Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the _Museum_) is my composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the West Country, but the old words are trash. By-the-bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which "Roslin Castle" is composed. The second part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. "Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well beloved, Allan Masterton. "Donocht head" is not mine; I would give ten pounds if it were. It appeared first in the _Edinburgh Herald_; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it[146] "Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine; the music is said to be by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a redwud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it. "Andrew and his cutty gun". The song to which this is set in the _Museum_ is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the "Flower of Strathmore." "How lang and dreary is the night." I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across the room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page. Tune--_Cauld Kail in Aberdeen_. How lang and dreary is the night, (etc.) Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's _Collection of English Songs_, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please--whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence. [Footnote 146: "Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht head, The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. "Cauld is the night, O let me in, And dinna let your minstrel fa', And dinna let his winding-sheet Be naething but a wreath o' snaw."(etc.)] * * * * * XIX. _November_ 1794.