In other days every trade and vocation had a tune to dance or march to the air of this song is the march of the gardeners: the title only is old-the rest is the work of Burns. Song was once as natural to man as music is to the birds of the air: but hard work-incessant drudgery rather has silenced song at the plough—at the loom-in the forge-in the garden-at the carpenter's bench, and at the mason's banker. A song is seldom heard in the land now, save when some ragged wretch raises " a melancholious croon" as he holds out his hat for alms. Perhaps the ploughman still chants an air as he turns his furrow, and the shepherd still sings as he watches his lambs among the pastoral mountains: in the cities music is mute, save when hired: the pale mechanic has so much to endure in keeping his soul and body together, that song is out of the question. Music with him has died into "a quaver of consternation."

BLOOMING NELLY.

Tune-" On a Bank of Flowers.."

I.

ON a bank of flowers, in a summer day,

For summer lightly drest,

The youthful blooming Nelly lay,

With love and sleep opprest;

When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood,
Who for her favour oft had sued,

He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
And trembled where he stood.

II.

Her closed eyes like weapons

Were seal'd in soft repose;

sheath'd,

Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd,

It richer dy'd the rose.

The springing lilies sweetly prest,

Wild-wanton, kiss'd her rival breast;

He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd— His bosom ill at rest.

III.

Her robes light waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace:
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ;
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,
And sigh'd his very soul.

IV.

As flies the partridge from the brake,

On fear-inspired wings,

So Nelly starting, half awake,

Away affrighted springs :

But Willy follow'd, as he should,

He overtook her in the wood;
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid
Forgiving all and good.

A song in Allan Ramsay's collection seems to have suggested this lyric to Burns: the elder Bard spoke with a freer tongue than even the Poet of Kyle. His first verse is as follows:

"On a bank of flowers

In a summer day,
Inviting and undrest,
In her bloom of youth
Fair Celia lay,

With love and sleep opprest;

When a youthful swain

With admiring eyes,

Wished that he durst

The sweet maid surprise."

The second verse is very free and graphic: the third contains a pretty image :

"All amazed he stood,

With her beauties fired,

And blest the courteous wind;
Then in whispers sighed,

And the gods desired

That Celia might be kind:

When with hopes grown bold
He advanced amain,

But she laughed loud

In a dream, and again

Repelled the amorous swain."

Ramsay says he inserted nothing in his collection capable of raising a blush on the cheek of beauty. The muse has at least grown purer of speech since his day.

THE DAY RETURNS.

Tune-" Seventh of November."

I.

THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;

Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more-it made thee mine!

II.

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give,
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live.
When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks
my bliss-it breaks my heart.

The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars-Carse; and these verses were composed in compliment to the day. The sense, wit, and loveliness of the lady were sung in the same strain in which the contest for the Whistle is celebrated.