O weel ken I my ain lassie, I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place: She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, Since with my love I've changed vows, Another Jacobite song runs thus: "This is nae my plaid, My plaid, my plaid; This is nae my plaid, Bonny tho' the colour be. The grounds o' mine were mix'd wi' blue, I gat it frae the lad I lue; He ne'er has gien me cause to rue, And oh his plaid is dear to me.' B. O this is no my ain lassie, O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e'e. Do you know that you have roused the torpidity of Clarke at last? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The inclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to present to my valued friend Cunningham. I inclose the sheet open, both for your inspection, and that you may copy the song, 'O bonnie was yon rosy brier.' I do not know whether I am right; but that song pleases me, and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's newly roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of 'I wish my love was in a mire;' and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. 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 : TO MR CUNNINGHAM. NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. SCOTTISH SONG. Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers: The trout within yon wimpling burn And safe beneath the shady thorn My life was ance that careless stream, The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine; till love has o'er me past, And now beneath the with'ring blast The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, In morning's rosy eye; Until the flowery snare O' witching love, in luckless hour, O had my fate been Greenland snows, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair," What tongue his woes can tell! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. O bonnie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man: And bonnie she, and ah, how dear! Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green; They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris : TO 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 adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, Thine is the self-approving glow, The joys refin'd of sense and taste, Une bagatelle de l'amitié.-CoILA. No. LXXX. MR THOMSON TO BURNS. MY DEAR SIR, EDINBURGH, 3d August, 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 |