Men of genius are now and then born song-writers; such were
Horace and Burns, such is Beranger. England has not had hers yet, and
perhaps never may have. Englishmen are not nationally calculated to make
song-writers; but individual genius makes light of running counter to a
whole nation of habits, and there is no saying that we may not have our
true lyricist yet. Song-writing is most likely to spring up among people
greatly susceptible of the charms of music, and inventive of airs which,
by some peculiar charm they possess, spread over all the country, sink
deep in the memory, and come spontaneously on the thoughts in moments of
sadness or joy, and, in short, become what are called national. National
songs go with national airs, and spring up with circumstances. The English
have few native airs, and as few native songs of any excellence. When an
Englishman is in love, does he sing? In camp, what wretched braying goes
by that name! at table, what have we of the generous, jovial sort?
Generally speaking, our table songs--always excepting our glees--are
pieces of bald sentiment, when they are English; but more generally, they
are borrowed from the Scotch, the Irish, and other national song-writers.
Gaiety, and that gaiety showing itself musically, is not _English_: when
we are poetically given, it is in the sad piping strain of the forlorn,
deserted, or hopeless lover.
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