again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing eatgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them: like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service!

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and heaven knows, at present I have not capacity.

I

Do you know an air-I am sure you must know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town? I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.

No. LXXI.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

25th February, 1795. I have to thank you, my dear sir, for two epis tles, one containing Let me in this ae night; and the other from Ecclefeehan, proving, that, drunk or sober, your "mind is never muddy." You have displayed great address in the above song. answer is excellent, and at the same time takes. away the indelicaey that otherwise would have at

Her

The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate. E.

tached to his entreaties. I like the song as it now stands, very much.

I had hopes you would be arrested some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give me pleasure to receive the verses you intend for O wat ye wha's in yon town.

No. LXXII.

Mr. BURNS to Mr. THOMSON.

May, 1795.

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.

Tune-" Where'll bonie Ann lie."

Or, "Locheroch Side."

O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wanken.

Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief, and dark despair:
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!

Let me know, your very first leisure, how you

like this song.

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.

Tune-Aye wakin 0."

CHORUS.

Long, long the night,

Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul's delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.

Can I cease to care?

Can I cease to languish,
While my darling fair

Is on the couch of anguish?
Long, &c.

Every hope is fled,

Ev'ry fear is terror;

Slumber even I dread,
Every dream is horror.
Long, &c.

Hear me, pow'rs divine!

Oh, in pity hear me !
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare me!
Long, &c.

How do you like the foregoing? The Irish air. Humours of Glen, is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows.

SONG.

Tune-" Humours of Glen."

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per

fume,

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breekan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow

broom:

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un

seen:

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the
proud palace,

What are they? The haunt o' the tyrant and
slave!

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun

tains,

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ;

He wanders as free as the winds of his moun

tains,

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his

Jean.

SONG.

Tune-" Laddie lie near me."

"Twas na her bonie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: 'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kind

ness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me;
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter,
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

Let me hear from you.

No. LXXIII.

Mr. THOMSON to Mr. BURNS.

You must not think, my good sir, that I have any intention to enhance the value of my gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and worthy artist, that the design and execution of the Cotter's Saturday Night, is, in my opinion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if you are not quite pleased with it.

The figure intended for your portrait, I think strikingly like you, as far as I can remember your phiz. This should make the piece interesting to your family every way. Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds you out among the figures.

I cannot express the feelings of admiration with which I have read your pathetic Address to the Woodlark, your elegant Panegyric on Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chloris's illness. Every repeated perusal of these gives new delight. The other song to "Laddie lie near me," though not equal to these, is very pleasing.

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