Letter from Robert Burns to Alexander Cunningham, 11 March 1791 with 'Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon'

Ellisland 11th March 1791 ----

My dear Cunningham,
I received your first letter two days
ago: the last came to hand this moment. -- I was highly delighted
with the well-carried on Allegory in your friend's letter.--
I read it to two or three acquaintances who had souls to enjoy
a good thing, & we had a very hearty laugh at it. -- I have
fell along the line of my Muse's inclination, & I fear your
Archery-subject would be uphill work with her. -- I have
two of three times in my life composed from the wish,
rather than from the impulse, but I never succeeded to any
purpose. -- One of these times I shall ever remember with
nashing of teeth. -- 'Twas on the death of the late Lord
President Dundas. -- My very worthy & most respected
Friend, Mr Alex. R Wood, Surgeon, urged me to pay a
[page torn]ompliment in the way of my trade to his Lordship's memory
-- Well, to work I went, & produced a copy of Elegiac
verses

verses, some of them I own rather common place, & others
rather hidebound, but on the whole though they were far
from being in my best manner, they were tolerable; &
had they been the production of a Lord or a Baronet, they
would have been thought very clever. -- I wrote a letter,
which however was in my very best manner, & inclosing
my Poem, M.r Wood carried altogether to Mr Solicitor
Dundas that then was, & not finding him at home,
left the parcel for him. -- His Solicitorship never took
the smallest notice of the Letter, the Poem, or the Poet. --
From that time, highly as I respect the talents of their
Family, I never see the name, Dundas, in the column
of a newspaper, but my heart seems straitened for room
in my bosom; & if I am obliged to read aloud a paragraph
relating to one of them, I feel my forehead flush, & my
nether lip quivers. -- Had I been an obscure Scribbler, as [page torn]
was then in the heyday of my fame; or had I been [page torn]
dependant Hanger-on for favour or pay; or had the [page torn]
messenger bearer of the letter been any other than a gentleman who doe[page torn]
honour to the city in which he lives, to the Country [page torn]

that produced him, & to the God that created him, M.r
Solicitor might have had some apology. ----
But enough of this ungracious subject. -- A friend of mine
who transcribed the last parcel I sent you, is to be with me
in a day or two, & I shall get him to copy out the two
Poems you mention. -- I have this evening sketched
out a Song, which I have a good mind to send you,
though I foresee that it will cost you another groat of
postage. -- By the way, you once mentioned to me a
method of franking letters to you, but I have forgot
the direction. -- My song is intended to sing to a Strathspey
reel of which I am very fond, called in Cummin's Collection
of Strathspeys, "Ballendalloch's reel;" & in other Collections
that I have met with, it is known by the name of, "Cam-
"Delmore." ---- It takes three Stanzas of four lines each, to
go through the whole tune. -- I shall give the song to
Johnson for the third fourth vol. of his Publication
of Scots Songs, which he has just now in hand. --



Song –

Song ----
Sweet are the banks, the banks o' Doon,
The spreading flowers are fair,
And every thing is blythe & glad
But I am fu' o' care. ----

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true. ----

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, & sae I sing,
And wist na o' my fate. ----

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,
And sae did I o' mine. ----

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Upon its thorny tree;
But

And my fause Luver staw my rose,
But left the thorn wi' me. ----

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Upon a morn in June:
And sae I flourish'd on the morn,
And sae was pu'd or noon.

_________________________

If the foregoing Piece be worth your strictures, let me have
them. -- For my own part, a thing that I have just compo-
sed, always appears through a double portion of that partial
medium in which an Author will ever view his own
works. -- I believe in general, Novelty has something in it
that inebriates the fancy; & not unfrequently, dissipates &
fumes away like other intoxication, & leaves the poor Patient
[page torn]s usual with an aching heart. -- A striking instance of this
[page torn]ight be adduced in the revolution of many a Hymeneal
[page torn]-neymoon. -- But lest I grow sink into stupid Prose,
[page torn] so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my Parish-priest,
[page torn]ho is in himself one vast constellation of dullness, & from
his weekly zenith rays out his contradictory stupidity to
 

the no small edification & enlightening of the heavy & opaque
pericraniums of his gaping Admirers; I shall
fill up the page in my own way, & give you another
Song of my late composition, which will appear perhaps
in Johnson's work as well as the former. -- You must
know a beautiful Jacobite Air, There'll never be peace till Jamie
comes hame. -- When Political combustion ceases to be the
object of Princes & Patriots, it then, you know, becomes the
lawful prey of Historians & Poets. ----

Song ----

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing the tears down came --
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ----

The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, & murderous wars:
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame --
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ----

My seven braw Sons for Jamie drew sword
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.

It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu', auld Dame --
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ----

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin I tint my bairns, & he tint his crown;
But till my moment my words are the same;
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. ----

_________________________

If you like the air, & the stanzas hit your
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear Friend, how
much you would oblige me
if by the charms of your delightful voice
you would give me honest effusion to "The
"memory of joys that are past, " to the few friends
whom you indulge i[page torn] that pleasure. -- But I have scribbled on
till I hear the clock has intimated the near approach of --
"That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane" ---- So
goodnight to you! And sound be your sleep, & delectable your
dreams! Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad I
have just now on the tapis?
I look to the west, when I gae to rest -- That happy my dreams & my slumber (may be;
[page torn] far in the west lives he I loe best -- The man that is dear to my babie & me!
[page torn]night, once more; & God bless you!

Rob.t Burns