How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom? No. LXXX. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. SCOTTISH BALLAD.. Tune-" The Lothian lassic." Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men, The deuce gae wi' m, to believe me, believe me, He spak o' the darts in my bonic black e'en, A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, I never loot on that I kend it, or ear'd, But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. In the original MS. this line runs, "He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess." Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for Gudesake! I wad be his wife, So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. FRAGMENT. Tune- The Caledonian hunt's delight. Why, why tell thy lover, Bliss he never must enjoy; word Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr. Burns replies as follows: Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confines of this county. Dalgarnock is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a burial-ground. However, let the first line run, He up the lang loan, &e" It is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives locality to our poet's verses. E. Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie. O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, Wake thy lover from his dream. Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it. I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of the tooth-ach, so have not a word to spare. No. LXXXI. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. My dear sir, 3d June, 1795. Your English verses to Let me in this ae night are tender and beautiful; and your ballad to the "Lothian lassie" is a master-piece for its humour and naiveté. The fragment for the Caledonian hunt is quited suited to the original measure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, the fragment must content it. I would rather, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian words, had it so pleased the poet; but nevertheless, for what we have received, Lord make us thankful. No. LXXXII. Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS. 5th Feb. 1796, O Robby Burns, are ye sleeping yet? The pause you have made, my dear sir, is awful! Am I never to hear from you again? I know and I lament how much you have been afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health and spirits will now enable you to resume the pen, and delight us with your musings. I have still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I wish "married to immortal verse." We have several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish list; but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our own good subjects. Indeed we have none better. I believe I before told you that I have been much urged by some friends to publish a collection of all our favourite airs and songs in octavo, embellished with a number of etchings by our ingenious friend Allan; what is your opinion of this? No. LXXXIII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. February, 1796. Many thanks, my dear sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs. B, aad for my remaining vol. of P. Pindar.-Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much. HEY FOR LASS WI' A TOCHER. Tune-"Balinamona ora.” Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, CHORUS. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow guineas for me. Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, And withers the faster, the faster it grows; But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes. They hey, oe, And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest; But the sweet, yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them-the mair they're earest, Then hey, &c. If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In ny by-past songs, I dislike one |