« 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;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o'gloamin grey,

It maks my heart sae cheery, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, 0.

I am interrupted. Yours, &c.

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 ;
She's sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead,

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 ;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane :
I wander my lane like a night troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smild 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,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blythe yule night when we were fu',

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie coost her head fu? high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abiegh ;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;

Ha, ba, &c.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, *

Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin,
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, &c.
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, &c.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die ?
She may gae to-France for me!

Ha, ha, &c.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, &c.
Meg grew sick-as he grew heal,

Ha, ba, &c.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And O, her een, they spak sic things !
Ha, ha, &c,

Duncan

* A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde.

Duncan was a lad o' graće,

. Ha, ha, &c.
Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, &C
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ;
Now they're crouse and canty baith.

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,*

!Ath 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.