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S O N G.


O CONDESCEND, dear charming maid,

My wretched state to view ;
A tender swain to love betray'd,

And sad despair, by you.

While here, all melancholy,

My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate,

I love thee more and more.

I heard of love, and with disdain,

The urchin's power denied ; I laughed at every lover's pain,

And mock'd them when they sigh'd.

But how my state is alter'd !

Those happy days are o'er; For all thy unrelenting hate,

I love thee more and more.

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield,

No longer let me mourn; And tho' victorious in the field,

Thy captive do not scorn.


Let generous pity warm thee,

My wonted peace restore ;
And, grateful, I shall bless thee still,

And love thee more and more.

The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale, will suit as an English song to the air, There was a lass and she was fair. By the by, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS. which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.



THOU sweetest minstrel of the grove, ,

That ever tried the plaintive strain, Awake thy tender tale of love,

And sooth a poor forsaken swain.


For tho' the muses deign to aid,

And teach him smoothly to complain ; Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,

Is deaf to her forsaken swain,

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All day, with fashion's gaudy sons,

In sport she wanders o'er the plain : Their tales approves, and still she shuns

The notes of her forsaken swain.

When evening shades obscure the sky,

And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody,

And sooth a poor forsaken swain.

I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon.



LET me wander where I will,
By shady wood, or winding rill;
Where the sweetest May-born flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers;
Where the linnet's early song
Echoes sweet the woods among :
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.


If at rosy dawn I chuse,
To indulge the smiling muse;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noon-tide heat ;
If beneath the moon's pale ray,
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.

When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod,
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise;
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro' the fairy land of love;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity



7th Nov. 1793.


AFTER so long a silence, it gave me peculiar pleasure to recognize your well-known hand, for I had begun to be apprehensive that all was not well with you. I am happy to find, however, that

your silence did not proceed from that cause, and that you have got among the ballads once more.

I have to thank


for your English song to Leiger m' choss, which I think extremely good, although the colouring is warm. Your friend Mr. Turnbull's songs have doubtless considerable merit; and as you have the command of his manuscripts, I hope you may find out some that will answer, as English songs, to the airs yet unprovided.


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