66 Yestreen, when to the trembling string I sat, but neither heard nor saw: O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, The thought o' Mary Morison. Mary Morison" is one of the best and the earliest of Burns's songs. It is written much in the antique style, and the name of the heroine has a national look and sound which excite an interest worth ten thousand Chlorises and Phyllises, and all the fabulous tribe of Arcadian damsels. That the poet did not think well of it himself, we have his own authority: "I do not think remarkable either for its merits or demerits ;-it is impossible to be always original, entertaining, and witty." it very O MAY, THY MORN. O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet And here's to them, that, like oursel, And here's to them that wish us weel, The dearest o' the quorum; The dearest o' the quorum. This happy and original little lyric was one of many which flowed from the pen of Burns into the Musical Museum. The contrast of the first and last verses is very great, yet very natural. The poet imagines himself warmed with wine, and seated among his companions, to whom he announces, as the glass goes round, the attractions of his mistress, and his good fortune in her affection. His confidence goes no farther ;—the name of his love is not to be told; and for this poetical tyranny there is no remedy. THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes of Balquhither, Where the blae-berries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, On the braès o' Balquhither. I will twine thee a bow'r, By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flow'rs of the mountain; And the deep glens sae drearie, And return wi' the spoils To the bow'r o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, On the night breeze is swelling, As the storm rattles o'er us, Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer is in prime, To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad Innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. This song was written by Robert Tannahill, and its liquid verse and lively images have made it a favourite. It is simple and natural without pastoral affectation, but without much pastoral knowledge. The shepherd's shieling is a bower made of materials far too frail to endure the rattle of a winter storm-it is only a summer residence. It was in a little shieling of turf and heather that I found my friend James Hogg, half way up the hill of Queensberry, with the Lay of the Last Minstrel in his hand, and all his flocks feeding before him; but I should never have looked for him there on a winter night when snows were drifting thick and deep. JENNY'S BAWBEE. I met four chaps yon birks amang, The first, a captain to his trade, Quoth he, my goddess, nymph, and queen, A Norland laird neist trotted up, Cried, Here's my horse, lad, haud the grup, Or tie him to a tree. What's gowd to me? I've wealth o' lan' Bestow on ane o' worth your han' He thought to pay what he was awn |