The lintwhite in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower;

The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.*
Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning,

Banishes ilk darksome shade,
Nature gladdening and adorning ;

Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent from my fair,

The murky shades o' care

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky;.
But when in beauty's light,
She meets my ravish'd sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart ;

'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.†

Variation. Now to the streaming fountain,

Or up the heathy mountain,

The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray ;

In twining hazel bowers

His lay the linnet pours;

The lav'rock, &c.

+ Variation. When frae my Chloris parted,

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,

E.

The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my sky. But when she charms my sight,

In pride of beauty's light;

When thro' my very heart

Her blooming glories dart ;

'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy.

E.

If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I wiil vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood.

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman, who brought it over, is a particular acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it.

THE AULD MAN.

BUT lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoic'd the day,

Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:

But now our joys are fled,

On winter blasts awa!

Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe

Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,

Sinks in time's wintry rage.

Oh! age has weary days,

And night's o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again!

I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please: whether this miserable drawling hotchpotch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence?

No. LXI.

MR THOMSON to MR BURNS.

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794.

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine poet can no more exist without his mistress than his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so often enraptured the Scottish bard! that I might drink her sweet health when the toast is going round. Craigie-burnWood must certainly be adopted into my family, since she is the object of the song; but in the name of decency I must beg a new chorus-verse from you. O to be lying beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consummation to be wished, but will not do for singing in the company of ladies. The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your opinion with respect to the additional airs. The idea of sending them into the world naked as they were born ungenerous. They must all be clothed and decent by our friend Clarke.

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunningham in sending you Ritson's Scottish collection. Permit me, therefore, to present you with his English collection, which you will receive by the coach. I do not find his historical essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be much more so. Allan has just sketched a charming design from Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing too, while he he is playing with the most exquisite glee. I am am much inclined to get a small copy, and to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints.

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes say concerning Maggie Lauder? was she a real personage, and of what rank? You would surely spier for her if you ca'd at Anstruther town.

No. LXII.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

November, 1794.

MANY thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present. It is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious, dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c. it would be im

possible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work.* In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for My Lodging is on the cold Ground. On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which I, in my return from the visit, wrought into the following song.

My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair;
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
And o'er the cottage sings:
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
In lordly lighted ha':

The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blithe, in the birken shaw.

The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn;

It does not appear whether Burns completed these anec es, &c. Something of the kind (probably the rude draughts) found amongst his papers, and appears in vol. ii.