I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to
determine
whether the above, or the
old "Thro' the lang muir I have followed my Willie," be the best.
old "Thro' the lang muir I have followed my Willie," be the best.
Robert Forst
B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 207: Song CLXXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCXLIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[For the "Wandering Willie" of this communication Thomson offered
several corrections. ]
_March, 1793. _
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes! blow gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide, roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the
old "Thro' the lang muir I have followed my Willie," be the best.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCL.
TO MISS BENSON.
[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a visit to
Arbigland, the beautiful seat of Captain Craik; she is now Mrs. Basil
Montagu. ]
_Dumfries, 21st March, 1793. _
MADAM,
Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows
before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with
anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of
many, many happy meetings with them in after-life.
Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when
you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the
probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued
character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is,
it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there
is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the
ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the
overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky
corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your
indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer
in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old
author of mischief, the devil. It is well-known that he has some kind
of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt he
is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: how
much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason,
my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of
meeting with you again.
Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity
of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be,
&c.
R.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 207: Song CLXXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
CCXLIX.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[For the "Wandering Willie" of this communication Thomson offered
several corrections. ]
_March, 1793. _
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e;
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!
Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken, ye breezes! blow gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide, roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the
old "Thro' the lang muir I have followed my Willie," be the best.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCL.
TO MISS BENSON.
[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a visit to
Arbigland, the beautiful seat of Captain Craik; she is now Mrs. Basil
Montagu. ]
_Dumfries, 21st March, 1793. _
MADAM,
Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows
before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with
anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of
many, many happy meetings with them in after-life.
Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when
you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the
probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued
character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is,
it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there
is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the
ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the
overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky
corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your
indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer
in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old
author of mischief, the devil. It is well-known that he has some kind
of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt he
is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: how
much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason,
my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of
meeting with you again.
Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity
of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be,
&c.
R.
