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tish verses, to the air of I wish my love was in a mire; and poor Erskine's English lines may folIow.

I inclose you a For a' that, and a' that, which was never in print: it is a much superior song to mine. I have been told that it was composed by a lady.



Now spring has clad the grove


And strew'd the lea wi' flowers :
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen

Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka thing in nature join

Their sorrows to forego!
O why thus all alone are mine

The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn

Glides swift, a silver dart,
And safe beneath the shady thorn

Defies the angler's art.
My life was ance that careless stream,

That wanton trout was I ;
But love, wi' unrelenting beam,

Has scorch'd my fountains dry.

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,

In yonder cliff that grows,
Which save the linnet's flight, I wot,

Nae ruder visit knows,
Was mine; till love has o'er me past,

And blighted a' my bloom,
And now beneath the with'ring blast

My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs

And climbs the early sky,

Winnowing blythe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye ;
As little reckt I sorrow's power,

Until the flowery snare
O'witching love, in luckless hour,

Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,

Or Afric's burning zone,
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes,

So Peggy ne'er I'd known !
T'he wretch whasę doom is “hope nae mair,"

What tongue his woes can tell !
Within whase bosom save despair,

Nae kinder spirits dwell.


bonnie was yon rosy brier,

That blooms sae far frae haunt o man; And bonnie she, and ah, how dear!

It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew

How pure, amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover's vow

They witness'd in their shade yestreen.

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! But love is far a sweeter flower

Amid life's thorny path o' care.

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn,

Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,

Its joys and griefs alike resign.


Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edi

tion of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, in so many fietitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris.

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend,

Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend

The moralizing muse.

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,

Must bid the world adien
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms),

To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast,

Chill came the tempest's lour ;
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast

Did nip a fairer flower.)

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,

Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store,

The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow,

On conscious honour's part ;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,

Thine friendship's truest heart ;

The joys refin'd of sense and taste,

With every muse to rove :
And doubly were the poet blest

These joys could he improve.

Une bagatelle de l'amitié,




My dear sir,

Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brianton, who has read your works, and pants for the honour of your acquaintance. I do not know the gentleman, but his friend, who applied to me for this introduction, being an excellent young man, I have no doubt he is worthy of all acceptation.

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my mind feasted, with your last packet-full of pleasant things indeed. What an imagination is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you, that I am delighted with all the three songs, as well as with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris.

I am sorry you should be induced to alter 0 whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad, to the prosaic line, Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do not think the latter either reads or sings so well as the former. I wish, therefore, you would in my name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she be, to let the line remain unaltered*.

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every body regrets his writing so very little, as every body acknowledges his ability to write well. Pray was the resolution formed coolly before dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a bowl of punch with the bard ?

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what you have sent him.

* The editor, who has heard the heroine of this song sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity that it requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's petition unreasonable. If we mistake not, this is the same lady who produced the lines to the tune of Roy's Wife, p. 135.

P. S. The lady's For a' that and a' that, is sensible enough, but no more to be compared to yours than I to Hercules.




Tune-" Let me in this ae night."
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe

At which I most repine, love.


O wert thou, love, but near me,
But near, near, near me ;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,

And mingle sighs with mine, love.

Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy:
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in these arms of thine, love.

O wert, &c.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison fortune's ruthless dart-
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.

O wert, bc.

But dreary tho' the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet !
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.

o wert, 6c.

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