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the great charm of Scottish poetry consists in its simplicity, and genuine, unaffected sympathy with the common joys and sorrows of daily life.
It is a home-taught, household melody.
It calls to mind the pastoral bleat on the hillsides, the kirkbells of a summer Sabbath, the song of the lark in the sunrise, the cry of the quail in the corn-land, the low of cattle, and the blithe carol of milkmaids ‘when the kye come hame’ at gloaming.
Meetings at fair and market, blushing betrothments, merry weddings, the joy of young maternity, the lights and shades of domestic life, its bereavements and partings, its chances and changes, its holy death-beds, and funerals solemnly beautiful in quiet kirkyards,—these furnish the hints of the immortal melodies of
Burns, the sweet ballads of the
Ettrick Shepherd and
Allan Cunningham, and the rustic drama of
Ramsay.
It is the poetry of home, of nature, and the affections.
All this is sadly wanting in our young literature.
We have no songs; American domestic life has never been hallowed and beautified by the sweet and graceful and tender associations of poetry.
We have no Yankee pastorals.
Our rivers and streams turn mills and float rafts, and are otherwise as commendably useful as those of
Scotland; but no quaint ballad or simple song reminds us