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O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your fly-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

The hour and the moment o' time !*

Gala Water, and Aund 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 spiniätreté, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work.

No. V.

Ma BURNS to MR THOMSON.

November 8th 1792.

If 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 dificulty in the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity of

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

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 adapted to 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.
Sus is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing
De is a boule wee thing,

This sweet wee with e' mine.

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I have just been looking over the Collier's bonny Dochter; and if the following rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss, as 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,
thee."

And say, "I canna wrang

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 unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry :

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

1

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom!

As underneath their 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,
Qur parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels 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!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay, the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary.

MY DEAR SIR,

14th November, 1792. I AGREE with you that the song, Katharine Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie recurring, so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sen

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