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No. LXX.

MR THOMSON TO BURNS.

MY DEAR SIR,

EDINBURGH, 30th Jan. 1795.

I THANK you heartily for Nannie's awa,' as well as for 'Craigie-burn,' which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts in the same style, strikes me very forcibly; and it has again and again excited my wonder to find you continually surmounting this difficulty in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, For a' that,' shall undoubtedly be included in my list.

No. LXXI.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

February, 1795.

HERE is another trial at your favourite air :

Tune-"Let me in this ae night."

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet,

Or art thou wakin, I would wit?

For love has bound me hand and foot,

And I would fain be in, jo.

O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,

O rise and let me in, jo!

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet

Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
O let me in, &c.

The bitter blast that round me blaws
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo!

HER ANSWER.

O tell na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gait ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.

I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo!

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,

Now trodden like the vilest weed;

Let simple maid the lesson read,

The weird may be her ain, jo.
I tell you now, &c.

The bird that charm'd his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey;

Let witless, trusting, woman say
How aft her fate's the same, jo
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,
And ance for a' this ae night,

I winna let you in, jo !*

I do not know whether it will do.

*The greater part of this song is almost literally copied from old verses, which, under the same title, appear in Herd's collection. We subjoin part of the elder lyric:

LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT.

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet;
Or are you waking I would wit?

For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,

O let me in this ae night,

And I'll ne'er come back again, jo.

The morn it is the term-day,

I maun away, I canna stay,
O! pity me before I gae,

And rise and let me in, jo.
O let me in, &c.

The night it is baith cauld and weet;
The morn it will be snaw and sleet,

My shoon are frozen to my feet,
Wi' standing on the plain, jo.
O let me in, &c.

I am the laird of Windy-wa's,
I come na here without a cause,

And I hae gotten mony fa's

Upon a naked wame, jo.
O let me in, &c.

My father's wa'king on the street,

My mither the chamber-keys does keep;
My chamber-door does chirp and cheep,
And I dare nae let you in, jo.

No. LXXII.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

MY DEAR THOMSON,

ECCLEFECHAN, 7th Feb. 1795.

You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as Supervisor, (in which capacity I have acted of late,) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress; I have tried to "gae back the gait I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them; like a prudent man, (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed,) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am, very drunk at your service!*

O gae your ways this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night,

O gae your ways this ae night,
For I dare nae let you in, jo.

But I'll come stealing saftly in,
And cannily make little din ;
And then the gate to you I'll find,

If you'll but direct me in, jo.

O let me in this ae night,

This ae, ae, ae night,

O let me in this ae night,

And I'll ne'er come back again, jo. M.

"The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet

Ecclefechan at this rate,"- -so says Dr Currie, and our ingenious

I wrote to you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and, Heaven knows, at present I have not capacity.

Do you know an air-I am sure you must know it'We'll gang nae mair to yon town?' I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it.

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.

No. LXXIII.

MR THOMSON TO BURNS.

25th February, 1795.

I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two epistles, one containing 'Let me in this ae night;' and the other from Ec

friend Allan Cunningham, who is quite at home in all connected with that interesting district of Scotland which claims him as one of her gifted sons of song, contributes in his edition of Burns the following lively anecdote :-"Ecclefechan is a little thriving village in Annandale: nor is it more known for its hiring fairs than for beautiful lassies and active young men. The latter, when cudgel-playing was regularly taught to the youth of the Scottish lowlands, distinguished themselves by skill and courage; they did not, however, enjoy their fame without contention: they had frequent feuds with the lads of Lockerby, and their laurels were put in jeopardy. On an old New Year's-day, some thirty years ago, Ecclefechan sent some two hundred 'sticks' against Lockerby: they drew themselves up beside an old fortalice, and intimated their intention of keeping their post till the sun went down-they bit their thumbs, flourished their oak saplings, and said, We wad like to see wha wad hinder us.' This was a matter of joy to the lads of Lockerby: an engagement immediately took place, and Ecclefechan seemed likely to triumph, when-I grieve to write it—a douce elder of the kirk seizing a stick from one who seemed unskilful in using it, rushed forward, broke the enemy's ranks, pushed the lads of Ecclefechan rudely out of the place, and exclaimed, 'That's the way we did lang syne!' The Poet paid Ecclefechan many a visit, friendly and official, and even wrought its almost unpronounceable name into a couple of songs."

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