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And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom !
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang,
Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever;
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never!
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,

Ye freely shall partake it,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By Him who made yon sun and sky-
By whom true love's regarded,

I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted ;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manör ;
But glory is the sodger's prize,

The sodger's wealth is honour;
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.


Air-" O Bonie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack"

O ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten,
An' ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller,

The miller was strappin, the miller was ruddy';
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;
She's left the gude-fellow and taen the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

No. XIX.


7th April, 1793.


Thank you, my dear sir, for your packet. cannot imagine how much this business of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning post ), and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, "Sae merry as we a' hae been," and, raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila* shall be "Good night and joy be wi' you a'!" So much for my last words: now for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list.

The first lines of The last time I came o'er the moor, and several other lines in it, are beautiful; but in my opinion-pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay! the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. For ever fortune wilt thou prove, is a charming song; but Logan burn and Logan braes, are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may class among the Eng lish ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of Logan Water

Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila, in imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the Voice of Cona Sae merry as we a' hae been, and Good night and joy be wi you a', are the names of two Scottish tunes. E.

(for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty:

66 Now my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes."

My Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression indeed.

"Then I'll resign and marry Pate,
And syne my cockernony."

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, Rigs of Barley, to the same tune, does not altogether please me, but if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. The lass o' Patie's mill is one of Ramsay's best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued friend, Mr. Erskine, will take into his critical consideration. In sir J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes, are two claims, one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe.

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon castle with the then earl, father to earl John; and one forenoon riding, or walking out together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine water, still called, "Patie's Mill," where a bonie lass was " tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner.

One day I heard Mary say, is fine song; but, for consistency's sake, alter the name "Adonis." Were there ever such banns published, as a pur

pose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you that my song, There's nough but care on every hand, is much superior to Poorith cauld. The original song The Mill mill O, though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still, I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. The Banks of the Dee, is, you know, literally, Langolee, to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it, for instance,

"And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree."

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never a tree; and, in the seeond place, there never was a nightingale seen, or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could hit on another stanza, equal to The small birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. John Anderson my jothe song to this tune, in Johnson's museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very complete; but not so your comie 、 ones. Where are Tullochgorum, Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie Fowler, and several others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preser vation? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. It is called Craigieburn Wood; and, in the opinion of

It will be found in the course of this correspondence, that the bard produced a second stanza of The Chevalier's Lament (to which he here al Indes), worthy of the first. E.

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