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dotes : I care not how long they be, for it is im: possible that any thing from your pen can be te, dious. Let me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling me when you wish to present any of your friends with the songs : the next carrier will bring you three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty, as to a pinch of snuff.

No. LXIV.

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON.

19th November, 1794. You see, my dear sir, what a punctual correspondent I am ; though indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For, instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old,

Tune“ The Sow's tail."

HE.
O Philly, happy be that day
When roving through the gather'd hay,
My youthful heart was stown away,

And by thy charms, my Philly.

SHE.
O Willy, aye I bless the grove
Where first I own'd my maiden love,
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers abóre

To be my ain dear Willy.

HE.
As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear

And charming is my Philly.

SHE.
As on the briar the budding rose
Still richer breathes and fairer blows,
So in my tender bosom grows

The love I bear my Willy.

HE.
The milder sun and bluer sky,
That crowns my harvest cares wi' joy,
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye

As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE.
The little swallow's wanton wing,
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring,
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring,

As meeting o' my Willy.

HE.
The bee that thro’ the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compar'd with my delight is poor,

Upon the lips o' Philly.

SHE.
The woodbine in the dewy weet
When evening shades in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet

As is a kiss o' Willy,

HE. Let fortune's wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; My thoughts are a' bound up in ane,

And that's my ain dear Philly.

SHE.
What's a' the joys that gowd can gie !
I care na wealth a single fiie;
The lad I love's the lad for me,

And that's my ain dear Willy.

Tell me honestly how you like it; and point out whatever you think faulty.

I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name, Philly; but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for siinplicity: whereas, simplicity is as much eloignée from vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit, on the other.

I agree with you as to the air, Craigie-burn-wood, that a chorus would in some degree spoil the ef. feet ; and shall certainly bave none in my projected song to it. It is not however a ease in point with Rothemurche ; there, as in Roy's wife of Alilivaloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, well enouglr. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with Roy's wife, as well as Rothemurche. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbalange the wapt of.

Try,

O Roy's wife of Aldivaloch.
O lassie wi' the lint-white locks.

and

Compare with,

Roy's wife of Aldivaloch.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks.

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Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you? In the last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild originality of the air ; whereas, in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste; if I am wrong I beg pardon of the cognoscenti.

The Caledonian hunt is 60 charming, that it would make any subject, in a song, go down; bat pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, Todlin hame is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition; and Andrew and his cutty gun is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ach. A propos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one yesterday, for an air I like much-Lumps o' pudding.

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o'gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a soger, and life is a faught :
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare

touch.

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A towmond o' trouble, should that be my Pa',
A night oogude fellowship sowthers it a':

When at the blythe end of our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks of the road he has past?

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or

pain ; My warst word is Welcome and welcome again!"

If you do not relish the air, I will send it to Jobnson.

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an English song to Roy's Wife. You will allow me that in this instance, my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy i

Tune-“ Roy's Wife."

CHORUS.

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Well thou know'st my aching heart,
And canst tkou leave me thus for pity?

Is this thy plighted, fond regard,

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward-
An aching, broken heart, my Katy?

Canst thou, dc.

Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows teatre

That fickle heart of thine, my Katy!

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