resist the temptation of adding the charming ballad that concludes this paper. Mr. Robert Chambers attributes the authorship to William Julius Mickle, the translator of the "Lusiad," and the writer of "Cumnor Hall," to which, and the impression made upon Sir Walter Scott, in early life, by the first stanza,* the world is probably indebted for Kenilworth. Mr. Chambers says that of this ballad, an imperfect, altered, and corrected copy, was found among his manuscripts after his death; and his widow, being applied to, confirmed the external evidence in his favour, by an express declaration that her husband had said the song was his own, and that he had explained to her the Scottish words.

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, fling bye your wheel.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Gie me my cloak,-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

* "The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby."

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie me down my biggonet,
My bishop-satin gown,

And rin and tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearlin blue;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman.

For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat.

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman

He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bouk,
They've fed this month and mair;

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about That Colin weel may fare.

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw ;

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'!

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath's like caller air;
His very foot has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

The cauld blasts o' the winter's wind,
That thirled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part.
But what puts parting i̇' my heid ?
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our own,

The neist we never saw.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,

I'm blest aboon the lave:

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa’.

Mr. Chambers may well call this song

"the

fairest flower in Mickle's poetical chaplet." Many a laureled bard might have proudly owned such a ballad.

P.S. I was reading this song to a friend, as well as a tongue not Scottish would let me, while an intelligent young person, below the rank that is called a lady, sate at work in the room. She smiled as I concluded, and said, half to herself, Singing that song got my sister a husband!"

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"Is she so fine a singer?" inquired my friend. "No, Ma'am, not a fine singer at all; only somehow everybody likes to hear her, because she

seems to feel the words she sings, and so makes other people feel them. But it was her choosing that song that won William's love. He said that a woman who put so much heart into the description of a wife's joy at getting her husband home again, would be sure to make a good wife herself. And so she does. There never was a happier couple. It has been a lucky song for them, I am sure.”

Now it seems to me that this true story is worth all the criticisms in the world, both on this particular ballad, and on the manner of singing ballads in general. Let the poet and his songstress only put heart into them, and the lady, at least, sees her reward.