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As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked cowthie and slee,
Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee !

Come fill up my cup, &c.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was thranged
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, &c. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers ; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, &c.

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke ;
“Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee."

Come fill up my cup, &c.

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes-
" Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose !
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, &c.

“ There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth ;
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North ;
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three
Will cry · Hoigh !' for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee,

Come fill up my cup, &c.

“ There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide,
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside ;
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, &c.

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,
Ere I own an usurper I'll crouch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me.”

Come fill up my cup, &c.
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can;
Come saddle the horses, and call up the men ;
Come open your gates, and let me gae free,
For its up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee !

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There are abundant indications that the “ Bonnets of Bonny Dundee” was a favourite with its illustrious writer. The following song, from “ The Pirate,” is interesting, not merely from its own merit, but from an anecdote related by Mr. Lockhart. When on a tour in the North of England, it was sung to Sir Walter as set by Mrs. Robert Arkwright. “Beautiful words," observed he; “ Byron's of course." He was much shocked when undeceived.

The stanzas themselves are deeply touching. They form part of a serenade, sung by Cleveland under Minna's window, when compelled to return to his ship.

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Farewell ! farewell! the voice you hear

Has left its last soft tone with you ;
It's next must join the seaward cheer,

And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form,

Beneath your frown's controlling check,
Must give the word above the storm

To cut the mast and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise,

The hand that shook when pressed to thine,
Must point the guns upon the chase,

Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.
To all I love or hope or fear,

Honour or own, a long adieu !
To all that life has soft and dear,

Farewell ! save memory of you ! The lines have much of the flow peculiar to Lord Byron, and were therefore perhaps selected as adapted to her purpose by their accomplished composer. In general, musical people say that Sir Walter Scott's songs are ill suited to music, difficult to set, difficult to sing. One cannot help suspecting that the fault rests with the music, that cannot blend itself with such poetry. Where in our language shall we find more delicious melody than in “ County Guy?' The rhythm of the verse rivals the fancy of the imagery and the tenderness of the thought.

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Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea ;
The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who trilled all day,

Sits hushed his partner nigh;
Bee, bird, and bower confess the hour :-

But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade

Her shepherd's suit to hear ;
To beauty shy by lattice high,

Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky ;
And high and low the influence know :-

But where is County Guy ?

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This little poem can hardly be surpassed ; but here are two others, one by the late, and one by the present Laureate, worthy to be printed on the same page.


She dwelt among the untrodden ways,

Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!

Mr. Tennyson's delicious song, published only in the later editions of “ The Princess,” is less generally known.

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory :
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

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Oh, hark ! oh, hear ! how thin and clear

And thinner, clearer, farther going !
Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing.
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die on yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, on field, on river ;
Our echoes roll from soul to souì

And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

It is like a descent from Fairyland to the wild stormy ocean, to turn from the dying falls of Mr. Tennyson's stanzas to the homely sea-song of Allan Cunningham. And yet that sea-song has high merit; it resembles the bold stalwart form, the free and generous spirit of the author, one of the noblest specimens of the Scottish peasant, elevated into a superior rank, as much by conduct and character, as by talent and industry

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and swelling sail,

And bends the gallant mast :
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lea.
“Oh, for a soft and gentle wind !”

I heard a fair one cry ;
But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high !
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship light and free;
The world of waters is our home

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in you hornëd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud ;
And hark! the music mariners

The wind is piping loud !

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