No. IX. MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. AULD ROB MORRIS.* THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; But, Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; O had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! The two first lines are taken from an old ballad--the rest wholly original. DUNCAN GRAY. DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo, On blithe yule night when we were fu', Maggie coost her head fu' high, Gart Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd: Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, &c. Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, &c. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, She may gae to France for me! A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. E. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, &c. Meg grew sick-as he grew heal, Something in her bosom wrings, And O, her een, they spak sic things! Duncan was a lad o' grace, Maggie's was a piteous case, Duncan could na be her death, 4th December 1792. C THE foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them, or condemn them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature. This has nothing in common with the old licentious ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first line, and part of the third-The rest is wholly original. E. No. X MR BURNS to MR THOMSON. SONG. Tune-" I HAD A HORSE." O POORTITH Cauld, and restless love, O why should fate sic pleasure have, This warld's wealth when I think on, Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't. Her een sae bonnie blue betray, O wha can prudence think upon, wha can prudence think upon, O why, &c. How blest the humble cotter's fate* ! GALLA WATER. THERE'S braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws, But there is ane, a secret ane, Altho' his daddie was nae laird, And tho' I hae na meikle tocher; Yet rich in kindness, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. "The wild-wood Indian's fate" in the original MS. VOL. IV. C |