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Is one of the songs of my youth, and there are some good verses in it. It is much too long for singing. Should it turn a favourite with any one, three verses are easily selected. It is preserved in the Noctes, and was published long before, Gudeness kens where.
WHERE Yarrow rows amang the rocks,
But love its silken net had thrown
Around his breast, so brisk an' airy,
An' his blue eyes wi' moisture shone,
O Mary, thou'rt sae mild and sweet,
Than beat a lonely thing without thee.
I see thee in the evening beam—
I see thee in the midnight dream,
By the dim light of heavenly vision !
When over Benger's haughty head
The morning breaks in streaks sae bonny,
I climb the mountain's velvet side,
For quiet rest I get nae ony.
How dear the lair on yon hill cheek,
For there I see the twisting reek
Rise frae the cot where dwells my Mary!
When Phoebus keeks outower the muir,
I drive my flocks to yonder brook
The feeble in my arms I carry,
Then every lammie's harmless look
Brings to my mind my bonny Mary!
Oft has the lark sung ower my head,
And shook the dewdrops frae his wing,Oft hae my flocks forgot to feed,
An' round their shepherd form'd a ring. Their looks condole the lee-lang day, While mine are fix'd and never vary,
Aye turning down the westlin brae,
Where dwells my loved, my bonny Mary!
When gloaming, creeping west the lift,
Wraps in deep shadow dell and dingle,
An' lads an' lasses mak a shift
To raise some fun around the ingle, Regardless o' the wind or rain,
Wi' cautious step and prospect wary,
I often trace the lonely glen
To steal a sight o' bonny Mary!
When midnight draws her curtain deep,
By rock and ruin raves and rushes,
Though sunk in deep and quiet sleep,
To where sweet guardian spirits keep
The exile may forget his home
Where blooming youth to manhood grew;
The bee forget the honey-comb,
Nor with the spring his toil renew;
The sun may lose his light and heat,
The planets in their rounds miscarry,
When I forget my bonny Mary!
Equal to any thing in Burns!
Not a better in all George Thomson's collection. Thank you, James-God bless you, James. Give me your hand. You're a most admirable fellow, and there's no end to your genius.
A man may be sair mista'en about many things, sic as yepics, an' tragedies, an' tales, an' even lang set elegies about the death o' great public characters, an' hymns, an' odes, an' the like, but he canna be mista'en about a sang. As sune as it's down on the sclate, I ken whether it's gude, bad, or middlin'. If ony o' the twa last, I dight it out wi' my elbow,—if the first, I copy it ower into writ, and then get it aff by heart, when it's as sure o' no being lost as it war engraven on a brass plate. For though I hae a treacherous memory about things in ordinar, a' my happy sangs will cleave to my heart till my dying day; an' I shouldna wonder gin I war to croon a verse or twa frae some o' them on my deathbed.-NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ, No. XXVII.