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He shawed her gowd in gowpins,
And she answered him fu' ready;
Such is the song which I have heard sung as the old words.
AH THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL
Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate,
When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish !
My secret soul discover;
Reveals how much I love her.
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various wishes.
For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush, and modest air,
So fatally beguiling!
Thy every look, and every grace,
So charm whene'er I view thee, Till death o'ertake me in the chase
Still will my hopes pursue thee :
Be this last blessing given,
And die in sight of heaven.
This is one of the most elegant and beautiful songs in the language. It was written by Hamilton of Bangour ; but so little has its charms been felt in England, that Dr. Johnson would not allow it to be poetry, because “ blushes” and “ wishes” were not corresponding rhymes, and Dr. Aikin published it as the production of an Englishman, without knowing the author. Burns says, the old name was “ Sour plums of Galloshiels,” and that the piper of the laird of Galloshiels composed the air about the year 1700. The old words have been entirely silenced by this fine song; and with regard to the piper's claim upon the air, I have not observed that Hamilton, in his poem of the Fair Maid of Galloshiels, mentions the genius of the piper for original composition. I have, it is true, only seen a portion of the poem, which records a contest between a fiddler and a piper for the maid of Galloshiels, of which the lady herself, with a manifest violation of equity, is made sole judge. The description of the bagpipe made by Glenderule is exquisite, and in the true Homeric style, where all is painted for the eye.
THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.
Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
Unheeded never move her;
'Twas there I first did love her.
That day she smiled, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder;
So sweetly there to find her.
In words that I thought tender ;
I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
Its sweets I'll ay remember;
It fades as in December.
Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Then let her smiles relieve me.
My passion no more tender,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.
This song is supposed to have supplied the place of an ancient one with the same name, of which no reliques remain. Burns visited the Bush in the year 1787, when he made a pilgrimage to various places celebrated in story and in song, and found it composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Bush grows on a rising ground overlooking the old mansion of Traquair and the stream of Tweed. It has lately paid a heavy tax to human curiosity, and has supplied nobles, and I have heard princes, with “specimens” in the shape of snuff-boxes and other toys. The Earl of Traquair, in anticipation perhaps of this rage for reliques, planted what he called “ The New Bush,” but it remains unconsecrated in song, and can never inherit the fame or share in the honours of the old. The song is by Crawford.
What beauties does Flora disclose !
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed !
Both nature and fancy exceed.
* Not all the gay flowers of the field,
i molt .* The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
viliste With music enchant ev'ry bush.
***** Come, let us go forth to the mead,
tu How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
While happily she lies asleep?
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.