I THANK you heartily for Nanie's awa, as well as for Craigie-burn, which I think a very comely pair. Your observation on the difficulty of original writing in a number of efforts, in the same style, strikes me very forcibly; and it has again and again excited my wonder to find you continually sarmounting this difficulty, in the many delightful songs you have sent me. Your vive la bagatelle song, For a that, shall undoubtedly be included in my list.

No.

the “ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," and that he conceiyed several of his beautiful lyrics.

E.

No. LXIX.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

February, 1796.

HERE is another trial at your favorite air.

Tune-" LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT.”

Ó LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet,

Or art thou wakin, I would wit,
For love has bound me, hand and foot,

And I would fain be in, jo.

CHORUS
O let me in this ae night,

This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,

O rise and let me in, jo.

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
O let me in, &c.

The

The bitter blast that round me blaws.
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s;
The cauldness o’ thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.

O let me in, &c.

HER ANSWER.

O tell na me o' wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain, Gae back the gate ye cam again,

I winna let you in, jo.

CHORUS. .
I tell you now this ae night,

This ae, as, ae nigbt ;
And ance for e' this ac night,

I winna let you in, jo.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.

The

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed :
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo:

I tell you now, &c. :;

The bird that charm'd his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ;
Let witless, trusting, woman say

How aft her fate's the same, jo. . I tell you now, &c.

LXX.

LXX.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Ecclefechan, 7th February, 1795.

MY DEAR THOMSON,

YOU cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as Supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress : I have tried to “ gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk,

to