326 Burns and the Song' Birds of Scotland^ [Sess. 



ashes. Burns* description is scientifically true, and shows 

 us with what a correct eye and ear he scanned the features 

 of nature and listened to her melodies. The robin does 

 indeed cheer the melancholy mood of autumn when clothed 

 in " her locks of yellow." 



We associate the song of the mavis with the season of 

 spring, — with that happy time when the March winds blow 

 and the April primroses star the banks, and the vivid flush 

 of May decorates the earth with a robe of green. And one 

 also loves to listen to its song when the hawthorn is in 

 blossom, and the woods of June are in the first glory of their 

 leafy foliage. But the mavis can and does sing at other 

 times. Two years ago I heard it singing on Christmas morn- 

 ing. And when the old year had died out and the new year 

 had dawned, he seemed^ like ourselves, to take upon himself 

 a new lease of life in anticipation of the bright days coming, 

 and in January his song was louder and more joyous than 

 ever. Now Burns has noted this fact, not observed by every 

 one. He has a sonnet which he wrote on one of his birth- 

 days, on the 25th January 1793. He penned it on hearing 

 a thrush sing on the morning of that memorable day. The 

 opening verse is very fine : — 



" 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 blythe carol clears his furrowed brow." 



Burns was a great admirer of the fair sex, and when one of 

 them caught his fancy he encased her charms in a casket of 

 poetical richness. He lavished upon her gifts of mind and 

 person a very wealth of natural illustration. Thus, there 

 lived upon the banks of Cessnock Water a farmer's daughter 

 whom he greatly admired. Burns used to say of her, after he 

 had seen the finest ladies of Edinburgh city, that she sur- 

 passed them all in her natural charm and grace of character. 

 Be that as it may, he wrote a song in her honour, and 

 lavished upon her a largess of compliments, and no doubt he 

 could do that well. She was sweeter than the morning dawn 

 and statelier than the youthful ash. She was as spotless as 

 the flowering thorn. Her wavy hair curled like the mist as 



