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parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.

There was another symptom. When we met at dinner. time, if Mr Wilson had not been successful in pleasing himself, he was desperate sulky for a while, though he never missed brightening up, and making the most of the subject. I never saw better sport than we had in comparing these poems. How manfully each stood out for the merits of his own! But Mrs Wilson generally leaned to my side, nominally at least. I wrote the “ Ode to Superstition” there, which, to give Mr Wilson justice, he approved of most unequivocally. He wrote “ The Ship of the Desert” against it -a thing of far greater splendour, but exceedingly extravagant. I likewise wrote “ The Stranger” and “ Isabelle" there, both to be found in the Poetic Mirror; and I know some of the poems that Mr Wilson wrote against these too, if I were at liberty to tell. The one he wrote that day on which I composed the following song, was not a song, but a little poem in his best style. What with sailing, climbing the mountains, driving with Bob to all the fine scenery, dining with poets and great men, jymnastics (as Wilson spells it in the Noctes), and going to tell our friends that we were not coming to dine with them—these were halcyon days, which we shall never see again!

O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay,

In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonny May

That wons in yonder glen;



Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,
Wha’s aye kind, an'aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel

Amang sae mony men.
0, weel befa' the bonny thing

That wons in yonder glen!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float

Along the gloaming lea;
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note

Come pealing frae the tree;
To see the lambkin's lightsome race-
The speckled kid in wanton chase-
The young deer cower in lonely place,

Deep in her flowing den;
But sweeter far the bonny face

That smiles in yonder glen!

0, had it no' been for the blush

O’ maiden's virgin flame,
Dear beauty never had been known,

An never had a name;

But aye

sin' that dear thing o' blame Was modell’d by an angel's frame, The power o’ beauty reigns supreme

O’er a' the sons o' men;
But deadliest far the sacred flame

Burns in a lonely glen!

There's beauty in the violet's vest

There's hinney in the hawThere's dew within the rose's breast,

The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning goud the main-
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,

Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far my bonny thing

That wons in yonder glen!


This song was written to the Highland air bearing that name, and is harmonized by Smith in the sixth volume of the Scottish Minstrel.

O STRIKE your harp, my Mary,

Its loudest, liveliest key,
An' join the sounding correi

In its wild melody;
For burn, an' breeze, an' billow,

Their sangs are a’ the same,
And every waving willow

Soughs “ Cameron's welcome hame.”

O list yon thrush, my Mary,

That warbles on the pine,
His strain, sae light an' airy,

Accords in joy wi' thine ;

The lark that soars to heaven,

The sea-bird on the faem,
Are singing, frae morn till even,

Brave “ Cameron's welcome hame.”

D'ye mind, my ain dear Mary,

When we hid in the tree,
An' saw our Auchnacarry

All flaming fearfully?
The fire was red, red glaring,

An' ruefu' was the scene,
An'aye you cried, despairing,

My father's ha's are gane!

I said, my ain dear Mary,

D'ye see yon cloud sae dun, That sails aboon the carry,

An' hides the weary sun ?
Behind yon curtain dreary,

Beyond, and far within,
There's Ane, my dear wee Mary,

Wha views this deadly sin.

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