sis of distinction, was, as has been said,
rather a song-writer than a lyrist. The works of Shakespeare, Ben
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, abound in lyrics, but
contain comparatively few songs, in the modern sense of the word, in
which we speak of the songs of Burns, Moore, and Barry Cornwall. Ramsay,
in his songs, sacrificed everything to mode. In nine cases out of ten he
had the tune for the song in his mind when he was writing the words. In
Scotland, as is well known, there is an immense body of music, some of
it ancient, some of it comparatively modern, though none of it much
later than the Restoration. That was the mine wherein Ramsay dug long
and deep for the music for his _Tea-Table Miscellany_. To those ancient
tunes he supplied words--words that to this day remain as a memorial of
the skill and sympathy wherewith he wedded the spirit of the melodies to
language in keeping with their national character.

To a _soupcon_ of diffuseness the poet must, however, plead
guilty--guilty, moreover, because of the invincible temptation to pad
out a line now and then 'for crambo's sake' when the ideas ran short.
Ramsay possessed all the qualities constituting a song-writer of great
and varied genius. His work exhibits ease and elasticity of rhythm,
liquid smoothness of assonance, sympathetic beauty of thought, with
subtle skill in wedding sense to sound. Though his verse lacked the
dainty finish of Herrick and Waller, the brilliant facet-like sparkle of
Carew, Suckling, and Lovelace, the tender grace of Sedley, and the
half-cynical, half-regretful, but wholly piquant epicureanism, of
Rochester and Denham, yet Ramsay had a charm all his own. Witness the
'Lass o' Patie's Mill'; is it not entirely _sui generis_?

'The lass o' Patie's Mill,
So bonny, blythe, and gay,
In spite of all my skill,
She stole my heart away.
When tedding of the hay,
Bareheaded on the green,
Love midst her locks did play,
And wantoned in her een.

Her arms, white, round, and smooth,
Breasts rising in their dawn,
To age it would give youth
To press 'em with his hand
Thro' all my spirits ran
An ecstasy of bliss
When I such sweetness fan'
Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,
Like flowers that grace the wild,
She did her sweets impart
Whene'er she spoke or smil'd.
Her looks they were so mild,
Free from affec