to my taste, and I will add to every genuine Caled☞-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..

LORD GREGORY.

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar ;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove

By bonnie Irwine side,

Where first I own'd that virgin-love

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 flinty is thy breast:

Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!

Ye mustering thunders from above
Your willing victim see!

But spare and pardon my fause love,
His wrangs to heaven and me!*

* The song of Dr Walcott, on the same subject, is as follows:

Ah! ope, Lord Gregory, thy door!

A midnight wanderer sighs;

Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,

And lightnings cleave the skies.

Who comes with woe at this drear night
A pilgrim of the gloom?

If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.

Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,
That once was priz'd by thee;
Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.

But should'st thou not poor Marian know,

I'll turn my feet and part:

And think the storms that round me blow,

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 old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin.

F.

My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman who favoured me with a postscript last. He shall hear from me and receive

in

your

his MSS. soon.

No. XIII.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

20th March, 1793.

MARY MORISON.

Tune BIDE YE YET."

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:

How blithly wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard or saw.

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are nae Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

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.

No. XIV.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

March, 1793 :

WANDERING WILLIE.

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 e'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 trow 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 Muir, · be the best.

C.6