"How can your flinty hearts enjoy The song, otherwise, will pass. As to M'Gregoira Rua-Ruth, you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins: Raving winds around her blowing*." Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they were like the Banks of Banna for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twentyfive of them in an additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of Roy's Wife, for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. Deil tak the wars, is a charming song; so is, Saw ye my Peggy. There's nae luck about the house, well deserves a place. I cannot say that, O'er the hills and far awa, strikes me, as equal to your selection. This is no my ain house, is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of, I hae laid a herrin in sawt? I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty; and there are many others of the same kind, pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert, Fye let us a' to the bridal, to any other words than its own. What pleases me as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, Fie gie me my coggie Sirs, Fie let us a' to the bridal, with several others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing; while, Saw ye my father or saw ye my This will be found among the songs in vol. iii. E. mother, delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air; so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this; but, “Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." No. XLVII. Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON. October, 1793. Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed Jaden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine! The recollection that he was a coadjutor in your publication, has, till now, scared me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you. I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the Quaker's Wife; though by the bye, an old highland gentleman and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of Leiger m' choss. The following verses, I hope, will please you, as an English song to the air. Thine am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Naney; To thy bosom lay my heart, *The honourable A. Erskine, brother to lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. E. Tho' despair had wrung its core, Take away these rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure: What is life when wanting love? Your objection to the English song I proposed for John Anderson my jo, is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. print, which I think is so SONG, BY GAVIN TURNBULL. condescend, dear, charming maid, While here, all melancholy, Yet, urg'd by stern resistless fate, I heard of love, and with disdain I laugh'd at every lover's pain, And mock'd them when they sigh'd: But how my state is alter'd! Those happy days are o'er; O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, Let generous pity warm thee, The following address of Turnbull's to the nightingale, will suit as an English song to the air, There was a lass and she was fair. By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS. which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much. THE NIGHTINGALE BY G. TURNBULL. Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain. For, tho' the muses deign to aid, Vol. I. All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, In sport she wanders o'er the plain; Their tales approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain. When evening shades obscure the sky, And soothe a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to Lewie Gordon. LAURA. BY G. TURNBULL. Let me wander where I will, If at rosy dawn I chuse When at night the drowsy god |