III.

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,

Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

IV.

If thou refuse to pity me,

If thou shalt, love anither,

When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither.

Farewell! God bless you.

[In his noble song, "A man's a man for a' that," the Poet has vindicated the natural and unalienable rights of his species-he has distinguished between our social condition as contemplated by God, and that artificial state brought about by the perverse ingenuity of man. In resorting to first principles, he is compelled to speak with contempt of hereditary rank, and treat it as a manifest usurpation. That genius and enterprize should raise themselves in society seems as natural as for the sun to shine; but that they will continue in the familyline from generation to generation, no person but a prince expects. God made genius personal—not hereditary: he gave the wisdom to Solomon which he refused to Rehoboam and even in our own country, noble houses may be pointed out of which nothing remains noble save the name. Burns could not but feel that wealth, not talent,

is the way to titles: the most glorious persons in British story went to the dust with plain "master" on their coffin-lids :-Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, Locke. There should be rank and honours for all those who greatly distinguish themselves in literature and arts, as well as in arms. He who would truly contemplate the history of a country should consider that its greatness arises from the union of many qualities: Watt deserves a place as well as Wellington: nor are the achievements of Scott to be forgotten in the account of battles by sea and shore. Titles should flow from the fountain of honour readily and unsolicited to all who are illustrious: instead of which they flow almost solely to the wealthy. Those who have amassed fortunes by all manner of speculation, and have become swollen and big, like striped pumpkins flourishing on heaps of dung, are sure to have the sword laid on their shoulders, or their brows enclosed in coronets. There is nothing left for genius but to join in the song of Burns

"Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that;

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that."

In this sentiment men of talent should join more earnestly, since it has been publicly declared that genius is so supremely blest as not at all to require other distinction a doctrine which decrees to dulness the star and the garter

"Amen-and virtue is its own reward.”—ED.]

No. LXIX.

G. THOMSON TO BURNS.

MY DEAR SIR:

Edinburgh, 30th January, 1795.

I THANK you heartily for "Nannie's awa," as well as for "Craigie-burn," which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in the same style, strikes me very forcibly; and it has again and again excited my wonder to find you continually surmounting this difficulty, in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, "For a' that," shall undoubtedly be included in my list.

[In these cold words "Your vive la bagatelle song, 'For a' that,' shall undoubtedly be included in my list," Thomson accepts the present of a song which will live while the language lasts. It is likely that the verses were in his sight too bold, and that he would have preferred lines with

"Twin pigeons billing, sparrows treading, '

Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding,"

as a reverend divine, Dean Swift, expresses it.-ED.]

No. LXX.

BURNS TO G. THOMSON.

February, 1795.

HERE is another trial at your favourite air :—

Tune-" Let me in this ae night.”,

I.

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet,

Or art thou waking, I would wit?

For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.

O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!

II.

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet:
Tak pity on my weary feet,

And shield me frae the rain, jo.

III.

The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.

O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;

For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!

HER ANSWER.

I.

O tell na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.

I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;

And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo!

II.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rer pours, Is nocht to what poor she endures, That's trusted faithless man, jo.