And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes And England triumphant display her proud rose; Of the origin of "The Banks of the Devon," Burns says, "These verses were composed on a charming girl, Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James Adair, physician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gawin Hamilton of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the Ayr, but was residing when I wrote these lines at Harveyston in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon." To this lady Burns addressed a dozen of his finest letters, which, in an hour of carelessness or vexation, were committed to the fire. THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn; When Prince Charles Stuart saw that utter ruin had fallen on all those who loved him and fought for him— that the axe and the cord were busy with their persons, and that their wives and children were driven desolate, he is supposed by Burns to have given utterance to his feelings in this touching lament. O ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE? Mirk and rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carry; Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring at the warlock craigie. Fearfu' soughs the boortree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and drearie; Loud the iron yate does clank, And cry o' howlets makes me eerie. Aboon my breath I daurna speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie; Cauld's the blast upon my cheek; O rise, rise, my bonnie lady! She opt the door, she let him in, For boortree bank, or warlock craigie ! The "Sleeping Maggie" of our ancestors was a song of a very different stamp from this little clever lyric by Tannahill. It abounded in images of rustic mirth and enjoyment; and the language which embodied them was not the most select. Of the song nothing exists but the name; but the name is sure to survive as long as the people of Dumfriesshire continue to dance: for " Sleeping Maggie" is a favourite tune when the barn-floor is swept, the youths and maidens are assembled, and the fiddler slants his cheek over the strings. THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na'; Was naething to my hinny bliss Ye monarchs, take the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah ! Gie me within my straining grasp VOL. IV. N There I'll despise imperial charms, While dying raptures in her arms Awa, thou flaunting god o' day! Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a'; And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna. It was seldom that Burns strained and laboured to express love and rapture; but here his Muse taxes herself to three verses of song, rather as a penance than a pleasure. I believe, however, that Anna with the golden locks was no imaginary person: like the dame in the old song, "She brewed gude ale for gentlemen ;" and while she served the bard with a pint of wine, allowed her customer leisure to admire her, "as hostler wives should do." The "Lass with the gowden locks" was a liberal lady, like the "Lassie with the lintwhite locks.” A note imputed to Burns in the Museum says, "I think this is the best love song I ever composed." If the poet wrote this, I am sorry for it. I hope that the words are apocryphal; and I believe they are. |