TO MR. THOMSON.
[Against the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet was ever ready to set the sharpest shafts of his wrath: the times in which he wrote were sadly out of sorts.]
June 25th, 1793.
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation, on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdoms, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of “Logan Water,” and it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with private distress, the consequence of a country’s ruin. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour’s meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit:—
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide.[224]
Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Wotherspoon’s collection of Scots songs?[225]
Air—“Hughie Graham.”
“Oh gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa’;
And I mysel’ a drap o’ dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa’!
“Oh there, beyond expression blest,
I’d feast on beauty a’ the night,
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley’d awa by Phœbus light!”
This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.
The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess: but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every poet who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke.
Oh were my love yon lilac fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu’ May its bloom renewed.[226]
R. B.