Let fortune's gifts at random flee,

They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The old song of the Birks of Abergeldie was well known, and still merits notice.

The song of Burns was conceived while he stood beside the Falls of Aberfeldy, in Perthshire, during his highland tour. He seldom adhered so closely to the spirit of the old words which he sought to imitate. His own original fancy, and happy turn of thought, carried away from the paths of others.

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FAREWELL, THOU FAIR DAY.

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun;

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties!
Our race of existence is run.

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go, frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik❜st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!"
He falls in the blaze of his fame.

In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
Our King and our Country to save,

While Victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not die with the brave!

Burns wrote this heroic song at the first out-burst of the French revolutionary war, and so well was he satisfied with what he had done, that he was desirous of having it set to music, and printed separately. The poet imagines a field of battle, the sun setting, the victory won, and the victorious and the wounded and the dying, chanting the song of death. The song, noble and heartrousing as it is, has some lines of common sentiment and cumbrous expression.

SAIR I RUE THE WITLESS WISH.

O sair I rue the witless wish

That gar'd me gang wi' you at e'en,

And sair I rue the birken bush

That screen'd us with its leaves sae green. And tho' ye vow'd ye wad be mine, The tear o' grief ay dims my e'e, For, O! I'm fear'd that I may tyne The love that ye hae promised me!

While ithers seek their e'ening sports,
I wander, dowie, a' my lane,
For, when I join their glad resorts,
Their daffing gi'es me meikle pain.
Alas! it was na sae shortsyne,

When a' my nights were spent wi' glee; But O! I'm fear'd that I may tyne

The love that ye hae promised me.

Dear lassie, keep thy heart aboon,

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For I ha'e wair'd my winter's fee, I've coft a bonnie silken gown,

To be a bridal gift for thee.

And sooner shall the hills fa' down,

And mountain-high shall stand the sea,

Ere I'd accept a gowden crown

To change that love I bear for thee.

Ease and gentleness, rather than vehemence and vigour, characterise the songs of Tannahill. The sorrow of the lady in this song is moderate, and the rapture of the lover discreet. They would make a prudent and frugal pair.

AFTON WATER.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills!
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

The pastoral feeling, which Burns infused into this sweet song, is in strict conformity with nature. The woodland primrose, the scented birk, the note of the blackbird, the call of the lapwing and the cushat, the flowery brae, and a fair heroine, are found now, as they were then, on the banks of this little stream. Time, which works such havoc with pastoral landscape, can take nothing away from Afton Water, unless it dries up the stream and strikes the ground with barrenness. Afton Water is in Ayrshire, and is one of the numerous streams which augment the Nith. The song was written in honour of Mrs. Dugald Stewart of Afton Lodge-an accomplished lady, and excellent lyric poetess; and the first person of any note who perceived and acknowledged the genius of Burns.