Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, In vain to me the cowslips blaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. Untie these bands from off my hands, I've lived a life of sturt and strife; It burns my heart I must depart Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright, May coward shame distain his name, Menie. The merry plough-boy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me 's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree: Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me! Ae Fond Kiss. "These exquisitely affecting stanzas contain the essence of a thousand love-tales.' -SCOTT.' 'One of my juvenile works.'-BURNS. Of all the productions of Burns, the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines of "Mary Morison," &c.'-HAZLITT. Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, The thought o' Mary Morison. Address. Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law To Mary in Heaven. Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, Eternity will not efface 'i hose records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! A favourite walk of Burns, during his residence in Dumfries, was one along the right bank of the river above the town, terminating at the ruins of Lincluden Abbey and Church, which occupy a romantic situation on a piece of rising ground in the angle at the junction of the Cluden Water with the Nith. These ruins include many fine fragments of ancient decorative architecture, and are enshrined in a natural scene of the utmost beauty. Burns, according to his eldest son, often mused amidst the Lincluden ruins. There is one position on a little mount, to the south of the church, where a couple of landscapes of witching loveliness are obtained, set, as it were, in two of the windows of the ancient building. It was probably the Calvary' of the ancient church precinct. This the younger Burns remembered to have been a favourite resting-place of the poet. Such is the locality of the grand and thrilling ode, entitled A Vision, in which he hints for more than a hint could not be ventured upou-his sense of the degradation of the ancient manly spirit of his country under the conservative terrors of the passing era. -CHAMBERS's Burns, Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Twined am'rous round the raptured scene; Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?* RICHARD GALL. RICHARD GALL (1776-1800), whilst employed as a printer in Edinburgh, threw off some Scottish songs that became favourites. 'My Only Jo and Dearie O,' for pleasing fancy and musical expression, is not unworthy of Tannahill. 'I remember,' says Allan Cunningham, 'when this song was exceedingly popular; its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft school-girl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.' , * Burns, in his Remarks on Scottish Songs,' written for the Laird of Glenriddel, has described the above parting scene My Highland lassie,' he says, was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent the day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days before I could even hear of her illness.' Cromek heightens the interesting picture: The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook; they laved their hands in its limpid stream, and holding a Bible between them pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted, never to meet again. Subsequent investigation has lessened the romance of this pure love-passage in the poet's life. The pretty long tract of attachment,' if we take the expression literally, must have been before Burns's acquaintance with Jean Armour, who soon eclipsed all the other rustic heroines. When Jean and her parents so ruthlessly broke off the connection, Burns turned to Highland Mary; but when Mary embarked for the West Highlands. Jean Armour again obtained the ascendant. and four weeks after the parting with Mary (June 12), we find the poet writing: Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her (Jean Armour); and to confess a truth. I do still love her to distraction." Mary is no more heard of, and is not mentioned by Burns till three years after her decease. Her premature death had recalled her love and her virtues, and embalmed them for ever. The parting scene was exalted and hallowed in his imagination, and kept sacred-not. perhaps, without some feeling of remorse. To Dr. Moore, to his Ayrshire friends, and to Clarinda he spoke freely of all his early loves except that of Mary: his vows to her seem never to have been whispered to any ear but her own. The rapid changes illustrate the poet's mobility,' or excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions, which also characterised Byron, and which Byron, less reticent, has defended: 'Tis merely what is called mobility A thing of temperament and not of art, And false, though true; for surely they 're sincerest Don Juan, c. xvi. My Only Jo and Dearie 0. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, The bird sings upon the thorn Nae care to mak' it eerie O; Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, Ours joys fu' sweet and mony 0; I hae a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me 0; Farewell to Ayrshire. This song of Gall's has often been printed as the composition of Burns, a copy in Burns's handwriting having been found among his papers. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming, Bowers, adieu! where love decoying, Friends so dear my bosom ever, Ye hae rendered moments dear; Friends, that parting tear reserve it, How much happier would I be ! ALEXANDER WILSON. ALEXANDER WILSON, a distinguished naturalist, was also a good Scottish poet. He was a native of Paisley, and born July 6, 1766. He was brought up to the trade of a weaver, but afterwards preferred that of a pedlar, selling muslin and other wares. In 1789 he added to his other commodities a prospectus of a volume of poems, trusting, as he said, If the pedlar should fail to be favoured with sale, He did not succeed in either character; and after publishing his poems, he returned to the loom. In 1792 he issued anonymously his best poem, 'Watty and Meg,' which was at first attributed to Burns.* A foolish personal satire, and not a very wise admiration of the principles of equality disseminated at the time of the French Revolution, * As Burns was one day sitting at his desk by the side of the window, a well-known hawker, Andrew Bishop, went past crying: Watty and Meg, a new ballad, by Robert Burns. The poet looked out and said: That's a lee, Andrew, but I would make your plack a baubee if it were mine.' This we heard Mrs. Burns, the poet's widow, relate. |