confidence has been rewarded by public favour. The "Moudiework," from which this admirable song accepted only the aid of the air, is a very old and very free lyric; which cannot well be quoted, and certainly can far less be sung. "This song is mine," is the brief claim which Burns makes to this production in the Reliques. THE LASS OF ARRANTEENIE. Far lone, amang the Highland hills, : The langsome way, the darksome day, Are nought to me, when gaun to thee, Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, Her laurell'd favours many, Give me but this, my soul's first wish, I suspect that the "Lass of Arranteenie" is one of those aërial damsels whom lyric poets create as the Egyptians make gods-for the express purpose of falling down and worshipping the work of their own hands. He who sings of the charms of an imaginary maiden must share in the reproach with which the poet assails the Romish church: Thus Romish bakers praise the deity They chipp'd, while yet in its paniety. This is one of poor Tannahill's songs, and contains a pretty picture of modest love and quiet affection. MY NANNIE-O. Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, The westlin wind blaws loud and shill, My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young; May ill befa' the flattering tongue A country lad is my degree, An' few there be that ken me-o; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome aye to Nannie-o. My riches a's my penny-fee, An' I maun guide it cannie-o; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie-o. Our auld gudeman delights to view I'll tak what Heav'n will send me-o; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie-o. Burns was fond of his native hills and streams; the rivers and rivulets of Ayrshire are remembered in many a moving song. A very pretty stream, with a very strange name, once flowed in the commencing line of "My Nannie-o:" the poet listened to the complaint of some fastidious singer, and removed Nannie's native stream, and replaced it with the Lugar. Such changes lessen our belief in the local truth of lyric verse; but perhaps Burns exclaimed with Prior, when he sought to excuse himself from the charge of more serious levities, "Ye gods, must one swear to the truth of a song!" The poet, it will be remembered, changed his name from Burness to Burns, a kind of deliberate whim which deprived a very ancient name of an increase of honour. Those who live on the banks of the stream of Stinchar will think of the fame of which the poet deprived them by displacing it for the Lugar. LORD GREGORY. O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', At least some pity on me shaw, If love it mayna be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove By bonnie Irwin side, Where first I own'd that virgin love, How aften didst thou pledge and vow And my fond heart, itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest! Your willing victim see! But spare, and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me! |