THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

*The two first lines are taken from an old ballad-the rest is wholly original.-Currie.

This song is a great improvement on the old ballad; but still it was not a bad song, and bereaves this of the claim of originality. It is as follows:

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,

He's the king o' gude fellows and the wale o' auld men,
He has kie in his bires, an' yowes on the brae,
And auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun hae.

Dear father, he's doited, a shame to be seen;
And what can he do wi' a lass o' nineteen !

He's out-shinn'd, and in-shinn'd, and ringle-e'ed too,
And auld Rob Morris I never can loe.

But auld Rob Morris, he is a gude laird,

And your daddy has nought but a cot-house and yard,
He's a leel and a hale and a proper auld man,
And his auld brass will buy you a new pan.

H.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May:
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay:
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me naue;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane :
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past discriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!

DUNCAN GRAY.*

DUNCAN Gray cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blithe yule night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,

Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd:

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

* Burns, no doubt, took upon himself to be the renovator of Scottish song, and in that capacity has perhaps done us as much service as in his own original capacity. This is a clever modification of a clever old inadmissible ballad.-H.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,*

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his een baith bleert and blin',

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to-France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Meg grew sick

-as he grew heal,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings,

For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan couldna be her death,

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and canty baith.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.t

* A well-known rock in the Frith of Clyde.

This has nothing in common with the old licentious ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first line, and part of the third.-The rest is wholly original.- Currie.

4th December, 1792.

The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them, or condemn them, as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature.

No. X.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

SONG.*

Tune-" I had a horse."

O POORTITH Cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An 'twere na for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love,
Depend on Fortune's shining?

This warld's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;

Fie, fie on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't.
O why should fate, &c.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray,

How she repays my passion;

The heroine of this beautiful song was Miss Jean Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall in Kirkmahoe. We very much suspect that the Poet's admiration of her was, from all we have heard," of the earth earthly."-M.

But prudence is her o'erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.

O why should fate, &c.

O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?

O why should fate, &c.

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! *
He woos his simple dearie;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?

GALLA WATER.+

THERE'S braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,

Can match the lads o' Galla Water.

* "The wild-wood Indian's fate," in the original MS. + This was founded on the old song of Galla Water,' which we subjoin. The old words, which appear in Johnson's Museum, and in song collections fifty years before, Mr Cunningham, owing to some odd overlook, ascribes in part to Burns. As they appear in the Museum, they had appeared in various publications many years before the birth of the Poet. Many traditional variations occur, and numerous streams beside the Galla claim the precedence for the "braw lads," who dwell on their banks.

Braw, braw lads of Galla Water,

O braw lads of Galla Water;

I'll kilt my coats up to my knee,

And follow my love thro' the water.