"For nature made her what she is, "And never made anither." (such a person as she is) This is in my opinion more poetical than "Ne'er "made sic anither." However it is immaterial: make it either way.*" Caledonie," I agree with you, is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. The Lea-rig is as follows. (Here the poet gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 8, with the following in addition.) The hunter loe's the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; My ain kind dearie, O. I am interrupted. Yours, &c. No. Mr. Thomson has decided on Ne'er made sic anither. E. 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'gude fellows and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonie 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 *The two first lines are taken from an old ballad-the rest is wholly original. E. 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! O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express! DUNCAN GRAY. DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo, On blythe yule night when we were fu’, Maggie coost her head fu' high, Duncan Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Time and chance are but a tide, Slighted love is sair to bide, Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, She may gae to-France for me! How it comes let doctors tell, Meg grew sick-as he grew heal, Something in her bosom wrings, And O, her een, they spak sic things! * A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde. Duncan E. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, &c. Maggie's was a piteous case, Duncan could na be her death, 4th December, 1792. 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. No. *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. |