Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, We tore oursels asunder ; That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, Shall live my Highland Mary. When Burns received an extensive order for songs for the work of Thomson, he seems to have laid all his earlier affections, all his domestic love, and all the beauty in the district under contribution for rosie cheeks, blue eyes, shining tresses, and beautiful shapes. His choice was sometimes happy, and often injudicious: some of his heroines were well worthy of his Muse; others cannot be remembered without lamenting the infirmity of the poet's taste their names I am willing to forget; for who would wish to know to what prostituted shape a Canova or a Chantrey are indebted for the exquisite The forms with which they have endowed marble? Muse has in this indiscriminate choice mingled ranks together; for poesie, as well as love, is a leveller: she has also linked the virtuous with the vile; for poesie has her sensual feelings and her grosser regards: she has also preferred the couch of purchased pleasure to the pure bed of wedlock. This is in exceeding bad taste; for though she sips ethereal nectar nigh the stars, and stoops at midnight to quaff a gross and forbidden cup, it is unwise to sing openly of her own impurity, and lend to her shame the unwearied wings of lyric verse. Of Highland Mary I have spoken before: she was the poet's love before he was well ripened into manhood; and she died too early to save him by her sense and her spirit from those courses of indulgence, the offspring of disappointed hope. THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon, How can ye chant, ye little birds, Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn: Departed, never to return. VOL. IV. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And fondly sae did I of mine. But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. Burns wrote an earlier and more simple version of the "Banks of Doon," which is printed in the Reliques, and I certainly prefer it to the present copy. But it would be unwise to seek to divorce the song from the fine air to which it is united. Other verses have been added which I have omitted; they are not by Burnswho can mistake water for wine? BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. Ye gallants bright, I rede you right, Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, Her een sae bright, like stars by night, Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, That sweetly ye might span. Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, In a' their charms, and conquering arms, The captive bands may chain the hands, Ye gallants braw, I rede you a', Beware o' bonnie Ann. The "Bonnie Ann" of this song is the daughter of Allan Masterton, one of the early friends of Burns, and the wife of John Derbyshire, Esq. a surgeon in London. The Muse of the poet was ever ready at the call of beauty or friendship-and here the call was double. I AM A SON OF MARS. I am a son of Mars, Who have been in many wars, This here was for a wench, At the sound of the drum. My prenticeship I past Where my leader breath'd his last, When the bloody die was cast On the heights of Abra'm : I served out my trade When the gallant game was played, And the Moro low was laid At the sound of the drum. I lastly was with Curtis Yet let my country need me, I'd clatter on my stumps And now, though I must beg, To follow the drum. What, though with hoary locks, |