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The cauld blasts of the winter wind,
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I hae him safe,
"Till death we'll never part:

But what puts parting in my head,

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Since Colin's well, I'm well content,

I hae nae mair to crave;

Could I but live to mak him blest,

I'm blest aboon the lave.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

This is one of the finest domestic songs in the language-full of kind thoughts, female joy, and felicitous expressions. What can equal the flutter of delight into which the heroine is thrown by the approach of her husband! The many and the hurried commands which she gives to her maidens to trim the house and prepare the children, her own wish to appear before him in her best attire, with her hose of pearl blue, and the breathless rapture with which she asserts

His very

foot has music in't

When he comes up the stair,

all stamp the verse with nature and truth.

For a while the song had no author's name; at last, it passed for the production of an enthusiastic old woman of the west of Scotland, called Jean Adam, who kept a school and wrote verses, and claimed this song as her own composition. It happened, however, during the period that Mr. Cromek was editing his collection of Scottish Songs, that Dr. Sim discovered among the manuscripts of Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, an imperfect, altered, and corrected copy of the song, with all the marks of authorship about it. The changes which the poet had made were many and curious, and were conclusive of his claim to the honour of the song: his widow added decisive testimony to this, and said that her husband wrote her a copy-said it was his own, and explained the Scottish words. Mickle, too, was a maker of songs in the manner of our early lyrics, and his genius supports his title to this truly Scottish song. But I have not sought to deprive the old schoolmistress of the honour of the song, without feeling some conscientious qualms. Many lyric poets have taken pleasure in secretly ekeing out the ancient songs of their country; and, after all, Mickle may have done no more for this than improve the language, and new-model the narrative.

MARY'S DREAM.

The moon had climb'd the highest hill

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That rises o'er the source of Dee,

And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tow'r and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

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Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;

When soft and low a voice was heard,
Saying, Mary, weep no more for me.

She from her pillow gently rais'd

Her head, to ask who there might be;
She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand,
With visage pale and hollow e'e:-
O Mary dear, cold is my clay,

It lies beneath a stormy sea;
Far far from thee I sleep in death,
So, Mary, weep no more for me.

Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.

Ev'n then, when horror chill'd my blood,

My heart was fill'd with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I'm at rest,
So, Mary, weep no more for me.

VOL. III.

X

O maiden dear, thyself prepare,

We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more.
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,

"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

This beautiful and pathetic song is all that connects the name of John Lowe with the national poetry of Scotland. It embodies in touching verse the fate of a youth of the name of Miller, who was beloved by Mary Macghie, of Airds in Galloway; and in calling in the aid of romantic superstition, I have heard that it only abides by the story; for by dream or vision her lover's fate was said to have been first revealed to her. I have never seen any more of Lowe's poetry which merits remembrance. Since the first appearance of the song, which was soon after the year 1770, it has received, I know not from what hand, two very judicious amendments. It originally commenced thus:

Pale Cynthia just had reached the hill,

which was well exchanged for

The moon had climbed the highest hill.

The fifth and sixth lines, at the same time, by an ex

cellent emendation, let us at once into the stream of this affecting story.-They once ran thus:

When Mary laid her down to sleep,

And scarcely yet had closed her e'e.

The alteration, it will be observed, engrafts a superstitious influence on the story, and gives it an equal hold on the imagination and the heart. Lowe wrote another song, called "Pompey's Ghost," which Burns inquired after when he was seeking songs for Johnson. The Scottish Muse lent her aid reluctantly to a classic subject, and "Pompey's Ghost" is but a wreath of mist compared to the spirit of Sandie.

MARY'S DREAM.

The lovely moon had climbed the hill,
Where eagles big aboon the Dee;
And like the looks of a lovely dame,
Brought joy to every body's e'e:
A' but sweet Mary, deep in sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandie far at sea;

A voice dropt softly in her ear,
Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me!

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