Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,

By bonie Irwine-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-loye

I lang, lang had denied.

How aften didst thou pledge and vow,

Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,

It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast :
Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by,

O wilt thou give me rest !

Ye mustering thunders from above

Your willing victim see!
But spare, and pardon my fause love,

His wrangs to heaven and me! *


* The Song of Dr. Walcott on the same subject is as follows.

Ah ope, Lord Gregory thy door,

A midnight wanderer sighs,
Hard rush the rains; the tempests roar,

And light’nings cleave the skies.

My most respectful compliments to the honourable gentleman, who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon.


Who comes with woe at this drear night

A pilgrim of the gloom ?
If she whose love did once delight,

My cot shall yield her room.

Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,

That once was priz’d by thee :
Think of the ring by yonder burn

Thou gav'st to love and me.

But should'st thou not poor Marian know,

I'll turn my feet and part;
And think the storms that round me blow,

Far kinder than thy heart,

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, that his song is the original. Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the other on the same subject, which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncertain origin.




20th March, 1793.


Tune--" Bide YE YET."

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish’d, the trysted hour; Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor : How blythly wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string,

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard or saw :


Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',

“ Ye are na Mary Morison.”

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die !
Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee.
If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown ;
A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

My Dear Sir,

THE song prefixed is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits, or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining and witty.

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs? I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly;


and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor any body else.

No. XIV.


March, 1793.


HERE awa, there awa, wandering Willie,

Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; Come to my bosom my ae only dearie,

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;

It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e: Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie,

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o' your slumbers,

O how your wild horrors a lover alarms: Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.


« ForrigeFortsett »