"Song sweetens toil, however rude the sound, All at her work the village maiden sings; Nor while she turns the giddy wheel around, Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things."
And while speaking of birds, this is, perhaps, the proper place to refer to a paragraph that appeared recently:--
"The Lilac Tree and Birds.--Burns has a song, 'Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,' &c. Cunningham has remarked that Burns had made an unhappy selection of a tree for sheltering his little bird; for the feathered songsters are found to avoid the lilac when in flower, owing to its peculiar smell. We confess we are not skilled enough in natural history to attest the accuracy of Cunningham's assertion."--Paterson's Burns, vol. iii.
Fully to appreciate Cunningham's objection, it is proper that we quote the song in full; but before doing so, it may be observed that it is founded on an older version, of which the best lines are retained, as is the case with not a few of Burns' finest love-songs. Writing to George Thomson in the summer of 1793, the poet says--
"Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots Songs?--
"'Oh, gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa.'"
"This thought is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unless you give it a place. I have often tried to make a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five minutes on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. The verses are far inferior to the original, I frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every poet who knows anything of his trade will husband his last thought for a concluding stroke:--
"Oh, were my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing.
How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.
Oh, gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh! there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light."