Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, Let me hear from you. No. LXXIII. MR. THOMSON to MR. BURNS. You must not think, my good Sir, that I have any intention to enhance the value of my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, that the design and execution of the Cotter's Saturday night is, in my opinion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you are not quite pleased with it. The The figure intended for your portrait, I think strikingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece interesting to your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the figures. I cannot express the feeling of admiration with which I have read your pathetic Address to the Wood-lark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to "Laddie lie near me," though not equal to these, is very pleasing. No. No. LXXIV. MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. Altered from an old English song. Tune "JOHN ANDERSON MY JO." How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, The ravening hawk pursuing, To shun impelling ruin A while her pinions tries; No shelter or retreat, SONG. SONG. Tune-" DEIL TAK THE WARS. MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion, What are the noisy pleasures? May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright, The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity's array ; Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is, O then, the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, [soul! In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Av'rice would deny His worshipp'd deity, And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll. Well! Well! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders: your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poetizing, provided that the strait jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating portion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. I am at this moment "holding high converse" with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. No. LXXV. MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. May, 1795. TEN thousand thanks for your elegant present: though I am ashamed of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means merited such an instance of kindness. I have shewn it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in class |