To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish :
Tho' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away these rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure:
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.

What is life when wanting love?

Night without a morning:
Love's the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.

Your objection to the English song I proposed for, John Anderson my jo, is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favor. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit,

SONG,

SONG,

BY GAVIN TURNBULL.

O 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 passion 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.

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield,
No longer let me mourn;
And tho' victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not scorn.

Let

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 lass 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 favor; but I like some of his pieces very much,

THE NIGHTINGALE,

BY G. TURNBULL.

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, tho' the muses deign to aid,

And teach him smoothly to complain;
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,

Is deaf to her forsaken swain.

All

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.

BY G. TURNBULL.

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 chuse

To indulge the smiling muse;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noon-tide 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 god
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.

No.