My father argued sair--my mother didna speak, But she look’d in my face till my heart was like to break; They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea; And so auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie’s ghaist--I cou’dna think it he, Till he said, “I’m come hame, my love, to marry thee!” O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a’; Ae kiss we took, nae mair--I bad him gang awa. I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee; For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin; I darena think o’ Jamie, for that wad be a sin. But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray, oh! he is sae kind to me. The great and remarkable merit of Mr. Dyce is, that in this beautifully printed volume, he has reared imperishable columns to the honour of the sex, without a questionable trophy. His “specimens” are an assemblage so individually charming, that the mind is delighted by every part whereon the eye rests, and scrupulosity itself cannot make a single rejection on pretence of inadequate merit. He comes as a rightful herald, marshalling the perfections of each poetess, and discriminating with so much delicacy, that each of his pages is a page of honour to a high-born grace, or dignified beauty. His book is an elegant tribute to departed and living female genius; and while it claims respect from every lady in the land for its gallantry to the fair, its intrinsic worth is sure to force it into every well-appointed library. [47] The text of the corrected copy is followed. [48] “I must also mention” (says lady Anne, in the letter already quoted) “the laird of Dalziel’s advice, who, in a _tête-à-tête_, afterwards said, ‘My dear, the next time you sing that song, try to change the words a wee bit, and instead of singing, ‘To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,’ say, to make it twenty merks, for a Scottish pund is but twenty pence, and Jamie was na such a gowk as to leave Jenny and gang to sea to lessen his gear. It is that line [whisper’d he] that tells me that sang was written by some bonnie lassie that didna ken the value of the Scots money quite so well as an auld writer in the town of Edinburgh would have kent it.’” [Illustration: ~Hiring Servants at a Statute Fair.~]