I cannot dismiss this story without resting attention for a moment on the light which has been thrown on the character of the Highland Drover since the time of its first appearance, by the account of a drover poet, by name Robert Mackay, or, as he was commonly called, Rob Donn--that is, Brown Robert--and certain specimens of his talents, published in the ninetieth number of the Quarterly Review. The picture which that paper gives of the habits and feelings of a class of persons with which the general reader would be apt to associate no ideas but those of wild superstition and rude manners, is in the highest degree interesting, and I cannot resist the temptation of quoting two of the songs of this hitherto unheard-of poet of humble life. They are thus introduced by the reviewer:--"Upon one occasion, it seems, Rob's attendance upon his master's cattle business detained him a whole year from home, and at his return he found that a fair maiden to whom his troth had been plighted of yore had lost sight of her vows, and was on the eve of being married to a rival (a carpenter by trade), who had profited by the young drover's absence. The following song was composed during a sleepless night, in the neighbourhood of Creiff, in Perthshire, and the home sickness which it expresses appears to be almost as much that of the deer-hunter as of the loving swain.
'EASY IS MY BED, IT IS EASY, BUT IT IS NOT TO SLEEP THAT I INCLINE; THE WIND WHISTLES NORTHWARDS, NORTHWARDS, AND MY THOUGHTS MOVE WITH IT.
More pleasant were it to be with thee In the little glen of calves, Than to be counting of droves In the enclosures of Creiff.
EASY IS MY BED, ETC.
'Great is my esteem of the maiden Towards whose dwelling the north wind blows;
She is ever cheerful, sportive, kindly, Without folly, without vanity, without pride.
True is her heart--were I under hiding, And fifty men in pursuit of my footsteps, I should find protection, when they surrounded me most closely, In the secret recess of that shieling.
EASY IS MY BED, ETC.
'Oh for the day for turning my face homeward, That I may see the maiden of beauty--Joyful will it be to me to be with thee, Fair girl with the long heavy locks!