He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa'; (Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme,) 'O, help! master, help! or she'll ruin us a': And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.' The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme,) He was not in wedlock, thank Heaven, but in hell: And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack, 'I hae been a devil the feck o' my life; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.' JOCKEY FOU AND JENNY FAIN. [This song-No. 381 in the Museum-is from the Tea Table Miscellany (1726). Burns, in glancing over it, seems to have been struck with the couplet which says "Gie me love in her I court; Love to love maks a' the sport: " reminding him of his own blythe verse in the Collier Laddie- Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me; so he immediately added the following lines:]— LET love sparkle in her e'e, THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. [Both words and music of this African lyric were communicated to the Museum by Burns. Mr. C. K. Sharpe has given what appears to be the older ballad, from a stall-copy; but no part of it can approach in sentiment to the present production. The following will serve as a sample: "Our lady goes to meat, and they give us nought to eat, In the land of Virginio; And we dare not move a lip when they lash us with a whip; And, alas! I be weary, weary, O! Our lady goes to walk, and we must be at her back, In the land of Virginio; And when the babe doth weep, we must lull it off to sleep; And, alas! I be weary, weary, O! We are yoked to the plough, and wearied sore enough, In the land of Virginio; With the yoke about my neck, my back is like to break; And, alas! I be weary, weary, O!] Ir was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more, All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, THE SONG OF DEATH. TUNE—Oran an Aoig. [This would appear to be the last effort of Burns' muse before leaving for ever the pleasant holms of Ellisland, in December, 1791. On the 17th of that month, he transcribed this patriotic lyric in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, in which he says:"I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and many heroes of his illustrious line-and herself the mother of several soldiers-needs neither preface nor apology. SONG OF DEATH. Scene-A Field of Battle-Time of the day, Evening-The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song." Having transcribed the piece, he adds:-"The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was-looking over, with a musical friend, M'Donald's collection of Highland airs, I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitledOran an Aoig; or, The Song of Death, to the measure of which I have adapted my Dr. Currie has pronounced this song to be worthy of the Grecian Muse, when Greece was most conspicious for wisdom and valour. In a foot-note, this great biographer adds-"The poet had an intention of printing it separately, set to music, but was advised against it. This noble song seems to the editor more calculated to invigorate the spirit of defence in a season of real pressing danger, than any production of modern times."] FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties-- Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe! Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! In the field of proud honor-our swords in our hands, AFTON WATER. [This truly ecstatic lyric, so sweetly pastoral, and so tender in its devotion towards the "theme of his lays," undoubtedly is one of the most noteworthy of all the productions of Burns. It has had the good fortune to become wedded to one of the most heavenly melodies that ever emanated from musical taste and genius: we refer, of course, to the air which was composed for it by the late Alexander Hume of Edinburgh. The words and melody together, really seem to realize the old classic fancy of the marriage-union between Cupid and Psyche. In this piece, perhaps more than any other of his compositions, we behold the youthful poet, with his "garland and singing robes about him," as he has portrayed himself in his own "Vision," listening to the words of COILA"Those accents, grateful to thy tongue-th' ADORED NAME I taught thee how to pour in Song, to soothe thy flame." And where does the adored name of MARY appear in a more glorious setting than in this lyric? Even the inspired "Singer of Israel" has contributed something to heighten the effect of the poet's rapturous song in her praise!"I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, that ye stir not, nor awake my love-my dove, my undefiled!-The flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of the birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land!" Mr. George Thomson, in 1850, forwarded to Mr. Robert Chambers a memorandum of several songs by Burns which, in the year 1819, had been sent by him to Mr. Gilbert Burns, with the request that he would kindly insert the names, with some account of their respective heroines, and return the paper to him; all which was cheerfully complied with by the poet's brother. Mr. Chambers obligingly communicated to the writer of this note, the result of the enquiries made regarding the present song, and a few others. The memorandum regarding Afton Water is as follows: "Mr. T.-Flow gently, sweet Afton, &c.-Who was the Mary of this Song?' "G. B.-"The poet's Highland Mary; but Dr. Currie gives a different account of it, at page 332, Vol. IV., 7th edition, where he says-"Afton Water is the stream on which stands Afton Lodge, to which Mrs. Stewart removed from Stair. Afton Lodge was Mrs. Stewart's property from her father: the song was presented to her in return for her notice-the first he ever received from any person in her rank of life." "G. B. thinks Dr. C. was misinformed in several of the above particulars; but Dr. Currie must not be contradicted!'" Mr. Chambers remarks in his MS. note to the present writer-"It is interesting to find Gilbert Burns alluding, as from personal knowledge, to the mysterious Mary Campbell: he, undoubtedly, could have thrown much light on that matter." That careful biographer and editor of Burns, in his subsequent edition (1851-52), refers to the foregoing remarks of Gilbert Burns regarding Afton Water, and dismisses the difficulty thus:-"It may be doubted if Mr. Gilbert Burns was rightly informed on the subject." In another passage, however, Mr. Chambers pays more regard to Gilbert's opinion; for he says "The averment of the brother and bosom-friend of Burns must be next, in a case of this kind, to his own." In order to test this little affair, we lately wrote to William Allason Cuninghame, Esq., of Afton and Logan House, the grandson of Mrs. Stewart of Stair and Afton, enclosing a copy of the foregoing memorandum of Gilbert Burns, and begging to be favoured with his reply to a few queries concerning the subject of it. That gentleman, by a letter dated 24th June, 1870, has politely furnished the following particulars:- "Afton Lodge is in the parish of Tarbolton, and was built by my grandmother, Mrs. General Stewart, on parting with Stair. Her paternal estate of Afton is in the parish of New Cumnock, and has no residence on it; so she built Afton Lodge near Tarbolton, and named it after the Afton estate. It does not appear that the song called "Afton Water" is among the poems sent to her by Burns. Before her marriage, her name was Katherine Gordon, heiress of Afton, which estate I now possess." Here, then, we have the most direct testimony tending to confirm the above statement of Gilbert Burns; and, after a lapse of seventy years, revealing the fact that the poet's first biographer, either knowingly or innocently, dished up to his readers misleading information concerning this most interesting and sacred of all his love attachments-by whom so cooked, it is now of little use to hint our suspicions. It may, indeed, have been the case, that the literary executors of the poet imagined that by so doing they but followed the example, and carried out the wishes of the deceased, in suppressing and distorting facts regarding the date of his passion for the living Mary; for even amid his confidential unbosomings to Clarinda (little more than a year after Mary's death), he seems to have "set a seal upon his heart," at a time when he must, in thought, if not in words, have been referring to her. Those of our readers who have perused the "Clarinda Correspondence" will recollect his strangely "blabbing" letter, written to her one night when in his cups. He had sent her a copy of his famous auto-biographical letter to Moore, and he thus writes: "I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in my packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and may guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say, 'Talk not of love,' for indeed he has 'plunged me deep in woe!' Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly says, 'in the companion, the friend, and the mistress.' One indeed I could except-One, before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I knew the first of women!* Her NAME is indelibly written in my heart's core-but I dare not look in on it-a degree of agony would be the consequence. Oh! thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who presidest over that frantic passion-thou may'st, thou dost poison my peace, but thou shalt not taint my honour! Don't guess at these ravings!" Clarinda tried hard to guess at these ravings, but failed; and Sylvander never satisfied her. There cannot now be a reasonable doubt that MARY was the subject of "Afton Water," and that it was composed while she was yet alive. Strange, indeed, that while a very little care on the part of the poet's numerous editors might have revealed this long ago, it should have been left to be discovered by one who, although heretofore unknown as an editorial expounder of Burns, was (twenty-one years ago) privileged to be hailed as the discoverer of much more important facts in the history of his mysterious attachment to Highland Mary.-See note to "Yon wild, mossy mountains," page 288.] FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, *The only other of his earlier loved ones to whom this passage could possibly apply, is Ellison Begbie-circa 1781-82, just before he went to Irvine (and she, like Mary, is never referred to in the poet's autobiography.) But why the "heart's core," and the "agony"? and why the "poisoning of his peace "? We have already seen, in the note to "Mary in Heaven," page 261, that remorse must have entered largely into his "brooding" recollections of her image; while the retrospect of his "old sweetheart" (E. B.) is rather cheerful than otherwise: Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear." |