Wat ye how she cheated me As I came o'er the braes of Balloch? Though she's for ever left her Johnie. Mr. Cromek, an anxious inquirer into all matters illustrative of northern song, ascribes Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch to Mrs. Murray of Bath; while George Thomson, and all other editors of Scottish song, impute it to Mrs. Grant of Carron. I am not aware that the authorship has been settled-and I am sorry for it; because whoever wrote it has favoured us with a very sprightly and pleasant production. The closing description of this highland enchantress is truly luscious and provoking. The hero is quite a model for all forsaken swains: he admires the person of his mistress, admits her witchery in the dance, and reminds her in the gentlest manner how she had vowed herself to him before she took honest Roy of Aldivalloch. This is much better than if he had gone "daunering about the dykes" and sung songs, long and dolorous, of woman's inconstancy. HER ABSENCE WILL NOT ALTER ME. Though distant far from Jessy's charms, I stretch in vain my longing arms; A fairer face, a sweeter smile, My mind from love no power could free, See how the flow'r that courts the sun Ask, who has seen the turtle-dove Or who the bleating ewe has seen For conq'ring love is strong as death, This is a favourite song with our Scottish mariners; and their affection is very natural. The hero indeed speculates upon the inconstancy of a sailor's affection: he imagines woman to be all truth, and a mariner to be all levity. He has no suspicion that while he " is on India's burning coast" his love may forsake him; and he labours to assure the world that he is unchangeable and immutable. THE MINSTREL. Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, The snaw drives snelly through the dale, The Gaberlunyie tirls my sneck, An shiv'ring tells his waefu' tale: Cauld is the night, O let me in, Full ninety simmers hae I seen, And pip'd whar gorcocks whirring flew ; And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, To lilts that frae my drone I blew. My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet! O, haith it's doubly dear to me! Come ben, auld carle, I'll rouse my fire, And make it bleeze a bonnie flame; Nae hame hae I, the minstrel said, I wander through a wreath o' snaw. This very touching and original song was written by Thomas Pickering of Newcastle, in 1794. The lives of poets are only so many stories of genius depressed and unrewarded, of sorrow and misfortune. Life has been usually the bitterest, and the world the rudest, to those whose song was sweetest. Of Pickering I have heard much more than I am willing to repeat: his follies were only injurious to himself; and death was a welcome boon. His song of Donochthead surpasses all his other compositions; it attracted the notice and obtained the admiration of Burns, and will probably long continue to please. It speaks of civil discord, and probably alludes to the brief and bloody struggle which took place in behalf of the exiled house of Stuart. |