al," with several others of that cast, are to me highly
pleasing; while "Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother?" delights me
with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, "Ken ye what Meg o'
the mill has gotten?" pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my
hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you
will laugh at all this: but "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait."

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 250: Song CCXII.]

[Footnote 251: Song LII.]

* * * * *

CCLXXVII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to
Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of
talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work.]

_October, 1793._

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news.
Alas, poor Erskine![252] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in
your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or
turning my thoughts on composing for you.

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's
wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep
antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of
"Leiger m' choss." The following verses, I hope, will please you, as
an English song to the air.

Thine am I, my faithful fair:[253]

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 favour. The more original good poetry your
collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit.

SONG.--BY GAVIN TURNBULL.[254]

Oh, 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.

Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield!
No longer let me mourn;
And though victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not sco