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; 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, O weel ken I my ain lassie, I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place :: 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. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,, It may escape the courtly sparks, 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 trout within yon wimpling burn And safe beneath the shady thorn My life was ance that careless stream, But love, wi' unrelenting beam, The little flow'rets peaceful lot, Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And now beneath the with'ring blast 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, O' witching love, in luckless hour, 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," SCOTTISH SONG. O BONNIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, They witnessed in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; The pathless wild and wimpling burn, 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 |