But our neighbours are so sensitive and have such fine and delicate feelings, that the vulgarity of the broad Scotch, and the associations connected with Scottish melodies, make them shrink back as the patient would shrink back from the surgeon’s knife. I was in a place of worship on one occasion, where a few individuals commenced to sing a Revival Hymn to the air of “Annie Laurie;” a grave Deacon rose from his seat and silenced them, stating that he could not bear the associations of that tune. I declare “Annie Laurie” was the most beautiful singer I heard amongst them; and as that was the first time I heard her voice, I would like to hear it again. If I could I would pick it up, and do with it as I have done with other pearls which as swine they are trampling under their feet. The late Mr Campbell, Oban, who had a fine ear for music, had a servant girl from Uist who was a beautiful singer; she was constantly singing a love song she had learned. The sweet melody of the piece caught the ear of the saint, and soon became his own; the words began to pour in also, and what could he do? The air he could not hate, but how to keep it without keeping the words along with it was the difficulty. He however fell on a plan; he went into his study, took his pen and wrote down some verses suited to the air. In his circumstances did he not do the best thing he could do? Let our neighbours follow his example. Sounds take a long time in coming. It is a long time since the sound was heard from Rowland Hill’s lips—“What a pity that the devil should have the prettiest tunes.” These words have at last found a response in the bosom of a Highlander, which he returns as from the rocky mountains of his country, saying—“The devil shall not have the prettiest tunes.” That again to find a response in rocky Wales, louder and louder still—“The devil shall not have the prettiest tunes,” and like the sound of thunder rolling and rolling over the United Kingdom, finding a response in all Churches and Chapels as it rolls along.
Have we not our associations in the Highlands as well as they? Two of the finest pieces we sing, Grant’s “Glory of the Lamb,” and M’Gregor’s “Righteousness of Christ,” we sing to the air of that song which Duncan Ban M’Intyre composed to his spouse (a piece of lyric poetry that the English can never imitate), and in singing them we never think that there was such a woman as Mhairi bhan òg in existence. The Scottish people prove that they find a sweetness in their native melodies, which they do not find in others. At their soirees do they not as it were cross over their fences in search of them? How ridiculous at the soirees of Christian Churches to hear “Scots wha hae,” “Ochone, Widow Machree,” and such like pieces sung. What vulgar beings they are to be sure!
I had a strong prejudice for the most part of my life against the broad Scotch. I looked upon it as I would from an eminence look down upon a number of tinkers and donkeys below me. I saw a Magazine several years ago, which contained two pieces of poetry on opposite columns. The one was composed with all the power of the mistress of arts in pure English, and the other in the artless simplicity of the broad Scotch. The title of the former, if I recollect well, was “The Houseless Children;” that of the latter “There’s nae room for twa.” I read the former, and it did not awaken a single emotion in my soul; I began to suspect I was not scholar enough to comprehend it: the title was the most moving of the whole. I read the other piece, and it almost set me a dancing, and perhaps, had I only been twenty-five years of age, I would have risen up and danced the Highland Fling. The piece gives an account of a Jamie, and of a Katie, and a Janet who were in love with him. When crossing over a very narrow bridge, Jamie said, “Janet must walk behind, there’s nae room for twa.” Jamie’s words, “There’s nae room for twa,” went to Janet’s heart. The result was that Katie was his bride, and while the sun shone upon her, poor Janet was left under the dark clouds. She, however, began to bethink herself, and said—
I’ll gi’e to God my lingrin’ time,
And Jamie drive awa;
For in this weary heart o’ mine
There’s nae room for twa.
There’s nae room for twa, ye ken,
There’s nae room for twa;
The heart that’s giv’n to God and Heav’n,