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There needs na be sae great a phraize,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ;
I wadna' gie our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And silly sauls themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,

And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted open friend,

And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him!

May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious blot;
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the discontented fool
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And honest souls abhor him!

May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,

Whae'er he be that winna dance

The reel of Tullochgorum!

The Reverend John Skinner wrote this song; and Burns speaks of it with a rapture which I hope was real, for I would rather suppose that his judgment was for once infirm, than imagine him insincere. His words are-and they are exceedingly characteristic

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Accept in plain dull prose my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you have conjured up an airy

demon of vanity in my fancy which the best abilities in your other capacity will be ill able to lay. I regret― and while I live shall regret that when I was north I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw," Tullochgorum's my delight." The world may think slightly of the craft of song-making, if they please; but as Job' says, "O that mine adversary had written a book!' Let them try."

Tullochgorum is indeed a lively clever song, but I would never have edited this collection had I thought with Burns, that it is the best Scotch song Scotland ever saw. I may say with the king in my favourite ballad,

I trust I have within my realm
Five hundred good as he

MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS.

When I upon thy bosom lean,

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,...

I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane, wha ance were twain.

A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the melting kiss:

Ev'n years shall ne'er destroy our love,

But only gie us change of bliss.

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Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee;

I ken thy wish is me to please;

10. Our moments pass so smooth away, ⠀ That numbers on us look and gaze: Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; And ay when weary cares arise,

Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

I'll lay me there, and take my rest,
And if that aught disturb my dear,
I'll bid her laugh her cares away,
And beg her not to drop a tear:

Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain;

United still her heart and mine;

They're like the woodbine round the tree,

That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

The great and merited success of Burns inspired many of the rustics of Scotland with a belief, that as they equalled him in condition and in education, they also equalled him in genius. Volume followed volume, and it was long before the contempt or the neglect of mankind succeeded in silencing their idle strains. Among them came forward John Lapraik, portioner of Dalfram, near Muirkirk, in Ayrshire, the correspondent of Burns, and to whom the youthful poet, ambitious of distinction, had addressed several of his most exquisite poetic epistles. But of all the verses with which Lapraik courted public notice, time has left us nothing, save

the present song. It obtained the early admiration of Burns; and had it wanted such patronage, the poetical compliment which he paid it would have secured it from forgetfulness.

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Lapraik, in a moment when he forgot whether he was rich or poor, became security for some persons concerned in a ruinous speculation called the Ayr Bank, and was compelled to sell his little estate on which his name had been sheltered for many centuries. His securities were larger than the produce of his ground covered, and he found his way into the jail of Ayr when he was sixty years old. In this uncomfortable abode, his son told me, he composed this song: it is reconcilable with the account which he gave to Burns, that he made it one day when his wife had been mourning over their misfortunes.

MY GODDESS, WOMAN.

Of mighty Nature's handy-works,

The common or uncommon,
There's nought through a' her limits wide

Can be compared to woman.
The farmer toils, the merchant trokes,
From dawing to the gloamin;

The farmer's cares, the merchant's toils,
Are a' to please thee, woman.

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