O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. O MALLY'S meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanced to meet; But oh, the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. It were mair meet that those fine feet Her yellow hair, beyond compare, barefoot above Comes trinkling down her swan-like neck; And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. ET. 36.] ON THE DEATH OF GLENRIDDEL 117 SONNET ON THE DEATH OF GLENRIDDEL. It is not of course to be supposed that Burns was to mend his breach with the family at Woodley Park by lampooning the lady. Nor did the evil stop here. Very naturally, the good couple at Carse, by whose fireside he had spent so many happy evenings, took part with their friends at Woodley; and most sad it is to relate, that "the worthy Glenriddel, deep read in old coins," adopted sentiments of reprobation and aversion towards the Bard of the Whistle. In April, the Laird of Carse died, unreconciled to our poet, who, remembering only his worth and former kindness, immediately penned an elegiac sonnet on the sad event. It was done on the spur of a first impulse the sonnet being completed so early as to appear in the local newspaper, beneath the announcement of Glenriddel's death. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your descant grating on my soul! Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar ! How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier; The Man of Worth, and hath not left his peer, Is in his narrow house, for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others. greet; Me, memory of my loss will only meet! "I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she calls The Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."— Burns to Mr. Thomson, May, 1794. HERE is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade; AT. 36.] ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 119 The village-bell has tolled the hour, 'Tis not Maria's whispering call; So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer; At once 'tis music and 'tis love. And art thou come? and art thou true? FRAGMENT OF AN ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. "I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington's birthday. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus: "[Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, 25th June, 1794.] THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Immingled with the mighty dead, Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death, "With the additions of" Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. |