goes, to write the "confessions of an unmusical man." As regards flats and sharps, I am truly little better than a natural; and as for quavers, semiquavers, demi-semi-quavers, and other subtler divisions, if there be any, I am as ignorant of them as the ass that crops his thistle off the common, and brays in whatsoever note nature prompts him. But what of that! Music is not altogether a mechanical science; and there are profounder sympathies in the heart of man than the orchestra think of. There is no more nauseous animal in existence than your musical coxcomb, who has all the terms and technicalities of the art at his tongue's end, without the glimmering of an idea concerning the human passions, the deep feelings, and the keen and delicate perception of the beautiful, on which that art is founded. Proportionably to be admired is the man who, after spending years in study and research, and successfuly fathoming and mastering all difficulties, never dreams of considering his laboriously-acquired knowledge as more than merely an accessory, not a principal, in the delightful science he has made his study. The former are, as a naturalist would express it, "in theatres and at concerts-common;" the latter is of a species scarce all over the world.

There may be loftier flights-a higher species of

fame, than that attained or aimed at by the songwriter; but there is no one to whom honor is more gladly rendered by the mass of mortals. His claims come into notice, for the most part, in a genial season-when friends are met, and the glass and sentiment and song go round; when gladness swells the heart, fancy tickles the brain, and mirth and good-humor sparkle from the eye;-when Bacchus has almost closed up criticism's venomous optics, and laid hyper-criticism quietly under the table;— when the fine-strung nerves are exquisitely alive to all pleasurable sensations;-then it is that divine music, wedded to still diviner poesy, can, in an instant,

"bid the warm tear start,

Or the smile light the cheek ;"

and then it is that the memories of the masters of song are pledged with a fervor that the ethical or epic poet may despise, but can never either expect or hope for from the partiality of his cooler admirers. Next to Shakspeare there is no one whose memory is more fondly treasured than that of Burns. Independently of being intensely loved and revered wherever a Scottish accent is heard, social societies are formed in every country in which his language is known, to keep that memory fresh

and green. And he well deserves it. Perhaps his songs are the best ever written. He has not the polish, the refinement, the exuberance of imagery, or the sparkling fancy of Moore, but he excels him in humor and pathos. They are, however, both glorious fellows; and it must be a narrow heart that cannot find room for admiration of more than one. If the lyrics of Burns do not, as yet, strictly come under the designation of "old songs," they at least will do so, for they have the germ of immortality within them. It is almost impossible to dream of the time when "Auld Lang Syne" will not be sung. He had his faults (I am no Scotchman), and in turning over his pages, besides occasional coarseness and bad taste, you sometimes meet with a verse, that, "not to speak it profanely," bears a striking resemblance to utter nonsense; for instance, (though what could be expected from words to such a tune-"Robin Adair !”)

"Down in a shady walk,

Doves cooing were,

I mark'd the cruel hawk

Caught in a snare :
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny!
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair!"

But if your admiration of the poet begin to falter

for a moment, perhaps the very next page brings you to "Highland Mary," " Ae fond kiss and then we sever," "A man's a man for a' that," "Mary Morrison," or, that song without a name commencing

"Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;

Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
And soft as their parting tear-Jessy!"

Burns has done for Scottish song what Scott has done for Scottish history-made it known and renowned in every portion of the globe; and had "auld Scotland" never produced any other names of note, these two are amply sufficient to honor and glorify her through all time.

66

What are generally known by the name of "Irish songs,"--the "Paddy Whackmeracks," and Barny Brallagans" of the pot-house and the playhouse, bear ten times less resemblance to the genuine melodies of the "green isle," than even the majority of regular stage Irishmen do to the existing natives. Both are merely broad English caricatures. The soul of Irish music, beyond that of all other national music, is melancholy. It is, perhaps, too fine a distinction to draw, but of the serious melodies of the three nations, perhaps the English airs are most characterized by mournful sadness-those of Scotland by pathos and tender

ness-and those of Ireland by a wild, wailing melancholy, of an almost indescribable character. But words are poor expositors in such cases. Let any one play a few airs from each, and they will probably furnish him at once with the distinction here attempted to be drawn. I would humbly suggest "Coolin," or "Silent, oh Moyle," as the strongest instances I can think of on the part of Ireland. The English, it is said, have no national melody; and perhaps this is true of that portion of the country from Dover to the borders; but long prior to the presence of the Normans, who changed the manners and injured the pithiness of the language of the natives, the British had melodies marked by great simplicity and sweetness. Who does not remember the beautiful song, "Ayr hyd y nos," familiarly known as "Poor Mary Ann ?"-then there is that fine air, "Of a noble race was Shenkin," and many others, which may be found in Parry's Welsh Melodies. These are still to be met with in many a quiet and sequestered glen amid the fastnesses of Wales, where the harp of the Druids took sanctuary, and where the poetry and melody of that mysterious sect are still preserved. It is no wonder that at the inpouring of the heterogeneous and mercenary Norman flood, the pure native melodies became corrupted, and were nearly swept away;