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? Is this a time to think o' wark? * "The dews of summer night did fall, And many an oak that grew thereby." For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, And gie me down my biggonet, And rin and tell the bailie's wife 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, Rise up and mak' a clean fireside, Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, 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, There's twa fat hens upon the bouk, 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, Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath's like caller air; I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,- For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava'; There's little pleasure in the house, The cauld blasts o' the winter's wind, The present moment is our own, The neist we never saw. For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I'm blest aboon the lave: And will I see his face again? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,- 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!" 66 "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. |