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"TWAS even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyr wantoned round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the mavis sang,

All nature listening seemed the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward strayed,
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whispered passing by,

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle! †

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child!

There all her charms she does compile
Even there her other works are foil'd

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Hang-Scotticism for hung.

Variation. The lily's hue and rose's dye

Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle.

O had

O had she been a country maid,

And I the happy country swain, "Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain! Thro' weary winter's wind and rain With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep;
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,

Or downward seek the Indian mine;

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine,

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this incident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he complains that the lady made no reply to his effusions, and this appears to have wounded his self-love. It is not however difficult to find an excuse for her silence. Burns was at that time little known, and where known at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his humour, than for those strains of tenderness, in which he afterwards so much excelled. To the lady herself his name had perhaps never been mentioned, and of such a poem she might not consider herself as the proper judge. Her modesty

might

might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived also, that supposing the verses duly appreciated, delicacy might find it difficult to express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rustic bard possessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this highborn beauty to his daring bosom. It is true Burns might have found precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every country. And it is not to be denied that lovely women have generally submitted to this sort of profanation with patience, and even with good-humour. To what purpose is it to repine at a misfortune which is the necessary consequence of their own charms, or to remonstrate with a description of men who are incapable of controul.

"The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
"Are of imagination all compact."

It may be easily presumed, that the beautiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with scorn the adorations of our poet, though she received them with silent modesty and dignified reserve.

The

The sensibility of our Bard's temper, and the force of his imagination, exposed him in a particular manner to the impressions of beauty; and these qualities, united to his impassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a powerful influence over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to reveal, were it even in our power, and the traces of which will soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature and sensibility, to which they gave birth. The song in vol. iv. p. 17, entitled Highland Mary, is known to relate to one of these attachments. "It was written," says our bard" on one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days." The object of this passion died early in life, and the impression left on the mind of Burns, seems to have been deep and lasting. Several years afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned lines. In the manuscript book from which we extract them, they are addressed To Mary in Heaven !

THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary!

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface,

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick’ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
'Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

To the delineations of the poet by himself, by his brother, and by his tutor, these additions are

VOL. I.

K

necessary,

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