before him, singing to his instrument wildly, but not disagreeably; a little dirty child was playing with the bottom of the harp; a woman in a sick night-cap hanging over the stairs; a boy with crutches fixed in a staring attention, and a girl carding wool in the chimney, and rocking a cradle with her naked feet, interrupted in her business by the charms of the music; all ragged and dirty, and all silently attentive.  These figures gave us a most entertaining picture, and would please you or any man of observation; and one reflection gave me a particular comfort, that the assembly before us demonstrated, that even here, the influential sun warmed poor mortals, and inspired them with love and music.”

I could wish that Mr. Wilkie had been recommended to take this group as the subject of his admirable pencil; he has painted a picture of Bathsheba, instead.

In speaking of the old Scotch ballads, I need do no more than mention the name of Auld Robin Gray.  The effect of reading this old ballad is as if all our hopes and fears hung upon the last fibre of the heart, and we felt that giving way.  What silence, what loneliness, what leisure for grief and despair!

      “My father pressed me sair,
        Though my mother did na’ speak;
      But she looked in my face
        Till my heart was like to break.”

The irksomeness of the situations, the sense of painful dependence, is excessive; and yet the sentiment of deep-rooted, patient affection triumphs over all, and is the only impression that remains.  Lady Ann Bothwell’s Lament is not, I think, quite equal to the lines beginning—­

      “O waly, waly, up the bank,
        And waly, waly, down the brae,
      And waly, waly, yon burn side,
        Where I and my love wont to gae. 
      I leant my back unto an aik,
        I thought it was a trusty tree;
      But first it bow’d, and syne it brak,
        Sae my true-love’s forsaken me.

      O waly, waly, love is bonny,
        A little time while it is new;
      But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,
        And fades awa’ like the morning dew. 
      When cockle-shells turn siller bells,
        And muscles grow on every tree,
      Whan frost and snaw sall warm us aw,
        Then sall my love prove true to me.

      Now Arthur seat sall be my bed,
        The sheets sall ne’er be fyld by me: 
      Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink,
        Since my true-love’s forsaken me. 
      Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
        And shake the green leaves aff the tree? 
      O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum,
        And tak’ a life that wearies me!

      ’Tis not the frost that freezes sae,
        Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
      ’Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,
        But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. 
      Whan we came in by Glasgow town,
        We were a comely sight to see,
      My love was clad in black velvet,
        And I myself in cramasie.