XXXIII. FINE SINGLE POEMS. SIR WALTER SCOTT, &C. NOTHING Seems stranger amid the strange fluctuations of popularity than the way in which the songs and shorter poems of the most eminent writers occasionally pass from the highest vogue into the most complete oblivion, and are at once forgotten as if they had never been. Scott's spirited ballad, "The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee," is a case in point. Several persons (among the rest Mrs. Hughes, the valued friend of the author) have complained to me, not only that it is not included among Sir Walter's ballads, but that they were unable to discover it elsewhere. Upon mentioning this to another dear friend of mine, the man who, of all whom I have known, has the keenest scent for literary game, and is the most certain to discover a lost poem, he threw himself upon the track, and failing to obtain a printed copy, succeeded in procuring one in manuscript, taken down from the lips of a veteran vocalist; not, as I should judge, from his recitation, but from his singing, for it is no uncommon thing with singers to be unable to divorce the sense from the sound, so that you must have the music with the words, or go without them altogether. At all events this transcript is a curiosity. The whole ballad is written as if it were prose: no capital at the beginning of the lines; no break, as indicated by the rhyme, at the conclusion; no division between the stanzas. All these ceremonies are cast aside, with a bold contempt for vulgar usages, and the entire song thrown into one long paragraph. I think it is Cowper who wrote a rhyming letter upon the same principle; but the jingle being more obtrusive, and the chorus a wanting, the effect of the intentional pleasantry is far less ludicrous than that produced by this unconscious and graver error 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- "There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, 6 Will cry Hoigh!' for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 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. 66 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! 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:- But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade 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 nore 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 splendor falls on castle walls 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, |