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We'll gar the callants a' look blue,
An' sing anither tune;
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.
THE BLUE BIRD.
When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring,
He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train,
When all the gay scenes of the summer are o'er,
While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm,
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.
JOHN OF BADENYON.
When first I came to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
And fain the world would know:
With spirits brisk and gay,
Was like a morn in May;
But rambled up and down,
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.
Now in the days of youthful prime
And even improved the mind :
And she became my choice.
many a vow,
As other lovers do;
I found her cold as stone-
To John of Badenyon.
When love had thus my heart beguiled
With foolish hopes and vain,
And laugh'd at lovers' pain.
'Twas something like divine ;
And such a gift was mine.