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I

HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night; and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that drunk or sober, your "mind is never muddy.” You have displayed great address in the above song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise would have attached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now stands

very

much.

I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for

wha's in yon town.

O wat ye

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No. LXXII.

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON.

May, 1795.

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.

Tune-5 WHERE'LL BONNIE ANN LIE,

Or, LOCH-EROCH SIDE."

Ostay, sweet warbling wood-lark stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray!
A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart,

Wha' kills me wi' disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,

Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

Thou

Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O'speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!

my poor heart is broken !

Or

Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song

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How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish air, Humours of Glen, is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows:

SONG.

Tune" HUMOURS OF GLEN."

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands

reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per

fume, Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly

unseen:

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders

my

Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny vallies,

And cauld, CALEDONIA's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the

proud palace, What are they? The haunt o’ the tyrant and

slave: The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling

fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

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'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness.

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