Letter to James King: 17 July 1808
Mr
James King Corpl Major McDowal’s Comy Renfrew shire Militia Pevensey Barracks England Paisley
17th July 1808 Dear Sir I
have delayed writing to you still, expecting the Laird’s Elegy from Leslie, he has
fairly worn out my patience, kept me in suspense by repeated promises — and
seems to pay no attention to any of them — I saw him last Tuesday and he said
that I might depend on a proof sheet being sent out on Thursday – – it
has not come. His brother-in-law is the Printer, and I am very certain the
types have been set for it these some weeks, but I suspect Leslie to be now so
miserably poor that he cannot furnish the Paper for it — he failed in Trade
some time ago, and subsists now by hawking the country selling Books for any
body who trusts him with them. I think we need not doubt its being done but we
must give him his own time to it. I saw Borland in Glasgow last Sunday he is
very well, and had just returned, with the Regt of volunteers
of which he is a serjeant, from Ayr, where they had been fourteen days on duty
— Jamie Scadlock is married lately to a Mary Ewing at Bar-head – he called on
me ten days ago – I understood the young good-wife was in the straw.
Your mother and Jenny are well, I suppose you would receive a letter from them
a few days since — You must not neglect writing to them frequently – nay often
— a few lines from you yields your Mother happiness for a fourthnight – but she
fears all is not well with you when you delay your writing to her any longer.
Trade is yet but very low with us, and I cannot say it is yet any better on
account of Spain being partly open to us, indeed, manufacturers would be mad to
risk their goods there when returns would be so precarious — Sweden seems to
have taken the drunt, and that will likely flatten us farther. as things
are – it is very hard with many a poor family, but with me, the world is
passing on pretty smoothly — I can just about earn as much as keep day and way clea[re]— however even to attain that takes hard enough work
— but let us drop these every-day cracks and have a ten minutes habble on our
poetical hobby ——— [#] The Wandering Bard. written
to a favorite Welch air – ________________________ Chill
the wintry winds were blowing Foul
the murky night was snowing Through
the storm the Minstrel bowing Sought the Inn on yonder moor All
within was warm and cheery All
without was cold and dreary There
the Wandrer worn and weary Thought to pass the night
secure. Softly
rose his mournful Ditty Suiting
to his tale of pitty But
the master scoffing, witty, Check’d his strain with scornful jeer “Hoary
vagrant — frequent comer “Can’st
thou save thy gains of summer “No,
thou old intruding thrummer Thou can’st have no lodging here.” Slow
the Bard departed sighing, Wounded
worth forbade replying, One
last feeble effort trying Faint he sunk no more to rise Through
his harp the breeze sharp ringing Wild,
his dying Dirge was singing While
his soul, from insult springing Sought its mansion in the
skies. Now
tho’ the wintry winds be blowing, Night
be foul with raining, snowing, Still
the traveller, that way going, Shuns the Inn upon the moor Tho’
within ’tis warm and cheery While
without ’tis cold and dreary Still
he minds the Minstrel weary Spurn’d from that unfriendly door. ______________________ [#] See letter to
George Thompson dated 6 August 1808 for alterations on this Song. Kitty Tyrrel. Air
– – Kitty Tyrell – – Irish _________________ The
breeze of the night fans the dark mountain’s breast And
the light-bounding deer have all sunk to their rest The
big sullen w[aves] lash the loch’s rocky shore And
the lone drowsy fisherman nods o’er his oar Tho’
pathless the wild, and tho’ gloomy the skies The
star of my heart is my Kitty’s bright eyes And
joyful I hie o’er the wide dreary fell In
secret to meet my sweet Kitty Tyrell. Ah!
long have we lov’d in her father’s despite And
oft have we met at the dead hour of night When
nature all round us was gloomily still Save
the fox-frighten’d moorfowl that scream’d on the hill These
hours of sweet transport, to me, ah, how dear! For
they prove to my heart that her love is sincere And
tho’ the rude storm rise with merciless swell, This
night I shall meet my sweet Kitty Tyrell. “Ah!
turn, hapless youth — see the dark cloud of death Comes
rolling in gloom o’er the wild haunted heath Deep
groans the scath’d oak on the glen’s cliffy brow And
the sound of the torrent seems heavy with woe – O,
fearless he goes — See he fords the deep bourne He
goes, but, alas! he shall never return The
ruthless assassin unseen marks him well And
he falls for his love to sweet Kitty Tyrell.” I
shall write you again as soon as Leslie gets our business done — mean time I
wish you to send me a copy of any thing you may have been doing lately — give
me your severest remarks on the above songs — every coof may say a thing
is capital, beautiful &c but I’d rather have the candid
criticism of a man of taste than the incense of ten thousand fools — write
likewise to your mother -- I
remain yours truly R.
Tannahill. Emendations: See letter to
George Thompson dated 6 August 1808 for alterations on this Song • [Written in pencil in a different hand] waves • w[àààà] Copy Text: MS Robertson 1/19 Previous
Publication: Notes: |