I endeavored to restore the natural divisions of the verse; and having since discovered a printed copy, buried in the Doom of Devorgoil, where of course nobody looked for it, I am delighted to transfer to my pages one of the most spirited and characteristic ballads ever written. To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claverhouse who spoke, Come follow the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 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, Come fill up my cup, &c. With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was thranged There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, 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 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 The Gordon demands of him which way he goes- Come fill up my cup, &c. "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. "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,- He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee ! There are abundant indications that the "Bonnets of Bonny Dundee' was a favorite 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, Honor or own, a long adieu! Farewell! save memory of you! These 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 can not help suspecting that the fault rests with the music, that can not 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 sun has left the lea; 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, 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? 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, Mr. Tennyson's delicious song, published only in the later editions of "The Princess," is less generally known. The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear O love, they die on yon rich sky, They faint on hill, on field, on river; And grow forever and forever. 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, Away the good ship flies, and leaves "Oh for a soft and gentle wind!" But give to me the snoring breeze There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free; While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea! One of the most charming of English song-writers, happily still spared to us, is he who, under the name of Barry Cornwall, has given so many fine lyrics to our language. What can be more spirited than this Bacchanalian song? Sing!-who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings? Ah, who is this lady fine? The Vine, boys, the Vine! The mother of mighty wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company. Drink!-who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks? Ah, who is this maid of mine? The Grape, boys, the Grape! Oh, never let her escape Until she be turned to wine. For better is she Than Vine can be, And very, very good company. |