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(Quasi dicat Phillis.)


O saw ye my dear, my Phely?
O saw ye my dear, my Phely?
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love; ,

She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,

And for ever disowns thee her Willy.

O had I ne'er seen thee my Phely?
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely?
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,

Thou's broken the heart o'thy Willy.

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The Posies (in the Museum) is my composition; the air was


taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice, * · It is well known in the West Country, but the old words are trash. By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which Roslin Castle is composed. The second part, in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. Strathallan's Lament is mine: the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. Donocbthead, is not mine : I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it. of


* The Posie, will be found afterwards. This, and the other

poems of which he speaks, had appeared in Johnson's museum, and Mr. T. had inquired whether they were our bard's.


* The reader will be curious to see this poem so high ly praised by Burns. Here it is.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, *

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,

And shivering tells his waefu' tale.

* A mountain in the North.

Whistle o'er the lave o't is mine: the music said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player, in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and


“ Cauld is the night, o let me in,

« And dinna let your minstrel fa', “ And dinna let his winding sheet,

“ Be naething but a wreath o’snaw.

Full ninety winters hae I seen,

“ And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew, “ And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,

“ To lilts which from my drone I blew." My Eppie waked, and soon she cry'd,

'Get up, gudeman, and let him in; • For weel ye ken the winter night

* Was short when he began his din.'

My Eppie's voice, O wow its sweet,

Even tho’ she bans and scaulds a wee; But when its tuned to sorrow's tale,

O, haith, its doubly dear to me. Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame; Your bluid is thin, ye’ve tint the gate,

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.

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by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it.

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to which this is set in the Museum, is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called, the Flower of Strathmore.

How long and dreary is the night. I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favorite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page.






« Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,

“ Sad party-strife o’erturned my “ And, weeping at the eve of life,

66 I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw."

This affecting poem is apparently incomplete. The author need not be ashamed to own himself. It is worthy of Burns, or of Macneill.

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How lang and dreary is the night,

When I am frae my dearie; I restless lie frae e'en to morn,

Though I were ne'er sae weary.


For oh, ber lanely nights are lang ;

And oh, her dreams are eerie; And ob, her widow'd heart is sair,

That's absent frae ber dearie.

When I think on the lightsome days

I spent wi' thee, my dearie;
And now what seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie.

For oh, &c.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ;

The joyless day how dreary : It was na sae, ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.

For oh, &c.


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