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it to

the yowes to the knowes, as it was owing to me
that ever it saw the light. About seven years
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung
it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke
took it down from his singing. When I gave
Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, and
mended others, but still it will not do for
In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried
my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up
the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve.
Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfec-
tions on its head.

you.

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CHORUS.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Cathem whare the heather growes,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,

My bonnie dearie.

Hark, the mavis' evening sang
Sounding Clouden's woods amang;
Then a faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.

Ca' the, &c.

We'll

* The river Clouden, or Cluden, a tributary stream to the Nith.

We'll

gae

down by Clouden side,
Thro' the hazels spreading wide,
O'er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.

Cathe, &c.

Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours,
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sac cheery.

Cathe, &c.

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Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.

Cathe, &c.

Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die—but canna part,
My bonnie dearie,

Ca' the, &c.

I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit.

VOL. IV.

M

No.

No. LVII.

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON.

Sept. 1794.

Do
you

know a blackguard Irish song, called Onagh's water-fall ? The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of her's shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum, and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work.

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing before ladies.

SHE

SHE SAYS SHE LO’ES ME BEST OF A'.

Tune_" ONAGH'S WATER-FALL."

SAE flaxen were her ringlets,

Her eye-brows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling sae wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his woe;
What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto these rosy lips to grow:
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,

When first her bonnie face I saw,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She
says

she lo'es me best of a'.

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Like harmony her motion;

Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion,

Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,

Her fau’tless form and gracefu' air;
Ilk feature-auld nature
Declar'd that she could o nae mair:
M 2

Hers

Her's are the willing chains o' love,

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,

She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy shew at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming,

Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang: There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love,

And say thou lo’es me best of a'.

1

Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: 'we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply

pleased,

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