the yowes to the knowes, as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfections on its head. CHORUS. Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Hark, the mavis' evening sang Sounding Clouden's woods amang; Then a faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie. Ca' the, &c. * We'll The river Clouden, or Cluden, a tributary stream to the Nith. E. We'll gae down by Clouden side, Yonder Clouden's silent towers, Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie. Fair and lovely as thou art, I can die-but canna part, My bonnie dearie. Ca' the, &c. I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. VOL. IV. M No. No. LVII. MR. BURNS to MR. THOMSON. Sept. 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song called Onagh's Water-fall? The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of her's shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum, and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above-mentioned, for that work. If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing before ladies. SHE SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. Tune-" ONAGH'S WATER-FALL." SAE flaxen were her ringlets, Her eye-brows of a darker hue, Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ancle is a spy Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Ilk feature-auld nature Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Her's are the willing chains o' love, And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city, And gaudy shew at sunny noon; The dewy eve, and rising moon Her silver light the boughs amang; The amorous thrush concludes his sang: Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always without any hypocrisy confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, |