Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/491

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[ heroine of this much-admired production was Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, sister of Claud Alexander, Esq. of Ballochmyle, a beautiful estate on the banks of the Ayr, about two miles from Mossgiel. himself gives the following account of the composition of this song, in a letter which he addressed to Miss Alexander. The letter is dated 18th November, 1786, although the piece was written in July. "I had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant western hills: not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every band, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavours to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart but at such a time must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene—and such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye: those visionary bards excepted who hold commerce with aerial things! Had calumny and villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure! The inclosed song was the work of my return home; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene."—The lady unfortunately did not answer the poet's letter, probably deterred by maidenly modesty or the advice of relations from entering into correspondence with one who, at this particular period, and in this locality, was suffering under an equivocal reputation for incontinence of speech and behaviour. The direct object of Burns's letter is said to have been to obtain Miss Alexander's permission to print the verses, but we cannot well understand how her permission was requisite, seeing that the verses, though certainly highly personal, are far from being libellous.—Be that as it may, Burns was somewhat chagrined at her silence—a silence, which in after years no one more deeply regretted than the lady herself, who to this day (for she is still (1843) alive) preserves the original poem and letter with affectionate and proud solicitude.—"The Lass of Ballochmyle" was first composed to the old tune of "Ettrick Banks," but has been since set to other tunes, such as "Johnnie's Grey Breeks," "Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff," &c.]

even,—the dewy fields were green,

On ilka blade the pearls hang;

The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,

And bore its fragrant sweets alang

In ev'ry glen the mavis sang:

All nature list'ning seem'd the while,

Except where greenwood echoes rang,

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,

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 whisper'd, passing by,

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in Autumn mild,

When roving through the garden gay,

Or wand'ring 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 bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Oh, had she been a country maid,

And I the happy country swain,

Though shelter'd in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain!

Through weary winter's wind and rain,

With joy, with rapture, I would toil;

And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.