“The Banks of the Dee,” the only popular production from the pen of the author, was composed in the year 1775, on the occasion of a friend leaving Scotland to join the British forces in America, who were then vainly endeavouring to suppress that opposition to the control of the mother country which resulted in the permanent establishment of American independence.  The song is set to the Irish air of “Langolee.”  It was printed in Wilson’s Collection of Songs, which was published at Edinburgh in 1779, with four additional stanzas by a Miss Betsy B——­s, of inferior merit.  It was re-published in “The Goldfinch” (Edinburgh, 1782), and afterwards was inserted in Johnson’s “Musical Museum.”  Burns, in his letter to Mr George Thomson, of 7th April 1793, writes—­“’The Banks of the Dee’ is, you know, literally ‘Langolee’ to slow time.  The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance—­

    “‘And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.’

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and, in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland.  Creative rural imagery is always comparatively flat.”

Thirty years after its first appearance, Mr Tait published a new edition of the song in Mr Thomson’s Collection, vol. iv., in which he has, by alterations on the first half stanza, acknowledged the justice of the strictures of the Ayrshire bard.  The stanza is altered thus: 

    “’Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
    And sweetly the wood-pigeon coo’d from the tree;
    At the foot of a rock, where the wild rose was growing,
    I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.”

The song, it may be added, has in several collections been erroneously attributed to John Home, author of the tragedy of “Douglas.”

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

    ’Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
      And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree,
    At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing,
      I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. 
    Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
    Thy banks’ purest stream shall be dear to me ever,
    For there first I gain’d the affection and favour
      Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

    But now he ’s gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
      To quell the proud rebels—­for valiant is he;
    And, ah! there’s no hope of his speedy returning,
      To wander again on the banks of the Dee. 
    He ’s gone, hapless youth! o’er the rude roaring billows,
    The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,
    And left me to wander ’mongst those once loved willows,
      The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.