nothing remains of them but their sweet and touching songs, which live,
like echoes, about the places they once inhabited. Most of these simple
effusions of pastoral poets are linked with some favorite haunt of the
poet; and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or tower, green
shaw or running stream, in Scotland, but has some popular air connected
with it, that makes its very name a key-note to a whole train of
delicious fancies and feelings.

Let me step forward in time, and mention how sensible I was to the
power of these simple airs, in a visit which I made to Ayr, the
birthplace of Robert Burns. I passed a whole morning about "the banks
and braes of bonnie Doon," with his tender little love verses running
in my head. I found a poor Scotch carpenter at work among the ruins of
Kirk Alloway, which was to be converted into a school-house. Finding
the purpose of my visit, he left his work, sat down with me on a grassy
grave, close by where Burns' father was buried, and talked of the poet,
whom he had known personally. He said his songs were familiar to the
poorest and most illiterate of the country folk, "_and it seemed to
him as if the country had grown more beautiful, since Burns had written
his bonnie little songs about it._"

I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the subject of the popular
songs of his country, and he seemed gratified to find me so alive to
them. Their effect in calling up in my mind the recollections of early
times and scenes in which I had first heard them, reminded him, he
said, of the lines of his poor Mend, Leyden, to the Scottish muse:

"In youth's first morn, alert and gay,
Ere rolling years had passed away,
Remembered like a morning dream,