Spare my love, ye winds that blaw, When the shades of evening creep He will think on her he loves, to There is no great matter or merit, some one may say, in such lines as these-nor is there; but they express sweetly enough some natural sentiments,—and what more would you have in a song? You have had far more in some songs which we have given the go-by; but we are speaking now of the class of the simply pleasant; and on us their effect is like that of a gentle light falling on a pensive place, when there are no absolute clouds in the sky, and no sun visible either, but when that soft effusion, we know not whence, makes the whole day that had been somewhat sad, serene, and reminds us that it is summer. Believing you feel as we do, we do not fear to displease you by quoting "The Tither Morn." "The tither morn, when I, forlorn, Aneath an aik sat moaning, I didna trow I'd see my jo, Beside me, 'gain the gloaming. But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig, And dautingly did cheer me, When I, what reck, did least expeck Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, In absence o' my dearie. But praise be blest! my mind's at rest, At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there, We believe that the most beautiful of his songs are dearest to the people, and these are the passionate and the pathetic; but there are some connected in one way or other with the tender passion, great favourites too, from the light and lively up to the humorous and comic-yet among the broadest of that class there is seldom any coarseness-indecency never—vulgar you may call some of them, if you please; they were not intended to be genteel. Flirts and coquettes of both sexes are of every rank; in humble life the saucy and scornful toss their heads full high, or "go by like stour;" "for sake o' gowd she left me" is a complaint heard in all circles; "although the night be ne'er sae weet, and he be ne'er sae weary O," a gentleman of a certain age will make himself ridiculous by dropping on the knees of his corduroy breeches; Auntie would fain become a mother, and in order thereunto a wife, and waylays a hobbletehoy; daughters the most filial think nothing of breaking their mothers' hearts as their grandmothers' were broken before them; innocents, with no other teaching but that of nature, in the conduct of intrigues in which verily there is neither shame nor sorrow, become systematic and consummate hypocrites not worthy to live-single; despairing swains are saved from suicide by peals of laughter from those for whom they fain would die, and so get noosed; -and surely here is a field-indicated and no more- -wide enough for the Scottish Comic Muse; and would you know how productive to the hand of genius, you have but to read Burns. In one of his letters he says, "If I could, and I believe I do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes." His nature was indeed humane; and the tendernesses and kindlinesses apparent in every page of his poetry, and most of all in his songs-cannot but have a humanising influence on all those classes exposed, by the necessities of their condition, to many causes for ever at work to harden or shut up the heart. Burns does not keep continually holding up to them the evils of their lot, continually calling on them to endure or to redress; but while he stands up for his Order, its virtues and its rights, and has bolts to hurl at the oppressor, his delight is to inspire contentment. In that solemn "Dirge,”—a spiritual being, suddenly spied in the gloom, seems an Apparition, made sage by sufferings in the flesh, sent to instruct us and all who breathe that "Man was made to mourn." "Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight, And helpless offspring mourn." But we shall suppose that "brother of the earth" rotten, and forgotten by the "bold peasantry their country's pride," who work without leave from worms. At his work we think we hear a stalwart tiller of the soil humming what must be a verse of Burns. "Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As 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 coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that." A spirit of Independence reigned alike in the Genius and the Character of Burns. And what is it but a strong sense of what is due to Worth apart altogether from the distinctions of society—the vindication of that Worth being what he felt to be the most honoured call upon himself in life? That sense once violated is destroyed, and therefore he guarded it as a sacred thing-only less sacred than Conscience. Yet it belongs to Conscience, and is the prerogative of Man as Man. Sometimes it may seem as if he watched it with jealousy, and in jealousy there is always weakness, because there is fear. But it was not so; he felt assured that his footing was firm and that his back was on a rock. No blast could blow, no air could beguile him from the position he had taken up with his whole soul in "its pride of place." His words were justified by his actions, and his actions truly told his thoughts: his were a bold heart, a bold hand, and a bold tongue; for in the nobility of his nature he knew that, though born and bred in a hovel, he was the equal of the highest in the land; as he was—and no more-of the lowest, so that they too were MEN. For hear him speak-"What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fellowpartakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything unworthy-if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls, were the same way, why may they not be FRIENDS?" He was indeed privileged to write that "Inscription for an Altar to Independence." "Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolved, with soul resign'd Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave, Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here." Scotland's adventurous sons are now as proud of this moral feature of his poetry as of all the pictures it contains of their native country. Bound up in one volume it is the Manual of Independence. Were they not possessed of the same spirit, they would be ashamed to open it; but what they wear they win, what they eat they earn; and if frugal they be—and that is the right word—it is that on their return they may build a house on the site of their father's hut, and, proud to remember that he was poor, live so as to deserve the blessings of the children of them who walked with him to daily labour on what was then no better than a wilderness, but has now been made to blossom like the rose. Ebenezer Elliott is no flatterer -and he said to a hundred and twenty Scotsmen in Sheffield, met to celebrate the birth-day of Burns "Stern Mother of the deathless dead! Where stands a Scot, a freeman stands ; No wicked plunder need thy sons, To save the wretch whom mercy spurns; No classic lore thy little ones, Who find a Bard in Burns. Their path though dark, they may not miss; For ere they act, they think." There are, it is true, some passages in his poetry, and more in his letters, in which this Spirit of Independence partakes too much of pride, and expresses itself in anger and scorn. These, however, were but passing moods, and he did not love to cherish them; no great blame had they been more frequent and permanent for his noble nature was exposed to many causes of such irritation, but it triumphed over them all. A few indignant flashes broke out against the littleness of the great; but nothing so paltry as personal pique inspired him with feelings of hostility towards the highest orders. His was an imagination that clothed high rank with that dignity which some of the degenerate descendants of old houses had forgotten; and whenever true noblemen "reverenced the lyre" and grasped the hand of the peasant who had received it from |