The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased both with the musical and poetical part of our work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and has already written four songs for it, which by his own desire I send for your perusal. VOL. IV. E No. Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our parting, wild storms in the cave o' Rest ye Blow soft ye breezes! roll gently ye billows! But ob if he's faithless and minds na his Nanie, While dying I think that my Willie's my ain. Our poet with his usual judgment adopted some of these alterations, and rejected others. The last edition is as follows: Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. No. XVIII. MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. When wild war's deadly blast was blawn. Air "THE MILL MILL O." WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, I I left the lines and tented field, A leal, light heart was in my breast, But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nanie, But, dying, believe that my Willie s my ain. Several of the alterations seem to be of little importance in themselves, and were adopted, it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested by Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime than wide-roaring, which he has retained; but as it is only applicable to a placid state of the sea, or at most to the swell left on its surface after the storm is over, it gives a picture of that element not so well adapted to the ideas of eternal separation, which the fair mourner is supposed to imprecate. From the original song of Here awa Willie Burns has borrowed nothing but the second line and part of the first. The superior excellence of this beautiful poem will, it is hoped, justify the different editions of it which we have given. E. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, At length I reach'd the bonny glen, I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, Wi' after'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, That's dearest to thy bosom: I've serv'd my king and country lang, Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was than ever; Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo’ed, Forget him shall I never: Our Our humble cot, and hamely fare, That gallant badge, the dear cockade, She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose- She sank within my arms and cried, The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And come, my faithful sodger lad For gold the merchant ploughs the main, But glory is the sodger's prize, The |