BT. 29.] LETTER TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., DALSWINTON. 185 In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde But there's a youth, a witless youth, Alas the day, and wo the day, A false usurper wan the gree, superiority Who now commands the towers and lands- We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, On bended knees most fervently, The time may come, with pipe and drum, On the 28th of September, Burns was still in Edinburgh. At his meeting with Mr Miller of Dalswinton in June, he had promised to return in August, in order to look more carefully over his farms. He had been unable to fulfil this engagement, and he could not even now contemplate an immediate visit to Dumfriesshire. We have a letter written by him to Mr Miller on the above day, explanatory of his intended movements, and containing some characteristic sentiments: TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., DALS WINTON. EDINBURGH, 28th September 1787. SIR-I have been on a tour through the Highlands, and arrived in town but the other day, so could not wait on you at Dalswinton about the latter end of August, as I had promised and intended. Independent of any views of future connections, what I owe 1 Bute. 2 Rothesay, the county town of Bute, gave a title to the eldest sons of the kings of Scotland (Duke of Rothesay). * An allusion to the Prince of Wales. Prince Charles, at his death in 1788, left the Duchess of Albany his sole heir, but she did not long survive him. The above song is printed from a portion of a manuscript book in It Burns's handwriting, which is now in the possession of Mr B. Nightingale, London. occurs after the verses on the Stirling window, under the title of A Song by the Same Hand. I am indebted for a copy of this letter to Mr W. C. Aitken, Broad Street, Birmingham. you for the past, as a friend and benefactor, when friends I had few, and benefactors I had none, strongly in my bosom prohibits the most distant instance of ungrateful disrespect. I am informed you do not come to town for a month still, and within that time I shall certainly wait on you, as by this time I suppose you will have settled your scheme with respect to your farms. My journey through the Highlands was perfectly inspiring, and I hope I have laid in a good stock of new poetical ideas from it. I shall make no apology for sending you the enclosed: it is a small but grateful tribute to the memory of our common countryman.' I have the honour to be, with the most grateful sincerity, sir, your obliged humble servant, ROBT. BURNS. 2 P.S.-I have added another poem, partly as it alludes to some folks nearly and dearly connected with Ayrshire, and partly as rhymes are the only coin in which the poor poet can pay his debts of gratitude. The lady alluded to is Miss Isabella M'Leod, aunt to the young Countess of Loudon. As I am determined not to leave Edinburgh till I wind up my matters with Mr Creech, which I am afraid will be a tedious business, should I unfortunately miss you at Dalswinton, perhaps your factor will be able to inform me of your intentions with respect to the Elesland farm [so in MS.], which will save me a jaunt to Edinburgh again. There is something so suspicious in the professions of attachment from a little man to a great man, that I know not how to do justice to the grateful warmth of my heart, when I would say how truly I am interested in the welfare of your little troop of angels, and how much I have the honour to be again, sir, your obliged humble servant, ROBT. BURNS. When worthy Mr Skinner learned from his son the bishop, or, as he called him, his chill (that is, chiel or child), that Burns had passed near his residence and missed seeing him, though anxious to do so, he felt a regret corresponding to that of the Ayrshire Bard, for, though now near seventy, his poetical and social affections were as vivid as ever. He resolved, as the next best, to attempt an interchange of correspondence with Burns, in the style of certain versified epistles which Allan Ramsay and Hamilton of Gilbertfield had launched at each other. His own first address to our bard, dated the 25th of September, opens with an expression of his joy 1 Evidently, from the expression our common countryman,' referring to the Elegy on Sir James Hunter Blair-Mr Miller being, like Sir James and the poet, a native of Ayrshire. 2 The Verses on the Death of Mr John M'Leod. that his son had met Burns, joined with a lament for his own. absence on the interesting occasion: 'Oh happy hour for evermair, That led my chill up Chalmers' stair,1 Of Ayrshire's dainty poet there Waes my auld heart, I was na wi' you, When ye was north, I'm bauld to send my service to you, Hence o'er the Forth.' sight After some verses expressing admiration of Burns and his several poems, the kind old man urges further labours in the field of and concludes by proposing a correspondence : thanks to Praise, you're in your prime, And may chant on this lang, lang time; To haud your tongue, Wi' sic a knack ye hae at rhyme, Ye ken it's no for ane like me Though 't be but sma', An hour or twa, by hook or crook, (For that's my hobby), odd week holy book converse poesy, have-health shelter done Rhymer Robin greatly enjoyed any such recognition from an elder brother in the Muses, for these men had been the gods of his 1 The stair of Mr Chalmers's printing-office in Aberdeen, where Burns was when Bishop Skinner encountered him. idolatry during his youthful and obscure days, when he did not hope to be ever heard of beyond the bounds of his own parish. He did not, however, answer immediately; and when he did, it was not in rhyming ware:' TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. [EDINBURGH, October 25, 1787.] REVEREND AND VENERABLE SIR-Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you, sir, as a poet, you have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw-Tullochgorum's my Delight! The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making, if they please; but, as Job says, 'Oh that mine adversary had written a book!'-let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks them, not only from English songs, but also from the modern efforts of song-wrights, in our native manner and language. The only remains of this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rest with you. Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise owre cannie a wild warlock '-but now he sings among the 'sons of the morning.' I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour to form a kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us; but reverence thyself.' The world is not our peers, so we challenge the jury. We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source of amusement and happiness independent of that world. There is a work going on in Edinburgh just now which claims your best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. Songs in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the music must all be Scotch. Drs Beattie and Blacklock are lending a hand, and the first musician in town presides over that department. I have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and every information remaining respecting their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is but a very fragment business; but at the end of his second number-the first is already published-a small account will be given of the authors, particularly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, Tullochgorum, John of Badenyon, and Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn, go in this second number. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write you, begging that you would let me know where the editions of these pieces may be found, as you would wish them to continue in future times; and if you would be so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others, that you would think proper to publish, your name will be inserted among the other authors Nill ye, will ye.' One-half of Scotland already give your songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you; the sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. I am, with the warmest sincerity, sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. To this letter Mr Skinner sent the following reply: LINSHART, 14th November 1787. SIR-Your kind return without date, but of post-mark October 25th, came to my hand only this day; and to testify my punctuality to my poetic engagement, I sit down immediately to answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of my poor but just encomiums on your surprising genius, and your opinion of my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by far too high. The difference between our two tracks of education and ways of life is entirely in your favour, and gives you the preference every manner of way. I know a classical education will not create a versifying taste, but it mightily improves and assists it; and though, where both these meet, there may sometimes be ground for approbation, yet where taste appears single, as it were, and neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, I will always sustain the justice of its prior claim to applause. A small portion of taste, this way, I have had almost from childhood, especially in the old Scottish dialect: and it is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness for Christ-kirk o' the Green, which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which some years ago I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things; but on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which have made a public appearance beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions, at the same time that I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to see respected. As to the assistance you propose from me in the undertaking you are engaged in,' I am sorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish and you perhaps expect. My daughters, who were my only intelligencers, are all foris-familiate, and the old woman their mother has lost that taste. There are two from my own pen, which I might give you, if worth the while. One to the old Scotch tune of Dumbarton's Drums. The other, perhaps, you have met with, as your 1 Johnson's Museum. |