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O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET.

I.

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,
Mally's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally's fair,

Mally's every way complete.
As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet;
But O the road was very hard

For that fair maiden's tender feet.

II.

It were mair meet that those fine féet
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon,
And 'twere more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

III.

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck; And her two eyes, like stars in skies,

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet,

Mally's modest and discreet,

Mally's rare, Mally's fair,

Mally's every way complete.

["O Mally's meek, and Mally's sweet," stands in the Museum the last of all the communications of Burns. The Poet one day, it is said, was walking along the Highstreet of Dumfries, when he met a young woman from the country, who, with her shoes and stockings packed thriftily up, and her petticoats kilted,

"Which did sweetly shaw

Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw,"

was proceeding towards the Galloway side of the Nith. This sight, by no means so unusual then as now, influenced the muse of Burns, and the result was this exquisite lyric. The last verse is uncommonly happy. It would appear that her name was not unknown to the Poet, but

"For reasons best kent to himself,"

he has communicated no more than what the verses relate.

ED.]

No. LXXXIV.

G. THOMSON TO BURNS.

5th Feb. 1796.

"O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet?
Or are ye waukin, I would wit ?"

THE pause you have made, my dear Sir, is awful! Am I never to hear from you again? I know and I lament how much you have been afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health and spirits will now enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with your musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish "married to immortal verse." We have several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they are now naturalized and reckoned our own good subjects: indeed, we have none better. I believe I before told you that I have been much urged by some friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan: what is your opinion of this?

[Burns had made a pause in his correspondence from June 1795 to February 1796; and Thomson feeling alarm, as much for the Poet's sake as for the "dozen of Scotch and Irish airs" which he wished "wedded to

immortal verse," wrote to make inquiries. Something in the tone of the letter, and the circumstance of pressing a sick man to write songs, seem to indicate that Thomson did not imagine that Burns was in a dangerous state. Nor is this surprising :-he was wildly gay or gloomily downcast by fits and starts: Professor Walker, who had an interview with him in the latter end of the year, failed to perceive in his fiercet one of conversation, and the almost convulsive resolution to abide by the wine, the presence of that twofold sickness of mind and body which was soon to carry him to the grave. He was, nevertheless, to use the words of a Scottish song,

"Fading in his place;"

and his wearing away was observed by all who took any interest in his fortunes.-ED.]

No. LXXXV.

BURNS TO G, THOMSON.

February, 17, 1796.

MANY thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present, to Mrs. Burns, and for my remaining volume of Peter Pindar.-Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine.

I am much

pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings, I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for.

I have, already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much :

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER.

Tune-" Balinamona Ora."

I.

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.

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