.
This air is called "Robie donna Gorach."
* * * * *
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.
This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old; the rest mine.
* * * * *
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.
The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine.
* * * * *
CA' THE EWES AND THE KNOWES.
This beautiful song is in true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know that either air or words were in print before.
* * * * *
THE BRIDAL O'T.
This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called "The Fortunate Shepherdess."
"They say that Jockey 'll speed weel o't, They say that Jockey 'll speed weel o't, For he grows brawer ilka day, I hope we'll hae a bridal o't: For yesternight nae farder gane, The backhouse at the side wa' o't, He there wi' Meg was mirden seen, I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.
An' we had but a bridal o't, An' we had but a bridal o't, We'd leave the rest unto gude luck, Altho' there should betide ill o't: For bridal days are merry times, And young folks like the coming o't, And scribblers they bang up their rhymes, And pipers they the bumming o't.
The lasses like a bridal o't, The lasses like a bridal o't, Their braws maun be in rank and file, Altho' that they should guide ill o't: The boddom o' the kist is then Turn'd up into the inmost o't, The end that held the kecks sae clean, Is now become the teemest o't.
The bangster at the threshing o't. The bangster at the threshing o't, Afore it comes is fidgin-fain, And ilka day's a clashing o't: He'll sell his jerkin for a groat, His linder for anither o't, And e'er he want to clear his shot, His sark'll pay the tither o't
The pipers and the fiddlers o't, The pipers and the fiddlers o't, Can smell a bridal unco' far, And like to be the middlers o't; Fan[293] thick and threefold they convene, Ilk ane envies the tither o't, And wishes nane but him alane May ever see anither o't.
Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, For dancing they gae to the green, And aiblins to the beating o't: He dances best that dances fast, And loups at ilka reesing o't, And claps his hands frae hough to hough, And furls about the feezings o't."
* * * * *
TODLEN HAME.
This is perhaps the first bottle song that ever was composed.
* * * * *
THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.
This air is the composition of my friend Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed the verses on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes had obliged him to sell the estate.
* * * * *
THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T.
I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud.
* * * * *
THE SHEPHERD'S PREFERENCE.
This song is Dr. Blacklock's.--I don't know how it came by the name, but the oldest appellation of the air was, "Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad."
It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name.
* * * * *
THE BONIE BANKS OF AYR.
I composed this song as I conveyed my chest so far on the road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica.
I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land.
* * * * *
JOHN O' BADENYON.
This excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart.
"When first I cam to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth, And fain the world would know; In best attire I stept abroad, With spirits brisk and gay, And here and there and everywhere, Was like a morn in May; No care had I nor fear of want, But rambled up and down, And for a beau I might have pass'd In country or in town; I still was pleas'd where'er I went, And when I was alone, I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself Wi' John o' Badenyon.
Now in the days of youthful prime A mistress I must find, For love, I heard, gave one an air And ev'n improved the mind: On Phillis fair above the rest Kind fortune fixt my eyes, Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice; To Cupid now with hearty prayer I offer'd many a vow; And danc'd, and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, As other lovers do; But, when at last I breath'd my flame, I found her cold as stone; I left the jilt, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon.
When love had thus my heart beguil'd With foolish hopes and vain, To friendship's port I steer'd my course, And laugh'd at lover's pain A friend I got by lucky chance 'Twas something like divine, An honest friend's a precious gift, And such a gift was mine: And now, whatever might betide, A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom I freely might apply; A strait soon came: my friend I try'd; He heard, and spurn'd my moan; I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon.
Methought I should be wiser next, And would a patriot turn, Began to doat on Johnny Wilks, And cry up Parson Horne. Their manly spirit I admir'd, And prais'd their noble zeal, Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain'd the public weal; But e'er a month or two had past, I found myself betray'd, 'Twas self and party after all, For a' the stir they made; At last I saw the factious knaves Insult the very throne, I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon."
* * * * *
A WAUKRIFE MINNIE.
I picked up this old song and tune from a country girl in Nithsdale.--I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland.
"Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, Whare are you gaun, my hinnie, She answer'd me right saucilie, An errand for my minnie.
O whare live ye, my bonnie lass, O whare live ye, my hinnie, By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken, In a wee house wi' my minnie.
But I foor up the glen at e'en, To see my bonie lassie; And lang before the gray morn cam, She was na hauf sa sacie.
O weary fa' the waukrife cock, And the foumart lay his crawin! He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat she raise, And o'er the bed she brought her; And wi' a mickle hazle rung She made her a weel pay'd dochter.
O fare thee weel, my bonie lass! O fare thee weel, my hinnie! Thou art a gay and a bonie lass, But thou hast a waukrife minnie."
* * * * *
TULLOCHGORUM.
This first of songs, is the master-piece of my old friend Skinner. He was passing the day, at the town of Cullen, I think it was, in a friend's house whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad.
These particulars I had from the author's son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen.
* * * * *
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
This song is mine, all except the chorus.
* * * * *
AULD LANG SYNE.
Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and the first line, from the old fragment which may be seen in the "Museum," vol. v.
* * * * *
WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
This air is Masterton's; the song mine.--The occasion of it was this:--Mr. W. Nicol, of the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit.--We had such a joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business.
* * * * *
KILLIECRANKIE.
The battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand made by the clans for James, after his abdication. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the moment of victory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. General Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, said, "Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this advantage." A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell.
* * * * *
THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKED HORN.
Another excellent song of old Skinner's.
* * * * *
CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.
It is remarkable of this air that it is the confine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the title, words, &c., we can localize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.
The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood.--The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad.
* * * * *
FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE.
I added the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is.
* * * * *
HUGHIE GRAHAM
There are several editions of this ballad.--This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song.--It originally had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten.
"Our lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o' the fallow deer, And they have gripet Hughie Graham, For stealing o' the bishop's mare.
And they have tied him hand and foot, And led him up, thro' Stirling town; The lads and lasses met him there, Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a loun.
O lowse my right hand free, he says, And put my braid sword in the same; He's no in Stirling town this day, Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham.
Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the bishop's knee, Five hundred white stots I'll gie you, If ye'll let Hughie Graham gae free.
O haud your tongue, the bishop says, And wi' your pleading let me be; For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, Hughie Graham this day shall die.
Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by the bishop's knee; Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me.
O haud your tongue now, lady fair, And wi' your pleading let it be; Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, It's for my honour he maun die.
They've ta'en him to the gallows knowe, He looked to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek, Nor ever did he blink his e'e
At length he looked around about, To see whatever he could spy: And there he saw his auld father, And he was weeping bitterly.
O haud your tongue, my father dear, And wi' your weeping let it be; Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, Than a' that they can do to me.
And ye may gie my brother John My sword that's bent in the middle clear; And let him come at twelve o'clock, And see me pay the bishop's mare.
And ye may gie my brother James My sword that's bent in the middle brown; And bid him come at four o'clock, And see his brother Hugh cut down.
Remember me to Maggy my wife, The neist time ye gang o'er the moor, Tell her she staw the bishop's mare, Tell her she was the bishop's whore.
And ye may tell my kith and kin, I never did disgrace their blood; And when they meet the bishop's cloak, To mak it shorter by the hood."
* * * * *
A SOUTHLAND JENNY.
This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken down before. It, as well as many of the ballad tunes in this collection, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice.
* * * * *
MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.
This tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow.--It is notoriously taken from "The muckin o' Gordie's byre."--It is also to be found long prior to Nathaniel Gow's era, in Aird's Selection of Airs and Marches, the first edition under the name of "The Highway to Edinburgh."
* * * * *
THEN, GUID WIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN'.
The chorus of this is part of an old song, no stanza of which I recollect.
* * * * *
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.
This tune is sometimes called "There's few gude fellows when Willie's awa."--But I never have been able to meet with anything else of the song than the title.
* * * * *
I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.
This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Ann, Queens of Scotland.--The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scotland. I think that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress.
* * * * *
THE SODGER LADDIE.
The first verse of this is old; the rest is by Ramsay. The tune seems to be the same with a slow air, called "Jackey Hume's Lament"--or, "The Hollin Buss"--or "Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?"
* * * * *
WHERE WAD BONNIE ANNIE LIE.
The old name of this tune is,--
"Whare'll our gudeman lie."
A silly old stanza of it runs thus--
"O whare'll our gudeman lie, Gudeman lie, gudeman lie, O whare'll our gudeman lie, Till he shute o'er the simmer?
Up amang the hen-bawks, The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks, Up amang the hen-bawks, Amang the rotten timmer."
* * * * *
GALLOWAY TAM.
I have seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) to this tune, called "The Wooing of the Maiden." These entertainments are now much worn out in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained in Nithsdale, viz. "Silly Pure Auld Glenae," and this one, "The Wooing of the Maiden."
* * * * *
AS I CAM DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA.
This is a very popular Ayrshire song.
* * * * *
LORD RONALD MY SON.
This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern airs have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shepherd, composed the simple, artless original air; which being picked up by the more learned musician, took the improved form it bears.
* * * * *
O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER.
This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a girl who was not only a whore, but also a thief; and in one or other character has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West. She was born I believe in Kilmarnock,--I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country, with a sleight-of-hand blackguard.
* * * * *
TO THE ROSE-BUD.
This song is the composition of a ---- Johnson, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from "Jockie's Gray Breeks."
* * * * *
YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to a part of my private history, which it is of no consequence to the world to know.
* * * * *
IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE.
These were originally English verses:--I gave them the Scots dress.
* * * * *
EPPIE M'NAB.
The old song with this title has more wit than decency.
* * * * *
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR.
This tune is also known by the name of "Lass an I come near thee." The words are mine.
* * * * *
THOU ART GANE AWA.
This time is the same with "Haud awa frae me, Donald."
* * * * *
THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.
This song of genius was composed by a Miss Cranston. It wanted four lines, to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the four first of the last stanza.
"No cold approach, no alter'd mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between, He made me blest--and broke my heart!"
* * * * *
THE BONIE WEE THING.
Composed on my little idol "the charming, lovely Davies."
* * * * *
THE TITHER MORN.
This tune is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was told was very clever, but not by any means a lady's song.
* * * * *
A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.
This most beautiful tune is, I think, the happiest composition of that bard-born genius, John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr. The words were composed to commemorate the much-lamented and premature death of James Ferguson, Esq., jun. of Craigdarroch.
* * * * *
DAINTIE DAVIE.
This song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson's begetting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant. The pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in Herd's collection, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas, and were their delicacy equal to their wit and humour, they would merit a place in any collection. The first stanza is
"Being pursued by the dragoons, Within my bed he was laid down; And weel I wat he was worth his room, For he was my Daintie Davie."
Ramsay's song, "Luckie Nansy," though he calls it an old song with additions, seems to be all his own except the chorus:
"I was a telling you, Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nansy Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me."
Which I should conjecture to be part of a song prior to the affair of Williamson.
* * * * *
BOB O' DUMBLANE.
RAMSAY, as usual, has modernized this song. The original, which I learned on the spot, from my old hostess in the principal inn there, is--
"Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, And I'll lend you my thripplin-kame; My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten, And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumblane.
Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood. Twa gaed to the wood--three came hame; An' it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit An' it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again."
I insert this song to introduce the following anecdote, which I have heard well authenticated. In the evening of the day of the battle of Dumblane, (Sheriff Muir,) when the action was over, a Scots officer in Argyll's army, observed to His Grace, that he was afraid the rebels would give out to the world that they had gotten the victory.--"Weel, weel," returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, "if they think it be nae weel bobbit, we'll bob it again."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 293: Fan, when--the dialect of Angus.]
* * * * *
THE BORDER TOUR.
Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787)--Lammermuir-hills miserably dreary, but at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the Merse--Reach Berrywell--old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon character;--his hobbies, agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics.--In the first he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever met with; in the other two, very intelligent:--As a man of business he has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it has made a very decent independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, amiable old woman--Miss Ainslie--her person a little embonpoint, but handsome; her face, particularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good humour--she unites three qualities rarely to be found together; keen, solid penetration; sly, witty observation and remark; and the gentlest, most unaffected female modesty--Douglas, a clever, fine, promising young fellow.--The family-meeting with their brother; my compagnon de voyage, very charming; particularly the sister. The whole family remarkably attached to their menials--Mrs. A. full of stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the kitchen.--Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his house-servant--all his people old in his service--Douglas's old nurse came to Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birthday.
A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,[294] a worthy remarkable character--natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty.
Sunday.--Went to church at Dunse[295]--Dr. Howmaker a man of strong lungs and pretty judicious remark; but ill skilled in propriety, and altogether unconscious of his want of it.
Monday.--Coldstream--went over to England--Cornhill--glorious river Tweed--clear and majestic--fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman--beat Mr. F---- in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone--Mr. Brydone a most excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent; but a good deal of the French indiscriminate complaisance--from his situation past and present, an admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a large estate--Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her person and manners; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet--my reception extremely flattering--sleep at Coldstream.
Tuesday.--Breakfast at Kelso--charming situation of Kelso--fine bridge over the Tweed--enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, particularly the Scotch side; introduced to Mr. Scott of the Royal Bank--an excellent, modest fellow--fine situation of it--ruins of Roxburgh Castle--a holly-bush, growing where James II. of Scotland was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by an English hottentot, a maitre d'hotel of the duke's, a Mr. Cole--climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire--bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements--Mr. M'Dowal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb together, at two guineas a piece--wash their sheep before shearing--seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece--low markets, consequently low rents--fine lands not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre--magnificence of farmers and farm-houses--come up Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a good night.
Wednesday.--Breakfast with Mr. ---- in Jedburgh--a squabble between Mrs. ----, a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old maid, respecting a relief minister--Miss gives Madam the lie; and Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle the said minister, then a widower, in the net of matrimony--go about two miles out of Jedburgh to a roup of parks--meet a polite, soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many years through the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians--charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens, orchards, &c., intermingled among the houses--fine old ruins--a once magnificent cathedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the people extremely idle--Jed a fine romantic little river.
Dine with Capt. Rutherford--the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money in his farming way; showed a particular respect to my bardship--his lady exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss Rutherford a beautiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much of a fine swelling bosom--her face very fine.
Return to Jedburgh--walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, a very clever fellow; and Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the place, a man and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning.--The walking party of ladies, Mrs. ---- and Miss ---- her sister, before mentioned.--N.B. These two appear still more comfortably ugly and stupid, and bore me most shockingly. Two Miss ----, tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl; rather short et embonpoint, but handsome, and extremely graceful--beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture--an engaging face--un tout ensemble that speaks her of the first order of female minds--her sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful efforts, of Mrs. ---- and Miss ----, and somehow or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay's arm. My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with my bardship's distinguishing her, and after some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep my hold; and when parted by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr. Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situation.--Nota Bene--The poet within a point and a half of being d--mnably in love--I am afraid my bosom is still nearly as much tinder as ever.
The old cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss ----, with all the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by falling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, particularly on my Dulcinea;--I hardly refrain from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious slander on one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excellence! Sup at Mr. ----'s; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as they only are wanting. Mrs. ---- and Miss ----still improve infernally on my hands.
Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, Mrs. Scott--breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good-hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line; now retired to a romantic, but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole--he accompanies us almost to Wauchope--we traverse the country to the top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee Hill.
Wauchope--Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to Sancho Panca--very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfrequently stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold, critical decision, which usually distinguish female authors.--Sup with Mr. Potts--agreeable party.--Breakfast next morning with Mr. Somerville--the bruit of Miss Lindsay and my bardship, by means of the invention and malice of Miss ----. Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family to breakfast if convenient, but at all events to send Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes.--I find Miss Lindsay would soon play the devil with me--I met with some little flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine family.--Mr. Ainslie, and Mrs. S----, junrs., with Mr. ----, Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to see Esther, a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making Scotch doggerel herself--she can repeat by heart almost everything she has ever read, particularly Pope's Homer from end to end--has studied Euclid by herself, and in short, is a woman of very extraordinary abilities.--On conversing with her I find her fully equal to the character given of her.[296]--She is very much flattered that I send for her, and that she sees a poet who has put out a book, as she says.--She is, among other things, a great florist--and is rather past the meridian of once celebrated beauty.
I walk in Esther's garden with Miss Lindsay, and after some little chit-chat of the tender kind, I presented her with a proof print of my Nob, which she accepted with something more tinder than gratitude. She told me many little stories which Miss ---- had retailed concerning her and me, with prolonging pleasure--God bless her! Was waited on by the magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh.
Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy, disagreeable sensations.--Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love! That love-kindling eye must beam on another, not on me; that graceful form must bless another's arms; not mine!
Kelso. Dine with the farmers' club--all gentlemen, talking of high matters--each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds value, and attends the fox-huntings in the country--go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie--Mr. Ker a most gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine children--his mind and manner astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock--everything in Mr. Ker's most elegant--he offers to accompany me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don--a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a match for his divine lady.--A very wet day * * *--Sleep at Stodrig again; and set out for Melrose--visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey--still bad weather--cross Leader, and come up Tweed to Melrose--dine there, and visit that far-famed, glorious ruin--come to Selkirk, up Ettrick; the whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony.
Monday.--Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Traquair, where having dined, and drank some Galloway-whey, I hero remain till to-morrow--saw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the other side of the Tweed.
Tuesday.--Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with Mr. Horseburgh.--Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee--Proposal for a four-horse team to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland: Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr: Ballantyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd: Horsburgh of Horsburgh.--Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller, in Earlston, the birth-place and residence of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer--saw the ruins of his castle--come to Berrywell.
Wednesday.--Dine at Dunse with the farmers' club-company--impossible to do them justice--Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills.
Thursday, breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian prince.--A pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his sister, to Mr. Thomson's, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie's.--Company--Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the neighbourhood.
Friday.--Ride to Berwick--An idle town, rudely picturesque.--Meet Lord Errol in walking round the walls.--His lordship's flattering notice of me.--Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant--nothing particular in company or conversation--Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country to Eyemouth--sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve's.
Saturday.--Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's--made a royal arch mason of St. Abb's Lodge,[297]--Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow--takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song.--Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fishing of all kinds pays tithes at Eyemouth.
Sunday.--A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, sets out with us to Dunbar.
The Miss Grieves very good girls.--My bardship's heart got a brush from Miss Betsey.
Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the family-circle, so fond, that when he is out, which by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping well ---- Pass the famous Abbey of Coldingham, and Pease-bridge.--Call at Mr. Sheriff's where Mr. A. and I dine.--Mr. S. talkative and conceited. I talk of love to Nancy the whole evening, while her brother escorts home some companions like himself.--Sir James Hall of Dunglass, having heard of my being in the neighbourhood, comes to Mr. Sheriff's to breakfast--takes me to see his fine scenery on the stream of Dunglass--Dunglass the most romantic, sweet place I over saw--Sir James and his lady a pleasant happy couple.--He points out a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he owes much.
Miss ---- will accompany me to Dunbar, by way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart of hers, among her relations. She mounts an old cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house; a rusty old side-saddle without girth, or stirrup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth--herself as fine as hands could make her, in cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, &c.--I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the devil, and almost shake her to pieces on old Jolly--get rid of her by refusing to call at her uncle's with her.
Past through the most glorious corn-country I ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little town.--Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent merchant, and most respectable character, but undescribable, as he exhibits no marked traits. Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting; fully more clever in the fine arts and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummate assurance of her own abilities.--Call with Mr. Robinson (who, by the bye, I find to be a worthy, much respected man, very modest; warm, social heart, which with less good sense than his would be perhaps with the children of prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that respect which is man's due from man) with him I call on Miss Clarke, a maiden in the Scotch phrase, "Guid enough, but no brent new:" a clever woman, with tolerable pretensions to remark and wit; while time had blown the blushing bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy confidence. She wanted to see what sort of raree show an author was; and to let him know, that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet it was not destitute of people of parts.
Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. Lee's, a farmer of great note.--Mr. Lee, an excellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish; warm-hearted and chatty--a most judicious, sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains me till next morning.--Company at dinner.--My Rev. acquaintance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling old fellow.--Two sea lieutenants; a cousin of the landlord's, a fellow whose looks are of that kind which deceived me in a gentleman at Kelso, and has often deceived me: a goodly handsome figure and face, which incline one to give them credit for parts which they have not. Mr. Clarke, a much cleverer fellow, but whose looks a little cloudy, and his appearance rather ungainly, with an every-day observer may prejudice the opinion against him.--Dr. Brown, a medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow whose face and manners are open and engaging.--Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along with collector ----, a lad of slender abilities and bashfully diffident to an extreme.
Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ainslie, all alone at Berrywell.--Heavenly powers, who know the weakness of human hearts, support mine! What happiness must I see only to remind me that I cannot enjoy it!
Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to Dunse, very wild.--Dine with the farmer's club at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden there, but nothing worth remembrance when the following circumstance is considered--I walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie--how well-bred, how frank, how good she is! Charming Rachael! may thy bosom never be wrung by the evils of this life of sorrows, or by the villany of this world's sons!
Thursday.--Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at Mr. Hood's on our way to England.
I am taken extremely ill with strong feverish symptoms, and take a servant of Mr. Hood's to watch me all night--embittering remorse scares my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death.--I am determined to live for the future in such a manner as not to be scared at the approach of death--I am sure I could meet him with indifference, but for "The something beyond the grave."--Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to England if we will wait till Sunday.
Friday.--I go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of an unfortunate farmer's stock--rigid economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatis persona in such a scene of horror.
Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take farewell of my bardship. This day I feel myself warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Great Preserver of men, who has kindly restored me to health and strength once more.
A pleasant walk with my young friend Douglas Ainslie, a sweet, modest, clever young fellow.
Sunday, 27_th May._--Cross Tweed, and traverse the moors through a wild country till I reach Alnwick--Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of Northumberland, furnished in a most princely manner.--A Mr. Wilkin, agent of His Grace's, shows us the house and policies. Mr. Wilkin, a discreet, sensible, ingenious man.
Monday.--Come, still through by-ways, to Warkworth, where we dine.--Hermitage and old castle. Warkworth situated very picturesque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the seat of an old monastery, facing it a little in the sea; and the small but romantic river Coquet, running through it.--Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little town, and on next day to Newcastle.--Meet with a very agreeable, sensible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us a great many civilities, and who dines and sups with us.
Wednesday.--Left Newcastle early in the morning, and rode over a fine country to Hexham to breakfast--from Hexham to Wardrue, the celebrated Spa, where we slept.
Thursday--Reach Longtown to dine, and part there with my good friends Messrs. Hood and Ker--A hiring day in Longtown--I am uncommonly happy to see so many young folks enjoying life.--I come to Carlisle.--(Meet a strange enough romantic adventure by the way, in falling in with a girl and her married sister--the girl, after some overtures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little cut with the bottle, and offers to take me in for a Gretna-Green affair.--I, not being such a gull, as she imagines, make an appointment with her, by way of vive la bagatelle, to hold a conference on it when we reach town.--I meet her in town and give her a brush of caressing, and a bottle of cider; but finding herself un peu trompe in her man she sheers off.) Next day I meet my good friend, Mr. Mitchell, and walk with him round the town and its environs, and through his printing-works, &c.--four or five hundred people employed, many of them women and children.--Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle.--Come by the coast to Annan.--Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish of a shoemaker, and miner, from Cumberland mines.
[Here the manuscript abruptly terminates.]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 294: The author of that fine song, "The Maid that tends the Goats."]
[Footnote 295: "During the discourse Burns produced a neat impromptu, conveying an elegant compliment to Miss Ainslie. Dr. B. had selected a text of Scripture that contained a heavy denunciation against obstinate sinners. In the course of the sermon Burns observed the young lady turning over the leaves of her Bible, with much earnestness, in search of the text. He took out a slip of paper, and with a pencil wrote the following lines on it, which he immediately presented to her.
"Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue:-- 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,-- Not angels such as you."
Cromek.]
[Footnote 296: "This extraordinary woman then moved in a very humble walk of life:--the wife of a common working gardener. She is still living, and, if I am rightly informed, her time is principally occupied in her attentions to a little day-school, which not being sufficient for her subsistence, she is obliged to solicit the charily of her benevolent neighbours. 'Ah, who would love the lyre!'"--CROMEK.]
[Footnote 297: The entry made on this occasion in the Lodge-books of St Abb's is honorable to
"The brethren of the mystic level."
"Eyemouth, 19_th May_, 1787.
"At a general encampment held this day, the following brethren were made royal arch masons, viz. Robert Burns, from the Lodge of St. James's, Tarbolton, Ayrshire, and Robert Ainslie, from the Lodge of St. Luke's, Edinburgh by James Carmichael, Wm. Grieve, Daniel Dow, John Clay, Robert Grieve, &c. &c. Robert Ainslie paid one guinea admission dues; but on account of R. Burns's remarkable poetical genius, the encampment unanimously agreed to admit him gratis, and considered themselves honoured by having a man of such shining abilities for one of their companions."
Extracted from the Minute Book of the Lodge by THOMAS BOWBILL]
* * * * *
THE HIGHLAND TOUR.
25_th August_, 1787.
I leave Edinburgh for a northern tour, in company with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose originality of humour promises me much entertainment.--Linlithgow--a fertile improved country--West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always observe in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupidity of the peasantry. This remark I have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. For this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, a "Man of Feeling," will be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry they are all below the justice of peace) than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when at the same time, he considers the vandalism of their plough-folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an unenclosed, half improven country is to me actually more agreeable, and gives me more pleasure as a prospect, than a country cultivated like a garden.--Soil about Linlithgow light and thin.--The town carries the appearance of rude, decayed grandeur--charmingly rural, retired situation. The old royal palace a tolerably fine, but melancholy ruin--sweetly situated on a small elevation, by the brink of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful, injured Mary Queen of Scots was born--a pretty good old Gothic church. The infamous stool of repentance standing, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation.
What a poor pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship; dirty, narrow, and squalid; stuck in a corner of old popish grandeur such as Linlithgow, and much more, Melrose! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil matters.--Dine.--Go to my friend Smith's at Avon printfield--find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sensible, modest, good body; as useful, but not so ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western--not rigidly polite a la Francais, but easy, hospitable, and housewifely.
An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, whom I promised to call for in Paisley--like old lady W----, and still more like Mrs. C----, her conversation is pregnant with strong sense and just remark, but like them, a certain air of self-importance and a duresse in the eye, seem to indicate, as the Ayrshire wife observed of her cow, that "she had a mind o' her ain."
Pleasant view of Dunfermline and the rest of the fertile coast of Fife, as we go down to that dirty, ugly place, Borrowstones--see a horse-race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol's, a Bailie Cowan, of whom I know too little to attempt his portrait--Come through the rich carse of Falkirk to pass the night. Falkirk nothing remarkable except the tomb of Sir John the Graham, over which, in the succession of time, four stones have been placed.--Camelon, the ancient metropolis of the Picts, now a small village in the neighbourhood of Falkirk.--Cross the grand canal to Carron.--Come past Larbert and admire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife.
Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine taste--a charming amphitheatre bounded by Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way to Dunnipace.--The Carron running down the bosom of the whole makes it one of the most charming little prospects I have seen.
Dine at Auchinbowie--Mr. Monro an excellent, worthy old man--Miss Monro an amiable, sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling Mrs. Grierson. Come to Bannockburn--Shown the old house where James III. finished so tragically his unfortunate life. The field of Bannockburn--the hole where glorious Bruce set his standard. Here no Scot can pass uninterested.--I fancy to myself that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen coming o'er the hill and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of their fathers; noble revenge, and just hate, glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe! I see them meet in gloriously triumphant congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and independence! Come to Stirling.--Monday go to Harvieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and Rumbling brig, and Diel's mill. Return in the evening. Supper--Messrs. Doig, the schoolmaster; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the castle--Doig a queerish figure, and something of a pedant--Bell a joyous fellow, who sings a good song.--Forrester a merry, swearing kind of man, with a dash of the sodger.
Tuesday Morning.--Breakfast with Captain Forrester--Ochel Hills--Devon River--Forth and Tieth--Allan River--Strathallan, a fine country, but little improved--Cross Earn to Crieff--Dine and go to Arbruchil--cold reception at Arbruchil--a most romantically pleasant ride up Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie to Arbruchil--Sup at Crieff.
Wednesday Morning.--Leave Crieff--Glen Amond--Amond river--Ossian's grave--Loch Fruoch--Glenquaich--Landlord and landlady remarkable characters--Taymouth described in rhyme--Meet the Hon. Charles Townshend.
Thursday.--Come down Tay to Dunkeld--Glenlyon House--Lyon River--Druid's Temple--three circles of stones--the outer-most sunk--the second has thirteen stones remaining--the innermost has eight--two large detached ones like a gate, to the south-east--Say prayers in it--Pass Taybridge--Aberfeldy--described in rhyme--Castle Menzies--Inver--Dr. Stewart--sup.
Friday.--Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard to Birnam top--fine prospect down Tay--Craigieburn hills--Hermitage on the Branwater, with a picture of Ossian--Breakfast with Dr. Stewart--Neil Gow[298] plays--a short, stout-built, honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair shed on his honest social brow--an interesting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity--visit his house--Marget Gow.
Ride up Tummel River to Blair--Fascally a beautiful romantic nest--wild grandeur of the pass of Gilliecrankie--visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone.
Blair--Sup with the Duchess--easy and happy from the manners of the family--confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker.
Saturday.--Visit the scenes round Blair--fine, but spoiled with bad taste--Tilt and Gairie rivers--Falls on the Tilt--Heather seat--Ride in company with Sir William Murray and Mr. Walker, to Loch Tummel--meanderings of the Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan Robertson's estate from Loch Rannach to Loch Tummel--Dine at Blair--Company--General Murray--Captain Murray, an honest tar--Sir William Murray, an honest, worthy man, but tormented with the hypochondria--Mrs. Graham, belle et aimable--Miss Catchcart--Mrs. Murray, a painter--Mrs. King--Duchess and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, Edward, and Robert--Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and children dance--Sup--Mr. Graham of Fintray.
Come up the Garrie--Falls of Bruar--Daldecairoch--Dalwhinnie--Dine--Snow on the hills 17 feet deep--No corn from Loch-Gairie to Dalwhinnie--Cross the Spey, and come down the stream to Pitnin--Straths rich--les environs picturesque--Craigow hill--Ruthven of Badenoch--Barracks--wild and magnificent--Rothemurche on the other side, and Glenmore--Grant of Rothemurche's poetry--told me by the Duke of Gordon--Strathspey, rich and romantic--Breakfast at Aviemore, a wild spot--dine at Sir James Grant's--Lady Grant, a sweet, pleasant body--come through mist and darkness to Dulsie, to lie.
Tuesday.--Findhorn river--rocky banks--come on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered King Duncan--saw the bed in which King Duncan was stabbed--dine at Kilravock--Mrs. Rose, sen., a true chieftain's wife--Fort George--Inverness.
Wednesday.--Loch Ness--Braes of Ness--General's hut--Falls of Fyers--Urquhart Castle and Strath.
Thursday.--Come over Culloden Muir--reflections on the field of battle--breakfast at Kilravock--old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm heart, strong passions, and honest pride, all in an uncommon degree--Mrs. Rose, jun., a little milder than the mother--this perhaps owing to her being younger--Mr. Grant, minister at Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inverleithing--Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to Kildrummie--two young ladies--Miss Rose, who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely--Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and amiable--both of them gentle, mild; the sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them!--Dine at Nairn--fall in with a pleasant enough gentleman, Dr. Stewart, who had been long abroad with his father in the forty-five; and Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted Norland, and a nonjuror--Brodie-house to lie.
Friday--Forres--famous stone at Forres--Mr. Brodie tells me that the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still haunted--that the country folks won't pass it by night.
* * * * *
Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey--A grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but not near so beautiful--Cross Spey to Fochabers--fine palace, worthy of the generous proprietor--Dine--company, Duke and Duchess, Ladies Charlotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie, and Lady, Mr. Gordon and Mr.----, a clergyman, a venerable, aged figure--the Duke makes me happier than ever great man did--noble, princely; yet mild, condescending, and affable; gay and kind--the Duchess witty and sensible--God bless them!
Come to Cullen to lie--hitherto the country is sadly poor and unimproven.
Come to Aberdeen--meet with Mr. Chalmers, printer, a facetious fellow--Mr. Ross a fine fellow, like Professor Tytler,--Mr. Marshal one of the poetae minores--Mr. Sheriffs, author of "Jamie and Bess," a little decrepid body with some abilities--Bishop Skinner, a nonjuror, son of the author of "Tullochgorum," a man whose mild, venerable manner is the most marked of any in so young a man--Professor Gordon, a good-natured, jolly-looking professor--Aberdeen, a lazy town--near Stonhive, the coast a good deal romantic--meet my relations--Robert Burns, writer, in Stonhive, one of those who love fun, a gill, and a punning joke, and have not a bad heart--his wife a sweet hospitable body, without any affectation of what is called town-breeding.
Tuesday.--Breakfast with Mr. Burns--lie at Lawrence Kirk--Album library--Mrs. ---- a jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow--Howe of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still unenclosed country.
Wednesday.--Cross North Esk river and a rich country to Craigow.
* * * * *
Go to Montrose, that finely-situated handsome town--breakfast at Muthie, and sail along that wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, particularly the Gariepot--land and dine at Arbroath--stately ruins of Arbroath Abbey--come to Dundee through a fertile country--Dundee a low-lying, but pleasant town--old Steeple--Tayfrith--Broughty Castle, a finely situated ruin, jutting into the Tay.
Friday.--Breakfast with the Miss Scotts--Miss Bess Scott like Mrs. Greenfield--my bardship almost in love with her--come through the rich harvests and fine hedge-rows of the Carse of Gowrie, along the romantic margin of the Grampian hills, to Perth--fine, fruitful, hilly, woody country round Perth.
Saturday Morning.--Leave Perth--come up Strathearn to Endermay--fine, fruitful, cultivated Strath--the scene of "Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray," near Perth--fine scenery on the banks of the May--Mrs. Belcher, gawcie, frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, &c.--Lie at Kinross--reflections in a fit of the colic.
Sunday.--Pass through a cold, barren country to Queensferry--dine--cross the ferry and on to Edinburgh.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 298: Another northern bard has sketched this eminent musician--
"The blythe Strathspey springs up, reminding some Of nights when Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale,) Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round, Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. Alas! no more shall we behold that look So venerable, yet so blent with mirth, And festive joy sedate; that ancient garb Unvaried,--tartan hose, and bonnet blue! No more shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth The full intoxication of his strain. Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich! No more, amid the pauses of the dance, Shall he repeat those measures, that in days Of other years, could soothe a falling prince, And light his visage with a transient smile Of melancholy joy,--like autumn sun Gilding a sear tree with a passing beam! Or play to sportive children on the green Dancing at gloamin hour; or willing cheer With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal day."
British Georgics, p. 81]
* * * * *
THE POET'S ASSIGNMENT OF HIS WORKS.
Know all men by these presents that I Robert Burns of Mossgiel: whereas I intend to leave Scotland and go abroad, and having acknowledged myself the father of a child named Elizabeth, begot upon Elizabeth Paton in Largieside: and whereas Gilbert Burns in Mossgiel, my brother, has become bound, and hereby binds and obliges himself to aliment, clothe, and educate my said natural child in a suitable manner as if she was his own, in case her mother chuse to part with her, and that until she arrive at the age of fifteen years. Therefore, and to enable the said Gilbert Burns to make good his said engagement, wit ye me to have assigned, disponed, conveyed and made over to, and in favours of, the said Gilbert Burns, his heirs, executors, and assignees, who are always to be bound in like manner, with, himself, all and sundry goods, gear, corns, cattle, horses, nolt, sheep, household furniture, and all other moveable effects of whatever kind that I shall leave behind me on my departure from this Kingdom, after allowing for my part of the conjunct debts due by the said Gilbert Burns and me as joint tacksmen of the farm of Mossgiel. And particularly without prejudice of the foresaid generality, the profits that may arise from the publication of my poems presently in the press. And also, I hereby dispone and convey to him in trust for behoof of my said natural daughter, the copyright of said poems in so far as I can dispose of the same by law, after she arrives at the above age of fifteen years complete. Surrogating and substituting the said Gilbert Burns my brother and his foresaids in my full right, title, room and place of the whole premises, with power to him to intromit with, and dispose upon the same at pleasure, and in general to do every other thing in the premises that I could have done myself before granting hereof, but always with and under the conditions before expressed. And I oblige myself to warrant this disposition and assignation from my own proper fact and deed allenarly. Consenting to the registration hereof in the books of Council and Session, or any other Judges books competent, therein to remain for preservation and constitute.
Proculars, &c. In witness whereof I have wrote and signed these presents, consisting of this and the preceding page, on stamped paper, with my own hand, at the Mossgiel, the twenty-second day of July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six years.
(Signed) ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
Upon the twenty-fourth day of July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six years, I, William Chalmer, Notary Publick, past to the Mercat Cross of Ayr head Burgh of the Sheriffdome thereof, and thereat I made due and lawful intimation of the foregoing disposition and assignation to his Majesties lieges, that they might not pretend ignorance thereof by reading the same over in presence of a number of people assembled. Whereupon William Crooks, writer, in Ayr, as attorney for the before designed Gilbert Burns, protested that the same was lawfully intimated, and asked and took instruments in my hands. These things were done betwixt the hours of ten and eleven forenoon, before and in presence of William M'Cubbin, and William Eaton, apprentices to the Sheriff Clerk of Ayr, witnesses to the premises.
(Signed)
WILLIAM CHALMER, N.P.
WILLIAM M'CUBBIN, Witness.
WILLIAM EATON, Witness.
* * * * *
GLOSSARY.
"The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo is commonly spelled ou. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo or ui. The a, in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ae always, and ea very often, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei."
A.
A', all.
Aback, away, aloof, backwards.
Abeigh, at a shy distance.
Aboon, above, up.
Abread, abroad, in sight, to publish.
Abreed, in breadth.
Ae, one.
Aff, off.
Aff-loof, off-hand, extempore, without premeditation.
Afore, before.
Aft, oft.
Aften, often.
Agley, off the right line, wrong, awry.
Aiblins, perhaps.
Ain, own.
Airn, iron, a tool of that metal, a mason's chisel.
Airles, earnest money.
Airl-penny, a silver penny given as erles or hiring money.
Airt, quarter of the heaven, point of the compass.
Agee, on one side.
Attour, moreover, beyond, besides.
Aith, an oath.
Aits, oats.
Aiver, an old horse.
Aizle, a hot cinder, an ember of wood.
Alake, alas.
Alane, alone.
Akwart, awkward, athwart.
Amaist, almost.
Amang, among.
An', and, if.
Ance, once
Ane, one.
Anent, over-against, concerning, about.
Anither, another.
Ase, ashes of wood, remains of a hearth fire.
Asteer, abroad, stirring in a lively manner.
Aqueesh, between.
Aught, possession, as "in a' my aught," in all my possession.
Auld, old.
Auld-farran', auld farrant, sagacious, prudent, cunning.
Ava, at all.
Awa, away, begone.
Awfu', awful.
Auld-shoon, old shoes literally, a discarded lover metaphorically.
Aumos, gift to a beggar.
Aumos-dish, a beggar's dish in which the aumos is received.
Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c.
Awnie, bearded.
Ayont, beyond.
B.
Ba', ball.
Babie-clouts, child's first clothes.
Backets, ash-boards, as pieces of backet for removing ashes.
Backlins, comin', coming back, returning.
Back-yett, private gate.
Baide, endured, did stay.
Baggie, the belly.
Bairn, a child.
Bairn-time, a family of children, a brood.
Baith, both.
Ballets, Ballants, ballads.
Ban, to swear.
Bane, bone.
Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel.
Bannock, flat, round, soft cake.
Bardie, diminutive of bard.
Barefit, barefooted.
Barley-bree, barley-broo, blood of barley, malt liquor.
Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty.
Batch, a crew, a gang.
Batts, botts.
Bauckie-bird, the bat.
Baudrons, a cat.
Bauld, bold.
Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the face.
Be, to let be, to give over, to cease.
Beets, boots.
Bear, barley.
Bearded-bear, barley with its bristly head.
Beastie, diminutive of beast.
Beet, beek, to add fuel to a fire, to bask.
Beld, bald.
Belyve, by and by, presently, quickly.
Ben, into the spence or parlour.
Benmost-bore, the remotest hole, the innermost recess.
Bethankit, grace after meat.
Beuk, a book.
Bicker, a kind of wooden dish, a short rapid race.
Bickering, careering, hurrying with quarrelsome intent.
Birnie, birnie ground is where thick heath has been burnt, leaving the birns, or unconsumed stalks, standing up sharp and stubley.
Bie, or bield, shelter, a sheltered place, the sunny nook of a wood.
Bien, wealthy, plentiful.
Big, to build.
Biggin, building, a house.
Biggit, built.
Bill, a bull.
Billie, a brother, a young fellow, a companion.
Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c.
Birdie-cocks, young cocks, still belonging to the brood.
Birk, birch.
Birkie, a clever, a forward conceited fellow.
Birring, the noise of partridges when they rise.
Birses, bristles.
Bit, crisis, nick of time, place.
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz.
Black's the grun', as black as the ground.
Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term of contempt, full of mischief.
Blastit, blasted.
Blate, bashful, sheepish.
Blather, bladder.
Blaud, a flat piece of anything, to slap.
Blaudin-shower, a heavy driving rain; a blauding signifies a beating.
Blaw, to blow, to boast; "blaw i' my lug," to flatter.
Bleerit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with weeping.
Bleer my een, dim my eyes.
Bleezing, bleeze, blazing, flame.
Blellum, idle talking fellow.
Blether, to talk idly.
Bleth'rin, talking idly.
Blink, a little while, a smiling look, to look kindly, to shine by fits.
Blinker, a term of contempt: it means, too, a lively engaging girl.
Blinkin', smirking, smiling with the eyes, looking lovingly.
Blirt and blearie, out-burst of grief, with wet eyes.
Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get annually, on the king's birth-day, a blue cloak or gown with a badge.
Bluid, blood.
Blype, a shred, a large piece.
Bobbit, the obeisance made by a lady.
Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently.
Bocked, gushed, vomited.
Bodle, a copper coin of the value of two pennies Scots.
Bogie, a small morass.
Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beautiful.
Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a small jannock or loaf made of oatmeal. See Bannock.
Boord, a board.
Bore, a hole in the wall, a cranny.
Boortree, the shrub elder, planted much of old in hedges of barn-yards and gardens.
Boost, behoved, must needs, wilfulness.
Botch, blotch, an angry tumour.
Bousing, drinking, making merry with liquor.
Bowk, body.
Bow-kail, cabbage.
Bow-hought, out-kneed, crooked at the knee joint.
Bowt, bowlt, bended, crooked.
Brackens, fern.
Brae, a declivity, a precipice, the slope of a hill.
Braid, broad.
Braik, an instrument for rough-dressing flax.
Brainge, to run rashly forward, to churn violently.
Braing't, "the horse braing't," plunged end fretted in the harness.
Brak, broke, became insolvent.
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses.
Brankie, gaudy.
Brash, a sudden illness.
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c.
Brattle, a short race, hurry, fury.
Braw, fine, handsome.
Brawlys, or brawlie, very well, finely, heartily, bravely.
Braxies, diseased sheep.
Breastie, diminutive of breast.
Breastit, did spring up or forward; the act of mounting a horse.
Brechame, a horse-collar.
Breckens, fern.
Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell.
Breeks, breeches.
Brent, bright, clear; "a brent brow," a brow high and smooth.
Brewin', brewing, gathering.
Bree, juice, liquid.
Brig, a bridge.
Brunstane, brimstone.
Brisket, the breast, the bosom.
Brither, a brother.
Brock, a badger.
Brogue, a hum, a trick.
Broo, broth, liquid, water.
Broose, broth, a race at country weddings; he who first reaches the bridegroom's house on returning from church wins the broose.
Browst, ale, as much malt liquor as is brewed at a time.
Brugh, a burgh.
Bruilsie, a broil, combustion.
Brunt, did burn, burnt.
Brust, to burst, burst.
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among the rocks on the coast of Buchan.
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia.
Buff our beef, thrash us soundly, give us a beating behind and before.
Buff and blue, the colours of the Whigs.
Buirdly, stout made, broad built.
Bum-clock, the humming beetle that flies in the summer evenings.
Bummin, humming as bees, buzzing.
Bummle, to blunder, a drone, an idle fellow.
Bummler, a blunderer, one whose noise is greater than his work.
Bunker, a window-seat.
Bure, did bear.
Burn, burnie, water, a rivulet, a small stream which is heard as it runs.
Burniewin', burn this wind, the blacksmith.
Burr-thistle, the thistle of Scotland.
Buskit, dressed.
Buskit-nest, an ornamented residence.
Busle, a bustle.
But, bot, without.
But and ben, the country kitchen and parlour.
By himself, lunatic, distracted, beside himself.
Byke, a bee-hive, a wild bee-nest.
Byre, a cow-house, a sheep-pen.
C.
Ca', to call, to name, to drive.
Ca't, called, driven, calved.
Cadger, a carrier.
Cadie or caddie, a person, a young fellow, a public messenger.
Caff, chaff.
Caird, a tinker, a maker of horn spoons and teller of fortunes.
Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a rustic monument.
Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves.
Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton cloth worn by ladies.
Callan, a boy.
Caller, fresh.
Callet, a loose woman, a follower of a camp.
Cannie, gentle, mild, dexterous.
Cannilie, dexterously, gently.
Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry.
Cantraip, a charm, a spell.
Cap-stane, cape-stone, topmost stone of the building.
Car, a rustic cart with or without wheels.
Careerin', moving cheerfully.
Castock, the stalk of a cabbage.
Carl, an old man.
Carl-hemp, the male stalk of hemp, easily known by its superior strength and stature, and being without seed.
Carlin, a stout old woman.
Cartes, cards.
Caudron, a cauldron.
Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay.
Cauld, cold.
Caup, a wooden drinking vessel, a cup.
Cavie, a hen-coop.
Chanter, drone of a bagpipe.
Chap, a person, a fellow.
Chaup, a stroke, a blow.
Cheek for chow, close and united, brotherly, side by side.
Cheekit, cheeked.
Cheep, a chirp, to chirp.
Chiel, or cheal, a young fellow.
Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, fire-place.
Chimla-lug, the fire-side.
Chirps, cries of a young bird.
Chittering, shivering, trembling.
Chockin, choking.
Chow, to chew; a quid of tobacco.
Chuckie, a brood-hen.
Chuffie, fat-faced.
Clachan, a small village about a church, a hamlet.
Claise, or claes, clothes.
Claith, cloth.
Claithing, clothing.
Clavers and havers, agreeable nonsense, to talk foolishly.
Clapper-claps, the clapper of a mill; it is now silenced.
Clap-clack, clapper of a mill.
Clartie, dirty, filthy.
Clarkit, wrote.
Clash, an idle tale.
Clatter, to tell little idle stories, an idle story.
Claught, snatched at, laid hold of.
Claut, to clean, to scrape.
Clauted, scraped.
Claw, to scratch.
Cleed, to clothe.
Cleek, hook, snatch.
Cleekin, a brood of chickens, or ducks.
Clegs, the gad flies.
Clinkin, "clinking down," sitting down hastily.
Clinkumbell, the church bell; he who rings it; a sort of beadle.
Clips, wool-shears.
Clishmaclaver, idle conversation.
Clock, to hatch, a beetle.
Clockin, hatching.
Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c.
Clootie, a familiar name for the devil.
Clour, a bump, or swelling, after a blow.
Cloutin, repairing with cloth.
Cluds, clouds.
Clunk, the sound in setting down an empty bottle.
Coaxin, wheedling.
Coble, a fishing-boat.
Cod, a pillow.
Coft, bought.
Cog, and coggie, a wooden dish.
Coila, from Kyle, a district in Ayrshire, so called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Pictish monarch.
Collie, a general, and sometimes a particular name for country curs.
Collie-shangie, a quarrel among dogs, an Irish row.
Commaun, command.
Convoyed, accompanied lovingly.
Cool'd in her linens, cool'd in her death-shift.
Cood, the cud.
Coof, a blockhead, a ninny.
Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits.
Cooser, a stallion.
Coost, did cast.
Coot, the ankle, a species of water-fowl.
Corbies, blood crows.
Cootie, a wooden dish, rough-legged.
Core, corps, party, clan.
Corn't, fed with oats.
Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cottage.
Couthie, kind, loving.
Cove, a cave.
Cowe, to terrify, to keep under, to lop.
Cowp, to barter, to tumble over.
Cowp the cran, to tumble a full bucket or basket.
Cowpit, tumbled.
Cowrin, cowering.
Cowte, a colt.
Cosie, snug.
Crabbit, crabbed, fretful.
Creuks, a disease of horses.
Crack, conversation, to converse, to boast.
Crackin', cracked, conversing, conversed.
Craft, or croft, a field near a house, in old husbandry.
Craig, craigie, neck.
Craiks, cries or calls incessantly, a bird, the corn-rail.
Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, doggerel verses.
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel--metaphorically inharmonious verse.
Crankous, fretful, captious.
Cranreuch, the hoar-frost, called in Nithsdale "frost-rhyme."
Crap, a crop, to crop.
Craw, a crow of a cock, a rook.
Creel, a basket, to have one's wits in a creel, to be crazed, to be fascinated.
Creshie, greasy.
Crood, or Croud, to coo as a dove.
Croon, a hollow and continued moan; to make a noise like the low roar of a bull; to hum a tune.
Crooning, humming.
Crouchie, crook-backed.
Crouse, cheerful, courageous.
Crously, cheerfully, courageously.
Crowdie, a composition of oatmeal, boiled water and butter; sometimes made from the broth of beef, mutton, &c. &c.
Crowdie time, breakfast time.
Crowlin, crawling, a deformed creeping thing.
Crummie's nicks, marks on the horns of a cow.
Crummock, Crummet, a cow with crooked horns.
Crummock driddle, walk slowly, leaning on a staff with a crooked head.
Crump-crumpin, hard and brittle, spoken of bread; frozen snow yielding to the foot.
Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel.
Cuddle, to clasp and caress.
Cummock, a short staff, with a crooked head.
Curch, a covering for the head, a kerchief.
Curchie, a curtesy, female obeisance.
Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practised in Scotland, called curling.
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in ringlets.
Curling, a well-known game on the ice.
Curmurring, murmuring, a slight rumbling noise.
Curpin, the crupper, the rump.
Curple, the rear.
Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon.
Cutty, short, a spoon broken in the middle.
Cutty Stool, or, Creepie Chair, the seat of shame, stool of repentance.
D.
Daddie, a father.
Daffin, merriment, foolishness.
Daft, merry, giddy, foolish; Daft-buckie, mad fish.
Daimen, rare, now and then; Daimen icker, an ear of corn occasionally.
Dainty, pleasant, good-humored, agreeable, rare.
Dandered, wandered.
Darklins, darkling, without light.
Daud, to thrash, to abuse; Daudin-showers, rain urged by wind.
Daur, to dare; Daurt, dared.
Daurg, or Daurk, a day's labour.
Daur, daurna, dare, dare not.
Davoc, diminutive of Davie, as Davie is of David.
Dawd, a large piece.
Dawin, dawning of the day.
Dawtit, dawtet, fondled, caressed.
Dearies, diminutive of dears, sweethearts.
Dearthfu', dear, expensive.
Deave, to deafen.
Deil-ma-care, no matter for all that.
Deleerit, delirious.
Descrive, to describe, to perceive.
Deuks, ducks.
Dight, to wipe, to clean corn from chaff.
Ding, to worst, to push, to surpass, to excel.
Dink, neat, lady-like.
Dinna, do not.
Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain, a tremulous motion.
Distain, stain.
Dizzen, a dozen.
Dochter, daughter.
Doited, stupefied, silly from age.
Dolt, stupefied, crazed; also a fool.
Donsie, unlucky, affectedly neat and trim, pettish.
Doodle, to dandle.
Dool, sorrow, to lament, to mourn.
Doos, doves, pigeons.
Dorty, saucy, nice.
Douse, or douce, sober, wise, prudent.
Doucely, soberly, prudently.
Dought, was or were able.
Doup, backside.
Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail.
Dour and din, sullen and sallow
Douser, more prudent.
Dow, am or are able, can.
Dowff, pithless, wanting force.
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c., half asleep.
Downa, am or are not able, cannot.
Doylt, wearied, exhausted.
Dozen, stupified, the effects of age, to dozen, to benumb.
Drab, a young female beggar; to spot, to stain.
Drap, a drop, to drop.
Drapping, dropping.
Draunting, drawling, speaking with a sectarian tone.
Dreep, to ooze, to drop.
Dreigh, tedious, long about it, lingering.
Dribble, drizzling, trickling.
Driddle, the motion of one who tries to dance but moves the middle only.
Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, snow moved by the wind.
Droddum, the breech.
Drone, part of a bagpipe, the chanter.
Droop rumpl't, that droops at the crupper.
Droukit, wet.
Drouth, thirst, drought.
Drucken, drunken.
Drumly, muddy.
Drummock or Drammock, meal and water mixed, raw.
Drunt, pet, sour humour.
Dub, a small pond, a hollow filled with rain water.
Duds, rags, clothes.
Duddie, ragged.
Dung-dang, worsted, pushed, stricken.
Dunted, throbbed, beaten.
Dush-dunsh, to push, or butt as a ram.
Dusht, overcome with superstitious fear, to drop down suddenly.
Dyvor, bankrupt, or about to become one.
E.
E'e, the eye.
Een, the eyes, the evening.
Eebree, the eyebrow.
Eenin', the evening.
Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading spirits.
Eild, old age.
Elbuck, the elbow.
Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish.
En', end.
Enbrugh, Edinburgh.
Eneugh, and aneuch, enough.
Especial, especially.
Ether-stone, stone formed by adders, an adder bead.
Ettle, to try, attempt, aim.
Eydent, diligent.
F.
Fa', fall, lot, to fall, fate.
Fa' that, to enjoy, to try, to inherit.
Faddom't, fathomed, measured with the extended arms.
Faes, foes.
Faem, foam of the sea.
Faiket, forgiven or excused, abated, a demand.
Fainness, gladness, overcome with joy.
Fairin', fairing, a present brought from a fair.
Fallow, fellow.
Fand, did find.
Farl, a cake of bread; third part of a cake.
Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to care for.
Fasheous, troublesome.
Fasht, troubled.
Fasten e'en, Fasten's even.
Faught, fight.
Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, fallow.
Fauld, and Fald, a fold for sheep, to fold.
Faut, fault.
Fawsont, decent, seemly.
Feal, loyal, steadfast.
Fearfu', fearful, frightful.
Fear't, affrighted.
Feat, neat, spruce, clever.
Fecht, to fight.
Fechtin', fighting.
Feck and fek, number, quantity.
Fecket, an under-waistcoat.
Feckfu', large, brawny, stout.
Feckless, puny, weak, silly.
Feckly, mostly.
Feg, a fig.
Fegs, faith, an exclamation.
Feide, feud, enmity.
Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately under the skin; level moor.
Felly, relentless.
Fend, Fen, to make a shift, contrive to live.
Ferlie or ferley, to wonder, a wonder, a term of contempt.
Fetch, to pull by fits.
Fetch't, pull'd intermittently.
Fey, strange; one marked for death, predestined.
Fidge, to fidget, fidgeting.
Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure.
Fient, fiend, a petty oath.
Fien ma care, the devil may care.
Fier, sound, healthy; a brother, a friend.
Fierrie, bustle, activity.
Fissle, to make a rustling noise, to fidget, bustle, fuss.
Fit, foot.
Fittie-lan, the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in the plough.
Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss, disturbance.
Flaffen, the motion of rags in the wind; of wings.
Flainen, flannel.
Flandrekins, foreign generals, soldiers of Flanders.
Flang, threw with violence.
Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner.
Fleechin, supplicating.
Fleesh, a fleece.
Fleg, a kick, a random blow, a fight.
Flether, to decoy by fair words.
Flethrin, flethers, flattering--smooth wheedling words.
Fley, to scare, to frighten.
Flichter, flichtering, to flutter as young nestlings do when their dam approaches.
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces.
Flingin-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of partition between two horses in a stable; a flail.
Flisk, flisky, to fret at the yoke.
Flisket, fretted.
Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small birds.
Flittering, fluttering, vibrating, moving tremulously from place to place.
Flunkie, a servant in livery.
Flyte, flyting, scold: flyting, scolding.
Foor, hastened.
Foord, a ford.
Forbears, forefathers.
Forbye, besides.
Forfairn, distressed, worn out, jaded, forlorn, destitute.
Forgather, to meet, to encounter with.
Forgie, to forgive.
Forinawed, worn out.
Forjesket, jaded with fatigue.
Fou', full, drunk.
Foughten, forfoughten, troubled, fatigued.
Foul-thief, the devil, the arch-fiend.
Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough.
Fow, a measure, a bushel: also a pitchfork.
Frae, from.
Freath, froth, the frothing of ale in the tankard.
Frien', friend.
Frosty-calker, the heels and front of a horse-shoe, turned sharply up for riding on an icy road.
Fu', full.
Fud, the scut or tail of the hare, coney, &c.
Fuff, to blow intermittently.
Fu-hant, full-handed; said of one well to live in the world.
Funnie, full of merriment.
Fur-ahin, the hindmost horse on the right hand when ploughing.
Furder, further, succeed.
Furm, a form, a bench.
Fusionless, spiritless, without sap or soul.
Fyke, trifling cares, to be in a fuss about trifles.
Fyte, to soil, to dirty.
Fylt, soiled, dirtied.
G.
Gab, the mouth, to speak boldly or pertly.
Gaberlunzie, wallet-man, or tinker.
Gae, to go; gaed, went; gane or gaen, gone; gaun, going.
Gaet or gate, way, manner, road.
Gairs, parts of a lady's gown.
Gang, to go, to walk.
Gangrel, a wandering person.
Gar, to make, to force to; gar't, forced to.
Garten, a garter.
Gash, wise, sagacious, talkative, to converse.
Gatty, failing in body.
Gaucy, jolly, large, plump.
Gaud and gad, a rod or goad.
Gaudsman, one who drives the horses at the plough.
Gaun, going.
Gaunted, yawned, longed.
Gawkie, a thoughtless person, and something weak.
Gaylies, gylie, pretty well.
Gear, riches, goods of any kind.
Geck, to toss the head in wantonness or scorn.
Ged, a pike.
Gentles, great folks.
Genty, elegant.
Geordie, George, a guinea, called Geordie from the head of King George.
Get and geat, a child, a young one.
Ghaist, ghaistis, a ghost.
Gie, to give; gied, gave; gien, given.
Giftie, diminutive of gift.
Giglets, laughing maidens.
Gillie, gillock, diminutive of gill.
Gilpey, a half-grown, half-informed boy or girl, a romping lad, a hoyden.
Gimmer, an ewe two years old, a contemptuous term for a woman.
Gin, if, against.
Gipsey, a young girl.
Girdle, a round iron plate on which oat-cake is fired.
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, agony, &c.; grinning.
Gizz, a periwig, the face.
Glaikit, inattentive, foolish.
Glaive, a sword.
Glaizie, glittering, smooth, like glass.
Glaumed, grasped, snatched at eagerly.
Girran, a poutherie girran, a little vigorous animal; a horse rather old, but yet active when heated.
Gled, a hawk.
Gleg, sharp, ready.
Gley, a squint, to squint; a-gley, off at the side, wrong.
Gleyde, an old horse.
Glib-gabbit, that speaks smoothly and readily.
Glieb o' lan', a portion of ground. The ground belonging to a manse is called "the glieb," or portion.
Glint, glintin', to peep.
Glinted by, went brightly past.
Gloamin, the twilight.
Gloamin-shot, twilight musing; a shot in the twilight.
Glowr, to stare, to look; a stare, a look.
Glowran, amazed, looking suspiciously, gazing.
Glum, displeased.
Gor-cocks, the red-game, red-cock, or moor-cock.
Gowan, the flower of the daisy, dandelion, hawkweed, &c.
Gowany, covered with daisies.
Goavan, walking as if blind, or without an aim.
Gowd, gold.
Gowl, to howl.
Gowff, a fool; the game of golf, to strike, as the bat does the ball at golf.
Gowk, term of contempt, the cuckoo.
Grane or grain, a groan, to groan; graining, groaning.
Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning cowhouses.
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress.
Grannie, grandmother.
Grape, to grope; grapet, groped.
Great, grit, intimate, familiar.
Gree, to agree; to bear the gree, to be decidedly victor; gree't, agreed.
Green-graff, green grave,
Gruesome, loathsomely, grim.
Greet, to shed tears, to weep; greetin', weeping.
Grey-neck-quill, a quill unfit for a pen.
Griens, longs, desires.
Grieves, stewards.
Grippit, seized.
Groanin-Maut, drink for the cummers at a lying-in.
Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat; to play a losing game, to feel the consequences of one's folly.
Groset, a gooseberry.
Grumph, a grunt, to grunt.
Grumphie, Grumphin, a sow; the snorting of an angry pig.
Grun', ground.
Grunstone, a grindstone.
Gruntle, the phiz, the snout, a grunting noise.
Grunzie, a mouth which pokes out like that of a pig.
Grushie, thick, of thriving growth.
Gude, guid, guids, the Supreme Being, good, goods.
Gude auld-has-been, was once excellent.
Guid-mornin', good-morrow.
Guid-e'en, good evening.
Guidfather and guidmother, father-in-law, and mother-in-law.
Guidman and guidwife, the master and mistress of the house; young guidman, a man newly married.
Gully or Gullie, a large knife.
Gulravage, joyous mischief.
Gumlie, muddy.
Gumption, discernment, knowledge, talent.
Gusty, gustfu', tasteful.
Gut-scraper, a fiddler.
Gutcher, grandsire.
H.
Ha', hall.
Ha' Bible, the great Bible that lies in the hall.
Haddin', house, home, dwelling-place, a possession.
Hae, to have, to accept.
Haen, had, (the participle of hae); haven.
Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of negation; nothing.
Haffet, the temple, the side of the head.
Hafflins, nearly half, partly, not fully grown.
Hag, a gulf in mosses and moors, moss-ground.
Haggis, a kind of pudding, boiled in the stomach of a cow, or sheep.
Hain, to spare, to save, to lay out at interest.
Hain'd, spared; hain'd gear, hoarded money.
Hairst, harvest
Haith, petty oath.
Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought.
Hal', or hald, an abiding place.
Hale, or haill, whole, tight, healthy.
Hallan, a particular partition-wall in a cottage, or more properly a seat of turf at the outside.
Hallowmass, Hallow-eve, 31st October.
Haly, holy; "haly-pool," holy well with healing properties.
Hame, home.
Hammered, the noise of feet like the din of hammers.
Han's breed, hand's breadth.
Hanks, thread as it comes from the measuring reel, quantities, &c.
Hansel-throne, throne when first occupied by a king.
Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c.; to wrap, to cover, to hap.
Harigals, heart, liver, and lights of an animal.
Hap-shackled, when a fore and hind foot of a ram are fastened together to prevent leaping he is said to be hap-shackled. A wife is called "the kirk's hap-shackle."
Happer, a hopper, the hopper of a mill.
Happing, hopping.
Hap-step-an'-loup, hop, step, and leap.
Harkit, hearkened.
Harn, very coarse linen.
Hash, a fellow who knows not how to act with propriety.
Hastit, hastened.
Haud, to hold.
Haughs, low-lying, rich land, valleys.
Haurl, to drag, to pull violently.
Haurlin, tearing off, pulling roughly.
Haver-meal, oatmeal.
Haveril, a half-witted person, half-witted, one who habitually talks in a foolish or incoherent manner.
Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense.
Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white face.
Heapit, heaped.
Healsome healthful, wholesome.
Hearse, hoarse.
Heather, heath.
Hech, oh strange! an exclamation during heavy work.
Hecht, promised, to foretell something that is to be got or given, foretold, the thing foretold, offered.
Heckle, a board in which are fixed a number of sharp steel prongs upright for dressing hemp, flax, &c.
Hee balou, words used to soothe a child.
Heels-owre-gowdie, topsy-turvy, turned the bottom upwards.
Heeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift.
Hellim, the rudder or helm.
Herd, to tend flocks, one who tends flocks.
Herrin', a herring.
Herry, to plunder; most properly to plunder birds' nests.
Herryment, plundering, devastation.
Hersel-hirsel, a flock of sheep, also a herd of cattle of any sort.
Het, hot, heated.
Heugh, a crag, a ravine; coal-heugh, a coal-pit, lowin heugh, a blazing pit.
Hilch, hilchin', to halt, halting.
Hiney, honey.
Hing, to hang.
Hirple, to walk crazily, to walk lamely, to creep.
Histie, dry, chapt, barren.
Hitcht, a loop, made a knot.
Hizzie, huzzy, a young girl.
Hoddin, the motion of a husbandman riding on a cart-horse, humble.
Hoddin-gray, woollen cloth of a coarse quality, made by mingling one black fleece with a dozen white ones.
Hoggie, a two-year-old sheep.
Hog-score, a distance line in curling drawn across the rink. When a stone fails to cross it, a cry is raised of "A hog, a hog!" and it is removed.
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play by justling with the shoulder; to justle.
Hoodie-craw, a blood crow, corbie.
Hool, outer skin or case, a nutshell, a pea-husk.
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely.
Hoord, a hoard, to hoard.
Hoordit, hoarded.
Horn, a spoon made of horn.
Hornie, one of the many names of the devil.
Host, or hoast, to cough.
Hostin, coughing.
Hotch'd, turned topsy-turvy, blended, ruined, moved.
Houghmagandie, loose behaviour.
Howlet, an owl.
Housie, diminutive of house.
Hove, hoved, to heave, to swell.
Howdie, a midwife.
Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell.
Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a horse.
Howff, a house of resort.
Howk, to dig.
Howkit, digged.
Howkin', digging deep.
Hoy, hoy't, to urge, urged.
Hoyse, a pull upwards. "Hoyse a creel," to raise a basket; hence "hoisting creels."
Hoyte, to amble crazily.
Hughoc, diminutive of Hughie, as Hughie is of Hugh.
Hums and hankers, mumbles and seeks to do what he cannot perform.
Hunkers, kneeling and falling back on the hams.
Hurcheon, a hedgehog.
Hurdies, the loins, the crupper.
Hushion, a cushion, also a stocking wanting the foot.
Huchyalled, to move with a hilch.
I.
Icker, an ear of corn.
Ieroe, a great grandchild.
Ilk, or ilka, each, every.
Ill-deedie, mischievous.
Ill-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly.
Ingine, genius, ingenuity.
Ingle, fire, fire-place.
Ingle-low, light from the fire, flame from the hearth.
I rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye.
I'se, I shall or will.
Ither, other, one another.
J.
Jad, jade; also a familiar term among country folks for a giddy young girl.
Jauk, to dally, to trifle.
Jaukin', trifling, dallying.
Jauner, talking, and not always to the purpose.
Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk, as agitated water.
Jaw, coarse raillery, to pour out, to shut, to jerk as water.
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl.
Jimp, to jump, slender in the waist, handsome.
Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a sudden turning, a corner.
Jink an' diddle, moving to music, motion of a fiddler's elbow. Starting here and there with a tremulous movement.
Jinker, that turns quickly, a gay sprightly girl.
Jinkin', dodging, the quick motion of the bow on the fiddle.
Jirt, a jerk, the emission of water, to squirt.
Jocteleg, a kind of knife.
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head, to conceal.
Jow, to jow, a verb, which includes both the swinging motion and pealing sound of a large bell; also the undulation of water.
Jundie, to justle, a push with the elbow.
K.
Kae, a daw.
Kail, colewort, a kind of broth.
Kailrunt, the stem of colewort.
Kain, fowls, &c., paid as rent by a farmer.
Kebars, rafters.
Kebbuck, a cheese.
Keckle, joyous cry; to cackle as a hen.
Keek, a keek, to peep.
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous water-spirit, said to haunt fords and ferries at night, especially in storms.
Ken, to know; ken'd or ken't, knew.
Kennin, a small matter.
Ket-Ketty, matted, a fleece of wool.
Kiaught, carking, anxiety, to be in a flutter.
Kilt, to truss up the clothes.
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip.
Kin', kindred.
Kin', kind.
King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox.
Kintra, kintrie, country.
Kirn, the harvest supper, a churn.
Kirsen, to christen, to baptize.
Kist, a shop-counter.
Kitchen, anything that eats with bread, to serve for soup, gravy.
Kittle, to tickle, ticklish.
Kittling, a young cat. The ace of diamonds is called among rustics the kittlin's e'e.
Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks.
Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking stones; knap, to strike or break.
Knurlin, crooked but strong, knotty.
Knowe, a small, round hillock, a knoll.
Kuittle, to cuddle; kuitlin, cuddling, fondling.
Kye, cows.
Kyle, a district in Ayrshire.
Kyte, the belly.
Kythe, to discover, to show one's self.
L.
Labour, thrash.
Laddie, diminutive of lad.
Laggen, the angle between the side and the bottom of a wooden dish.
Laigh, low.
Lairing, lairie, wading, and sinking in snow, mud &c., miry.
Laith, loath, impure.
Laithfu', bashful, sheepish, abstemious.
Lallans, Scottish dialect, Lowlands.
Lambie, diminutive of lamb.
Lammas moon, harvest-moon.
Lampit, kind of shell-fish, a limpet.
Lan', land, estate.
Lan'-afore, foremost horse in the plough.
Lan'-ahin, hindmost horse in the plough.
Lane, lone; my lane, thy tune, &c., myself alone.
Lanely, lonely.
Lang, long; to think lang, to long, to weary.
Lap, did leap.
Late and air, late and early.
Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others.
Laverock, the lark.
Lawlan', lowland.
Lay my dead, attribute my death.
Leal, loyal, true, faithful.
Lear, learning, lore.
Lee-lang, live-long.
Leesome luve, happy, gladsome love.
Leeze me, a phrase of congratulatory endearment; I am happy in thee or proud of thee.
Leister, a three-pronged and barbed dart for striking fish.
Leugh, did laugh.
Leuk, a look, to look.
Libbet, castrated.
Lick, licket, beat, thrashen.
Lift, sky, firmament.
Lightly, sneeringly, to sneer at, to undervalue.
Lilt, a ballad, a tune, to sing.
Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet.
Limp't, limped, hobbled.
Link, to trip along; linkin, tripping along.
Linn, a waterfall, a cascade.
Lint, flax; lint i' the bell, flax in flower.
Lint-white, a linnet, flaxen.
Loan, the place of milking.
Loaning, lane.
Loof, the palm of the hand.
Loot, did let.
Looves, the plural of loof.
Losh man! rustic exclamation modified from Lord man.
Loun, a follow, a ragamuffin, a woman of easy virtue.
Loup, leap, startled with pain.
Louper-like, lan-louper, a stranger of a suspected character.
Lowe, a flame.
Lowin', flaming; lowin-drouth, burning desire for drink.
Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence.
Lowse, to loose.
Lowsed, unbound, loosed.
Lug, the ear.
Lug of the law, at the judgment-seat.
Lugget, having a handle.
Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle.
Lum, the chimney; lum-head, chimney-top.
Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c.
Lunt, a column of smoke, to smoke, to walk quickly.
Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray.
M.
Mae, and mair, more.
Maggot's-meat, food for the worms.
Mahoun, Satan.
Mailen, a farm.
Maist, most, almost.
Maistly, mostly, for the greater part.
Mak', to make; makin', making.
Mally, Molly, Mary.
Mang, among.
Manse, the house of the parish minister is called "the Manse."
Manteele, a mantle.
Mark, marks. This and several other nouns which in English require an s to form the plural, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, deer, the same in both numbers.
Mark, merk, a Scottish coin, value thirteen shillings and four-pence.
Marled, party-coloured.
Mar's year, the year 1715. Called Mar's year from the rebellion of Erskine, Earl of Mar.
Martial chuck, the soldier's camp-comrade, female companion.
Mashlum, mixed corn.
Mask, to mash, as malt, &c., to infuse.
Maskin-pot, teapot.
Maukin, a hare.
Maun, mauna, must, must not.
Maut, malt.
Mavis, the thrush.
Maw, to mow.
Mawin, mowing; maun, mowed; maw'd, mowed.
Mawn, a small basket, without a handle.
Meere, a mare.
Melancholious, mournful.
Melder, a load of corn, &c., sent to the mill to be ground.
Mell, to be intimate, to meddle, also a mallet for pounding barley in a stone trough.
Melvie, to soil with meal.
Men', to mend.
Mense, good manners, decorum.
Menseless, ill-bred, impudent.
Merle, the blackbird.
Messin, a small dog.
Middin, a dunghill.
Middin-creels, dung-baskets, panniers in which horses carry manure.
Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dunghill.
Milkin-shiel a place where cows or ewes are brought to be milked.
Mim, prim, affectedly meek.
Mim-mou'd, gentle-mouthed.
Min', to remember.
Minawae, minuet.
Mind't, mind it, resolved, intending, remembered.
Minnie, mother, dam.
Mirk, dark.
Misca', to abuse, to call names; misca'd, abused.
Mischanter, accident.
Misleard, mischievous, unmannerly.
Misteuk, mistook.
Mither, mother.
Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed, mish-mash.
Moistify, moistified, to moisten, to soak; moistened, soaked.
Mons-Meg, a large piece of ordnance, to be seen at the Castle of Edinburgh, composed of iron bars welded together and then hooped.
Mools, earth.
Mony, or monie, many.
Moop, to nibble as a sheep.
Moorlan, of or belonging to moors.
Morn, the next day, to-morrow.
Mou, the mouth.
Moudiwort, a mole.
Mousie, diminutive of mouse.
Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much.
Muses-stank, muses-rill, a stank, slow-flowing water.
Musie, diminutive of muse.
Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, shelled barley, and greens; thin poor broth.
Mutchkin, an English pint.
Mysel, myself.
N.
Na', no, not, nor.
Nae, or na, no, not any.
Naething, or naithing, nothing.
Naig, a horse, a nag.
Nane, none.
Nappy, ale, to be tipsy.
Negleckit, neglected.
Neebor, a neighbour.
Neuk, nook.
Neist, next.
Nieve, neif, the fist
Nievefu', handful.
Niffer, an exchange, to barter.
Niger, a negro.
Nine-tailed cat, a hangman's whip.
Nit, a nut.
Norland, of or belonging to the north.
Notic't, noticed.
Nowte, black cattle.
O.
O', of.
O'ergang, overbearingness, to treat with indignity, literally to tread.
O'erlay, an upper cravat.
Ony, or onie, any.
Or, is often used for ere, before.
Orra-duddies, superfluous rags, old clothes.
O't, of it.
Ourie, drooping, shivering.
Oursel, oursels, ourselves.
Outlers, outliers; cattle unhoused.
Ower, owre, over.
Owre-hip, striking with a forehammer by bringing it with a swing over the hip.
Owsen, oxen.
Oxtered, carried or supported under the arm.
P.
Pack, intimate, familiar: twelve stone of wool.
Paidle, paidlen, to walk with difficulty, as if in water.
Painch, paunch.
Paitrick, partridge.
Pang, to cram.
Parle, courtship.
Parishen, parish.
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known Scotch drink.
Pat, did put, a pot.
Pattle, or pettle, a small spades to clean the plough.
Paughty, proud, haughty.
Pauky, cunning, sly.
Pay't, paid, beat.
Peat-reek, the smoke of burning turf, a bitter exhalation, whisky.
Pech, to fetch the breath shortly, as in an asthma.
Pechan, the crop, the stomach.
Pechin, respiring with difficulty.
Pennie, riches.
Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c., a favourite.
Pettle, to cherish.
Philabeg, the kilt.
Phraise, fair speeches, flattery, to flatter.
Phraisin, flattering.
Pibroch, a martial air.
Pickle, a small quantity, one grain of corn.
Pigmy-scraper, little fiddler; a term of contempt for a bad player.
Pint-stomp, a two-quart measure.
Pine, pain, uneasiness.
Pingle, a small pan for warming children's sops.
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part of an English penny.
Plackless, pennyless, without money.
Plaidie, diminutive of plaid.
Platie, diminutive of plate.
Plew, or pleugh, a plough.
Pliskie, a trick.
Plumrose, primrose.
Pock, a meal-bag.
Poind, to seize on cattle, or take the goods as the laws of Scotland allow, for rent, &c.
Poorteth, poverty.
Posie, a nosegay, a garland.
Pou, pou'd, to pull, pulled.
Pouk, to pluck.
Poussie, a hare or cat.
Pouse, to pluck with the hand.
Pout, a polt, a chick.
Pou't, did pull.
Poutherey, fiery, active.
Pouthery, like powder.
Pow, the head, the skull.
Pownie, a little horse, a pony.
Powther, or pouther, gunpowder.
Preclair, supereminent.
Preen, a pin.
Prent, printing, print.
Prie, to taste; prie'd, tasted.
Prief, proof.
Prig, to cheapen, to dispute; priggin, cheapening.
Primsie, demure, precise.
Propone, to lay down, to propose.
Pund, pund o' tow, pound, pound weight of the refuse of flax.
Pyet, a magpie.
Pyle, a pyle, o' caff, a single grain of chaff.
Pystle, epistle.
Q.
Quat, quit
Quak, the cry of a duck.
Quech, a drinking-cup made of wood with two handles.
Quey, a cow from one to two years old, a heifer.
Quines, queans.
Quakin, quaking.
R.
Ragweed, herb-ragwort.
Raible, to rattle, nonsense.
Rair, to roar.
Raize, to madden, to inflame.
Ramfeezled, fatigued, overpowered.
Rampin', raging.
Ramstam, thoughtless, forward.
Randie, a scolding sturdy beggar, a shrew.
Rantin', joyous.
Raploch, properly a coarse cloth, but used for coarse.
Rarely, excellently, very well.
Rash, a rush; rash-buss, a bush of rushes.
Ratton, a rat.
Raucle, rash, stout, fearless, reckless.
Raught, reached.
Raw, a row.
Rax, to stretch.
Ream, cream, to cream.
Reamin', brimful, frothing.
Reave, take by force.
Rebute, to repulse, rebuke.
Reck, to heed.
Rede, counsel, to counsel, to discourse.
Red-peats, burning turfs.
Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe-tops.
Red-wud, stark mad.
Ree, half drunk, fuddled; a ree yaud, a wild horse.
Reek, smoke.
Reekin', smoking.
Reekit, smoked, smoky.
Reestit, stood restive; stunted, withered.
Remead, remedy.
Requite, requited.
Restricked, restricted.
Rew, to smile, look affectionately, tenderly.
Rickles, shocks of corn, stooks.
Riddle, instrument for purifying corn.
Rief-randies, men who take the property of others, accompanied by violence and rude words.
Rig, a ridge.
Rin, to run, to melt; rinnin', running.
Rink, the course of the stones, a term in curling on ice.
Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn.
Ripples, pains in the back and loins, sounds which usher in death.
Ripplin-kame, instrument for dressing flax.
Riskit, a noise like the tearing of roots.
Rockin', a denomination for a friendly visit. In former times young women met with their distaffs during the winter evenings, to sing, and spin, and be merry; these were called "rockings."
Roke, distaff.
Rood, stands likewise for the plural, roods.
Roon, a shred, the selvage of woollen cloth.
Roose, to praise, to commend.
Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood.
Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold.
Row, to roll, to rap, to roll as water.
Row't, rolled, wrapped.
Rowte, to low, to bellow.
Rowth, plenty.
Rowtin', lowing.
Rozet, rosin.
Rumble-gumption, rough commonsense.
Run-deils, downright devils.
Rung, a cudgel.
Runt, the stem of colewort or cabbage.
Runkled, wrinkled.
Ruth, a woman's name, the book so called, sorrow.
Ryke, reach.
S.
Sae, so.
Saft, soft.
Sair, to serve, a sore; sairie, sorrowful.
Sairly, sorely.
Sair't, served.
Sark, a shirt.
Sarkit, provided in shirts.
Saugh, willow.
Saugh-woodies, withies, made of willows, now supplanted by ropes and chains.
Saul, soul.
Saumont, salmon.
Saunt, sauntet, saint; to varnish.
Saut, salt.
Saw, to sow.
Sawin', sowing.
Sax, six.
Scaud, to scald.
Scauld, to scold.
Scaur, apt to be scared; a precipitous bank of earth which the stream has washed red.
Scawl, scold.
Scone, a kind of bread.
Sconner, a loathing, to loath.
Scraich and Scriegh, to scream, as a hen or partridge.
Screed, to tear, a rent; screeding, tearing.
Scrieve, scrieven, to glide softly, gleesomely along.
Scrimp, to scant.
Scrimpet, scant, scanty.
Scroggie, covered with underwood, bushy.
Sculdudrey, fornication.
Seizin', seizing.
Sel, self; a body's sel', one's self alone.
Sell't, did sell.
Sen', to send.
Servan', servant.
Settlin', settling; to get a settlin', to be frightened into quietness.
Sets, sets off, goes away.
Shachlet-feet, ill-shaped.
Shair'd, a shred, a shard.
Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for pulling the tail of a dog, &c., by way of mischief, or to frighten him away.
Shank-it, walk it; shanks, legs.
Shaul, shallow.
Shaver, a humorous wag, a barber.
Shavie, to do an ill turn.
Shaw, to show; a small wood in a hollow place.
Sheep-shank, to think one's self nae sheep-shank, to be conceited.
Sherra-muir, Sheriff-Muir, the famous battle of, 1715.
Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice.
Shiel, shealing, a shepherd's cottage.
Shill, shrill.
Shog, a shock, a push off at one side.
Shoo, ill to please, ill to fit.
Shool, a shovel.
Shoon, shoes.
Shore, to offer, to threaten.
Shor'd, half offered and threatened.
Shouther, the shoulder.
Shot, one traverse of the shuttle from side to side of the web.
Sic, such.
Sicker, sure, steady.
Sidelins, sideling, slanting.
Silken-snood, a fillet of silk, a token of virginity.
Siller, silver, money, white.
Sin, a son.
Sinsyne, since then.
Skaith, to damage, to injure, injury.
Skeigh, proud, nice, saucy, mettled.
Skeigh, shy, maiden coyness.
Skellum, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart tripping step, a smart stroke.
Skelpi-limmer, a technical term in female scolding.
Skelpin, skelpit, striking, walking rapidly, literally striking the ground.
Skinklin, thin, gauzy, scaltery.
Skirling, shrieking, crying.
Skirl, to cry, to shriek shrilly.
Skirl't, shrieked.
Sklent, slant, to run aslant, to deviate from truth.
Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction.
Skouth, vent, free action.
Skreigh, a scream, to scream, the first cry uttered by a child.
Skyte, a worthless fellow, to slide rapidly off.
Skyrin, party-coloured, the checks of the tartan.
Slae, sloe.
Slade, did slide.
Slap, a gate, a breach in a fence.
Slaw, slow.
Slee, sleest, sly, slyest.
Sleekit, sleek, sly.
Sliddery, slippery.
Slip-shod, smooth shod.
Sloken, quench, slake.
Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the plough.
Slypet-o'er, fell over with a slow reluctant motion.
Sma', small.
Smeddum, dust, powder, mettle, sense, sagacity.
Smiddy, smithy.
Smirking, good-natured, winking.
Smoor, smoored, to smother, smothered.
Smoutie, smutty, obscene; smoutie phiz, sooty aspect.
Smytrie, a numerous collection of small individuals.
Snapper, mistake.
Snash, abuse, Billingsgate, impertinence.
Snaw, snow, to snow.
Snaw-broo, melted snow.
Snawie, snowy.
Snap, to lop, to cut off.
Sned-besoms, to cut brooms.
Sneeshin, snuff.
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box.
Snell and snelly, bitter, biting; snellest, bitterest.
Snick-drawing, trick, contriving.
Snick, the latchet of a door.
Snirt, snirtle, concealed laughter, to breathe the nostrils in a displeased manner.
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppressive slavery; to submit tamely, to sneak.
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly, to sneak.
Snowk, snowkit, to scent or snuff as a dog, scented, snuffed.
Sodger, a soldier.
Sonsie, having sweet engaging looks, lucky, jolly.
Soom, to swim.
Souk, to suck, to drink long and enduringly.
Souple, flexible, swift.
Soupled, suppled.
Souther, to solder.
Souter, a shoemaker.
Sowens, the fine flour remaining among the seeds, of oatmeal made into an agreeable pudding.
Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity of anything liquid.
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle.
Spae, to prophesy, to divine.
Spails, chips, splinters.
Spaul, a limb.
Spairge, to clash, to soil, as with mire.
Spates, sudden floods.
Spaviet, having the spavin.
Speat, a sweeping torrent after rain or thaw.
Speel, to climb.
Spence, the parlour of a farmhouse or cottage.
Spier, to ask, to inquire; spiert, inquired.
Spinnin-graith, wheel and roke and lint.
Splatter, to splutter, a splutter.
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch.
Splore, a frolic, noise, riot.
Sprachled, scrambled.
Sprattle, to scramble.
Spreckled, spotted, speckled.
Spring, a quick air in music, a Scottish reel.
Sprit, spret, a tough-rooted plant something like rushes, jointed-leaved rush.
Sprittie, full of spirits.
Spunk, fire, mettle, wit, spark.
Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery; will o' the wisp, or ignis fatuus; the devil.
Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmeal pudding or porridge, a notable Scottish dish.
Squad, a crew or party, a squadron.
Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild-duck, &c.
Squattle, to sprawl in the act of hiding.
Squeel, a scream, a screech, to scream.
Stacher, to stagger.
Stack, a rick of corn, hay, peats.
Staggie, a stag.
Staig, a two year-old horse.
Stalwart, stately, strong.
Stang, sting, stung.
Stan't, to stand; stan't, did stand.
Stane, stone.
Stank, did stink, a pool of standing water, slow-moving water.
Stap, stop, stave.
Stark, stout, potent.
Startle, to run as cattle stung by the gadfly.
Staukin, stalking, walking disdainfully, walking without an aim.
Staumrel, a blockhead, half-witted.
Staw, did steal, to surfeit.
Stech, to cram the belly.
Stechin, cramming.
Steek, to shut, a stitch.
Steer, to molest, to stir.
Steeve, firm, compacted.
Stell, a still.
Sten, to rear as a horse, to leap suddenly.
Stravagin, wandering without an aim.
Stents, tribute, dues of any kind.
Stey, steep; styest, steepest.
Stibble, stubble; stubble-rig, the reaper in harvest who takes the lead.
Stick-an'-stow, totally, altogether.
Stilt-stilts, a crutch; to limp, to halt; poles for crossing a river.
Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester bushel.
Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old.
Stock, a plant of colewort, cabbages.
Stockin', stocking; throwing the stockin', when the bride and bridegroom are put into bed, the former throws a stocking at random among the company, and the person whom it falls on is the next that will be married.
Stook, stooked, a shock of corn, made into shocks.
Stot, a young bull or ox.
Stound, sudden pang of the heart.
Stoup, or stowp, a kind of high narrow jug or dish with a handle for holding liquids.
Stowre, dust, more particularly dust in motion; stowrie, dusty.
Stownlins, by stealth.
Stown, stolen.
Stoyte, the walking of a drunken man.
Straek, did strike.
Strae, straw; to die a fair strae death, to die in bed.
Straik, to stroke; straiket, stroked.
Strappen, tall, handsome, vigorous.
Strath, low alluvial land, a holm.
Straught, straight.
Streek, stretched, to stretch.
Striddle, to straddle.
Stroan, to spout, to piss.
Stroup, the spout.
Studdie, the anvil.
Stumpie, diminutive of stump; a grub pen.
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind; to walk sturdily, to be affronted.
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind.
Sturt, trouble; to molest.
Startin, frighted.
Styme, a glimmer.
Sucker, sugar.
Sud, should.
Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or water.
Sumph, a pluckless fellow, with little heart or soul.
Suthron, Southern, an old name of the English.
Swaird, sword.
Swall'd, swelled.
Swank, stately, jolly.
Swankie, or swanker, a tight strapping young fellow or girl.
Swap, an exchange, to barter.
Swarfed, swooned.
Swat, did sweat.
Swatch, a sample.
Swats, drink, good ale, new ale or wort.
Sweer, lazy, averse; dead-sweer, extremely averse.
Swoor, swore, did swear.
Swinge, beat, to whip.
Swinke, to labour hard.
Swirlie, knaggy, full of knots.
Swirl, a curve, an eddying blast or pool, a knot in the wood.
Swith, get away.
Swither, to hesitate in choice, an irresolute wavering in choice.
Syebow, a thick-necked onion.
Syne, since, ago, then.
T.
Tackets, broad-headed nails for the heels of shoes.
Tae, a toe, three-taed, having three prongs.
Tak, to take; takin, taking.
Tangle, a sea-weed used as salad.
Tap, the top.
Tapetless, heedless, foolish.
Targe, targe them tightly, cross-question them severely.
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance.
Tarry-breeks, a sailor.
Tassie, a small measure for liquor.
Tauld, or tald, told.
Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person.
Tauted, or tautie, matted together (spoken of hair and wool).
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be handled (spoken of a cow, horse, &c.)
Teat, a small quantity.
Teethless bawtie, toothless cur.
Teethless gab, a mouth wanting the teeth, an expression of scorn.
Ten-hours-bite, a slight feed to the horse while in the yoke in the forenoon.
Tent, a field pulpit, heed, caution; to take heed.
Tentie, heedful, cautious.
Tentless, heedless, careless.
Teugh, tough.
Thack, thatch; thack an' rape, clothing and necessaries.
Thae, these.
Thairms, small guts, fiddle-strings.
Thankit, thanked.
Theekit, thatched.
Thegither, together.
Themsel', themselves.
Thick, intimate, familiar.
Thigger, crowding, make a noise; a seeker of alms.
Thir, these.
Thirl, to thrill.
Thirled, thrilled, vibrated.
Thole, to suffer, to endure.
Thowe, a thaw, to thaw.
Thowless, slack, lazy.
Thrang, throng, busy, a crowd.
Thrapple, throat, windpipe.
Thraw, to sprain, to twist, to contradict.
Thrawin', twisting, &c.
Thrawn, sprained, twisted, contradicted, contradiction.
Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion.
Threshin', threshing; threshin'-tree, a flail.
Threteen, thirteen.
Thristle, thistle.
Through, to go on with, to make out.
Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly (through-ither).
Thrum, sound of a spinning-wheel in motion, the thread remaining at the end of a web.
Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise.
Thummart, foumart, polecat
Thumpit, thumped.
Thysel', thyself.
Till't, to it.
Timmer, timber.
Tine, to lose; tint, lost.
Tinkler, a tinker.
Tip, a ram.
Tippence, twopence, money.
Tirl, to make a slight noise, to uncover.
Tirlin', tirlet, uncovering.
Tither, the other.
Tittle, to whisper, to prate idly.
Tittlin, whispering.
Tocher, marriage portion; tocher bands, marriage bonds.
Tod, a fox. "Tod i' the fauld," fox in the fold.
Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child; todlen-dow, toddling dove.
Too-fa', "Too fa' o' the nicht," when twilight darkens into night; a building added, a lean-to.
Toom, empty.
Toomed, emptied.
Toop, a ram.
Toss, a toast.
Tosie, warm and ruddy with warmth, good-looking, intoxicating.
Toun, a hamlet, a farmhouse.
Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet, to blow a horn or trumpet.
Touzles, touzling, romping, ruffling the clothes.
Tow, a rope.
Towmond, a twelvemonth.
Towzie, rough, shaggy.
Toy, a very old fashion of female head-dress.
Toyte, to totter like old age.
Trams, barrow-trams, the handles of a barrow.
Transmugrified, transmigrated, metamorphosed.
Trashtrie, trash, rubbish.
Trickie, full of tricks.
Trig, spruce, neat.
Trimly, cleverly, excellently, in a seemly manner.
Trinle, trintle, the wheel of a barrow, to roll.
Trinklin, trickling.
Troggers, troggin', wandering merchants, goods to truck or dispose of.
Trow, to believe, to trust to.
Trowth, truth, a petty oath.
Trysts, appointments, love meetings, cattle shows.
Tumbler-wheels, wheels of a kind of low cart.
Tug, raw hide, of which in old time plough-traces were frequently made.
Tug or tow, either in leather or rope.
Tulzie, a quarrel, to quarrel, to fight.
Twa, two; twa-fald, twofold.
Twa-three, a few.
Twad, it would.
Twal, twelve; twalpennie worth, a small quantity, a pennyworth. --N.B. One penny English is 12d. Scotch.
Twa faul, twofold.
Twin, to part.
Twistle, twisting, the art of making a rope.
Tyke, a dog.
Tysday, Tuesday.
U.
Unback'd filly, a young mare hitherto unsaddled.
Unco, strange, uncouth, very, very great, prodigious.
Uncos, news.
Unfauld, unfold.
Unkenn'd, unknown.
Unsicker, uncertain, wavering, insecure.
Unskaithed, undamaged, unhurt.
Upo', upon.
V.
Vap'rin, vapouring.
Vauntie, joyous, delight which cannot contain itself.
Vera, very.
Virl, a ring round a column, &c.
Vogie, vain.
W.
Wa', wall; wa's, walls.
Wabster, a weaver.
Wad, would, to bet, a bet, a pledge.
Wadna, would not.
Wadset, land on which money is lent, a mortgage.
Wae, woe; waefu', sorrowful, wailing.
Waefu'-woodie, hangman's rope.
Waesucks! Wae's me!, Alas! O the pity!
Wa' flower, wall-flower.
Waft, woof; the cross thread that goes from the shuttle through the web.
Waifs an' crocks, stray sheep and old ewes past breeding.
Wair, to lay out, to expend.
Wale, choice, to choose.
Wal'd, chose, chosen.
Walie, ample, large, jolly, also an exclamation of distress.
Wame, the belly.
Wamefu', a bellyful.
Wanchansie, unlucky.
Wanrest, wanrestfu', restless, unrestful.
Wark, work.
Wark-lume, a tool to work with.
Warld's-worm, a miser.
Warle, or warld, world.
Warlock, a wizard; warlock-knowe, a knoll where warlocks once held tryste.
Warly, worldly, eager in amassing wealth.
Warran', a warrant, to warrant.
Warsle, wrestle.
Warsl'd, or warst'led, wrestled.
Wastrie, prodigality.
Wat, wet; I wat--I wot--I know.
Wat, a man's upper dress; a sort of mantle.
Water-brose, brose made of meal and water simply, without the addition of milk, butter, &c.
Wattle, a twig, a wand.
Wauble, to swing, to reel.
Waukin, waking, watching.
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth.
Waukrife, not apt to sleep.
Waur, worse, to worst.
Waur't, worsted.
Wean, a child.
Weary-widdle, toilsome contest of life.
Weason, weasand, windpipe.
Weaven' the stocking, to knit stockings.
Weeder-clips, instrument for removing weeds.
Wee, little; wee things, little ones, wee bits, a small matter.
Weel, well; weelfare, welfare.
Weet, rain, wetness; to wet.
We'se, we shall.
Wha, who.
Whaizle, to wheeze.
Whalpit, whelped.
Whang, a leathorn thing, a piece of cheese, bread, &c.
Whare, where; whare'er, wherever.
Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk, penny-wheep, small-beer.
Whase, wha's, whose--who is.
What reck, nevertheless.
Whid, the motion of a hare running but not frightened.--a lie.
Whidden, running as a hare or coney.
Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, crotchets.
Whilk, which.
Whingin', crying, complaining, fretting.
Whirligigums, useless ornaments, trifling appendages.
Whissle, a whistle, to whistle.
Whisht, silence; to hold one's whisht, to be silent.
Whisk, whisket, to sweep, to lash.
Whiskin' beard, a beard like the whiskers of a cat.
Whiskit, lashed, the motion of a horse's tail removing flies.
Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor.
Whittle, a knife.
Whunstane, a whinstone.
Wi', with.
Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direction, a term in curling.
Widdifu, twisted like a withy, one who merits hanging.
Wiel, a small whirlpool.
Wifie-wifikie, a diminutive or endearing name for wife.
Wight, stout, enduring.
Willyart-glower, a bewildered dismayed stare.
Wimple-womplet, to meander, meandered, to enfold.
Wimplin, waving, meandering.
Win', to wind, to winnow.
Winnin'-thread, putting thread into hanks.
Win't, winded as a bottom of yarn.
Win', wind.
Win, live.
Winna, will not.
Winnock, a window.
Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay.
Wintle, a staggering motion, to stagger, to reel.
Wiss, to wish.
Withouten, without.
Wizened, hide-bound, dried, shrunk.
Winze, a curse or imprecation.
Wonner, a wonder, a contemptuous appellation.
Woo', wool.
Woo, to court, to make love to.
Widdie, a rope, more properly one of withs or willows.
Woer-bobs, the garter knitted below the knee with a couple of loops.
Wordy, worthy.
Worset, worsted.
Wrack, to tease, to vex.
Wud, wild, mad; wud-mad, distracted.
Wumble, a wimble.
Wraith, a spirit, a ghost, an apparition exactly like a living person, whose appearance is said to forbode the person's approaching death; also wrath.
Wrang, wrong, to wrong.
Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow.
Wyliecoat, a flannel vest.
Wyte, blame, to blame.
Y.
Ye, this pronoun is frequently used for thou.
Yearns, longs much.
Yealings, born in the same year, coevals.
Year, is used both for singular and plural, years.
Yell, barren, that gives no milk.
Yerk, to lash, to jerk.
Yerket, jerked, lashed.
Yestreen, yesternight.
Yett, a gate.
Yeuk's, itches.
Yill, ale.
Yird, yirded, earth, earthed, buried.
Yokin', yoking.
Yont, ayont, beyond.
Yirr, lively.
Yowe, an ewe.
Yowie, diminutive of yowe.
Yule, Christmas.
THE END.
The end
You’ve reached the end of The Complete Works of Robert Burns: Containing his Poems, Songs, and Correspondence. With a New Life of the Poet, and Notices, Critical and Biographical by Allan Cunningham.
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