University of Virginia Library

OLD SONGS.

—Shaks.

I LIKE an old song. It is the freshest piece of antiquity
in existence; and is, moreover, liable to no
selfish individual appropriation. It was born far
back in the traditionary times, so that its parentage
is somewhat equivocal; yet its reputation suffers
not on that account, and it comes down to us associated
with all kinds of fond and endearing reminiscences.
It melted or gladdened the hearts of our
forefathers, and has since floated around the green
earth, finding a welcome in every place humanized
by a ray of fancy or feeling, from “throne to cottage
hearth.” It has trembled on the lips of past
and forgotten beauty; and has served, in countless
wooings, as the appropriate medium for the first

fearful breathings of affection. The youthful maiden
has broken the silence with it in many a lovely,
lonely dell; and the shepherd has chaunted it on
the still hill side. The rude sailor has filled up the
pauses of his watch by whistling it to the shrill
winds and sullen waters; and it has bowed the
head, brought the tear to the eye, and recalled
home, and home thoughts to the mind of many a
wanderer on a distant shore. It has been heard in
the solitudes of nature, and at the crowded, festive
board. It has refreshed the worn-out heart of the
worldling, and awakened “thoughts that do often
lie too deep for tears,” in the minds of the moody
and contemplative. It has been a source of consolation
and joy to those who have passed away; it
comes unexhausted to us; and it will glide gently
down the stream of time, cheering and soothing as
it goes, from generation unto generation, till utilitarianism
becomes universal, and music and poetry
fade into a dimly remembered dream. Yet a truebred,
moth-eaten antiquary would sacrifice it, if he
could, for a copper coin fifty years its senior!

If any musical man expect, from the title to
this, a learned article, he will be egregiously disappointed.
I have no pretensions to treat this subject
scientifically, being, indeed, admirably qualified, in
this age of confessions, as far as want of knowledge

goes, to write the “confessions of an unmusical
man.” As regards flats and sharps, I am truly little
better than a natural; and as for quavers, semi-quavers,
demi-semi-quavers, and other subtler divisions,
if there be any, I am as ignorant of them as
the ass that crops his thistle off the common, and
brays in whatsoever note nature prompts him.
But what of that! Music is not altogether a mechanical
science; and there are profounder sympathies
in the heart of man than the orchestra think
of. There is no more nauseous animal in existence
than your musical coxcomb, who has all the
terms and technicalities of the art at his tongue's
end, without the glimmering of an idea concerning
the human passions, the deep feelings, and the keen
and delicate perception of the beautiful, on which
that art is founded. Proportionably to be admired
is the man who, after spending years in study and
research, and successfuly fathoming and mastering
all difficulties, never dreams of considering his laboriously-acquired
knowledge as more than merely an
accessory, not a principal, in the delightful science
he has made his study. The former are, as a naturalist
would express it, “in theatres and at concerts—common;”
the latter is of a species scarce
all over the world.

There may be loftier flights—a higher species of

fame, than that attained or aimed at by the song-writer;
but there is no one to whom honor is more
gladly rendered by the mass of mortals. His claims
come into notice, for the most part, in a genial season—when
friends are met, and the glass and sentiment
and song go round; when gladness swells
the heart, fancy tickles the brain, and mirth and
good-humor sparkle from the eye;—when Bacchus
has almost closed up criticism's venomous optics,
and laid hyper-criticism quietly under the table;—
when the fine-strung nerves are exquisitely alive to
all pleasurable sensations;—then it is that divine
music, wedded to still diviner poesy, can, in an instant,

and then it is that the memories of the masters of
song are pledged with a fervor that the ethical or
epic poet may despise, but can never either expect
or hope for from the partiality of his cooler admirers.
Next to Shakspeare there is no one whose
memory is more fondly treasured than that of
Burns. Independently of being intensely loved and
revered wherever a Scottish accent is heard, social
societies are formed in every country in which his
language is known, to keep that memory fresh
and green. And he well deserves it. Perhaps
his songs are the best ever written. He has not
the polish, the refinement, the exuberance of imagery,
or the sparkling fancy of Moore, but he excels
him in humor and pathos. They are, however,
both glorious fellows; and it must be a narrow
heart that cannot find room for admiration of more
than one. If the lyrics of Burns do not, as yet,
strictly come under the designation of “old songs,”
they at least will do so, for they have the germ of
immortality within them. It is almost impossible
to dream of the time when “Auld Lang Syne”
will not be sung. He had his faults (I am no
Scotchman), and in turning over his pages, besides
occasional coarseness and bad taste, you
sometimes meet with a verse, that, “not to speak it
profanely,” bears a striking resemblance to utter
nonsense; for instance, (though what could be expected
from words to such a tune—“Robin Adair!”)
But if your admiration of the poet begin to falter
for a moment, perhaps the very next page brings
you to “Highland Mary,” “Ae fond kiss and then we
sever,” “A man's a man for a' that,” “Mary Morrison,”
or, that song without a name commencing—

—Jessy!”

Burns has done for Scottish song what Scott has
done for Scottish history—made it known and renowned
in every portion of the globe; and had
“auld Scotland” never produced any other names
of note, these two are amply sufficient to honor and
glorify her through all time.

What are generally known by the name of
“Irish songs,”—the “Paddy Whackmeracks,” and
“Barny Brallagans” of the pot-house and the playhouse,
bear ten times less resemblance to the genuine
melodies of the “green isle,” than even the
majority of regular stage Irishmen do to the existing
natives. Both are merely broad English caricatures.
The soul of Irish music, beyond that
of all other national music, is melancholy. It is,
perhaps, too fine a distinction to draw, but of the
serious melodies of the three nations, perhaps the
English airs are most characterized by mournful
sadness—those of Scotland by pathos and tenderness—and

those of Ireland by a wild, wailing melancholy,
of an almost indescribable character. But
words are poor expositors in such cases. Let any
one play a few airs from each, and they will probably
furnish him at once with the distinction here
attempted to be drawn. I would humbly suggest
“Coolin,” or “Silent, oh Moyle,” as the strongest
instances I can think of on the part of Ireland.
The English, it is said, have no national melody;
and perhaps this is true of that portion of the country
from Dover to the borders; but long prior to the
presence of the Normans, who changed the manners
and injured the pithiness of the language of the
natives, the British had melodies marked by great
simplicity and sweetness. Who does not remember
the beautiful song, “Ayr hyd y nos,” familiarly
known as “Poor Mary Ann?”—then there is that
fine air, “Of a noble race was Shenkin,” and many
others, which may be found in Parry's Welsh Melodies.
These are still to be met with in many a
quiet and sequestered glen amid the fastnesses of
Wales, where the harp of the Druids took sanctuary,
and where the poetry and melody of that
mysterious sect are still preserved. It is no wonder
that at the inpouring of the heterogeneous and
mercenary Norman flood, the pure native melodies
became corrupted, and were nearly swept away;
yet, notwithstanding, the splendid church music of
the English excites the deep admiration of Europe;
and their glees and madrigals have never been excelled.
Purcell, Locke, Jackson, and Arne, have
written many charming melodies: but to come
nearer to the present day, if I may venture an opinion,
I would say that justice has scarcely been
done to Shield, a sound, manly composer, who has
left a number of things behind him which really
and truly deserve to live and flourish amid the
mass of musical compositions that, fungus-like,
hourly spring into existence, and as rapidly decay.
“The Thorn,” “Let Fame sound the Trumpet,”
“Old Towler,” “Heaving the Lead,” “Ere round
the huge Oak,” and a number of others, if they
cannot justly lay claim to any great degree of imaginative
beauty, have at least an infusion of genuine
melody—a body, ay, and a soul, that will long
preserve them from oblivion.

Shakspeare's songs, for the most part, have been
fortunate in being married to good music; some of
them almost better than they deserve. Whether
in ridicule or not of the song-writers of his time, he
certainly made too liberal a use of the “heigh hos”
and “ninny nonnys.” Next to Ariel's pretty fancy,
“Where the bee sucks, there lurk I,” the one with
the most freedom and lyrical beauty is, to my taste,

“Under the Greenwood Tree.” But it loses half
its effect when transplanted from the forest of Arden,
and sung in a modern room, amid long coats,
cravats, decanters, and etiquette. Neither does it
assimilate better with boisterous mirth and whiskey
punch. Yet it is an ill-used song, even on the
stage. It is too operatically given. Your Amiens
is generally (like the majority of male music-mongers)
a stiff-limbed piece of humanity, who understands
singing, and little else; he generally takes
his station about four feet from the foot-lamps, and
there, with elongated physiognomy, and one arm
protruded towards the pit, goes through his work
with most clock-like precision. To parody a beautiful
simile, it is “music breathing from a wooden
block;” all which is very unlike the free-hearted
lord whom we imagine, throwing himself at the root
of some antique oak, and, in a fine, mellow voice,
trolling forth, until the old forest rang again, his
most joyous invitation. But this may be amended
when, amid the other astonishing improvements of
the times, leading vocalists shall be endowed with
joints and ideas. Next to this, I like the one now
invariably put into the mouth of Rosalind, and christened
the “Cuckoo Song”
But your stage Rosalind is generally the reverse of
Amiens—an arch, vivacious lass, who imparts due
effect to the mixture of natural images and domestic
ideas suggested by the saucy words of the
song.

The sea, “the battle and the breeze,” and the
rapid and manifold vicissitudes incident to the life
of a sailor, furnish a bold and beautiful variety of
subjects capable of being turned to good account in
a song or ballad. Yet, somehow or other, Apollo
does not much affect the quarter-deck. The ocean
brine is too powerful for the waters of Castaly.
Poesy in some sort suffers by a “sea-change;” and
the quantity to be extracted from a volume of genuine
naval ditties is wofully disproportionate to
the bulk of rhyme. Some of the best sea songs
have been written by landsmen, and one great
cause of their being so, is their comparative freedom
from perplexing technicalities; for though a characteristic
phrase may occasionally impart life and
spirit to a production, yet a technicality, whether in
marine or agricultural poetry, is a sore stumbling-block
to the uninitiated. Now every line (or plank)
of three-fourths of your nautical melodies is calked
with them, independently of containing a much
larger infusion of tar than tenderness—of pitch

than pathos. They abound, likewise, in an inordinate
degree, in descriptions of tornadoes, and discharges
of artillery—in slaughter and sudden death;
and the sentiments correspond thereunto, being as
rough as a hawser, and as boisterous as a north-wester.
Though admirably adapted to be growled
out by the boatswain when the vessel is scudding
under double-reefed topsails, they would on land,
and in a room, go off like a discharge of musketry.
But, worse than all, is the minuteness of detail—
the distressing particularity which ever pervades
them. They are mere paraphrases of the log-book;
and the due course and reckoning of the ship is
most especially insisted on—
Yet, after all, there are some noble things in this
branch of the “service,” amply sufficient to redeem
it from dislike. Who is there that has not held his
breath when he has heard a rich, deep-toned voice,
commence Gay's glorious ballad
and listened throughout, with a quickened pulse, to
that “plain unvarnished tale” of humble love and
tenderness. There is much, too, to please any man,
who is not over and above fastidious, in dozens of
Dibdin's vigorous and hearty sketches of a sailor's
hardships and enjoyments, to say nothing of Pearce
and others of inferior note; but from your regular
orecastle narratives, Apollo deliver us!

Things called “comic songs,” to wit, “Four and
wenty tailors all in a row,” &c., are, in my mind,
striking exemplifications of the depth of debasement
of which the human intellect is susceptible.

In whatever way America is, or may become renowned,
she will probably never be a land of song;
and for two or three reasons. There are already a
sufficiency of standard songs in the world to answer
all purposes; and she has imported an ample sufficiency
to supply the varied tastes and caprices of
her musical population. Moore's Melodies are as
common in the cities of the west as in their native
land; and those of Burns are no rarity. The geography
of the country, too, is strikingly unfavorable
for indigenous song. Nature has created the
land in one of her most liberal and magnificent
moods, and formed its features on a scale of grandeur
that is impossible to grasp in this kind of
writing. The ocean-lakes—the mighty rivers—the
interminable forests—the boundless prairies, are all

epic rather than lyrical. How would it sound,
either for rhyme or reason,
The idea suggested is too vast. There is no sung
endearing locality about such scenes; and as for
“the sweet spring time,” it never “falls” on a great
proportion of the shores of rivers whose waters rise
far towards the regions of eternal winter, and roll
through every variety of climate, to those of everlasting
summer; while the smaller streams, which
correspond in size to the “Nith,” the “Dee” or
“Bonnie Doon,” are ruined by the general appellation
of “crik” (creek), which is bestowed upon
them; and to which some such euphonious title as
Big Elk, Buffalo, or Otter, is usually prefixed.
Besides, America is not rich in recollections of the
past. No castles, grim, hoary and dilapidated,
frown upon her heights: no gorgeous abbeys moulder
in her verdant vales. The joys, and sorrows,
and sufferings of humanity are, as yet, scarcely
impressed upon her soil. She has no records of
feudal strife, of faded greatness, and fond affection
—of all tradition loves, and song delights in. Hope
must, in some degree, be to her poets what memory
is to those of older lands. But the mind of
the song-writer is reminiscent—not anticipative;
and therefore it is, that with whatever species of
fame and greatness America may enrich her brows,
it is probable she will never, in one sense, be
“worth an old song.”