DEAR JAMES,
According to promise, I herewith send you 4 vols. of the Selector. I would have sent them ere now, but could not get the last two volumes from the binder. With respect to writing to W. Livingstone, I could not conveniently go to Glasgow before the vessel sailed, besides it would have been a chance to have found Wilson (the man who brought his letter) after all; I therefore wrote to him on a large sheet, and copied yours verbatim. You may have the original first time I see you. Scadlock and I called on you at Kilbarchan about four Sundays since, but you were from home. If you come in at our fair, which is tomorrow fortnight, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you. The elegy, in the enclosed No. of the Paisley Repository [1] I believe was written upon John Findlay [2] your old friend in Kilbarchan; this is printed from a copy which Wm. M‘Neil
had given to the publisher. I think a good deal of it. I am told that the lines by a “A Paisley Volunteer” are a Dr. Richmond's in this town. [3]
You wished me to mark what pieces were mine in the Selector. Vol. 1st:— “Prologue to the Gentle Shepherd,” “Ode to Jealousy,” “Lines to W. M‘L——n,” “The Ambitious Mite,” Song—“The Negro Girl,” Song—“Mine ain dear Somebody.” Vol. 2nd:—“The Birth of Burns,”
“The Bacchanalians.” Vol. 3rd:— “Epistle to J—— S——.” Vol. 4th:— “Epistle to J. B..” Song—“When Poortith Cauld.”
You will observe several of the first signed “Modestus,” but for anysake don't impute it to me as ostentation. I gave them in anonymous, and the Editor added the signature, which, unhappily for me, to them who do not know, will appear something affectatious ; but enough of self.
You will perhaps be curious to know the authors of the other originals in it. I will inform you as far as I know. The pieces signed “O. L. O.,” by Mr. Robert Lochore, [4] author of “Margat and the Minister” “The Hare,” vol. 2nd, page 52, by John Stevenson, who formerly kept the Burns Tavern. The beautiful little pieces, dated Glasgow College, signed “W.D.H.M.,” by a young Irish lad, who has now returned to his native country. “A. T—n,” I am informed, is a tailor, lad in Glasgow. 1st Ode for our last anniversary, by John Struthers, shoemaker, Glasgow; [5] 2nd do., by Mr. James Young, Glasgow. Those by “W.C.B.,” a young clergyman at Kilsyth. Song, vol. 4th, signed “M.M.,” a Mr. M‘Millan, Glasgow. These are all that I know.
With regard to the little collection of airs which you are making out for me, I am certainly much indebted to you. I would wish the most of them to be such as I am little acquainted with, as you know I already have seen a number of our old standard airs, such as “Cowdenknowes,” “Roslin Castle,” “Bush aboon Traquair,” &c., but pray don't think me too nice, whichever pleases you will likely please me. I have been considering what ones I would like to see. Some of the following I only know by name:—
Twine weel the plaidie.
Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came.
The last time I came o'er the moor.
I'll never leave thee.
Loch Ness. —(I think they call it.)
Maids of Arrochar.
Rosy Brier.—(I have it, but wish it in your collection.)
Cumbernauld House. The Gaelic air which you mentioned in M‘Donald's collection.
Invercauld's Reel.
Ellen, o the Dee.
Wat ye wha I met yestreen.
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie bride.
But lately seen in gladsome green.
Rothiemurchus Rant. (Do you know the Gaelic air of Burns?)
Song-O wilt thou be my deary.
Morneen I gaberlan. (If you have the set, which is in some one of Aird's vols.)
The bonnie Earl of Murray.
Barbara Allan.
Why, Owen, didst thou leave me ?
It would be too much to expect you to write all these, but as many of them as you conveniently can will please me highly. The names of the different composers—as many of them as you know—will add value to it.
I will write you an attempt for your favourite air, but request you not to give away any copies of it, as it does not altogether please me.
.......You will observe that the three first lines of the last verse want the starting note.
You will notice that I am hurried, therefore excuse inaccuracy. So I will bid you adieu till I see or hear from you.
Yours assuredly,
R. TANNAHILL.
[1] The Elegy was on a young lady who was drowned in Lochwinnoch Loch, more than 30 years ago. It was by Thomas Brown, a young student, and appeared in No. 6 of the Repository, in 1806. She was 18 years of age, and on the eve of her marriage.—Ed.
[2] “John Finlay” was a weaver in Kilbarchan, and born in 1735. He trod life's path with humility, and if ever man found. “wisdom's ways to be ways of pleasantness,” it was him. Tannahill would see him, frequently sitting in his arm chair with his open brow and lyart haffets wearing thin and bare, his countenance serene but cheerful, and his once athletic form bending under the pressure of years. He was, then upwards of three score and ten. The chief books he studied were—Shakespere, Milton, Thomson, and Hume. He died in 1815, in the 80th year of his age, and was buried in the West Relief Churchyard of Paisley.
“William Finlay,” poet, his nephew, was born in Paisley in 1792, and died on 5th November, 1847, aged 55, and interred in Paisley Cemetery. In 1846 he published a Volume of “Poems, Humourous, and Sentimental,” 12 mo., 276 pages. One of the poems is addressed to
MY AULD UNCLE JOHN.
I sing not of Prince, nor of Prelate, nor Peer,
Who the titles and trappings of vanity wear ;
I sing of no hero, whose fame has been spread
O'er the earth, for the quantum of blood he hath shed;
But of one, who life's path with humility trod,
The friend, of mankind, and child of his God;
Who indeed, died to “Fame and to Fortune unknown,”
But who lives in my heart's core—my auld uncle John.
His manners were simple, yet manly and firm,
His friendship was generous, and constant and warm;
To Jew and Gentile alike he was kind,
For the trammels Of party ne'er narrowed his mind;
His heart, like his hand, was aye open and free,
And though he at times had but little to gi'e,
Yet even that little with grace was bestown,
For it came from the heart of my auld uncle John.
O well do I mind, though I then was but young,
When ha came on a visit, how blithely I sprung
To meet the old man, who with visage so meek
Would a kiss of affection imprint on my cheek ;
Then I'd place him a chair, take his staff and his hat,
Then climb up on his knee, where delighted I sat—
For never was monarch so proud on his throne,
As I on the knee of my auld uncle John.
When at school, to his snug room with pleasure I'd hie,
And often I've seen the fire flash from his eye,
And a flush of delight his pale cheek o'erspread,
When a passage from Shakespere or Milton I read.
For me the best authors he'd kindly select,
He then to their beauties my eye would direct,
Or the faults to which sometimes great genius is prone,
So correct was the taste of my auld uncle John.
‘Twas said, when a stripling, his feelings had been
Storm-blighted and rent by a false-hearted queen ;
But this sour'd not his temper, for maidens would bloom
More brightly and fresh when among them he'd come,
They would cluster around him like flowers round the oak,
To weep at his love tale, to laugh at his joke;
For his stories were told in a style and a tone
That aye put them in raptures wi' auld uncle John.
To all he was pleasing—to old and to young—
To the rich and the poor, to the weak and the strong,
He laughed with the gay, moralised with the grave,
The wise man he humoured, the fool he forgave;
Religion with him was no transient qualm,
‘Twas not hearing a sermon, or singing a psalm,
Or a holiday robe for a season put on,
‘Twas the every day robe of my auld uncle John.
His country be lov'd, for her glory he sigh'd,
Her struggles of yore for her rights were his pride ;
He lov'd her clear streams, and her green flowery fells—
Her mists and her mountains, her dens and her dells;
Yes the land of his fathers, his birth place he lov'd,
Her science, her wit, and her worth he approv'd ;
But men of each kindred, and colour, and zone,
As brethren were held by my auld uncle John.
His last sickness I tended, and when he was dead,
To the grave in deep sorrow I carried his head ;
The spot is not marked by inscription or bust,
No child or lone widow weeps over his dust ;
But oft when the star of eve lightly doth burn,
From the bustle and noise of this world I turn,
And forget for a while, both its smile and its frown
On the green turf which covers my auld uncle John.
“William Finlay” was the son of Alexander Finlay, from Kilbarchan, foreman in Paisley. He was educated in the Burgh School, Storie Street, Paisley, built in 1788, taught by Mr. William Bell, the first schoolmaster, appointed on 5th July, 1788, and who came from Giffen School, Beith. Mr. Bell became a member of the Paisley Baron Club in 1797, and assumed the barren title of Baron “Gillen Castle” of Beith. William Finlay next entered the Grammar School, Paisley, where he continued two years, when his father died, leaving a widow and six children. He was taken out of school, apprenticed to weaving, and continued at that trade for 20 years. He gave up that hopeless business and became a pattern setter, at which he continued till 1840. He next entered the employment of Mr. John Neilson, printer, as reader. Mr. Finlay's pieces frequently appeared in the Poet's Corner of newspapers, and latterly they were collected and published, as above noticed. One of them is a humorous poem titled “The Battle of the Barons,” on the club before mentioned.
LINES ON LORD NELSON'S VICTORY AND DEATH.
(Written on the 9th November, 1805, by a Paisley Volunteer.)
When Europe's quarrels, that divide the world,
Had Britain's banners and her flag unfurl'd,
The Gallic Tyrant, frantic with disdain
That Britain scorned his base, ignoble chain,
Had roused her heroes once again to arms,
To meet invasion's threat'nings and alarms;
Full oft old Ocean, murm'ring from afar,
Had borne her victor in his sea-beat car,
Her heroes many, and her chiefs renown'd,
With naval trophies and with glory crown'd,
Her Raleighs, Drakes, and each illustrious name,
Inscribed in a long, long list of fame ;
When Egypt's strand deep groan'd beneath their host,
And Bruix [3b] rode triumphant on her coast,
Their triumphs glist'ning but a little while,
Soon grac'd the glories of the Lord of Nile :
When leagued ambition rear'd in northern ware
The Danish standards and the Swedish stars,
The British Hero once again appears,
To burn their fleets, and dissipate our fears.
Hark ! the last, greatest order e'er he gave,
As British valour near'd them on tho wave,
Oh! if amidst our honour'd country's elaims.
We wish to rank among her patriot's names,
Write it nay, grave it on your very swords,
Tell it in deeds, far better than in words,
Remember, that great Nelson's shade may rest,
“England expects each man shall do his best.” [3c]
[3] Thomas Richmond, assistant-surgeon to the Paisley First Regiment of Volunteers raised in 1803. —Ed.
[3b] A gallant and distinguished French admiral, who died in 1805. —Ed.
[3c] The famous saying signalled by Lord Nelson to the fleet on 21st October, 1805, at the Battle of Trafalgar, was
“England expects every man to do his duty,” but which is here verbally altered to suit the rhyme. —Ed.
[4] Robert Lochore was a shoemaker in Buchanan Street, Glasgow. He died on 27th April, 1852, in the 90th year of his age. His eldest and only surviving son is the Rev. Alexander Lochore, D.D., minister of the Parish of Drymen, who is in the 85th year of his age.
[5] Burns' Anniversary in Paisley.
The original letter and song are in possession of James Caldwell, Esq., Craigielea.
NOTE: For some reason David Semple changed the usage of "auld" in William Finlay's poem, "My Auld Uncle John" to "old". We have reverted back to the original usage. Underneath shows the title page of the scarce poetical work—Grian Press
