It is
sometimes
called "Ginglin Johnnie;" it being the air of an old
humorous tawdry song of that name.
humorous tawdry song of that name.
Robert Forst
" 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.
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.
