Clarke
informed
me of several years ago.
Robert Burns
"
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.
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.
