have introduced the line in its place, which I presume it formerly occupied; though I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy:

BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANCED TO ROVE.

TUNE-Allan Water.

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:

I listened to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures monie ;
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang-

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said: 'I'm thine for ever!'
While monie a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brac,
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery through her shortening day,
Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure?
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

Bravo! say I; it is a good song. else), you can set the music to it, and

verses.

Autumn is my propitious season. all the year else. God bless you!1

Should you think so too (not let the other follow as English

I make more verses in it than

เ While he lived in Dumfries, he had three favourite walks: on the Dock-Green by the river-side; among the ruins of Lincluden College; and towards the Martingdon-ford, on the north side of the Nith. This latter place was secluded, commanded a view of the distant hills, and the romantic towers of Lincluden, and afforded soft green-sward banks to rest upon, and the sight and sound of the stream. Here he composed many of his finest songs. As soon as he was heard to hum to himself, his wife saw that he had something in his mind, and was prepared to see him snatch up his hat, and set silently off for his musing-ground. When by himself, and in the open air, his ideas arranged themselves in their natural order-words came at will, and he seldom returned without having finished a song. In case of interruption,

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

August 1793.

You may readily trust, my dear sir, that any exertion in my power is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you: the very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication; so get a verse from him now and then, though I have no objection, as well as I can, to bear the burden of the business.1

Is Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad, one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much; but as I understand that he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. [However, if the song does not suit your taste, I may possibly send it him. He is, entre nous, a narrow, contracted creature; but he sings so delightfully, that whatever he introduces at your concert must have immediate celebrity.] The set of the air which I had in my eye is in Johnson's Museum.

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.

TUNE-Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye cared nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonny black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

he set about completing it at the fireside; he balanced himself on the hind-legs of his armchair, and rocking to and fro, continued to hum the tune, and seldom failed of success. When the verses were finished, he passed them through the ordeal of Mrs Burns's voice; listened attentively when she sang; asked her if any of the words were difficult; and when one happened to be too rough, he readily found a smoother; but he never, save at the resolute entreaty of a scientific musician, sacrificed sense to sound. The autumn was his favourite season, and the twilight his favourite hour of study.'-A. CUNNINGHAM.

1 Dr Currie has transferred this paragraph from the present, its proper place, to the head of a subsequent letter.

2 The passages of Burns's letters to Thomson, enclosed in brackets, are taken from the original manuscript, and appear for the first time in this work.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though jokin' ye be,

For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.1

Another favourite air of mine, is The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre. When sung slow with expression, I have wished that it had had better poetry: that I have endeavoured to supply as follows:

ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER.
TUNE-The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre.

Adown winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,

Of Phillis to muse and to sing.

CHORUS.

Awa' wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare:
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis!
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amused my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis!
For she is Simplicity's child.

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,

But fairer and purer her breast.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye.

Her voice is the song of the morning,

That wakes through the green-spreading grove,

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,

On music, and pleasure, and love.

But, beauty, how frail and how fleeting-
The bloom of a fine summer's day!
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.

1 The two first stanzas of this song had appeared in the second volume of the Scots Musical Museum.

Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, sister to Bonny Jean.' They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me the very first grist I get from my rhyming-mill.

A modern reader will be surprised by the terms in which Burns speaks of Peter Pindar, whose works are now condemned to oblivion. He certainly was a remarkable example of the extent to which moderate abilities, exerted in subserviency to popular prejudices, and with a ribald recklessness towards all true taste in literature, will carry their possessor on the way to what appears for the time literary distinction. It must ever be a humiliating consideration, that this modern Aretin was richly pensioned by the booksellers, while Burns, the true sweet singer, lived in comparative poverty.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

6

[28th] August 1793.

That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the Muses;1 when the Muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet simple inspirer that was by my elbow, smooth gliding without step,' and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her, so I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum.

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST.

AIR-Cauld Kail.

Come, let me take thee to my breast,

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;

And I shall spurn as vilest dust

The warld's wealth and grandeur:

And do I hear my Jeanie own

That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone

That I may live to love her.

1 Gloamin, twilight-probably from glooming. A beautiful poetic word, which ought to

be adopted in England. A gloamin-shot, a twilight interview.-CURRIE.

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure:
And by thy een sae bonny blue,

I swear I'm thine for ever!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never!

If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. The Last Time I came o'er the Moor, I cannot meddle with as to mending it; and the musical world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well received.

not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not made one for the foregoing.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

[28th] August 1793.

[My dear sir, I have written you already by to-day's post, where I hinted at a song of mine which might suit Dainty Davie. I have been looking over another and a better song of mine in the Museum, which I have altered as follows, and which I am persuaded will please you. The words Dainty Davie' glide so sweetly in the air, that, to a Scots ear, any song to it, without Davie being the hero, would have a lame effect.]