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author of this song in a Jean Adams,” who died in Glasgow workhouse in the year 1765. When he was in Scotland last, the circumstance was mentioned to him of a Mrs. Fullarton, a very old lady, now living, who remembers to have heard Jean Adams recite and sing the song as her own, prior to the year 1760. This Jean Adams was a woman of some talents, having published a volume of poems; but behg rather too much elated with authorship, she neglected the ordinary duties of life, and died in Glasgow workhouse.— These facts Mr. Cromek had obtained, with considerable trouble; and, when he called upon me, and mentioned the circumstance, he was greatly surprised when I told him that the song was ascribed to Mickle, and showed it him in your edition of his works. You will perceive there is some mystery in the affair, which can be cleared up only by the documents on which you ascribe the song to Mickle, and those eight lines to Beattie. Mrs. Fullarton is positive that she heard this Jean Adams recite the song about the year 1760: in fact Jean died 1765, at which time Mickle was only thirty years of age; did he publish or write the song within that period : It is a singular circumstance that Burns, who was well versed in the history of Scottish ballads, says, speaking of the present song“This is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots or any other language. The two lines, And I will see his face again, And I will hear him speak,
are worthy of the first poet. It is long too posteriour to Ramsay's days. About the year 1771 or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose the composition of the Song was not much anteriour to that period.”—Reliques, p. 217. I cannot help thinking that you will feel some pleasure in being able to clear up this business; and I hope you will excuse this long letter about it. I thought the matter too singular to be neglected. I am, Sir, Your obedient servant, WM. MUDFORD, Sefit. 24, 1809. DEAR SIR, I am extremely happy to inform you that I have been so very fortunate as to discover, among Mr. Mickle’s papers, what I consider as the very first sketch of that celebrated song: “ There's nae luck about the house,” a copy of which, verbatim and literatim, I have enclosed. Besides the evident marks of haste and inaccuracy, which I have noticed in the margin, you will find the name Colin spelt with a double and a single l; the Scottish verb used for must, spelt first mun, and, in two lines after, man; and the verb make first spelt twice with the e, and then three times without that letter; all these are strong proofs of its being the very first attempt. Other variations, much for the better, you will find, by comparing the MS. with the song as now printed in my edition of Mr. Mickle's poetry. The ballad is, though evidently written in very great haste, perhaps the finest specimen of his hand writing now extant; from which, I think, it must have been written in, or before, the year 1760; as soon after that period his misfortunes in trade, and his consequent depression of spirits,
* For a further, and highly interesting account of this person, the reader is referred
to the following work (Appendix A. vol. 1.)
which will shortly appear: “Select Scot
tish Songs, ancient and modern; with critical Observations and biographical Notices, By Robert Burns. Edited by R. H. Cromek, F. A. S. Ed.”
very much affected his hand writing. All these circumstances, duly considered, will, I trust, effectually lay to rest the illfounded pretensions of Jean Adams, and secure to my worthy friend an undisputed title to this very superiour production. As to my ascription of the eight marked lines to Dr. Beattie, I had the most positive assurance of their being his composition, from the Rev. Patrick Davidson, of Rayne, Aberdeenshire, a gentleman of the first respectability, who had been a pupil of the doctor's; and this was confirmed by every literary character with whom I conversed, during an excursion which I made to the north of Scotland in the summer of 1801, so as not to leave the least shadow of a doubt upon that subject. I cannot help adding, that I am exceedingly thankful that I have been spared, not only to give a correct edition of the poetical works of my friend, however they may be received by the present generation, but also to substantiate his right to what Mr. Burns calls “one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots, or any other language.” I remain, dear sir, Your most obedient humble servant, J. SIM. Pentonville, Ahril 7, 1810. P. S. I forgot to mention another strong proof of its being the very first attempt, viz. that he was then undetermined as to the number of lines which the stanzas should contain. To Mr. Mudford. The first Sketch of the beautiful Ballad, “There’s nae luck about the house,” from the handwriting of W. J. Mickle, in the Possession of the Rev. JMr. SIM. There’s nae luck about the house There’s nae luck at aw
* The e in Bailie's is erased.
f The capital Merased, and a small m inserted.
# The c in Jock is erased.
§ This line is a repetition of the nineteenth line.
| This line is deficient in measure. * Interlined he was. ** The first point in the MS. ti. The last point in the MS. Vol. Iv. S.
To the Editor of the European J1agazine.
SIR; IF you think the following worthy of a place in your valuable magazine, it may, perhaps, prove entertaining to some of its numerous readers. One of its admirers, F. F. R. London, 12th. Dec. 1809.
SUPERB FETE Given by the Duke of Orleans, at his Seat of Villers Cotterots to Louis the XVth, after his coronation at Rheims.
Statement of the Articles consumed or
emfiloyed on the Occasion.
14,039 livres, 6 sous, were expended in sea and fresh water fish (about 585l. sterling.) 100,809 lbs. of butcher’s meat. 29,045 heads of game and poultry. 3,071 lbs. of ham. 10,552 lbs. of bacon and hogs lard. 36,464 eggs. 6,060 lbs. of common butter, 600 lbs. of Vanvres ditto. 150,096 lbs. of bread. 80,000 bottles of Burgundy and Champain.
200 hlids. of common wine. 800 bottles of old hock. 1,400 bottles of English beer and cider. 3,000 bottles of liquors of all sorts. 8,000 lbs. of sugar. 2,000 lbs. of coffee, besides tea. 1,500 pounds of chocolate. 65,000 lemons and oranges (sweet and sour.) 800 pomegranates. 150,000 apples and pears of all sorts. 15,000 pounds of sweetmeats, preserved and candied. 2,000 pounds of sugar plumbs. 4,000 pounds of wax lights. 30,000 China plates and dishes for dessert. 20,000 pieces of crystal dishes for sweetneats, lustres, &c. 115,000 decanters and glasses. 50,000 pieces (plates, dishes, tureens, &c.) of silver and gilt silver. 3,300 table cloths. 900 dozen of napkins. 2,000 dozen of aprons were used by the cooks and others.
LATELY at Edgeworth's town, in the centre of Ireland, died. without a struggle, the widow Burnet, aged 116 and upwards. She had been wife to an honest, laborious mason, and she was a woman of uncommon shrewdness and activity. The winter before last she was seen mounted on a ladder mending the thatch of her cottage. Though she was thus careful of her worldly goods, she was uncommonly goodnatured and charitable. :: 2r mind was never fretted by malty lent passions. She was ways, 2-dy to give or lend what e x > y she possessed, and she
was careful to do these services to her distressed neighbours when no witness was present; so that accident alone discovered some of her good deeds and bad debts. In her habits of diet she was very temperate. She fived chiefly on potatoes and milk, and stirabout; never drank spirits, or beer, but sometimes drank a glass of sweet wine, of which she was fond. She was (like most other long-lived people) an early riser, and took regular but not violent exercise. For the last twenty years of her life she seldom failed to walk from the cottage where she lived
to Edgeworth's town, a distance of about an English mile, over a rough, stony road. She preserved all her organs of sense to the last; could hear what was said in a low voice, could distinguish the changes of countenance of those to whom she spoke, as she plainly proved by changing her topicks of conversation when she found they did not please her auditors. Her sense of smell had not failed. The summer before her death she took pleasure, as she said, in the smell of a rose, and showed that she perceived the odour by asking where it came from before she saw the flower. Her intellectual faculties were at this advanced age accute and vigorous. She narrated with uncommon clearness and vivacity; and it was remarkable of her memory, that it was not only retentive of things that had passed ninety years ago, but of recent facts and conversations. She had the habit, common to very eld people, of continually talking of her approaching death, and yet making preparations for life. She was as eager about the lease or the rent of her farm, as if she felt sure of continuing many years to enjoy what she possessed. She was very religious, but her religion was not of a melancholy cast. The following epitaph is inscribed over her tomb: “Here lies, in hopes of a blessed resurrection, the body of Elizabeth Burnet, of Lignageeragh, born 1693; married 1733; died
September 14, 1809, aged 116. To the last day of her long life she preserved the use of her limbs, her senses, and her memory, which possessed the uncommon faculty of retaining recent circumstances as well as those which happened in her youth. Every year added to the regard with which she was considered by the rich, and by the poor. Thus she was a conspicuous example that virtue in humble life, can render the possessor as useful, respectable, and happy, as it could in the highest situation.” At Bengal, in the 86th year of his age, died, Cudbert Thornhill, esq. late master attendant of the port of Calcutta, and one of the oldest European inhabitants of Bengal. He was resident in India some time before the taking of Calcutta by Surajaha Dowlah, in 1756, and was present during the greater part of that unfortunate scene. With several other Europeans, he sought shelter in the English shipping then at Fulta; and thus fortunately escaped the dreadful catastrophe of the Black Hole. Captain Thornhill had traded to almost every part of India; and at Judda, a port in the Red Sea, he became acquainted with Mr. Bruce, the celebrated Abyssinian traveller, b whom he is honourably mentioned in his works. He was nominated master attendant in 1786, and held that appointment till April 1809.
Sung by Mr. Incledon, at the Freemasons’
Tavern, at a dinner held for the liberal
purpose of raising a fund for alleviating
the misfortunes of the veteran Charles
Tune—“ Foor Jack.” YOU may tell us the ancients, for honour and worth, From modern folks bear off the bell;
But, surely, one virtue, the kindest on
As the sweet little cherub, that sits up aloft, Keeps watch for the life of poor Jack.
* Date obolum” each of us bears in our mind, And might more such examples repeat: For wasn’t poor Homer, who sung him. self blind, . Left with scarcely a dinner to eat? That your ancients were noted for heads very wise, Every school-book we read in imparts; But while a good head, we with justice may prize, Still, “You know there be such things as hearts.” Then applaud modern bosoms, whose sympathy soft Can shield genius from sorrow's attack, As the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, Keeps watch for the life of poor Jack.
Yes, with hearts, that responsive, in unison beat, Distress, though by merit unbacked, From Englishmen ever acceptance will meet; Then, how much more must merit attract 2 For the sailor, at Greenwich, there’s moorings d'ye see, When cramped by the fortune of war; And the kind hand of friendship extended shall be, To him who inspired every tar, For the sons of Britannia acknowledge how oft, Our seamen were cheered on each tack, When his muse sung the cherub, that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
The bard of our navy to notice we hold, Who deserves of his country, you’ll own, For fortune has veered; and now leaky and old, On her beam end his bark's nearly thrown. Like the lads he described, who, with honest delight, Ever join to assist an old friend, Let us all pull together, his vessel to right, That his voyage may happily end. Like true sons of Britannia, with sympathy soft, Let us shield him from sorrow’s attack; And what here you bestow, there’s a Being aloft, Will, in pleasure, tenfold give you back.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours
Of winter, past or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which pre
sent are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet smelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts to thee he did not spare; A stain to human sense in guilt that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven quite to forget earth's turmoils, spite and wrongs; And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven 2 Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres—yes, and to angels' lays. --THE OAK.