It is these melodies,
chanted in our ears in the days of infancy, and connected with the
memory of those we have loved, and who have passed away, that clothe
Scottish landscape with such tender associations. The Scottish songs,
in general, have something intrinsically melancholy in them; owing, in
all probability, to the pastoral and lonely life of those who composed
them: who were often mere shepherds, tending their flocks in the
solitary glens, or folding them among the naked hills. Many of these
rustic bards have passed away, without leaving a name behind them;
nothing remains of them but their sweet and touching songs, which live,
like echoes, about the places they once inhabited. Most of these simple
effusions of pastoral poets are linked with some favorite haunt of the
poet; and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or tower, green
shaw or running stream, in Scotland, but has some popular air connected
with it, that makes its very name a key-note to a whole train of
delicious fancies and feelings.
Let me step forward in time, and mention how sensible I was to the
power of these simple airs, in a visit which I made to Ayr, the
birthplace of Robert Burns.
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