sit, &c. you cannot mend; but such insipid stuff as To Fanny fair, could I impart, &c. usually set to The Mill Mill O, is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution of the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments-I say, amendments; for I will not alter except where I myself, at least, think that I amend.

As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright prostitution of soul! A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend, I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, " Guid speed the wark!"

I am, Sir, your very humble servant,
R. BURNS.

P. S. I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be known as little as possible.

tongue, as you elegantly express it, and, moreover, we will patiently wait your own time. One thing only I beg, which is, that however gay and sportive the muse may be, she may always be decent. Let her not write what beauty would blush to speak, nor wound that charming delicacy, which forms the most precious dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive the song to be the most proper vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits: simplicity, I believe, should be its prominent feature; but in some of our songs, the writers have confounded simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity; although, between the one and the other, as Dr Beattie well observes, there is as great a difference as between a plain suit of clothes and a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suited to our artless melodies; and more interesting indeed in all songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and flowery fancies.

With these trite observations, I send you eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to substitute others of your writing. I shall soon transmit the rest, and at the same time, a prospectus of the whole collection: and you may believe we will receive any hints that you are so kind as to give for improving the work, with the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. I remain, dear Sir,

No. III.

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS.

MY DEAR SIR,

No. IV.

I agree with you in thinking English verses, that have merit, very eligible, wherever new verses are necessary; because the English becomes every year, more and more, the language of Scotland; but if you mean that no English verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from you. I should consider it unpardonable to sacrifice one good song in the Scottish dialect, to make room for English verses; but if we can select a few excellent ones suited to

the unprovided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such, merely because the authors were born south of the Tweed? Our sweet air My Nannie O, which in the collections is joined to the poorest stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, While some for pleasure pawn their health, answers so finely to Dr Percy's beautiful song, O Nancy wilt thou go with me, that one would think he wrote it on purpose for the air. However, it is not at all our wish to confine you to English verses: you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of your native

LET me tell you, that you are too fastidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you specify in your list have all but one the faults you remark in them; but who shall mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say-Go to, I will make a better? For instance, on reading over The Lea-rig, I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough.

When o'er the hill the eastern star,

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field,
Return sae dowf and weary 0;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen at midnight hour,

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O,

If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie Ò,
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,*
And I were ne'er sae wearie O,

In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, instead of

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr Percy's ballad to the air Nannie O, is just. It is, besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric style and "dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) that my ballad of Nannie O might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don't let it enter into your head, that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as my own reputation in the business of authorship; and have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other halt, and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity.

In the printed copy of my Nannie O, the name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it,

wild, was inserted wet. But in one of the manuscripts, probably written afterwards, wet was changed into wild, evidently no great improvement. The lovers might meet on the lea-rig," although the night were ne'er so wild," that is, although the summer-wind blew, the sky loured, and the thunder murmured; such circumstances might render their meeting still more interesting. But if the night were actually wet, why should they meet on the lea-rig? On a wet night, the imagination cannot contemplate their situation there with any compla cency-Tibullus, and after him Hammond, has conceived a happier situation for lovers on a wet night. Probably Burns had in his mind the verse of an old

many beauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it.

In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merit of Ewe bughts; but it will fill up this page. You must know, that all my earlier love songs were the breathing of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their ruce.

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Alantic's roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine:
But a' the charms o' the Indies,
Can never equal thine.

I bae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true,
And sae may the Heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow.

O plight me your faith, my Mary,

And plight me your lily white hand: O plight me your faith, my Mary,

Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour, and the moment o' time!*.

Galla Water and Auld Rob Morris, I think, will most probably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on my verses, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of opiniâtreté, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work.

Scottish song, in which wet and weary are naturally enough conjoined.

"When my ploughman comes hame at e'en
He's often wet and weary;

Cast off the wet, put on the dry,

And gae to bed my deary."

This song Mr Thomson has not adopted in his col lection. It deserves, however, to be preserved.

No. V.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

November 8th, 1792.

Ir you mean, my dear sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature notes, of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, My wife's a wanton wee thing, if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be adaptto it, it is all you can expect. The following

were made extempore to it; and though, on farther study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my hear I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't, The wrastle and the care o't: Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

I have just been looking over the Collier's bonny Dochter, and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charm. ing Ayrshire girl, Missas she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither.

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say,
"I canna wrang thee."

The powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha'na steer thee;
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c.

No. VI.

MR BURNS to MR THOMSON.

HIGHLAND MARY,

Tune "Katharine Ogie."

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath her fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore our selves asunder;
But Oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!