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We'll gar the callants a' look blue,

An' sing anither tune;
They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do

We'll tell them what we've dune.

This clever song is the work of an Englishman; and had it come from a Caledonian bard, the costume of language, and the spirit of the “ North Countrie,” could not have been more perfect. It is one of the annual Fisher's Garlands which Newcastle sends out to the world, and to which the graver of Bewick adds such charms of truth and nature as seldom accompany lyric poetry. In reading the song-a trout stream, slightly swelled by an upland shower, gushes out upon one's fancy-a rod comes into our hand-we cast a careful line

the rippling water-we watch the well-dissembled flies, and our patience is rewarded by casting “ A trout bedropped with crimson hail," upon the grassy bank. Burns, who went to angle in the Nith with a huge fur cap on, and a highland broadsword by his side, knew little of the art compared to my excellent friend of Newcastle.



When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields reappearing,
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples so fresh and so pleasing;
O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
And hails, with his warblings, the charms of the season.

Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring,
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spice-wood and sassafras budding together :
O then to your gardens ye housewives repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The blue bird will chant from his box such an air
That all your hard toils will be gladness and pleasure.

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peuch and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,
And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms:
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,
The worms from their beds where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,
And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.

The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gardener delights in his sweet simple strain,
And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him.
The slow-lingering schoolboys forget they'll be chid,
While gazing intent as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,
That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow,
And millions of warblers that charm'd us before,
Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow;
The blue-bird forsaken, yet true to his home,
Still lingers and looks for a milder to-morrow,
Till, forced by the terrors of winter to roam,
He sings his adieu in a lone note of sorrow.

While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven,
Or love's native music, have influence to charm,
Or sympathy's glow to our feelings is given-
Still dear to each bosom the blue-bird shall be:
His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure ;
For through bleakest storms if a calm he but see,
He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure.

I confess I admire the gossiping ballad verse of Alexander Wilson much more than I do his purer

and more ambitious strains. The description of the bluebird is very graphic, and the picture of American nature is very accurate, but his Caledonian scenes of riotous enjoyment are far superior. A man who reads “Watty and Meg" cannot miss to hear the mirth of the changehouse, and the clamour of Meg's uncontrollable tongue, for a full week after. Wilson has scattered much curious and instructive lore over the pages of his “ American Ornithology," a scarce, a beautiful, and an unfinished work, of which I lament my inability to obtain a copy; and I have cause to lament, for I understand its pages are studded with songs of a very sweet and peculiar kind.


When first I came to be a man

Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,

And fain the world would know:
In best attire I stept abroad,

With spirits brisk and gay,
And bere and there, and everywhere,

Was like a morn in May;
No care had I, no fear of want,

But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have pass'd

In country or in town:

I still was pleased where'er I went, 's (violto, And when I was alone 1. I tuned my pipe, and pleased myself

Wi' John of Badenyon.

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Now in the days of youthful prime
1 A mistress I must find;
For love, I heard, gave one an air,

And even improved the mind :
On Phillis fair, above the rest,
Kind fortune fix'd mine

eyes ;
Her piercing beauty touch'd my heart,

And she became my choice.
To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,
I offer'd

many a vow,
And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,

As other lovers do;
But when at last I breathed my flame,

I found her cold as stone-
I left the jilt, and tuned my pipe

To John of Badenyon.

When love had thus my heart beguiled

With foolish hopes and vain,
To friendship's port I steer'd my course,

And laugh'd at lovers' pain.
A friend I got by lucky chance,

'Twas something like divine ;
An honest friend's a precious gift,

And such a gift was mine.

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