undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity of 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. She is a winsome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never loe'd a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The The warld's wrack we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; 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. As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee. The The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; The thee." powers aboon will tent thee; Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag, we hae a lass 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. No. VI. MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. HIGHLAND MARY. Tune-" KATHARINE OGIE." YE banks, and braes, and streams around, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfald her robes, How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk, As underneath their fragrant shade, The golden hours, on angel wings, VOL. IV. Wi' Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, That heart that loe'd me dearly! But still within my bosom's core, 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 aukward sound Ogie, recurring so often |