Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond-plighted vows-fleeting as air!

To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try

What peace

is there!.

By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he well remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs to both Robin Adair,' and Gramachree.' They certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish taste in them.

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness: so it could not be any intercourse with Ireland that could bring them ;-except, what I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go frequently errant through the wilds both of Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite airs might be common to both. A case in point-they have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish air, as they say, called Caun du delish.' The fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while ago, you will find the same air, called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is 'Oran Gaoil,' and a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic parson,* about these matters.

No. XXXIV.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

MY DEAR SIR,

August, 1793.

• LET me in this ae night,' I will reconsider. I am glad that you are pleased with my song, Had I a cave,' &c. as I liked it myself.

*The Gaelic parson referred to, was, we are informed, the Rev. Joseph Robertson Macgregor.

I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand, when, turning up Allan Water,' "What numbers shall the muse repeat," &c. as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. I may be wrong; but I think it not in my worst style. You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is ́ Allan Water,' or 'My love Annie's very bonnie.' This last has certainly been a line of the original song; so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the line in its place, which I presume it formerly occupied ; though I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy: :

BY ALLAN STREAM.

By Allan-stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi ;*
The winds were whispering thro' the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready :

I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures many;
And the wild-wood echoes rang-
aye

O dearly do I love thee, Annie !+

O happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ;

Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!

Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!"

While mony a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

* A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3,009 feet high.-R. B. Or, "O my love Annie's very bonnie."-R. B.

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,
The simmer joys the flocks to follow:
How cheery thro' her shortening day,

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

think so

Bravo! say I it is a good song. Should you too, (not else,) you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses.

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than all the year else.

God bless you!

No. XXXV.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

August, 1793.

Is Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,' one of your airs? I admire it much; and yesterday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much; but as I understand that he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. However, if the song does not suit your taste, I may possibly send it him. The set of the air which I had in my eye is in Johnson's Museum.

O WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back-stile and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin to me,
And come as ye were na comin to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye car'd na a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me,

Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.
O whistle, &c.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ;
But court nae anither, though jokin ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ;
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.*

Another favourite air of mine is, 'The muckin o' Geordie's byre.' When sung slow with expression, I have wished that it had had better poetry; that I have endeavoured to supply as follows :

ADOWN WINDING NITH.

Adown winding Nith I did wander,

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;

* In some of the MSS. the four first lines of this song run thus:

"O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo,

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo;

Tho' father and mother and a' should say no,
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo."

L

Currie.

Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sing.
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis!
For she is simplicity's child.

Awa' wi' your belles, &c.

The rose bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest :
How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast.
Awa wi' your belles, &c.

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie;
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye.
Awa wi' your belles, &c.

Her voice is the song of the morning,
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove,
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
Awa wi' your belles, &c.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer's day!
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare ;