Letter to James Clark: 31 August 1805
Mr James
Clark Musician Argyle-Shire Malitia
Band in the Castle Edinburgh Single Sheet } Paisley
august 31st 1805 Dear friend, Every thing was so
novel to me while in Edinbrugh ˄burgh˄ [superscript above brugh], that I never spent three days with
greater happiness in my life, but meeting you and Buchanan would have made me
happy any where. I regreted at parting that we had not another day or two with
you --- Paterson and I parted with our brother-tourists at Kinghorn, proceeded
up the Forth thro Burntisland, Aberdour, Inverkiething &c
to Queensfer^ry, where we again crossed and took up our lodgings for the night.
Next morning we ’rose by four o’clock, proceeded thro Borastoness and Falkirk
to Grangemouth, thinking to get down in the ding-boat to Glasgow, but were
disappointed, as none went on that day. We then went on to Cumernauld-house
thinking to get the Mail-coach or a return-chaise, but again our hopes beguil’d
us. But what signifies this dry detail to you, or any body. We reach Glasgow
about 7 o’clock, G-d knows, tired enough. There we learn’d, from an
acquaintance of Mr Struthers, that poor Archie Pollock died
in Carlisle, (not in Glasgow as you were inform’d) about two weeks before, and
that Mrs Pollock was come to Glasgow, he likewise knew that
our worthy friend Livingston was in Ireland but did not know in what part of
it, I intend, the first time I go in to enquire out old Shaw, on purpose to
know if he has got any word of them of late. We saw some playbills posted up in
Falkirk as we passed thro’, a Mr Davies seem’d to be at the
head of the Party. I dont recollect any others of the names save Bond and a Mr
Ward — I deliver’d your message to Willm Stewart, he seem’d
particularly happy to hear from you, and said, he and your friend R. Smith
would positively go to Kilbarchan on ˄next˄ Saturday afternoon -- I am much oblig’d to
you for fitting me with an Air Suitable to the Stanza which I formerly sent
you, and tho’ it answers the words, as well as ever tune did any, yet I am
doubtful that the Verses will not do to Sing at all, owing to the repetition of
the same two lines at the hinder-end of every Stanza, which two lines being repeated
twice (to the Music) will be intolerably insipid, however, I will give you the
whole of it So that you may Judge ——-- Dirge Let grief forever cloud the day That Saw our Bard borne to the
clay Let Joy be banish’d every eye And Nature weeping seem to cry “he’s
gone, he’s gone! he’s frae us torn! “The ae best fellow e’er was
born.” Let Sol resign his wonted powers Let chilling North winds blast
the flow’rs That each may droop
its with’ring head And seem to mourn our Poet dead “he’s gone,
he’s gone! &c Let Shepherds from the mountains
Steep Look down on widdow’d Nith and
weep Let rustic Swains their labours
leave And Sighing murmur o’er his grave “he’s
gone, he’s gone! &c Let every bird that haunts the
grove That day forget its notes of love Unto the rugged rocks complain And plaintive chirp the doleful
strain “he’s
gone, he’s gone! &c___ Let bonny Doon and winding Ayr Their bushy banks in anguish tear While many a tributary Stream Pours down its griefs to Swell the theme “he’s
gone, he’s gone! &c___ All dismal let the Night descend Let whirling Storms the forrests rend Let furious tempests sweep the
Sky And dreary-howling caverns cry “he’s
gone, he’s gone! he’s frae us torn! “The ae best fellow e’er was
born.” With respect to the
Irish air with which you favour’d me, upon the whole I am highly delighted with
it, but dont you think the 1st and 3d lines
of it bear some resemblance to the 1st line of the
“Scottish Kail Brose.” Mr Hamilton’s ˄Stanza˄ is
admirably suited to it, in my oppinion his lines posses, in an eminent degree,
that beautiful, Natural Simplicity which characterizes our best Scottish Songs,
I have attempted to add a verse to it, but fear you will think it a frigid
production, the original one is so compleat in itself, that he who tries
another to it, labours under the disadvantage of not knowing what to say
further on the Subject, however I will give you all I could make of it. Song Now winter is gane
and the clouds flee away Yon bonny blue Skies how
delighfu’ to see Now linties and
blackbirds sing on ilka Spray That flourish a’ ’round
Woodhouselee The hawthorn is
blooming The Saft breeze
perfuming O come my dear lassie
the season is gay An’ Naething mair lovely can be The primrose an’ lily We’ll pu’ in the
Valley And lean when we like
on Some gowany brae That flourish a’ ’round
Woodhouselee. particularly beautiful { [left margin; brackets line 5 to end] [#] Ye mind when the Snaw
lay Sae deep on the hill When cauld icy cranreugh h[u]ng
white on the tree When busses war’
leafless, an’ mournfully Still, War’ the wee birds o’
Sweet Woodhouselee When Snaw-Showers
war’ fa’ing An Wintry Win’s blawing Loud whistling o’er
mountain an meadow Sae chill, We markt it wi’ Sorrowing e’e; But now since the flowers Again busk
the bowers O come my dear lassie
wi’ smiling guidwill, An’ wander a’ ’round
Woodhouselee. Our friend R. Smith
has set me an appropriate, wild, plaintive air to the following, let me know
how the words please you. The
Maniac’s Song Hark! ’tis the poor maniac’s song She Sits on yon wild craggy steep And while the winds
mournfully whistle along She wistfully looks
o’er the deep And ay She Sings
lullaby, lullaby, lullaby, To
hush the rude billows asleep. She looks to yon rock
far at Sea And thinks it her
lover’s white Sail The warm tear of Joy
glads her wild glistning eye As She
beckons his vessel to hail And ay she Sings, lullaby, lullaby, lullaby, And
frets at the boisterous gale. Poor Susan was gentle
and fair Till the Seas rob’d
her heart of its Joy Then her Reason was
lost in the gloom of dispair And her charms soon
did wither and die And now her Sad lullaby, lullaby, lullaby, Oft wakes the lone
passenger’s Sigh. You may thank your
Stars that my paper is done, it is I am yours most
truely Robt. Tannahill. [#] [on same sheet as address] P.S. R. Smith has Sung the airs to me, he thinks a good deal of them, they are
new to him. Emendations: hinder-end • hinder-|-end hung • h[à]ng
[ink damage] pleasent • ple[aàe]nt
[torn] Copy Text: MS Robertson 1/4 Previous Publication: Notes: |