Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, There is less originality in the "Flower of Dumblane" than in most of Tannahill's songs. There is little said but what has been said as well before: the bloom of the brier, the bud of the birk, the song of the mavis, are all sweet things, but as common to lyric poetry as they are to nature. I WINNA GANG BACK. I winna gang back to my mammy again, Young Johnie came down i' the gloamin' to woo, He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his dow, Some lassies will talk to the lads wi' their e'e, For mony lang year, sin' I play'd on the lea, The natural beauty and buoyancy of this little song is impaired by an air of affectation and childishness which Gall, as well as Macneill, mistook for the most engaging and endearing simplicity and singleness of heart. A young lady of eighteen, ambitious of domestic rule, and of becoming a wife and mother, would never prattle of her lover in this light-headed manner. O TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE. If doughty deeds my lady please, And strong his arm, and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap, And he that bends not to thine eye Then tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! If gay attire delight thine eye, I'll tend thy chamber door all night, But if fond love thy heart can gain, Nae maiden lays her skaith to me; For you. you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; The late Mr. Graham of Gartmore wrote this elegant and chivalrous song. The chorus is the echo of a fragment of old verse, and might be omitted, like many other supplemental rhymes of the same nature which are scattered among our lyrics, without offering any injury to the song. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here; The hills of the highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow! The first half stanza of this song is old, the rest is the work of Burns. Of the old song I am sorry I can give no larger specimen. It was the lamentation, I understand, of a highland lady who, wedded to some churlish lowland lord, languished for her green glens, her boundless hills, and her sylvan liberty. O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE. O gin my love were yon red rose Into its bonnie breast to fa'! O were my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; When wearied on my little wing: By autumn wild, and winter rude! When youthfu' May its bloom renew❜d. The first eight lines of this song are very old, very beautiful, and very generally admired. The succeeding eight lines are by Burns; but they fail in continuing without abatement the exquisite original feeling and delicacy of the old. The poet, after expressing his admiration of the fragment, says, "I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain: after balancing myself for a musing of five minutes on the hind legs of my |