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O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
O why, &c.

How blest the humble cotter's fate!1
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why, &c.

GALA WATER.

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o' Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I lo'e him better;
And I'll be his and he 'll be mine,
The bonny lad o' Gala Water.

Although his daddie was nae laird,

And though I hae na meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Gala Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure!

1 In the original manuscript, 'How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate.'

2 Some years before composing the present beautiful song, Burns had given to the Scots Musical Museum the following improved version of the original homely ballad, which, it may be mentioned, referred not to the lads, but to a lass of Gala Water :

Braw, braw lads of Gala Water;

O braw lads of Gala Water:
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,

And follow my love through the water.
Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie;

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou';
The mair I kiss she's aye my dearie.

O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae,

O'er yon moss amang the heather;
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,

And follow my love through the water.

Down amang the broom, the broom,
Down amang the broom, my dearie,
The lassie lost her silken snood,

That cost her monie a blirt and blear ce.

Jan. 1793.

Many returns of the season to you, my dear sir. How comes on your publication?-will these two foregoing be of any service to you? I should like to know what songs you print to each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I would wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful hints that escape men of much superior parts and endowments in other things.

If you meet with my dear and much-valued Cunningham, greet him in my name with the compliments of the season. Yours, &c.

Mr Gilbert Burns, in his memoranda as to heroines, written for Mr Thomson, places opposite Poortith Cauld A Miss Jane Blackstock, afterwards Mrs Whiter of Liverpool.' In the manuscript, Mr Thomson makes a pencil-note in the margin-'These verses, I humbly think, have too much of uneasy and cold reflection for the air, which is pleasing and rather gay than otherwise.' The letter having apparently been returned to Burns, he adds: The objections are just, but I cannot make it better. The stuff won't bear mending; yet, for private reasons, I should like to see it in print.'

SONNET:

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING

A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING-WALK.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care,

The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share.

MR THOMSON TO BURN S.

EDINBURGH, 20th Jan. 1793.

You make me happy, my dear sir, and thousands will be happy to see the charming songs you have sent me. Many merry returns of the season to you, and may you long continue among the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to delight them and to honour yourself!

The four last songs with which you favoured me for Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, Gala Water, and Cauld Kail, are admirable. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour will endear him to everybody.

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the happy shepherdess in Gala Water, exhibit an excellent contrast: they speak from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch the heart.

The number of songs which I had originally in view was limited, but I now resolve to include every Scotch air and song worth singing; leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to which the publishers of omnegatherum are welcome. I would rather be the editor of a collection from which nothing could be taken away, than of one to which nothing could be added. We intend presenting the subscribers with two beautiful stroke-engravings-the one characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of the lively songs; and I have Dr Beattie's promise of an essay upon the subject of our national music, if his health will permit him to write it. As a number of our songs have doubtless been called forth by particular events, or by the charms of peerless damsels, there must be many curious anecdotes relating to them.

The late Mr Tytler, of Woodhousclee, I believe, knew more of this than anybody; for he joined to the pursuits of an antiquary a taste for poetry, besides being a man of the world, and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond most of his contemporaries. He was quite pleased with this plan of mine, for I may say it has been solely managed by me, and we had several long conversations about it when it was in embryo. If I could simply mention the name of the heroine of each song, and the incident which occasioned the verses, it would be gratifying. Pray, will you send me any information of this sort, as well with regard to your own songs as the old ones?

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate accompaniments, &c., of Pleyel. To those of the comic and humorous class, I think accompaniments scarcely necessary: they are chiefly fitted for the conviviality of the festive board; and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the words, renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I propose adding bass accompaniments, because then they are fitted either for singing, or for instrumental performance, when there happens to be no singer. I mean to employ our right trusty friend Mr Clarke to set the bass to these, which he assures me he will do con amore, and with much greater attention than he ever bestowed on anything of the kind.

But for this last class of airs, I will not attempt to find more than one set of verses.

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started I know not how many difficulties about writing for the airs I sent to him, because of the peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin, for your perusal, the only one I have yet got from him, being for the fine air Lord Gregory. The Scots verses printed with that air are taken from the middle of an old ballad, called The Lass of Lochroyan, which I do not admire.' I have set down the air, therefore, as a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs are replete with wit and humour-might not the best of these be included in our volume of comic songs?

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Mr Thomson has been so obliging as to give me a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray possesses native genuine humour-Spak o' lowpin' o'er a linn,' is a line of itself that should make you immortal. I sometimes hear of you from our mutual friend Cunningham, who is a most excellent fellow, and possesses above all men I know the charm of a most obliging disposition. You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a collection of your unpublished productions, religious and amorous. I know from experience how irksome it is to copy. If you will get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money he asks for his trouble, and I certainly shall not betray your confidence. I am your hearty admirer, ANDREW ERSKINE.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

26th January 1793.

I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. Dr Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to the doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late Mr Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down, in the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise-Lochaber and the Braes of Ballenden excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots Muse.

This ballad has since been printed in several collections. It is possessed of considerable merit.

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think that some of them, particularly The Sow's Tail to Geordie, as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of lively songs?

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a naïveté, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison-at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste-with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever.

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work.' His Gregory is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter-that would be presumption indeed! My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it.

LORD GREGORY.

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.

1 The song of Dr Wolcot (Peter Pindar) on the same subject, is as follows:

'Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door!

A midnight wanderer sighs;

Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,

And lightnings cleave the skies.'

Who comes with wo at this drear night

A pilgrim of the gloom?

If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.'

'Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,
That once was prized by thee:

Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.

'But shouldst thou not poor Marion know,

I'll turn my feet and part;

And think the storms that round me blow

Far kinder than thy heart.'

It is but doing justice to Dr Wolcot, to mention that his song is the original. Mr Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the same subject, which is derived from the old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin.-CURRIE.

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