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to my taste, and I will add to every genuina Caledo. nian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever.
The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His Gregory is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter : that would be presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has I think more of the ballad simplicity in it.
And loud the tempest's roar ;
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
By bonnie Irwine side,
I lang, lang had denied ?
How aften didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay be mine ;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And Ainty is thy breast :
() wilt thou give me rest !
Ye mustering thunders from above
Your willing victim see!
His wrangs to heaven and me !*
A midnight wanderer sighs ;
And lightnings cleave the skies.
Who comes with woe at this drear night
A pilgrim of the gloom?
My cot shall yield her room.
Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,
That once was priz'd by thee ;
Thou gav'st to love and me.
But should'st thou not poor Marian know,
I'll turn my feet and part:
Far kinder than thy heart.
It is but doing justice to Dr Walcott to mention, that his song is the original. Mr Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the same subject, which is derived from an Cold Scottish ballad of uncertain origin,
My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon.
O MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour !
That make the miser's treasure poor :
A weary slave frae sun to sun ;
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', ;
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a the town,
“ Ye are nae Mary Morison.” , ac
O'Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,"
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Whase only faut is loving thee ?
At least be pity to me shown;
MY DEAR SIR,
The song prefixed is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is im. possible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty.
What is become of the list, &c. of your songs? I shall be out of all temper with you by-and-by. I have always looked upon myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any body else.
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.
Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
It was nae the blast brought the tear in my c'e: Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie;
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.
Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers !
O how your wild 'horrors a lover alarms! Awaken ye breezes ! row gently ye billows !
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms!
But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main! May I never see it, may I never trów it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain!
............ I leave it to you, my dear . Sir, to determine - whether the above, or the old Thro' the lang Muira, be the best.