crowding into little groves and bowers, with other circumstances peculiar to the districts I allude to, render them fit for pasturage, and favorable to romantic leisure and tender passions. Several of the old Scotch songs take their names from the rivulets, villages, and hills adjoining to the Tweed near Melrose; a region distinguished by many charming varieties of rural scenery, and which, whether we consider the face of the country, or the genius of the people, may properly enough be termed the Arcadia of Scotland. And all these songs are sweetly and powerfully expressive of love and tenderness, and other emotions suited to the tranquillity of pastoral life. 312.-SCOTTISH SONGS. TANNAHILL. [ROBERT TANNAHILL, one of the most popular of the song-writers of Scotland, since Burns, was a native of Paisley, born in 1774. He was bred a weaver; and his favorite pursuit was to recover old and neglected airs, to which he adapted new words. "I would I were a weaver," says Falstaff; "I could sing all manner of songs." He continued to work, with some exceptions, in his native town; where, at the beginning of this century, he made an acquaintance with Robert Archibald Smith, a musical composer, who set some of his songs to original music, and adapted others to old airs. In 1807 Tannahill collected his songs into a volume, which was decidedly successful. The higher success, which he more prized, was to find his songs universally known and sung amongst all classes. But the poet was the victim of a morbid melancholy which embittered his existence. His means were above his wants; he had no special unhappiness. But he died, as Ophelia died,—" where a willow grows aslant a brook,”—perhaps "chanting snatches of old tunes." This event occurred in 1810, near Paisley.] JESSIE, THE FLOW'R O' DUMBLANE. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. She 's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny; Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain, I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, 'Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, THE BRAES o' GLENIFFER. Keen blaws the wind o'er the Braes o' Gleniffer, Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drifts from their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON the Burn. The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa', The paitricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang While flitting gay, the swallows play Beneath the golden gloamin' sky, The mavis mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren frae den to den The roses fauld their silken leaves, Let others crowd the giddy court The simple joys that nature yields Are dearer far to me. AH! SHEELAH, THOU 'RT MY Darling. Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling, My heart is thine where'er I go; When toss'd upon the billow, And angry tempests round me blow, Let not the gloomy willow O'ershade thy lovely lily brow: But mind the seaman's story, Sweet William and his charming Sue; I'll soon return with glory, And, like sweet William, wed thee too : Ah! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling, My heart is thine where'er I go. Think on our days of pleasure, While wandering by the Shannon side, Is far upon the stormy main, Those golden days shall come again. Farewell, ye lofty mountains, Your flow'ry wilds we wont to rove; The dear retreats of mutual love.- O! Sheelah, to thy vows be true! One fond embrace, and then adieu; 313.-ART AND NATURE, BYRON [THE poets, in general, are amongst the best of the prose writers. In these volumes we have given many examples of the prose of poets. We add one of Byron. Before the close of this little work, we shall give one specimen of Byron's poetry, with a brief notice of his life and writings. The following extract is from his controversial pamphlet on the merits of Pope-a controversy in which some nonsense was said on both sides, but which had the merit of being less dull than most disputes, literary or political.] Mr. Bowles asserts that Campbell's "Ship of the Line"* derives all its poetry, not from "art," but from "nature.” "Take "Those who have ever witnessed the spectacle of the launching of a ship of the line, will perhaps forgive me for adding this to the examples of the sublime objects of artificial life. Of that spectacle I can never forget the impression, and of having witnessed it reflected from the faces of ten thousand spectators. They seem yet before me. I sympathize with their deep and silent expectation, and with their final burst of enthusiasm. It was not a vulgar joy, but an affecting national solemnity. When the vast bulwark sprang from her cradle, the calm water on which she swung majestically round gave the imagination a contrast of the stormy element on which she was soon to ride. All the days of battle and the nights of danger which she had to encounter, all the ends of the earth which she had to visit, and all that she had to do and to suffer for her country, rose in awful presentiment before the mind; and when the heart gave her a benediction, it was like one pronounced on a living being."-CAMPBELL'S Specimens of British Poets, vol. i. p. 265. |