“In the island of Mull there lived a harper who was distinguished for his professional skill, and was attached to Rosie, the fairest flower in the island, and soon made her his bride. Not long afterwards he set out on a visit to some low-country friends, accompanied by his Rosie, and carrying his harp, which had been his companion in all his journeys for many years. Overtaken by the shades of night, in a solitary part of the country, a cold faintness fell upon Rosie, and she sank, almost lifeless, into the harper’s arms. He hastily wrapped his plaid round her shivering frame, but to no purpose. Distracted, he hurried from place to place in search of fuel, to revive the dying embers of life. None could be found. His harp lay on the grass, its neglected strings vibrating to the blast. The harper loved it as his own life, but he loved his Rosie better than either. His nervous arm was applied to its sides, and ere long it lay crackling and blazing on the heath. Rosie soon revived under its genial influence, and resumed the journey when morning began to purple the east. Passing down the side of a hill, they were met by a hunter on horseback, who addressed Rosie in the style of an old and familiar friend. The harper, innocent himself, and unsuspicious of others, paced slowly along, leaving her in converse with the stranger. Wondering at her delay, he turned round and beheld the faithless fair seated behind the hunter on his steed, which speedily bore them out of sight. The unhappy harper, transfixed with astonishment, gazed at them. Then, slowly turning his steps homewards, he, sighing, exclaimed—‘Fool that I was to burn my harp for her!’” It is said that Tannahill first heard this story at a convivial meeting, as an instance of the infidelity of the fair sex, whose fidelity he had been strenuously defending, notwithstanding that he himself was disappointed in the only love affair in which he was ever seriously engaged. The impression which the narrative made upon his mind led him to the composition of the song:— “When Rosie was faithfu’ how happy was I! Still gladsome as simmer the time glided by; I played my harp cheery while proudly I sang O’ the charms o’ my Rosie the winter nichts lang; But now I’m as waefu’ as waefu’ can be, Come simmer, come winter, it’s a’ ane to me, For the dark gloom o’ falsehood sae clouds my sad soul, That cheerless for aye is the Harper o’ Mull. “I wander the glens and the wild woods alone, In their deepest recesses I make my sad moan; My harp’s mournfu’ melody joins in the strain, While sadly I sing o’ the days that are gane. Tho’ Rosie is faithless she’s no the less fair, And the thocht o’ her beauty but feeds my despair, Wi’ painfu’ remembrance my bosom is full, An’ weary o’ life is the Harper o’ Mull.