Part 7

As has been said, The Land o' the Leal reaches the highest note in its inspiration, perfection, and completeness, within the limits of its purpose, not only of Lady Nairne's work, but of all the lyric poetry of Scotland, but it was not the solitary example of a genius which had much of the versatility, if not the fecundity and strength, of Burns, in interpreting the emotions and the thoughts, the passions and the humors, of the Scotch people. Lady Nairne's poetical genius was entirely lyric. There was no Cotter's Saturday Night, much less any scene from Poosey Nancy's alehouse, or witch's gathering at Kirk Alloway, in her interpretation of Scotch life, and her voice was only the pure lilt of Scotch song, grave or gay. Without determined literary ambition and the responsibility of a known name, the stimulus of production was not absorbing and lasting, and a good deal of her work was simply occasional, careless, and imperfect. The best, that which will live as long as Scotch song, could be comprised within the limits of a dozen pages. But its quality is of the very highest in inspiration and execution, the pure voice of the lark lilting beneath the blue cloud, the mourning of the croodlin' doo, and the gay warble of the cheery thrush.

Almost as famous in its own and very different way as The Land o' the Leal, and almost as perfect in its execution, the limitation of the true lyric to the simplest and most absolute words, and the complete interpretation of its spirit in the melody, is The Laird of Cockpen. It was written, it is said, to supply proper words to the gay old air of When She cam ben, She bobbit, which being interpreted, means that when she came into the front of the house, she curtsied, and of which the first verse of the imperfect and rather vulgar old song is--

When she cam' ben, she bobbit,

When she cam' ben, she bobbit,

When she cam' ben she kissed Cockpen

And syne denied that she did it.

But no one can doubt that it was the true picture of a character and incident which had given laughter to Carolina Oliphant and her young friends, and had been the joke of the country-side, ere it lilted itself to the rollicking jig. The commonly printed version of The Laird of Cockpen is injured by the fact that it has two additional verses, contributed by Miss Ferrier, the novelist, which destroy its absolute completeness and perfection of humor as it was written by Lady Nairne.

THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN.

The laird of Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great;

His mind is taen up wi' things o' the State.

He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,

But favour wi' wooin' was fasheous to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

At his table-head he thought she'd look well,

M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha'-Lee,

A penniless lass wi' a long pedigree.

His wig was well pouthered, as gude as when new,

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;

He put on a ring, a sword and cock'd hat,

And wha could resist a laird wi' a that.

He took the grey mare and rode cannily,

An' rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha'-Lee.

"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben--

She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine;

"O, what brings the laird at sic' a like time."

She put off her apron and on her silk gown,

Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu low,

An' what was his errand he soon let her know;

Amazed was the laird when the lady said "Na,"

And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumfoundered was he, nae sigh did he gie.

He mounted his mare--he rade cannily.

An' often he thought as he gaed thro' the glen,

She's daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen.

Only a little less humorous and perfect is Jamie, the Laird, whose doting mother may have persecuted Carolina Oliphant herself, or some of her friends, with the story of his mental and physical perfections until there was this burst of mocking vexation, to the tune of The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow:--

JAMIE, THE LAIRD.

Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak' him drink

Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak' him think;

Send a craw to the surgin, an' still he will craw;

An' the wee laird had nae rummelgumpshion ava;

Yet he is the pride o' his fond mother's e'e;

In body or mind nae faut can she see;

"He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"

Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow,

An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow.

"He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

His legs they are bow'd, his e'es they do glee,

His wig, whiles its off, an' when on, its ajee.

He's braird as he's long--an' ill-faur'd is he,

A dafter like body I never did see.

An' yet for this cretur she says I am deein';

When that I deny--she's fear'd at my leein'.

Obliged to pit up wi' the sair defamation,

I'm liken to dee wi' shame and vexation.

An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, etc.

An' her clish-ma-clavers gang a' thro' the town,

An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll drown;

Wi' his gawkie like face yestreen he did say,

"I 'll maybe tak' you, for Bess I 'll no hae,

Nor Mollie, nor Effie, nor long-legged Jeanie,

Nor Nellie, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."

I stoppet my ears, ran off in a fury--

I'm thinkin' to bring them before Judge and Jury.

For oh, what a randy old Lucky is she, etc.

Frien's, gie yere advice--I 'll follow yere counsel.

Maun I speak to the Provost or honest Town Council?

Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,

For the law o' the Lucky I shall and will hae.

The hale town at me are jibbin' an' jeerin',

For a leddy like me it's really past hearin';

The Lucky now maun hae done wi' her claverin',

For I 'll no pit up wi' her an' her haverin'.

For oh, she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,

For oh, she's a randy, I trow, I trow.

"He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"

Is aye the beginuin' an' end o' her sang.

The finest efflorescence of Scotch lyric poetry, which is the richest and finest in the English language, if not in the world, was that of the Jacobite era, and the influence which followed it and inspired the renaissance of Scotch song is the genius of Burns, Hogg, Cunningham, Lady Nairne, and many more of less distinction, who made a galaxy of singers hardly less remarkable in their way, as marking an era in literature, than the dramatists of the Elizabethan age. The genius of folk-song and ballad poetry had always been remarkably developed in Scotland, in comparison, at least, with England, and, in spite of many characteristics among the Lowlanders, worldly thrift, bitter and barren bigotry, and a sort of dourness and hardheadedness, not calculated to encourage sentiment and emotion; and the student of racial distinctions may be inclined to attribute it to the influence of Celtic blood and tradition, creating a vein of sensitiveness, tenderness, and susceptibility to the magic of song and music in the strong and hard fabric of the Saxon character. But from whatever cause the tendency of the native genius was created, its existence was obvious, and from the very earliest time, since song began to be preserved in written words, the quality and quantity of Scotch folk-poetry and folk-music have been remarkable. The native faculty and the inherited tendency were all present when the spark of an inspiration, involving all the elements of patriotism, daring adventure, personal devotion, despair, and lamentation, gave fire to the genius of national poetry. All the incidents and events of the Rebellion of Forty-five, the landing of the young Prince Charles at Moidart with only seven followers, the blaze of fiery loyalty that swept through the Highlands at his call, the extraordinary victories won by the sheer impetus and hand-to-hand onslaughts of the Highland clans, the picturesque entry into Edinburgh and the gallant court of Holyrood, the swift march into England, which seemed at one time to promise to carry the Chevalier into St. James's Palace by its rush, the retreat and disorganization, and finally the woeful slaughter of Culloden, followed by the attainders and executions and the romantic adventures of the Prince in hiding from his hunters among the mountains and islands, all contrived to create themes for song and poetry which have never been surpassed in modern history. The enterprise was as foolish as it was daring, an episode of knight-errantry after the age when success was possible, but it had all the elements of chivalry in its impulse and conduct, and no modern war has been less selfish and sordid, not even the insurrections of Poland or the uprising of the Spanish and German people against Napoleon. The young Chevalier himself, only twenty-four years of age, tall, handsome, and martial, with his flowing yellow hair and Tartan dress, and with the fascination of his race in his manner, his courage, clemency, and misfortune, gave it the personal element so necessary to the highest poetry, and altogether the circumstances and the conditions combined to create an effervescence of popular poetry which has never been surpassed. Its quantity was as remarkable as its quality. The two large volumes of Hogg's Jacobite Relics by no means exhausted the collection of songs in the Lowland dialect, and to this day those in Gaelic are still being discovered by the labors of Professor Blackie and others, as they are yet preserved in the bothies of the Highlands and the islands. The inspiration of the later poets, Burns, Hogg, Cunningham, and

Lady Nairne, was hardly less strong, fed as it was upon the vivid traditions and by the stories and histories of the men living about them, or of their own families, full of all the elements of poetry, and their purpose to vivify and recreate the native song of Scotland must have had its most fertile impulse and material in the Jacobite songs, of which the country is full. In Lady Nairne the ancestral and personal impulse must have been especially strong. Her father and mother had been married in exile; her grandfather had been distinguished for his services as well as for his misfortunes, and upon both sides her family had been notable for more than one generation for its loyalty and its importance in the Scotch struggle for the restoration of the Stuarts. An old ballad says:--

Gask and Strowan were nae slack,

and letters of thanks and tokens of gratitude from the royal hands were heirlooms of the houses. It was a keen pleasure to the grandfather in his old age to hear the songs and the music which had illumined the unhappy cause, and it is no wonder that the earliest inspiration of the young poetess was from such themes, and her keenest reward to see the blood warming more freely the old man's worn cheeks as she sang the new and stirring words to the old airs, and found the token of her success in his appreciation. The greater portion of her Jacobite songs were composed under this inspiration, and so long as she wrote at all they were her favorite themes. They are among the finest in what may be termed the modern Jacobite songs, unsurpassed by anything of the kind by Burns, Hogg, or Cunningham, and only so by that consummate flower of all Scotch Jacobite poetry by William Glen:--

A wee bird cam' to our ha' door,

while in the pure singing quality, the lilt and the verse, there is nothing to exceed the power of--

The news from Moidart cam' yestreen.

The story of The Hundred Pipers an' A' is historically correct in that there were so many musicians of the class attached to the little army of the Prince, and that the Highland lads did dance themselves dry to the pibroch's sound after fording the Esk, but it was not on the advance to Carlisle, but on the retreat from England, and the scene had doubtless been often described by the old laird of Strowan.

THE HUNDRED PIPERS.

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a';

We 'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Oh, it's owre the Border awa', awa';

It's owre the Border awa', awa';

We 'll on and we 'll march to Carlisle ha;

Wi' its yetts, its castle an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', etc.

Our young sodger lads looked braw, looked braw,

With their tartans, kilts an' a', an' a',

With their bonnets and feathers and glittering gear,

An' pibrochs sounding sweet an' clear.

Will they a' return to their ain dear glen?

Will they a' return, our Hieland men?

Second-sighted Sandy looked fu wae,

An' mothers grat, when they marched away,

Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.

O, wha' is foremost o' a', o' a';

O, wha' does follow the blaw, the blaw,

Bonnie Charlie, the King o' us a', hurra!

Wi' his hundred pipers an' a', an' a';

His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high,

His prancin' steed maist seems to fly,

The nor' wind plays wi' his curlin' hair,

While the pipers blew up an' unco flare,

Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.

The Esk was swollen sae red and sae deep,

But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep,

Two thousand swam o'er to fell English ground,

An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.

Dumfoundered the English saw--they saw,

Dumfoundered they heard the blaw, the blaw;

Dumfoundered they a' ran awa', awa',

From the hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.

We 'll up an gie them a blaw, a blaw,

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.

Burns, Hogg, and Lady Nairne all wrote songs to the beautiful air of Charlie is my Darling, embodying in each case the first verse of the unknown poet who originated the song. They are all beautiful, but the words of Lady Nairne have conquered in the popular ear, and taken final possession of the air.

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.

'T was on a Monday morning,

Right early in the year,

When Charlie cam' to our town,

The young Chevalier.

Oh, Charlie is my darling,

My darling, my darling,

Oh, Charlie is my darling,

The young Chevalier.

As he cam' marching up the street

The pipes played loud an' clear,

An' a' the folks cam' running out

To meet the Chevalier.

Wi' Hieland bonnets on their heads,

An' claymores bright an' clear,

They cam' to fight for Scotland's right

An' the young Chevalier.

They 'ye left their bonnie Highland hills,

Their wives and bairnies dear,

To draw the sword for Scotland's lord,

The young Chevalier.

Oh, there were mony beating hearts

An' mony a hope an' fear,

An' mony were the prayers sent up

For the young Chevalier.

Oh, Charlie is my darling,

My darling, my darling,

Oh, Charlie is my darling,

The young Chevalier.

There is one of Lady Nairne's songs not quite perfect, for one forced and faulty line in the refrain, which has a higher touch of the imagination than any of the others. The influence of the magic of nature in the interpretation of human sorrow or gladness, and the wild mystery of the birds' melody upon the heart, which is characteristic of the highest order of the folk-song, and which, in its irregularity and simplicity, not less than the melody, which is nature's own voice, rather than the rhythm of art, is beyond the reach of any deliberate skill. It would be hard to find anything more perfect at once in its picture and its interpretation of the voice of nature in human words than--

And then the burnie's like the sea,

Roarin' an' reamin';

Nae wee bit sangster's on the tree,

But wild birds screamin'.

While the sadness of human despair that follows and emphasizes the passion of the flood strikes the ear like a veritable wail in the loneliness and darkness.

Bonnie ran the burnie down,

Wandrin' an' windin'.

Sweetly sang the birds above,

Care never mindin'.

The gentle summer wind

Was their music saft an' kind,

And it rockit them an' rockit them

All in their bowers sae hie.

Bonnie ran, etc.

The mossy rock was there,

An' the water lily fair,

An' the little trout would sport about

All in the sunny beam.

Bonnie ran, etc.

Tho' summer days be lang,

An' sweet the birdies sang,

The wintry night and chilly light

Keep aye their eerie roun'.

Bonnie ran, etc.

An' then the burnie's like a sea,

Roarin' an' reamin';

Nae wee bit sangster's on the tree,

But wild birds screamin'.

Oh, that the past I might forget,

Wandrin' an' weepin';

Oh, that aneath the hillock green

Sound I were sleepin'.

In one other famous song, heard wherever Scotch music is sung, Lady Nairne interpreted the pathos, hardship, and suffering behind the strong, clear voices of the Newhaven fishwives, which may still be heard in the wynds and closes of Edinburgh as they march on their sturdy limbs with the heavy creels laden with the silvery fishes on their backs, and fill the air with their deep, melodious cry.

CALLER HERRIN'.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?

They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin',

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin',

New drawn frae the Forth.

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows,

Dream'd ye aught o' our fine fellows,

Darkling as they faced the billows

A' to fill the woven willows.

Buy my caller herrin',

New drawn frae the Forth.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?

They 're no bought without brave darin';

Buy my caller herrin',

Haled thro' wind and rain.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? etc.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?

Oh, ye may call them vulgar farm';

Wives and mithers maist despairin'

Ca' them the lives o' men.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?

They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin',

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin',

New drawn frae the Forth.

There are other verses to Caller Herrin', but they were merely occasional, intended to serve as a benefit to Nathaniel Gow, the son of the famous fiddler, Niel Gow, the composer of the air, who was seeking patronage in Edinburgh, and they only injure the effect of the first and perfect stanzas.

The poetical work of Lady Nairne was smaller in bulk than that of her chief contemporaries, even than that of Allan Cunningham. She was without any personal literary ambition whatever, and her inspiration was smothered by domestic grief and an absorbing and narrow piety. A portion of what there is is also imperfect, ephemeral, and careless, but she has written one of the most perfect lyrics in the English language, and a number of others, which, in their melody, their interpretation of simple emotion, their vividness and strength, and their power upon the heart as well as the ear, have a place which few have equaled and none have surpassed in the lyric treasures of a land more rich than all others in the voice of poetry speaking to the heart in song.

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON AND CELTIC POETRY.

|The great controversy over the genuineness of the Ossianic poems of James Macpherson, which existed during his lifetime and was carried on for a considerable period after his death, has died away without being settled. Opinions of eminent Celtic scholars still differ as to whether the so-called Gaelic originals of his poems, published after his death, were genuine transcripts from ancient poems, or were translations into the Gaelic from Macpherson's English composition made by his friends to conceal the fraud and maintain provincial pride. He himself never produced the originals of his poems, and took refuge in a silence which went far to confirm the impression of fraud and forgery. But whether he had any direct originals or not, and the weight of probability is that he had not, his poems were unquestionably founded on the vast mass of Celtic poetry and legend existing in Ireland and Scotland in tradition and manuscript. The names of his heroes, their characters and their exploits, are to be found in this poetry, and many of his most admired episodes and descriptions, like that of Ossian's address to the sun, and the description of Cuchullin's chariot, were taken directly from it. Whatever the amount of transformation and interpolation, and whatever the change in the literary style, from the plain and simple expressions of primitive poetry to the vague and rhetorical imagery of inflated artifice, were made by Macpherson, he unquestionably preserved the pervading spirit of Celtic poetry, its melancholy, its sensitiveness to the impressions of nature, and its lofty and humane spirit, and was the first to make it known to the world. Critics like Hazlitt and Matthew Arnold, who were impressed simply by its spirit of pure poetry, and the most accomplished Celtic scholars of a later day, have alike agreed upon internal and external evidence as to the faithfulness of the reproduction of the spirit of Celtic poetry by Macpherson, and have regarded the faults of his literary style as those of the age, and his interpretation of the poems of Ossian by the spirit of the eighteenth century as not more faulty or less natural than Chapman's transfusion of Homer into the style of the Elizabethan era, or Pope's into that of Queen Anne. His great drawback was the suspicion of absolute fraud and forgery which attached to him, and which he was unable to dispel, from his mistake in not acknowledging in the beginning that his poems were derived from general tradition instead of being absolute translations from originals. But in spite of this discredit, which was more of a personal literary quarrel than a critical attack upon the quality of the poetry itself, its value was at once instinctively recognized as a new and original revelation, as an appeal to sensibilities in human nature which had been stifled by the narrow and dry reasoning of English and Continental poetry at the time, and as a breath from the wide air of nature itself. It touched the European spirit, then struggling to emancipate itself from the swaddling bands of authority and artificial society, with electric power, and was a powerful influence in the emancipation both of literature and human action. Ossian profoundly affected the intellectual awakening of Goethe and was a favorite with Napoleon, and throughout the whole of Europe its spirit was an inspiring and governing force. In English literature its effect was not less powerful, although less openly acknowledged owing to the discredit created by the charges of forgery, and both Byron's melancholy and Wordsworth's appreciation of the soul of nature were derived from this pervading spirit of ancient Celtic poetry.