ck, _The Songs of Robert Burns_, 1903, Preface,
pp. viii, ix.)

Again, once when Thomson had sent him a tune to be fitted with words,
he replied:

"_Laddie lie near me_ must _lie by me_ for some time. I do not
know the air; and until I am complete master of a tune in my own
singing (such as it is), I never can compose for it. My way is: I
consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the
musical expression; then choose my theme; begin one stanza; when
that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of
the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for
subjects in nature around me that are in unison and harmony with
the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom, humming
every now and then the air with the verses I have framed. When I
feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside
of my study, and then commit my effusion to paper; swinging at
intervals on the hindlegs of my elbow chair, by way of calling
forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on. Seriously,
this at home is almost invariably my way." [September, 1793.]

His wife, who had a good voice and a wide knowledge of folk-song,
seems often to have been of assistance, and a further interesting
detail is given by Sir James Stuart-Menteath from the evidence of a
Mrs. Christina Flint.

"When Burns dwelt at Ellisland, he was accustomed, after composing
any of his beautiful songs, to pay Kirsty a visit, that he might
hear them sung by her. He often stopped her in the course of the
singing when he found any word harsh and grating to his ear, and
substituted one more melodious and pleasing. From Kirsty's
extensive acquaintance with the old Scottish airs, she was
frequently able to suggest to the poet music more suitable to the
song she was singing than that to which he had set it."

Kirsty and Jean were not his only aids in the criticism of the musical
quality of his songs. From the time of the Edinburgh visit, at least,
he was in the habit of seizing the opportunity afforded by the
possession of a harpsichord or a good voice by the daughters of his
friends, and in several cases he rewarded his accompanist by making
her the heroine of the song. Without drawing on the evidence of
parallel phenomena in other ages and literatures, we can be sure
enough that this persistent consciousness of the airs to which his