By oppression's woes and pains, Lay the proud usurpers low! the poet says, song Of this martial "There is a tradition that 'Hey, tuttie, taitie!' was the march of Robert Bruce at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me into a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode fitted to the air, which one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning." By another account, Burns was overtaken by a tremendous storm of mingled lightning and rain among the Galloway mountains, and in the midst of the elemental commotion he conceived and composed the song. It would appear too that the poet was musing on the French Revolution and the war for the independence of Scotland at the same time. A halo, historical and poetical, has been shed over the field of Bannockburn— over the hero who led, and the thirty thousand heroes who conquered: I will attempt no idle illustration of a subject which Barbour, Burns, and Scott have sung. The concluding verse is chiefly borrowed from Blind Harry's Wallace: A false usurper sinks in every foe, And Liberty returns with every blow. A change was afterwards made in the original structure of the verse, so that it might correspond with the air of Lewie Gordon; this encumbered the simple beauty of the fourth line of each stanza.-I have adhered to the first version. SAE FLAXEN WERE HER RINGLETS. Sae flaxen were her ringlets, Bewitchingly o'er-arching Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling, sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow! Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'. Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion, Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Declar'd that she could do nae mair: She says she lo'es me best of a'. Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang: Of this exquisite song Burns says little; of the woman in whose praise it was written he says too much. "She is one of the finest women in Scotland, and in fact is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him-a mistress, or a friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. I assure you, that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober gin horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy,-could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No, no;-whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song-to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs, do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon." Such is the glowing picture which the poet gives of youth and health, and voluptuous beauty; but let no lady envy the poetical elevation of poor Chloris: her situation in poetry is splendid-her situation in life merits our pity, and perhaps our charity. AULD ROBIN GRAY. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane; my The waes of heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naething beside; To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound were baith for me. He had nae been gone a week but only twa, When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stoun My father brake his arm, and my Jamie at the sea, My father couldna' work, and my mither couldna' spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna' win; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee Said, Jenny, for their sakes, will ye marry me? My heart it said nay, I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck, My father urged me sair; though my mither didna speak, She look'd in my face till my heart was like to break; So I gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea, And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. |
