again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing eatgut, 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, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them: like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service! I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and heaven knows, at present I have not capacity. I Do you know an air-I am sure you must know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town? I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. No. LXXI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 25th February, 1795. I have to thank you, my dear sir, for two epis tles, one containing Let me in this ae night; and the other from Ecclefeehan, proving, that, drunk or sober, your "mind is never muddy." You have displayed great address in the above song. answer is excellent, and at the same time takes. away the indelicaey that otherwise would have at Her The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. E. tached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now stands, very much. I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for O wat ye wha's in yon town. No. LXXII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. May, 1795. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. Tune-" Where'll bonie Ann lie." Or, "Locheroch Side." O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, Again, again that tender part, Say, was thy little mate unkind, Thou tells o' never-ending care; Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. Tune-Aye wakin 0." CHORUS. Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish, Is on the couch of anguish? Every hope is fled, Ev'ry fear is terror; Slumber even I dread, Hear me, pow'rs divine! Oh, in pity hear me ! How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air. Humours of Glen, is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows. SONG. Tune-" Humours of Glen." Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per fume, Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breekan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom: Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un seen: For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, What are they? The haunt o' the tyrant and The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun tains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his moun tains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. SONG. Tune-" Laddie lie near me." "Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kind ness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, Let me hear from you. No. LXXIII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. You must not think, my good sir, that I have any intention to enhance the value of my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, that the design and execution of the Cotter's Saturday Night, is, in my opinion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you are not quite pleased with it. The figure intended for your portrait, I think strikingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece interesting to your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the figures. I cannot express the feelings of admiration with which I have read your pathetic Address to the Woodlark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to "Laddie lie near me," though not equal to these, is very pleasing. $ 2 |