My eyes have just been gladdened, and my mind feasted, with your last packet-full of pleasant things indeed. What an imagination is yours! It is superfluous to tell you that I am delighted with all the three songs, as well as with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris.

I am sorry you should be induced to alter, O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad, to the prosaic line, Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do not think the latter either reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, therefore, you would in my name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered.*

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every body regrets his writing so very little, as every body acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray was the resolution formed coolly before

dinner,

*The Editor, who has heard the heroine of this song sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that it requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's petition unreasonable. If we mistake not, this is the same lady who produced the lines to the tune of Roy's wife, p. 224.

E.

dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a bowl of punch with the bard?

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what you have sent him.

P. S. The lady's, For a' that and a' that, is sensible enough, but no more to be compared to yours than I to Hercules.

No. LXXIX.

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON.

ENGLISH SONG.

Tune-" LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT."

FORLORN, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe

At which I most repine, love.

CHORUS.

CHORUS.

O wert thou, love, but near me,
But near, near, near me;

How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love.

Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.
O wert, &c.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison fortune's ruthless dart-
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
O wert, &c.

But dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet!
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.
O wert, &c.

How

How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus, but what say you to his bottom?

No. LXXX.

MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON.

SCOTTISH BALLAD.

Tune-"THE LOTHIAN LASSIE."

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;

I said there was naething I hated like men,

The deuce wi' gae

m,

to believe

me,

The deuce gae wi' m, to believe me.

believe me,

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow'd for my love he was dying;

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean,
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I kenn'd' it, or car'd,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her!

He

up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,* Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her,

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But

In the original MS this line runs, "He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess," Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the word Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr. Burns replies as follows:

"Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confines of this county. Dalgarnock is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a burial-ground. However, let the first line run, He up the lang loan," &c.

It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives locality to our poet's verses.

E.