My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' Her face is fair, her heart is true, A country lad is my degree, young My riches a' 's my penny-fee, Our auld gudeman delights to view Come weel, come wae, I care na by, I'll take what Heaven will sen' me 0; Nae ither care in life have I But live an' love my Nannie O. Burns founded this song upon a pre-existing one of a similar title. The name of the river which it celebrated was the Stinchar. "In the printed copy of My Nannie O,'" he says, in a letter to Thomson, "the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it to Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.' Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeeble modulation of syllables." The heroine of this song, written when the poet was very young, was Agnes Fleming, daughter of a small farmer in the parish of Tarbolton, Ayrshire. Allan Ramsay wrote a song to the same exquisite melody, but it is in no respect equal to the song of Burns. The air is exceedingly beautiful, and is believed to be old. It cannot, however, be traced further back than the "Orpheus Caledonians," 1725. THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. BURNS. Air-"Seventh of November." THE day returns, my bosom burns, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. While day and night can bring delight, Comes in between to make us part; It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart. The air was the composition of Robert Riddell, Esq., of Glenriddell, in honour of whose marriage Burns wrote the song. The seventh of November was Mr. Riddell's wedding day. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, And I sae weary fou o' care! Ye'll break my heart, ye little birds, That wanton through the flowery thorn; Departed never to return. "There is an air," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson," called 'The Caledonian Hunt's delight,' to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. 'Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,' might, I think, find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his nights. 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 harpsicord, 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 that 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!" Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. BURNS. Air-"Rothiemurchus's rant."* LASSIE wi' the lint-white locks, Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea, And when the welcome summer shower When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray Through yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O. * "The air of Rothiemurchus's rant,'" says Burns, "puts me in raptures. Unless I be pleased with a tune, I can never put verses to it. This piece," he adds, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral; the vernal morning, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in the Museum." Mr. Thomson replied, "Your verses for the 'Rothiemurchus' are so sweetly pastoral that I have sung myself into raptures with them." And when the howling wintry blast THE WOODLARK. BURNS. Air-"Loch Erroch side." OH, stay, sweet-warbling woodlark, stay, Again, again that tender part, Say, was thy little mate unkind, Thou tells o' never-ending care, Or my poor heart is broken. "Let me know at your very first leisure," says Burns to Thomson, "how you like this song." Thomson replied, "I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I read your pathetic Woodlark.'" HIGHLAND MARY. BURNS. Air-" Katharine Ogie." YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair Your waters never drumlie. your flowers, H |