No. XIII.

BURNS TO G. THOMSON.

20th March, 1793.

MARY MORISON.

Tune-" Bide ye yet."

I.

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A

weary slave frae sun to sun; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

II.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard or saw :
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

III.

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

MY DEAR SIR:

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very

remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty.

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs? I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any body else.

["Of all the productions of Burns," says Hazlitt, "the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him in the manner of the old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison, those entitled Jessy,' and the song beginning 'O, my love is like a red, red rose.'”—ED.]

✓

No. XIV.

BURNS TO G. THOMSON.

March, 1793.

WANDERING WILLIE.

.

HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
Come to my bosom my ae only dearie,

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

II.

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e: Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

III.

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers!
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken ye breezes, blow gently ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

IV.

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,

But, dying, believe that

my Willie's my ain!

I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the old "Thro' the lang muir," be the best.

[The idea of " Wandering Willie" is taken from an old song published by Herd, which commences in these words::

"Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie,

Here awa, there awa, here awa hame;

Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought thee,
Now I hae gotten my Willie again.

"Through the lang muir I have followed my Willie,
Through the lang muir I have followed him hame,
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us,
Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain."

Older words than these may still be heard "lilted" by a shepherd lad or lass on a pasture hill, or in some sequestered glen: :

"Gin that ye meet my love, kiss her and clap her,
An' gin ye meet my love, dinna think shame ;
O gin ye meet my love, kiss her and daut her,
And show her the way to haud awa hame."

The heroine of the "Wandering Willie" of Burns is said to have been the lovely and accomplished Mrs. Riddell.-ED.]

No. XV.

BURNS TO G. THOMSON.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH!
WITH ALTERATIONS.

I.

Он, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh !*

Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh!

II.

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, Oh!

The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!

III.

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, Oh!

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh!

IV.

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh!
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side,
Never to rise again, Oh!

I do not know whether this song be really mended.

* This second line was originally-"If love it may na be, Oh!'