Oh, condescend, dear charming maid, My wretched state to view; A tender swain, to love betray'd, And sad despair, by you.

While here, all melancholy, My pa.s.sion I deplore, Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate, I love thee more and more.

I heard of love, and with disdain The urchin's power denied.

I laugh'd at every lover's pain, And mock'd them when they sigh'd.

But how my state is alter'd!

Those happy days are o'er; For all thy unrelenting hate, I love thee more and more.

Oh, yield, ill.u.s.trious beauty, yield!

No longer let me mourn; And though victorious in the field, Thy captive do not scorn.

Let generous pity warm thee, My wonted peace restore; And grateful I shall bless thee still, And love thee more and more.

The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air "There was a la.s.s, and she was fair." By the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove, That ever tried the plaintive strain, Awake thy tender tale of love, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.

For though the muses deign to aid And teach him smoothly to complain, Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid, Is deaf to her forsaken swain.

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, In sport she wanders o'er the plain: Their tales approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain.

When evening shades obscure the sky, And bring the solemn hours again, Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, And soothe a poor forsaken swain.

I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go charmingly to "Lewie Gordon."

LAURA.

Let me wander where I will, By shady wood, or winding rill; Where the sweetest May-born flowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers; Where the linnet's early song Echoes sweet the woods among: Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.

If at rosy dawn I choose To indulge the smiling muse; If I court some cool retreat, To avoid the noontide heat; If beneath the moon's pale ray, Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.

When at night the drowsy G.o.d Waves his sleep-compelling rod, And to fancy's wakeful eyes Bids celestial visions rise, While with boundless joy I rove Thro' the fairy land of love; Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still.

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 252: "The honorable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr.

Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed."--CURRIE.]

[Footnote 253: Song CCXIII.]

[Footnote 254: Gavin Turnbull was author of a now forgotten volume, published at Glasgow, in 1788, under the t.i.tle of "Poetical Essays."]

CCLXXVIII.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,

WITH A PARCEL.

[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation of Burns.]

_Dumfries, [December, 1793.]_

SIR,

'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are the six guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man--or woman either. But for these d----d dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,[255] I had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face.

I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr.

Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.

I have the honour to be, &c.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 255: Scottish Bank notes.]

CCLXXIX.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.,

DRUMLANRIG.

[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a blank leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small octavo, in 1793.]

_Dumfries, 1793._

Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever claim as mine:--to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of TRUTH.

THE AUTHOR.