Chapter 13

We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. He was born in 1729, the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. At the age of seventeen he wrote a farce; entitled 'Love in a Mist,' and shortly after came to Britain as an actor. He was for a long time a performer in Digges' company in Edinburgh, and subsequently resided in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Here he seems to have fallen into distressed circumstances, and was supported by a benevolent printer, at whose house he died in 1773. His poetry is distinguished by a charming simplicity. This characterises 'Kate of Aberdeen,' given below, and also his 'Content: a Pastoral,' in which he says allegorically--

'Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, So simple yet sweet were her charms! I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek, And locked the dear maid in my arms.

'Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, And if, by yon prattler, the stream, Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep, Her image still softens my dream.'

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.

1 The silver moon's enamoured beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy sleep, (Tis where you've seldom been,) May's vigil whilst the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

2 Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till Morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.

3 Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid I love: And see--the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

4 Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen! And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a passion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few shillings in his pocket proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell into a severe fit of illness.

He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to _Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.' That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse. Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum. Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,' roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the light. 'Thou stupid god,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, but his constitution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a fortune in the East Indies, wishing him to come out to India, and enclosing a remittance of L100 to defray the expenses of the journey.

Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers.

Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay.

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG.

1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain.

2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind; That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.

3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems.

4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.

5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed By Caledonia's ancestors been done; By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun. 'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29] O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30] 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.

7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32] In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35] O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln. O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near.

9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43] On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44] Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45]

10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52] This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; How big a birn[53] maun lie on bassie's[54] back, For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill. Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57] An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59] Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their een, An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62] Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64] An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65] Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed; An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

[1] 'Keeks:' peeps. [2] 'Owsen:' oxen. [3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued. [4] 'Steeks:' shuts. [5] 'Dightin':' winnowing. [6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably. [7] 'Gars:' makes. [8] 'Fley'd:' frightened. [9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf. [10] 'Chimley:' chimney. [11] 'Smeek:' smoke. [12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage. [13] 'Cosh:' comfortable. [14] 'Meltith:' meal. [15] 'Synd:' drink. [16] 'Downa:' should not. [17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes. [18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel. [19] 'Kail:' broth with greens. [20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread. [21] 'Gabs:' palates. [22] 'Eident:' assidious. [23] 'Spae:' fortell. [24] 'Brulzies:' contests. [25] 'Gardies:' arms. [26] 'Yird:' earth. [27] 'Cracks:' pleasant talk. [28] 'Bicker:' the cup. [29] 'gash:' debat. [30] 'Their mailins' produce hash:' destroy the produce of their farms. [31] 'The fient a cheep:' not a whimper. [32] 'Maen:' moan. [33] 'Rangles:' circles. [34] 'Gudame's:' grandame. [35] 'Wirrikow:' scare-crow. [36] 'Win:' abide. [37] 'Fleetch:' entice. [38] 'Tint:' lost. [39] 'Scowder'd:' scorched. [40] 'Eild:' age. [41] 'Bairnly:' childish. [42] 'Stent:' task. [43] 'Lave:' the rest. [44] 'Oy:' grand child. [45] 'Her foy:' her farewell entertainment. [46] 'Lerroch:'corner. [47] 'Deas:' bench. [48] 'Streeks:' stretches. [49] 'Baudrins:' the cat. [50] 'Kebbuck:' cheese. [51] 'Fadge:' loaf. [52] 'To prie:' to taste. [53] 'Birn:' burden. [54] 'Bassie:' the horse. [55] 'Mu'ter:' the miller's perquisite. [56] 'Hawkies:'cows. [57] 'Tids:' fits. [58] 'The laiglen: 'the milk-pail. [59] 'To green:' to long. [60] 'The cruizy:' the lamp. [61] 'Cod:' pillow. [62] 'Drumly pow:' thick heads. [63] 'Sock:' ploughshare. [64] 'Gleyb:' soil. [65] 'Bien: 'comfortable.

DR WALTER HARTE.

Campbell, in his 'Specimens,' devotes a large portion of space to Dr Walter Harte, and has quoted profusely from a poem of his entitled 'Eulogius.' We may give some of the best lines here:--

'This spot for dwelling fit Eulogius chose, And in a month a decent homestall rose, Something between a cottage and a cell; Yet virtue here could sleep, and peace could dwell.

'The site was neither granted him nor given; 'Twas Nature's, and the ground-rent due to Heaven.

Wife he had none, nor had he love to spare,-- An aged mother wanted all his care. They thanked their Maker for a pittance sent, Supped on a turnip, slept upon content.'

Again, of a neighbouring matron, who died leaving Eulogius money--

'This matron, whitened with good works and age, Approached the Sabbath of her pilgrimage; Her spirit to himself the Almighty drew, _Breathed on the alembic, and exhaled the dew_.'

And once more--

'Who but Eulogius now exults for joy? New thoughts, new hopes, new views his mind employ; Pride pushed forth buds at every branching shoot, And virtue shrank almost beneath the root. High raised on fortune's hill, new Alps he spies, O'ershoots the valley which beneath him lies, Forgets the depths between, and travels with his eyes.'

EDWARD LOVIBOND.

Hampton in Middlesex was the birthplace of our next poet, Edward Lovibond. He was a gentleman of fortune, who chiefly employed his time in rural occupations. He became a director of the East India Company. He helped his friend Moore in conducting the periodical called _The World_, to which he contributed several papers, including the very pleasing poem entitled 'The Tears of Old May-Day.' He died in 1775.

THE TEARS OF OLD MAY-DAY.

WRITTEN ON THE REFORMATION OF THE CALENDAR IN 1754.

1 Led by the jocund train of vernal hours And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May; Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray.

2 Her locks with heaven's ambrosial dews were bright, And amorous zephyrs fluttered on her breast: With every shifting gleam of morning light, The colours shifted of her rainbow vest.

3 Imperial ensigns graced her smiling form, A golden key and golden wand she bore; This charms to peace each sullen eastern storm, And that unlocks the summer's copious store.

4 Onward in conscious majesty she came, The grateful honours of mankind to taste: To gather fairest wreaths of future fame, And blend fresh triumphs with her glories past.

5 Vain hope! no more in choral bands unite Her virgin votaries, and at early dawn, Sacred to May and love's mysterious rite, Brush the light dew-drops from the spangled lawn.

6 To her no more Augusta's wealthy pride Pours the full tribute from Potosi's mine: Nor fresh-blown garlands village maids provide, A purer offering at her rustic shrine.

7 No more the Maypole's verdant height around To valour's games the ambitious youth advance; No merry bells and tabor's sprightlier sound Wake the loud carol, and the sportive dance.

8 Sudden in pensive sadness drooped her head, Faint on her cheeks the blushing crimson died-- 'O chaste victorious triumphs! whither fled? My maiden honours, whither gone?' she cried.

9 Ah! once to fame and bright dominion born, The earth and smiling ocean saw me rise, With time coeval and the star of morn, The first, the fairest daughter of the skies.

10 Then, when at Heaven's prolific mandate sprung The radiant beam of new-created day, Celestial harps, to airs of triumph strung, Hailed the glad dawn, and angels called me May.

11 Space in her empty regions heard the sound, And hills, and dales, and rocks, and valleys rung; The sun exulted in his glorious round, And shouting planets in their courses sung.

12 For ever then I led the constant year; Saw youth, and joy, and love's enchanting wiles; Saw the mild graces in my train appear, And infant beauty brighten in my smiles.

13 No winter frowned. In sweet embrace allied, Three sister seasons danced the eternal green; And Spring's retiring softness gently vied With Autumn's blush, and Summer's lofty mien.

14 Too soon, when man profaned the blessings given, And vengeance armed to blot a guilty age, With bright Astrea to my native heaven I fled, and flying saw the deluge rage;

15 Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, While sounding billows from the mountains rolled, With bitter waves polluting all my streams, My nectared streams, that flowed on sands of gold.

16 Then vanished many a sea-girt isle and grove, Their forests floating on the watery plain: Then, famed for arts and laws derived from Jove, My Atalantis sunk beneath the main.

17 No longer bloomed primeval Eden's bowers, Nor guardian dragons watched the Hesperian steep: With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flowers, Torn from the continent to glut the deep.

18 No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deigned, Yet oft descending to the languid earth, With quickening powers the fainting mass sustained, And waked her slumbering atoms into birth.

19 And every echo taught my raptured name, And every virgin breathed her amorous vows, And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame, Showered by the Muses, crowned my lofty brows.

20 But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride, My Albion's favoured realms, I rose adored; And poured my wealth, to other climes denied; From Amalthea's horn with plenty stored.

21 Ah me! for now a younger rival claims My ravished honours, and to her belong My choral dances, and victorious games, To her my garlands and triumphal song.

22 O say what yet untasted beauties flow, What purer joys await her gentler reign? Do lilies fairer, violets sweeter blow? And warbles Philomel a softer strain?

23 Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise? Does evening fan her with serener gales? Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies, Or wantons plenty in her happier vales?

24 Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day; And Cynthia, riding on the car of night, Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way.

25 Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs, Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flower; Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings When silence listens at the midnight hour.

26 Nor wonder, man, that Nature's bashful face, And opening charms, her rude embraces fear: Is she not sprung from April's wayward race, The sickly daughter of the unripened year?

27 With showers and sunshine in her fickle eyes, With hollow smiles proclaiming treacherous peace, With blushes, harbouring, in their thin disguise, The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase?

28 Is this the fair invested with my spoil By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? Ungenerous Europe! let me fly thy soil, And waft my treasures to a grateful land;

29 Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore, My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; Again to Afric's sultry sands restore Embowering shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane:

30 Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast, There hush to silence elemental strife; Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost, And swell her barren womb with heat and life.

31 Then Britain--Here she ceased. Indignant grief, And parting pangs, her faltering tongue suppressed: Veiled in an amber cloud she sought relief, And tears and silent anguish told the rest.

FRANCIS FAWKES.

This 'learned and jovial parson,' as Campbell calls him, was born in 1721, in Yorkshire. He studied at Cambridge, and became curate at Croydon, in Surrey. Here he obtained the friendship of Archbishop Herring, and was by him appointed vicar of Orpington in Kent, a situation which he ultimately exchanged for the rectory of Hayes, in the same county. He translated various minor Greek poets, including Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, Theocritus, &c. He died in 1777. His 'Brown Jug' breathes some of the spirit of the first of these writers, and two or three lines of it were once quoted triumphantly in Parliament by Sheil, while charging Peel, we think it was, with appropriating arguments from Bishop Philpotts--'Harry of Exeter.'

'Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, Was once Toby Philpotts,' &c.

THE BROWN JUG.

1 Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale,) Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl; In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers lie bore off the bell.

2 It chanced as in dog-days he sat at his ease In his flower-woven arbour as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay, His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.