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"Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

"A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might
Guid faith he mauna fa that!
For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that:
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

"Then let us pray, that come it may—
And come it will for a' that-

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree and a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that."

This is plainly written con amore, and is almost perfect in its way, though it has little pretension to poetry, and is much a satire as a song. However dangerous or destructive its sentiments may be in their excess or misapplication, they are entitled to reverence and sympathy, as truths, which, under proper control, are important elements in private independence and public liberality.

There is a wildness and energy in what we are next to quote that attains to the sublime, and appears to place it very high in the scale of song-writing.

"As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air,
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.

"The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;

The fox was howling on the hill,-
And the distant echoing glens reply.

"The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruined wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

"The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

"By heedless chance I turned mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attired as minstrels wont to be.

"Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin' look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet graved was plain,
The sacred posy-Libertie !"

Our next is a very favourable example of Burns's powers :

"Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild-flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

"Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?—the haunt o' the tyrant and slave!
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views with disdain;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean."

This, on the whole, is excellent; it is bold and beautiful, and has thrilled many thousand Scottish hearts, and filled many thousand Scottish eyes with tears, whether at home or in distant lands. Nothing can be sweeter in

themselves, or by contrast with what precedes them, than the lines

"Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.”

But the song has faults, and those, too, considerable ones. We doubt whether the reason assigned for loving "yon humble broom bowers," is not too exclusively confined to their connexion with the poet's mistress. Surely we

prefer the glens of our native land, with their broom and their breckan, before the rich regions of the myrtle and orange, not merely because they are the haunt of a beloved woman, but also because they are the home of our fathers and kindred, the seat of knowledge and piety, the domicile of liberty and peace. If it be said that " Jean," in her character and virtues, is to be regarded as the type of all those excellencies, we think the idea is somewhat strained and obscure.

We are certain, however, that if this allusion was admissible in the first verse, it is poorly iniroduced, and mawkishly expressed in the conclusion of the second. The conceit of the free Caledonian wandering about his mountains with only "love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean," is equally cold and commonplace, and wholly unsuitable to the simple and manly character which the song should sustain.

We are naturally led from this last song to notice some of those which are more exclusively devoted to the tender or gentle affections. We shall give the precedence to "Highland Mary."

"Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

"How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;

As underneath the fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

"Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging oft to meet again
We tore ourselves asunder:
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary.

"O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I oft hae kiss'd sae fondly;
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould'ring now in silent dust
The heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary."

We feel this to be, indeed admirable, and fresh from the heart; and if one or two blemishes occur to us in style or versification, the sacredness of a love and sorrow so beautiful and so sincere, deter us from whispering a word of aught but sympathy and reverence.

What we have next to notice is every way more open to criticism.

"There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld men.
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

"She's as fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's as sweet as the evening amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

"But oh! she's an heiress, and R. bin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed
The wounds I maun hide that will soon be

my dead.

"The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

"O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!
O, how past describing had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!"

We much admire the two first verses, which are well suited in style and sentiment to a very beautiful and pathetic air; but we think that the rest of the song might, on the whole, have been dispensed with, or ought, at least, to have been remodelled.

"A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I maun hide that will soon be my dead;"

is clumsy and incongruous. "I sigh as my heart it would. burst in my breast," does not please us, and seems to enfeeble a stanza that might have been very good. Somehow or other, a "sigh" is not at all a poetical thing, according to our Scotch customs or pronunciations. The last verse is positively bad. The question in proportion, or the rule of three, stated in the concluding lines,

"O how past describing had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!"

is much too formal and calculating, and is destitute of any felicity of thought or language.

Of the same mixed character is the following:

"O poortith cauld and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye!
Yet poortith a' I could forgi'e,
An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have
Life's dearest hands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?

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