Dumfoundered the English saw--they saw, Dumfoundered they heard the blaw, the blaw; Dumfoundered they a' ran awa', awa', From the hundred pipers an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'. We 'll up an gie them a blaw, a blaw, Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'. Burns, Hogg, and Lady Nairne all wrote songs to the beautiful air of Charlie is my Darling, embodying in each case the first verse of the unknown poet who originated the song. They are all beautiful, but the words of Lady Nairne have conquered in the popular ear, and taken final possession of the air. CHARLIE IS MY DARLING. 'T was on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, When Charlie cam' to our town, The young Chevalier. Oh, Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, Oh, Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier. As he cam' marching up the street The pipes played loud an' clear, An' a' the folks cam' running out To meet the Chevalier. Wi' Hieland bonnets on their heads, An' claymores bright an' clear, They cam' to fight for Scotland's right An' the young Chevalier. They 'ye left their bonnie Highland hills, Their wives and bairnies dear, To draw the sword for Scotland's lord, The young Chevalier. Oh, there were mony beating hearts An' mony a hope an' fear, An' mony were the prayers sent up For the young Chevalier. Oh, Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, Oh, Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier. There is one of Lady Nairne's songs not quite perfect, for one forced and faulty line in the refrain, which has a higher touch of the imagination than any of the others. The influence of the magic of nature in the interpretation of human sorrow or gladness, and the wild mystery of the birds' melody upon the heart, which is characteristic of the highest order of the folk-song, and which, in its irregularity and simplicity, not less than the melody, which is nature's own voice, rather than the rhythm of art, is beyond the reach of any deliberate skill. It would be hard to find anything more perfect at once in its picture and its interpretation of the voice of nature in human words than-- And then the burnie's like the sea, Roarin' an' reamin'; Nae wee bit sangster's on the tree, But wild birds screamin'. While the sadness of human despair that follows and emphasizes the passion of the flood strikes the ear like a veritable wail in the loneliness and darkness. Bonnie ran the burnie down, Wandrin' an' windin'. Sweetly sang the birds above, Care never mindin'. The gentle summer wind