culier rhut
culiar rhytniUS 11 nary

undertaking than you are aware of. There is a pe

thmus 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.


She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonie 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,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.


The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blythly bear it,
And think my lot divine.

I have just been looking over the Colliers bonng 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.

O saw ye bonie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border ?
She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,

And never made anither.

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee :
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o’men adore thee.



The Deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonie face,
· And say, “I canna wrang thee.”.

The powers aboon will tent thee;

Misfortune sha’na steer thee;
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag, we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonie.

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. VI.



Tune—" KATHARINE Ogie.”

YE banks, and braes, and streams around,

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel

O’my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ;
As underneath their fragrant shade,

I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o’er me and my dearie; ,
For dear to me, as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.


Wi Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu’ tender ;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tote oursels asunder ;
But Oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my, Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay, the sparkling glance,

That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,

That heart that loe'd me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core,

Shall live my Highland Mary.

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


« ForrigeFortsett »