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*!

My most respectful compliments to the honours able gentleman, who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon.

* 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. E.

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 blythly 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 na 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 impossible (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 on 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 na the blast brought the tear in my e'e: Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Wil

lie,

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 faithfulest Nanie,

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.

No. XV.

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!

With alterations.

Oh open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh*;

Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh.

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh:

The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh.

The wan moon is setting behind the white waye
And time is setting with me, Oh:

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh.

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide,
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh:
My true love she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, Oh.

I do not know whether this song be really mended.

* This second line was originally,

If love it may na be, Oh!

E.

No. XVI.

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON.

JESSIE.

Tune-"Bonie Dundee."

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain,
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
And sweet is the lily at evening close;
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie,
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger!
Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'.

No. XVII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. I will not recognize the title you give yourself, "the prince of indolent correspondents;" but if the adjective were taken away, I think the title would then fit you exactly. It gives me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes with respect to most of the songs: these will be a literary curiosity.