May coward shame destain his name, Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danced it round, Burns, if I may trust a mark in the Museum, communicated this wild and warlike song as an old lyric, with additions: it is, however, as much his own as a song may well be.-It owes, little, except the name and subject, to the death-chant of Macpherson, printed in Herd's Collection. This daring freebooter composed the song and tune while under sentence of death at Inverness; and when he came to the fatal tree he played the air on a favourite violin: holding up the instrument, he offered it to any of his name who would play the tune at his lyke-wake. No one answered-he dashed the fiddle to pieces on the hangman's head, and flung himself from the ladder. Tradition has some curious stories to tell of songs sung, and music composed, in circumstances very unfavourable for such compositions. The town piper of Falkirk, it is said, was sentenced to be hanged for horse-stealing: on the night before his execution he obtained as an indulgence the company of some of his brother pipers, and as the liquor was abundant, and their instruments in tune, the noise and fun grew fast and furious. The execution was to be at eight o'clock, and the poor piper was recalled to a sense of his situa tion by morning light dawning on the window. He suddenly silenced his pipe, and exclaimed, "O but this wearyfu' hanging rings in my lug like a new tune!" O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy; The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving: O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl! 56 Meg o' the Mill" was a favourite theme with Burns : he augmented the humour and the glee of the old song, and sent it to the Museum; while for Thomson's more classic collection he wrote the present version. The ancient song lives still in the tenacious memory of the peasantry, though little of it deserves to live. Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? Loud howls the northern blast, Bleak is the dreary waste; Haste then, O Donald, haste, Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er, Since on a foreign shore You promis'd to fight no more, But meet me in Mora. Come then, O come away ! Never, O wretched fair! Well fought our valiant men Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But, though our foes did flee, Sad was each victory! For youth, love, and loyalty, Fell far, far from Mora! Here, take this love-wrought plaid, Donald, expiring, said ; Give it to yon dear maid, Drooping in Mora: Tell her, O Allan, tell! And that in his last farewell Mute stood the trembling fair, She sigh'd, Poor Flora! Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!- At length the sound died away For ever in Mora! Hector Macneill had some tenderness, but no pathos; and as pathos was wanted for this tale of woe, the song is a failure. What messenger ever came with so swift a foot and so tedious a tongue :-in three verses he tells what he might have said in three lines, and the silly sorrow of the lady is in keeping with the stupidity of the messenger: |