It was then your Mary, she's frae Castle-cary, It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e: Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorn ing, Defend ye fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie. Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, Is it my true love here that I see? O Jamie forgie me, your heart's constant to me, "Mary of Castle-cary" has been admired as one of our first-rate songs. But no song that Hector Macneill ever wrote has any right to such a distinction. Still it is one of the author's best songs: the story is indeed improbable; but the language is happy, and the narrative dramatic. I wish the poet had called down the cloud of night to assist the indiscreet maiden in her deception. The quick eye and the acute ear of love are too keen not to have penetrated through the disguise. Yet I like much the swaggering presumption of the lass of Castlecary, and the honourable disbelief and passion of her admirer. WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? Wilt thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul, Only thou, I swear and vow, Shalt ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo'es me; If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me, The old song of the "Sutor's daughter," which lends its air to these beautiful verses, gave no other aid to the poet. By many of the admirers of the old songs, Burns has been accused of misleading the current of ancient verse into a channel of his own-of turning the mirthful into the serious, and the gay into the pathetic. If what he found woollen he converted into silk; if to a velvet sleeve he added a velvet garment; and if he plaited the tresses and lowered the nether garments of the antique Scottish Muse, he rendered an acceptable service to his country. He has done all this, and much more. HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry; How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, As underneath their fragrant shade, Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; That nipt my flower sae early! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, And mould'ring now in silent dust, But still within my bosom's core, for When Burns received an extensive order for songs the work of Thomson, he seems to have laid all his earlier affections, all his domestic love, and all the beauty in the district under contribution for rosie cheeks, blue eyes, shining tresses, and beautiful shapes. His choice was sometimes happy, and often injudicious: some of his heroines were well worthy of his Muse; others cannot be remembered without lamenting the infirmity of the poet's taste their names I am willing to forget; for who would wish to know to what prostituted shape a Canova or a Chantrey are indebted for the exquisite forms with which they have endowed marble? The Muse has in this indiscriminate choice mingled ranks together; for poesie, as well as love, is a leveller: she has also linked the virtuous with the vile; for poesie has her sensual feelings and her grosser regards: she has also preferred the couch of purchased pleasure to the pure bed of wedlock. This is in exceeding bad taste; for though she sips ethereal nectar nigh the stars, and stoops at midnight to quaff a gross and forbidden cup, it is unwise to sing openly of her own impurity, and lend to her shame the unwearied wings of lyric verse. Of Highland Mary I have spoken before: she was the poet's love before he was well ripened into manhood; and she died too early to save him by her sense and her spirit from those courses of indulgence, the offspring of disappointed hope. THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' of care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn: Departed, never to return. VOL. IV. |