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Margaret, and is to give it to me, to be enrolled among the elect.

No. LXXVII.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

IN Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement:

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad,
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad.

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame, whom the Graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the loves have armed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment and dispute her commands if you dare!

:

SONG.

Tune-" THIS IS NO MY AIN HOUSE."

CHORUS.

O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair tho' the lassie be

O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e'e.

I see a form, I see a face,

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place ::
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is no, &c.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang as had my heart in thrall;

And ay it charms my very saul,

The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is no, &c.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are lovers' een,
When kind love is in the e'e.
O this is no, &c.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is no, &c.

Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of Clarke at last? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cunningham.

I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, and that you may copy the song, O bonnie was yon rosy brier. I do not know whether I am right; but that song pleases me, and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of I wish my love was in a mire; and poor Er skine's English lines may follow.

I enclose you, a For a' that and a' that, which was never in print; it is a much superior song to mine. I have been told that it was composed by a lady.

...

To MR CUNNINGHAM.

SCOTTISH SONG.

Now spring has clad the grove in green,

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers:
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift-a silver dart;

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art.

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I;

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

The little flow'rets peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine; till love has o'er me past,
And blighted a' my bloom,

And now beneath the with'ring blast
My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blithe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye;

As little reckt I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snare

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O, had

my

fate been Greenland snows,.

Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,

So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

in

The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair,"
What tongue his woes can tell!
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.

SCOTTISH SONG.

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier,

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man;
And bonnie she, and, ah! how dear!
It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew,
How pure amang the leaves sae green;
But purer was the lover's vow

They witnessed in their shade yestreen.

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair;
But love is far a sweeter flower
Amid life's thorny path o' care.

The pathless wild and wimpling burn,
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine;
And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris.

so many

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