The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased both with the musical and poetical part of our work, that he has volunteered his assistance, and has already written four songs for it, which by his own desire I send for your perusal.

VOL. IV.

E

No.

Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e,
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me.

wild storms in the cave o'

Rest ye
your slumbers,
How your dread bowling a lover alarms!

Blow soft ye breezes! roll gently ye billows!
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

But ob if he's faithless and minds na his Nanie,
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main !
May I never see it, may I never trow it,

While dying I think that my Willie's my ain.

Our poet with his usual judgment adopted some of these alterations, and rejected others. The last edition is as follows:

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ;
Come to my bosom my ain only dearie,

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

No. XVIII.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn.

Air "THE MILL MILL O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,

Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And mony a widow mourning.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e,
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.

I

I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nanie,
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main;
May I never see it, may İ
never trow it,

But, dying, believe that my Willie s my ain.

Several of the alterations seem to be of little importance in themselves, and were adopted, it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the words better to the music. The Homeric epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested by Mr. Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime than wide-roaring, which he has retained; but as it is only applicable to a placid state of the sea, or at most to the swell left on its surface after the storm is over, it gives a picture of that element not so well adapted to the ideas of eternal separation, which the fair mourner is supposed to imprecate. From the original song of Here awa Willie Burns has borrowed nothing but the second line and part of the first. The superior excellence of this beautiful poem will, it is hoped, justify the different editions of it which we have given.

E.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy:

At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted :
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' after'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger;

I've serv'd my king and country lang,
Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever;

Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo’ed,

Forget him shall I never:

Our

Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By him who made yon sun and sky-
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly;

And come, my faithful sodger lad
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;

But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honor;

The