No. LXXVI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. Tune-" John Anderson, my jo." I. How cruel are the parents And, to the wealthy booby, II. The ravening hawk pursuing, Awhile her pinions tries; No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet! MARK YONDER POMP. Tune-" Deil tak the wars.” I. Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion What are the noisy pleasures? And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. II. But, did you see my dearest Chloris In simplicity's array; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day. O then, the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. me. You see how I answer Well! this is not amiss. your orders: your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure If you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment "holding high converse" with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. [Well might the Poet exclaim to Thomson, "See how I answer your orders: your tailor could not be more punctual." It is really surprising with what patience he continued from day to day measuring' out words to all manner of tunes: now lively, then mournful: tender one hour, sarcastic another: idolizing women in one verse, and preferring in the next the Hawick gill and the tappit hen. His resources seem to have been wonderful. The song to the tune of "John Anderson" is altered from an old English one: it preaches a sermon on matrimonial alliances, which all believe and no one obeys: parents still useundae in fluence with their children, and, while securing a fleeting splendour, are heedless of entailing a lasting wretchedness. The song to the air of “Deil tak_the_wars" is original, but has not the fine lyrical flow of other of his songs: Chloris did not always rightly inspire him.—ED.] No. LXXVII. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. May, 1795. TEN thousand thanks for your elegant present ; though I am ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means merited such an instance of kindness. I have shewn it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a firstrate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner's apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful compliments to Allan, who has honoured my rustic muse so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d-n'd wee rumble-gairie urchin of mine, whom, from that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu' mischief, which even at twa days auld I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicol; after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammarschool in a city which shall be nameless. Give the enclosed epigram to my much-valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that on Wednes day I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, in a manner introduced me—I mean a well-known military and literary character, Colonel Dirom. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned? [The picture alluded to was painted from the "Cotter's Saturday Night :" it displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist. The scene is a solemn one but the serenity of the moment is disturbed by what some esteem as a beauty, namely, the attempt to cut the top of the cat's tail, by the little merry urchin, seated on the floor. The unity of the sentiment is destroyed: it jars with the harmony of the rest of the picture as much as a snail does in crawling in the bosom of a new opened rose. This sense of propriety is required in such compositions: Burns was a great master in it: he introduced true love, domestic gladness, and love of country along with devotion in his noble poem of " The Cotter's Saturday Night," but he never dreamed of throwing in any of his ludicrous or humorous touches-all is as much in keeping as in the best conceived picture.-ED.] |