tail o' the gentry._

But I am got on a subject, which however interesting to me, is of no
manner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the
other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the
honour to be,

Yours, &c.

R. B.

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young
lady, whom I had formerly characterized under the denomination of _The
Rose Bud._ * * *

* * * * *

CCX.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sing a humorous song; nor
was he without a feeling for the deep sensibilities of his friend's
verse.]

_Ellisland, 12th March, 1791._

If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. For
my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears through
a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever
view his own works. I believe in general, novelty has something in it
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes
away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual,
with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced,
in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my
parish-priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you
another song of my late composition, which will appear perhaps in
Johnson's work, as well as the former.

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, _There'll never be peace 'till
Jamie comes hame._ When political combustion ceases to be the object
of princes and patriots, it then you know becomes the lawful prey of
historians and poets.

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot
imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if by the
charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to
"the memory of joys that are past," to the few friends whom you
indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear the
clock has intimated the near approach of

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane.--

So good night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams!
Apropos, how do you like this th