O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her e'e.

I see a form, I see a face,

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place:
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her e'e.
O this is no, &c.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;

Since with my love I've changed vows,
I dinna like the bigging o't."

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,
Fair tho' the lassie be;

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 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 wo?

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 blithe 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!

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!
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 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)
To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lower;
(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.-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