[10] We quote from an autobiography of the poet, the original of which is in the possession of one of his surviving friends.  We have likewise to acknowledge our obligations to Dr Muschet, of Birkhill, near Stirling, for communicating some interesting letters of Macneill, addressed to his late father.  The late Mr John Campbell, Writer to the Signet, had undertaken to supply a memoir for this work, partly from his own recollections of his deceased friend; but, before he could fulfil his promise, he was called to rest with his fathers.  We have, however, taken advantage of his reminiscences of the bard, orally communicated to us.  An intelligent abridgment of the autobiography appears in Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. iv. p. 273.  See likewise the Encyclopaedia Britannica, vol. xv. p. 307.

[11] “The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern,” by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 242.  London, 1825; 4 vols. 12mo.

MARY OF CASTLECARY.[12]

TUNE—­"Bonnie Dundee."

    “Oh, saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? 
      Saw ye my true love, down on yon lee? 
    Cross’d she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin’? 
      Sought she the burnie whare flow’rs the haw-tree? 
    Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
      Dark is the blue o’ her saft rolling e’e;
    Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: 
      Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?”

    “I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
      Nor saw I your true love, down on yon lea;
    But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin’,
      Down by the burnie whare flow’rs the haw-tree. 
    Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
      Dark was the blue o’ her saft rolling e’e;
    Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: 
      Sweet were the kisses that she ga’e to me!”

    “It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,
      It was na my true love, ye met by the tree: 
    Proud is her leal heart—­modest her nature;
      She never lo’ed ony till ance she lo’ed me. 
    Her name it is Mary; she ’s frae Castlecary;
      Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee;—­
    Fair as your face is, were ’t fifty times fairer,
      Young bragger, she ne’er would gi’e kisses to thee.”

    “It was, then, your Mary; she ’s frae Castlecary;
      It was, then, your true love I met by the tree;—­
    Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
      Sweet were the kisses that she ga’e to me.” 
    Sair gloom’d his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew;
      Wild flash’d the fire frae his red rolling e’e—­
    “Ye ’s rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning;
      Defend, ye fause traitor! fu’ loudly ye lie.”