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, With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was thranged There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, 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, "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three The Gordon demands of him which way he goes- "There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth; Come fill up my cup, &c. "There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide, Come fill up my cup, &c. 1 66 Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,- He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. For its up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee ! 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. Farewell! farewell! the voice you hear The accents which I scarce could form, To cut the mast and clear the wreck. The timid eye I dared not raise, The hand that shook when pressed to thine, Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. To all I love or hope or fear, Honour or own, a long adieu! 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. Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The lark his lay who trilled all day, Bee, bird, and bower confess the hour :- The village maid steals through the shade Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy by lattice high, The star of love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know :- 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. LUCY. She dwelt among the untrodden ways, A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone 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; And the wild cataract leaps in glory: Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear 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; 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, my boys, Away the good ship flies, and leaves "Oh, for a soft and gentle wind !” There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark! the music mariners |