P.S.--I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in the _Museum_; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. * * * * * XIV. _September 1793_. I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on it.[143] "Down the burn, Davie." I have this moment tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of the last stanza, thus:-- As down the burn they took their way, And thro' the flowery dale, His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale. With "Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew?" Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you." "Thro' the wood, laddie." I am decidedly of opinion that both in this and "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame," the second or high part of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only for instrumental music, and would be much better omitted in singing. "Cowden-knowes." Remember in your index that the song in pure English, to this tune, beginning When summer comes, the swains on Tweed, is the production of Crawford; Robert was his Christian name. "Laddie lie near me," must _lie by me_ for some time. I do not know the air; and until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing (such as it is), I never can compose for it. My way is: I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, then choose my theme, begin one stanza; when that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature around me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom; humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging at intervals on the hind legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably my way. What cursed egotism!