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And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

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;
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no better return?

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;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?
O are ye sleeping, Maggie?

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,
He coost aside his dreeping plaidie :
Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye.
Now since ye're waking, Maggie,
Now since ye're waking, Maggie!
What care I for howlet's cry,

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';
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna,

Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, take the east and west,

Frae Indus to Savannah !

Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.

VOL. IV.

N

There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,

While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take with Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,

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.

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