respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the fine old Song of the The Mill Mill O, to give it a plain prosaic reading it halts prodigiously out of measure; on the other hand, the Song set to the same tune in Bremner's collection of Scotch songs which begins "To Fanny fair could I impart" &c. it is most exact measure, and yet, let them be both sung before a real Critic, one above the biasses of prejudice, but a thorough Judge of Nature,-how flat & spiritless will the last appear, how trite, and lamely methodical, compared with the wild-warbling cadence, the heart-moving melody of the first.-This particularly is the case with all those airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable.-There is a degree of wild irregularity in many of the compositions & Fragments which are daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people—a certain happy arrangement of old Scotch syllables, & yet, very frequently, nothing, not even like rhyme, or sameness of jingle at the ends of the lines. This has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps, it might be possible for a Scotch Poet, with a nice, judicious ear, to set compositions to many of our most favorite airs, particularly that class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme altogether. There is a noble Sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness in some of these ancient fragments, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand; and it has often given me many a heartake to reflect that such glorious old Bards-Bards, who, very probably, owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of Heroes, the pangs of Disappointment, and the meltings of Love with such fine strokes of Nature, and, O mortifying to a Bard's vanity their very names are "buried 'mongst the wreck of things which were.” O ye illustrious Names unknown! who could feel so strongly and describe so well! the last, the meanest of the MUSES TRAIN-one who, though far inferiour to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing would sometimes soar after you-a poor, rustic BARD UNKNOWN, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell us, with all the charms of Verse, that you have been unfortunate in the worldunfortunate in love; he too has felt all the unfitness of a poetic heart for the struggle of a busy, bad World; he has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and worse than all, the loss of the Woman he adored! Like you, all his consolation was his Muse-She taught him in rustic measures to complain--Happy, could he have done it with your strength of imagination, and flow of Verse! May the turf rest lightly on your bones! And may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings of Poesy and love! The following fragment is done, something in imitation of the manner of a noble old Scottish Piece called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the tune of Galla Water.-My Montgomerie's Peggy was my Deity for six, or eight months. She had been bred, tho' as the world says, without any just pretence for it, in a style of life rather elegant.-But as Vanbrugh says in one of his comedies, my 'dam'd Star Found me out' there too, for though I began the affair, merely in a gaieté de cœur, or to tell the truth, what would scarcely be believed, a vanity of showing my parts in Courtship, particularly my abilities at a Billet doux, which I always piqu'd myself upon, made me lay siege to her; and when, as I always do in my foolish gallantries, I had battered myself into a very warm affection for her, she told me, one day in a flag of truce, that her fortress had been for some time before the rightful property of another; but with the greatest friendship and politeness, she offered me every alliance, except actual possession.--I found out afterwards, that what she told me of a preengagement was really true; but it cost me some heart Achs to get rid of the affair. I have even tried to imitate in this extempore thing, that irregularity in the rhyme which when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on the ear. FRAGMENT. TUNE-Galla Water. Altho' my bed were in yon muir, &c.* September. Another Fragment in imitation of an old Scotch Song, well known among the Country ingle sides--I cannot tell the name, neither of the Song nor the Tune, but they are in fine Unison with one another.-By the way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental that when one would compose to them; to south the tune, as our Scotch phrase is, over & over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration and raise the Bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our old Scotch Poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark the Song & tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times. Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before this verse: 'When clouds in skies do come together To hide the brightness of the sun, Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; *See p. 64, the song 'Montgomerie's Peggy.' I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. The above was an extempore under the pressure of a heavy train of Misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether.-It was just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned Page 8th ;* and though the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has always been since, a "tempest brewing round me in the grim sky" of futurity, which I pretty plainly see will, some time or other, perhaps ere long overwhelin me, and drive me into some doleful dell to pine in solitary, squallid wretchedness. However as I hope my poor, country Muse, who, all rustic, akward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside-as I hope she will not then desert me, I may, even then, learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to sooth my misery. 'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch style. I am not Musical Scholar enough to prick down my tune properly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no great matter, but the following were the verses I composed to suit it. O raging Fortune's withering blast My stem was fair, my bud was green, But luckless Fortune's northern storms But luckless Fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low! The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went through the whole Air. October 1785. If ever any young man, on the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations; as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dear bought Experience.-I have, literaly like that great Poet and great * Reference is here made to that part of the Common-place Book bearing date March 1784 See p. 104. Gallant, and by consequence, that great Fool, Solomon,-"turned my eyes to behold Madness and Folly "-Nay I have, with all the ardor of a lively, fanciful and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, Poetic heart-shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. In the first place, let my Pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity, . . . Here the Common-place Book abruptly terminates. To quote Gilbert's letter: Among the earliest of his poems was the " Epistle to Davie." Robert often composed without any regular plan. When anything made a strong impression on his mind, so as to rouse it to any poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and concluding stanzas; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed.' There is in existence a copy, in the poet's handwriting, which bears date January 1785, and has the following title- An Epistle to Davy, a Brother-Poet, Lover, Ploughman, and Fiddler.' EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. While winds frae off Ben-Lomond blaw,* An' bar the doors wi' drivin' snaw, An' hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, Au' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, In hamely, westlin jingle: While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug,† I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift, That live sae bien an' snug: * That is, from the north. † An expressive Scotticism meaning 'in to the very fireside.' make us sit close to the fireside little comfortably The old-remembered beggar, even in my own time, like the baccoch, or travelling cripple of Ireland, was expected to merit his quarters by something beyond an exposition of his distresses. He was often a talkative, facetious fellow, prompt at repartee, and not withheld from exercising his power that way by any respect of persons, his patched cloak giving him the privilege of the ancient jester. To be a guid crack—that is, to possess talents for conversation-was essential to the trade of a "puir body" of the more esteemed class; and Burns, who delighted in the amusement their discourses afforded, seems to have looked forward with gloomy firmness to the possibility of himself becoming, one day or other, a member of their itinerant society. In his poetical works, it is alluded to so often as perhaps to indicate that he considered the consummation as not utterly impossible. Thus, in the tine dedication of his works to Gavin Hamilton, he says: "And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg." Again, in his "Epistle to Davie, a brother poet," he states that, in their closing career, "The last o''t, the warst o't, Is only but to beg." And after having remarked, that "To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin, Is doubtless great distress," the bard reckons up, with true poetical spirit, that free enjoyment of the beauties of nature which might counterbalance the hardship and uncertainty of the life even of a mendicant. In one of his prose letters, to which I have lost the reference, he details this idea yet more seriously, and dwells upon it, as not ill adapted to his habits and powers. As the life of a Scottish mendicant of the eighteenth century seems to have been contemplated without much horror by Robert Burns, the author can hardly have erred in giving to Edie Ochiltree something of poetical character and personal dignity above the more abject of his miserable |