your heart and affections are justly due, it may savour of imprudence, but never of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections where you please. The God of love meant and made those delicious attachments to be bestowed on somebody; and even all the imprudence lies in bestowing them on an unworthy object. If this reasoning is conclusive, as it certainly is, I must be allowed to 'talk of Love.' It is, perhaps, rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter: it is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and restraint is the death of a friendly epistle; but there is one passage in your last charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded it, nor often came up to it. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some future poetic production, and get immortal fame by it. 'Tis when you bid the scenes of nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda? I would detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous blockhead! I have loved women of ordinary merit, whom I could have loved for ever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable individual of the beauteous sex that I ever met with; and never woman more entirely possessed my soul! I know myself, and how far I can depend on passion's swell. It has been my peculiar study. I thank you for going to Miers. Urge him, for necessity calls, to have it done by the middle of next week: Wednesday the latest day. I want it for a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set times, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on you. Then, and only then, your lovely image shall be produced to the day, with a reverence akin to devotion. To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good-night! I am perfectly stupid, as I supped late yesternight. SYLVANDER. While pining on his couch in St James's Square, groaning at fortune, and penning epistolary ravings to the goddess of the Potterrow, he was not neglectful of Johnson's collection of Scottish songs. The second volume of this work was proceeding rapidly to completion, chiefly indebted to him for materials, both music and poetry; while with him also originated a new feature of the work, in notes announcing such facts regarding the authorship and subjects of the old songs as could be obtained from tradition. Of the songs which he contributed to the volume, some were given with his name; a few others that were wholly, and some that were partially his, appeared anonymously. We find, in the second volume, besides the songs already here given, the following acknowledged contributions : WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD. Oh whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad, MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me, 213 MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. TUNE-M'Pherson's Rant. [James Macpherson was a noted Highland freebooter, of uncommon personal strength, and an excellent performer on the violin. After holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray, in fear for some years, he was seized by Duff of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, and tried before the sheriff of Banffshire (November 7, 1700), along with certain gipsies who had been taken in his company. In the prison, while he lay under sentence of death, he composed a song and an appropriate air, the former commencing thus: 'I've spent my time in rioting, Debauched my health and strength; I squandered fast as pillage came, But dantonly, and wantonly, I'll play a tune, and dance it roun' When brought to the place of execution, on the Gallows-hill of Banff (Nov. 16), he played the tune on his violin, and then asked if any friend was present who would accept the instrument as a gift at his hands. No one coming forward, he indignantly broke the violin on his knee, and threw away the fragments; after which he submitted to his fate. The traditionary accounts of Macpherson's immense prowess are justified by his sword, which is still preserved in Duff House at Banff, and is an implement of great length and weight-as well as by his bones, which were found a few years ago, and were allowed by all who saw them to be much stronger than the bones of ordinary men. The verses of Burns-justly called by Mr Lockhart a grand lyric'-were designed as an improvement on those of the freebooter, preserving the same air. In the edition of the poet's works, superintended by Messrs Hogg and Motherwell (Glasgow, 1834), the reader will find ampler information on the subject of Macpherson and his 'Rant.'] Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring, and danced it round, Below the gallows-tree. Oh, what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I've dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again! 1 Burns afterwards altered and extended this song. Untie these bands from off my hands, And there's no a man in all Scotland, I've lived a life of sturt and strife; It burns my heart I must depart, Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright, May coward shame distain his name, STAY, MY CHARMER. TUNE-An Gille dubh ciar dhubh. Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? Well you know how much you grieve me; By my love so ill requited, STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. [The individual here meant is William, fourth Viscount of Strathallan, who fell on the insurgent side at the battle of Culloden, April 1746. Burns, probably ignorant of his real fate, describes him as having survived the action, and taken refuge from the fury of the government forces in a Highland fastness.] Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! Still surround my lonely cave! 1 1 Variation in MS. in possession of Mr B. Nightingale, Priory Road, London :-- "Thickest night, surround my dwelling! Howling tempests, o'er me rave; Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave!' CONTRIBUTIONS TO JOHNSON'S MUSEUM, VOL. II. Crystal streamlets gently flowing, Busy haunts of base mankind, In the cause of right engaged, But the heavens denied success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. TUNE-Morag. Loud blaw the frosty breezes, Since my young Highland Rover1 The trees now naked groaning, My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 215 RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. TUNE-Macgregor of Ruara's Lament. ['I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death (1786) of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who shot himself out of sheer heartbreak at some mortifications he suffered owing to the deranged state of his finances.'-B.] Raving winds around her blowing, 1 The Highland Rover is evidently meant for Prince Charles Stuart By a river hoarsely roaring, 'Farewell hours that late did measure MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. ['I composed these verses out of compliment to a Mrs Maclachlan, whose husband is an officer in the East Indies.'-B.] Musing on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me; Hope and fear's alternate billow Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Gentle night, do thou befriend me; Spirits kind, again attend me, Talk of him that's far awa! BONNIE PEGGY ALISON. CHORUS. I'll kiss thee yet, yet, And I'll kiss thee o'er again, And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison ! |