ALAUDA ARVENSIS. 365 



The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 



Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn-bush ; 



The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill, 



Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill." 



They were all his teachers. Indeed, the songs of birds were part 

 and parcel of his own — their very hoots and screams correctly 

 noted — from the ea.ule to the wren — from the midnight owl to 

 the soaring lark — all proving that Burns told the truth when 

 saying he learned his " tuneful trade from every bough," and 

 was truly indebted to his teachers, our feathered friends, for 

 many of his exquisite ideas ; still further proved by the follow- 

 ing stanza, which he said "is among the oldest of my printed 

 pieces, and composed when I was seventeen" — 



" I dreamed I lay where flowers were springing 

 Gaily in the sunny beam, 

 Listening to the wild birds singing 



By a falling crystal stream. 1 ' 



The " Sonnet on his Birthday," even in winter, shows who 

 were his teachers — 



" Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 

 Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain; 

 See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

 At thy blithe carol clears his furroiccd brow." 



His ain " Bonnie Jean " is seen and heard in every bird, for he 

 sings — 



" I see her in the dewy flowers, 

 I see her sweet and fair ; 

 I hear her in the tuncfid birds, 



I hear her charm the air. 

 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 



By fountain, shaw, or green, 

 There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

 But minds me o' my Jean." 



And when comparing the myrtle groves of other lands, he 

 sings — 



" Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

 Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen, 

 For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

 A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean." 



In the most pathetic of all his love-songs — an unhappy but 

 true love- tale — the birds are still his teachers on the " Banks 

 and Braes o' Bonnie Doon" — 



" Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 

 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

 And I sae weary, fu' o' care ? 



