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"So great and rapid, indeed," says Mr. C. has been the change, that in a few years the songs and ballads here selected would have been irrecoverably forgotten.

"The old cottars (the trysters of other year) are mostly dead in good old age; and their children are pursuing the bus tle of commerce frequently in foreign climates. The names of their bards have been sought after in vain; they live only in song, where they have celebrated their social attachments.

"It is affecting to think that poets, capable, perhaps, of the wild creations of Milton; the bewitching landscapes and tenderness of Thomson; the faithful nature of Ramsay; or the sublimity, eloquent pathos, and humour of Burns; it is affecting to think that they lie below the turf, and all that can now be redeemed from the oblivious wreck of their genius is a few solitary fragments of song! But these remnants show the richness of the minds which produced them; they impress us with a noble idea of peasant abilities, and a sacred reverence for their memory.

"Such might have been the fate even of Robert Burns, had not a happy combination of adverse and fortunate circumstances brought his works before the publick tribunal. Some stranger might, a short while hence, have been gather

ing up the ruins of his mighty genius, and wondering while he collected them in morsels from the remembrance of tradition; nor need it be deemed extravagant to assert, that Nithsdale and Galloway have, at some period of fifty years back, nourished, among their harvesting and their pastoral valleys, a rustick bard, who sung the loves and feelings of his fellow-peasants, and who bemoaned in undying strains, the deplorable ravages of 1745, and, perhaps, shared in the general and desolating ruin."

In stating the origin of this volume, we shall prefer to use Mr. Cromek's own words :

"These ballads and songs are gleaned from among the peasantry of Nithsdale, and the skirts of Galloway, adjoining to it. They were never printed before, and are ripe in the sentiments and feelings of their forefathers, and often deliciously mixed with their humour. To those who wish to know how the peasantry think and feel, these Remains will be acceptable. They may be considered as so many unhewn altars raised to rural love, and local humour and opinion, by the genius of unlettered rusticity.

"In works of compilation like the present, the labour of an editor, however severe, is least apparent, and as far as regards the publick, of very inferiour consideration. It may be proper, however, to say a few words respecting the remarks which are interspersed through the present volume.

"It has been my purpose to avoid the mistake into which collectors are prone to fall, of heaping on their materials a mass of extraneous lumber in the shape of facts and dates, of minute discussions and conjectural emendations, equally perplexing to themselves and to the reader. It is by no means a subject of boast that I have avoided this reproach, for, circumstanced as I was, to have incurred it would have been unpardonable.

"In the progress of this collection, it was necessary to have personal intercourse with the peasantry, in whose traditions these Remains were preserved. From a race of men so interesting, and so rich in original character, volumes of curious and valuable remark might be gathered; hence, from access to a mine so abundant, it was more a business of selection than of toil, to derive details which might establish what was doubtful, and illustrate what was obscure. At

the same time, these Remains, by exhibiting masterly sketches of the popular genius which produced them, naturally excite a curiosity in readers of every taste, to behold the portrait more fully delineated. Presuming on the excite ment of this curiosity, I have ventured to describe, at some length, the domes tick manners, the rural occupations, the passions, the attachments, the prejudices, and the superstitions, which characterize the peasantry of Nithsdale and Galloway.

"These details were in part necessary to make the poetry understood, and if they should have exceeded the bounds which a rigid critick might prescribe, they will not, it is hoped, be considered wholly irrelevant to the purpose I have had in view.

"In point of style, they lay no claim to the praise of elegance or refinement; for, as they were dictated by strictly local observation, they were written with a sole regard to fidelity and truth. Should the outline be found correct, the colouring vivid, and the whole likeness striking, it is a matter of very little moment that the picture appear unrecommended by the graces of laborious embellishment."

Mr. Cromek has divided the ballads into four classes, which he denominates Sentimental Ballads, Humorous Ballads, Jacobite Ballads, and Old Ballads and Fragments. The first class has the most attractions. It is in them that we find all those glowing touches of inspiration, which excite astonishment and delight. The humorous ballads have their merit, and so have the jacobitical ones: but the sentimental have a merit which, in some respects, have never been surpassed by the wit of man. They have that strain of thought and sentiment which is derived immediately from nature herself: not the frigid echoes of former writers, but the warm and glowing language of the heart. There is a strong and marked originality in all of them, which necessarily enhances their value.

Not, however, to dwell any longer upon general qualities, we shall proceed to make some extracts, and our first shall be of a short poem, but one most exquisitely finished:

"SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. [Nithsdale.]

"Historical notices on these songs are the most difficult things to be procured imaginable. They are below the dignity of the historian, and tradition has so fabled them that we dare scarcely trust her report. We may justly say they are like wild flower seeds scattered by the winds of heaven. Who can tell the mother which gathered them, or the wind which sowed them? They rise up only to flourish unseen, or to be trodden down and to wither.

"This ballad is said to be written about the time of the reformation, on a daughter of the Laird Maxwell, of Cowhill, on the banks of the Nith, called by the peasantry, The lilie of Nithsdale.'

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An' make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,
But an angel fell in luve wi' her,
She was beloved by a';

An' took her frae us a'.

Low there now lies my lassie,

Low there now lies;

A bonnier form n'er went to the yird,*, Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,

Fu' soon I'll follow thee;
Thou left me nought to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

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*Earth.

There's naught but dust now mine lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;
My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin"!

"This ballad was copied from the reci tation of a young country girl. She observ ed that it was a great favourite of her mo ther's, but seldom sung, as its open familiarity with God made it too daring for presbyterian strictness. These elegiack verses, though in some instances they pass the bounds of the simple and natural pathetick, express strongly the mingled feelings of grief and devotion which follow the loss of some beloved object. There are degrees of affliction corresponding with the degrees of our attachment and regard; and surely the most tender of attachments must be deplored by affliction the most poignant. This may account for, and excuse those expressions in this song, which border on extravagance; but it must be confessed that the first stanza, with every allowance, is reprehensible from its open and daring confidence in the Deity. The rest are written in a strain of solemn and feeling eloquence, which must find an echo in every bosom. The effusion is somewhat too serious for a song: it has all the holiness of a psalm, and would suffer profanation by being set to a com

mon tune."

Surely our readers will agree with us in affirming, that English poetry can scarcely boast any thing superiour to some of the above stanzas. The beautiful and affecting image in the concluding lines of the third stanza, the melancholy simplicity of the fourth, and the continued pathos of the sixth, seventh, and eighth, will justify the assertion.

We cannot omit the follow stray verse which Mr. Cromek picked up in the course of his search. It is a pious address of a mother to a daughter concerning her lover:

"He disna tak the beuk
Een's the mair pitie!

He says nae grace to his meat,
An' graceless maun he be:
Whan he's nae gratefu' to his God,
He canna be guid to thee."

"A noble sentiment," says the editor," "which ought to be written in letters of gold.”

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The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirred the thistle's tap o' down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking owre the hill; As I met amang the hawthorn's green, The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Her naked feet amang the grass,
Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies
fair;

Her brows shone comely 'mang her locks
Black curling owre her shouthers bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
Her lips were like a honey well,
An' heaven seemed looking through her

een,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, Fair lass, will ye gang wi' me, Whare black cocks craw, and plovers cry?

Sax hills are wooly wi' my sheep,

Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye: I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass, By Nithsdale's howmes an' monie a hill;'

She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I 'sweet maiden, look nae down,

But gie's a kiss, and gai wi' me:' A lovelier face, O! never looked up, And the tears were drapping frae her

ee;

I hae a lad, wha's far awa,

That weel could win a woman's will;

My heart's already fu' o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

O wha is he wha could leave sick a lass, To seek for love in a far countrie? Her tears drapped down like simmer dew, I fain wad hae kissed them frae her ee. I took but ane o' her comelie cheek; For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!

My heart is fu' o' ither love,

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

She strecked to heaven her twa white hands,

And lifted up her watry ee; Sae lang's my heart kens ought o' God, Or light is gladsome to my ee;

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,

Till my last drap o' blood be still, My heart sall haud nae ither love, Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

'There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks,

And Nith's romantick vale is fu';
By lanely 'Clouden's hermit stream,

Dwalls monie a gentle dame, I trow!
O, they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale or hill;
But there's a light puts them a' out,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill."

Before we pass from the consideration of the sentimental ballads, we will extract one from the pen of Miss Hamilton, which is, we think, creditable to her poetical powers:

"MY AIN FIRE-SIDE.

O, I hae seen great anes, and been in great ha's,

'Mang lords and 'mang ladies a' covered

wi' braws;

At feasts made for princes, wi' princes I've been,

Whar the great shine o' splendour has

dazled my een.

But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied,

As the bonnie blyth blink o' my ain fire

side.

Care's flown on the winds-it's clean out o' sight,

Past sorrows they seem but as dreams o the night:

I hear but kent voices-kent faces I see, And mark fond affection glint saft frae ilk ee.

Nae fleechings o' flattery-nae boastings o' pride,

'Tis heart speaks to heart, at ane's ain fire-
side,

My ain fire-side, my ain fire-side,
Oh! there's nought to compare to my ain
fire-side."

We must observe, however, that this modern effusion is not equal to the one which precedes it, upon the same subject, entitled, "A weary body's blythe when the sun gangs down."

We are afraid that in passing to the class of humorous ballads, we shall not so readily obtain the assent of our readers to those commendations which we shall be prompted to bestow. To the mere English reader their humour will be lost: to relish them, a person must, at least, have familiarized himself with the dialect of North Britain by the dilihe who has resided for any time gent perusal of Scottish poems: but among the peasantry, who has had

My ain fire-side, my ain fireside,
Oh, cheering's the bling o' my ain fire- opportunities of observing their

side!

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manners, noting their superstitions,
and hearing their idiomatick phrases,
accompanied with the expression
of look and voice, he it is, who will
most intensely feel and enjoy the
broad but natural humour of these
ballads. Some such there will doubt-
less be among our readers, and
therefore we will venture to extract
from this division of the work. We
may observe, indeed, that Mr. Cro-
mek would have done well had he
been more copious in his explana-
tions of Scottish words and phrases;
as he doubtless looks
up to the
English publick for some part of
that praise which he has justly de-
served.

We will select one which is as likely to be generally relished as any:

"ORIGINAL OF BURNS'S CARLE OF KELLY-BURN BRAES.

There was an auld man was hauding his plow,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme! By came the Devil, says, 'How do you do?' An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

It's neither your ox, nor your ass that I

crave,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

But your auld scolding wife, man, and her I maun have,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

Go take her, go take her,' the auld carle said,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme! Ye'll no keep her lang, an' that I'm afraid, An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

The Devil he mounted her on his back, Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

An' awa like a pedlar he trudged wi' his pack,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

He carried her on till he came to hell's door,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

An' bade her gae in, for a bitch an' a whore,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

He placed her on his big arm chair,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

An' thousands o' Devils came roun' her to stare,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

But ay as they at the auld carlin played pouk,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

She gied them a bann, an' she lent them a clout,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

A reekit we devil gloured owre the wa', Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

Says, help! master, help! or she'll ruin us a',

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

The deil he came up wi' a good brunstane rung,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

An' out at the door the auld carlin he swung,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

He hynt up the carlin again on his back, Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi thyme!

An' awa fu' blythely he trudged wi' his pack,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

He carried her owre an acre to two,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

Till he came to the auld man hauling his plow,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

An' ay as the auld carle ranted and sang, Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

In troth my auld spunkie ye'll no keep her lang;'

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

'Gude morrow,' most sadly, the auld carl said,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme !

'Yere bringing me back my auld wife I'm afraid;

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

'I tryed her in spunks, and in cau'drons I tryed her,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wr thyme!

'An' the wale o' my brunstane wadna hae fry'd her,

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

'I stapped her in the neuk o' my den,

Hey! an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme!

'But the vera damn'd ran, when the carlin gaed ben,'

An' the thyme it is withered, an' the rue is in prime.

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