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the yowes to the knowes, as it was owing to me
Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
My bonnie dearie.
Hark, the mavis' evening sang
Ca' the, &c.
* The river Clouden, or Cluden, a tributary stream to the Nith.
down by Clouden side,
Yonder Clouden's silent towers,
Ca’ the, &c.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Ca’ the, &c.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Ca' the, &c.
I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit.
MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON.
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 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,
Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Wad make a wretch forget his woe;
Unto these rosy lips to grow:
When first her bonnie face I saw,
she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion;
Her pretty ancle is a spy
Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Her fau’tless form and gracefu' air;
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'.
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