Chapter 7

Oft has thy genius roused us hence With elevated song, Bid us renounce this world of sense, Bid us divide the immortal prize With the seraphic throng: 'Knowledge and love make spirits blest, Knowledge their food, and love their rest;' But flesh, the unmanageable beast, Resists the pity of thine eyes, And music of thy tongue. Then let the worms of grovelling mind Round the short joys of earthly kind In restless windings roam; Howe hath an ample orb of soul, Where shining worlds of knowledge roll, Where love, the centre and the pole, Completes the heaven at home.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his lodgings at Vauxhall.

His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, 'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by Addison.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

1 Blessed as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

2 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport tossed, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

3 My bosom glowed: the subtle flame Ran quickly through my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled, My blood with gentle horrors thrilled; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754.

Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung in the words--

'The grace of forest charms decayed And pastoral melancholy.'

It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.'

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow? A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

6 For she has tint her lover lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

12 Did I not warn thee not to lue, And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow.

15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again, Than me he never lued thee better.

16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?

18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover.

19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin', Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.

20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But e'er the to-fall of the night He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my love, and left me mourning.

22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

23 My happy sisters may be may be proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffin', May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes My lover nailed in his coffin.

24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move me; My lover's blood is on thy spear, How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover.

26 But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! Take aff take aff these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with willow.

28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved; Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, Ye'd lie all night between my breasts! No youth lay ever there before thee.

29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth; Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts; No youth shall ever lie there after.

30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, Return and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs, He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day --giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce --honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion with them and with his father.

Allan Ramsay was a poet with very few of the usual poetical faults. He had an eye for nature, but he had also an eye for the main chance. He 'kept his shop, and his shop kept him.' He might sing of intrigues, and revels, and houses of indifferent reputation; but he was himself a quiet, _canny_, domestic man, seen regularly at kirk and market. He had a great reverence for the gentry, with whom he fancied himself, and perhaps was, through the Dalhousie family, connected. He had a vast opinion of himself; and between pride of blood, pride of genius, and plenty of means, he was tolerably happy. How different from poor maudlin Fergusson, or from that dark-browed, dark-eyed, impetuous being who was, within a year of Ramsay's death, to appear upon the banks of Doon, coming into the world to sing divinely, to act insanely, and prematurely to die!

A bard, in the highest use of the word, in which it approaches the meaning of prophet, Ramsay was not, else he would not have ceased so soon to sing. Whatever lyrical impulse was in him speedily wore itself out, and left him to his milder mission as a broad reflector of Scottish life--in its humbler, gentler, and better aspects. His 'Gentle Shepherd' is a chapter of Scottish still-life; and, since the pastoral is essentially the poetry of peace, the 'Gentle Shepherd' is the finest pastoral in the world. No thunders roll among these solitary crags; no lightnings affright these lasses among their _claes_ at Habbie's Howe; the air is still and soft; the plaintive bleating of the sheep upon the hills, the echoes of the city are distant and faintly heard, so that the very sounds seem in unison and in league with silence. One thinks of Shelley's isle 'mid the Aegean deep:--

'It is an isle under Ionian skies, Beautiful as the wreck of Paradise; And for the harbours are not safe and good, The land would have remained a solitude, But for some pastoral people, native there, Who from the Elysian clear and sunny air Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, Simple and generous, innocent and bold.

* * * * *

The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, From whence the fields and woods ever renew Their green and golden immortality.'

Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the 'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _denouement_ of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.'

Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been adequately sung by other minstrels.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.

1 The last time I came o'er the moor, I left my love behind me; Ye powers! what pain do I endure, When soft ideas mind me! Soon as the ruddy morn displayed The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In fit retreats for wooing.

2 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastely sporting; We kissed and promised time away, Till night spread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, E'en kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me.

3 Should I be called where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses.

4 In all my soul there's not one place To let a rival enter; Since she excels in every grace, In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, Their waves the Alps shall cover, On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her.

5 The next time I go o'er the moor, She shall a lover find me; And that my faith is firm and pure, Though I left her behind me: Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom; There, while my being does remain, My love more fresh shall blossom.

FROM 'THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.'

ACT I.--SCENE II.

PROLOGUE.

A flowrie howm[1] between twa verdant braes, Where lasses used to wash and spread their claes,[2] A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, Its channel peebles shining smooth and round: Here view twa barefoot beauties clean and clear; First please your eye, then gratify your ear; While Jenny what she wishes discommends, And Meg with better sense true love defends.

PEGGY AND JENNY.

_Jenny_. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, This shining day will bleach our linen clean; The water's clear, the lift[3] unclouded blue, Will mak them like a lily wet with dew.

_Peggy_. Gae farrer up the burn to Habbie's How, Where a' that's sweet in spring and simmer grow: Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,[4] The water fa's, and maks a singin' din: A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, Kisses with easy whirls the bordering grass. We'll end our washing while the morning's cool, And when the day grows het we'll to the pool, There wash oursells; 'tis healthfu' now in May, And sweetly caller on sae warm a day.

_Jenny_. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say, Giff our twa herds come brattling down the brae, And see us sae?--that jeering fellow, Pate, Wad taunting say, 'Haith, lasses, ye're no blate.'[5]

_Peggy_. We're far frae ony road, and out of sight; The lads they're feeding far beyont the height; But tell me now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, What gars ye plague your wooer with disdain? The neighbours a' tent this as well as I; That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw.

_Jenny_. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end; A herd mair sheepish yet I never kenn'd. He kames his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, With ribbon-knots at his blue bonnet lug; Whilk pensylie[6] he wears a thought a-jee,[7] And spreads his garters diced beneath his knee. He falds his owrelay[8] down his breast with care, And few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair; For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, Except, 'How d'ye?--or, 'There's a bonny day.'

_Peggy_. Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide: But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld;-- What like's a dorty[9] maiden when she's auld? Like dawted wean[10] that tarrows at its meat,[11] That for some feckless[12] whim will orp[13] and greet: The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past, And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, Or scart anither's leavings at the last. Fy, Jenny! think, and dinna sit your time.

_Jenny_. I never thought a single life a crime.

_Peggy_. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken That men were made for us, and we for men.

_Jenny_. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, For sic a tale I never heard him tell. He glowers[14] and sighs, and I can guess the cause: But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. They're fools that slavery like, and may be free; The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me.

_Peggy_. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a mind To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.

_Jenny_. Heh! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattleskull? A very deil, that aye maun have his will! We soon will hear what a poor fechtin' life You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.

_Peggy_. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear, But rather think ilk langsome day a year, Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed, Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head. There he may kiss as lang as kissing's good, And what we do there's nane dare call it rude. He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part To give him that, and he'll give me his heart.

_Jenny_. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise, And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane: But soon as your newfangleness is gane, He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, And think he's tint his freedom for your sake. Instead then of lang days of sweet delight, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte: And maybe, in his barlichood's,[15] ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.

_Peggy_. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want pith to move My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath, But want of him, I dread nae other skaith.[16] There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. And then he speaks with sic a taking art, His words they thirl like music through my heart. How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at little fears that fright the lave. Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads feil[17] books that teach him meikle skill; He is--but what need I say that or this, I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! In a' he says or does there's sic a gate, The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate; His better sense will lang his love secure: Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor.