of Corrie's, a great while ago, you will find the same air called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is 'Oran Gaoil,' and a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic parson, about these matters.-Ever yours, ROBT. BURNS. ROBERT BURNS TO GEORGE THOMSON. [19th] August 1793. MY DEAR SIR-'Let me in this ae Night,' I shall overlook. I am glad that you are pleased with my song, 'Had I a Cave,' &c., as I liked it myself. ་ I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand, when, turning up Allan Water, What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c., it appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. I may be wrong, but I think it not in my worst style. You must know that in Ramsay's Tea-Table, where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says is 'Allan Water, or My Love Annie's very bonie.' This last has certainly been a line of the original song; so I took up the idea, and, as you see, have introduced the line in its place, which I presume it formerly occupied; though I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy : BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANC'D TO ROVE. TUNE-Allan Water. By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove While Phoebus sunk beyond Benledi; I listen'd to a lover's sang, An' thought on youthful pleasures many; And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 'O, dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie! 'O happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my dearie!' ghost-weird Her head upon my throbbing breast, The haunt o' spring's the primrose-brae, The simmer joy's the flocks to follow; Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? hill, bank Bravo! say I; it is a good song, should you think so too (not else), you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. I cannot touch Down the Burn, Davie.' 'The last time I came o'er the muir' I shall have in my eye. Autumn is my propitious season, I make more verses in it than in all the year else. God bless you! * R. B. GEORGE THOMSON TO ROBERT BURNS.t EDINBURGH, 20th August 1793. BRAVISSIMO! I say. It is an excellent song. There is not a single line that could be altered. Of the two lines-'O my love Annie's very bonie!' and 'O dearly do I love thee, Annie!' I prefer the latter de *While he lived in Dumfries, he had three favourite walks on the Dock-Green by the river-side; among the ruins of Lincluden College; and towards the Martingdon-ford, on the north side of the Nith. This latter place was secluded, commanded a view of the distant hills and the romantic towers of Lincluden, and afforded soft greensward banks to rest upon, and the sight and sound of the stream. Here he composed many of his finest songs. As soon as he was heard to hum to himself, his wife saw that he had something in his mind, and was prepared to see him snatch up his hat, and set silently off for his musingground. When by himself, and in the open air, his ideas arranged themselves in their natural order-words came at will, and he seldom returned without having finished a song. In case of interruption, he set about completing the work at the fireside; he balanced himself on the hind-legs of his arm-chair, and rocking to and fro, continued to hum the tune, and seldom failed of success. When the verses were finished, he passed them through the ordeal of Mrs Burns's voice; listened attentively when she sang; and asked her if any of the words were difficult; and when one happened to be too rough, he readily found a smoother; but he never, save at the resolute entreaty of a scientific musician, sacrificed sense to sound. The autumn was his favourite season, and the twilight his favourite hour of study.-A. CUNNINGHAM. + Printed, from the MS., by Scott Douglas, who noted that it is the solitary specimen of Thomson's letters to our poet that is known to exist.' cidedly. Till I received this song, I had half resolved not to include 'Allan Water' in the collection, and for this reason, that it bears such a near resemblance to a much finer air-at least, a greater favourite of mine- Galashiels' or 'Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate;' the beginning is almost quite the same. I have made up a correct list of my 100 airs, of which I shall send you a copy in the course of a few weeks. It is my fixed intention not to exceed that number; by going farther, I should only be induced to take a number of trifling airs, and so swell both the size and price of the book beyond bounds. And I find my list contains every fine air that is known of the serious and pastoral kind, besides two or three never before published—all diamonds of the first water. I stand pledged to furnish English verses along with every Scottish song, and I must fulfil what I have promised; but I certainly have got into a scrape if you do not stand my friend. A couple of stanzas to each air will do as well as half a dozen; and to an imagination so infinitely fruitful as yours this will not be a Herculean labour. The airs too are all so perfectly familiar to you, and the original verses so much your favourites, that no poet living is qualified to add congenial stanzas, even in English, so much as you are. I am very glad that you are to revise 'Let me in this ae night.' I put a much greater value upon this beautiful air than either Allan Water' or 'Logan Water.' So it is also with Cauld Kail in Aberdeen ;' I have always considered it among the most pleasing of our melodies. When you first sent me 'O Poortith cauld,' I took the liberty to observe that I thought it too querulous and despondent for the air. I would very fain have something in your best manner for it. There is not an air existing better calculated for telling a pretty tale of love; and therefore I hope that in this propitious season you will think of it some evening under the Thorn tree that witnessed the birth of your ‘Allan Water.' Remember also, when the Muse and you are 'in fit retreats for wooing,' that fine ballad-tune, 'Laddie, lie near me.' I am sorry you cannot think of furnishing a sweet concluding stanza or two for 'Down the burn, Davie;' you will surely allow that, however pleasing the description beginning Till baith at length impatient grown,' it is altogether improper for publication; more particularly in a collection that assumes to itself the merit of purification. I have sent by the Dumfries carrier (carriage paid) a parcel addressed to you containing a set of the Sonatas and Songs for Mr Riddel of Woodley Park; the same for a Mr Boyd who wrote some weeks ago to Mr Hill about them; a set of the songs to Mr Gordon, and a set of both for your friend Mr Clarke. Will you give these to a porter (I mean the two first-named), and send the others at your convenience.-Yours cordially, G. THOMSON. P.S.-I think as you do, that 'Oran gaoil' is a beautiful tune. I have put it in my list, and propose attaching it to Dr Blacklock's verses, 'Since robb'd of all my soul holds dear.' |