not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager.

[Some of the finest of the songs of Burns were composed in honour of the charms of ladies of my native vale. Jean, the eldest daughter of John M'Murdo, Esq. of Drumlanrig, was the heroine of this exquisite song. The original, presented by the Poet to the family, lies before me there are many variations, but they are of language rather than of sentiment. It wants the verse

which Burns reckoned original :—

"As in the bosom of the stream

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling pure was tender love
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean."

The two first lines of the eleventh verse stand thus in the manuscript, and perhaps it would be as well to restore them :

"Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set
In barn or byre to trouble thee."

The homage paid to the graceful forms of the ladies
of the M'Murdo family, merits notice, were it but to
justify the Poet from a charge brought against him in
Ayrshire, that his beauties were not other men's beau-
ties. The o'erword of an old song seems to have been
in his fancy when composing this lyric:-
:-

"Learn to turn the maut wi' me,"

-it occurs oftener than once in the manuscript.-ED.]

No. XXVIII.

BURNS TO G. THOMSON.

July, 1793.

I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would savour of affectation; but, as to any more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear, by that HONOUR which crowns the upright statue of ROBERT BUrns's INTEGRITY- —on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you! BURNs's character for generosity of sentiment and independence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore can supply: at least, I will take care that such a character he shall deserve.

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold in any musical work, such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably written: only your partiality to me has made you say too much: however, it will bind me down to double every effort in the future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory.

"The Flowers o' the Forest," is charming as a poem; and should be, and must be, set to the notes, but, though out of your rule, the three stanzas beginning,

"I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,"

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them, who is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn; I forget of what place ; but from Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is

"O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting,

Why, why torment us-poor sons of a day!"

The old ballad, “I wish I were where Helen lies," is silly, to contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of them notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations, -but no matter.

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. In the mean time allow me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed your character and fame; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF TASTE-all whom poesy can please, or music charm.

Being a bard of nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and I am warranted by the spirit

to foretel and affirm, that your great grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, with honest pride, "This so much admired selection was the work of my ancestor !"

[Much has been said, and not a little written, concerning the refusal of Burns to receive a recompence in money for his labours: he had a right to do as he pleased, but certainly the labourer was worthy of his hire. Had he lived, he might have taken a lesson from Thomson in such matters.—"The publisher," says that gentleman in his preface, "has an exclusive right to all the songs written purposely for his collections, as well as to all the symphonies and accompaniments. And as he did not obtain these without expending a large sum of money, without laborious researches and unwearied exertions, and not until after a correspondence of twenty years with poets, musicians, and antiquaries, both at home and abroad, he feels it due to himself distinctly to announce, that if any person shall publish any of these songs, or any of the symphonies or accompaniments, he may depend upon being prosecuted for damages, in terms of the Act of Parliament." Nay, even from Burns himself, he obtained a document which might have opened the Poet's eyes to the value of his own productions. -"I do hereby certify that all the songs of my writing, published and to be published by Mr. George Thomson of Edinburgh, are so published by my authority. And, moreover, that I never empowered any other person to publish any of the songs written by me for his work.

And I authorize him to prosecute any person or persons who shall publish or vend any of those songs without his consent. (Signed) Robert Burns."

The old ballad of "I wish I were where Helen lies," for which the Poet expresses such contempt, is considered both beautiful and affecting. Currie seems to suppose that Burns was unacquainted with the genuine old strain, but the song which he altered for the Museum contains proof to the contrary: it is the ancient strain itself; anything but improved by his alterations. Tradition readily supplies many versions-all are beautiful :

"Curs'd be the heart that thought the thought,
And curs'd the hand that fired the shot,
Oh, in my arms burd Helen drop't,
And died for sake o' me.

"O think na but my heart was sair
When my love fell and spak nae mair;
I laid her down wi' mickle care
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

"I laid her down, my sword did draw,
Stern was our strife in Kirtle-shaw-
I cutted him in pieces sma'

For her that died for me."

Fair Helen of Kirkconnell belongs to the romantic songs of Scotland; other poets have taken up the story of the lovers, but the strains of the elder bard still triumph.-ED.]