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Thy presence lasting joy shall bring,
And give the year eternal spring.

The new

To William Falconer, author of "The Shipwreck," we owe this song, if we can imagine we have incurred a debt of obligation or praise by such a hasty and imperfect production. It contains nothing either peculiar or national—its love is general, and its description diffuse. I could not refuse place to a brief effusion of an unfortunate son of song; and the pleasure which his fine poem of “ The Shipwreck” has given me would have secured insertion to less captivating verse. scenes which that pathetic poem opened, and the perfect enchantment which the whole narrative threw over me, were such as I can never forget. The truth and nature of his story—the singular mixture of ancient glory with present sufferings—the labours of the mariners—the augmenting fury of the devouring element, and the final catastrophe, form altogether a tale which one cannot well escape from without reading; and when once read, it possesses and haunts one. In December 1769 he sailed for India in the Aurora frigate, in the 39th year of his age: the ship was never more heard of after leaving the Cape of Good Hope, and the poet perished with her. He was a native of Edinburgh.



yon sweet bird that lonely wails, His faithful bosom grief assails : Last night I heard him in a dream, When death and woe were all the theme. Like that poor bird, I make my moan — I grieve for one that's dead and gone : With him, to gloomy woods I'll flyHe wails for love, and so do I!

'Twas love that tamed his tender breast-
'Tis grief that robs him of his rest;
He droops his wings and hangs his head,
Since she he fondly loved is dead!
With my love's breath my joy is gone
With my love's smiles my peace is flown;
Like that poor bird I pine, and prove
Nought can supply the place of love!

He hangs his feathers since that fate
Deprived him of his darling mate;
Dimmed is the brightness of his eye ;
His song is now a short sad cry;
No more the hills and woods among
He'll cheer us with his charming song;

His sorrows, hapless bird, display
An image of my soul's dismay!

Dr. Fordyce, the author of this song, perished at sea in the

year 1755. It was long known under the name of “ The Black Eagle," and the song commenced thus :

“Hark! yonder eagle lonely calls."

But it has been felt, and felt justly, that a ravenous bird of prey formed a strange and unnatural image of the woes of the hero of the song; and the eagle has been displaced by a softer bird, the naming of which is left to the reader's fancy. The Delia of the original song has also been dethroned; but as no Scottish family can be supposed to suffer by the removal, and as the name injures rather than assists the pathos of the story, it can be spared without pain.




They say that Jock will speed weel o't,

They say that Jock will speed weel o't; For he grows brawer ilka day

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't. 'Twas yesternight, nae farther gane,

The back house at the side-wall o't, He there wi' Meg was mirding seen

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.

An' we had but a bridal o't,

An' we had but a bridal o't,
We'll leave what follows to gude luck,

Although there should betide ill o't.
O bridal-days are merry times,

And young folks like the coming o't; ; The bards lilt up their merry rhymes,

And pipers like the bumming o't.

The lasses like a bridal o't,

The lasses like a bridal o't;
Their braws maun be in rank and file,

Although that they should guide ill o't.

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The bottom of the kist is then

Turn'd up unto the inmost o't ;
The end that held the claes sae clean

Is now become the toomest o't.

The barnman at the threshing o't,

The barnman at the threshing o't,
Afore it comes is fidgin fain,

And ilka day is clashing o't.
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat,

His bonnet for anither o't;
And ere he want to clear his shot,

His sark shall pay the tither o't.

When they have done wi' eating o't,

When they have done wi' eating o't,
For dancing they gae to the green,

And aiblins to the beating o't.
He dances best that dances fast,

And loups at ilka reesing o't,
And claps his hands frae hough to hough,

And furls about the feezings o't.

This rough provincial strain was written by Alexander Ross, author of the "Fortunate Shepherdess." It brought no increase to his reputation: the festivities of a rustic bridal had been chanted before him by livelier spirits, and, like other imitators, he has failed in equalling his prototypes. The « Blythesome Bridal” could not be

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