In its kind, the opening of this song is good. We are not, however, pleased with the strained fancy of joys "dancing" in the morning to the lark's song. The lines

"Where is the peace that awaited my wandering
At evening the wild woods among,"

are natural and touching. The second and third verses are fair, though with here and there a clumsy expression. The two last verses, we take leave to say, are about as bad as ever were written. When personally introduced to the heroine of this sentimental strain, we involuntarily, and with more justice, exclaim with Mrs. Quickly, " Vengeance of Jenny's case! fie on her, never name her!"My griefs are immortal,"-" Enamoured, and fond of my anguish," Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo,”—are frigid exaggerations, or absolute fustian.

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We might dwell, alas! much longer on this part of our task; but we have greater pleasure in proceeding to notice the best among those songs of Burns, which we consider to be worthy of his high genius, and of the lyrical reputation which they have obtained for him. We shall point out in these the beauties which appear to us to be most solid and conspicuous; but shall not spare to animadvert also on the blemishes or inequalities by which their value is alloyed. We shall divide the subjects of our consideration into three classes, though each sometimes merges into the other-songs of spirit, songs of tenderness, and songs of merriment.

No song, perhaps, has been oftener sung or quoted, or is more completely identified with Burns's name, than the "Address of Bruce to his Army at Bannockburn." Though it probably dwells in the memories of all, let us lay it before our readers, and offer a few observations upon its merits.

We have so often sung or murmured to ourselves this impressive song-we have so often heard it said and sung by others-it has so long been established in our imaginations as the actual address which preceded and helped to gain the battle that secured our country's independence, that it is with difficulty we can escape from the engrained prepossessions thus produced, and place ourselves in the free and indifferent position of liberal critics. We shall try, however, to do so; and shall task ourselves to determine what is the precise degree and amount of praise to which this poem is intrinsically entitled. When we hear it commended as splendid or sublime, and enquire in what particulars it exhibits those qualities, we are unable to find a satisfactory answer. We discover no profound reflections-no soaring imaginations; we meet with nothing that is not a common topic in such a situation-nothing that is unexpectedly striking, or touching, or terrible, in the images presented to us. In so far as the thoughts are concerned, we ques

tion if there is any thing which a schoolboy might not have introduced into a theme on such a subject; and probably, if he had read Galgacus's speech in the life of Agricola, a clever schoolboy might have introduced sentiments which were more pointed, if not more pithy. But, on the other hand, when we look at it, not as a composition of lofty genius or of creative poetry, but as a plain and powerful exhortation to a patriotic struggle, and introduced as a popular versification of ideas suitable to so great an occasion, and yet level to the capacities and sympathies of all men; when we observe the vigorous, manly, and resolute tone in which those ideas are expressed, and the absence of any thing feeble or foreign to the matter at issue, we willingly pronounce it to be an admirable example of the martial lyric, and a successful achievement of a difficult and honourable task. If the imaginative reader finds nothing in it which surpasses the common notions of all mankind on so exciting a subject, the universal applause with which ordinary minds have received it, is at least a proof that it does not in any thing fall short of that standard. If the same ideas have often been thought, the result of the experiment proves that they have never, or not often, been so well expressed.

We like as well, if not better, what Mr. Thomson pleasantly calls a vive-la-bagatelle song, but which, to us, appears a rather more serious affair.

"Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave we pass him by,
And dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

"What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, and a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er so poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

"Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

“A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might
Guid faith he mauna fa that!
For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that:
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

"Then let us pray, that come it may—
And come it will for a' that-

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree and a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that."

This is plainly written con amore, and is almost perfect in its way, though it has little pretension to poetry, and is much a satire as a song. However dangerous or destructive its sentiments may be in their excess or misapplication, they are entitled to reverence and sympathy, as truths, which, under proper control, are important elements in private independence and public liberality.

There is a wildness and energy in what we are next to quote that attains to the sublime, and appears to place it very high in the scale of song-writing.

"As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air,
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.

"The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;

The fox was howling on the hill,

And the distant echoing glens reply.

"The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruined wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

"The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

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By heedless chance I turned mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

Attired as minstrels wont to be.

"Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin' look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet graved was plain,
The sacred posy-Libertie !"

Our next is a very favourable example of Burns's

powers:

"Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild-flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

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Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,
What are they?-the haunt o' the tyrant and slave!
The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views with disdain;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.”

This, on the whole, is excellent; it is bold and beautiful, and has thrilled many thousand Scottish hearts, and filled many thousand Scottish eyes with tears, whether at home or in distant lands. Nothing can be sweeter in