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Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey,
Asi sooth ze wi tidings o' nature's decay:
Ta- dark, dreary vinter, and wild-driving snaw,
Aiace can delight me-now Nannie's awa.

How does this please you ? As to the point of time, for the expression, in your proposed print from mg Sodger's Return, it must certainly be at—" She gaz'd." The interesting dubity and suspence tak. ing possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness with a misture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me, as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, Fours.

og of her code of roguish prior will make

No. LXVII.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

January, 1795.

I FEAR for my songs; however a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we, poetic folks, been describing the spring, for instance

in continues the same, there must

in the imagery, &c. of these sos

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and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song ; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that ;
The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toil's obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin grey, and a that ;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves ticum

A man's a man for a' that ;
For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a thea'
The honest man, though em seus

Is king o' men for a thu

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd to the

Wha struts, and elas, kas
Tho' hundreds workiuj

He's but a quot dut.
Pra' that, asd disk

'band, alan

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.

No. LXIX.
MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

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O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet?
Or art thou wakin, I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,

And I would fain be in, jo.

CHORUS. .
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.

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.

O let me in, &c.

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, &c.

HER ANSWER.

O tell na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gait ye cam again,

I winna let you in, jo.

CHORUS.
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.

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.

I tell you now, &c.

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,

Now trodden like the vilest weed; VOL. IV.

Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo,

I tell you now, 8c.

The bird that charm’d his summer-day,

Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; · Let witless, trusting, woman say

How aft her fate's the same jo.

I tell you now, &c.

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MY DEAR THOMSON, Ecclefechan, 7th Feb. 1795.

You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. "In the course of niy duty as Supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress; I have tried to “gae back the gait - I cam again,” but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturiog catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk,

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