THE BRAES OF BALLENDINE. DR. BLACKLOCK. Born 1721-Died 1791. Beneath a green shade a lovely young swain The winds ceas'd to breathe, and the fountain to flow; How happy (he cried) my moments once flew, Through changes, in vain, relief I pursue, All, all but conspire my griefs to renew; But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires, Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy thy care! [Few writers have been found to mention Blacklock's verse with approbation. Burns alludes to his songs, but never praises them :they are indeed very well as smooth lines run 'A happy tuneful vacancy of sense."] THE BANKS OF THE DEE. JOHN HOME. Born 1722.-Died 1808. 'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, Flow on, But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning, And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him; Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me; And when he returns, with such care I'll watch o'er him, He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee. The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying; The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing; While I with my Sandy am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee. ["The Banks of the Dee' is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree. In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, and never from a tree; and in the second place there never was a nightingale, seen, or heard, on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland."-BURNS.] THE SMILING PLAINS PROFUSELY GAY. WILLIAM FALCONER. Born 1720-Died 1771. The smiling plains, profusely gay, I mourn thy absence, charming maid! O soft as love! as honour fair! THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. Born 1734-Died 1788. And are ye sure the news is true? Is this a time to talk o' wark? Ye jades, fling by your wheel! Gie me my cloak! I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava; There's little pleasure in the house, Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side, Gie little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, It's a' to please my ain gudeman, There's twa hens upon the bauk, Mak haste and thra their necks about, And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; It's a' for love of my gudeman, For he's been lang awa'. O gie me down my bigonets, My bishop-sattin gown; And rin an' tell the Baillie's wife That Colin's come to town: My Sunday shoon they maun gae on, My hose o' pearl blue; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air! His very foot has music in't When he comes up the stair: And will I see his face again? I'm downright dizzy with the thought, In troth I'm like to greet. The cauld blasts of the winter wind, |