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BRIGHT ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro' many a far-famed sire!
So ran the far-famed Roman way,
And ended in a mire.

On Mr. Syme suggesting that the Earl would resent such pasquinades, if made public.

SPARE me thy vengeance, Galloway!

In quiet let me live:

I ask no kindness at thy hand,

For thou hast none to give.

[Chambers notices the foregoing string of spleen, in rather too serious a style, thus :-"These epigrams launched at this respectable nobleman have no other effect than to make moderate-minded men lament their author's own subordination of judgment to spleen." The Earl died in 1806, and Chambers quotes the very favorable obituary notice of him given in a newspaper of the day, and philosophically adds:-"For once let a friendly obituary notice be accepted in evidence: it was at least nearer the truth than Burns's election lampoons and epigrams."]

EPIGRAM ON THE LAIRD OF LAGGAN.

(CURRIE, 1800.)

"He was in a most epigrammatic humor indeed! Having settled Lord Galloway, he afterwards fell on humbler game. There is one Morine whom he does not love. He had a passing blow at him."-John Syme's Narrative.

WHEN Morine, deceas'd, to the Devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own

crown;

Thy fool's head," quoth Satan, "that crown shall

wear never,

I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever."

[This epigram Burns recorded in the Glenriddell volume now at Liverpool, with the name of its victim and locality filled in.

In connection with the poet's visit to the seat of the Earl of Selkirk, it is stated by Cunningham, that at one of the meals there, Burns was asked to say Grace, and he delivered what is usually styled "The Selkirk Grace."

SOME folk hae meat that canna eat,

And some can eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
So let the Lord be thanket!]

SONG-PHILLIS THE FAIR.

Tune-"Robin Adair."

(CURRIE, 1800.)

WHILE larks, with little wing, fann'd the pure air,
Tasting the breathing Spring, forth I did fare:
Gay the sun's golden eye

Peep'd o'er the mountains high;

Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless song, glad I did share;
While yon wild-flow'rs among, chance led me there!
Sweet to the op'ning day,

Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ;

Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk, doves cooing were ;
Mark'd I the cruel hawk caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune be,

Such make his destiny,

He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair.

[In sending the above to Thomson, the poet says:-" Here I have tried Robin Adair, and you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a dd cramp, out-of-the-way measure,

that I despair of doing anything better to it. . . . So much for namby-pamby. I may after all, try my hand on it in Scots verse; there I always find myself more at home."

The reader will perceive that the subject of the above was Miss Phillis M'Murdo, and that Stephen Clarke was the supposed singer.]

SONG-HAD I A CAVE.

Tune-"Robin Adair."

(G. THOMSON'S COLL., 1799.)

"That crinkum-crankum tune Robin Adair, has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavored to do the idea justice, as follows:

HAD I a cave on some wild distant shore,

Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing roar; There would I weep my woes,

There seek my lost repose,

Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more!

Falsest of womankind, can'st thou declare
All thy fond, plighted vows fleeting as air!
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury;
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there!

[The poet's lyric success never went beyond this grand result, apparently reached with so little effort-not in Scots verse, but pure English. It came to Thomson almost directly on the back of the trifling song penned for the Music Master of the fair Phillis. In the note to the song "She's Fair and She's Fause," Vol.

III, p. 45, a promise was given to return to the subject-matter of the song there commented on, when that which forms the present text was reached. Alexander Cunningham tried the effect of the poet's "last great antihectic," by entering into the marriagestate on 10th April 1792. We believe the lady he selected was in every respect worthy of his love and esteem; nevertheless it is certain that down to the close of his life, he never ceased to feel the effects of the hopeless cut which he experienced on reading the marriage intimation quoted by us at page 45, Vol. III., dated 13th January 1789.

Such was the strength of Cunningham's craze for the object of his blighted love that, long after she had jilted him, and long after he had applied the remedy above referred to, he was observed on many an evening stealthily to traverse for hours the opposite side of Princes Street where she resided, in order that he might catch a glimpse of her person. He would pause now and again opposite her windows, and seem gratified even with a passing glance of her shadow cast on the white screen by the light within -then he would burst into tears, and wend his way slowly home by the most lonely path, absorbed in morbid contemplation. survived till 27th January 1812.

He

In 1838, Robert Chambers thus wrote regarding the widow of Dr. Dewar:-" One evening, a very few years ago, a friend of mine, visiting a musical family who resided in Princes Street nearly opposite St. John's Chapel, chanced to request one of the young ladies to sing 'Had I a cave,' &c. She was about to comply, when it was recollected that the heroine of the lyric lived in the flat below, an aged widow, who might overhear it. For that reason the intention of singing the song was laid aside."]

SONG BY ALLAN STREAM.

(GEO. THOMSON'S COLL., 1799.)

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering thro' the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:

I listen'd to a lover's sang,

An' thought on youthfu' pleasures mony;
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang-

"O, dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie!"

"O, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

goblin

The place and time I met my Dearie !
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, 'I'm thine for ever!'
While mony a kiss the seal imprest-

The sacred vow we ne'er should sever."

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose-brae,
The Summer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery thro' her short'ning day,

Is Autumn in her weeds o' yellow;
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure?
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

dismal

["Autumn is my propitious season, I make more verses in it than in all the year else. God bless you!"-so wrote the exulting poet when he forwarded the above song to Thomson. August 19th was the date of the letter which enclosed it. He had performed the Galloway Tour-had met with Clarke at the Globe, where he discovered that "the Georgium Sidus was out of tune." He had sent Thomson a song "Let me in this ae nicht," which we shall not trouble the reader with. He had composed and forwarded "Phillis the fair "-followed quickly by the immortal "Had I a Then he sent the song in the text; to be followed by "Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad!"-by "Phillis the Queen of the Fair"-after which, by the songs, "Come let me take thee to my breast "-and "Meet me on the Warlock Knowe,"-yet all the while performing his daily Excise routine thoroughly. What a month of August indeed! A fitting prelude to 'Bruce's March to Bannockburn" with which he opened September.

cave."

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But what of the song in the text? Through some cause or other, it never became popular; and yet Burns was much pleased with it. "Bravo! say I, it is a good song." Such were his words to Thomson in communicating it. When did our poet ever excel its closing verse? It will be perceived that in the middle portion of the song, commencing with the last line of stanza first, it is not the poet who speaks; but the "lover" whom he overheard.]

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