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powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains the purchase!

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Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs of which the measure is something similar to what I want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English dress to your, "Daintie Davie," as follows:

SONG,

SONG,

Altered from an old English one.

It was the charming month of May,
When all the flow'rs were fresh and
One morning, by the break of day,

The youthful, charming Chloe;

From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes,
The youthful, charming Chloe.

gay,

CHORUS.

Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feather'd people, you might see
Perch'd all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody

They hail, the charming Chloe;

Till, painting gay the eastern skies.
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Lovely was she, &c.

You

You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to Rothemurche's Rant; and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of the air for singing.

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Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea,
Anda' is young and sweet like thee
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,
say thou❜lt be my dearie O?
Lassie, wi', &c.

And

And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie O.

Lassie wi', &c.

When

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
shearer's hameward way;

The

weary

Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love, my dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

And when the howling wintry blast,
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.*

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie!
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie 0?

This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer

noon,

* In some of the MSS this stanza runs thus :

And should the howling wintry blast
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest,
I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast,
And comfort thee, my dearie O.

VOL. IV.

E.

noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well: if not, I will insert it in the Museum.

I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as, Deil tak the wars, to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silliness of Saw ye my father: by heavens! the odds is gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernized into the Scottish language, is, originally and in the early editions,

bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey; so has no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the Duenna, to this air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins,

"When sable night each drooping plant restoring."

The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune as follows:*

Now

See the song in its first and best dress in page 181. Our bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this into "an English mould; but to my taste, in the simple and the "tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scot"tish has an inimitable effect."

E.

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