r you,
as a man, whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature.

There _was_ a time, Sir, when I was your dependent: this language
_then_ would have been like the vile incense of flattery--I could not
have used it. Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to
accept this _honest_ tribute of respect from, Sir,

Your much indebted humble servant,

R. B.

* * * * *

CCLII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[This review of our Scottish lyrics is well worth the attention of all
who write songs, read songs, or sing songs.]

_7th April, 1793._

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much
this business of composing for your publication has added to my
enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c.,
ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever
fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I
come to the limit of my race--God grant that I may take the right side
of the winning post!--and then cheerfully looking back on the honest
folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, "Sae merry as
we a' hae been!" and, raising my last looks to the whole human race,
the last words of the voice of "Coila"[208] shall be, "Good night, and
joy be wi' you a'!" So much for my last words: now for a few present
remarks, as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list.

The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and several
other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion--pardon me,
revered shade of Ramsay!--the song is unworthy of the divine air. I
shall try to make or mend.

"For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,"[209] is a charming song; but "Logan
burn and Logan braes" is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery; I'll
try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may class among
the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of
the old songs of "Logan Water" (for I know a good many different ones)
which I think pretty:--

"Now my dear lad maun faces his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes."[210]

"My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," is a
muddy expression indeed.

"Then I'll resign and marry Pate,
And syne my cockernony--"

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay or your book. My song, "Rigs of
barley," to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can
mend it, and thrash a few loose sentime