The cauld blasts of the winter wind, But what puts parting in my head, Since Colin's well, I'm well content, I hae nae mair to crave; Could I but live to mak him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy with the thought, This is one of the finest domestic songs in the language-full of kind thoughts, female joy, and felicitous expressions. What can equal the flutter of delight into which the heroine is thrown by the approach of her husband! The many and the hurried commands which she gives to her maidens to trim the house and prepare the children, her own wish to appear before him in her best attire, with her hose of pearl blue, and the breathless rapture with which she asserts His very foot has music in't When he comes up the stair, all stamp the verse with nature and truth. For a while the song had no author's name; at last, it passed for the production of an enthusiastic old woman of the west of Scotland, called Jean Adam, who kept a school and wrote verses, and claimed this song as her own composition. It happened, however, during the period that Mr. Cromek was editing his collection of Scottish Songs, that Dr. Sim discovered among the manuscripts of Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, an imperfect, altered, and corrected copy of the song, with all the marks of authorship about it. The changes which the poet had made were many and curious, and were conclusive of his claim to the honour of the song: his widow added decisive testimony to this, and said that her husband wrote her a copy-said it was his own, and explained the Scottish words. Mickle, too, was a maker of songs in the manner of our early lyrics, and his genius supports his title to this truly Scottish song. But I have not sought to deprive the old schoolmistress of the honour of the song, without feeling some conscientious qualms. Many lyric poets have taken pleasure in secretly ekeing out the ancient songs of their country; and, after all, Mickle may have done no more for this than improve the language, and new-model the narrative. MARY'S DREAM. The moon had climb'd the highest hill That rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tow'r and tree; Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice was heard, She from her pillow gently rais'd Her head, to ask who there might be; It lies beneath a stormy sea; Three stormy nights and stormy days Ev'n then, when horror chill'd my blood, My heart was fill'd with love for thee: VOL. III. X O maiden dear, thyself prepare, We soon shall meet upon that shore "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" This beautiful and pathetic song is all that connects the name of John Lowe with the national poetry of Scotland. It embodies in touching verse the fate of a youth of the name of Miller, who was beloved by Mary Macghie, of Airds in Galloway; and in calling in the aid of romantic superstition, I have heard that it only abides by the story; for by dream or vision her lover's fate was said to have been first revealed to her. I have never seen any more of Lowe's poetry which merits remembrance. Since the first appearance of the song, which was soon after the year 1770, it has received, I know not from what hand, two very judicious amendments. It originally commenced thus: Pale Cynthia just had reached the hill, which was well exchanged for The moon had climbed the highest hill. The fifth and sixth lines, at the same time, by an ex cellent emendation, let us at once into the stream of this affecting story.-They once ran thus: When Mary laid her down to sleep, And scarcely yet had closed her e'e. The alteration, it will be observed, engrafts a superstitious influence on the story, and gives it an equal hold on the imagination and the heart. Lowe wrote another song, called "Pompey's Ghost," which Burns inquired after when he was seeking songs for Johnson. The Scottish Muse lent her aid reluctantly to a classic subject, and "Pompey's Ghost" is but a wreath of mist compared to the spirit of Sandie. MARY'S DREAM. The lovely moon had climbed the hill, A voice dropt softly in her ear, |