Part II.," Edinburgh, 1779, 12mo. He was admitted as a Writer to the

Signet on the 21st of November 1781; and in July 1805 was appointed Judge of Police, on a new police system being introduced into Edinburgh. In the latter capacity he continued to officiate till July 1812, when a new Act of Parliament entrusted the settlement of police cases, as formerly, to the magistrates of the city. Mr Tait died at his house in Abercromby Place, on the 29th of August 1817.

"The Banks of the Dee," the only popular production from the pen of the author, was composed in the year 1775, on the occasion of a friend leaving Scotland to join the British forces in America, who were then vainly endeavouring to suppress that opposition to the control of the mother country which resulted in the permanent establishment of American independence. The song is set to the Irish air of "Langolee." It was printed in Wilson's Collection of Songs, which was published at Edinburgh in 1779, with four additional stanzas by a Miss Betsy B----s, of inferior merit. It was re-published in "The Goldfinch" (Edinburgh, 1782), and afterwards was inserted in Johnson's "Musical Museum." Burns, in his letter to Mr George Thomson, of 7th April 1793, writes--"'The Banks of the Dee' is, you know, literally 'Langolee' to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance--

"'And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.'

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a tree; and, in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Creative rural imagery is always comparatively flat."

Thirty years after its first appearance, Mr Tait published a new edition of the song in Mr Thomson's Collection, vol. iv., in which he has, by alterations on the first half stanza, acknowledged the justice of the strictures of the Ayrshire bard. The stanza is altered thus:

"'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the _wood-pigeon coo'd from the tree_; At the foot of a rock, where the _wild rose was growing_, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee."

The song, it may be added, has in several collections been erroneously attributed to John Home, author of the tragedy of "Douglas."

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree, At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river, Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever, For there first I gain'd the affection and favour Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

But now he 's gone from me, and left me thus mourning, To quell the proud rebels--for valiant is he; And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning, To wander again on the banks of the Dee. He 's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows, The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows, And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him, Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me; And when he returns, with such care I 'll watch o'er him, He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee. The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying, The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing, While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying, And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

HECTOR MACNEILL.

Hector Macneill was born on the 22d of October 1746, in the villa of Rosebank, near Roslin; and, to to use his own words, "amidst the murmur of streams and the shades of Hawthornden, may be said to have inhaled with life the atmosphere of a poet."[10] Descended from an old family, who possessed a small estate in the southern district of Argyllshire, his father, after various changes of fortune, had obtained a company in the 42d Regiment, with which he served during several campaigns in Flanders. From continued indisposition, and consequent inability to undergo the fatigues of military life, he disposed of his commission, and retired, with his wife and two children, to the villa of Rosebank, of which he became the owner. A few years after the birth of his son Hector, he felt necessitated, from straitened circumstances, to quit this beautiful residence; and he afterwards occupied a farm on the banks of Loch Lomond. Such a region of the picturesque was highly suitable for the development of those poetical talents which had already appeared in young Hector, amidst the rural amenities of Roslin. In his eleventh year, he wrote a drama, after the manner of Gay; and the respectable execution of his juvenile attempts in versification gained him the approbation of Dr Doig, the learned rector of the grammar-school of Stirling, who strongly urged his father to afford him sufficient instruction, to enable him to enter upon one of the liberal professions. Had Captain Macneill's circumstances been prosperous, this counsel might have been adopted, for the son's promising talents were not unnoticed by his father; but pecuniary difficulties opposed an unsurmountable obstacle.

An opulent relative, a West India trader, resident in Bristol, had paid the captain a visit; and, attracted by the shrewdness of the son Hector, who was his namesake, offered to retain him in his employment, and to provide for him in life. After two years' preparatory education, he was accordingly sent to Bristol, in his fourteenth year. He was destined to an adventurous career, singularly at variance with his early predilections and pursuits. By his relative he was designed to sail in a slave ship to the coast of Guinea; but the intercession of some female friends prevented his being connected with an expedition so uncongenial to his feelings. He was now despatched on board a vessel to the island of St Christopher's, with the view of his making trial of a seafaring life, but was provided with recommendatory letters, in the event of his preferring employment on land. With a son of the Bristol trader he remained twelvemonths; and, having no desire to resume his labours as a seaman, he afterwards sailed for Guadaloupe, where he continued in the employment of a merchant for three years, till 1763, when the island was ceded to the French. Dismissed by his employer, with a scanty balance of salary, he had some difficulty in obtaining the means of transport to Antigua; and there, finding himself reduced to entire dependence, he was content, without any pecuniary recompense, to become assistant to his relative, who had come to the town of St John's. From this unhappy condition he was rescued, after a short interval. He was possessed of a knowledge of the French language; a qualification which, together with his general abilities, recommended him to fill the office of assistant to the Provost-Marshal of Grenada. This appointment he held for three years, when, hearing of the death of his mother and sister, he returned to Britain. On the death of his father, eighteen months after his arrival, he succeeded to a small patrimony, which he proceeded to invest in the purchase of an annuity of £80 per annum. With this limited income, he seems to have planned a permanent settlement in his native country; but the unexpected embarrassment of the party from whom he had purchased the annuity, and an attachment of an unfortunate nature, compelled him to re-embark on the ocean of adventure. He accepted the office of assistant-secretary on board Admiral Geary's flag-ship, and made two cruises with the grand fleet. Proposing again to return to Scotland, he afterwards resigned his appointment; but he was induced, by the remonstrances of his friends, Dr Currie, and Mr Roscoe, of Liverpool, to accept a similar situation on board the flag-ship of Sir Richard Bickerton, who had been appointed to take the chief command of the naval power in India. In this post, many of the hardships incident to a seafaring life fell to his share; and being present at the last indecisive action with "Suffrein," he had likewise to encounter the perils of war. His present connexion subsisted three years; but Macneill sickened in the discharge of duties wholly unsuitable for him, and longed for the comforts of home. His resources were still limited, but he flattered himself in the expectation that he might earn a subsistence as a man of letters. He fixed his residence at a farm-house in the vicinity of Stirling; and, amidst the pursuits of literature, the composition of verses, and the cultivation of friendship, he contrived, for a time, to enjoy a considerable share of happiness. But he speedily discovered the delusion of supposing that an individual, entirely unknown in the literary world, could at once be able to establish his reputation, and inspire confidence in the bookselling trade, whose favour is so essential to men of letters. Discouraged in longer persevering in the attempt of procuring a livelihood at home, Macneill, for the fourth time, took his departure from Britain. Provided with letters of introduction to influential and wealthy persons in Jamaica, he sailed for that island on a voyage of adventure; being now in his thirty-eighth year, and nearly as unprovided for as when he had first left his native shores, twenty-four years before. On his arrival at Kingston, he was employed by the collector of customs, whose acquaintance he had formed on the voyage; but this official soon found he could dispense with his services, which he did, without aiding him in obtaining another situation. The individuals to whom he had brought letters were unable or unwilling to render him assistance, and the unfortunate adventurer was constrained, in his emergency, to accept the kind invitation of a medical friend, to make his quarters with him till some satisfactory employment might occur. He now discovered two intimate companions of his boyhood settled in the island, in very prosperous circumstances, and from these he received both pecuniary aid and the promise of future support. Through their friendly offices, his two sons, who had been sent out by a generous friend, were placed in situations of respectability and emolument. But the thoughts of the poet himself were directed towards Britain. He sailed from Jamaica, with a thousand plans and schemes hovering in his mind, equally vague and indefinite as had been his aims and designs during the past chapter of his history. A small sum given him as the pay of an inland ensigncy, now conferred on him, but antedated, sufficed to defray the expenses of the voyage.

Before leaving Scotland for Jamaica, Macneill had commenced a poem, founded on a Highland tradition; and to the completion of this production he assiduously devoted himself during his homeward voyage. It was published at Edinburgh in 1789, under the title of "The Harp, a Legendary Tale." In the previous year, he published a pamphlet in vindication of slavery, entitled, "On the Treatment of the Negroes in Jamaica." This pamphlet, written to gratify the wishes of an interested friend, rather than as the result of his own convictions, he subsequently endeavoured to suppress. For several years, Macneill persevered in his unsettled mode of life. On his return from Jamaica, he resided in the mansion of his friend, Mr Graham of Gartmore, himself a writer of verses, as well as a patron of letters; but a difference with the family caused him to quit this hospitable residence. After passing some time with his relatives in Argyllshire, he entertained a proposal of establishing himself in Glasgow, as partner of a mercantile house, but this was terminated by the dissolution of the firm; and a second attempt to succeed in the republic of letters had an equally unsuccessful issue. In Edinburgh, whither he had removed, he was seized with a severe nervous illness, which, during the six following years, rendered him incapable of sustained physical exertion. With a little money, which he contrived to raise on his annuity, he retired to a small cottage at St Ninians; but his finances again becoming reduced, he accepted of the hospitable invitation of his friends, Major Spark and his lady, to become the inmate of their residence of Viewforth House, Stirling. At this period, Macneill composed the greater number of his best songs, and produced his poem of "Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean," which was published in 1795, and speedily gained him a wide reputation. Before the close of twelvemonths, it passed through no fewer than fourteen editions. A sequel, entitled "The Waes o' War," which appeared in 1796, attained nearly an equal popularity. The original ballad was composed during the author's solitary walks along the promenades of the King's Park, Stirling, while he was still suffering mental depression. It was completed in his own mind before any of the stanzas were committed to paper.

The hope of benefiting his enfeebled constitution in a warm climate induced him to revisit Jamaica. As a parting tribute to his friends at Stirling, he published, in 1799, immediately before his departure, a descriptive poem, entitled "The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling," which, regarded as the last effort of a dying poet, obtained a reception fully equal to its merits.

On the oft-disappointed and long unfortunate poet the sun of prosperity at length arose. On his arrival in Jamaica, one of his early friends, Mr John Graham, of Three-Mile-River, settled on him an annuity of £100 a-year; and, in a few months afterwards, they sailed together for Britain, the poet's health being essentially improved. Macneill now fixed his permanent residence in Edinburgh, and, with the proceeds of several legacies bequeathed to him, together with his annuity, was enabled to live in comparative affluence. The narrative of his early adventures and hardships is supposed to form the basis of a novel, entitled "The Memoirs of Charles Macpherson, Esq.," which proceeded from his pen in 1800. In the following year, he published a complete edition of his poetical works, in two duodecimo volumes. In 1809, he published "The Pastoral, or Lyric Muse of Scotland," in a thin quarto volume; and about the same time, anonymously, two other works in verse, entitled "Town Fashions, or Modern Manners Delineated," and "Bygone Times and Late-come Changes." His last work, "The Scottish Adventurers," a novel, appeared in 1812, in two octavo volumes.

The latter productions of Hector Macneill, both in prose and verse, tended rather to diminish than increase his fame. They exhibit the sentiments of a querulous old man, inclined to cling to the habits of his youth, and to regard any improvement as an act of ruthless innovation. As the author of some excellent songs, and one of the most popular ballads in the Scottish language, his name will continue to be remembered. His songs, "Mary of Castlecary," "My boy, Tammie," "Come under my plaidie," "I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane," "Donald and Flora," and "Dinna think, bonnie lassie," will retain a firm hold of the popular mind. His characteristic is tenderness and pathos, combined with unity of feeling, and a simplicity always genuine and true to nature. Allan Cunningham, who forms only a humble estimate of his genius, remarks that his songs "have much softness and truth, an insinuating grace of manners, and a decorum of expression, with no small skill in the dramatic management of the stories."[11] The ballad of "Scotland's Skaith" ranks among the happiest conceptions of the Scottish Doric muse; rural life is depicted with singular force and accuracy, and the debasing consequences of the inordinate use of ardent spirits among the peasantry, are delineated with a vigour and power, admirably adapted to suit the author's benevolent intention in the suppression of intemperance.

During his latter years, Macneill was much cherished among the fashionables of the capital. He was a tall, venerable-looking old man; and although his complexion was sallow, and his countenance somewhat austere, his agreeable and fascinating conversation, full of humour and replete with anecdote, rendered him an acceptable guest in many social circles. He displayed a lively, but not a vigorous intellect, and his literary attainments were inconsiderable. Of his own character as a man of letters, he had evidently formed a high estimate. He was prone to satire, but did not unduly indulge in it. He was especially impatient of indifferent versification; and, among his friends, rather discouraged than commended poetical composition. Though long unsettled himself, he was loud in his commendations of industry; and, from the gay man of the world, he became earnest on the subject of religion. For several years, his health seems to have been unsatisfactory. In a letter to a friend, dated Edinburgh, January 30, 1813, he writes:--"Accumulating years and infirmities are beginning to operate very sensibly upon me now, and yearly do I experience their increasing influence. Both my hearing and my sight are considerably weakened, and, should I live a few years longer, I look forward to a state which, with all our love for life, is certainly not to be envied.... My pen is my chief amusement. Reading soon fatigues, and loses its zest; composition never, till over-exertion reminds me of my imprudence, by sensations which too frequently render me unpleasant during the rest of the day." On the 15th of March 1818, in his seventy-second year, the poet breathed his last, in entire composure, and full of hope.

[10] We quote from an autobiography of the poet, the original of which is in the possession of one of his surviving friends. We have likewise to acknowledge our obligations to Dr Muschet, of Birkhill, near Stirling, for communicating some interesting letters of Macneill, addressed to his late father. The late Mr John Campbell, Writer to the Signet, had undertaken to supply a memoir for this work, partly from his own recollections of his deceased friend; but, before he could fulfil his promise, he was called to rest with his fathers. We have, however, taken advantage of his reminiscences of the bard, orally communicated to us. An intelligent abridgment of the autobiography appears in _Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. iv. p. 273. See likewise the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, vol. xv. p. 307.

[11] "The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 242. London, 1825; 4 vols. 12mo.

MARY OF CASTLECARY.[12]

TUNE--_"Bonnie Dundee."_

"Oh, saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true love, down on yon lee? Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'? Sought she the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree? Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white; Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e; Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love, down on yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin', Down by the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree. Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white; Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses: Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me!"

"It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, It was na my true love, ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart--modest her nature; She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee;-- Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee."

"It was, then, your Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; It was, then, your true love I met by the tree;-- Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew; Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling e'e-- "Ye 's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning; Defend, ye fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie."

"Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling;-- Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing-- Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing? Is it my true love here that I see?" "Oh, Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart 's constant to me; I 'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!"

[12] This song was first published, in May 1791, in _The Bee_, an Edinburgh periodical, conducted by Dr James Anderson.

MY BOY, TAMMY.[13]

"Whare hae ye been a' day, My boy, Tammy? Whare hae ye been a' day, My boy, Tammy?" "I 've been by burn and flow'ry brae, Meadow green, and mountain gray, Courting o' this young thing, Just come frae her mammy."

"And whare got ye that young thing, My boy, Tammy?" "I gat her down in yonder howe, Smiling on a broomy knowe, Herding a wee lamb and ewe For her poor mammy."

"What said ye to the bonnie bairn, My boy, Tammy?" "I praised her een, sae bonny blue, Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou'; I pree'd it aft, as ye may true;-- She said she 'd tell her mammy.

"I held her to my beating heart, My young, my smiling lammie! 'I hae a house, it cost me dear; I 've wealth o' plenishin' and gear;-- Ye 'se get it a', were 't ten times mair, Gin ye will leave your mammy.'

"The smile gaed aff her bonnie face-- 'I maunna leave my mammy; She 's gi'en me meat, she 's gi'en me claise, She 's been my comfort a' my days; My father's death brought mony waes-- I canna leave my mammy.'"

"We 'll tak her hame, and mak her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammie; We 'll gi'e her meat, we 'll gi'e her claise, We 'll be her comfort a' her days." The wee thing gi'es her hand and says-- "There! gang and ask my mammy."

"Has she been to kirk wi' thee, My boy, Tammy?" "She has been to kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her e'e; But, oh! she 's but a young thing, Just come frae her mammy."

[13] This beautiful ballad was first printed, in 1791, in _The Bee_. It is adapted to an old and sweet air, to which, however, very puerile words were attached.

OH, TELL ME HOW FOR TO WOO![14]

TUNE--_"Bonnie Dundee."_

"Oh, tell me, bonnie young lassie! Oh, tell me how for to woo! Oh, tell me, bonnie sweet lassie! Oh, tell me how for to woo! Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning? Lips, like the roses, fresh moisten'd wi' dew; Say, maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning? Oh, tell me how for to woo!

"Far hae I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie! Far hae I ventured across the saut sea; Far hae I travell'd ower moorland and mountain, Houseless and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea. Ne'er hae I tried yet to mak love to onie, For ne'er lo'ed I onie till ance I lo'ed you; Now we 're alane in the green-wood sae bonnie-- Oh, tell me how for to woo!"

"What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie? What care I for your crossing the sea? It was na for naething ye left poor young Peggie; It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me. Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudie? Ribbons, and perlins, and breast-knots enew? A house that is canty, with wealth in 't, my laddie? Without this ye never need try for to woo."

"I hae na gowd to busk ye aye gaudie; I canna buy ribbons and perlins enew; I 've naething to brag o' house, or o' plenty, I 've little to gi'e, but a heart that is true. I cam' na for tocher--I ne'er heard o' onie; I never lo'ed Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow: I 've wander'd, puir fule! for a face fause as bonnie: I little thocht this was the way for to woo."

"Our laird has fine houses, and guineas o' gowd He 's youthfu', he 's blooming, and comely to see. The leddies are a' ga'en wud for the wooer, And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me. Oh, saft in the gloaming, his love he discloses! And saftly, yestreen, as I milked my cow, He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses, And a' the gait hame he did naething but woo."

"Ah, Jenny! the young laird may brag o' his siller, His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree; His speeches for _true love_ may drap sweet as honey, But trust me, dear Jenny, he ne'er lo'ed like _me_. The wooin' o' gentry are fine words o' fashion-- The faster they fa' as the heart is least true; The dumb look o' love 's aft the best proof o' passion; The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo."

"Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning? Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou'? Hae na ye come ower sea, moor, and mountain? What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo? Far ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie; Now that ye 've found me, there 's nae cause to rue; Wi' health we 'll hae plenty--I 'll never gang gaudie; I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true."

She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom, The saft tear o' transport fill'd ilk lover's e'e; The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit, And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree. He clasp'd her, he press'd her, and ca'd her his hinny; And aften he tasted her honey-sweet mou'; And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie, "Oh, laddie! weel can ye woo."

[14] Mr Graham, of Gartmore, an intimate friend of Hector Macneill, composed a song, having a similar burden, the chorus proceeding thus:--

"Then, tell me how to woo thee, love; Oh, tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take, Though ne'er another trow me."

This was published by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," as a production of the reign of Charles I.

LASSIE WI' THE GOWDEN HAIR.

Lassie wi' the gowden hair, Silken snood, and face sae fair; Lassie wi' the yellow hair, Thinkna to deceive me. Lassie wi' the gowden hair, Flattering smile, and face sae fair, Fare ye weel! for never mair Johnnie will believe ye. Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn; Oh, no! Mary Bawn, ye 'll nae mair deceive me.

Smiling, twice ye made me troo, Twice, poor fool! I turn'd to woo; Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow; Now I 've sworn to leave ye. Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow; Twice, poor fool! I 've learn'd to rue; Come ye yet to mak me troo? Thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me. No, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn; Oh, no! Mary Bawn; thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me.

Mary saw him turn to part; Deep his words sank in her heart; Soon the tears began to start-- "Johnnie, will ye leave me?" Soon the tears began to start, Grit and gritter grew his heart; "Yet a word before we part, Love could ne'er deceive ye. Oh, no! Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo; Oh, no! Johnnie doo--love could ne'er deceive ye."

Johnnie took a parting keek; Saw the tears drap owre her cheek; Pale she stood, but couldna speak-- Mary 's cured o' smiling. Johnnie took anither keek-- Beauty's rose has left her cheek; Pale she stands, and canna speak. This is nae beguiling. Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, dear Mary Bawn; Oh, no; Mary Bawn--love has nae beguiling.

COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

TUNE--_"Johnnie M'Gill."_

"Come under my plaidie, the night 's gaun to fa'; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw; Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, I 'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Oh, come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me! There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa."

"Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae 'wa, I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw; Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, I 'll no sit beside ye; Ye may be my gutcher;--auld Donald, gae 'wa. I 'm gaun to meet Johnnie, he 's young and he 's bonnie; He 's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw; Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly! His cheek 's like the new rose, his brow 's like the snaw."

"Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa'; Your Jock 's but a gowk, and has naething ava; The hale o' his pack he has now on his back-- He 's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now and kindly; I 'll busk ye aye finely; To kirk or to market they 'll few gang sae braw; A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'."

"My father 's aye tauld me, my mither and a', Ye 'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw; It 's true I lo'e Johnnie, he 's gude and he 's bonnie; But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava. I hae little tocher; you 've made a gude offer; I 'm now mair than twenty--my time is but sma'; Sae gi'e me your plaidie, I 'll creep in beside ye-- I thocht ye 'd been aulder than threescore and twa."

She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a'; The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa. He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary; And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw; The owlet was screamin' while Johnnie cried, "Women Wad marry Auld Nick if he 'd keep them aye braw."

I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.[15]

I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me; He 's willing to mak' me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, And a pair o' mittens o' green; The price was a kiss o' my mou', And I paid him the debt yestreen.

Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, Their land and their lordly degree; I carena for aught but my dear, For he 's ilka thing lordly to me: His words are sae sugar'd and sweet! His sense drives ilk fear far awa'! I listen, poor fool! and I greet; Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!

"Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer, "Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say; Though we 've little to brag o', near fear-- What 's gowd to a heart that is wae? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he 's dwining wi' care; Now we, though we 've naething but health, Are cantie and leal evermair.

"O Marion! the heart that is true, Has something mair costly than gear! Ilk e'en it has naething to rue, Ilk morn it has naething to fear. Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store, And tremble for fear aught ye tyne; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine!"

He ends wi' a kiss and a smile-- Wae 's me! can I tak' it amiss? My laddie 's unpractised in guile, He 's free aye to daut and to kiss! Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks--I hae gi'en my consent, And this nicht I 'm Jamie's for life!

[15] The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is unsuitable for insertion, has been ascribed, on the authority of Burns, to the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, in Mid-Lothian, who died in 1819, aged sixty-two. Ritson, however, by prefixing the letters "J. D." to the original stanza would seem to point to a different author.

DONALD AND FLORA.[16]

I.

When merry hearts were gay, Careless of aught but play, Poor Flora slipt away, Sadd'ning to Mora;[17] Loose flow'd her yellow hair, Quick heaved her bosom bare, As to the troubled air She vented her sorrow.

II.

"Loud howls the stormy wist, Cold, cold is winter's blast; Haste, then, O Donald, haste, Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er, Since on a foreign shore You promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora."

III.

"'Where now is Donald dear?' Maids cry with taunting sneer; 'Say, is he still sincere To his loved Flora?' Parents upbraid my moan, Each heart is turn'd to stone: 'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone, Friendless in Mora!'

IV.

"Come, then, O come away! Donald, no longer stay; Where can my rover stray From his loved Flora! Ah! sure he ne'er can be False to his vows and me; Oh, Heaven!--is not yonder he, Bounding o'er Mora!"

V.

"Never, ah! wretched fair!" Sigh'd the sad messenger, "Never shall Donald mair Meet his loved Flora! Cold as yon mountain snow Donald thy love lies low; He sent me to soothe thy woe, Weeping in Mora.

VI.

"Well fought our gallant men On Saratoga's plain; Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But, ah! though our foes did flee, Sad was such victory-- Truth, love, and loyalty Fell far from Mora.

VII.

"'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,' Donald, expiring, said; 'Give it to yon dear maid Drooping in Mora. Tell her, O Allan! tell Donald thus bravely fell, And that in his last farewell He thought on his Flora.'"

VIII.

Mute stood the trembling fair, Speechless with wild despair; Then, striking her bosom bare, Sigh'd out, "Poor Flora! Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!" Was all the fond heart could say: At length the sound died away Feebly in Mora.

[16] This fine ballad was written by Macneill, to commemorate the death of his friend, Captain Stewart, a brave officer, betrothed to a young lady in Athole, who, in 1777, fell at the battle of Saratoga, in America. The words, which are adapted to an old Gaelic air, appear with music in Smith's "Scottish Minstrel," vol. iii. p. 28. The ballad, in the form given above, has been improved in several of the stanzas by the author, on his original version, published in Johnson's "Museum." See the "Museum," vol. iv. p. 238.

[17] Mora is the name of a small valley in Athole, so designated by the two lovers.

MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY.[18]

TUNE--_"Ye Jacobites by name."_

My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame; My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame; My luve 's in Germanie, Fighting brave for royalty: He may ne'er his Jeanie see-- Send him hame.

He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame, send him hame; He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame; He 's as brave as brave can be, He wad rather fa' than flee; His life is dear to me-- Send him hame.

Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame, Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, But he fell in Germanie, In the cause of royalty, Bonnie dame.

He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's slain, Willie 's slain; He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's gane! He 'll ne'er come ower the sea, To his love and ain countrie: This warld 's nae mair for me-- Willie 's gane!

[18] This song was originally printed on a single sheet, by N. Stewart and Co., Edinburgh, in 1794, as the lament of a lady on the death of an officer. It does not appear in Macneill's "Poetical Works," but he asserted to Mr Stenhouse his claims to the authorship.--Johnson's "Museum," vol. iv. p. 323.

DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.[19]

TUNE--_"Clunie's Reel."_

"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; I 'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee."

"Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie; Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me."

"It 's but a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie; Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I 'll come again and see thee."

"Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me; Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me; When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 'm dull and eerie; And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie."

"Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee; Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I 'll come again and see thee."

"Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me; While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie; And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me."

"Oh, never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee! Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee; Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee; E'en let the world gang as it will, I 'll stay at hame and cheer ye."

Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;" Threw his plaid into the neuk; "Never can I grieve thee;" Drew his boots, and flang them by; cried, "My lass, be cheerie; I 'll kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, and never leave my dearie."

[19] The last verse of this song was added by John Hamilton. The song, on account of this addition, was not included by Macneill in the collected edition of his "Poetical Works." One of Miss Blamire's songs has the same opening line; and it has been conjectured by Mr Maxwell, the editor of her poems, that Macneill had been indebted to her song for suggesting his verses.

MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.

Mrs Anne Grant, commonly styled of Laggan, to distinguish her from her contemporary, Mrs Grant of Carron, was born at Glasgow, in February 1755. Her father, Mr Duncan Macvicar, was an officer in the army, and, by her mother, she was descended from the old family of Stewart, of Invernahyle, in Argyllshire. Her early infancy was passed at Fort-William; but her father having accompanied his regiment to America, and there become a settler, in the State of New York, at a very tender age she was taken by her mother across the Atlantic, to her new home. Though her third year had not been completed when she arrived in America, she retained a distinct recollection of her landing at Charlestown. By her mother she was taught to read, and a well-informed serjeant made her acquainted with writing. Her precocity for learning was remarkable. Ere she had reached her sixth year, she had made herself familiar with the Old Testament, and could speak the Dutch language, which she had learned from a family of Dutch settlers. The love of poetry and patriotism was simultaneously evinced. At this early period, she read Milton's "Paradise Lost" with attention, and even appreciation; and glowed with the enthusiastic ardour of a young heroine over the adventures of Wallace, detailed in the metrical history of Henry, the Minstrel. Her juvenile talent attracted the notice of the more intelligent settlers in the State, and gained her the friendship of the distinguished Madame Schuyler, whose virtues she afterwards depicted in her "Memoirs of an American Lady."

In 1768, along with his wife and daughter, Mr Macvicar returned to Scotland, his health having suffered by his residence in America; and, during the three following summers, his daughter found means of gratifying her love of song, on the banks of the Cart, near Glasgow. The family residence was now removed to Fort-Augustus, where Mr Macvicar had received the appointment of barrack-master. The chaplain of the fort was the Rev. James Grant, a young clergyman, related to several of the more respectable families in the district, who was afterwards appointed minister of the parish of Laggan, in Inverness-shire. At Fort-Augustus, he had recommended himself to the affections of Miss Macvicar, by his elegant tastes and accomplished manners, and he now became the successful suitor for her hand. They were married in 1779, and Mrs Grant, to approve herself a useful helpmate to her husband, began assiduously to acquaint herself with the manners and habits of the humbler classes of the people. The inquiries instituted at this period were turned to an account more extensive than originally contemplated. Mr Grant, who was constitutionally delicate, died in 1801, leaving his widow and eight surviving children without any means of support, his worldly circumstances being considerably embarrassed.

On a small farm which she had rented, in the vicinity of her late husband's parish, Mrs Grant resided immediately subsequent to his decease; but the profits of the lease were evidently inadequate for the comfortable maintenance of the family. Among the circle of her friends she was known as a writer of verses; in her ninth year, she had essayed an imitation of Milton; and she had written poetry, or at least verses, on the banks of the Cart and at Fort-Augustus. To aid in supporting her family, she was strongly advised to collect her pieces into a volume; and, to encourage her in acting upon this recommendation, no fewer than three thousand subscribers were procured for the work by her friends. The celebrated Duchess of Gordon proved an especial promoter of the cause. In 1803, a volume of poems appeared from her pen, which, though displaying no high powers, was favourably received, and had the double advantage of making her known, and of materially aiding her finances. From the profits, she made settlement of her late husband's liabilities; and now perceiving a likelihood of being able to support her family by her literary exertions, she abandoned the lease of her farm. She took up her residence near the town of Stirling, residing in the mansion of Gartur, in that neighbourhood. In 1806, she again appeared before the public as an author, by publishing a selection of her correspondence with her friends, in three duodecimo volumes, under the designation of "Letters from the Mountains." This work passed through several editions. In 1808, Mrs Grant published the life of her early friend, Madame Schuyler, under the designation of "Memoirs of an American Lady," in two volumes.

From the rural retirement of Gartur, she soon removed to the town of Stirling; but in 1810, as her circumstances became more prosperous, she took up her permanent abode in Edinburgh. Some distinguished literary characters of the Scottish capital now resorted to her society. She was visited by Sir Walter Scott, Francis Jeffrey, James Hogg, and others, attracted by the vivacity of her conversation. The "Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland" appeared in 1811, in two volumes; in 1814, she published a metrical work, in two parts, entitled "Eighteen Hundred and Thirteen;" and, in the year following, she produced her "Popular Models and Impressive Warnings for the Sons and Daughters of Industry."

In 1825, Mrs Grant received a civil-list pension of £50 a-year, in consideration of her literary talents, which, with the profits of her works and the legacies of several deceased friends, rendered the latter period of her life sufficiently comfortable in respect of pecuniary means. She died on the 7th of November 1838, in the eighty-fourth year of her age, and retaining her faculties to the last. A collection of her correspondence was published in 1844, in three volumes octavo, edited by her only surviving son, John P. Grant, Esq.

As a writer, Mrs Grant occupies a respectable place. She had the happy art of turning her every-day observation, as well as the fruits of her research, to the best account. Her letters, which she published at the commencement of her literary career, as well as those which appeared posthumously, are favourable specimens of that species of composition. As a poet, she attained to no eminence. "The Highlanders," her longest and most ambitious poetical effort, exhibits some glowing descriptions of mountain scenery, and the stern though simple manners of the Gaël. Of a few songs which proceed from her pen, that commencing, "Oh, where, tell me where?" written on the occasion of the Marquis of Huntly's departure for Holland with his regiment, in 1799, has only become generally known. It has been parodied in a song, by an unknown author, entitled "The Blue Bells of Scotland," which has obtained a wider range of popularity.

OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE?

"Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?" "He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."

"Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?" "He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away. He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away."

"Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?" "A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star; A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star."

"Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound, Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound!" "The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly; The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye; The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die!"

"But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds; But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds. His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds; His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds."

OH, MY LOVE, LEAVE ME NOT![20]

AIR--_"Bealach na Gharraidh."_

Oh, my love, leave me not! Oh, my love, leave me not! Oh, my love, leave me not! Lonely and weary.

Could you but stay a while, And my fond fears beguile, I yet once more could smile, Lightsome and cheery.

Night, with her darkest shroud, Tempests that roar aloud, Thunders that burst the cloud, Why should I fear ye?

Till the sad hour we part, Fear cannot make me start; Grief cannot break my heart Whilst thou art near me.

Should you forsake my sight, Day would to me be night; Sad, I would shun its light, Heartless and weary.

[20] From Albyn's "Anthology," vol. i. p. 42. Edinburgh, 1816, 4to.

JOHN MAYNE.

John Mayne, chiefly known as the author of "The Siller Gun," a poem descriptive of burgher habits in Scotland towards the close of the century, was born at Dumfries, on the 26th of March 1759. At the grammar school of his native town, under Dr Chapman, the learned rector, whose memory he has celebrated in the third canto of his principal poem, he had the benefit of a respectable elementary education; and having chosen the profession of a printer, he entered at an early age the printing office of the _Dumfries Journal_. In 1782, when his parents removed to Glasgow, to reside on a little property to which they had succeeded, he sought employment under the celebrated Messrs Foulis, in whose printing establishment he continued during the five following years. He paid a visit to London in 1785, with the view of advancing his professional interests, and two years afterwards he settled in the metropolis.

Mayne, while a mere stripling, was no unsuccessful wooer of the Muse; and in his sixteenth year he produced the germ of that poem on which his reputation chiefly depends. This production, entitled "The Siller Gun," descriptive of a sort of _walkingshaw_, or an ancient practice which obtained in his native town, of shooting, on the king's birth-day, for a silver tube or gun, which had been presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades, as a prize to the best marksman, was printed at Dumfries in 1777, on a small quarto page. The original edition consisted of twelve stanzas; in two years it increased to two cantos; in 1780, it was printed in three cantos; in 1808, it was published in London with a fourth; and in 1836, just before his death, the author added a fifth. The latest edition was published by subscription, in an elegant duodecimo volume.

In 1780, in the pages of Ruddiman's _Weekly Magazine_, Mayne published a short poem on "Halloween," which suggested Burns's celebrated poem on the same subject. In 1781, he published at Glasgow his song of "Logan Braes," of which Burns afterwards composed a new version.

In London, Mayne was first employed as printer, and subsequently became joint-editor and proprietor, along with Dr Tilloch, of the _Star_ evening newspaper. With this journal he retained a connexion till his death, which took place at London on the 14th of March 1836.

Besides the humorous and descriptive poem of "The Siller Gun," which, in the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, surpasses the efforts of Ferguson, and comes near to those of Burns,[21] Mayne published another epic production, entitled "Glasgow," which appeared in 1803, and has passed through several editions. In the same year he published "English, Scots, and Irishmen," a chivalrous address to the population of the three kingdoms. To the literary journals, his contributions, both in prose and verse, were numerous and interesting. Many of his songs and ballads enriched the columns of the journal which he so long and ably conducted. In early life, he maintained a metrical correspondence with Thomas Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the same county, and whose earliest ambition was to earn the reputation of a poet.[22]

Possessed of entire amiability of disposition, and the utmost amenity of manners, John Mayne was warmly beloved among the circle of his friends. Himself embued with a deep sense of religion, though fond of innocent humour, he preserved in all his writings a becoming respect for sound morals, and is entitled to the commendation which a biographer has awarded him, of having never committed to paper a single line "the tendency of which was not to afford innocent amusement, or to improve and increase the happiness of mankind." He was singularly modest and even retiring. His eulogy has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham, who knew him well, that "a better or warmer-hearted man never existed." The songs, of which we have selected the more popular, abound in vigour of expression and sentiment, and are pervaded by a genuine pathos.

[21] See Note to "Lady of the Lake."

[22] See the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, vol. xxi. p. 170.

LOGAN BRAES.[23]

By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep, I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes. But, waes my heart! thae days are gane, And I wi' grief may herd alane; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me, Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane-- Frae kirk and fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, I daunder dowie and forlane; I sit alane, beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me. Oh, could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, and my ain! Beloved by friends, revered by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

[23] This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza being subsequently added by the author. It is adapted to a beautiful old air, "Logan Water," incongruously connected with some indecorous stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the Scottish muse, and attempted to modernise the song, but his edition is decidedly inferior. Other four stanzas have been added, by some anonymous versifier, to Mayne's verses, which first appeared in Duncan's "Encyclopædia of Scottish, English, and Irish Songs," printed at Glasgow in 1836, 2 vols. 12mo. In those stanzas the lover is brought back to Logan braes, and consummates his union with his weeping shepherdess. The stream of Logan takes its rise among the hills separating the parishes of Lesmahago and Muirkirk, and, after a flow of eight miles, deposits its waters into the Nethan river.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.[24]

I wish I were where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries; And, like an angel, to the skies Still seems to beckon me! For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, For me she wish'd to be a bride; For me in life's sweet morn she died On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind, As Helen on my arm reclined, A rival with a ruthless mind Took deadly aim at me. My love, to disappoint the foe, Rush'd in between me and the blow; And now her corse is lying low, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, I curse the hand by which she fell-- The fiend who made my heaven a hell, And tore my love from me! For if, when all the graces shine, Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine, My Helen! all these charms were thine, They centred all in thee!

Ah! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain? No peace of mind, my Helen slain, No resting-place for me. I see her spirit in the air-- I hear the shriek of wild despair, When murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, My soul on wings of peace shall rise, And, joining Helen in the skies, Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.

[24] During the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great personal attractions and numerous accomplishments, named Helen Irving, daughter of Irving of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the banks of the Kirtle, she was slain by a shot which had been aimed at Fleming by a disappointed rival. The melancholy history has been made the theme of three different ballads, two of these being old. The present ballad, by Mr Mayne, was inserted by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh _Annual Register_ of 1815.

THE WINTER SAT LANG.

The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year, Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear; My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a', And we thought upon those that were farest awa'. Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'! Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'! Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma', If they were but here that are far frae us a'!

Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear, And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer; Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts, A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts. He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa', In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a'; While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha', Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."

My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state, By the bairn she doated on early and late, Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a', There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'! Then here is to them that are far frae us a', The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'! Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a'; And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!

MY JOHNNIE.

AIR--_"Johnnie's Gray Breeks."_

Jenny's heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony, yet The sang was aye, "Of a' I see, Commend me to my Johnnie yet. For ear' and late, he has sic gate To mak' a body cheerie, that I wish to be, before I dee, His ain kind dearie yet."

Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace, Her shape was sma' and genty-like, And few or nane in a' the place, Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yet Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms, Had gart her oft look eerie, yet She sung wi' glee, "I hope to be My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.

"What though he's now gane far awa', Whare guns and cannons rattle, yet Unless my Johnnie chance to fa' In some uncanny battle, yet Till he return my breast will burn Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet, For I hope to see, before I dee, His bairns to him endear me yet."

THE TROOPS WERE EMBARKED.

The troops were all embark'd on board, The ships were under weigh, And loving wives, and maids adored, Were weeping round the bay.

They parted from their dearest friends, From all their heart desires; And Rosabel to Heaven commends The man her soul admires!

For him she fled from soft repose, Renounced a parent's care; He sails to crush his country's foes, She wanders in despair!

A seraph in an infant's frame Reclined upon her arm; And sorrow in the lovely dame Now heighten'd every charm:

She thought, if fortune had but smiled-- She thought upon her dear; But when she look'd upon his child, Oh, then ran many a tear!

"Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st? Who 'll sing a lullaby, Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st, If I should chance to die?"

On board the ship, resign'd to fate, Yet planning joys to come, Her love in silent sorrow sate Upon a broken drum.

He saw her lonely on the beach; He saw her on the strand; And far as human eye can reach He saw her wave her hand!

"O Rosabel! though forced to go, With thee my soul shall dwell, And Heaven, who pities human woe, Will comfort Rosabel!"

JOHN HAMILTON.

Of the personal history of John Hamilton only a few particulars can be ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils--a young lady of birth and fortune--whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations. He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody the name of Mr Hamilton is familiar, as a composer of several esteemed and beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song entitle his name to an honourable place.

THE RANTIN' HIGHLANDMAN.

Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out To flit a tether'd ewe and lamb, I met, as skiffin' ower the green, A jolly, rantin' Highlandman. His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet, And ilka smile my favour wan; I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad As this young rantin' Highlandman.

He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer; Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang? Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me, And wed a rantin' Highlandman? In summer days, on flow'ry braes, When frisky are the ewe and lamb, I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid, And be your rantin' Highlandman.

"Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell, I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang, If ye 'll consent to scour the bent Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman. We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock, Syne do the best that e'er we can; Then come, my dear, ye needna fear To trust a rantin' Highlandman."

His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart, And fain I wad hae gi'en my han'; Yet durstna, lest my mither should Dislike a rantin' Highlandman. But I expect he will come back; Then, though my kin should scauld and ban, I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will, Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.

UP IN THE MORNIN' EARLY.[25]

Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south; The drift is drifting sairly; The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch; Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly! Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; I'd rather gae supperless to my bed Than rise in the mornin' early.

Loud roars the blast amang the woods, And tirls the branches barely; On hill and house hear how it thuds! The frost is nippin' sairly. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; To sit a' nicht wad better agree Than rise in the mornin' early.

The sun peeps ower yon southland hills, Like ony timorous carlie; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again; And that we find severely. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek, Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?

Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush: Poor things! they suffer sairly; In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht, A' day they feed but sparely. Now, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early; A pennyless purse I wad rather dree, Than rise in the mornin' early.

A cosie house and canty wife Aye keep a body cheerly; And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink, They answer unco rarely. But up in the mornin'--na, na, na! Up in the mornin' early! The gowans maun glint on bank and brae When I rise in the mornin' early.

[25] Burns composed two verses to the same tune, which is very old. It was a favourite of Queen Mary, the consort of William III. In his "Beggar's Opera," Gay has adopted the tune for one of his songs. It was published, in 1652, by John Hilton, as the third voice to what is called a "Northern Catch" for three voices, beginning--"I'se gae wi' thee, my sweet Peggy."

GO TO BERWICK, JOHNNIE.[26]

Go to Berwick, Johnnie; Bring her frae the Border; Yon sweet bonnie lassie, Let her gae nae farther. English loons will twine ye O' the lovely treasure; But we 'll let them ken A sword wi' them we 'll measure.

Go to Berwick, Johnnie, And regain your honour; Drive them ower the Tweed, And show our Scottish banner. I am Rob, the King, And ye are Jock, my brither; But, before we lose her, We 'll a' there thegither.

[26] These stanzas are founded on some lines of old doggerel, beginning--

"Go, go, go, Go to Berwick, Johnnie; Thou shalt have the horse, And I shall have the pony."

MISS FORBES' FAREWELL TO BANFF.

Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green! The blest retreats of peace an' love; Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence, With my young swain a while to rove. Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk, Among the beauties of the spring; An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank, To hear the feather'd warblers sing.

The azure sky, the hills around, Gave double beauty to the scene; The lofty spires of Banff in view-- On every side the waving grain. The tales of love my Jamie told, In such a saft an' moving strain, Have so engaged my tender heart, I 'm loth to leave the place again.

But if the Fates will be sae kind As favour my return once more, For to enjoy the peace of mind In those retreats I had before: Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds Do bear me hence--I must away; Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back, To part nae mair from scenes so gay.

TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?

Tell me, Jessie, tell me why My fond suit you still deny? Is your bosom cold as snow? Did you never feel for woe? Can you hear, without a sigh, Him complain who for you could die? If you ever shed a tear, Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!

Life to me is not more dear Than the hour brings Jessie here; Death so much I do not fear As the parting moment near. Summer smiles are not so sweet As the bloom upon your cheek; Nor the crystal dew so clear As your eyes to me appear.

These are part of Jessie's charms, Which the bosom ever warms; But the charms by which I 'm stung, Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue! Jessie, be no longer coy; Let me taste a lover's joy; With your hand remove the dart, And heal the wound that 's in my heart.

THE HAWTHORN.

Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair, I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air; He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale-- That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.

He said he had loved me both long and sincere, That none on the green was so gentle and fair; I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale-- That blooms in the valley, &c.

"Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove, How charming their song, and enticing to love! The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale, And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"-- That blooms in the valley, &c.

His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind, Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind; My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale-- That blooms in the valley, &c.

Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay, But leave me he would not, nor let me away; Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale-- That blooms in the valley, &c.

Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse? His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows! We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still, And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale-- That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.

OH, BLAW, YE WESTLIN' WINDS![27]

Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees! Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me, That 's aye sae neat and clean; Ae blink of her wad banish care, Sae lovely is my Jean.

What sighs and vows, amang the knowes, Hae pass'd atween us twa! How fain to meet, how wae to part, That day she gaed awa'! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet, lovely Jean.

[27] These verses were written as a continuation to Burns's "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Other two stanzas were added to the same song by W. Reid.--See _postea_.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th of September 1762, in the manse of Bothwell, in Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswood, so celebrated for its Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an honourable house: she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston; and her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science--Dr William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter the greatest anatomist of his age. Joanna--a twin, the other child being still-born--was the youngest of a family of three children. Her only brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical world. Agnes, her sister, who was eldest of the family, remained unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.

In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton,--a town situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was subsequently elected Professor of Divinity in the University of Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calderwood, in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter.

Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning, Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic representations, which she carried on with her companions. But she did not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at first, "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and decoration. "Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, "be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient to satisfy the utmost ambition of the author, and established the foundation of her fame. "Nothing to compare with them had been produced since the great days of the English drama; and the truth, vigour, variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound, might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had passed her life in domestic seclusion."[28] Encouraged by the success of the first volume of her dramas on the "Passions," the author added a second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family Legend" in 1810,--a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the "Family Legend" was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the auspices of the former illustrious character; and was ably supported by Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It was favourably received during ten successive performances. "You have only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play," wrote Sir Walter Scott to the author, "and your conceptions will still fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the 'Family Legend.' The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree; many people had come from your native capital of the west; everything that pretended to distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes; and in the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever, witnessed in the same space." Other two of her plays, "Count Basil" and "De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general approbation; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes of dramas; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the period of nearly forty years.

Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not return to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief-Justice Denman, in 1791, she passed some years at Colchester; but she subsequently fixed her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends, one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently complimenting her in his works. In his "Epistle to William Erskine," which forms the introduction to the third canto of "Marmion," he thus generously eulogises his gifted friend:--

"Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that wrung From the wild harp, which silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame! From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspiréd strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."

To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of "Macduff's Cross," which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823.

Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining an increasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions, and

"Within _her_ mighty page, Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."

The tragedies of "Count Basil" and "De Montfort" are her best plays, and are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon. Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful; and powerful without any ostentation of strength. Her personal history was the counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole Works in a collected form.

The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the "land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of "the mountain and the flood." "Fy, let us a' to the wedding," "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" "It fell on a morning when we were thrang," and "Woo'd, and married, and a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's "Melodies," and "The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in 1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers, author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in the present work.

[28] _Literary Gazette_, March 1851.

THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN.

I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake, Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake, Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree-- Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came, And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame; For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee, Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn, Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn: Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

The farmer rides proudly to market or fair, The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair; But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be, While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

For blythe as the urchin at holiday play, And meek as the matron in mantle of gray, And trim as the lady of gentle degree, Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.

GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!

The sun is sunk, the day is done, E'en stars are setting one by one; Nor torch nor taper longer may Eke out the pleasures of the day; And since, in social glee's despite, It needs must be, Good night, good night!

The bride into her bower is sent, And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent; The lover's whisper'd words and few Have bade the bashful maid adieu; The dancing-floor is silent quite-- No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!

The lady in her curtain'd bed, The herdsman in his wattled shed, The clansman in the heather'd hall, Sweet sleep be with you, one and all! We part in hope of days as bright As this now gone--Good night, good night!

Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! And if upon its stillness fall The visions of a busy brain, We 'll have our pleasure o'er again; To warm the heart, to charm the sight, Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!

THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.

Though richer swains thy love pursue, In Sunday gear and bonnets new; And every fair before thee lay Their silken gifts, with colours gay-- They love thee not, alas! so well As one who sighs, and dare not tell; Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon, In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.

I grieve not for my wayward lot, My empty folds, my roofless cot; Nor hateful pity, proudly shown, Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown; Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides, Who by his master still abides; But how wilt thou prefer my boon, In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?

POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]

AIR--_"Todlin' Hame."_

When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn, And siller was chinking my pouches within; When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae, As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay-- Kind was she, and my friends were free; But poverty parts gude companie.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight! The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright; And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. Woe is me! and can it then be, That poverty parts sic companie?

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk; We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk; And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een, The cheering and life of my bosom have been. Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee, And poverty parts sweet companie.

At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride, The _bruse_ I hae won, and a kiss of the bride; And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among, When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song. Dowie to dree are jesting and glee, When poverty parts gude companie.

Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet, And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet, While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board; But now they pass by me, and never a word. So let it be; for the worldly and slie Wi' poverty keep nae companie.

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart; The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart; For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost. Cruelly though we ilka day see How poverty parts dear companie.

[29] This song was written for Thomson's "Melodies." "Todlin' Hame," the air to which it is adapted, appears in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany" as an old song. The words begin--"When I hae a saxpence under my thum." Burns remarks that "it is perhaps one of the first bottle-songs that ever was composed."

FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.[30]

Fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair. And there will be jilting and jeering, And glancing of bonnie dark een; Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering O' questions, baith pawky and keen.

And there will be Bessy, the beauty, Wha raises her cock-up sae hie, And giggles at preachings and duty; Gude grant that she gang nae ajee! And there will be auld Geordie Tanner, Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd; She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her, But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.

And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress, Will perk at the top o' the ha', Encircled wi' suitors, whase care is To catch up the gloves when they fa'. Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit, And haver and glower in her face, When tocherless Mays are negleckit-- A crying and scandalous case.

And Mysie, whase clavering aunty Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird; And learns the young fouk to be vaunty, But neither to spin nor to caird. And Andrew, whase granny is yearning To see him a clerical blade, Was sent to the college for learning, And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.

And there will be auld Widow Martin, That ca's hersel' thretty and twa! And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw. And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty-- A pattern of havens and sense-- Will straik on her mittens sae dainty, And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.

And Angus, the seer o' ferlies, That sits on the stane at his door, And tells about bogles, and mair lies Than tongue ever utter'd before. And there will be Bauldy, the boaster, Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue; Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster, Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.

And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking, That trades in his lawyerly skill, Will egg on the fighting and drinking, To bring after grist to his mill. And Maggie--na, na! we 'll be civil, And let the wee bridie abee; A vilipend tongue it is evil, And ne'er was encouraged by me.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there, Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding, The fun and the feasting to share. For they will get sheep's-head and haggis, And browst o' the barley-mow; E'en he that comes latest and lagis May feast upon dainties enow.

Veal florentines, in the o'en baken, Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat; Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat. And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill) To drink the young couple gude luck, Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle, Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancing and daffing, And reelin' and crossin' o' han's, Till even auld Lucky is laughing, As back by the aumry she stan's. Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling, While fiddlers are making their din; And pipers are droning and skirling, As loud as the roar o' the linn.

Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock 's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair.

[30] This song is a new version of "The Blythesome Bridal," beginning, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal," which first appeared in Watson's Collection, in 1706, and of which the authorship was generally assigned to Francis Semple of Beltrees, in Renfrewshire, who lived in the middle of the seventeenth century, though more recently it has been attributed to Sir William Scott of Thirlestane, in Selkirkshire, who flourished in the beginning of last century. The words of the original song are coarse, but humorous.

HOOLY AND FAIRLY.[31]

Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry? My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary; And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly. O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow, Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou'; While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely. O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!

To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a', She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw, In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely. O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!

I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made, Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid; The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly. O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!

She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en, And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen; Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly. O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!

When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed-- The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred-- While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early. O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly! Timely and fairly, timely and fairly; O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!

A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none; She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John; While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly. O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!

I wish I were single, I wish I were freed; I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead; Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly. What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly; Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.

[31] The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from "The Drucken Wife o' Gallowa'," a song which first appeared in the "Charmer," a collection of songs, published at Edinburgh in 1751, but the authorship of which is unknown.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

A young gudewife is in my house, And thrifty means to be, But aye she 's runnin' to the town Some ferlie there to see. The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow, I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to her wheel, To draw her threads wi' care, In comes the chapman wi' his gear, And she can spin nae mair. The weary pund, &c.

And then like ony merry May, At fairs maun still be seen, At kirkyard preachings near the tent, At dances on the green. The weary pund, &c.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, A bagpipe 's her delight, But for the crooning o' her wheel She disna care a mite. The weary pund, &c.

"You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs Made o' your hinkum twine, But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn Will ne'er lave web o' thine. The weary pund, &c.

"Nay, smile again, my winsome mate, Sic jeering means nae ill; Should I gae sarkless to my grave, I'll loe and bless thee still." The weary pund, &c.

THE WEE PICKLE TOW.[32]

A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow, And she thought to try the spinnin' o't; She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow, And that was an ill beginnin' o't. Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween; The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een; Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen; O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!

She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung, Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O! And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue; Like ane sair demented she lookit, O! "Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel! I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d--l, He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel; O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!

"And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa', They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't, While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a', Into some silly joke will be turnin' it: They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu'; They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue; They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw, And that made the ill beginning o't.

"O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour, When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't! Then some evil spirit or warlock had power, And made sic an ill beginnin' o't. May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray, The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away, And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray, The next time I try the spinnin' o't."

[32] "The Wee Pickle Tow" is an old air, to which the words of this song were written.

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD.

The gowan glitters on the sward, The lav'rock's in the sky, And collie on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. Oh, no! sad and slow, And lengthen'd on the ground; The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, My lambs are bleating near; But still the sound that I lo'e best, Alack! I canna hear. Oh, no! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still; And like a lanely ghaist I stand, And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din, And lucky scolding frae the door, To ca' the bairnies in. Oh, no! sad and slow, These are nae sounds for me; The shadow of our trysting bush It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam, A snood o' bonnie blue, And promised, when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. Oh, no! sad and slow, The mark it winna pass; The shadow o' that dreary bush Is tether'd on the grass.

O now I see her on the way! She 's past the witch's knowe; She 's climbing up the brownie's brae-- My heart is in a lowe. Oh, no! 'tis not so, 'Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow o' that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I 'll try to read, Though conn'd wi' little skill; When collie barks I 'll raise my head, And find her on the hill. Oh, no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane; The shadow o' our trysting bush Is fix'd like ony stane.

SAW YE JOHNNIE COMIN'?

"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she; "Saw ye Johnnie comin'? Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, And his doggie rinnin'. Yestreen, about the gloamin' time, I chanced to see him comin', Whistling merrily the tune That I am a' day hummin'," quo' she; "I am a' day hummin'.

"Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she; "Fee him, faither, fee him; A' the wark about the house Gaes wi' me when I see him: A' the wark about the house I gang sae lightly through it; And though ye pay some merks o' gear, Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she; "No; ye winna rue it."

"What wad I do wi' him, hizzy? What wad I do wi' him? He 's ne'er a sark upon his back, And I hae nane to gi'e him." "I hae twa sarks into my kist, And ane o' them I 'll gi'e him; And for a merk o' mair fee, Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she; "Dinna stand wi' him.

"Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she; "Weel do I lo'e him; The brawest lads about the place Are a' but hav'rels to him. Oh, fee him, father; lang, I trow, We 've dull and dowie been: He 'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn, And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she; "Crack wi' me at e'en."

IT FELL ON A MORNING.[33]

It fell on a morning when we were thrang-- Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making, And bannocks on the girdle baking-- That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang; But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight, Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween; For a chap at the door in braid daylight Is no like a chap when heard at e'en.

Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen, Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie. And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie, Raised up the latch and came crousely ben. His coat was new, and his owrelay was white, And his hose and his mittens were coozy and bein; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw, And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit, And looked about, like a body half glaikit, On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a': "Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way? Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean-- An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day, Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en."

"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trow You 'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly; Black Madge is far better and fitter for you." He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth, And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between; For wooers that come when the sun 's in the south Are mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en.

"Black Madge she is prudent." "What 's that to me?" "She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle-- Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle; I 'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy 's free." Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, And Nanny run laughing out to the green; For wooers that come when the sun shines bright Are no like the wooers that come at e'en.

Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, "All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O: Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow, May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me." But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight, For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween; For a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

[33] This song was contributed by Miss Baillie to "The Harp of Caledonia."

WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.[34]

The bride she is winsome and bonnie, Her hair it is snooded sae sleek; And faithful and kind is her Johnnie, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow-- New pearlings and plenishing too; The bride that has a' to borrow Has e'en right muckle ado. Woo'd, and married, and a'; Woo'd, and married, and a'; And is na she very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'?

Her mither then hastily spak-- "The lassie is glaikit wi' pride; In my pouches I hadna a plack The day that I was a bride. E'en tak to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun; The gear that is gifted, it never Will last like the gear that is won. Woo'd, and married, an' a', Tocher and havings sae sma'; I think ye are very weel aff To be woo'd, and married, and a'."

"Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither; "She 's less of a bride than a bairn; She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn. Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humour inconstantly leans; A chiel maun be constant and steady, That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. Kerchief to cover so neat, Locks the winds used to blaw; I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet, When I think o' her married at a'."

Then out spak the wily bridegroom, Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,-- "I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom, Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een; I 'm prouder o' thee by my side, Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few, Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride, Wi' purples and pearlings enew. Dear and dearest of ony, I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a'; And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie, And grieve to be married at a'?"

She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled, And she lookit sae bashfully down; The pride o' her heart was beguiled, And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown; She twirl'd the tag o' her lace, And she nippit her boddice sae blue; Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face, And aff like a maukin she flew. Woo'd, and married, and a', Married and carried awa'; She thinks hersel' very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'.

[34] Of the song, "Woo'd, and married, and a'," there is another version, published in Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. i. p. 10, which was long popular among the ballad-singers. This was composed by Alexander Ross, schoolmaster of Lochlee, author of "Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess." A song, having a similar commencement, had previously been current on the Border.

WILLIAM DUDGEON.

Though the author of a single popular song, William Dudgeon is entitled to a place among the modern contributors to the Caledonian minstrelsy. Of his personal history, only a very few facts have been recovered. He was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive farm at Preston, in Berwickshire. During his border tour in May 1787, the poet Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his friend Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of Lord Douglas in the Merse. In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his impression of the meeting:--"A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty." Dudgeon died in October 1813, about his sixtieth year.

UP AMONG YON CLIFFY ROCKS.

Up among yon cliffy rocks Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats Lilting o'er her native notes. Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind, An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me; Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine, Till he 's fairly married to me. Drive away, ye drone, Time, And bring about our bridal day.

"Sandy herds a flock o' sheep; Aften does he blaw the whistle In a strain sae saftly sweet, Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe, Hardy as the Highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keeping aye his flock together; But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.

"Brawly can he dance and sing, Canty glee or Highland cronach; Nane can ever match his fling, At a reel or round a ring, In a brawl he 's aye the bangster: A' his praise can ne'er be sung By the langest-winded sangster; Sangs that sing o' Sandy, Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."

WILLIAM REID.

William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father, a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the _literati_ of the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and 1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry, Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831, leaving a widow and a family.

THE LEA RIG.[35]

Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, O! And cuddle there fu' kindly Wi' me, my kind dearie, O! At thorny bush, or birken tree, We 'll daff and never weary, O! They 'll scug ill een frae you and me, My ain kind dearie, O!

Nae herds wi' kent or colly there, Shall ever come to fear ye, O! But lav'rocks, whistling in the air, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O! While ithers herd their lambs and ewes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lea my pleasure grows, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!

At gloamin', if my lane I be, Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O! And mony a heavy sigh I gie, When absent frae my dearie, O! But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn, In ev'ning fair and clearie, O! Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn, When wi' my kind dearie, O!

Whare through the birks the burnie rows, Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O! Upon the bonny greensward howes, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O! I've courted till I've heard the craw Of honest chanticleerie, O! Yet never miss'd my sleep ava, Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!

For though the night were ne'er sae dark, And I were ne'er sae weary, O! I'd meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, O! While in this weary world of wae, This wilderness sae dreary, O! What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae? 'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!

[35] The two first stanzas of this song are the composition of the gifted and unfortunate Robert Fergusson. It is founded on an older ditty, beginning, "I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig." See Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 53.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.[36]

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what ye mean, To rise sae early in the morn, And sit sae late at e'en; Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John, And why should you do so? Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, When Nature first began To try her canny hand, John, Her masterpiece was man; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe-- She proved to be nae journeyman, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit; And ye needna think it strange, John, That I ca' ye trim and neat; Though some folks say ye 're auld, John, I never think ye so; But I think ye 're aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We 've seen our bairns' bairns; And yet, my dear John Anderson, I 'm happy in your arms; And sae are ye in mine, John, I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No; Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.

[36] These stanzas are in continuation of Burns's song, "John Anderson, my jo." Five other stanzas have been added to the continuation by some unknown hand, which will be found in the "Book of Scottish Song," p. 54. Glasgow, 1853.

FAIR, MODEST FLOWER.

TUNE--_"Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon."_

Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth! Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem; Blest is the soil that gave thee birth, And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem. But doubly bless'd shall be the youth To whom thy heaving bosom warms; Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth, He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.

Though storms of life were blowing snell, And on his brow sat brooding care, Thy seraph smile would quick dispel The darkest gloom of black despair. Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us, And chose thee from the dwellers there; And sent thee from celestial bliss, To shew what all the virtues are.

KATE O' GOWRIE.[37]

TUNE--_"Locherroch Side."_

When Katie was scarce out nineteen, Oh, but she had twa coal-black een! A bonnier lass ye wadna seen In a' the Carse o' Gowrie. Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane, Pate did to her his love explain, And swore he 'd be, were she his ain, The happiest lad in Gowrie.

Quo' she, "I winna marry thee, For a' the gear that ye can gi'e; Nor will I gang a step ajee, For a' the gowd in Gowrie. My father will gi'e me twa kye; My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye; I 'll get a gown just like the sky, Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie."

"Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae! Ye little ken a heart that 's wae; Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray, Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie: Since first I met thee at the shiel, My saul to thee 's been true and leal; The darkest night I fear nae deil, Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.

"I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht, Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught; I dream a' nicht, and start about, And wish for thee in Gowrie. I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear, Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear; Sit down by me till ance I swear, Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."

Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid, Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread; She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said, "Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!" Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang; Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang, And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang; But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."

The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent; The priest was ca'd: a' were content; And Katie never did repent That she gaed hame to Gowrie. For routh o' bonnie bairns had she; Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see; And her braw lasses bore the gree Frae a' the rest o' Gowrie.

[37] See _postea_, in this volume, under article "Lady Nairn."

UPON THE BANKS O' FLOWING CLYDE.[38]

Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde The lasses busk them braw; But when their best they hae put on, My Jeanie dings them a'; In hamely weeds she far exceeds The fairest o' the toun; Baith sage and gay confess it sae, Though drest in russit goun.

The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam, Mair harmless canna be; She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't, Except her love for me; The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, Is like her shining een; In shape and air wha can compare, Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.

[38] These two stanzas were written as a continuation of Burns's popular song, "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Two other stanzas were added by John Hamilton. See _ante_, p. 124.

ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.

A miscellaneous writer, a poet, and a musical composer, Alexander Campbell first saw the light at Tombea, on the banks of Loch Lubnaig, in Perthshire. He was born in 1764, and received such education as his parents could afford him, which was not very ample, at the parish school of Callander. An early taste for music induced him to proceed to Edinburgh, there to cultivate a systematic acquaintance with the art. Acquiring a knowledge of the science under the celebrated Tenducci and others, he became himself a teacher of the harpsichord and of vocal music, in the metropolis. As an upholder of Jacobitism, when it was scarcely to be dreaded as a political offence, he officiated as organist in a non-juring chapel in the vicinity of Nicolson Street; and while so employed had the good fortune to form the acquaintance of Burns, who was pleased to discover in an individual entertaining similar state sentiments with himself, an enthusiastic devotion to national melody and song.

Mr Campbell was twice married; his second wife was the widow of a Highland gentleman, and he was induced to hope that his condition might thus be permanently improved. He therefore relinquished his original vocation, and commenced the study of physic, with the view of obtaining an appointment as surgeon in the public service; but his sanguine hopes proved abortive, and, to complete his mortification, his wife left him in Edinburgh, and sought a retreat in the Highlands. He again procured some employment as a teacher of music; and about the year 1810, one of his expedients was to give lessons in drawing. He was a man of a fervent spirit, and possessed of talents, which, if they had been adequately cultivated, and more concentrated, might have enabled him to attain considerable distinction; but, apparently aiming at the reputation of universal genius, he alternately cultivated the study of music, poetry, painting, and physic. At a more recent period, Sir Walter Scott found him occasional employment in transcribing manuscripts; and during the unhappy remainder of his life he had to struggle with many difficulties.

One of his publications bears the title of "Odes and Miscellaneous Poems, by a Student of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh," Edinburgh, 1790, 4to. These lucubrations, which attracted no share of public attention, were followed by "The Guinea Note, a Poem, by Timothy Twig, Esquire," Edinburgh, 1797, 4to. His next work is entitled, "An Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland, with Illustrations by David Allan," Edinburgh, 1798, 4to. This work, though written in a rambling style, contains a small proportion of useful materials very unskilfully digested. "A Dialogue on Scottish Music," prefixed, had the merit of conveying to Continental musicians for the first time a correct acquaintance with the Scottish scale, the author receiving the commendations of the greatest Italian and German composers. The work likewise contains "Songs of the Lowlands," a selection of some of the more interesting specimens of the older minstrelsy. In 1802 he published "A Tour from Edinburgh through various parts of North Britain," in two volumes quarto, illustrated with engravings from sketches executed by himself. This work met with a favourable reception, and has been regarded as the most successful of his literary efforts. In 1804 he sought distinction as a poet by giving to the world "The Grampians Desolate," a long poem, in one volume octavo. In this production he essays "to call the attention of good men, wherever dispersed throughout our island, to the manifold and great evils arising from the introduction of that system which has within these last forty years spread among the Grampians and Western Isles, and is the leading cause of a depopulation that threatens to extirpate the ancient race of the inhabitants of those districts." That system to which Mr Campbell refers, he afterwards explains to be the monopoly of sheep-stores, a subject scarcely poetical, but which he has contrived to clothe with considerable smoothness of versification. The last work which issued from Mr Campbell's pen was "Albyn's Anthology, a Select Collection of the Melodies and Vocal Poetry Peculiar to Scotland and the Isles, hitherto Unpublished." The publication appeared in 1816, in two parts, of elegant folio. It was adorned by the contributions of Sir Walter Scott, James Hogg, and other poets of reputation. The preface contains "An Epitome of the History of Scottish Poetry and Music from the Earliest Times." His musical talents have a stronger claim to remembrance than either his powers as a poet or his skill as a writer. Yet his industry was unremitted, and his researches have proved serviceable to other writers who have followed him on the same themes. Only a few lyrical pieces proceeded from his pen; these were first published in "Albyn's Anthology." From this work we have extracted two specimens.

Mr Campbell died of apoplexy on the 15th of May 1824, after a life much chequered by misfortune. He left various MSS. on subjects connected with his favourite studies, which have fortunately found their way into the possession of Mr Laing, to whom the history of Scottish poetry is perhaps more indebted than to any other living writer. The poems in this collection, though bearing marks of sufficient elaboration, could not be recommended for publication. Mr Campbell was understood to be a contributor to _The Ghost_, a forgotten periodical, which ran a short career in the year 1790. It was published in Edinburgh twice a week, and reached the forty-sixth number; the first having appeared on the 25th of April, the last on the 16th of November. He published an edition of a book, curious in its way--Donald Mackintosh's "Collection of Gaelic Proverbs, and Familiar Phrases; Englished anew!" Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. The preface contains a characteristic account of the compiler, who described himself as "a priest of the old Scots Episcopal Church, and last of the non-jurant clergy in Scotland."

NOW WINTER'S WIND SWEEPS.

Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains, Deeply clad in drifting snow; Soundly sleep the frozen fountains; Ice-bound streams forget to flow: The piercing blast howls loud and long, The leafless forest oaks among.

Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger, Wayworn, drooping, all alone;-- Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger! But alas! his strength is gone! He stoops, he totters on with pain, The hill he 'll never climb again.

Age is being's winter season, Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold; Passion weaken'd, yields to reason, Man feels _then_ himself grown old; His senses one by one have fled, His very soul seems almost dead.

THE HAWK WHOOPS ON HIGH.

The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff, Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff; The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around, While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound; Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song? Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen, "The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?

'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name, He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!-- He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old, And soul to the tales that so oft have been told; Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye, Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;" To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight, Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.

MRS DUGALD STEWART.

Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, the second wife of the celebrated Professor Stewart, is entitled to a more ample notice in a work on Modern Scottish Song than the limited materials at our command enable us to supply. She was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, and became the wife of Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having survived her husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's "Schloss Hainfeld"), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse.

The following pieces from the pen of the accomplished author are replete with simple beauty and exquisite tenderness.

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

TUNE--_"Ianthe the Lovely."_

The tears I shed must ever fall: I mourn not for an absent swain; For thoughts may past delights recall, And parted lovers meet again. I weep not for the silent dead: Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er; And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between, If certain that his heart is near, A conscious transport glads each scene, Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear. E'en when by death's cold hand removed, We mourn the tenant of the tomb, To think that e'en in death he loved, Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears Of her who slighted love bewails; No hope her dreary prospect cheers, No pleasing melancholy hails. Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy; The flattering veil is rent aside, The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view, And turns the past to agony. E'en time itself despairs to cure Those pangs to every feeling due: Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor, To win a heart, and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between-- He made me blest, and broke my heart:[39] From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn, Neglected and neglecting all; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall.

[39] The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.

RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.[40]

Returning spring, with gladsome ray, Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep: All nature smiles, serene and gay, It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.

But why, why flows the sudden tear, Since Heaven such precious boons has lent, The lives of those who life endear, And, though scarce competence, content?

Sure, when no other bliss was mine Than that which still kind Heaven bestows, Yet then could peace and hope combine To promise joy and give repose.

Then have I wander'd o'er the plain, And bless'd each flower that met my view; Thought Fancy's power would ever reign, And Nature's charms be ever new.

I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt, That happy bosom knew no ill-- That those who scorn'd me, time would melt, And those I loved be faultless still.

Enchanting dreams! kind was your art That bliss bestow'd without alloy; Or if soft sadness claim'd a part, 'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.

Oh! whence the change that now alarms, Fills this sad heart and tearful eye, And conquers the once powerful charms Of youth, of hope, of novelty?

'Tis sad Experience, fatal power! That clouds the once illumined sky, That darkens life's meridian hour, And bids each fairy vision fly.

She paints the scene--how different far From that which youthful fancy drew! Shews joy and freedom oft at war, Our woes increased, our comforts few.

And when, perhaps, on some loved friend Our treasured fondness we bestow, Oh! can she not, with ruthless hand, Change even that friend into a foe?

See in her train cold Foresight move, Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn; And Prudence every fear approve, And Pity harden into scorn!

The glowing tints of Fancy fade, Life's distant prospects charm no more; Alas! are all my hopes betray'd? Can nought my happiness restore?

Relentless power! at length be just, Thy better skill alone impart; Give Caution, but withhold Distrust, And guard, but harden not, my heart!

[40] These tender and beautiful verses are transcribed from Johnson's "Musical Museum," in a note to which they were first published by the editor, Mr David Laing. He remarks that he "has reason to believe" that they are from the pen of Mrs Stewart. (See Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 366, _new edition_. Edinburgh, 1853.)

ALEXANDER WILSON.

The author of the celebrated "American Ornithology" is entitled to an honourable commemoration as one of the minstrels of his native land. Alexander Wilson was born at Paisley on the 6th of July 1766. His father had for some time carried on a small trade as a distiller; but the son was destined by his parents for the clerical profession, in the National Church--a scheme which was frustrated by the death of his mother in his tenth year, leaving a large family of children to the sole care of his father. He had, however, considerably profited by the instruction already received at school; and having derived from his mother a taste for music and a relish for books, he invoked the muse in solitude, and improved his mind by miscellaneous reading. His father contracted a second marriage when Alexander had reached his thirteenth year; and it became necessary that he should prepare himself for entering upon some handicraft employment. He became an apprentice to his brother-in-law, William Duncan, a weaver in his native town; and on completing his indenture, he wrought as a journeyman, during the three following years, in the towns of Paisley, Lochwinnoch, and Queensferry. But the occupation of weaving, which had from the first been unsuitable to his tastes, growing altogether irksome, he determined to relinquish it for a vocation which, if in some respects scarcely more desirable, afforded him ample means of gratifying his natural desire of becoming familiar with the topography of his native country. He provided himself with a pack, as a pedlar, and in this capacity, in company with his brother-in-law, continued for three years to lead a wandering life. His devotedness to verse-making had continued unabated from boyhood; he had written verses at the loom, and had become an enthusiastic votary of the muse during his peregrinations with his pack. He was now in his twenty-third year; and with the buoyancy of ardent youth, he thought of offering to the public a volume of his poems by subscription. In this attempt he was not successful; nor would any bookseller listen to proposals of publishing the lucubrations of an obscure pedlar. In 1790, he at length contrived to print his poems at Paisley, on his own account, in the hope of being able to dispose of them along with his other wares. But this attempt was not more successful than his original scheme, so that he was compelled to return to his father's house at Lochwinnoch, and resume the obnoxious shuttle. His aspirations for poetical distinction were not, however, subdued; he heard of the institution of the _Forum_, a debating society established in Edinburgh by some literary aspirants, and learning, in 1791, that an early subject of discussion was the comparative merits of Ramsay and Fergusson as Scottish poets, he prepared to take a share in the competition. By doubling his hours of labour at the loom, he procured the means of defraying his travelling expenses; and, arriving in time for the debate in the _Forum_, he repeated a poem which he had prepared, entitled the "Laurel Disputed," in which he gave the preference to Fergusson. He remained several weeks in Edinburgh, and printed his poem. To Dr Anderson's "Bee" he contributed several poems, and a prose essay, entitled "The Solitary Philosopher." Finding no encouragement to settle in the metropolis, he once more returned to his father's house in the west. He now formed the acquaintance of Robert Burns, who testified his esteem for him both as a man and a poet. In 1792, he published anonymously his popular ballad of "Watty and Meg," which he had the satisfaction to find regarded as worthy of the Ayrshire Bard.

The star of the poet was now promising to be in the ascendant, but an untoward event ensued. In the ardent enthusiasm of his temperament, he was induced to espouse in verse the cause of the Paisley hand-loom operatives in a dispute with their employers, and to satirise in strong invective a person of irreproachable reputation. For this offence he was prosecuted before the sheriff, who sentenced him to be imprisoned for a few days, and publicly to burn his own poem in the front of the jail. This satire is entitled "The Shark; or, Long Mills detected." Like many other independents, he mistook anarchy in France for the dawn of liberty in Europe; and his sentiments becoming known, he was so vigilantly watched by the authorities, that he found it was no longer expedient for him to reside in Scotland. He resolved to emigrate to America; and, contriving by four months' extra labour, and living on a shilling weekly, to earn his passage-money, he sailed from Portpatrick to Belfast, and from thence to Newcastle, in the State of Delaware, where he arrived on the 14th July 1794. During the voyage he had slept on deck, and when he landed, his finances consisted only of a few shillings; yet, with a cheerful heart, he walked to Philadelphia, a distance of thirty-three miles, with only his fowling-piece on his shoulder. He shot a red-headed woodpecker by the way,--an omen of his future pursuits, for hitherto he had devoted no attention to the study of ornithology.

He was first employed by a copperplate-printer in Philadelphia, but quitted this occupation for the loom, at which he worked about a year in Philadelphia, and at Shepherdstown, in Virginia. In 1795, he traversed a large portion of the State of New Jersey as a pedlar, keeping a journal,--a practice which he had followed during his wandering life in Scotland. He now adopted the profession of a schoolmaster, and was successively employed in this vocation at Frankford, in Pennsylvania, at Milestown, and at Bloomfield, in New Jersey. In preparing himself for the instruction of others, he essentially extended his own acquaintance with classical learning, and mathematical science; and by occasional employment as a land-surveyor, he somewhat improved his finances. In 1801, he accepted the appointment of teacher in a seminary in Kingsessing, on the river Schuylkill, about four miles from Philadelphia,--a situation which, though attended with limited emolument, proved the first step in his path to eminence. He was within a short distance of the residence of William Bartram, the great American naturalist, with whom he became intimately acquainted; he also formed the friendship of Alexander Lawson, an emigrant engraver, who initiated him in the art of etching, colouring, and engraving. Discovering an aptitude in the accurate delineation of birds, he was led to the study of ornithology; with which he became so much interested, that he projected a work descriptive, with drawings, of all the birds of the Middle States, and even of the Union. About this period he became a contributor to the "Literary Magazine," conducted by Mr Brockden Brown, and to Denny's "Portfolio."

Along with a nephew and another friend, Wilson made a pedestrian tour to the Falls of Niagara, in October 1804, and on his return published in the "Portfolio" a poetical narrative of his journey, entitled "The Foresters,"--a production surpassing his previous efforts, and containing some sublime apostrophes. But his energies were now chiefly devoted to the accomplishment of the grand design he had contemplated. Disappointed in obtaining the co-operation of his friend Mr Lawson, who was alarmed at the extent of his projected adventure, and likewise frustrated in obtaining pecuniary assistance from the President Jefferson, on which he had some reason to calculate, he persevered in his attempts himself, drawing, etching, and colouring the requisite illustrations. In 1806, he was employed as assistant-editor of a new edition of Rees' Cyclopedia, by Mr Samuel Bradford, bookseller in Philadelphia, who rewarded his services with a liberal salary, and undertook, at his own risk, the publication of his "Ornithology." The first volume of the work appeared in September 1808, and immediately after its publication the author personally visited, in the course of two different expeditions, the Eastern and Southern States, in quest of subscribers. These journeys were attended with a success scarcely adequate to the privations which were experienced in their prosecution; but the "Ornithology" otherwise obtained a wide circulation, and, excelling in point of illustration every production that had yet appeared in America, gained for the author universal commendation. In January 1810, his second volume appeared, and in a month after he proceeded to Pittsburg, and from thence, in a small skiff, made a solitary voyage down the Ohio, a distance of nearly six hundred miles. During this lonely and venturous journey he experienced relaxation in the composition of a poem, which afterwards appeared under the title of "The Pilgrim." In 1813, after encountering numerous hardships and perils, which an enthusiast only could have endured, he completed the publication of the seventh volume of his great work. But the sedulous attention requisite in the preparation of the plates of the eighth volume, and the effect of a severe cold, caught in rashly throwing himself into a river to swim in pursuit of a rare bird, brought on him a fatal dysentery, which carried him off, on the 23d of August 1813, in his forty-eighth year. He was interred in the cemetery of the Swedish church, Southwark, Philadelphia, where a plain marble monument has been erected to his memory. A ninth volume was added to the "Ornithology" by Mr George Ord, an intimate friend of the deceased naturalist; and three supplementary volumes have been published, in folio, by Charles Lucien Bonaparte, uncle of the present Emperor of the French.

Amidst his extraordinary deserts as a naturalist, the merits of Alexander Wilson as a poet have been somewhat overlooked. His poetry, it may be remarked, though unambitious of ornament, is bold and vigorous in style, and, when devoted to satire, is keen and vehement. The ballad of "Watty and Meg," though exception may be taken to the moral, is an admirable picture of human nature, and one of the most graphic narratives of the "taming of a shrew" in the language. Allan Cunningham writes: "It has been excelled by none in lively, graphic fidelity of touch: whatever was present to his eye and manifest to his ear, he could paint with a life and a humour which Burns seems alone to excel."[41] In private life, Wilson was a model of benevolence and of the social virtues; he was devoid of selfishness, active in beneficence, and incapable of resentment. Before his departure for America, he waited on every one whom he conceived he had offended by his juvenile escapades, and begged their forgiveness; and he did not hesitate to reprove Burns for the levity too apparent in some of his poems. To his aged father, who survived till the year 1816, he sent remittances of money as often as he could afford; and at much inconvenience and pecuniary sacrifice, he established the family of his brother-in-law on a farm in the States. He was sober even to abstinence; and was guided in all his transactions by correct Christian principles. In person, he was remarkably handsome; his countenance was intelligent, and his eye sparkling. He never attained riches, but few Scotsmen have left more splendid memorials of their indomitable perseverance.[42] FOOTNOTES:

[41] The "Songs of Scotland," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247.

[42] The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume published under the following title:--"The Poetical Works of Alexander Wilson; also, his Miscellaneous Prose Writings, Journals, Letters, Essays, &c., now first Collected: Illustrated by Critical and Explanatory Notes, with an extended Memoir of his Life and Writings, and a Glossary." Belfast, 1844, 18vo. A portrait of the author is prefixed.

CONNEL AND FLORA.

Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main, Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again; Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore, But Connel returns to his Flora no more.

For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death, O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath; While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore, He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep, Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep! There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar, I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.

MATILDA.

Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep, Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main, Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep, And cease while ye hear me complain.

For distant, alas! from my dear native shore, And far from each friend now I be; And wide is the merciless ocean that roars Between my Matilda and me.

How blest were the times when together we stray'd, While Phoebe shone silent above, Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side, And talk'd the whole evening of love!

Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace, Nor noise could our pleasures annoy, Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze, That soothed us to love and to joy.

If haply some youth had his passion express'd, And praised the bright charms of her face, What horrors unceasing revolved though my breast, While, sighing, I stole from the place!

For where is the eye that could view her alone, The ear that could list to her strain, Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own, Nor double the pangs I sustain?

Thou moon, that now brighten'st those regions above, How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss, While breathing my tender expressions of love, I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss!

Ah, then, how I joy'd while I gazed on her charms! What transports flew swift through my heart! I press'd the dear, beautiful maid in my arms, Nor dream'd that we ever should part.

But now from the dear, from the tenderest maid, By fortune unfeelingly torn; 'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad, In secret I wander forlorn.

And oft, while drear Midnight assembles her shades, And Silence pours sleep from her throne, Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal through the glades, And sigh, 'midst the darkness, my moan.

In vain to the town I retreat for relief, In vain to the groves I complain; Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er soothe my grief, And solitude nurses my pain.

Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best, I languish in mis'ry and care; Her presence could banish each woe from my heart, But her absence, alas! is despair.

Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep; Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main-- Oh, shelter me under your cliffs while I weep, And cease while ye hear me complain!

Far distant, alas! from my dear native shore, And far from each friend now I be; And wide is the merciless ocean that roars Between my Matilda and me.

AUCHTERTOOL.[43]

From the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee, And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free, Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full, To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.

Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd, Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd; The road I explored out, without form or rule, Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.

At length I arrived at the edge of the town, As Phoebus, behind a high mountain, went down; The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul, And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Auchtertool.

An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired, But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fired; For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool, "I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."

With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride; But, asking, was told there was none else beside, Except an old weaver, who now kept a school, And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.

To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapp'd at the door; He oped, but as soon as I dared to implore, He shut it like thunder, and utter'd a howl That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.

Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode, Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road; Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl, My wrath I 'll vent forth upon old Auchtertool.

[43] We have ventured to omit three verses, and to alter slightly the last line of this song. It was originally published at Paisley, in 1790, to the tune of "One bottle more." Auchtertool is a small hamlet in Fifeshire, about five miles west of the town of Kirkcaldy. The inhabitants, whatever may have been their failings at the period when Wilson in vain solicited shelter in the hamlet, are certainly no longer entitled to bear the reproach of lacking in hospitality. We rejoice in the opportunity thus afforded of testifying as to the disinterested hospitality and kindness which we have experienced in that neighbourhood.

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN.

Carolina Oliphant was born in the old mansion of Gask, in the county of Perth, on the 16th of July 1766. She was the third daughter and fifth child of Laurence Oliphant of Gask, who had espoused his cousin Margaret Robertson, a daughter of Duncan Robertson of Struan, and his wife a daughter of the fourth Lord Nairn. The Oliphants of Gask were cadets of the formerly noble house of Oliphant; whose ancestor, Sir William Oliphant of Aberdalgie, a puissant knight, acquired distinction in the beginning of the fourteenth century by defending the Castle of Stirling against a formidable siege by the first Edward. The family of Gask were devoted Jacobites; the paternal grandfather of Carolina Oliphant had attended Prince Charles Edward as aid-de-camp during his disastrous campaign of 1745-6, and his spouse had indicated her sympathy in his cause by cutting out a lock of his hair on the occasion of his accepting the hospitality of the family mansion. The portion of hair is preserved at Gask; and Carolina Oliphant, in her song, "The Auld House," has thus celebrated the gentle deed of her progenitor:--

"The Leddy too, sae genty, There shelter'd Scotland's heir, An' clipt a lock wi' her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair."

The estate of Gask escaped forfeiture, but the father of Carolina did not renounce the Jacobite sentiments of his ancestors. He named the subject of this memoir Carolina, in honour of Prince Charles Edward; and his prevailing topic of conversation was the reiterated expression of his hope that "the king would get his ain." He would not permit the names of the reigning monarch and his queen to be mentioned in his presence; and when impaired eyesight compelled him to seek the assistance of his family in reading the newspapers, he angrily reproved the reader if the "German lairdie and his leddy" were designated otherwise than by the initial letters, "K. and Q." This extreme Jacobitism at a period when the crime was scarcely to be dreaded, was reported to George III., who is related to have confessed his respect for a man who had so consistently maintained his political sentiments.

In her youth, Carolina Oliphant was singularly beautiful, and was known in her native district by the poetical designation of "The Flower of Strathearn." She was as remarkable for the precocity of her intellect, as she was celebrated for the elegance of her person. Descended by her mother from a family which, in one instance,[44] at least, had afforded some evidence of poetical talents, and possessed of a correct musical ear, she very early composed verses for her favourite melodies. To the development of her native genius, her juvenile condition abundantly contributed: the locality of her birthplace, rich in landscape scenery, and associated with family traditions and legends of curious and chivalric adventure, might have been sufficient to promote, in a mind less fertile than her own, sentiments of poesy. In the application of her talents she was influenced by another incentive. A loose ribaldry tainted the songs and ballads which circulated among the peasantry, and she was convinced that the diffusion of a more wholesome minstrelsy would essentially elevate the moral tone of the community. Thus, while still young, she commenced to purify the older melodies, and to compose new songs, which were ultimately destined to occupy an ample share of the national heart. The occasion of an agricultural dinner in the neighbourhood afforded her a fitting opportunity of making trial of her success in the good work which she had begun. To the president of the meeting she sent, anonymously, her verses entitled "The Ploughman;" and the production being publicly read, was received with warm approbation, and was speedily put to music. She was thus encouraged to proceed in her self-imposed task; and to this early period of her life may be ascribed some of her best lyrics. "The Laird o' Cockpen," and "The Land o' the Leal," at the close of the century, were sung in every district of the kingdom.

Carolina Oliphant had many suitors for her hand: she gave a preference to William Murray Nairn, her maternal cousin, who had been Baron Nairn, barring the attainder of the title on account of the Jacobitism of the last Baron. The marriage was celebrated in June 1806. At this period, Mr Nairn was Assistant Inspector-General of Barracks in Scotland, and held the rank of major in the army. By Act of Parliament, on the 17th June 1824, the attainder of the family was removed, the title of Baron being conferred on Major Nairn. This measure is reported to have been passed on the strong recommendation of George IV.; his Majesty having learned, during his state visit to Scotland in 1822, that the song of "The Attainted Scottish Nobles" was the composition of Lady Nairn. The song is certainly one of the best apologies for Jacobitism.

On the 9th of July 1830, Lady Nairn was bereaved of her husband, to whom she had proved an affectionate wife. Her care had for several years been assiduously bestowed on the proper rearing of her only child William, who, being born in 1808, had reached his twenty-second year when he succeeded to the title on the death of his father. This young nobleman warmly reciprocated his mother's affectionate devotedness; and, making her the associate of his manhood, proved a source of much comfort to her in her bereavement. In 1837, he resolved, in her society, to visit the Continent, in the hope of being recruited by change of climate from an attack of influenza caught in the spring of that year. But the change did not avail; he was seized with a violent cold at Brussels, which, after an illness of six weeks, proved fatal. He died in that city on the 7th of December 1837. Deprived both of her husband and her only child, a young nobleman of so much promise, and of singular Christian worth, Lady Nairn, though submitting to the mysterious dispensations with becoming resignation, did not regain her wonted buoyancy of spirit. Old age was rapidly approaching,--those years in which the words of the inspired sage, "I have no pleasure in them," are too frequently called forth by the pressure of human infirmities. But this amiable lady did not sink under the load of affliction and of years: she mourned in hope, and wept in faith. While the afflictions which had mingled with her cup of blessings tended to prevent her lingering too intently on the past,[45] the remembrance of a life devoted to deeds of piety and virtue was a solace greater than any other earthly object could impart, leading her to hail the future with sentiments of joyful anticipation. During the last years of her life, unfettered by worldly ties, she devoted all her energies to the service of Heaven, and to the advancement of Christian truth. Her beautiful ode, "Would you be young again?" was composed in 1842, and enclosed in a letter to a friend; it is signally expressive of the pious resignation and Christian hope of the author.

After the important era of her marriage, she seems to have relinquished her literary ardour. But in the year 1821, Mr Robert Purdie, an enterprising music-seller in Edinburgh, having resolved to publish a series of the more approved national songs, made application to several ladies celebrated for their musical skill, with the view of obtaining their assistance in the arrangement of the melodies. To these ladies was known the secret of Lady Nairn's devotedness to Scottish song, enjoying as they did her literary correspondence and private intimacy; and in consenting to aid the publisher in his undertaking, they calculated on contributions from their accomplished friend. They had formed a correct estimate: Lady Nairn, whose extreme diffidence had hitherto proved a barrier to the fulfilment of the best wishes of her heart, in effecting the reformation of the national minstrelsy, consented to transmit pieces for insertion, on the express condition that her name and rank, and every circumstance connected with her history, should be kept in profound secrecy. The condition was carefully observed; so that, although the publication of "The Scottish Minstrel" extended over three years, and she had several personal interviews and much correspondence with the publisher and his editor, Mr R. A. Smith, both these individuals remained ignorant of her real name. She had assumed the signature, "B. B.," in her correspondence with Mr Purdie, who appears to have been entertained by _the discovery_, communicated in confidence, that the name of his contributor was "Mrs Bogan of Bogan;" and by this designation he subsequently addressed her. The _nom de guerre_ of the two B.'s[46] is attached to the greater number of Lady Nairn's contributions in "The Scottish Minstrel."

The new collection of minstrelsy, unexceptionable as it was in the words attached to all the airs, commanded a wide circulation, and excited general attention. The original contributions were especially commended, and some of them were forthwith sung by professed vocalists in the principal towns. Much speculation arose respecting the authorship, and various conjectures were supported, each with plausible arguments, by the public journalists. In these circumstances, Lady Nairn experienced painful alarm, lest, by any inadvertence on the part of her friends, the origin of her songs should be traced. While the publication of the "Minstrel" was proceeding, her correspondents received repeated injunctions to adopt every caution in preserving her _incognita_; she was even desirous that her sex might not be made known. "I beg the publisher will make no mention of a _lady_," she wrote to one of her correspondents, "as you observe, the more mystery the better, and _still_ the balance is in favour of the lords of creation. I cannot help, in some degree, undervaluing beforehand what is said to be a feminine production." "The Scottish Minstrel" was completed in 1824, in six royal octavo volumes, forming one of the best collections of the Scottish melodies. It was in the full belief that "Mrs Bogan" was her real name, that the following compliment was paid to Lady Nairn by Messrs Purdie and R. A. Smith, in the advertisement to the last volume of the work:--"In particular, the editors would have felt happy in being permitted to enumerate the many original and beautiful verses that adorn their pages, for which they are indebted to the author of the much-admired song, 'The Land o' the Leal;' but they fear to wound a delicacy which shrinks from all observation."

Subsequent to the appearance of "The Scottish Minstrel," Lady Nairn did not publish any lyrics; and she was eminently successful in preserving her _incognita_. No critic ventured to identify her as the celebrated "B. B.," and it was only whispered among a few that she had composed "The Land o' the Leal." The mention of her name publicly as the author of this beautiful ode, on one occasion, had signally disconcerted her. While she was resident in Paris, in 1842, she writes to an intimate friend in Edinburgh on this subject:--"A Scottish lady here, Lady----, with whom I never met in Scotland, is so good as, among perfect strangers, to _denounce_ me as the origin of 'The Land o' the Leal!' I cannot trace it, but very much dislike as ever any kind of publicity." The extreme diffidence and shrinking modesty of the amiable author continued to the close of her life; she never divulged, beyond a small circle of confidential friends, the authorship of a single verse. The songs published in her youth had been given to others; but, as in the case of Lady Anne Barnard, these assignments caused her no uneasiness. She experienced much gratification in finding her simple minstrelsy supplanting the coarse and demoralising rhymes of a former period; and this mental satisfaction she preferred to fame.

The philanthropic efforts of Lady Nairn were not limited to the purification of the national minstrelsy; her benevolence extended towards the support of every institution likely to promote the temporal comforts, or advance the spiritual interests of her countrymen. Her contributions to the public charities were ample, and she

"Did good by stealth, and blush'd to find it fame."

In an address delivered at Edinburgh, on the 29th of December 1845, Dr Chalmers, referring to the exertions which had been made for the supply of religious instruction in the district of the West Port of Edinburgh, made the following remarks regarding Lady Nairn, who was then recently deceased:--"Let me speak now as to the countenance we have received. I am now at liberty to mention a very noble benefaction which I received about a year ago. Inquiry was made at me by a lady, mentioning that she had a sum at her disposal, and that she wished to apply it to charitable purposes; and she wanted me to enumerate a list of charitable objects, in proportion to the estimate I had of their value. Accordingly, I furnished her with a scale of about five or six charitable objects. The highest in the scale were those institutions which had for their design the Christianising of the people at home; and I also mentioned to her, in connexion with the Christianising at home, what we were doing at the West Port; and there came to me from her, in the course of a day or two, no less a sum than £300. She is now dead; she is now in her grave, and her works do follow her. When she gave me this noble benefaction, she laid me under strict injunctions of secrecy, and, accordingly, I did not mention her name to any person; but after she was dead, I begged of her nearest heir that I might be allowed to proclaim it, because I thought that her example, so worthy to be followed, might influence others in imitating her; and I am happy to say that I am now at liberty to state that it was Lady Nairn of Perthshire. It enabled us, at the expense of £330, to purchase sites for schools, and a church; and we have got a site in the very heart of the locality, with a very considerable extent of ground for a washing-green, a washing-house, and a play-ground for the children, so that we are a good step in advance towards the completion of our parochial economy."

After the death of her son, and till within two years of her own death, Lady Nairn resided chiefly on the Continent, and frequently in Paris. Her health had for several years been considerably impaired, and latterly she had recourse to a wheeled chair. In the mansion of Gask, on the 27th of October 1845, she gently sunk into her rest, at the advanced age of seventy-nine years.

Some years subsequent to this event, it occurred to the relatives and literary friends of the deceased Baroness that as there could no longer be any reason for retaining her _incognita_, full justice should be done to her memory by the publication of a collected edition of her works. This scheme was partially executed in an elegant folio, entitled "Lays from Strathearn: by Carolina, Baroness Nairn. Arranged with Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Pianoforte, by Finlay Dun." It bears the imprint of London, and has no date. In this work, of which a new edition will speedily be published by Messrs Paterson, music-sellers, Edinburgh, are contained seventy songs, but the larger proportion of the author's lyrics still remain in MS. From her representatives we have received permission to select her best lyrics for the present work, and to insert several pieces hitherto unpublished. Of the lays which we have selected, several are new versions to old airs; the majority, though unknown as the compositions of Lady Nairn, are already familiar in the drawing-room and the cottage. For winning simplicity, graceful expression, and exquisite pathos, her compositions are especially remarkable; but when her muse prompts to humour, the laugh is sprightly and overpowering.

In society, Lady Nairn was reserved and unassuming. Her countenance, naturally beautiful, wore, in her mature years, a somewhat pensive cast; and the characteristic by which she was known consisted in her enthusiastic love of music. It may be added, that she was fond of the fine arts, and was skilled in the use of the pencil.

[44] Robertson of Struan, cousin-german of Lady Nairn's mother, and a conspicuous Jacobite chief, composed many fugitive verses for the amusement of his friends; and a collection of them, said to have been surreptitiously obtained from a servant, was published, without a date, under the following title:--"Poems on various Subjects and Occasions, by the Honourable Alexander Robertson of Struan, Esq.--mostly taken from his own original Manuscripts." Edinburgh, 8vo.

[45] Writing to one of her correspondents, in November 1840, Lady Nairn thus remarks--"I sometimes say to myself, 'This is no me,' so greatly have my feelings and trains of thought changed since 'auld lang syne;' and, though I am made to know assuredly that all is well, I scarcely dare to allow my mind to settle on the past."

[46] A daughter of Baron Hume was one of the ladies who induced Lady Nairn to become a contributor to "The Scottish Minstrel." Many of the songs were sent to the Editor through the medium of Miss Hume. She thus expresses herself in a letter to a friend:--"My father's admiration of 'The Land o' the Leal' was such, that he said no woman but Miss Ferrier was capable of writing it. And when I used to shew him song after song in MS., when I was receiving the anonymous verses for the music, and ask his criticism, he said--'Your unknown poetess has only _one_, or rather _two_, letters out of taste, viz., choosing "B. B." for her signature.'"

THE PLEUGHMAN.[47]

There 's high and low, there 's rich and poor, There 's trades and crafts enew, man; But, east and west, his trade 's the best, That kens to guide the pleugh, man. Then, come, weel speed my pleughman lad, And hey my merry pleughman; Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the pleughman.

His dreams are sweet upon his bed, His cares are light and few, man; His mother's blessing 's on his head, That tents her weel, the pleughman. Then, come, weel speed, &c.

The lark, sae sweet, that starts to meet The morning fresh and new, man; Blythe though she be, as blythe is he That sings as sweet, the pleughman. Then, come, weel speed, &c.

All fresh and gay, at dawn of day Their labours they renew, man; Heaven bless the seed, and bless the soil, And Heaven bless the pleughman. Then, come, weel speed, &c.

[47] This seems to have been the author's first composition in Scottish verse. See the Memoir.

CALLER HERRIN'.[48]

Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Wha 'll buy caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dream'd ye ought o' our puir 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 brought here without brave daring; Buy my caller herrin', Haul'd thro' wind and rain. Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'! Wives and mithers, maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men. Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces. Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

Caller herrin 's no got lightlie; Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin'. Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin', When the bonny fish ye 're sellin', At ae word be in yer dealin'-- Truth will stand when a' thing 's failin'. Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

[48] This song has acquired an extensive popularity, for which it is much indebted, in addition to its intrinsic merits, to the musical powers of the late John Wilson, the eminent vocalist, whose premature death is a source of regret to all lovers of Scottish melody. Mr Wilson sung this song in every principal town of the United Kingdom, and always with effect.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.[49]

I 'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John; I 'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There 's nae sorrow there, John; There 's neither cauld nor care, John; The day 's aye fair I' the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, John; She was baith gude and fair, John; And, oh! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrows sel' wears past, John, And joy 's a-comin' fast, John-- The joy that 's aye to last In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Oh, dry your glist'ning e'e, John! My saul langs to be free, John; And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal.

Oh, haud ye leal and true, John! Your day it 's wearin' thro', John; And I 'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now, fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John; We 'll meet, and we 'll be fain, In the land o' the leal.

[49] This exquisitely tender and beautiful lay was composed by Lady Nairn, for two married relatives of her own, Mr and Mrs C----, who had sustained bereavement in the death of a child. Such is the account of its origin which we have received from Lady Nairn's relatives.

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN.[50]

The Laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's great, His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashious 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 lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude as new; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat, And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the gray mare, and rade cannily-- And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; "Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine, "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, And 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'.

Dumbfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gie; He mounted his mare--he rade cannily; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.

And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh! for ane I 'll get better, it 's waur I 'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there 's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.

[50] This humorous and highly popular song was composed by Lady Nairn towards the close of the last century, in place of the older words connected with the air, "When she came ben, she bobbit." The older version, which is entitled "Cockpen," is exceptional on the score of refinement, but was formerly sung on account of the excellence of the air. It is generally believed to be a composition of the reign of Charles II.; and the hero of the piece, "the Laird of Cockpen," is said to have been the companion in arms and attached friend of his sovereign. Of this personage an anecdote is recorded in some of the Collections. Having been engaged with his countrymen at the battle of Worcester, in the cause of Charles, he accompanied the unfortunate monarch to Holland, and, forming one of the little court at the Hague, amused his royal master by his humour, and especially by his skill in Scottish music. In playing the tune, "Brose and Butter," he particularly excelled; it became the favourite of the exiled monarch, and Cockpen had pleasure in gratifying the royal wish, that he might be lulled to sleep at night, and awakened in the morning by this enchanting air. At the Restoration, Cockpen found that his estate had been confiscated for his attachment to the king, and had the deep mortification to discover that he had suffered on behalf of an ungrateful prince, who gave no response to his many petitions and entreaties for the restoration of his possessions. Visiting London, he was even denied an audience; but he still entertained a hope that, by a personal conference with the king, he might attain his object. To accomplish this design, he had recourse to the following artifice:--He formed acquaintance with the organist of the chapel-royal, and obtained permission to officiate as his substitute when the king came to service. He did so with becoming propriety till the close of the service, when, instead of the solemn departing air, he struck up the monarch's old favourite, "Brose and Butter." The scheme, though bordering on profanity, succeeded in the manner intended. The king proceeding hastily to the organ-gallery, discovered Cockpen, whom he saluted familiarly, declaring that he had "almost made him dance." "I could dance too," said Cockpen, "if I had my lands again." The request, to which every entreaty could not gain a response, was yielded to the power of music and old association. Cockpen was restored to his inheritance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss Ferrier, the accomplished author of "Marriage," and other popular novels. She only contributed the last two stanzas. The present Laird of Cockpen is the Marquis of Dalhousie.

HER HOME SHE IS LEAVING.

AIR--_"Mordelia."_

In all its rich wildness, her home she is leaving, In sad and tearful silence grieving, And still as the moment of parting is nearer, Each long cherish'd object is fairer and dearer. Not a grove or fresh streamlet but wakens reflection Of hearts still and cold, that glow'd with affection; Not a breeze that blows over the flowers of the wild wood, But tells, as it passes, how blest was her childhood.

And how long must I leave thee, each fond look expresses, Ye high rocky summits, ye ivy'd recesses! How long must I leave thee, thou wood-shaded river, The echoes all sigh--as they whisper--for ever! Tho' the autumn winds rave, and the seared leaves fall, And winter hangs out her cold icy pall-- Yet the footsteps of spring again ye will see, And the singing of birds--but they sing not for me.

The joys of the past, more faintly recalling, Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling, And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow, Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow. Hope dawns--and the toils of life's journey beguiling, The path of the mourner is cheer'd with its smiling; And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre, Where parting is never--nor sorrow can enter.

THE BONNIEST LASS IN A' THE WARLD.

The bonniest lass in a' the warld, I 've often heard them telling, She 's up the hill, she 's down the glen, She 's in yon lonely dwelling. But nane could bring her to my mind Wha lives but in the fancy, Is 't Kate, or Shusie, Jean, or May, Is 't Effie, Bess, or Nancy?

Now lasses a' keep a gude heart, Nor e'er envy a comrade, For be your een black, blue, or gray, Ye 're bonniest aye to some lad. The tender heart, the charming smile, The truth that ne'er will falter, Are charms that never can beguile, And time can never alter.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O![51]

Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O? Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O? Gin ye'll tak heart, and gang wi' me, Mishap will never steer ye, O; Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O!

There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O! There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O! Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws-- Let them gang tapsle teerie, O! It 's walth o' peace, o' love, and truth, My ain kind dearie, O!

[51] The first two lines of this song are borrowed from the "Lea-Rig," a lively and popular lyric, of which the first two verses were composed by Robert Fergusson, the three remaining being added by William Reid of Glasgow. (See _ante_, article "William Reid.")

HE'S LIFELESS AMANG THE RUDE BILLOWS.

AIR--_"The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."_

He 's lifeless amang the rude billows, My tears and my sighs are in vain; The heart that beat warm for his Jeanie, Will ne'er beat for mortal again. My lane now I am i' the warld, And the daylight is grievous to me; The laddie that lo'ed me sae dearly Lies cauld in the deeps o' the sea.

Ye tempests, sae boist'rously raging, Rage on as ye list--or be still; This heart ye sae often hae sicken'd, Is nae mair the sport o' your will. Now heartless, I hope not--I fear not,-- High Heaven hae pity on me! My soul, tho' dismay'd and distracted, Yet bends to thy awful decree.

JOY OF MY EARLIEST DAYS.

AIR--_"I'll never leave thee."_

Joy of my earliest days, Why must I grieve thee? Theme of my fondest lays, Oh, I maun leave thee! Leave thee, love! leave thee, love! How shall I leave thee? Absence thy truth will prove, For, oh! I maun leave thee!

When on yon mossy stane, Wild weeds o'ergrowin', Ye sit at e'en your lane, And hear the burn rowin'; Oh! think on this partin' hour, Down by the Garry, And to Him that has a' the pow'r, Commend me, my Mary!

OH, WEEL'S ME ON MY AIN MAN.

AIR--_"Landlady count the lawin'."_

Oh, weel's me on my ain man, My ain man, my ain man! Oh, weel's me on my ain gudeman! He 'll aye be welcome hame.

I 'm wae I blamed him yesternight, For now my heart is feather light; For gowd I wadna gie the sight; I see him linking ower the height. Oh, weel's me on my ain man, &c.

Rin, Jamie, bring the kebbuck ben, And fin' aneath the speckled hen; Meg, rise and sweep about the fire, Syne cry on Johnnie frae the byre. For weel's me on my ain man, My ain man, my ain man! For weel's me on my ain gudeman! I see him linkin' hame.

KIND ROBIN LOE'S ME.[52]

Robin is my ain gudeman, Now match him, carlins, gin ye can, For ilk ane whitest thinks her swan, But kind Robin lo'es me. To mak my boast I 'll e'en be bauld, For Robin lo'ed me young and auld, In summer's heat and winter's cauld, My kind Robin lo'es me.

Robin he comes hame at e'en Wi' pleasure glancin' in his e'en; He tells me a' he 's heard and seen, And syne how he lo'es me. There 's some hae land, and some hae gowd, Mair wad hae them gin they could, But a' I wish o' warld's guid, Is Robin still to lo'e me.

[52] The author seems to have composed these stanzas as a sequel to a wooing song of the same name, beginning, "Robin is my only jo," which first appeared in Herd's Collection in 1776. There are some older words to the same air, but these are coarse, and are not to be found in any of the modern Collections.

KITTY REID'S HOUSE.

AIR--_"Country Bumpkin."_

Hech, hey! the mirth that was there, The mirth that was there, The mirth that was there; Hech, how! the mirth that was there, In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo! There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee, In Kitty's Reid's house, in Kitty Reid's house, There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee, In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!

Hech, hey! the fright that was there, The fright that was there, The fright that was there; Hech, how! the fright that was there, In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo! The light glimmer'd in through a crack i' the wa', An' a'body thocht the lift it wad fa', And lads and lasses they soon ran awa' Frae Kitty's Reid's house on the green, Jo!

Hech, hey! the dule that was there, The dule that was there, The dule that was there; The birds and beasts it wauken'd them a', In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo! The wa' gaed a hurley, and scatter'd them a', The piper, the fiddler, auld Kitty, and a'; The kye fell a routin', the cocks they did craw, In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!

THE ROBIN'S NEST.

AIR--_"Lochiel's awa' to France."_

Their nest was in the leafy bush, Sae soft and warm, sae soft and warm, And Robins thought their little brood All safe from harm, all safe from harm. The morning's feast with joy they brought, To feed their young wi' tender care; The plunder'd leafy bush they found, But nest and nestlings saw nae mair.

The mother cou'dna leave the spot, But wheeling round, and wheeling round, The cruel spoiler aim'd a shot, Cured her heart's wound, cured her heart's wound. She will not hear their helpless cry, Nor see them pine in slavery! The burning breast she will not bide, For wrongs of wanton knavery.

Oh! bonny Robin Redbreast, Ye trust in men, ye trust in men, But what their hard hearts are made o', Ye little ken, ye little ken. They 'll ne'er wi' your wee skin be warm'd, Nor wi' your tiny flesh be fed, But just 'cause you 're a living thing, It 's sport wi' them to lay you dead.

Ye Hieland and ye Lowland lads, As birdies gay, as birdies gay, Oh, spare them, whistling like yoursel's, And hopping blythe from spray to spray! Their wings were made to soar aloft, And skim the air at liberty; And as you freedom gi'e to them, May you and yours be ever free!

SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?[53]

Saw ye nae my Peggy? Saw ye nae my Peggy? Saw ye nae my Peggy comin' Through Tillibelton's broom? I 'm frae Aberdagie, Ower the crafts o' Craigie, For aught I ken o' Peggie, She 's ayont the moon.

'Twas but at the dawin', Clear the cock was crawin', I saw Peggy cawin' Hawky by the brier. Early bells were ringin', Blythest birds were singin', Sweetest flowers were springin', A' her heart to cheer.

Now the tempest's blawin', Almond water 's flowin', Deep and ford unknowin', She maun cross the day. Almond waters, spare her, Safe to Lynedoch bear her! Its braes ne'er saw a fairer, Bess Bell nor Mary Gray.

Oh, now to be wi' her! Or but ance to see her Skaithless, far or near, I 'd gie Scotland's crown. Byeword, blind 's a lover-- Wha 's yon I discover? Just yer ain fair rover, Stately stappin' down.

[53] Another song with the same title, "Saw ye nae my Peggy?" is inserted in the Collections. It first appeared in Herd's Collection, in 1769, though it is understood to be of a considerably older date. Allan Ramsay composed two songs to the same air, but they are both inferior. The air is believed to have originally been connected with some exceptionable words, beginning, "Saw ye my Maggie?"

GUDE NICHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'!

The best o' joys maun hae an end, The best o' friends maun part, I trow; The langest day will wear away, And I maun bid fareweel to you. The tear will tell when hearts are fu', For words, gin they hae sense ava, They 're broken, faltering, and few: Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

Oh, we hae wander'd far and wide, O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell! And mony a simple flower we 've pu'd, And twined it wi' the heather-bell. We 've ranged the dingle and the dell, The cot-house, and the baron's ha'; Now we maun tak a last farewell: Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

My harp, fareweel! thy strains are past, Of gleefu' mirth, and heartfelt care; The voice of song maun cease at last, And minstrelsy itsel' decay. But, oh! whar sorrow canna win, Nor parting tears are shed ava', May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin, And joy for aye be wi' us a'!

CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.[54]

There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen, There 's castocks in Strabogie; And morn and e'en, they 're blythe and bein, That haud them frae the cogie. Now, haud ye frae the cogie, lads; O bide ye frae the cogie! I 'll tell ye true, ye 'll never rue, O' passin' by the cogie.

Young Will was braw and weel put on, Sae blythe was he and vogie; And he got bonnie Mary Don, The flower o' a' Strabogie. Wha wad hae thocht, at wooin' time, He 'd e'er forsaken Mary, And ta'en him to the tipplin' trade, Wi' boozin' Rob and Harry?

Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat, She scarce could lift the ladle; Wi' pithless feet, 'tween ilka greet, She 'd rock the borrow'd cradle. Her weddin' plenishin' was gane, She never thocht to borrow: Her bonnie face was waxin' wan-- And Will wrought a' the sorrow.

He 's reelin' hame ae winter's nicht, Some later than the gloamin'; He 's ta'en the rig, he 's miss'd the brig, And Bogie 's ower him foamin'. Wi' broken banes, out ower the stanes, He creepit up Strabogie; And a' the nicht he pray'd wi' micht, To keep him frae the cogie.

Now Mary's heart is light again-- She 's neither sick nor silly; For auld or young, nae sinfu' tongue, Could e'er entice her Willie; And aye the sang through Bogie rang-- "O had ye frae the cogie; The weary gill 's the sairest ill On braes o' fair Strabogie."

[54] This excellent ballad is the fourth version adapted to the air, "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Some notice of the three former will be found _ante_, p. 46.

HE'S OWER THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.

He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, He 's ower the hills we daurna name; He 's ower the hills ayont Dunblane, Wha soon will get his welcome hame.

My father's gane to fight for him, My brithers winna bide at hame; My mither greets and prays for them, And 'deed she thinks they 're no to blame. He 's ower the hills, &c.

The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer; But, ah! that love maun be sincere Which still keeps true whate'er betide, An' for his sake leaves a' beside. He 's ower the hills, &c.

His right these hills, his right these plains; Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns; What lads e'er did our laddies will do; Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too. He 's ower the hills, &c.

Sae noble a look, sae princely an air, Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair; Oh, did ye but see him, ye 'd do as we've done! Hear him but ance, to his standard you 'll run. He 's ower the hills, &c.

Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight; For your country, religion, and a' that is right; Were ten thousand lives now given to me, I 'd die as aft for ane o' the three. He 's ower the hills, &c.

THE LASS O' GOWRIE.[55]

AIR--_"Loch Erroch Side."_

'Twas on a summer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed down, A lassie, wi' a braw new gown, Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie. The rose-bud, wash'd in summer's shower, Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie.

To see her cousin she cam' there, An', oh, the scene was passing fair! For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie? The sun was setting on the Tay, The blue hills melting into gray; The mavis' and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.

Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd! An' truth and constancy had vow'd, But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed, Until she saw fair Gowrie. I pointed to my faither's ha', Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw; Wad she no bide in Gowrie?

Her faither was baith glad and wae; Her mither she wad naething say; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet, The blush and tear were on her cheek; She naething said, an' hung her head; But now she's Leddy Gowrie.

[55] There are several other versions of this highly popular song. One of these, the composition of William Reid of Glasgow, has already been adduced. See _ante_, p. 157. Another, which is one of the most celebrated, in the first two verses is nearly the same with the opening stanzas of Lady Nairn's version, the sequel proceeding as follows:--

I praised her beauty loud an' lang, Then round her waist my arms I flang, And said, "My dearie, will ye gang To see the Carse o' Gowrie?

"I'll tak ye to my father's ha', In yon green field beside the shaw; I'll mak you lady o' them a'-- The brawest wife in Gowrie."

Soft kisses on her lips I laid, The blush upon her cheek soon spread; She whisper'd modestly, and said, "I'll gang wi' you to Gowrie."

The auld folks soon ga'e their consent, Syne for Mess John they quickly sent, Wha tied them to their heart's content, And now she's Lady Gowrie.

Mr Lyle, in his "Ancient Ballads and Songs" (Lond. 1827, 12mo, p. 138), presents an additional version, which we subjoin. Mr Lyle remarks, that he had revised it from an old stall copy, ascribed to Colonel James Ramsay of Stirling Castle.

THE BONNIE LASS O' GOWRIE.

A wee bit north frae yon green wood, Whar draps the sunny showerie, The lofty elm-trees spread their boughs, To shade the braes o' Gowrie; An' by yon burn ye scarce can see, There stan's a rustic bowerie, Whar lives a lass mair dear to me Than a' the maids in Gowrie.

Nae gentle bard e'er sang her praise, 'Cause fortune ne'er left dowrie; The rose blaws sweetest in the shade, So does the flower o' Gowrie. When April strews her garlands roun', Her bare foot treads the flowerie; Her sang gars a' the woodlands ring, That shade the braes o' Gowrie.

Her modest blush an' downcast e'e, A flame sent beating through me; For she surpasses all I've seen, This peerless flower o' Gowrie. I've lain upon the dewy green Until the evening hourie, An' thought gin e'er I durst ca' mine The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.

The bushes that o'erhang the burn, Sae verdant and sae flowerie, Can witness that I love alane The bonnie lass o' Gowrie. Let ithers dream an' sigh for wealth, An' fashions fleet and flowery; Gi'e me that heav'nly innocence Upon the braes o' Gowrie.

THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH.[56]

There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard, And white are the blossoms o't in our kail-yard, Like wee bit white cockauds to deck our Hieland lads, And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.

An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie, An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie, Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me, Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie.

"But were they a' true that were far awa? Oh! were they a' true that were far awa'? They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha', And forgot auld frien's that were far awa.

"Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye 've been, Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green; Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha', And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'."

"I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green, I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean, Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa', And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'."

* * * * *

The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard; The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard; A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill, And the bloom 's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.

[56] The present is an amended version of an old song, entitled "The Bonnie Brier Bush," altered and added to by Burns for the "Musical Museum."

JOHN TOD.

He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod, He 's a terrible man, John Tod; He scolds in the house, He scolds at the door, He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod, He scolds on the vera hie road.

The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The weans a' fear John Tod; When he 's passing by, The mithers will cry,-- Here 's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod, Here 's an ill wean, John Tod.

The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The callants a' fear John Tod; If they steal but a neep, The callant he 'll whip, And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod, It 's unco weel done o' John Tod.

An' saw ye nae wee John Tod, John Tod? Oh, saw ye nae wee John Tod? His bannet was blue, His shoon maistly new, An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod, Oh, weel does he keep the kirk road.

How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod? How is he wendin', John Tod? He 's scourin' the land, Wi' his rung in his hand, An' the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod, An' the French wadna frighten John Tod.

Ye 're sun-brunt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod Ye 're tantit and tatter'd, John Tod; Wi' your auld strippit coul, Ye look maist like a fule, But there 's nouse i' the lining,[57] John Tod, John Tod, But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod.

He 's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod, He 's weel respeckit, John Tod; He 's a terrible man, But we 'd a' gae wrang If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod, If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod.

[57] A familiar Scottish phrase for good sense.

WILL YE NO COME BACK AGAIN?

Bonnie Charlie 's now awa', Safely ower the friendly main; Mony a heart will break in twa Should he ne'er come back again. Will ye no come back again? Will ye no come back again? Better lo'ed ye canna be-- Will ye no come back again?

Ye trusted in your Hieland men, They trusted you, dear Charlie! They kent your hiding in the glen, Death or exile braving. Will ye no, &c.

English bribes were a' in vain, Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be; Siller canna buy the heart That beats aye for thine and thee. Will ye no, &c.

We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray; Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e, Oh, there is none that wad betray! Will ye no, &c.

Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang, Lilting wildly up the glen; But aye to me he sings ae sang, Will ye no come back again? Will ye no, &c.

JAMIE THE LAIRD.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_

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 singin', an' still he will craw, An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava. Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e, In body or mind, nae fau't can she see; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny 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 bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee, His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee; He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he, A dafter-like body I never did see. An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein', When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein'; Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation, I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation. An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.

An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun, An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun. Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say, "I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae, Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie, Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie." I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury-- I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury. For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.

Freen's! gi'e your advice!--I 'll follow your counsel-- Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council, Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say, For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae. The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin', For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin'; The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin', For I 'll no put up wi' her nor 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 bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND.

AIR--_"Happy Land."_

Songs of my native land, To me how dear! Songs of my infancy, Sweet to mine ear! Entwined with my youthful days, Wi' the bonny banks and braes, Where the winding burnie strays, Murmuring near.

Strains of my native land, That thrill the soul, Pouring the magic of Your soft control! Often has your minstrelsy Soothed the pang of misery, Winging rapid thoughts away To realms on high.

Weary pilgrims _there_ have rest, Their wand'rings o'er; There the slave, no more oppress'd, Hails Freedom's shore. Sin shall then no more deface, Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease, Ending in eternal peace, And songs of joy!

There, when the seraphs sing, In cloudless day; There, where the higher praise The ransom'd pay. Soft strains of the happy land, Chanted by the heavenly band, Who can fully understand How sweet ye be!

CASTELL GLOOM.[58]

Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone, The green grass o'er thee growin'; On hill of _Care_ thou art alone, The _Sorrow_ round thee flowin'. Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's Nae banners now are streamin', The houlet flits amang thy ha's, And wild birds there are screamin'. Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime, Frae civil war that flows; Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, And mourn the great Montrose.

Here ladies bright were aften seen, Here valiant warriors trod; And here great Knox has aften been, Wha fear'd nought but his God! But a' are gane! the guid, the great, And naething now remains, But ruin sittin' on thy wa's, And crumblin' down the stanes. Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow, Though sleepin' was the sun; But mornin's light did sadly show, What ragin' flames had done. Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud, That hung o'er thy wild wood! Thou wert like beauty in a shroud, And all was solitude. Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

[58] Castle Gloom, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burnt by the Marquis of Montrose--an enterprise to which he was excited by the Ogilvies, who thus sought revenge for the destruction, by the Marquis of Argyll, of the "bonnie house of Airlie." The castle is situated on a promontory of the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannanshire, and has long been in the ruinous condition described in the song. Two hill rivulets, designated _Sorrow_ and _Care_, proceed on either side of the castle promontory. John Knox, the Reformer, for some time resided in Castle Gloom, with Archibald, fourth Earl of Argyll, and here preached the Reformed doctrines.

BONNIE GASCON HA'.

Lane, on the winding Earn there stands An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld, Biggit by lang forgotten hands, Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.

Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd And rived thy gray disjaskit wa', But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!

Oh, may a muse unkent to fame For this dim greesome relic sue, It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name, The truest Scotland ever knew.

Just leave in peace each mossy stane Tellin' o' nations' rivalry, An' for succeeding ages hain Remains o' Scottish chivalry.

* * * * *

What though no monument to thee Is biggit by thy country's hand; Engraved are thy immortal deeds On every heart o' this braid land.

Rude Time may monuments ding doun, An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay; Enduring, deathless, noble chief, Thy name can never pass away!

Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,-- Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee; In every cave, wood, hill, and glen, "WALLACE" remember'd aye shall be.

THE AULD HOUSE.

Oh, the auld house, the auld house! What though the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu' o' glee! The wild-rose and the jesamine Still hang upon the wa'; How mony cherish'd memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird! Sae canty, kind, and crouse; How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house! And the leddy too, sae genty, There shelter'd Scotland's heir, And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair.

The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The blue bells sweetly blaw, The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. The auld house, the auld house, Deserted though ye be, There ne'er can be a new house, Will seem sae fair to me.

Still flourishing the auld pear tree The bairnies liked to see, And oh, how aften did they speir When ripe they a' wad be! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin' here and there, The merry shout--oh! whiles we greet To think we 'll hear nae mair.

For they are a' wide scatter'd now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas! to her lang hame; Not here we 'll meet again. The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird, Wi' flowers o' every hue, Shelter'd by the holly's shade, An' the dark sombre yew.

The setting sun, the setting sun, How glorious it gaed down; The cloudy splendour raised our hearts To cloudless skies aboon! The auld dial, the auld dial, It tauld how time did pass; The wintry winds hae dung it down,-- Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.

THE HUNDRED PIPERS.[59]

AIR--_"Hundred Pipers."_

Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw, Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. It is ower the border, awa', awa', It is ower the border, awa', awa', Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha', Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.

Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw, Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a', Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear, An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear. Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen? Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men? Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae, An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away. Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.

Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'? Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw? Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a', Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. His bannet and feather, he 's waving high, His prancin' steed maist seems to fly; The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair, While the pipers blaw up an unco flare! Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.

The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep, But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep; Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground, An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound. Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a', Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw, Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa', Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.

[59] "Charles Edward entered Carlisle preceded by a hundred pipers. Two thousand Highlanders crossed the Esk, at Longtown; the tide being swollen, nothing was seen of them but their heads and shoulders; they stemmed the force of the stream, and lost not a man in the passage: when landed, the pipers struck up, and they danced reels until they were dry again."--_Authentic Account of Occupation of Carlisle, by George G. Monsey._

THE WOMEN ARE A' GANE WUD.[60]

The women are a' gane wud, Oh, that he had biden awa'! He 's turn'd their heads, the lad, And ruin will bring on us a'. George was a peaceable man, My wife she did doucely behave; But now dae a' that I can, She 's just as wild as the lave.

My wife she wears the cockade, Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae, She has a true friend in her maid, And they ne'er mind a word that I say. The wild Hieland lads as they pass, The yetts wide open do flee; They eat the very house bare, And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.

I 've lived a' my days in the Strath Now Tories infest me at hame, And tho' I tak nae side at a', Baith sides will gae me the blame. The senseless creturs ne'er think What ill the lad wad bring back; The Pope we 'd hae, and the d--l, And a' the rest o' his pack.

[60] These verses are printed from a MS. in possession of one of Lady Nairn's friends, and are, the Editor believes, for the first time published.

JEANIE DEANS.[61]

St Leonard's hill was lightsome land, Where gowan'd grass was growin', For man and beast were food and rest, And milk and honey flowin'. A father's blessing follow'd close, Where'er her foot was treading, And Jeanie's humble, hamely joys On every side were spreading wide, On every side were spreading.

The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat, St Anthon's well aye springin'; The lammies playing at her feet, The birdies round her singin'. The solemn haunts o' Holyrood, Wi' bats and hoolits eerie, The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury, The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62] The lowly wells o' Weary.

But evil days and evil men, Came ower their sunny dwellin', Like thunder-storms on sunny skies, Or wastefu' waters swellin'. What aince was sweet is bitter now, The sun of joy is setting; In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee, The briny tear is wetting fast, The briny tear is wetting.

Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent, In faithful supplication; Her earthly stay 's Macallummore, The guardian o' the nation. A hero's heart--a sister's love-- A martyr's truth unbending; They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid-- And she is gane, her leefu' lane, To Lunnon toun she 's wending!

[61] The romantic scenery depicted in this song is in the immediate vicinity of the Queen's Drive, Edinburgh.

[62] The wells of Weary are situated near the Windyknowe, beneath Salisbury Crags.

THE HEIRESS.[63]

GAELIC AIR--_"Mo Leannan Falnich."_

I 'll no be had for naething, I 'll no be had for naething, I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing, So ye needna follow me. Oh, the change is most surprising, Last year I was plain Betty Brown, Now to me they 're a' aspiring,-- The fair Elizabeth I am grown!

What siller does is most amazing, Nane o' them e'er look'd at me, Now my charms they a' are praising, For my sake they 're like to dee. The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor, Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree; Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention-- Oh, surely this is no me! But I 'll no, &c.

The yett is now for ever ringing, Showers o' valentines aye bringing, Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts, Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts. The siller, O the weary siller! Aft in toil and trouble sought, But better far it should be sae, Than that true hearts should e'er be bought. Sae I 'll no, &c.

But there is ane, when I had naething, A' his heart he gi'ed to me; And sair he toil'd for a wee thing, To bring me when he cam frae sea. If ever I should marry ony, He will be the lad for me; For he was baith gude and bonny, And he thought the same o' me. Sae I 'll no, &c.

[63] This song is printed from an improved version of the original, by a literary friend of the author.

THE MITHERLESS LAMMIE.

The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie, We tentit it kindly by night and by day, The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't, Its food was the gowan--its music was "_mai_."

Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better, But it would gae witless the world to see; The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not, Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.

Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it, Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly; He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie, And left its kind hame the wide world to try.

We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in', Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree, Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin'; 'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.

THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES.[64]

Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains, To tell o' hame-made sorrow, And if they cheat you o' your tears, They 'll dry upon the morrow. Oh, some will sing their airy dreams, In verity they're sportin', My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes, But wakin' true misfortune.

Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a', For loyalty attainted, A nameless bardie 's wae to see Your sorrows unlamented; For if your fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, Ye 're down the day that might hae been At the top o' honour's tree a'.

For old hereditary right, For conscience' sake they stoutly stood; And for the crown their valiant sons Themselves have shed their injured blood; And if their fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, They 're down the day that might hae been At the top o' honour's tree a'.

[64] This song having become known to George IV., it is said to have induced his Majesty to award the royal sanction for the restitution of the title of Baron to Lady Nairn's husband.--(See Memoir.)

TRUE LOVE IS WATERED AYE WI' TEARS.[65]

True love is water'd aye wi' tears, It grows 'neath stormy skies, It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fears An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs. Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound, Oh! wha the heart can buy? The titled glare, the warldling's care, Even absence 'twill defy, Even absence 'twill defy.

And time, that kills a' ither things, His withering touch 'twill brave, 'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief, 'Twill live beyond the grave! 'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep, In true heart's memorie-- Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair, Sae bricht, sae young, could dee, Sae young could dee.

Unfeeling hands may touch the chord Where buried griefs do lie-- How many silent agonies May that rude touch untie! But, oh! I love that plaintive lay-- That dear auld melodie! For, oh, 'tis sweet!--yet I maun greet, For it was sung by thee, Sung by thee!

They may forget wha lichtly love, Or feel but beauty's chain; But they wha loved a heavenly mind Can never love again! A' my dreams o' warld's guid Aye were turn'd wi' thee, But I leant on a broken reed Which soon was ta'en frae me, Ta'en frae me.

'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna ken What we may live to see, 'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veil O'er sad futurity! Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven, Wha feel the warld is vain, Oh, fix your broken earthly ties Where they ne'er will break again, Break again!

[65] Here first printed.

AH, LITTLE DID MY MOTHER THINK.[66]

Ah, little did my mother think When to me she sung, What a heartbreak I would be, Her young and dautit son.

And oh! how fond she was o' me In plaid and bonnet braw, When I bade farewell to the north countrie, And marching gaed awa!

Ah! little did my mother think A banish'd man I 'd be, Sent frae a' my kith and kin, Them never mair to see.

Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drap Aft ye did gi'e to me, That has brought a' this misery Baith to you and me.

[66] These verses are here first printed.

WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?[67]

AIR--_"Ailen Aroon."_

Would you be young again? So would not I-- One tear to memory given, Onward I 'd hie. Life's dark flood forded o'er, All but at rest on shore, Say, would you plunge once more, With home so nigh?

If you might, would you now Retrace your way? Wander through stormy wilds, Faint and astray? Night's gloomy watches fled, Morning all beaming red, Hope's smiles around us shed, Heavenward--away.

Where, then, are those dear ones, Our joy and delight? Dear and more dear though now Hidden from sight. Where they rejoice to be, There is the land for me; Fly, time, fly speedily; Come, life and light.

[67] This song was composed in 1842, when the author had attained her seventy-sixth year. The four lays following, breathing the same devotional spirit, appear to have been written about the same period of the author's life. The present song is printed from the original MS.

REST IS NOT HERE.

What 's this vain world to me? Rest is not here; False are the smiles I see, The mirth I hear. Where is youth's joyful glee? Where all once dear to me? Gone, as the shadows flee-- Rest is not here.

Why did the morning shine Blythely and fair? Why did those tints so fine Vanish in air? Does not the vision say, Faint, lingering heart, away, Why in this desert stay-- Dark land of care!

Where souls angelic soar, Thither repair; Let this vain world no more Lull and ensnare. That heaven I love so well Still in my heart shall dwell; All things around me tell Rest is found there.

HERE'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE.

AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel."_

Here 's to them, to them that are gane; Here 's to them, to them that are gane; Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear, That will never be here again--no, never. But where are they now that are gane? Oh, where are the faithful and true? They 're gane to the light that fears not the night, An' their day of rejoicing shall end--no, never.

Here 's to them, to them that were here; Here 's to them, to them that were here; Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by, But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last--for ever. Oh, bright was their morning sun! Oh, bright was their morning sun! Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down; But the storm and the cloud are now past--for ever.

Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad; Oh, how sad the last parting tear! But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek Can bedim the bright vision again--no, never. Then, speed to the wings of old Time, That waft us where pilgrims would be; To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest, Where the full tide of glory shall flow--for ever.

FAREWEEL, O FAREWEEL!

GAELIC AIR.

Fareweel, O fareweel! My heart it is sair; Fareweel, O fareweel! I 'll see him nae mair.

Lang, lang was he mine, Lang, lang--but nae mair; I mauna repine, But my heart it is sair.

His staff 's at the wa', Toom, toom is his chair! His bannet, an' a'! An' I maun be here!

But oh! he 's at rest, Why sud I complain? Gin my soul be blest, I 'll meet him again.

Oh, to meet him again, Where hearts ne'er were sair! Oh, to meet him again, To part never mair!

THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.[68]

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But weep not for him who is gone to his rest, Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest. The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie-- Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow, Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord, Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But give to the living thy passion of tears Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears, Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost, By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd. Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more, Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er; Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord, And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.

[68] These stanzas are printed for the first time. The MS. is not in Lady Nairn's handwriting, but there is every reason to assign to her the authorship.

JAMES NICOL.

James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769. Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued study with unflinching assiduity and success. On completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of Innerleithen; and on the death of the incumbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses to the _Edinburgh Magazine_; and he afterwards published a collection of "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo. This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of that immortal bard.

At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement. He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS., in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed a number of articles to the _Edinburgh Encyclopædia_, among which are "Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.

Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November 1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.

BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.

Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur, Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree; 'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer, The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e. For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander, Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!

Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish? Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair? When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!-- That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair? Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream, Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme, Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin', Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.

BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN' STREAM.

By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam, Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e; Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour, When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.

The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made, When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie; An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray, An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.

Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales, An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree; Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice, For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!

When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang, An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e, My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear? But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.

Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power, To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee! Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home, The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.

But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear, Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree; For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again, Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.

HALUCKIT MEG.

Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang; Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire, While loud as a lavrock she sang. Her Geordie had promised to marry, An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair, Not dreamin' the job could miscarry, Already seem'd mistress an' mair.

"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me, An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg, An' say they expect soon to hear me, I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg. An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter, An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca' An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter, He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.

"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle, That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he 's crazie, His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa'; Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy, For fient a hair has he ava'.

"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie, An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist, An' if siller comes at my wordie, His beauty I never will miss 't. Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder, Think love-raptures ever will burn? But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder, Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures, A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear, He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser, He likes his saul less than his gear. But though I now flatter his failin', An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare, Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin', His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot, A flunkie ahint me in green; While Geordie cried out he was harriet, An' the saut tear was blindin' his een. But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye, I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn; Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie; Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin', Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks; An' whan a' his failin's she brang in, His strang hazel pikestaff he taks, Designin' to rax her a lounder, He chanced on the lather to shift, An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder, Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!

MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.

My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter? My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still; I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better, Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill! My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin', I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak; I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin', Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.

Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of, And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try-- Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why. When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't, And never grew weary the lang simmer day; The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit, And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie, 'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou'; Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye-- My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how. When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on; And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be! There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

James Montgomery, the spiritual character of whose writings has gained him the honourable designation of the Christian Poet, was born at Irvine, in the county of Ayr, on the 4th of November 1771. His father, John Montgomery, was a missionary of the Moravian Brethren, and in this capacity came to Irvine from Ireland, only a few days before the birth of James, his eldest son. In his fourth year he returned to Ireland with his parents, and received the rudiments of his education from the village schoolmaster of Grace Hill, a settlement of the Moravian Brethren in the county of Antrim. In October 1777, in his seventh year, he was placed by his father in the seminary of the Moravian settlement of Fulneck, near Leeds; and on the departure of his parents to the West Indies, in 1783, he was committed to the care of the Brethren, with the view of his being trained for their Church. He was not destined to see his parents again. His mother died at Barbadoes, in November 1790, and his father after an interval of eight months.

In consequence of his indolent habits, which were incorrigible, young Montgomery was removed from the seminary at Fulneck, and placed in the shop of a baker at Mirfield, in the vicinity. He was then in his sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidence of a refined taste, both in poetry and music, though careless of the ordinary routine of scholastic instruction, his new occupation was altogether uncongenial to his feelings. He, however, remained about eighteen months in the baker's service, but at length made a hasty escape from Mirfield, with only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, and seemingly without any scheme except that of relieving himself from an irksome employment. But an accidental circumstance speedily enabled him to obtain an engagement with a shopkeeper in Wath, now a station on the railway between London and Leeds; and in procuring this employment, he was indebted to the recommendation of his former master, whose service he had unceremoniously quitted. But this new situation had few advantages over the old, and he relinquished it in about a year to try his fortune in the metropolis. He had previously sent a manuscript volume of poetry to Harrison, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, who, while declining to publish it, commended the author's talents, and so far promoted his views as now to receive him into his establishment. But Montgomery's aspirations had no reference to serving behind a counter; he only accepted a place in the bookseller's establishment that he might have an opportunity of leisurely feeling his way as an author. His literary efforts, however, still proved fruitless. He composed essays and tales, and wrote a romance in the manner of Fielding, but none of his productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he quitted London in eight months, and returned to the shop of his former employer at Wath. After the interval of another year, he proceeded to Sheffield, to occupy a situation under Mr Joseph Gales, a bookseller, and the proprietor of the _Register_ newspaper.

Montgomery was now in his twenty-first year, and fortune at length began, though with many lowering intervals, to smile upon his youthful aspirations. Though he occupied a subordinate post in Mr Gales' establishment, his literary services were accepted for the _Register_, in which he published many of his earlier compositions, both in prose and verse. This journal had advocated sentiments of an ultra-liberal order, and commanding a wide circulation and a powerful influence among the operatives in Sheffield, had been narrowly inspected by the authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of sympathising in the transactions of the French revolutionists; he was prosecuted for sedition, and deemed himself only safe from compulsory exile by a voluntary exit to America. This event took place about two years after Montgomery's first connexion with Sheffield, and he had now reverted to his former condition of abject dependence unless for a fortunate occurrence. This was no less than his being appointed joint-proprietor and editor of the newspaper by a wealthy individual, who, noticing the abilities of the young shopman, purchased the copyright with the view of placing the management entirely in his hands.

The first number of the newspaper under the poet's care, the name being changed to that of _The Sheffield Iris_, appeared in July 1794; and though the principles of the journal were moderate and conciliatory in comparison with the democratic sentiments espoused by the former publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new conductor. He did not escape their vigilance; for the simple offence of printing for a ballad-vender some verses of a song celebrating the fall of the Bastile, he was libelled as "a wicked, malicious, seditious, and evil-disposed person;" and being tried before the Doncaster Quarter Sessions, in January 1795, was sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the Castle of York. He was condemned to a second imprisonment of six months in the autumn of the same year, for inserting in his paper an account of a riot in the place, in which he was considered to have cast aspersions on a colonel of volunteers. The calm mind of the poet did not sink under these persecutions, and some of his best lyrics were composed during the period of his latter confinement. During his first detention he wrote a series of interesting essays for his newspaper. His "Prison Amusements," a series of beautiful pieces, appeared in 1797. In 1805, he published his poem, "The Ocean;" in 1806, "The Wanderer in Switzerland;" in 1808, "The West Indies;" and in 1812, "The World before the Flood." In 1819 he published "Greenland, a Poem, in Five Cantos;" and in 1825 appeared "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." Of all those productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious criticism in the _Edinburgh Review_, at once procured an honourable place for the author among his contemporaries. He became sole proprietor of the _Iris_ in one year after his being connected with it, and he continued to conduct this paper till September 1825, when he retired from public duty. He subsequently contributed articles for different periodicals; but he chiefly devoted himself to the moral and religious improvement of his fellow-townsmen. A pension of £150 on the civil list was conferred upon him as an acknowledgment of his services in behalf of literature and of philanthropy; a well-merited public boon which for many years he was spared to enjoy. He died at his residence, The Mount, Sheffield, on the 30th of April 1854, in the eighty-second year of his age. He bequeathed handsome legacies to various public charities. His Poetical Works, in a collected form, were published in 1850 by the Messrs Longman, in one octavo volume; and in 1853 he gave to the world his last work, being "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Copious memoirs of his life are now in the course of publication.

As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his versification, and for the fervent piety pervading all his compositions. As a man, he was gentle and conciliatory, and was remarkable as a generous promoter of benevolent institutions. The general tendency of his poems was thus indicated by himself, in the course of an address which he made at a public dinner, given him at Sheffield, in November 1825, immediately after the toast of his health being proposed by the chairman, Lord Viscount Milton, now Earl Fitzwilliam:--

"I sang of war--but it was the war of freedom, in which death was preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;' extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang of love--the love of country, the love of my own country; for,

'Next to heaven above, Land of my fathers! thee I love; And, rail thy slanderers as they will, With all thy faults I love thee still.'

I sang, likewise, the love of home--its charities, endearments and relationships--all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, who _is_ love. Nor did I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language is spoken--from America, the East and West Indies, from New Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves--I have received testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers, hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch--the voice of posterity."

"FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH."

When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound Among a band of brothers, The cup of joy goes gaily round, Each shares the bliss of others. Sweet roses grace the thorny way Along this vale of sorrow; The flowers that shed their leaves to-day Shall bloom again to-morrow. How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

On halcyon wings our moments pass, Life's cruel cares beguiling; Old Time lays down his scythe and glass, In gay good-humour smiling: With ermine beard and forelock gray, His reverend part adorning, He looks like Winter turn'd to May, Night soften'd into Morning. How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

From these delightful fountains flow Ambrosial rills of pleasure; Can man desire, can Heaven bestow, A more resplendent treasure? Adorn'd with gems so richly bright, Will form a constellation, Where every star, with modest light, Shall gild its proper station. How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth-- The loveliest land on the face of the earth? When shall I those scenes of affection explore, Our forests, our fountains, Our hamlets, our mountains, With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore? Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?

When shall I return to that lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,-- The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call, My father, my mother, My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all? Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?-- 'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

GERMAN WAR-SONG.[69]

Heaven speed the righteous sword, And freedom be the word; Come, brethren, hand in hand, Fight for your fatherland.

Germania from afar Invokes her sons to war; Awake! put forth your powers, And victory must be ours.

On to the combat, on! Go where your sires have gone; Their might unspent remains, Their pulse is in our veins.

On to the battle, on! Rest will be sweet anon; The slave may yield, may fly,-- We conquer, or we die!

O Liberty! thy form Shines through the battle-storm. Away with fear, away! Let justice win the day.

[69] The simple and sublime original of these stanzas, with the fine air by Hümmel, became the national song of Germany, and was sung by the soldiers especially, during the latter campaigns of the war, when Buonaparte was twice dethroned, and Europe finally delivered from French predominance.

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

Night turns to day:-- When sullen darkness lowers, And heaven and earth are hid from sight, Cheer up, cheer up; Ere long the opening flowers, With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.

Storms die in calms:-- When over land and ocean Roll the loud chariots of the wind, Cheer up, cheer up; The voice of wild commotion, Proclaims tranquillity behind.

Winter wakes spring:-- When icy blasts are blowing O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees, Cheer up, cheer up; All beautiful and glowing, May floats in fragrance on the breeze.

War ends in peace:-- Though dread artillery rattle, And ghostly corses load the ground, Cheer up, cheer up; Where groan'd the field of battle, The song, the dance, the feast, go round.

Toil brings repose:-- With noontide fervours beating, When droop thy temples o'er thy breast, Cheer up, cheer up; Gray twilight, cool and fleeting, Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

Death springs to life:-- Though brief and sad thy story, Thy years all spent in care and gloom, Look up, look up; Eternity and glory Dawn through the portals of the tomb.

VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST, WHICH VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.

Welcome, pretty little stranger! Welcome to my lone retreat! Here, secure from every danger, Hop about, and chirp, and eat: Robin! how I envy thee, Happy child of Liberty!

Now, though tyrant Winter, howling, Shakes the world with tempests round, Heaven above with vapours scowling, Frost imprisons all the ground: Robin! what are these to thee? Thou art bless'd with liberty.

Though yon fair majestic river[70] Mourns in solid icy chains, Though yon flocks and cattle shiver On the desolated plains: Robin! thou art gay and free, Happy in thy liberty.

Hunger never shall disturb thee, While my rates one crumb afford; Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee; Come and share my humble board: Robin! come and live with me-- Live, yet still at liberty.

Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes, Steal upon the blooming year; Then, amid the enamour'd bushes, Thy sweet song shall warble clear: Then shall I, too, join with thee-- Swell the hymn of Liberty.

Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin, In this iron-hearted age, Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin, And confine thee in a cage, Then, poor prisoner! think of me-- Think, and sigh for liberty.

[70] The Ouse.

SLAVERY THAT WAS.

Ages, ages have departed, Since the first dark vessel bore Afric's children, broken-hearted, To the Caribbéan shore; She, like Rachel, Weeping, for they were no more.

Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd, In the fight and on the deep; Millions, millions more have water'd, With such tears as captives weep, Fields of travail, Where their bones till doomsday sleep.

Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading, Rent her garments, smote her breast, Till a voice from Heaven proceeding, Gladden'd all the gloomy west,-- "Come, ye weary, Come, and I will give you rest!"

Tidings, tidings of salvation! Britons rose with one accord, Purged the plague-spot from our nation, Negroes to their rights restored; Slaves no longer, _Freemen,--freemen_ of the _Lord_.

ANDREW SCOTT.

Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication--a counsel which induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in 1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work, entitled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe.

The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills, the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however, experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence, extended towards him countenance and assistance.

Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle, or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the office of schoolmaster of that parish.

The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing: his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden, and has been pronounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was modest and unassuming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable specimens of his muse.[71]

[71] We have to acknowledge our obligations for several particulars of this sketch to Mr Robert Bower, Melrose, the author of a volume of "Ballads and Lyrics," published at Edinburgh in 1853.

RURAL CONTENT; OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_

I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land, And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't, And I hae servants at my command, And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't. My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door, And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r, To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.

Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share, It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't; I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair, And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies, I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please, Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas, And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.

My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill, And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't, And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill, Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't; And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days, My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes, And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze, While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride, But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't, How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride, Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't. In blue worset boots that my auld mither span, I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan, And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.

Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae-- My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?-- In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae, I dink me to try the ridin' o't. Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear, And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear, And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear, I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.

Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird, My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't; My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard, And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't. Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet, Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.

And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw, Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't, And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha', Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't. My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me, The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be, Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee, And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.

And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing, My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't; He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring, And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't. And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw, The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw, Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa, Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.

And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn, My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn, And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't, On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply, And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye, Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy, Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.

Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks, Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't, Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks, Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't: For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent, The seasons row round us in rural content; We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent, And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

SYMON AND JANET.

AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Whare muircocks and plivers are rife, For mony lang towmond thegither, There lived an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation, The twasome they seldom were mute; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin', To lock in the door was her care; She seein' our signals a-blazin', Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.

"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit! Gae look man, and slip on your shoon; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"

"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa', "Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin'," Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.

"Our youngest son 's in the militia, Our eldest grandson 's volunteer: O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks shall appear."

His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun; His bullets he put in the other, That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!" And teughly she hang by his tails.

"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares, For now to be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."

Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot! Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead; This aught days I tentit a pyot Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.

"And yesterday, workin' my stockin', And you wi' the sheep on the hill, A muckle black corbie sat croakin'; I kend it foreboded some ill."

"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty, For ere the next sun may gae down, Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown?"

"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee, I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead, And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."

Syne aff in a fury he stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun; At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled, Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.

There footmen and yeomen paradin', To scour aff in dirdum were seen, Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin' The briny saut tears frae their een.

Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon, And to the commander he gaes; Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man, And help ye to lounder our faes.

"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire, Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash, And, fegs, if my gun winna fire, I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."

"Well spoken, my hearty old hero," The captain did smiling reply, But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow, Till daylight should glent in the sky.

Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething; Sae Symon, and Janet his dame, Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed bannin' the French again hame.

COQUET WATER.

AIR--_"Braw Lads of Gala Water."_

Whan winter winds forget to blaw, An' vernal suns revive pale nature, A shepherd lad by chance I saw, Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.

Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays, His Mary's charms an' matchless feature, While echoes answer'd frae the braes, That skirt the banks of Coquet water.

"Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine," Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her; An' deem mysel' as happy syne, As landit laird on Coquet water.

"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam, In foreign lands their fortune fritter; But love's pure joys be mine at home, Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.

"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I, Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better; Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy, Tending my flocks by Coquet water.

"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream, For on thy banks aft hae I met her; Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam, That busk the banks of Coquet water."

THE YOUNG MAID'S WISH FOR PEACE.

AIR--_"Far frae Hame," &c._

Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease, An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace; Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea, Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.

My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main, An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain; But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me, That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.

When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break, An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake; Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be, An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.

Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore, Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar; In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee, Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.

Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war, An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar: But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity, First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.

An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry! On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie, Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea, Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.

Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done! An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won; On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily, An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.

But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land, When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be, An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.

THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW.

There was a musician wha play'd a good stick, He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle, An' in his profession he had right good luck At bridals his elbow to diddle.

But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die, As a' men to dust must return; An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e, That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.

Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat, Lamenting the day that she saw, An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat, That silent now hang on the wa'.

Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek, Sae newly weel washen wi' tears, As in came a younker some comfort to speak, Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.

"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms, Consent but to marry me now, I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms, An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."

The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said, "Dear sir, to dissemble I hate, If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed, Folks needna contend against fate."

He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung, An' put a' the thairms in tune, The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung, For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.

Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay, For death still the dearest maun sever; For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay, An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF.

He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest, Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest: We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver, Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.

Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray, Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory; And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara, His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.

When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed, Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded, Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest, Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.

Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding, Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding, Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,-- Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.

Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted-- The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed-- Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever, Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.

THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.

Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining, I sigh, for thy exit is near; Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining, Who now presses hard on thy rear.

The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning, Droop sick as they nod on the lea; The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morning Shrill warbles his song from the tree.

Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow, No warbler to lend her a lay, No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow, As wont for to welcome the day.

Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley, Each landscape how pensive its mien! They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily, And losing their liv'ry of green.

O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions, To where purer streamlets still flow, Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions, Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

Sir Walter Scott, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771. His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his mother's side his progenitors were likewise highly respectable: his maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of the uncommon attribute of genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When scarcely two years old he was seized with an illness which deprived him of the proper use of his right limb, a loss which continued during his life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside with his paternal grandfather, Robert Scott, who rented the farm of Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, in Roxburghshire. Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant; but he had afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness, he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve months, without experiencing benefit from the mineral waters. During the three following years he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border legends, chiefly derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a person of a romantic inclination and sprightly intelligence. At this period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in Ramsay's "Evergreen," were his favourite studies; and he took delight in reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages, or verses, to his mother, who sought every incentive to stimulate his native propensity. In 1778 he was sent to the High School, where he possessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able scholar, and Dr Adam, the distinguished rector. His progress in scholarship was not equal to his talents; he was already a devotee to romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend to some quiet spot in the country, to relate or to listen to a fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the prescribed tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, the love of miscellaneous literature, especially the works of the great masters of fiction, amounted to a passion; and as his memory was singularly tenacious, he accumulated a great extent and variety of miscellaneous information.

On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to reside with some relations at Kelso; and in this interesting locality his growing attachment to the national minstrelsy and legendary lore received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh he entered the University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in October 1793. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the High School, insomuch that Mr Dalziel, the professor of Greek, was induced to give public expression as to his hopeless incapacity. The professor fortunately survived to make ample compensation for the rashness of his prediction.

The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were entirely directed to a military life; but his continued lameness interposed an insuperable difficulty, and was a source of deep mortification. He was at length induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities, entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his aspirations, he was chiefly reconciled by the consideration that his fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books.

Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the second year of his apprenticeship. While precluded from active duty, being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by speaking, he was still allowed to read; a privilege which accelerated his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he was recommended exercise on horseback; and in obeying the instructions of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself generally familiar with localities and scenes famous in Scottish story. On the restoration of his health, he at length became seriously engaged in the study of law for several continuous years, and, after the requisite examinations, was admitted as an advocate, on the 10th of July 1792, when on the point of attaining his twenty-first year.

In his twelfth year, Scott had composed some verses for his preceptor and early friend Dr Adam, which afforded promise of his future excellence. But he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in prose wore a stiff formality. On being called to the bar, he at first carefully refrained, according to his own statement, from claiming the honour of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose that his habits were unsuitable to a due attention to the duties of his profession. He was relieved of dependence on professional employment by espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman, possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaintance he had formed at Gilsland, a watering-place in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of £300 a year. While he continued in his father's office he had made himself familiar with the French and Italian languages, and had read many of their more celebrated authors, especially the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after he came to the bar, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis, whose friendship he had recently acquired. In 1796 he made his first adventure as an author by publishing translations of "Lenoré," and "The Wild Huntsman" of Bürger. The attempt proved unsuccessful; but, undismayed, he again essayed his skill in translation by publishing, in 1799, an English version of Goëthe's "Goetz of Berlichingen." His success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.

Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of the Scottish borders, which had only been preserved by the recitations of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The independence of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, a wild pastoral district on the Scottish border, anciently peopled by the noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions; and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information, partly communicated to him by intelligent correspondents, he gave to the world, in 1802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume, consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and others. These volumes issued from the printing-press of his early friend and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards so justly celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of "Sir Tristrem;" and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the Rhymer. He published in 1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of £600.

The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. In the year following that which produced the "Lay," he received his appointment as a principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards brought him £1200 a-year. To literary occupation he now resolved to dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced "Marmion," his second great poem, which brought him £1000 from the publisher, and at once established his fame. During the same year he completed the heavy task of editing the works of Dryden, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he edited the state papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a contributor to the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, conducted by Southey. "The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his poetical works, appeared in 1810; "Don Roderick," in 1811; "Rokeby," in 1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless," and "The Bridal of Triermain," appeared subsequently, without the author's name.

As a poet, Scott had now attained a celebrity unrivalled among his contemporaries, and it was in the apprehension of compromising his reputation, that, in attempting a new species of composition, he was extremely anxious to conceal the name of the author. The novel of "Waverley," which appeared in 1814, did not, however, suffer from its being anonymous; for, although the sale was somewhat heavy at first, the work soon afterwards reached the extraordinary circulation of twelve thousand copies. Contrary to reasonable expectation, however, the author of "Waverley" did not avow himself, and, numerous as was the catalogue of prose fictions which, for more than twenty years, proceeded from his pen, he continued as desirous of retaining his secret as were his female contemporaries, Lady Nairn and Lady Anne Barnard, to cast a veil over their poetical character. The rapidity with which the "Great Unknown" produced works of fiction, was one of the marvels of the age; and many attempts were made to withdraw the curtain which concealed the mysterious author. Successive years produced at least one, and often two, novels of a class infinitely superior to the romances of the past age, all having reference to the manners and habits of the most interesting and chivalrous periods of Scottish or British history, which, in these works, were depicted with a power and vivacity unattained by the most graphic national historians. Subsequently to the publication of "Guy Mannering" and "The Antiquary," in 1815 and 1816, and as an expedient to sustain the public interest, Scott commenced a new series of novels, under the title of "Tales of my Landlord," these being professedly written by a different author; but this resort was abandoned as altogether unnecessary for the contemplated object. Each successive romance by the author of "Waverley" awakened renewed ardour and enthusiasm among the public, and commanded a circulation commensurate with the bounds in which the language was understood. Many of them were translated into the various European languages. In the year 1814 he had published an edition of the works of Swift, in nineteen volumes octavo.

For some years after his marriage, Scott had occupied a cottage in the romantic vicinity of Lasswade, near Edinburgh; but in 1804 he removed to Ashestiel, an old mansion, beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed, seven miles above Selkirk, where, for several years, he continued to reside during the vacation of the Court. The ruling desire of his life was, that by the proceeds of his intellectual labour he might acquire an ample demesne, with a suitable mansion of his own, and thus in some measure realise in his own person, and in those of his representatives, somewhat of the territorial importance of those olden barons, whose wassails and whose feuds he had experienced delight in celebrating. To attain such distinction as a Scottish _laird_, or landholder, he was prepared to incur many sacrifices; nor was this desire exceeded by regard for literary reputation. It was unquestionably with a view towards the attainment of his darling object, that he taxed so severely those faculties with which nature had so liberally endowed him, and exhibited a prolificness of authorship, such as has rarely been evinced in the annals of literary history. In 1811 he purchased, on the south bank of the Tweed, near Melrose, the first portion of that estate which, under the name of Abbotsford, has become indelibly associated with his history. The soil was then a barren waste, but by extensive improvements the place speedily assumed the aspect of amenity and beauty. The mansion, a curious amalgamation, in questionable taste, of every species of architecture, was partly built in 1811, and gradually extended with the increasing emoluments of the owner. By successive purchases of adjacent lands, the Abbotsford property became likewise augmented, till the rental amounted to about £700 a-year--a return sufficiently limited for an expenditure of upwards of £50,000 on this favourite spot.

At Abbotsford the poet maintained the character of a wealthy country gentleman. He was visited by distinguished persons from the sister kingdom, from the Continent, and from America, all of whom he entertained in a style of sumptuous elegance. Nor did his constant social intercourse with his visitors and friends interfere with the regular prosecution of his literary labours: he rose at six, and engaged in study and composition till eleven o'clock. During the period of his residence in the country, he devoted the remainder of the day to his favourite exercise on horseback, the superintendence of improvements on his property, and the entertainment of his guests. In March 1820, George IV., to whom he was personally known, and who was a warm admirer of his genius, granted to him the honour of a baronetcy, being the first which was conferred by his Majesty after his accession. Prior to this period, besides the works already enumerated, he had given to the world his romances of "The Black Dwarf," "Old Mortality," "Rob Roy," "The Heart of Midlothian," "The Bride of Lammermoor," "A Legend of Montrose," and "Ivanhoe." The attainment of the baronetcy appears to have stimulated him to still greater exertion. In 1820 he produced, besides "Ivanhoe," which appeared in the early part of that year, "The Monastery" and "The Abbot;" and in the beginning of 1821, the romance of "Kenilworth," being twelve volumes published within the same number of months. "The Pirate" and "The Fortunes of Nigel" appeared in 1822; "Peveril of the Peak" and "Quentin Durward," in 1823; "St Ronan's Well" and "Redgauntlet," in 1824; and "The Tales of the Crusaders," in 1825.

During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter undertook the congenial duty of acting as Master of Ceremonies, which he did to the entire satisfaction of his sovereign and of the nation. But while prosperity seemed to smile with increasing brilliancy, adversity was hovering near. In 1826, Archibald Constable and Company, the famous publishers of his works, became insolvent, involving in their bankruptcy the printing firm of the Messrs Ballantyne, of which Sir Walter was a partner. The liabilities amounted to the vast sum of £102,000, for which Sir Walter was individually responsible. To a mind less balanced by native intrepidity and fortified by principle, the apparent wreck of his worldly hopes would have produced irretrievable despondency; but Scott bore his misfortune with magnanimity and manly resignation. He had been largely indebted to both the establishments which had unfortunately involved him in their fall, in the elegant production of his works, as well as in respect of pecuniary accommodation; and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal obligation, fully to discharge the debt. He declined to accept an offer of the creditors to be satisfied with a composition; and claiming only to be allowed time, applied himself with indomitable energy to his arduous undertaking, at the age of fifty-five, in the full determination, if his life was spared, of cancelling every farthing of his obligations. At the crisis of his embarrassments he was engaged in the composition of "Woodstock," which shortly afterwards appeared. The "Life of Napoleon," which had for a considerable time occupied his attention, was published in 1827, in nine vols. octavo. In the course of its preparation he had visited both London and Paris in search of materials. In the same year he produced "Chronicles of the Canongate," _first series_; and in the year following, the second series of those charming tales, and the first portion of his juvenile history of Scotland, under the title of "Tales of a Grandfather." A second portion of these tales appeared in 1829, and the third and concluding series in 1830, when he also contributed a graver History of Scotland in two volumes to _Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopædia_. In 1829 likewise appeared "Anne of Geierstein," a romance, and in 1830 the "Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft." In 1831 he produced a series of "Tales on French History," uniform with the "Tales of a Grandfather," and his novels, "Count Robert of Paris," and "Castle Dangerous," as a fourth series of "Tales of My Landlord." Other productions of inferior mark appeared from his pen; he contributed to the _Edinburgh Review_, during the first year of its career; wrote the articles, "Chivalry," "Romance," and "Drama," for the sixth edition of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_; and during his latter years contributed somewhat copiously to the _Quarterly Review_.

At a public dinner in Edinburgh, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund, on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter made his first avowal as to the authorship of the Waverley Novels,--an announcement which scarcely took the public by surprise. The physical energies of the illustrious author were now suffering a rapid decline; and in his increasing infirmities, and liability to sudden and severe attacks of pain, and even of unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the praiseworthy effort to pay his debts, he was sacrificing his health and shortening his life. Those apprehensions proved not without foundation. In the autumn of 1831, his health became so lamentably broken, that his medical advisers recommended a residence in Italy, and entire cessation from mental occupation, as the only means of invigorating a constitution so seriously dilapidated. But the counsel came too late; the patient proceeded to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, but experiencing no benefit from the change, he was rapidly conveyed homewards in the following summer, in obedience to his express wish, that he might have the satisfaction of closing his eyes at Abbotsford. The wish was gratified: he arrived at Abbotsford on the 11th of July 1832, and survived till the 21st of the ensuing September. According to his own request, his remains were interred in an aisle in Dryburgh Abbey, which had belonged to one of his ancestors, and had been granted to him by the late Earl of Buchan. A heavy block of marble rests upon the grave, in juxtaposition with another which has been laid on that of his affectionate partner in life, who died in May 1826. The aisle is protected by a heavy iron railing.

In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet; but his personal appearance, which had otherwise been commanding, was considerably marred by the lameness of his right limb, which caused him to walk with an awkward effort, and ultimately with much difficulty. His countenance, so correctly represented in his numerous portraits and busts, was remarkable for depth of forehead; his features were somewhat heavy, and his eyes, covered with thick eyelashes, were dull, unless animated by congenial conversation. He was of a fair complexion; and his hair, originally sandy, became gray from a severe illness which he suffered in his 48th year. His general conversation consisted in the detail of chivalric adventures and anecdotes of the olden times. His memory was so retentive that whatever he had studied indelibly maintained a place in his recollection. In fertility of imagination he surpassed all his contemporaries. As a poet, if he has not the graceful elegance of Campbell, and the fervid energy of Byron, he excels the latter in purity of sentiment, and the former in vigour of conception. His style was well adapted for the composition of lyric poetry; but as he had no ear for music, his song compositions are not numerous. Several of these, however, have been set to music, and maintain their popularity.[72] But Scott's reputation as a poet is inferior to his reputation as a novelist; and while even his best poems may cease to be generally read, the author of the Waverley Novels will only be forgotten with the disuse of the language. A cabinet edition of these novels, with the author's last notes, and illustrated with elegant engravings, appeared in forty-eight volumes a short period before his decease; several other complete editions have since been published by the late Mr Robert Cadell, and by the present proprietors of the copyright, the Messrs Black of Edinburgh.

As a man of amiable dispositions and incorruptible integrity, Sir Walter Scott shone conspicuous among his contemporaries, the latter quality being eminently exhibited in his resolution to pay the whole of his heavy pecuniary liabilities. To this effort he fell a martyr; yet it was a source of consolation to his survivors, that, by his own extraordinary exertions, the policy of life insurance payable at his death, and the sum of £30,000 paid by Mr Cadell for the copyright of his works, the whole amount of the debt was discharged. It is, however painfully, to be remarked, that the object of his earlier ambition, in raising a family, has not been realised. His children, consisting of two sons and two daughters, though not constitutionally delicate, have all departed from the scene, and the only representative of his house is the surviving child of his eldest daughter, who was married to Mr John Gibson Lockhart, the late editor of the _Quarterly Review_, and his literary executor. This sole descendant, a grand-daughter, is the wife of Mr Hope, Q.C., who has lately added to his patronymic the name of Scott, and made Abbotsford his summer residence. The memory of the illustrious Minstrel has received every honour from his countrymen; monuments have been raised to him in the principal towns--that in the capital, a rich Gothic cross, being one of the noblest decorations of his native city. Abbotsford has become the resort of the tourist and of the traveller from every land, who contemplate with interest and devotion a scene hallowed by the loftiest genius.

"The grass is trodden by the feet Of thousands, from a thousand lands-- The prince, the peasant, tottering age, And rosy schoolboy bands; All crowd to fairy Abbotsford, And lingering gaze, and gaze the more; Hang o'er the chair in which _he_ sat, The latest dress _he_ wore."[73]

[72] We regret that, owing to the provision of the copyright act, we are unable, in this work, to present four of Sir Walter Scott's most popular songs, "The Blue Bonnets over the Border," "Jock o' Hazeldean," "M'Gregor's Gathering," and "Carle, now the King's come." These songs must, however, be abundantly familiar to the majority of readers.

[73] From "The Grave of Sir Walter Scott," a poem by Thomas C. Latto (see "The Minister's Kail-yard, and other Poems." Edinburgh, 1845, 12mo). To explain an allusion in the last line of the above stanza, it should be noticed, that the last dress of the poet is exhibited to visitors at Abbotsford, carefully preserved in a glass case.

IT WAS AN ENGLISH LADYE BRIGHT.[74]

It was an English ladye bright (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun, When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all.

The sire gave brooch and jewel fine, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall; Her brother gave but a flask of wine, For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he swore her death, ere he would see A Scottish knight the lord of all.

That wine she had not tasted well (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), When dead in her true love's arms she fell, For Love was still the lord of all.

He pierced her brother to the heart, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall-- So perish all would true love part, That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine (Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), And died for her sake in Palestine, So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all!

[74] This song appears in the sixth canto of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." "It is the author's object in these songs," writes Lord Jeffrey, "to exemplify the different styles of ballad-narrative which prevailed in this island at different periods, or in different conditions of society. The first (the above) is conducted upon the rude and simple model of the old border ditties, and produces its effect by the direct and concise narrative of a tragical occurrence."

LOCHINVAR.[75]

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word) "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar-- "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better, by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

[75] This song occurs in the fifth canto of "Marmion." It is founded on a ballad entitled "Katharine Janfarie," in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border."

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.[76]

Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow; Where early violets die Under the willow. Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving; There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There, thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever; Never again to wake, Never, O never! Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingle war's rattle With groans of the dying. Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it,-- Never, O never! Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!

[76] From the third canto of "Marmion."

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.[77]

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing; Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow; And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor wardens challenge here; Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveillé.

[77] The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of "The Lady of the Lake."

HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES![78]

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade; Moor'd in the rifted rock Proof to the tempest shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-Glen Shake when they hear agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine! Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

[78] The "boat song" in the second canto of "The Lady of the Lake." It may be sung to the air of "The Banks of the Devon."

THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED.[79]

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtains for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary.

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be the bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary.

No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught, For if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.

And if return'd from conquer'd foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose To my young bride and me, Mary!

[79] Song of Norman in "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.

THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.[80]

My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall; I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forest green, With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that 's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall. The lark was wont my matins ring, The sable rook my vespers sing: These towers, although a king's they be, Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, Drive the fleet deer the forest through, And homeward wend with evening dew; A blithesome welcome blithely meet And lay my trophies at her feet, While fled the eve on wing of glee-- That life is lost to love and me!

[80] "The Lady of the Lake," canto sixth.

HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.[81]

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Wafts the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever.

[81] "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.[82]

"A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me ye knew, my love! No more of me ye knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again." He turn'd his charger as he spake, Upon the river shore, He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said, "Adieu for evermore, my love! And adieu for evermore."

[82] "Rokeby," canto third.

ALLEN-A-DALE.[83]

Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning; Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother she asked of his household and home; "Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel and the mother was stone, They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry, He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

[83] "Rokeby," canto third.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.[84]

Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree! Too lively glow the lilies' light, The varnish'd holly 's all too bright, The mayflower and the eglantine May shade a brow less sad than mine; But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due; The myrtle bough bids lovers live But that Matilda will not give; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear; Let Albin bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew. On favour'd Erin's crest be seen The flower she loves of emerald green; But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Strike the wild harp while maids prepare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; And, while his crown of laurel-leaves, With bloody hand the victor weaves, Let the loud trump his triumph tell; But when you hear the passing-bell, Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, And twine it of the cypress-tree!

Yes, twine for me the cypress bough; But, O Matilda, twine not now! Stay till a few brief months are past And I have look'd and loved my last! When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue,-- Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress-tree!

[84] "Rokeby," canto fifth.

THE CAVALIER.[85]

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down-- Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws, Her king is his leader, her church is his cause, His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,-- God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.

There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the barons of England that fight for the crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier, Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!

[85] "Rokeby," canto fifth.

HUNTING SONG.[86]

Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily, mingle they-- "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming: And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the green-wood haste away; We can shew you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size; We can shew the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay! Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk? Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay.

[86] First published in the continuation of Strutt's Queenhoohall, 1808, inserted in the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, of the same year, and set to a Welsh air in Thomson's _Select Melodies_, vol. iii., 1817.

OH, SAY NOT, MY LOVE, WITH THAT MORTIFIED AIR.

Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown; Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd; 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground--

Enough, after absence to meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstacy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love.

* * * * *

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

* * * * *

ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN).

Robert Mackay, called _Donn_, from the colour of his hair, which was brown or chestnut, was born in the Strathmore of Sutherlandshire, about the year 1714.

His calling, with the interval of a brief military service in the fencibles, was the tending of cattle, in the several gradations of herd, drover, and bo-man, or responsible cow-keeper--the last, in his pastoral county, a charge of trust and respectability. At one period he had an appointment in Lord Reay's forest; but some deviations into the "righteous theft"--so the Highlanders of those parts, it seems, call the appropriation of an occasional deer to their own use--forfeited his noble employer's confidence. Rob, however, does not appear to have suffered in his general character or reputation for an _unconsidered trifle_ like this, nor otherwise to have declined in the favour of his chief, beyond the necessity of transporting himself to a situation somewhat nearer the verge of Cape Wrath than the bosom of the deer preserve.

Mackay was happily married, and brought up a large family in habits and sentiments of piety; a fact which his reverend biographer connects very touchingly with the stated solemnities of the "Saturday night," when the lighter chants of the week were exchanged at the worthy drover's fireside for the purer and holier melodies of another inspiration.[87] As a pendant to this creditable account of the bard's principles, we are informed that he was a frequent guest at the presbytery dinner-table; a circumstance which some may be so malicious as to surmise amounted to nothing more than a purpose to enhance the festive recreations of the reverend body--a suspicion, we believe, in this particular instance, totally unfounded. He died in 1778; and he has succeeded to some rather peculiar honours for a person in his position, or even of his mark. He has had a reverend doctor for his editorial biographer,[88] and no less than Sir Walter Scott for his reviewer.[89]

The passages which Sir Walter has culled from some literal translations that were submitted to him, are certainly the most favourable specimens of the bard that we have been able to discover in his volume. The rest are generally either satiric rants too rough or too local for transfusion, or panegyrics on the living and the dead, in the usual extravagant style of such compositions, according to the taste of the Highlanders and the usage of their bards; or they are love-lays, of which the language is more copious and diversified than the sentiment. In the gleanings on which we have ventured, after the illustrious person who has done so much honour to the bard by his comments and selections, we have attempted to draw out a little more of the peculiar character of the poet's genius.

[87] Songs and Poems of Robert Mackay, p. 38. (Inverness, 1829. 8vo.)

[88] The Rev. Dr Mackintosh Mackay, successively minister of Laggan and Dunoon, now a clergyman in Australia.

[89] _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., April 1831.

THE SONG OF WINTER.

This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It is in a style peculiar to the Highlands, where description runs so entirely into epithets and adjectives, as to render recitation breathless, and translation hopeless. Here, while we have retained the imagery, we have been unable to find room, or rather rhyme, for one half of the epithets in the original. The power of alliterative harmony in the original song is extraordinary.

I.

At waking so early Was snow on the Ben, And, the glen of the hill in, The storm-drift so chilling The linnet was stilling, That couch'd in its den; And poor robin was shrilling In sorrow his strain.

II.

Every grove was expecting Its leaf shed in gloom; The sap it is draining, Down rootwards 'tis straining, And the bark it is waning As dry as the tomb, And the blackbird at morning Is shrieking his doom.

III.

Ceases thriving, the knotted, The stunted birk-shaw;[90] While the rough wind is blowing, And the drift of the snowing Is shaking, o'erthrowing, The copse on the law.

IV.

'Tis the season when nature Is all in the sere, When her snow-showers are hailing, Her rain-sleet assailing, Her mountain winds wailing, Her rime-frosts severe.

V.

'Tis the season of leanness, Unkindness, and chill; Its whistle is ringing, An iciness bringing, Where the brown leaves are clinging In helplessness, still, And the snow-rush is delving With furrows the hill.

VI.

The sun is in hiding, Or frozen its beam On the peaks where he lingers, On the glens, where the singers,[91] With their bills and small fingers Are raking the stream, Or picking the midstead For forage--and scream.

VII.

When darkens the gloaming Oh, scant is their cheer! All benumb'd is their song in The hedge they are thronging, And for shelter still longing, The mortar[92] they tear; Ever noisily, noisily Squealing their care.

VIII.

The running stream's chieftain[93] Is trailing to land, So flabby, so grimy, So sickly, so slimy,-- The spots of his prime he Has rusted with sand; Crook-snouted his crest is That taper'd so grand.

IX.

How mournful in winter The lowing of kine; How lean-back'd they shiver, How draggled their cover, How their nostrils run over With drippings of brine, So scraggy and crining In the cold frost they pine.

X.

'Tis hallow-mass time, and To mildness farewell! Its bristles are low'ring With darkness; o'erpowering Are its waters, aye showering With onset so fell; Seem the kid and the yearling As rung their death-knell.

XI.

Every out-lying creature, How sinew'd soe'er, Seeks the refuge of shelter; The race of the antler They snort and they falter, A-cold in their lair; And the fawns they are wasting Since their kin is afar.

XII.

Such the songs that are saddest And dreariest of all; I ever am eerie In the morning to hear ye! When foddering, to cheer the Poor herd in the stall-- While each creature is moaning, And sickening in thrall.

[90] "Birk-shaw." A few Scotticisms will be found in these versions, at once to flavour the style, and, it must be admitted, to assist the rhymes.

[91] Birds.

[92] The sides of the cottages--plastered with mud or mortar, instead of lime.

[93] Salmon.

DIRGE FOR IAN MACECHAN.

A FRAGMENT.

Mackay was entertained by Macechan, who was a respectable store-farmer, from his earliest life to his marriage. According to his reverend biographer,[94] the last lines of the elegy, of which the following is a translation, were much approved.

I see the wretch of high degree, Though poverty has struck his race, Pass with a darkness on his face That door of hospitality.

I see the widow in her tears, Dark as her woe--I see her boy-- From both, want reaves the dregs of joy; The flash of youth through rags appears.

I see the poor's--the minstrel's lot-- As brethren they--no boon for song! I see the unrequited wrong Call for its helper, who is not.

You hear my plaint, and ask me, why? You ask me _when_ this deep distress Began to rage without redress? "With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"

[94] "Poems," p. 318.

THE SONG OF THE FORSAKEN DROVER.

During a long absence on a droving expedition, Mackay was deprived of his mistress by another lover, whom, in fine, she married. The discovery he made, on his return, led to this composition; which is a sequel to another composed on his distant journey, in which he seems to prognosticate something like what happened. Both are selected by Sir Walter Scott as specimens of the bard, and may be found paraphrastically rendered in a prose version, in the _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., p. 371, and in the notes to the last edition of "The Highland Drover," in "Chronicles of the Canongate." With regard to the present specimen, it may be remarked, that part of the original is either so obscure, or so freely rendered by Sir Walter Scott's translator, that we have attempted the present version, not without some little perplexity as to the sense of one or two allusions. We claim, on the whole, the merit of almost literal fidelity.

I.

I fly from the fold, since my passion's despair No longer must harbour the charms that are there; Anne's[95] slender eyebrows, her sleek tresses so long, Her turreted bosom--and Isabel's[96] song; What has been, and is not--woe 's my thought! It must not be spoken, nor can be forgot.

II.

I wander'd the fold, and I rambled the grove, And each spot it reported the kiss of my love; But I saw her caressing another--and feel 'Tis distraction to hear them, and see them so leal. What has been, and is not, &c.

III.

Since 'twas told that a rival beguil'd thee away, The dreams of my love are the dreams of dismay; Though unsummon'd of thee,[97] love has captured thy thrall, And my hope of redemption for ever is small. Day and night, though I strive aye To shake him away, still he clings like the ivy.

IV.

But, auburn-hair'd Anna! to tell thee my plight, 'Tis old love unrequited that prostrates my might, In presence or absence, aye faithful, my smart Still racks, and still searches, and tugs at my heart-- Broken that heart, yet why disappear From my country, without one embrace from my dear?

V.

She answers with laughter and haughty disdain-- "To handle my snood you petition in vain; Six suitors are mine since the year thou wert gone, What art _thou_, that thou should'st be the favourite one? Art thou sick? Ha, ha, for thy woe! Art thou dying for love? Troth, love's payment was slow."[98]

VI.

Though my anger may feign it requites thy disdain, And vaunts in thy absence, it threatens in vain-- All in vain! for thy image in fondness returns, And o'er thy sweet likeness expectancy burns; And I hope--yes, I hope once more, Till my hope waxes high as a tower[99] in its soar.

[95] "Anne"--Rob's first love, the heroine of the piece. "Similar in interest to the Highland Mary of Burns, is the yellow-haired Anne of Rob Donn."--"Life," p. 18.

[96] "Isabel"--the daughter of Ian Macechan, the subject of other verses.

[97] "Unsummon'd of thee." The idea is rather quaintly expressed in the original thus--"Though thou hast sent me no summons, love has, of his own accord, acted the part of a catchpole (or sheriff's officer), and will not release me." Such are the homely fancies introduced into some of the most passionate strains of the Gaelic muse.

[98] Alluding to his absence, and delay in his courtship.

[99] Rather more modest than the classic's "feriam sidera vertice."

ISABEL MACKAY--THE MAID ALONE.

TO A PIOBRACH TUNE.

This is one of those lyrics, of which there are many in Gaelic poetry, that are intended to imitate pipe music. They consist of three parts, called Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath. The first is a slow, monotonous measure, usually, indeed, a mere repetition of the same words or tones; the second, a livelier or brisker melody, striking into description or narrative; the third, a rapid finale, taxing the reciter's or performer's powers to their utmost pitch of expedition. The heroine of the song is the same Isabel who is introduced towards the commencement of the "Forsaken Drover;" and it appears, from other verses in Mackay's collection, that it was not her fate to be "alone" through life. It is to be understood that when the verses were composed, she was in charge of her father's extensive pastoral _manége_, and not a mere milk-maid or dairy-woman.

URLAR.

Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye, And Isabel Mackay is alone; Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye, And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c. Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye, At the forest foot--and alone?

SIUBHAL.

By the Virgin and Son![100] Thou bride-lacking one, If ever thy time Is coming, begone, The occasion is prime, For Isabel Mackay Is with the milk kye At the skirts of the forest, And with her is none. By the Virgin and Son, &c.

Woe is the sign! It is not well With the lads that dwell Around us, so brave, When the mistress fine Of Riothan-a-dave Is out with the kine, And with her is none. O, woe is the sign, &c.

Whoever he be That a bride would gain Of gentle degree, And a drove or twain, His speed let him strain To Riothan-a-dave, And a bride he shall have. Then, to her so fain! Whoever he be, &c.

And a bride he shall have, The maid that's alone. Isabel Mackay, &c. Oh, seest not the dearie So fit for embracing, Her patience distressing, The bestial a-chasing, And she alone!

'Tis a marvellous fashion That men should be slack, When their bosoms lack An object of passion, To look such a lass on, Her patience distressing, The bestial a-chasing, In the field, alone.

CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

Oh, look upon the prize, sirs, That where yon heights are rising, The whole long twelvemonth sighs in, Because she is alone. Go, learn it from my minstrelsy, Who list the tale to carry, The maiden shuns the public eye, And is ordain'd to tarry 'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware, Where brown hills rear their ridges bare, And wails her plight the livelong year, To spend the day alone.

[100] A common Highland adjuration.

EVAN'S ELEGY.

Mackay was benighted on a deer-stalking expedition, near a wild hut or shealing, at the head of Loch Eriboll. Here he found its only inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet, apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he "crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the following elegiac ditty, in which, it will be observed, he alludes to the death, then recent, of Pelham, an eminent statesman of George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old man's feelings were moved in a way which will be found in the appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in the _Quarterly_, and is now attempted in the measure of the original.

How often, Death! art waking The imploring cry of Nature! When she sees her phalanx breaking, As thou'dst have all--grim feature! Since Autumn's leaves to brownness, Of deeper shade were tending, We saw thy step, from palaces, To Evan's nook descending. Oh, long, long thine agony! A nameless length its tide; Since breathless thou hast panted here, And not a friend beside. Thine errors what, I judge not; What righteous deeds undone; But if remains a se'ennight, Redeem it, dying one!

Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true, What dust of time would blind? Such thy impartiality To our highest, lowest kind. Thy look is upwards, downwards shot, Determined none to miss; It rose to Pelham's princely bower, It sinks to shed like this! Oh, long, long, &c.! So great thy victims, that the noble Stand humbled by the bier; So poor, it shames the poorest To grace them with a tear. Between the minister of state And him that grovels there, Should one remain uncounselled, Is there one whom dool shall spare? Oh, long, long, &c.! The hail that strews the battle-field Not louder sounds its call, Than the falling thousands round us Are voicing words to all. Hearken! least of all the nameless; Evan's hour is going fast; Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones-- Princely Pelham's hour is past. Oh, long, long, &c.! Friends of my heart! in the twain we see A type of life's declining; 'Tis like the lantern's dripping light, At either end a-dwining. Where was there one more low than thou-- Thou least of meanest things?[101] And where than his was higher place Except the throne of kings? Oh, long, long, &c.!

[101] At this humiliating apostrophe, the beggar is reported to have instinctively raised his staff--an action which the bard observed just in time to avoid its descent on his back.

DOUGAL BUCHANAN.

Dougal Buchanan was born at the Mill of Ardoch, in the beautiful valley of Strathyre, and parish of Balquhidder, in the year 1716. His parents were in circumstances to allow him the education of the parish school; on which, by private application, he so far improved, as to be qualified to act as teacher and catechist to the Highland locality which borders on Loch Rannoch, under the appointment of the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge. Never, it is believed, were the duties of a calling discharged with more zeal and efficiency. The catechist was, both in and out of the strict department of his office, a universal oracle,[102] and his name is revered in the scene of his usefulness in a degree to which the honours of canonization could scarcely have added. Pious, to the height of a proverbial model, he was withal frank, cheerful, and social; and from his extraordinary command of the Gaelic idiom, and its poetic phraseology, he must have lent an ear to many a song and many a legend[103]--a nourishment of the imagination in which, as well as in purity of Gaelic, his native Balquhidder was immeasurably inferior to the Rannoch district of his adoption.

The composition of hymns, embracing a most eloquent and musical paraphrase of many of the more striking inspirations of scriptural poetry, seems to have been the favourite employment of his leisure hours. These are sung or recited in every cottage of the Highlands where a reader or a retentive memory is to be found.

Buchanan's life was short. He was cut off by typhus fever, at a period when his talents had begun to attract a more than local attention. It was within a year after his return from superintending the press of the first version of the Gaelic New Testament, that his lamented death took place. His command of his native tongue is understood to have been serviceable to the translator, the Rev. James Stewart of Killin, who had probably been Buchanan's early acquaintance, as they were natives of the same district. This reverend gentleman is said to have entertained a scheme of getting the catechist regularly licensed to preach the gospel without the usual academical preparation. The scheme was frustrated by his death, in the summer of 1768.

We know of no fact relating to the development of the poetic vein of this interesting bard, unless it be found in the circumstance to which he refers in his "Diary,"[104] of having been bred a violent Jacobite, and having lived many years under the excitement of strong, even vindictive feelings, at the fate of his chief and landlord (Buchanan of Arnprior and Strathyre), who, with many of his dependents, and some of the poet's relations, suffered death for their share in the last rebellion. While he relates that the power of religion at length quenched this effervescence of his emotions, it may be supposed that ardent Jacobitism, with its common accompaniment of melody, may have fostered an imagination which every circumstance proves to have been sufficiently susceptible. It may be added, as a particular not unworthy of memorial in a poet's life, that his remains are deposited in perhaps the most picturesque place of sepulture in the kingdom--the peninsula of Little Leny, in the neighbourhood of Callander; to which his relatives transferred his body, as the sepulchre of many chiefs and considerable persons of his clan, and where it is perhaps matter of surprise that his Highland countrymen have never thought of honouring his memory with some kind of monument.

The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105] have been omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being mere amplifications of Scripture--wonderful, indeed, in point of vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models.

[102] "Statistical Account of Fortingall."--Stat. Acc., x., p. 549.

[103] The same account observes that though none of his works are published but his sacred compositions, he composed "several songs on various subjects."

[104] Published at Glasgow, 1836.

[105] These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and "The Good and Wicked Pastor."

A CLAGIONN.

THE SKULL.

As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave Lo! a featureless skull on the ground; The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp, While I turn it around and around. Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express Of the bystander nigh, a thought; Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both, Nor passes emotion its throat. No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace Its brow, and no ear for my song; Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death The raised features hath flatten'd along. The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam-- The intelligent sight, are no more; But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil, Come hither their dwellings to bore. No lineament here is left to declare If monarch or chief art thou; Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave That on dunghill expires, is as low. Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath Who tenants my hand, unfold; That my voice may not die without a reply, Though the ear it addresses is cold. Say, wert thou a May,[106] of beauty a ray, And flatter'd thine eye with a smile? Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net, The hearts of the youth to wile? Alas every charm that a bosom could warm Is changed to the grain of disgust! Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her Gracefulness all in the dust! Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe Acknowledge thy rule o'er them-- A magistrate true, to all dealing their due, And just to redress or condemn? Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold In the scales of thy partial decree; While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd, And appeal'd their distresses to thee? Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power To extinguish the fever of ail? And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried O'er omnipotent death to prevail? Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'd Thy hope when the need was thine own; What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healing When the hours of thy portion were flown? Or--wert thou a hero, a leader to glory, While armies thy truncheon obey'd; To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering In flight, left their mountains of dead? Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade, When came onwards in battle array The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms, To sack and to rifle their prey? How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while Besieging, the reptile is vain, And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find His defence in the lodge of thy brain! Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been, Some, the organ where music repair'd; In rabble and rout they come in and come out At the gashes their fangs have bared.

* * * * *

Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land, Represented by nakedness, here? Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind, Nor all unimparted thy gear; Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou! To leanness their countenances grew-- 'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for right Required, to a moment, its due; While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied To cover their head from the chill, And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand, As cold blows the blast of the hill. Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown, Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid; All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke! While but claims their obeisance the dead.

* * * * *

Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such, That death must have lent them his sting-- So daring they were, so reckless of fear, As heaven had wanted a king? Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spy In the haunt of thy venomous jaws, Its slander display, as poisons its prey The devilish snake in the grass? That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd, The inflexible shackles of death; And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail Where its slaver once harbour'd beneath. And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urn And expired, with impenitent groan; To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part, And then to appear--at the Throne! Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take To the Judge of thy actions the way, And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse, Thy sentence of termless dismay.

* * * * *

The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ, To brass-links the veins of thy frame Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow Like the anvil that melts not in flame! But wert thou the mould of a champion bold For God and his truth and his law? Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each sense Is broken--each gem with a flaw-- Be comforted thou! For rising in air Thy flight shall the clarion obey; And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd, If they will, by the creatures of prey.

[106] Maiden or virgin--_orig._

AM BRUADAR.

THE DREAM.

We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The Skull." In the original they are touched in phraseology scarcely unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.

As lockfasted in slumber's arms I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race When every spectral object charms, To melt, like shadow, in the chase),

A vision came; mine ear confess'd Its solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught! Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest, Or fills the world thy crave of thought?

* * * * *

"Since fell transgression ravaged here And reft Man's garden-joys away, He weeps his unavailing tear, And straggles, like a lamb astray.

"With shrilling bleat for comfort hie To every pinfold, humankind; Ah, there the fostering teat is dry, The stranger mother proves unkind.

"No rest for toil, no drink for drought, For bosom-peace the shadow's wing-- So feeds expectancy on nought, And suckles every lying thing.

"Some woe for ever wreathes its chain, And hope foretells the clasp undone; Relief at handbreadth seems, in vain Thy fetter'd arms embrace--'tis gone!

"Not all that trial's lore unlearns Of all the lies that life betrays, Avails, for still desire returns-- The last day's folly is to-day's.

"Thy wish has prosper'd--has its taste Survived the hour its lust was drown'd; Or yields thine expectation's zest To full fruition, golden-crown'd?

"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom, 'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven-- Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb, When to the grasping hand 'tis given.

"Go, search the world, wherever woe Of high or low the bosom wrings, There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe, Is answer'd from the breast of kings.

"From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud, From every heart its sigh is roll'd; The rose's stalk is fang'd--one shroud Is both the sting's and honey's fold.

"Is wealth thy lust--does envy pine Where high its tempting heaps are piled? Look down, behold the fountain shine, And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!

"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale, And falls an insect[107] in its toil? The creature turns thy life-blood pale, And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.

"When high thy fellow-mortal soars, His state is like the topmost nest-- It swings with every blast that roars, And every motion shakes its crest.

"And if the world for once is kind, Yet ever has the lot its bend; Where fortune has the crook inclined, Not all thy strength or art shall mend.

"For as the sapling's sturdy stalk, Whose double twist is crossly strain'd, Such is thy fortune--sure to baulk At this extreme what there was gain'd.

"When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd, 'Twas vain who hoarded its supply, Not all his miser care avail'd His neighbour's portion to outvie.

"So, blended all that nature owns, So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless-- With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans; With courtly luxury, distress.

"Lift up the balance--heap with gold, Its other shell vile dust shall fill; And were a kingdom's ransom told, The scales would want adjustment still.

"Life has its competence--nor deem That better than enough were more; Sure it were phantasy to dream With burdens to assuage thy sore.

"It is the fancy's whirling strife That breeds thy pain--to-day it craves, To-morrow spurns--suffices life When passion asks what passion braves?

"Should appetite her wish achieve, To herd with brutes her joy would bound; Pleased other paradise to leave, Content to pasture on the ground.

"But pride rebels, nor towers alone Beyond that confine's lowly sphere-- Seems as from the Eternal Throne It aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.

"'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare; But, seek we to our bliss the way, Let us to Heaven our path refer, Believe, and worship, and obey.

"That choice is all--to range beyond Nor must, nor needs; provision, grace, In these He gives, who sits enthroned, Salvation, competence, and peace."

The instructive vision pass'd away, But not its wisdom's dreamless lore; No more in shadow-tracks I stray, And fondle shadow-shapes no more.

[107] _Orig._--The venomous red spider.

DUNCAN MACINTYRE.

Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced. Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible. And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,--the late Dr Stewart of Luss,--who, when a young man, became acquainted with this extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's father was minister.

Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724, and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City Guard.

Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.

MAIRI BHAN OG.

MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.

My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary, My life-time love, my own! The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie Was bound to me alone, By covenant true, and ritual holy, Gave happiness all but divine; Nor needed there more to transport me wholly, Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.

* * * * *

'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted Was far, but I rivall'd the wind, The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted, That force can never unbind. I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd, While I gain'd a love and a bride, I heard my heart, and could tell each second, As its pulses struck on my side.

* * * * *

I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me, And said that no salve could save; She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me, For herself to my breast she gave.

* * * * *

Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee For chasing away, away, My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing, And teaching no more to stray. I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying, All shapely from branch to stem, My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying To cull the fairest from them; One branch of perfume, in blossom all over, Bent lowly down to my hand, And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover, To me, the least of the band. I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in, Where the stream's transparence ran, Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in, Shone bright as the gloss of the swan. Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection With such a prize to my share! My love is a ray, a morning reflection, Beside me she sleeps, a star.

[108] Gaelic, "gealag"--descriptive of the salmon, from its glossy brightness.

BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT.

Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality--the dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small risk,--although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance, and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.

URLAR.

The noble Otter hill! It is a chieftain Beinn,[109] Ever the fairest still Of all these eyes have seen. Spacious is his side; I love to range where hide, In haunts by few espied, The nurslings of his den. In the bosky shade Of the velvet glade, Couch, in softness laid, The nimble-footed deer; To see the spotted pack, That in scenting never slack, Coursing on their track, Is the prime of cheer. Merry may the stag be, The lad that so fairly Flourishes the russet coat That fits him so rarely. 'Tis a mantle whose wear Time shall not tear; 'Tis a banner that ne'er Sees its colours depart: And when they seek his doom, Let a man of action come, A hunter in his bloom, With rifle not untried: A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint, To strike a trusty dint, And make the gun-lock glint With a flash of pride. Let the barrel be but true, And the stock be trusty too, So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew, Shall be purple-dyed. He should not be novice bred, But a marksman of first head, By whom that stag is sped, In hill-craft not unskill'd; So, when Padraig of the glen Call'd his hounds and men, The hill spake back again, As his orders shrill'd; Then was firing snell, And the bullets rain'd like hail, And the red-deer fell Like warrior on the field.

SIUBHAL.

Oh, the young doe so frisky, So coy, and so fair, That gambols so briskly, And snuffs up the air; And hurries, retiring, To the rocks that environ, When foemen are firing, And bullets are there. Though swift in her racing, Like the kinsfolk before her, No heart-burst, unbracing Her strength, rushes o'er her. 'Tis exquisite hearing Her murmur, as, nearing, Her mate comes careering, Her pride, and her lover;-- He comes--and her breathing Her rapture is telling; How his antlers are wreathing, His white haunch, how swelling! High chief of Bendorain, He seems, as adoring His hind, he comes roaring To visit her dwelling. 'Twere endless my singing How the mountain is teeming With thousands, that bringing Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming, With his hind, and her gala Of younglings, that follow O'er mountain and beala,[112] All lightsome are beaming. When that lightfoot so airy, Her race is pursuing, Oh, what vision saw e'er a Feat of flight like her doing? She springs, and the spreading grass Scarce feels her treading, It were fleet foot that sped in Twice the time that she flew in. The gallant array! How the marshes they spurn, In the frisk of their play, And the wheelings they turn,-- As the cloud of the mind They would distance behind, And give years to the wind, In the pride of their scorn! 'Tis the marrow of health In the forest to lie, Where, nooking in stealth, They enjoy her[113] supply,-- Her fosterage breeding A race never needing, Save the milk of her feeding, From a breast never dry. Her hill-grass they suckle, Her mammets[114] they swill, And in wantonness chuckle O'er tempest and chill; With their ankles so light, And their girdles[115] of white, And their bodies so bright With the drink of the rill. Through the grassy glen sporting In murmurless glee, Nor snow-drift nor fortune Shall urge them to flee, Save to seek their repose In the clefts of the knowes, And the depths of the howes Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]

URLAR.

In the forest den, the deer Makes, as best befits, his lair, Where is plenty, and to spare, Of her grassy feast. There she browses free On herbage of the lea, Or marsh grass, daintily, Until her haunch is greased. Her drink is of the well, Where the water-cresses swell, Nor with the flowing shell Is the toper better pleased. The bent makes nobler cheer, Or the rashes of the mere, Than all the creagh that e'er Gave surfeit to a guest. Come, see her table spread; The _sorach_[117] sweet display'd The _ealvi_,[118] and the head Of the daisy stem; The _dorach_[119] crested, sleek, And ringed with many a streak, Presents her pastures meek, Profusely by the stream. Such the luxuries That plump their noble size, And the herd entice To revel in the howes. Nobler haunches never sat on Pride of grease, than when they batten On the forest links, and fatten On the herbs of their carouse. Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming, When the supper-time Calls all their hosts from roaming, To see their social prime; And when the shadows gather, They lair on native heather, Nor shelter from the weather Need, but the knolls behind. Dread or dark is none; Their 's the mountain throne, Height and slope their own, The gentle mountain kind; Pleasant is the grace Of their hue, and dappled dress, And an ark in their distress, In Bendorain dear they find.

SIUBHAL.

So brilliant thy hue With tendril and flow'ret, The grace of the view, What land can o'erpower it? Thou mountain of beauty, Methinks it might suit thee, The homage of beauty To claim as a queen. What needs it? Adoring Thy reign, we see pouring The wealth of their store in Already, I ween. The seasons--scarce roll'd once, Their gifts are twice told-- And the months, they unfold On thy bosom their dower, With profusion so rare, Ne'er was clothing so fair, Nor was jewelling e'er Like the bud and the flower Of the groves on thy breast, Where rejoices to rest His magnificent crest, The mountain-cock, shrilling In quick time, his note; And the clans of the grot With melody's note, Their numbers are trilling. No foot can compare, In the dance of the green, With the roebuck's young heir; And here he is seen With his deftness of speed, And his sureness of tread, And his bend of the head, And his freedom of spring! Over corrie careers he, The wood-cover clears he, And merrily steers he With bound, and with fling,-- As he spurns from his stern The heather and fern, And dives in the dern[120] Of the wilderness deep; Or, anon, with a strain, And a twang of each vein He revels amain 'Mid the cliffs of the steep. With the burst of a start When the flame of his heart Impels to depart, How he distances all! Two bounds at a leap, The brown hillocks to sweep, His appointment to keep With the doe, at her call. With her following, the roe From the danger of ken Couches inly, and low, In the haunts of the glen; Ever watchful to hear, Ever active to peer, Ever deft to career,-- All ear, vision, and limb. And though Cult[121] and Cuchullin, With their horses and following, Should rush to her dwelling, And our prince[122] in his trim, They might vainly aspire Without rifle and fire To ruffle or nigh her, Her mantle to dim. Stark-footed, lively, Ever capering naively With motion alive, aye, And wax-white, in shine, When her startle betrays That the hounds are in chase, The same as the base Is the rocky decline-- She puffs from her chest, And she ambles her crest And disdain is express'd In her nostril and eye;-- That eye--how it winks! Like a sunbeam it blinks, And it glows, and it sinks, And is jealous and shy! A mountaineer lynx, Like her race that 's gone by.

CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

Her lodge is in the valley--here No huntsman, void of notion, Should hurry on the fallow deer, But steal on her with caution;-- With wary step and watchfulness To stalk her to her resting place, Insures the gallant wight's success, Before she is in motion. The hunter bold should follow then, By bog, and rock, and hollow, then, And nestle in the gulley, then, And watch with deep devotion The shadows on the benty grass, And how they come, and how they pass; Nor must he stir, with gesture rash, To quicken her emotion. With nerve and eye so wary, sir, That straight his piece may carry, sir, He marks with care the quarry, sir, The muzzle to repose on; And now, the knuckle is applied, The flint is struck, the priming tried, Is fired, the volley has replied, And reeks in high commotion;-- Was better powder ne'er to flint, Nor trustier wadding of the lint-- And so we strike a telling dint, Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]

[109] Anglicised into _Ben_.

[110] The deer.

[111] Stag of the first head.

[112] Pass.

[113] Any one who has heard a native attempt the Lowland tongue for the first time, is familiar with the personification that turns every inanimate object into _he_ or _she_. The forest is here happily personified as a nurse or mother.

[114] Bog-holes.

[115] Stripings.

[116] _Gaelic_--Easan-an-tsith.

[117] Primrose.

[118] St John's wort.

[119] A kind of cress, or marshmallow.

[120] _Anglice_--dark.

[121] _Gaelic_--Caoillt; who, with Cuchullin, makes a figure in traditional Gaelic poetry.

[122] _Gaelic_--King George.

[123] Literally--"From the barrel of Nic-Coisean." This was the poet's favourite gun, to which his muse has addressed a separate song of considerable merit.

THE BARD TO HIS MUSKET.[124]

Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain, of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride, thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.

Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal May happen to a Highlan' man; Though he fall in love he soon may feel He cannot get the fancied one; The first I loved in time that 's past, I courted twenty years, ochone! But she forsook me at the last, And Duncan then was left alone.

To Edinbro' I forthwith hied To seek a sweetheart to my mind, An', if I could, to find a bride For the fause love I left behind; Said Captain Campbell of the Guard, "I ken a widow secretly, An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd, To put her, Duncan, in your way."

As was his wont, I trow, did he Fulfil his welcome promise true, He gave the widow unto me, And all her portion with her too; And whosoe'er may ask her name, And her surname also may desire, They call her Janet[125]--great her fame-- An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.

She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free, No vexing gloom or look at hand, As high in rank and in degree As any lady in the land; She 's my support and my relief, Since e'er she join'd me, any how; Great is the cureless cause of grief To him who has not got her now!

Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite, Altho' she liveth still at ease-- An' allow the crested stags to fight And wander wheresoe'er they please, A young wife I have chosen now, Which I repent not any where, I am not wanting wealth, I trow, Since ever I espoused the fair.

I pass my word of honour bright-- Most excellent I do her call; In her I ne'er, in any light, Discover'd any fault at all. She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound, Without a hidden fault, my friend; In her, defect I never found, Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.

When needy folk are pinch'd, alas! For money in a great degree; Ah, George's daughter--generous lass-- Ne'er lets my pockets empty be; She keepeth me in drink, and stays By me in ale-houses and all, An' at once, without a word, she pays For every stoup I choose to call!

An' every turn I bid her do She does it with a willing grace; She never tells me aught untrue, Nor story false, with lying face; She keeps my rising family As well as I could e'er desire, Although no labour I do try, Nor dirty work for love or hire.

I labour'd once laboriously, Although no riches I amass'd; A menial I disdain'd to be, An' keep my vow unto the last. I have ceased to labour in the lan', Since e'er I noticed to my wife, That the idle and contented man Endureth to the longest life.

'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed-- In whom I faithfully believe, She 's able still to earn my bread, An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive; I 'll have no lack of linens fair, An' plenty clothes to serve my turn, An' trust me that all worldly care Now gives me not the least concern.

[124] The "Auld Town Guard" of Edinburgh, which existed before the Police Acts came into operation, was composed principally of Highlandmen, some of them old pensioners. Their rendezvous, or place of resort, was in the vicinity of old St Giles's Church, where they might generally be found smoking, snuffing, and speaking in the true Highland vernacular. Archie Campbell, celebrated by Macintyre as "Captain Campbell," was the last, and a favourable specimen of this class of civic functionaries. He was a stout, tall man; and, dressed in his "knee breeks and buckles, wi' the red-necked coat, and the cocked hat," he considered himself of no ordinary importance. He had a most thorough contempt for grammar, and looked upon the Lord Provost as the greatest functionary in the world. He delighted to be called "the Provost's right-hand man." Archie is still well remembered by many of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, as he was quite a character in the city. In dealing with a prisoner, Archie used to impress him with the idea that he could do great things for him by merely speaking to "his honour the Provost;" and when locking a prisoner up in the Tolbooth, he would say sometimes--"There, my lad, I cannot do nothing more for you!" He took care to give his friends from the Highlands a magnificent notion of his great personal consequence, which, of course, they aggrandised when they returned to the hills.

[125] A byeword for a regimental firelock.

[126] A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and elsewhere.

JOHN MACODRUM.

Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,--of whom, after a distinguished career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.

Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian, in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have," quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."

Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald, lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains--a fact that brings the time in which he flourished down to 1766.

His poem entitled the "Song of Age," is admired by his countrymen for its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of versification.

ORAN NA H-AOIS,

THE SONG OF AGE.

Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay, The notes would betray the languor of woe; My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below. The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare, And offers us ne'er the respite of peace, Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan, For under the sun is no hope of release. 'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside; How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower The arm of our power, and the step of our pride. As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale, The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky, So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress, Old age, with that face of aversion to joy. Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead, And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age; Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve-- In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage. To leap with the best, or the billow to breast, Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain; On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127] The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain. Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies; The friends of our love at thy call must remove,-- What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise? They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store, Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind; Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us, Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind. Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face To hasten its race on the route to the tomb, To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear, Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb; Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd, Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone! To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies, Even sympathy dies--and thy helper is none. We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'd Thy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose; Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair, And the ivory[128] tare from its sockets' repose. Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould, Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim; What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track, And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb! Thou leper of fear--thou niggard of cheer-- Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found? Thou contempt of the brave--oh, rather the grave, Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound. Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray, Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom; Thou bane of delight--when thy shivering plight, And thy grizzle of white,[129] and thy crippleness, come To beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor, And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread; All unwelcome they call--from the hut to the hall The confession of all is, "_'Tis time he were dead_!"

The picturesque portion of the description here terminates. With respect to the moral and religious application, it is but just to the poet to say, that before the close he appeals in pathetic terms to the young, warning them not to boast of their strength, or to abuse it; and that he concludes his lay with the sentiment, that whatever may be the ills of "age," there are worse that await an unrepenting death, and a suffering eternity.

[127] Alluding to the plagues.

[128] The teeth.

[129] _Gaelic_--Matted, rough, gray beard.

NORMAN MACLEOD;

OR, TORMAID BAN.

Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had his _marrow_ in a Highland bard, nearly his contemporary, whose one effort was attended with more lasting popularity than the sole oration of that celebrated person. The clan song of the Mackenzies is the composition in question, and its author is now ascertained to have been a gentleman, or farmer of the better class, of the name of Norman Macleod, a native of Assynt[130] in Sutherland. The most memorable particular known of this person, besides the production of his poetic effort, is his having been the father of a Glasgow professor,[131] whom we remember occupying the chair of Church History in the university in very advanced age, about 1814, assisted by a helper and successor; and of another son, who was the respected minister of Rogart till towards the end of last century.

The date of "Caberfae" is not exactly ascertained. It was composed during the exile of Lord Seaforth, but, we imagine, before the '45, in which he did not take part, and while Macshimei (Lord Lovat) still passed for a Whig. In Mackenzie's excellent collection (p. 361), a later date is assigned to the production.

The Seaforth tenantry, who (after the manner of the clans) privately supported their chief in his exile, appear to have been much aggrieved by some proceedings of the loyalist, Monro of Fowlis, who, along with his neighbour of Culloden and Lovat, were probably acting under government commission, in which the interests of the crown were seconded by personal or family antagonism. The loyal family of Sutherland, who seem by grant or lease to have had an interest in the estates, also come in for a share of the bard's resentment.

All this forms the subject of "Caberfae," which, without having much meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated "Lillibulero," to animate armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be imagined. The repetition of "the Staghead, when rises his cabar on," which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,--being a simple allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant. The cabar is the horn, or, rather, the "tine of the first-head,"--no ignoble emblem, certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity. The difficulty of the measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader's indulgence.

[130] In Stat. Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.

[131] Hugh Macleod.

CABERFAE,

THE STAGHEAD.[132]

A health to Caberfae, A toast, and a cheery one, That soon return he may, Though long and far his tarrying. The death of shame befal me, Be riven off my eididh[133] too, But my fancy hears thy call--we Should all be _up and ready, O_! 'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen, Thine arm, inaction scorning, Assign their dues to the Munroes, Their _welcome_ in the morning. Nor stood the Cátach[134] to his bratach[135] For dread of a belabouring, When up gets the Staghead, And raises his cabar on.

Woe to the man of Folais,[136] When he to fight must challenge thee; Nor better fared the Roses[137] That lent _Monro_ their valiancy. The Granndach[138] and the Frazer,[139] They tarried not the melee in; Fled Forbes,[140] in dismay, sir, Culloden-wards, undallying. Away they ran, while firm remain, Not one to three, retiring so, The earl,[141] the craven, took to haven, Scarce a pistol firing, O! Mackay[142] of Spoils, his heart recoils, He cries in haste his cabul[143] on, He flies--as soars the Staghead, And raises his cabar on.

Like feather'd creatures flying, That in the hill-mist shiver, In haste for refuge hieing, To the meadow or the river-- So, port they sought, and took to boat, Bewailing what had happened them, To trust was rash, the missing flash Of the rusty guns that weapon'd them. The coracle of many a skull, The relics of his neighbour, on, Monro retreats[144]--for Staghead Is raising his cabar on.

I own my expectation,-- 'Tis this has roused my apathy, That He who rules creation May change the dismal hap of thee, And hasten to restore thee In safety from thy danger, To thine own, in joy and glory, To save us from the stranger. With princely grace to give redress, Nor a taunt to suffer back again; The fell Monro has felt thy blow, And should he dare attack again, Then as he flew, he 'll run anew, The flames to quench he 'll labour on, Of castle fired--when Staghead High raises his cabar on!

I 've seen thee o'er the lowly, A gracious chieftain ever, The Cátach[145] self below thee, And the Gallach[145] cower'd for cover; But ever more their striving, When claim'd respect thine eye, Thy scourge corrected, driving To other lands to fly. Thy loyal crew of clansmen true, No panic fear shall turn them, With steel-cap, blade, and _skene_ array'd, Their banning foes they spurn them. Clan-Shimei[146] then may dare them, They 'll fly, had each a sabre on, Needs but a look--when Staghead Once raises his cabar on.

Mounts not the wing a fouler thing, Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147] O! Inglorious chief! to boast the thief, That forays with the beagle, O! For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148] My song shall raise the mountain-deer; The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns, He loves the cress, the fountain cheer. His lodge is in the forest;-- While carion-flesh enticing Thy greedy maw, thou buriest Thou kite of prey! thy claws in The putrid corse of famish'd horse, The greedy hound a-striving To rival thee in gluttony, Both at the bowels riving. Thou called the _true bird_![149]--Never, Thou foster child of evil,[150] ha! How ill match with thy feather[151] The talons[152] of thy devilry! But when thy foray preys on Our harmless flocks, so dastardly, How often has the shepherd With trusty baton master'd thee; Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight, Else, not alone, belabouring, He 'd gored thee with the Staghead, Up-raising his cabar on.[153]

Woe worth the world, deceiver-- So false, so fair of seeming! We 've seen the noble Siphort[154] With all his war-notes[155] screaming; When not a chief in Albain, Mac-Ailein's[156] self though backing him, Could face his frown--as Staghead Arose with his cabar on.

To join thy might, when call'd the right, A gallant army springing on, Would rise, from Assint to the crags Of Scalpa, rescue bringing on. Each man upon, true-flinted gun, Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean; With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157] When up rose thy cabar on!

Came too the men of Muideart,[158] While stream'd their flag its bravery; Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159] That havock'd on the cavalry. Macalister,[160] Mackinnon, With many a flashing trigger there, The foemen rushing in on, Resistless shew'd their vigour there. May fortune free thee--may we see thee Again in Bràun,[161] the turreted, Girt with thy clan! And not a man But will get the scorn he merited. Then wine will play, and usquebae From flaggons, and from badalan,[162] And pipers scream--when Staghead High raises his cabar on.

[132] Applicable both to the chief and his crest.

[133] Literally, "_the dress_," (pron. _eidi_,) _i.e._, Highland garb, not yet abolished.

[134] Sutherlanders, or Caithness men.

[135] Banner.

[136] Monro of Fowlis.

[137] Rose of Kilravock and his clan.

[138] Grant of Grant.

[139] Lovat.

[140] Of Culloden.

[141] Of Sutherland.

[142] Lord Reay.

[143] Steed. The Celtic "Cabul" and Latin "Caballus" correspond.

[144] Here the bard is a little obscure; but he seems to mean that the Monroes made their escape over the skulls of the dead, as if they were boats or coracles by which to cross or get away from danger.

[145] The Caithness and Sutherland men.

[146] Lovat's men.

[147] The eagle being the crest of the Monro.

[148] The _eagle_; the crest of Monro of Fowlis. The filthy and cruel habits of this predatory bird are here contrasted with the forest-manners of the stag in a singular specimen of clan vituperation.

[149] _Fioreun_, the name of the eagle, signifying true bird.

[150] Literally--Accursed by Moses, or the Mosaic law.

[151] The single eagle's feather crested the chieftain's bonnet.

[152] Literally--If thy feather is noble, thy claws are (of) the devil!

[153] This picture of the eagle is not much for edification--nor another hit at the lion of the Macdonalds, then at feud with the Seaforth. The former is abridged, and the latter omitted; as also a lively detail of the _creagh_, in which the Monroes are reproached with their spoilages of cheese, butter, and winter-mart beef.

[154] Seaforth.

[155] Literally--Bagpipes.

[156] Macallammore: Argyle.

[157] Macdonald of Sleat.

[158] Clanranald's country.

[159] Literally--Of blue steel.

[160] Mac-Mhic-Alister, the patronymic of Glengary.

[161] Castle Brahan, Seaforth's seat.

[162] _Gaelic_--Barrels of liquor, properly _bùidealan_.

END OF VOL. I.

GLOSSARY.

_A-low_, on fire.

_Ava_, at all.

_Ayont_, beyond.

_Ban_, swear.

_Bang_, to change place hastily.

_Bangster_, a violent person.

_Bawks_, the cross-beams of a roof.

_Bein_, good, suitable.

_Bicker_, a dish for holding liquor.

_Boddle_, an old Scottish coin--value the third of a penny.

_Boggie_, a marsh.

_Brag_, vaunt.

_Braw_, gaily dressed.

_Busk_, to attire oneself.

_Buss_, bush.

_Cantie_, cheerful.

_Castocks_, the pith of stalks of cabbages.

_Caw_, to drive.

_Chat_, talk.

_Chuckies_, chickens.

_Chuffy_, clownish.

_Clavering_, talking idly.

_Cleeding_, clothing.

_Clishmaclavers_, idle talk.

_Clocksie_, vivacious.

_Cock-up_, a hat or cap turned up before.

_Coft_, purchased.

_Cogie_, a hollow wooden vessel.

_Coozy_, warm.

_Cosie_, snug, comfortable.

_Cowt_, cattle.

_Creel_, a basket.

_Croft_, a tenement of land.

_Croon_, to make a plaintive sound.

_Crouse_, brisk.

_Crusie_, a small lamp.

_Cuddle_, embrace.

_Curpin_, the crupper of a saddle.

_Cuttie_, a short pipe.

_Daff_, sport.

_Daut_, caress.

_Daud_, blow.

_Daunder_, to walk thoughtlessly.

_Dautit_, fondled.

_Dirdum_, tumult.

_Disjasket_, having appearance of decay.

_Doited_, stupid.

_Dool_, grief.

_Dorty_, a foolish urchin.

_Douf_, dull.

_Dowie_, sad.

_Draigle_, draggle.

_Dringing_, delaying.

_Drone_, sound of bagpipes.

_Dung_, defeated.

_Eerie_, timorous.

_Eident_, wary.

_Elf_, a puny creature.

_Fashious_, troublesome.

_Fauld_, a fold.

_Ferlies_, remarkable things.

_Fleyt_, frightened.

_Fogie_, a stupid old person.

_Foumart_, a pole-cat.

_Fraise_, flattery.

_Frumpish_, crumpled.

_Gabbit_, a person prone to idle talk.

_Gart_, compelled.

_Giggle_, unmeaning laughter.

_Gin_, if.

_Girse_, grass.

_Glaikit_, stupid.

_Glamrie_, the power of enchantment.

_Glower_, stare.

_Grusome_, frightful.

_Grist_, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.

_Gutchir_, grandfather.

_Gutters_, mud, wet dust.

_Hain_, save, preserve.

_Hap_, cover.

_Havens_, endowments.

_Henny_, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.

_Hinkum_, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.

_Howe_, a hollow.

_Hyne_, hence.

_Kail_, cabbages, colewort.

_Kebbuck_, a cheese.

_Keil_, red clay, used for marking.

_Ken_, know.

_Kenspeckle_, having a singular appearance.

_Leal_, honest, faithful.

_Leese me_, pleased am I with.

_Lyart_, gray-haired.

_Loof_, the palm of the hand.

_Lowin_, warm.

_Lucky, A_, an old woman.

_Luntin_, smoking.

_Mailin_, a farm.

_Maukin_, a hare.

_Mirk_, dark.

_Mishanter_, a sorry scrape.

_Mittens_, gloves without fingers.

_Mouldie_, crumbling.

_Mouls_, the earth of the grave.

_Mows_, easy.

_Mutch_, a woman's cap.

_Neip_, a turnip.

_Neive_, the closed fist.

_Nippen_, carried off surreptitiously.

_Ouk_, week.

_Owerlay_, a cravat.

_Perk_, push.

_Perlins_, women's ornaments.

_Poortith_, poverty.

_Preed_, tasted.

_Randy_, a scold, a shrew.

_Rate_, slander.

_Rink_, run about.

_Routh_, abundance.

_Rummulgumshin_, common sense.

_Sabbit_, sobbed.

_Scant_, scarce.

_Scartle_, a graip or fork.

_Scrimply_, barely.

_Scug_, shelter.

_Seer_, sure.

_Shaw_, a plantation.

_Shiel_, a sheep shed.

_Skeigh_, timorous.

_Skiffin_, moving lightly.

_Smeddum_, sagacity.

_Snooded_, the hair bound up.

_Spaewife,_ a female fortune-teller.

_Spence_, a larder.

_Steenies_, guineas.

_Sud_, should.

_Sumph_, a soft person.

_Swankie_, a clever young fellow.

_Sweir_, indolent.

_Syne_, then.

_Tabbit_, benumbed.

_Tapsle-teerie_, topsyturvy.

_Ted_, toad.

_Thairms_, strings.

_Thowless_, thoughtless.

_Thraw_, twist.

_Tint_, lost.

_Tirl_, to uncover.

_Tocher_, dowry.

_Toss_, toast.

_Towmond_, a year.

_Trig_, neat, trim.

_Tryst_, appointment.

_Tyced_, made diversion.

_Vauntit_, boasted.

_Weel_, will.

_Whigmigmorum_, political ranting.

_Wile_, choice.

_Wist_, wished.

_Wizen_, the throat.

_Wow_, vow.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.

* * * * *

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

Lithographed from an original Portrait in the possession of his widow by Schenck & McFarlane, Edinburgh.]

* * * * *

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D. F.S.A. SCOT.

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.

M.DCCC.LVI.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PAUL'S WORK.

TO

JOHN BROWN, ESQ., OF MARLIE.

My dear Sir,

I dedicate to you this second volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL," as a sincere token of my estimation of your long continued and most disinterested friendship, and of the anxiety you have so frequently evinced respecting the promotion of my professional views and literary aspirations.

I have the honour to be, My dear Sir, your most obliged, and very faithful servant, CHARLES ROGERS.

Argyle House, Stirling, _December 1855._

INTRODUCTION

TO

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.[1]

The suspicion which arose in regard to the authenticity of Ossian, subsequent to his appearance in the pages of Macpherson, has unjustly excited a misgiving respecting the entire poetry of the Gael. With reference to the elder poetry of the Highlands, it has now been established[2] that at the period of the Reformation, the natives were engrossed with the lays and legends of Bards and Seanachies,[3] of which Ossian, Caoillt, and Cuchullin were the heroes. These romantic strains continued to be preserved and recited with singular veneration. They were familiar to hundreds in different districts who regarded them as relics of their ancestors, and would as soon have mingled the bones of their fathers with the dust of strangers, as ventured on the alteration of a single passage. Many of the reciters of this elder poetry were writers of verses,[4] yet there is no instance of any attempt to alter or supersede the originals. Nor could any attempt have succeeded. There are specimens which exist, independent of those collected by Macpherson, which present a peculiarity of form, and a Homeric consistency of imagery, distinct from every other species of Gaelic poetry.

Of an uncertain era, but of a date posterior to the age of Ossian, there is a class of compositions called _Ur-sgeula_,[5] or _new-tales_, which may be termed the productions of the sub-Ossianic period. They are largely blended with stories of dragons and other fabulous monsters; the best of these compositions being romantic memorials of the Hiberno-Celtic, or Celtic Scandinavian wars. The first translation from the Gaelic was a legend of the _Ur-sgeula_. The translator was Ierome Stone,[6] schoolmaster of Dunkeld, and the performance appeared in the _Scots Magazine_ for 1700. The author had learned from the monks the story of Bellerophon,[7] along with that of Perseus and Andromeda, and from these materials fabricated a romance in which the hero is a mythical character, who is supposed to have given name to Loch Fraoch, near Dunkeld. Belonging to the same era is the "Aged Bard's Wish,"[8] a composition of singular elegance and pathos, and remarkable for certain allusions to the age and imagery of Ossian. This has frequently been translated. Somewhat in the Ossianic style, but of the period of the _Ur-sgeula_ are two popular pieces entitled _Mordubh_[9] and _Collath_. Of these productions the imagery is peculiarly illustrative of the character and habits of the ancient Gael, while they are replete with incidents of the wars which the Albyn had waged with their enemies of Scandinavia. To the same period we are disposed to assign the "Song of the Owl," though it has been regarded by a respectable authority[10] as of modern origin. Of a portion of this celebrated composition we subjoin a metrical translation from the pen of Mr William Sinclair.

The Bard, expelled from the dwellings of men by plunderers according to one account, by a discontented helpmate according to another, is placed in a lone out-house, where he meets an owl which he supposes himself to engage in an interchange of sentiment respecting the olden time:--

HUNTER.

O wailing owl of Strona's vale! We wonder not thy night's repose Is mournful, when with Donegal In distant years thou first arose: O lonely bird! we wonder not, For time the strongest heart can bow, That thou should'st heave a mournful note, Or that thy sp'rit is heavy now!

OWL.

Thou truly sayest I lone abide, I lived with yonder ancient oak, Whose spreading roots strike deep and wide Amidst the moss beside the rock; And long, long years have gone at last, And thousand moons have o'er me stole, And many a race before me past, Still I am Strona's lonely owl!

HUNTER.

Now, since old age has come o'er thee, Confess, as to a priest, thy ways; And fearless tell thou unto me The glorious tales of bygone days.

OWL.

Rapine and falsehood ne'er I knew, Nor grave nor temples e'er have torn, My youthful mate still found me true-- Guiltless am I although forlorn! I 've seen brave Britto's son, the wild, The powerful champion, Fergus, too, Gray-haired Foradden, Strona's child-- These were the heroes great and true!

HUNTER.

Thou hast well began, but tell to me, And say what further hast thou known! E'er Donegal abode with thee, In the Fersaid these all were gone!

OWL.

Great Alexander of the spears, The mightiest chief of Albyn's race, Oft have I heard his voice in cheers From the green hill-side speed the chase; I saw him after Angus brave-- Nor less a noble warrior he-- Fersaid his home, his work he gave Unto the Mill of Altavaich.

HUNTER.

From wild Lochaber, then, the sword With war's dread inroads swept apace; Where, gloomy-brow'd and ancient bird, Was then thy secret hiding-place?

OWL.

When the fierce sounds of terror burst, And plunder'd herds were passing on, I turn'd me from the sight accurst Unto the craig Gunaoch lone; Some of my kindred by the lands Of Inch and Fersaid sought repose, Some by Loch Laggan's lonely sands, Where their lamenting cries arose!

Here follows a noble burst of poetical fervour in praise of the lonely rock, and the scenes of the huntsman's youth. The green plains, the wild harts, the graceful beauty of the brown deer, and the roaring stag, with the banners, ensigns, and streamers of the race of Cona,--all share in the poet's admiration. The following constitutes the exordium of the poem:--

Oh rock of my heart! for ever secure, The rock where my childhood was cherish'd in love, The haunt of the wild birds, the stream flowing pure, And the hinds and the stags that in liberty rove; The rock all encircled by sounds from the grove, Oh, how I delighted to linger by thee, When arose the wild cry of the hounds as they drove, The herds of wild deer from their fastnesses free! Loud scream'd the eagles around thee, I ween, Sweet the cuckoos and the swans in their pride, More cheering the kid-spotted fawns that were seen, With their bleating, that sweetly arose by thy side, I love thee, O wild rock of refuge! of showers, Of the leaves and the cresses, all glorious to me, Of the high grassy heights and the beautiful bowers Afar from the smooth shelly brink of the sea!

The termination of the Sub-Ossianic period brings us to another epoch in the history of Gaelic poetry. The Bard was now the chieftain's retainer, at home a crofter and pensioner,[11] abroad a follower of the camp. We find him cheering the rowers of the galley, with his _birlinn_ chant, and stirring on the fight with his _prosnuchadh catha_, or battle-song. At the noted battle of Harlaw,[12] a piece was sung which has escaped the wreck of that tremendous slaughter, and of contemporary poetry. It is undoubtedly genuine; and the critics of Gaelic verse are unanimous in ascribing to it every excellence which can belong either to alliterative art, or musical excitement. Of the battle-hymn some splendid specimens have been handed down; and these are to be regarded with an amount of confidence, from the apparent ease with which the very long "Incitement to Battle," in the "Garioch Battle-Storm," as Harlaw is called, was remembered. Collections of favourite pieces began to be made in writing about the period of the revival of letters. The researches of the Highland Society brought to light a miscellany, embracing the poetical labours of two contemporaries of rank, Sir Duncan Campbell[13] of Glenurchay, and Lady Isabel Campbell. From this period the poet's art degenerates into a sort of family chronicle. There were, however, incidents which deserved a more affecting style of memorial; and this appears in lays which still command the interest and draw forth the tears of the Highlander. The story of the persecuted Clan Gregor supplies many illustrations, such as the oft-chanted _Macgregor na Ruara_,[14] and the mournful melodies of Janet Campbell.[15] In the footsteps of these exciting subjects of poetry, came the inspiring Montrose wars, which introduce to our acquaintance the more modern class of bards; of these the most conspicuous is, Ian Lom[16] or Manntach. This bard was a Macdonald; he hung on the skirts of armies, and at the close of the battle sung the triumph or the wail, on the side of his partisans.[17] To the presence of this person the clans are supposed to have been indebted for much of the enthusiasm which led them to glory in the wars of Montrose. His poetry only reaches mediocrity, but the success which attended it led the chiefs to seek similar support in the Jacobite wars; and very animated compositions were the result of their encouragement. Mathieson, the family bard of Seaforth, Macvuirich, the pensioner of Clanranald, and Hector the Lamiter, bard of M'Lean, were pre-eminent in this department. The Massacre of Glencoe suggested numerous elegies. There is one remarkable for pathos by a clansman who had emigrated to the Isle of Muck, from which circumstance he is styled "Am Bard Mucanach."

The knights of Duart and Sleat, the chiefs of Clanranald and Glengarry, the Lochaber seigniory of Lochiel, and the titled chivalry of Sutherland and Seaforth,[18] formed subjects of poetic eulogy. Sir Hector Maclean, Ailein Muideartach, and the lamented Sir James Macdonald obtained the same tribute. The second of these Highland favourites could not make his manly countenance, or stalwart arm, visible in hall, barge, or battle,[19] without exciting the enthusiastic strain of the enamoured muse of one sex, or of the admiring minstrel of the other. In this department of poetry, some of the best proficients were women. Of these Mary M'Leod, the contemporary of Ian Lom, is one of the most musical and elegant. Her chief, _The M'Leod_, was the grand theme of her inspiration. Dora Brown[20] sung a chant on the renowned Col-Kitto, as he went forth against the Campbells to revenge the death of his father; a composition conceived in a strain such as Helen Macgregor might have struck up to stimulate to some deed of daring and vindictive enterprise.

Of the modern poetry of the Gael, Macpherson has expressed himself unfavourably; he regarded the modern Highlanders as being incapable of estimating poetry otherwise than in the returning harmony of similar sounds. They were seduced, he remarks, by the charms of rhyme; and admired the strains of Ossian, not for the sublimity of the poetry, but on account of the antiquity of the compositions, and the detail of facts which they contained. On this subject a different opinion has been expressed by Sir Walter Scott. "I cannot dismiss this story," he writes, in his last introduction to his tale of the "Two Drovers," "without resting attention for a moment on the light which has been thrown on the character of the Highland Drover, since the time of its first appearance, by the account of a drover poet, by name Robert Mackay, or, as he was commonly called, Rob Donn, _i.e._, Brown Robert; and certain specimens of his talents, published in the ninetieth number of the _Quarterly Review_. The picture which that paper gives of the habits and feelings of a class of persons with which the general reader would be apt to associate no ideas but those of wild superstition and rude manners, is in the highest degree interesting; and I cannot resist the temptation of quoting two of the songs of this hitherto unheard-of poet of humble life.... Rude and bald as these things appear in a verbal translation, and rough as they might possibly appear, even were the originals intelligible, we confess we are disposed to think they would of themselves justify Dr Mackay (editor of Mackay's Poems) in placing this herdsman-lover among the true sons of song."

Of that department of the Gaelic Minstrelsy admired by Scott and condemned by Macpherson, the English reader is presented in the present work with specimens, to enable him to form his own judgment. These specimens, it must however be remembered, not only labour under the ordinary disadvantages of translations, but have been rendered from a language which, in its poetry, is one of the least transfusible in the world. Yet the effort which has been made to retain the spirit, and preserve the rhythm and manner of the originals, may be sufficient to establish that the honour of the Scottish Muse has not unworthily been supported among the mountains of the Gael. Some of the compositions are Jacobite, and are in the usual warlike strain of such productions, but the majority sing of the rivalries of clans, the emulation of bards, the jealousies of lovers, and the honour of the chiefs. They likewise abound in pictures of pastoral imagery; are redolent of the heath and the wildflower, and depict the beauties of the deer forest.

The various kinds of Highland minstrelsy admit of simple classification. The _Duan Mor_ is the epic song; its subdivisions are termed _duana_ or _duanaga_. Strings of verse and incidents ([Greek: Rhapsôdia]) were intended to form an epic history, and were combined by successive bards for that purpose. The battle-song (_Prosnuchadh-catha_) was the next in importance. The model of this variety is not to be found in any of the Alcaic or Tyrtæan remains. It was a dithyrambic of the wildest and most passionate enthusiasm, inciting to carnage and fury. Chanted in the hearing of assembled armies, and sometimes sung before the van, it was intended as an incitement to battle, and even calculated to stimulate the courage of the general. The war-song of the Harlaw has been already noticed; it is a rugged tissue of alliteration, every letter having a separate division in the remarkable string of adjectives which are connected to introduce a short exordium and grand finale. The _Jorram_, or boat-song, some specimens of which attracted the attention of Dr Johnson,[21] was a variety of the same class. In this, every measure was used which could be made to time with an oar, or to mimic a wave, either in motion or sound. Dr Johnson discovered in it the proceleusmatic song of the ancients; it certainly corresponds in real usage with the poet's description:--

"Stat margine puppis, Qui voce alternos nautarum temperet ictus, Et remis dictet sonitum pariterque relatis, Ad numerum plaudet resonantia cærula tonsis."

Alexander Macdonald excels in this description of verse. In a piece called Clanranald's _Birlinn_, he has summoned his utmost efforts in timing the circumstances of a voyage with suitable metres and descriptions. A happy imitation of the boat-song has been rendered familiar to the English reader by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! ieroe," of the "Lady of the Lake." The _Luineag_, or favourite carol of the Highland milkmaid, is a class of songs entirely lyrical, and which seldom fails to please the taste of the Lowlander. Burns[22] and other song-writers have adopted the strain of the _Luineag_ to adorn their verses. The _Cumha_, or lament, is the vehicle of the most pathetic and meritorious effusions of Gaelic poetry; it is abundantly interspersed with the poetry of Ossian.

Among the Gael, blank verse is unknown, and for rhyme they entertain a passion.[23] They rhyme to the same set of sounds or accents for a space of which the recitation is altogether tedious. Not satisfied with the final rhyme, their favourite measures are those in which the middle syllable corresponds with the last, and the same syllable in the second line with both; and occasionally the final sound of the second line is expected to return in every alternate verse through the whole poem. The Gael appear to have been early in possession of these coincidences of termination which were unknown to the classical poets, or were regarded by them as defects.[24] All writers on Celtic versification, including the Irish, Welsh, Manx, and Cornish varieties, are united in their testimony as to the early use of rhyme by the Celtic poets, and agree in assigning the primary model to the incantations of the Druids.[25] The lyrical measures of the Gael are various, but the scansion is regular, and there is no description of verse familiar to English usage, from the Iambic of four syllables, to the slow-paced Anapæstic, or the prolonged Alexandrine, which is not exactly measured by these sons and daughters of song.[26] Every poetical composition in the language, however lengthy, is intended to be sung or chanted. Gaelic music is regulated by no positive rules; it varies from the wild chant of the battle-song to the simple melody of the milkmaid. In Johnson's "Musical Museum," Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology," Thomson's "Collection," and Macdonald's "Airs," the music of the mountains has long been familiar to the curious in song, and lover of the national minstrelsy.[27]

[1] We are indebted for these observations on the Highland Muse to the learned friend who has supplied the greater number of the translations from the Gaelic poets, which appear in the present work.

[2] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 16-20.

[3] Genealogists or Antiquaries.

[4] Letter from Sir James Macdonald to Dr Blair.

[5] M'Callum's "Collection," p. 207. See also Smith's "Sean Dana, or Gaelic Antiquities;" Gillies' "Collection" and Clark's "Caledonian Bards."

[6] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 99, 105, 112.

[7] Boswell's "Life of Johnson," p. 320, Croker's edition, 1847.

[8] "Poems by Mrs Grant of Laggan," p. 395, Edinburgh, 1803, 8vo. The original is to be found in the Gaelic collections.

[9] Mrs Grant's Poems, p. 371; Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 1.

[10] See Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 249. The original is contained in Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets."

[11] See Johnson's "Journey to the Western Islands."

[12] Stewart's Collection, p. 1.

[13] Report on Ossian, p. 92. Sir Duncan Campbell fell at the battle of Flodden, Lady Campbell afterwards married Gilbert, Earl of Cassillis.

[14] Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 196.

[15] Mrs Ogilvie's "Highland Minstrelsy." For the original see Turner's Collection, p. 186.

[16] Reid's "Bibliotheca Scotica Celtica." Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 36.

[17] Napier's "Memoirs of Montrose." In this work will be found a very spirited translation of Ian Lom's poem on the battle of Innerlochy.

[18] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," pp. 24, 59, 77, 77, 151; Turner's "Gaelic Collection," _passim._

[19] See the beautiful verses translated by the Marchioness of Northampton from "Ha tighinn fodham," in "Albyn's Anthology," or Croker's "Boswell."

[20] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 56.

[21] Johnson's Works, vol. xii. p. 291.

[22] Poems, Chambers' People's Edition, p. 134.

[23] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 63.

[24] _Edinburgh Review_ on Mitford's "Harmony of Language," vol. vi. p. 383.

[25] Brown's "History of the Highlands," vol. i. p. 89.

[26] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 64.

[27] See also Logan's "Scottish Gael," vol. ii. p. 252.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

JAMES HOGG, 1 Donald Macdonald, 48 Flora Macdonald's farewell, 50 Bonnie Prince Charlie, 51 The skylark, 52 Caledonia, 53 O Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye, 54 When the kye comes hame, 55 The women folk, 58 M'Lean's welcome, 59 Charlie is my darling, 61 Love is like a dizziness, 62 O weel befa' the maiden gay, 64 The flowers of Scotland, 66 Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, 67 Pull away, jolly boys, 69 O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine? 70 The auld Highlandman, 71 Ah, Peggy, since thou 'rt gane away, 72 Gang to the brakens wi' me, 74 Lock the door, Lariston, 75 I hae naebody now, 77 The moon was a-waning, 78 Good night, and joy, 79

JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D., 81 Bess the gawkie, 82 MRS AGNES LYON, 84 Neil Gow's farewell to whisky, 86 See the winter clouds around, 87 Within the towers of ancient Glammis, 88 My son George's departure, 90

ROBERT LOCHORE, 91 Now, Jenny lass, 92 Marriage, and the care o't, 94 Mary's twa lovers, 95 The forlorn shepherd, 96

JOHN ROBERTSON, 98 The toom meal pock, 99

ALEXANDER BALFOUR, 101 The bonnie lass o' Leven water, 104 Slighted love, 105

GEORGE MACINDOE, 106 Cheese and whisky, 108 The burn trout, 109

ALEXANDER DOUGLAS, 110 Fife, an' a' the land about it, 112

WILLIAM M'LAREN, 114 Now summer shines with gaudy pride, 116 And dost thou speak sincere, my love? 116 Say not the bard has turn'd old, 117

HAMILTON PAUL, 120 Helen Gray, 128 The bonnie lass of Barr, 129

ROBERT TANNAHILL, 131 Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane, 136 Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, 137 The lass of Arranteenie, 139 Yon burn side, 140 The braes o' Gleniffer, 141 Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, 142 The braes o' Balquhither, 143 Gloomy winter 's now awa', 145 O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? 146 Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow, 147 The dear Highland laddie, O, 148 The midges dance aboon the burn, 149 Barrochan Jean, 150 O, row thee in my Highland plaid, 151 Bonnie wood of Craigie lea, 153 Good night, and joy, 154

HENRY DUNCAN, D.D., 156 Curling song, 161 On the green sward, 163 The Ruthwell volunteers, 164 Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, 165 The roof of straw, 166 Thou kens't, Mary Hay, 167

ROBERT ALLAN, 169 Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, 171 Come awa, hie awa, 171 On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, 173 To a linnet, 174 The primrose is bonnie in spring, 174 The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee, 175 The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, 176 Her hair was like the Cromla mist, 177 O leeze me on the bonnie lass, 178 Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle, 179 When Charlie to the Highlands came, 180 Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, 181 The lovely maid of Ormadale, 183 A lassie cam' to our gate, 184 The thistle and the rose, 186 The Covenanter's lament, 187 Bonnie lassie, 188

ANDREW MERCER, 189 The hour of love, 190

JOHN LEYDEN, M.D., 191 Ode to the evening star, 196 The return after absence, 197 Lament for Rama, 197

JAMES SCADLOCK, 199 Along by Levern stream so clear, 201 Hark, hark, the skylark singing, 202 October winds, 203

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART., 204 Jenny's bawbee, 208 Jenny dang the weaver, 210 The lass o' Isla, 211 Taste life's glad moments, 212 Good night, and joy be wi' ye a', 214 Old and new times, 215 Bannocks o' barley meal, 216

WILLIAM GILLESPIE, 218 The Highlander, 220 Ellen, 221

THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM, 223 Adown the burnie's flowery bank, 227 The hills o' Gallowa', 227 The braes o' Ballahun, 229 The unco grave, 230 Julia's grave, 231 Fareweel, ye streams, 232

JOHN STRUTHERS, 235 Admiring Nature's simple charms, 239 Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree, 240

RICHARD GALL, 241 How sweet is the scene, 243 Captain O'Kain, 243 My only jo and dearie, O, 244 The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e, 245 The braes o' Drumlee, 246 I winna gang back to my mammy again, 248 The bard, 249 Louisa in Lochaber, 249 The hazlewood witch, 250 Farewell to Ayrshire, 251

GEORGE SCOTT, 253 The flower of the Tyne, 254

THOMAS CAMPBELL, 255 Ye mariners of England, 262 Glenara, 263 The wounded hussar, 264 Battle of the Baltic, 265 Men of England, 268

MRS G. G. RICHARDSON, 269 The fairy dance, 273 Summer morning, 274 There 's music in the flowing tide, 275 Ah! faded is that lovely broom, 276

THOMAS BROWN, M.D., 278 Consolation of altered fortunes, 281 The faithless mourner, 282 The lute, 283

WILLIAM CHALMERS, 285 Sing on, 286 The Lomond braes, 287

JOSEPH TRAIN, 288 My doggie, 293 Blooming Jessie, 295 Old Scotia, 296

ROBERT JAMIESON, 297 My wife 's a winsome wee thing, 299 Go to him, then, if thou can'st go, 300

WALTER WATSON, 302 My Jockie 's far awa, 304 Maggie an' me, 305 Sit down, my cronie, 306 Braes o' Bedlay, 307 Jessie, 308

WILLIAM LAIDLAW, 310 Lucy's flittin', 314 Her bonnie black e'e, 316 Alake for the lassie, 317

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

ALEXANDER MACDONALD, 321 The lion of Macdonald, 323 The brown dairy-maiden, 327 The praise of Morag, 329 News of Prince Charles, 335

JOHN ROY STUART, 340 Lament for Lady Macintosh, 341 The day of Culloden, 343

JOHN MORRISON, 346 My beauty dark, 347

ROBERT MACKAY, 349 The Highlander's home sickness, 349

* * * * *

GLOSSARY, 350

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.

JAMES HOGG.

The last echoes of the older Border Minstrelsy were dying from the memory of the aged, and the spirit which had awakened the strains seemed to have sighed an eternal farewell to its loved haunts in the past, when, suddenly arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of inspiration, at the close of last century, over several sons of song, worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires. Of these, unquestionably the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated "The Ettrick Shepherd." This distinguished individual was born in the bosom of the romantic vale of Ettrick, in Selkirkshire,--one of the most mountainous and picturesque districts of Scotland. The family of Hogg claimed descent from Hougo, a Norwegian baron; and the poet's paternal ancestors at one period possessed the lands of Fauldshope in Ettrick Forest, and were followers, under the feudal system, of the Knights of Harden. For several generations they had adopted the simple occupation of shepherds. On the mother's side, the poet was descended from the respectable family of Laidlaw,--one of the oldest in Tweeddale, and of which all the representatives bore the reputation of excelling either in intellectual vigour or physical energy; they generally devoted themselves to the pastoral life. Robert Hogg, the poet's father, was a person of very ordinary sagacity, presenting in this respect a decided contrast to his wife, Margaret Laidlaw, a woman of superior energy and cultivated mind. Their family consisted of four sons, of whom the second was James, the subject of this Memoir. The precise date of his birth is unknown: he was baptised, according to the Baptismal Register of Ettrick, his native parish, on the 9th of December 1770.[28]

At the period of his marriage, Robert Hogg was in circumstances of considerable affluence; he had saved money as a shepherd, and, taking on lease the two adjoining pastoral farms of Ettrick-hall and Ettrick-house, he largely stocked them with sheep adapted both for the Scottish and English markets. During several years he continued to prosper; but a sudden depression in the market, and the absconding of a party who was indebted to him, at length exhausted his finances, and involved him in bankruptcy. The future poet was then in his sixth year. In this destitute condition, the family experienced the friendship and assistance of Mr Brydon, tenant of the neighbouring farm of Crosslee, who, leasing Ettrick-house, employed Robert Hogg as his shepherd. But the circumstances of the family were much straitened by recent reverses; and the second son, young as he was, and though he had only been three months at school, was engaged as a cow-herd, his wages for six months being only a ewe-lamb and a pair of shoes! Three months' further attendance at school, on the expiry of his engagement, completed the future bard's scholastic instructions. It was the poet's lot, with the exception of these six months' schooling, to receive his education among the romantic retreats and solitudes of Nature. First as a cow-herd, and subsequently through the various gradations of shepherd-life, his days, till advanced manhood, were all the year round passed upon the hills. And such hills! The mountains of Ettrick and Yarrow are impressed with every feature of Highland scenery, in its wildest and most striking aspects. There are stern summits, enveloped in cloud, and stretching heavenwards; huge broad crests, heathy and verdant, or torn by fissures and broken by the storms; deep ravines, jagged, precipitate, and darksome; and valleys sweetly reposing amidst the sublimity of the awful solitude. There are dark craggy mountains around the Grey-Mare's-Tail, echoing to the roar of its stupendous cataract; and romantic and beautiful green hills, and inaccessible heights, surrounding and towering over St Mary's Loch, and the Loch of the Lowes. To the sublimity of that vast academy, in which he had learned to invoke the Muse, the poet has referred in the "Queen's Wake":--

"The bard on Ettrick's mountain green, In Nature's bosom nursed had been; And oft had mark'd in forest lone The beauties on her mountain throne; Had seen her deck the wildwood tree, And star with snowy gems the lea; In loveliest colours paint the plain, And sow the moor with purple grain; By golden mead and mountain sheer, Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear, When shadowy flocks of purest snow Seem'd grazing in a world below."

Glorious as was his academy, the genius of the poet was not precocious. Forgetting everything he had learned at school, he spent his intervals of toil in desultory amusements, or in pursuing his own shadow upon the hills. As he grew older, he discovered the possession of a musical ear; and saving five shillings of his earnings, he purchased an old violin, upon which he learned to play his favourite tunes. He had now attained his fourteenth year; and in the constant hope of improving his circumstances, had served twelve masters.

The life of a cow-herd affords limited opportunities for mental improvement. And the early servitude of the Ettrick Shepherd was spent in excessive toil, which his propensities to fun and frolic served just to render tolerable. When he reached the respectable and comparatively easy position of a shepherd, he began to think of teaching himself to read. From Mrs Laidlaw, the wife of the farmer at Willinslee, on which he served, he was privileged with the loan of two works, of which the reputation had been familiar to him from childhood. These were Henry the Minstrel's "Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace," and the "Gentle Shepherd" of Allan Ramsay. On these the future poet with much difficulty learned to read, in his eighteenth year. He afterwards read a number of theological works, from his employer's collection of books; and among others of a speculative cast, "Burnet's Theory of the Conflagration of the Earth," the perusal of which, he has recorded, "nearly overturned his brain."

At Whitsunday 1790, in his twentieth year, Hogg entered the service, as shepherd, of Mr James Laidlaw, tenant of Blackhouse,--a farm situate on the Douglasburn in Yarrow. This proved the most signally fortunate step which he had yet taken. Mr Laidlaw was a man of singular shrewdness and of a highly cultivated mind; he readily perceived his shepherd's aptitude for learning, and gave him the use of his library. But the poet's connexion with Blackhouse was especially valuable in enabling him to form the intimacy of Mr William Laidlaw, his master's son, the future factor and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott. Though ten years his junior, and consequently a mere youth at the period of his coming to Blackhouse, young Laidlaw began early to sympathise with the Shepherd's predilections, and afterwards devoted a large portion of time to his society. The friendship which ensued proved useful to both. A MS. narrative of the poet's life by this unfailing friend, which has been made available in the preparation of this Memoir, enables us to supply an authentic account of this portion of his career. "He was not long," writes Mr Laidlaw, "in going through all the books belonging to my father; and learning from me that Mr Elder, bookseller, Peebles, had a large collection of books which he used as a circulating library, he forthwith became a subscriber, and by that means read Smollett's and Fielding's novels, and those voyages and travels which were published at the time, including those of Cook, Carteret, and others."

The progress of the Shepherd in learning was singularly tardy. He was, by a persevering course of reading, sufficiently familiar with the more esteemed writers in English literature, ere he attempted penmanship. He acquired the art upon the hill-side by copying the Italian alphabet, using his knees as his desk, and having his ink-bottle suspended from his button. In his twenty-sixth year he first essayed to write verses,--an effort attended, in the manual department, with amusing difficulty, for he stripped himself of his coat and vest to the undertaking, yet could record only a few lines at a sitting! But he was satisfied with the fame derived from his verses, as adequate compensation for the toil of their production; he wrote for the amusement of the shepherd maidens, who sung them to their favourite tunes, and bestowed on him the prized designation of "Jamie the Poeter." At the various gatherings of the lads and lasses in the different homesteads, then frequent in this pastoral district, he never failed to present himself, and had golden opportunities of winning the chaplet of applause, both for the strains of his minstrelsy, and the music of his violin. These _réunions_ were not without their influence in stimulating him to more ambitious efforts in versification.

The Shepherd's popularity, while tending the flocks of Mr Laidlaw at Blackhouse, was not wholly derived from his skill as a versifier, and capabilities as a musician, but, among the fairer portion of the creation, was perhaps scarcely less owing to the amenity of his disposition, combined with the handsomeness of his person. As a candidate for the honour of feminine approbation, he was successful alike in the hall and on the green: the rumour of his approach at any rural assemblage or merry-meeting was the watchword for increased mirth and happiness. If any malignant rival had hinted aught to his prejudice, the maidens of the whole district had assembled to vindicate his cause. His personal appearance at this early period is thus described by Mr William Laidlaw:--"About nineteen years of age, Hogg was rather above the middle height, of faultless symmetry of form; he was of almost unequalled agility and swiftness. His face was then round and full, and of a ruddy complexion, with bright blue eyes that beamed with gaiety, glee, and good-humour, the effect of the most exuberant animal spirits. His head was covered with a singular profusion of light-brown hair, which he was obliged to wear coiled up under his hat. On entering church on a Sunday (where he was all his life a regular attender) he used, on lifting his hat, to raise his right hand to assist a graceful shake of his head in laying back his long hair, which rolled down his back, and fell below his loins. And every female eye was upon him, as, with light step, he ascended the stair to the gallery where he sat."

As the committing of his thoughts to paper became a less irksome occupation, Hogg began, with commendable prudence, to attempt composition in prose; and in evidence of his success, he had the satisfaction to find short essays which he sent to the _Scots Magazine_ regularly inserted in that periodical. Poetry was cultivated at the same time with unabated ardour, though the bard did not yet venture to expose his verses beyond the friendly circle of his associates in Ettrick Forest. Of these, the most judicious was young Laidlaw; who, predicting his success, urged him to greater carefulness in composition. There was another stimulus to his improvement. Along with several shepherds in the forest, who were of studious inclinations, he formed a literary society, which proposed subjects for competition in verse, and adjudged encomiums of approbation to the successful competitors. Two spirited members of this literary conclave were Alexander Laidlaw, a shepherd, and afterwards tenant of Bowerhope, on the border of St Mary's Lake, and the poet's elder brother, William, a man of superior talent. Both these individuals subsequently acquired considerable distinction as intelligent contributors to the agricultural journals. For some years, William Hogg had rented the sheep-farm of Ettrick-house, and afforded shelter and support to his aged and indigent parents. In the year 1800, he resigned his lease to the poet, having taken another farm on the occasion of his marriage. James now established himself, along with his parents, at Ettrick-house, the place of his nativity, after a period of ten years' connexion with Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, whose conduct towards him, to use his own words, had proved "much more like that of a father than a master." It was during the course of a visit to Edinburgh in the same year, that an accidental circumstance gave a wider range to his poetical reputation. Spending an evening with a party of friends in the Crown Tavern, he was solicited for a song. He sung the last which he had composed; it was "Donald Macdonald." The reception was a roar of applause, and one of the party offered to get it set to music and published. The song was issued anonymously from the music establishment of Mr John Hamilton of Edinburgh. Within a few months it was sung in every district of the kingdom; and, at a period when the apprehended invasion of Napoleon filled the hearts of the nation with anxiety, it was hailed as an admirable stimulus to patriotism. In the preparation of the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," Scott had been largely indebted to the intelligent peasantry of the south. He was now engaged in making collections for his third volume, and had resolved to examine the pastoral inhabitants of Ettrick and Yarrow. Procuring a note of introduction from his friend Leyden to young Laidlaw, Scott arrived at Blackhouse during the summer of 1801, and in his native home formed the acquaintance of his future steward. To his visitor, Laidlaw commended Hogg as the best qualified in the forest to assist him in his researches; and Scott, who forthwith accompanied Laidlaw to Ettrick-house, was more than gratified by an interview with the shepherd-bard. "He found," writes his biographer, "a brother poet, a true son of nature and genius, hardly conscious of his powers.... As yet, his naturally kind and simple character had not been exposed to any of the dangerous flatteries of the world; his heart was pure; his enthusiasm buoyant as that of a happy child; and well as Scott knew that reflection, sagacity, wit and wisdom, were scattered abundantly among the humblest rangers of these pastoral solitudes, there was here a depth and a brightness that filled him with wonder, combined with a quaintness of humour, and a thousand little touches of absurdity, which afforded him more entertainment, as I have often heard him say, than the best comedy that ever set the pit in a roar." Scott remained several days in the forest, daily accompanied in his excursions by Hogg and Laidlaw, both of whom rapidly warmed in his regard. From the recitation of the Shepherd's mother, he obtained important and interesting accessions to his Minstrelsy.

With the exception of the song of "Donald Macdonald," Hogg had not yet published verses. His _début_ as an author was sufficiently unpropitious. Shortly after Scott's visit, he had been attending the Monday sheep-market in Edinburgh, and being unable to dispose of his entire stock, was necessitated to remain in the city till the following Wednesday. Having no acquaintances, he resolved to employ the interval in writing from recollection several of his poems for the press. Before his departure, he gave the pieces to a printer; and shortly after, he received intimation that a thousand copies were ready for delivery. On comparing the printed sheets with his MSS. at Ettrick, he had the mortification of discovering "many of the stanzas omitted, others misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page." The little _brochure_, imperfect as it was, sold rapidly in the district; for the Shepherd had now a considerable circle of admirers, and those who had ridiculed his verse-making, kept silent since Scott's visit to him. A copy of the pamphlet is preserved in the Advocates' Library; it consists of sixty-two pages octavo, and is entitled, "Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, &c., mostly written in the Dialect of the South, by James Hogg. Edinburgh: printed by John Taylor, Grassmarket, 1801. Price One Shilling." The various pieces evince poetic power, unhappily combined with a certain coarseness of sentiment. One of the longer ballads, "Willie and Keatie," supposed to be a narrative of one of his early amours, obtained a temporary popularity, and was copied into the periodicals. It is described by Allan Cunningham as a "plain, rough-spun pastoral, with some fine touches in it, to mark that better was coming."

The domestic circumstances of the Shepherd were meanwhile not prosperous; he was compelled to abandon the farm of Ettrick-house, which had been especially valuable to him, as affording a comfortable home to his venerated parents. In the hope of procuring a situation as an overseer of some extensive sheep-farm, he made several excursions into the northern Highlands, waiting upon many influential persons, to whom he had letters of recommendation. These journeys were eminently advantageous in acquainting him with many interesting and celebrated scenes, and in storing his mind with images drawn from the sublimities and wild scenery of nature, but were of no account as concerned the object for which they were undertaken. Without procuring employment, he returned, with very reduced finances, to Ettrick Forest. He published a rough narrative of his travels in the _Scots Magazine_; and wrote two essays on the rearing and management of sheep, for the Highland Society, which were acknowledged with premiums. Frustrated in an attempt to procure a farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, and declining an offer of Scott to appoint him to the charge of his small sheep-farm at Ashestiel, he was led to indulge in the scheme of settling in the island of Harris. It was in the expectation of being speedily separated from the loved haunts of his youth, that he composed his "Farewell to Ettrick," afterwards published in the "Mountain Bard," one of the most touching and pathetic ballads in the language. The Harris enterprise was not carried out; and the poet, "to avoid a great many disagreeable questions and explanations," went for several months to England. Fortune still frowned, and the ambitious but unsuccessful son of genius had to return to his former subordinate occupation as a shepherd. He entered the employment of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-Slack, in Nithsdale.

Dissatisfied with the imitations of ancient ballads in the third volume of "The Border Minstrelsy," Hogg proceeded to embody some curious traditions in this kind of composition. He transmitted specimens to Scott, who warmly commended them, and suggested their publication. The result appeared in the "Mountain Bard," a collection of poems and ballads, which he published in 1803, prefixed with an account of his life. From the profits of this volume, with the sum of eighty-six pounds paid him by Constable for the copyright of his two treatises on sheep, he became master of three hundred pounds. With this somewhat startling acquisition, visions of prosperity arose in his ardent and enthusiastic mind. He hastily took in lease the pastoral farm of Corfardin, in the parish of Tynron, Dumfriesshire, to which he afterwards added the lease of another large farm in the same neighbourhood. Misfortune still pursued him; he rented one of the farms at a sum exceeding its value, and his capital was much too limited for stocking the other, while a disastrous murrain decimated his flock. Within the space of three years he was again a penniless adventurer. Removing from the farm-homestead of Corfardin, he accepted the generous invitation of his hospitable neighbour, Mr James Macturk of Stenhouse, to reside in his house till some suitable employment might occur. At Stenhouse he remained three months; and he subsequently acknowledged the generosity of his friend, by honourably celebrating him in the "Queen's Wake." Writing to Mr Macturk, in 1814, he remarks, in reference to his farming at Corfardin, "But it pleased God to take away by death all my ewes and my lambs, and my long-horned cow, and my spotted bull, for if they had lived, and if I had kept the farm of Corfardin, I had been a lost man to the world, and mankind should never have known the half that was in me. Indeed, I can never see the design of Providence in taking me to your district at all, if it was not to breed my acquaintance with you and yours, which I hope will be one source of happiness to me as long as I live. Perhaps the very circumstance of being initiated into the mysteries of your character,[29] is of itself a sufficient compensation for all that I suffered in your country."

Disappointed in obtaining an ensigncy in a Militia Regiment, through the interest of Sir Walter Scott, and frustrated in every other attempt to retain the social position he had gained, he returned to Ettrick, once more to seek employment in his original occupation. But if friendship had somewhat failed him, on his proving unsuccessful at Ettrick-house, his _prestige_ was now completely gone; old friends received him coldly, and former employers declined his services. He found that, till he should redeem his reputation for business and good management, there was no home for him in Ettrick Forest. Hogg was not a man who would tamely surrender to the pressure of misfortune: amidst his losses he could claim the strictest honesty of intention, and he was not unconscious of his powers. With his plaid over his shoulders, he reached Edinburgh in the month of February 1810, to begin, in his fortieth year, the career of a man of letters. The scheme was singularly adventurous, but the die was cast; he was in the position of the man on the tread-wheel, and felt that he must write or perish.

It affords no matter of surprise that the Shepherd was received coldly by the booksellers, and that his offers of contributing to their periodicals were respectfully declined. His volume, "The Mountain Bard," had been forgotten; and though his literary fitness had been undisputed, his lengthened want of success in life seemed to imply a doubt of his general steadiness. Mr Constable, his former publisher, proved the most friendly; he consented to publish a collection of songs and ballads, which he had prepared, two-thirds being his own composition, and the remainder that of his ingenious friends. This publication, known as "The Forest Minstrel," had a slow sale, and conferred no benefit on the unfortunate author. What the booksellers would not do for him, Hogg resolved to do for himself; he originated a periodical, which he designated "The Spy," acting as his own publisher. The first number of this publication--a quarto weekly sheet, price fourpence--was issued on the first of September 1810. With varied popularity, this paper existed during the space of a year; and owing to the perseverance of the conductor might have subsisted a longer period, but for a certain ruggedness which occasionally disfigured it. As a whole, being chiefly the composition of a shepherd, who could only read at eighteen, and write at twenty-six, and who, to use his own words, "knew no more of human life or manners than a child," the work presented a remarkable record in the annals of literature. As a business concern, it did not much avail the projector, but it served indirectly towards improving his condition, by inducing the habit of composing readily, and with undeviating industry. A copy of "The Spy" is now rare.

From his literary exertions, Hogg was long, subsequent to his arrival in the metropolis, in deriving substantial pecuniary emolument. In these circumstances, he was fortunate in the friendship of Mr John Grieve, and his partner Mr Henry Scott, hat manufacturers in the city, who, fully appreciating his genius, aided him with money so long as he required their assistance. These are his own words, "They suffered me to want for nothing, either in money or clothes, and I did not even need to ask these." To Mr Grieve, Hogg was especially indebted; six months he was an inmate of his house, and afterwards he occupied comfortable lodgings, secured him by his friend's beneficence. Besides these two invaluable benefactors, the Shepherd soon acquired the regard and friendship of several respectable men of letters, both in Edinburgh and elsewhere. As contributors to "The Spy," he could record the names of James Gray of the High School, and his accomplished wife; Thomas Gillespie, afterwards Professor of Humanity in the University of St Andrews; J. Black, subsequently of the _Morning Chronicle_; William Gillespie, the ingenious minister of Kells; and John Sym, the renowned Timothy Tickler of the "_Noctes_." Of these literary friends, Mr James Gray was the more conspicuous and devoted. This excellent individual, the friend of so many literary aspirants, was a native of Dunse, and had the merit of raising himself from humble circumstances to the office of a master in the High School of Edinburgh. Possessed of elegant and refined tastes, an enthusiastic admirer of genius, and a poet himself,[30] Mr Gray entertained at his table the more esteemed wits of the capital; he had extended the hand of hospitality to Burns, and he received with equal warmth the author of "The Forest Minstrel." In the exercise of disinterested beneficence, he was aided and encouraged by his second wife, formerly Miss Peacock, who sympathised in the lettered tastes of her husband, and took delight in the society of men of letters. They together made annual pedestrian excursions into the Highlands, and the narrative of their adventures proved a source of delightful instruction to their friends. Mr Gray, after a lengthened period of residence in Edinburgh, accepted, in the year 1821, the Professorship of Latin in the Institution at Belfast; he subsequently took orders in the Church of England, and proceeded to India as a chaplain. In addition to his chaplaincy, he held the office of preceptor to one of the native princes of Hindostan. He died at Bhoog, in the kingdom of Cutch, on the 25th of September 1830; and if we add that he was a man of remarkable learning, his elegy may be transcribed from the "Queen's Wake:"--

"Alike to him the south and north, So high he held the minstrel worth; So high his ardent mind was wrought, Once of himself he never thought."

As the circle of the poet's friends increased, a scheme was originated among them, which was especially entertained by the juniors, of establishing a debating society for mutual improvement. This institution became known as the Forum; meetings were held weekly in a public hall of the city, and strangers were admitted to the discussions on the payment of sixpence a-head. The meetings were uniformly crowded; and the Shepherd, who held the office of secretary, made a point of taking a prominent lead in the discussions. He spoke once, and sometimes more frequently, at every meeting, making speeches, both studied and extemporaneous, on every variety of theme; and especially contributed, by his rough-spun eloquence, to the popularity of the institution. The society existed three years; and though yielding the secretary no pecuniary emolument, proved a new and effective mean of extending his acquaintance with general knowledge.

Hogg now took an interest in theatricals, and produced two dramas, one of which, a sort of musical farce, was intended as a burlesque on the prominent members of the Forum, himself included. This he was induced, on account of the marked personalities, to confine to his repositories; he submitted the other to Mr Siddons, who commended it, but it never was brought upon the stage. He was about to appear before the world in his most happy literary effort, "The Queen's Wake,"--a composition suggested by Mr Grieve. This ingenious individual had conceived the opinion that a republication of several of the Shepherd's ballads in "The Spy," in connexion with an original narrative poem, would arrest public attention as to the author's merits; while a narrative having reference to the landing of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen Mary, seemed admirably calculated to induce a general interest in the poem. The proposal, submitted to Allan Cunningham and Mr Gray, received their warm approbation; and in a few months the entire composition was ready for the press. Mr Constable at once consented to undertake the publication; but a more advantageous offer being made by Mr George Goldie, a young bookseller, "The Queen's Wake" issued from his establishment in the spring of 1813. Its success was complete; two editions were speedily circulated, and the fame of the author was established. With the exception of the _Eclectic Review_, every periodical accorded its warmest approbation to the performance; and vacillating friends, who began to doubt the Shepherd's power of sustaining the character he had assumed as a poet and a man of letters, ceased to entertain their misgivings, and accorded the warmest tributes to his genius. A commendatory article in the _Edinburgh Review_, in November 1814, hailed the advent of a third edition.

By the unexpected insolvency of his publisher, while the third edition was in process of sale, Hogg had nearly sustained a recurrence of pecuniary loss. This was, however, fortunately prevented by the considerate beneficence of Mr Goldie's trustees, who, on receiving payment of the printing expenses, made over the remainder of the impression to the author. One of the trustees was Mr Blackwood, afterwards the celebrated publisher of _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_. Hogg had now attained the unenviable reputation of a literary prodigy, and his studies were subject to constant interruption from admirers, and the curious who visited the capital. But he gave all a cordial reception, and was never less accessible amidst the most arduous literary occupation. There was one individual whose acquaintance he was especially desirous of forming; this was John Wilson, whose poem, "The Isle of Palms," published in 1812, had particularly arrested his admiration. Wilson had come to reside in Edinburgh during a portion of the year, but as yet had few acquaintances in the city. He was slightly known to Scott; but a peculiarity of his was a hesitation in granting letters of introduction. In despair of otherwise meeting him, Hogg, who had reviewed his poem in the _Scots Magazine_, sent him an invitation to dinner, which the Lake-poet was pleased cordially to accept. That dinner began one of the most interesting of the Shepherd's friendships; both the poets were pleased with each other, and the closest intimacy ensued. It was on his way to visit Wilson, at Elleray, his seat in Cumberland, during the autumn of 1814, that the Shepherd formed the acquaintance of the Poet-laureate. He had notified to Southey his arrival at one of the hotels in Keswick, and begged the privilege of a visit. Southey promptly acknowledged his summons, and insisted on his remaining a couple of days at Greta Hall to share his hospitality. Two years could not have more firmly rivetted their friendship. As a mark of his regard, on returning to Edinburgh Hogg sent the Laureate the third edition of "The Queen's Wake," then newly published, along with a copy of "The Spy." In acknowledging the receipt of these volumes, Southey addressed the following letter to the Shepherd, which is now for the first time published:--

"Keswick, _December 1, 1814._

"Dear Hogg,--Thank you for your books. I will not say that 'The Queen's Wake' has exceeded my expectations, because I have ever expected great things from you, since, in 1805, I heard Walter Scott, by his own fireside at Ashestiel, repeat 'Gilmanscleuch.'[31] When he came to that line--'I ga'e him a' my goud, father'--the look and the tone with which he gave it were not needed to make it go through me. But 'The Wake' has equalled all that I expected. The improvements in the new edition are very great, and they are in the two poems which were most deserving of improvement, as being the most impressive and the most original. Each is excellent in its way, but 'Kilmeny' is of the highest character; 'The Witch of Fife' is a real work of fancy--'Kilmeny' a fine one of imagination, which is a higher and rarer gift. These poems have given general pleasure throughout the house; my eldest girl often comes out with a stanza or two of 'The Witch,' but she wishes sometimes that you always wrote in English. 'The Spy' I shall go through more at leisure.

"I like your praise both of myself and my poem, because it comes from a good quarter. You saw me where and how a man is best seen--at home, and in his every-day wear and tear, mind and manners: I have no holiday suit, and never seek to shine: such as it is, my light is always burning. Somewhat of my character you may find in Chaucer's Clerk of Oxenford; and the concluding line of that description might be written, as the fittest motto, under my portrait--'Gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.' I have sinned enough to make me humble in myself, and indulgent toward others. I have suffered enough to find in religion not merely consolation, but hope and joy; and I have seen enough to be contented in, and thankful for, the state of life in which it has pleased God to place me.

"We hoped to have seen you on your way back from Ellery. I believe you did not get the ballad of the 'Devil and the Bishop,' which Hartley transcribed for you. I am reprinting my miscellaneous poems, collected into three volumes. Your projected publication[32] will have the start of it greatly, for the first volume is not nearly through the press, and there is a corrected copy of the ballad, with its introduction, in Ballantyne's hands, which you can make use of before it will be wanted in its place.

"You ask me why I am not intimate with Wilson. There is a sufficient reason in the distance between our respective abodes. I seldom go even to Wordworth's or Lloyd's; and Ellery is far enough from either of their houses, to make a visit the main business of a day. So it happens that except dining in his company once at Lloyd's many years ago, and breakfasting with him here not long afterwards, I have barely exchanged salutations once or twice when we met upon the road. Perhaps, however, I might have sought him had it not been for his passion for cock-fighting. But this is a thing which I regard with abhorrence.

"Would that 'Roderick' were in your hands for reviewing; I should desire no fairer nor more competent critic. But it is of little consequence what friends or enemies may do for it now; it will find its due place in time, which is slow but sure in its decisions. From the nature of my studies, I may almost be said to live in the past; it is to the future that I look for my reward, and it would be difficult to make any person who is not thoroughly intimate with me, understand how completely indifferent I am to the praise or censure of the present generation, farther than as it may affect my means of subsistence, which, thank God, it can no longer essentially do. There was a time when I was materially injured by unjust criticism; but even then I despised it, from a confidence in myself, and a natural buoyancy of spirit. It cannot injure me now, but I cannot hold it in more thorough contempt.

"Come and visit me when the warm weather returns. You can go nowhere that you will be more sincerely welcomed. And may God bless you.

"Robert Southey."

In waging war with the Lake school of poetry, the _Edinburgh Review_ had dealt harshly with Southey. His poems of "Madoc" and "The Curse of Kehama" had been rigorously censured, and very shortly before the appearance of "Roderick," his "Triumphal Ode" for 1814, which was published separately, had been assailed with a continuance of the same unmitigated severity. The Shepherd, who knew, notwithstanding the Laureate's professions of indifference to criticism, that his nature was sensitive, and who feared that the _Review_ would treat "Roderick" as it had done Southey's previous productions, ventured to recommend him to evince a less avowed hostility to Jeffrey, in the hope of subduing the bitterness of his censure. The letter of Southey, in answer to this counsel, will prove interesting, in connexion with the literary history of the period. The Bard of Keswick had hardly advanced to that happy condition which he fancied he had reached, of being "indulgent toward others," at least under the influence of strong provocation:--

"Keswick, _24th Dec. 1814._

"Dear Hogg,--I am truly obliged to you for the solicitude which you express concerning the treatment 'Roderick' may experience in the _Edinburgh Review_, and truly gratified by it, notwithstanding my perfect indifference as to the object in question. But you little know me, if you imagine that any thoughts of fear or favour would make me abstain from speaking publicly of Jeffrey as I think, and as he deserves. I despise his commendation, and I defy his malice. _He_ crush the 'Excursion!!!'[33] Tell him that he might as easily crush Skiddaw. For myself, _popularity_ is not the mark I shoot at; if it were, I should not write such poems as 'Roderick;' and Jeffrey can no more stand in my way to _fame_, than Tom Thumb could stand in my way in the street.

"He knows that he has dealt unfairly and maliciously by me; he knows that the world knows it, that his very friends know it, and that if he attacks 'Roderick' as he did 'Madoc' and 'Kehama,' it will be universally imputed to personal ill-will. On the other hand, he cannot commend this poem without the most flagrant inconsistency. This would be confessing that he has wronged me in the former instances; for no man will pretend to say that 'Madoc' does not bear marks of the same hand as 'Roderick;' it has the same character of language, thought, and feeling; it is of the same ore and mint; and if the one poem be bad, the other cannot possibly be otherwise. The irritation of the _nettling_ (as you term it), which he has already received [a portion of the letter is torn off and lost].... Whatever part he may take, my conduct towards him will be the same. I consider him a public nuisance, and shall deal with him accordingly.

"Nettling is a gentle term for what he has to undergo. In due season he shall be _scorpioned_ and _rattlesnaked_. When I take him in hand it shall be to dissect him alive, and make a preparation of him to be exhibited _in terrorem_, an example to all future pretenders to criticism. He has a forehead of native brass, and I will write upon it with aqua-fortis. I will serve him up to the public like a turkey's gizzard, sliced, scored, peppered, salted, cayanned, grilled, and bedevilled. I will bring him to justice; he shall be executed in prose, and gibbeted in verse....[34]

.... "'Roderick' has made good speed in the world, and ere long I shall send you the poem in a more commodious shape,[35] for Ballantyne is at this time reprinting it. I finished my official ode a few days ago. It is without rhyme, and as unlike other official odes in matter as in form; for its object is to recommend, as the two great objects of policy, general education and extensive colonization. At present, I am chiefly occupied upon 'The History of Brazil,' which is in the press--a work of great labour.

"The ladies here all desire to be kindly remembered to you. I have ordered 'The Pilgrims of the Sun,' and we look for it with expectation, which, I am sure, will not be disappointed. God bless you.--Yours very truly,

"Robert Southey."

A review of "Roderick" appeared in the _Edinburgh Review_ for June 1815, which on the whole was favourable, so that the wrath of the Laureate was appeased.

During the earlier period of his Edinburgh career, Hogg had formed the acquaintance of an estimable family in Athol, Mr and Mrs Izett, of Kinnaird House, and he had been in the habit of spending a portion of his time every summer at their hospitable residence. In the summer of 1814, while visiting there, he was seized with a severe cold, which compelled him to prolong his stay with his friends; and Mrs Izett, who took a warm interest in his welfare, suggested that he might turn his illness to account, by composing a poem, descriptive of the beauties of the surrounding scenery. The hint was sufficient; he commenced a descriptive poem in the Spenserian stanza, which was speedily completed, and given to the world under the title of "Mador of the Moor." It was well received; and the author is correct in asserting that it contains "some of his highest and most fortunate efforts in rhyme." "The Pilgrims of the Sun" was his next poem; it was originally intended as one of a series, to be contained in a poetical work, which he proposed to entitle "Midsummer Night Dreams," but which, on the advice of his friend, Mr James Park of Greenock, he was induced to abandon. From its peculiar strain, this poem had some difficulty in finding a publisher; it was ultimately published by Mr John Murray of London, who liberally recompensed the author, and it was well received by the press.

The circle of the Shepherd's literary friends rapidly extended. Lord Byron opened a correspondence with him, and continued to address him in long familiar letters, such as were likely to interest a shepherd-bard. Unfortunately, these letters have been lost; it was a peculiarity of Hogg to be careless in regard to his correspondence. With Wordsworth he became acquainted in the summer of 1815, when that poet was on his first visit to Edinburgh. They met at the house, in Queen Street, of the mother of his friend Wilson; and the Shepherd was at once interested and gratified by the intelligent conversation and agreeable manners of the great Lake-poet. They saw much of each other in the city, and afterwards journeyed together to St Mary's Loch; and the Shepherd had the satisfaction of entertaining his distinguished brother-bard with the homely fare of cakes and milk, in his father's cottage at Ettrick. Wordsworth afterwards made the journey memorable in his poem of "Yarrow Visited." The poets temporarily separated at Selkirk,--Wordsworth having secured the promise of a visit from his friend, at Mount Ryedale, prior to his return to Edinburgh. The promise was duly fulfilled; and the Shepherd had the pleasure of meeting, during his visit, Lloyd, and De Quincey, and his dear friend Wilson. A portion of the autumn of 1815 was spent by the Shepherd at Elleray. In the letter inviting his visit (dated September 1815), the author of "The Isle of Palms" indicates his opinion of the literary influence of his correspondent, by writing as follows:--"If you have occasion soon to write to Murray,[36] pray introduce something about 'The City of the Plague,' as I shall probably offer him that poem in about a fortnight, or sooner. Of course, I do not _wish_ you to say that the poem is utterly worthless. I think that a bold eulogy from you (if administered immediately), would be of service to me; but if you do write about it, do not tell him that I have any intention of offering it to him, but you may say, you hear I am going to offer it to a London bookseller."

The Shepherd's intimacy with the poets had induced him to entertain a somewhat plausible scheme of bettering his finances. He proposed to publish, in a handsome volume, a poem by each of the living bards of Great Britain. For this purpose, he had secured pieces from Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and some others; and had received promises of contributions from Lord Byron and Samuel Rogers. The plan was frustrated by Scott. He was opposed to his appearing to seek fresh laurels from the labours of others, and positively refused to make a contribution. This sadly mortified the Shepherd,[37] and entirely altered his plans. He had now recourse to a peculiar method of realising his original intention. In the short period of four weeks, he produced imitations of the more conspicuous bards, which speedily appeared in a volume entitled "The Poetic Mirror." This work, singularly illustrative of the versatility of his genius, was eminently successful, the first edition disappearing in the course of six weeks. The imitations of the bards were pronounced perfect, only that of Wordsworth was intentionally a caricature; the Shepherd had been provoked to it by a conceived slight of the Lake-poet, during his visit at Mount Ryedale.[38]

"The Poetic Mirror" appeared in 1816; and in the following year the Shepherd struck out a new path, by publishing two duodecimo volumes of "Dramatic Tales." This work proved unsuccessful. In 1813 he had dedicated his "Forest Minstrel" to the Countess of Dalkeith; and this amiable and excellent woman, afterwards better known as Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, had acknowledged the compliment by a gift of a hundred guineas, and several other donations. The Shepherd was, however, desirous of procuring the means of comfortable self-support, independently of his literary exertions; and had modestly preferred the request that he might receive a small farm in lease on the Buccleuch estates. The request was at length responded to. The Duchess, who took a deep interest in him, made a request to the Duke, on her death-bed, that something might be done for her ingenious protégé. After her decease, the late Charles, Duke of Buccleuch, gave the Shepherd a life-lease of the farm of Altrive Lake, in Yarrow, at a nominal rent, no portion of which was ever exacted. The Duke subsequently honoured him with his personal friendship, and made him frequently share of his hospitality.

From the time of his abandoning "The Spy," Hogg had contemplated the publication of a periodical on an extended scale. At length, finding a coadjutor in Mr Thomas Pringle, he explained their united proposal to his friend, Mr Blackwood, the publisher, who highly approved of the design. Preliminaries were arranged, and the afterwards celebrated _Blackwood's Magazine_ took its origin. Hogg was now resident at Altrive, and the editorship was entrusted to Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn. The vessel had scarcely been well launched, however, on the ocean of letters, when storms arose a-head; hot disputes occurred between the publisher and the editors, which ultimately terminated in the withdrawal of the latter from the concern, and their connexion with the _Edinburgh Magazine_, an opposition periodical established by Mr Constable. The combating parties had referred to the Shepherd, who was led to accord his support to Mr Blackwood. He conceived the idea of the "Chaldee Manuscript," as a means of ridiculing the oppositionists. Of this famous satire, the first thirty-seven verses of chapter first, with several other sentences throughout, were his own composition, the remaining portion being the joint fabrication of his friends Wilson and Lockhart.[39] This singular production produced a sensation in the capital unequalled in the history of any other literary performance; and though, from the evident personalities and the keenness of the satire, it had to be cancelled, so that a copy in the pages of the magazine is now a rarity, it sufficiently attained the purpose of directing public attention to the newly-established periodical. The "Chaldee Manuscript" appeared in the seventh number of _Blackwood's Magazine_, published in October 1817. To the magazine Hogg continued to be a regular contributor; and, among other interesting compositions, both in prose and verse, he produced in its pages his narrative of the "Shepherd's Calendar." His connexion with this popular periodical is more generally known from the position assigned him in the "_Noctes Ambrosianæ_" of Professor Wilson. In those interesting dialogues, the _Shepherd_ is represented as a character of marvellous shrewdness and sagacity, whose observations on men and manners, life and literature, uttered, as they are, in the homeliest phrases, contain a depth of philosophy and vigour of criticism rarely exhibited in the history of real or fictitious biography. "In wisdom," writes Professor Ferrier, "the Shepherd equals the Socrates of Plato; in humour, he surpasses the Falstaff of Shakspeare; clear and prompt, he might have stood up against Dr Johnson in close and peremptory argument; fertile and copious, he might have rivalled Burke in amplitude of declamation; while his opulent imagination and powers of comical description invest all that he utters, either with a picturesque mildness or a graphic quaintness peculiarly his own." These remarks, applicable to the Shepherd of the "_Noctes_," would, indeed, be much overstrained if applied to their prototype; yet it is equally certain that the leading features of the ideal Shepherd were depicted from those of the living Shepherd of Ettrick, by one who knew well how to estimate and appreciate human nature.

On taking possession of his farm of Altrive Lake, which extended to about seventy acres, Hogg built a small cottage on the place, in which he received his aged father, his mother having been previously called to her rest. In the stocking of the farm, he received very considerable assistance from the profits of a guinea edition of "The Queen's Wake," of which the subscribers' list was zealously promoted by Sir Walter Scott. At Altrive he continued literary composition with unabated ardour. In 1817, he published "The Brownie of Bodsbeck," a tale of the period of the Covenant, which attained a considerable measure of popularity. In 1819, he gave to the world the first volume of his "Jacobite Relics," the second volume not appearing till 1821. This work, which bears evidence of extensive labour and research, was favourably received; the notes are lengthy and copious, and many of the pieces, which are set to music, have long been popular. His "Winter Evening Tales" appeared in 1820: several of them were composed on the hills in early life.

The worldly circumstances of the Shepherd now were such as rendered him abundantly justifiable in entering into the married state. On the 28th April 1820, he espoused Miss Margaret Phillips, the youngest daughter of Mr Phillips, late of Longbridgemoor, in Annandale. By this union he became brother-in-law of his friend Mr James Gray, whose first wife was a sister of Mrs Hogg. At the period of his marriage, from the profits of his writings and his wife's dowry, he was master of nearly a thousand pounds and a well-stocked farm; and increasing annual gains by his writings, seemed to augur future independence. But the Shepherd, not perceiving that literature was his forte, resolved to embark further in farming speculations; he took in lease the extensive farm of Mount Benger, adjoining Altrive Lake, expending his entire capital in the stocking. The adventure proved almost ruinous.

The coronation of George IV. was fixed to take place on the 19th of July 1821; and Sir Walter Scott having resolved to be among the spectators, invited the Shepherd to accompany him to London on the occasion. Through Lord Sidmouth, the Secretary of State, he had procured accommodation for Hogg at the pageant, which his lordship had granted, with the additional favour of inviting both of them to dinner, to meet the Duke of York on the following day. The Shepherd had, however, begun to feel more enthusiastic as a farmer than a poet, and preferred to attend the sheep-market at St Boswells. For this seeming lack of loyalty, he afterwards made ample compensation; he celebrated the King's visit to Scotland, in August 1822, in "a Masque or Drama," which was published in a separate form. A copy of this production being laid before the King by Sir Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, then Secretary of State, received his Majesty's gracious command suitably to acknowledge it. In his official communication, Sir Robert thanked the Shepherd, in the King's name, "for the gratifying proof of his genius and loyalty." It had been Scott's desire to obtain a Civil List pension for the Shepherd, to aid him in his struggles at Mount Benger; and it was with something like hope that he informed him that Sir Robert Peel had expressed himself pleased with his writings. But the pension was never obtained.

Harassed by pecuniary difficulties, Hogg wrote rapidly, with the view of relieving himself. In 1822, he published a new edition of his best poems, in four volumes, for which he received the sum of £200; and in this and the following year, he produced two works of fiction, entitled, "The Three Perils of Man," and "The Three Perils of Women," which together yielded him £300. In 1824, he published "The Confessions of a Fanatic;" and, in 1826, he gave to the world his long narrative poem of "Queen Hynde." The last proved unequal to his former poetical efforts. In 1826, Mr J. G. Lockhart proceeded to London to edit the _Quarterly Review_, taking along with him, as his assistant, Robert Hogg, a son of the Shepherd's elder brother. The occasion afforded the poet an opportunity of renewing his correspondence with his old friend, Allan Cunningham. Allan wrote to him as follows:--

"27 Lower Belgrave Place, _16th Feb. 1826._

"My dear James,--It required neither present of book, nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render your letter a most welcome one. You are often present to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man, and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you, carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast of genius about her. One of your very happiest little things is in the Souvenir of this season--it is pure and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in the language to compare to it, save everybody's 'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it--where fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are unrivalled.

"Often do I tread back to the foot of old Queensberry,[40] and meet you coming down amid the sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my sight--your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my feet--the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as it really was--poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk, and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to Thornhill, and there whilst the glass goes round, and lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on verse, and still our speech is song. Poetry had then a charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me; yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest aspirations, and contents itself with purifying and completing the conceptions of early years.

"We are both a little older and a little graver than we were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh--at least so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might admonish me of change--of loss of bloom, and abatement of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier; he is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by Cæsar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School, and are distinguished in their classes; they climb to the head, and keep their places. The other three are at their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity for mirth and mischief.

"I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile, and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six children fed now like the prophet Elijah--they are more likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I sing. So farewell to song for a season.

"My brother's[41] want of success has surprised me too. He had a fair share of talent; and, had he cultivated his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his fate would have been different. But he sees nature rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise of those who love singular and curious things. I have said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might have said much, for we hear her household prudence and her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my own dear country--a good assurance of a capital wife and an affectionate mother. My wife and I send her and you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in London during the summer.

"You have written much, but you must write more yet. What say you to a series of poems in your own original way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition, but purified from its grossness by your own genius and taste? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a yearly pastoral _Gazette_ in prose and verse for our _ain_ native Lowlands. The thing would take.

"The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now what it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue in every town--let it lay out its money in purchasing an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Wellington, and money could never be laid out more worthily.--I remain, dear James, your very faithful friend,

"Allan Cunningham."

One of the parties chiefly aggrieved in the matter of the Chaldee MS. was Thomas Pringle, one of the original editors of _Blackwood_. This ingenious person had lately returned from a period of residence in Southern Africa, and established himself in London as secretary to the Slave Abolition Society, and a man of letters. Forgetting past differences, he invited the Shepherd, in the following letter, to aid him in certain literary enterprises:--

"London, _May 19, 1827._

"My dear Sir,--I wrote you a hasty note some time ago, to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly publication, something in the shape of the _Literary Gazette_, to be entitled _The London Review_. The editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public, though he has been a contributor to several of the first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The editors, knowing that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to their work, either in verse or prose, and they will consider themselves pledged to pay for any contributions with which you may honour them at the same rate as _Blackwood_. May I hope, my dear sir, that you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them something for their first number, which is to appear in the beginning of June....

"I always read your '_Noctes_,' and have had many a hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern Africa; for though I detest _Blackwood's_ politics, and regret to see often such fine talents so sadly misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never permitted my own political predilections, far less any reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and beautifies so many delightful articles in that magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very truly,

"Tho. Pringle."

A similar request for contributions was made the year following by William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of the Society of Friends.

"Nottingham, _12th mo., 20th, 1828._

"Respected Friend,--Herewith I forward, for thy acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony of the high estimation in which we have long held thy writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance prevented us.

"I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons, and the beautiful in scenery,--of all that is pleasant in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a little time, both a pleasant and original volume, and one which may do its mite towards strengthening and diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so desirable in a great commercial country like this, where our manufacturing population are daily spreading over its face, and cut off themselves from the animating and heart-preserving influence of nature,--are also swallowing up our forests and heaths, those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may wander, without being continually offended and obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of anything characteristic of the seasons, in _mountainous_ scenery especially, I shall regard them as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether any particular customs or festivities are kept up in the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time, as were wont of old all over England; and where is there a man who could solve such a problem like thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my request; but as my object is to promote the love of nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists; being more desirous to give to others that ardent attachment to the beauties of the country that has clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which all our real poets are so distinguished, than to realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me about your country life, or the impression which the scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary requests me to present to thee her respectful regards; and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect, thy friend,

"W. Howitt."

In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of "Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter, intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his contendings with adversity:--

"Devongrove, _27th June 1829._

"My dear Friend James Hogg,--I have never seen, spoken, whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath. How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down from one degree of poetical extenuation to another, till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and compare you as you are now with what you were in your 'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you indeed, at times, in the _Literary Journal_; I see you in _Blackwood_, fighting, and reaping a harvest of beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you in the looking-glass of my own facetious and song-recalling memory--but I should wish to see you in the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your own person, standing before me in my own house, at my own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Shakspeare cellars[42]--but you may rest yourself under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space, and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me, will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.

"To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take a trip up this way some time during the summer. I understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again to see your fist at least, though the Fates should forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be, ever most sincerely yours,

"Wm. Tennant."

The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns, published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his songs, which received a wide circulation. On account of some unfortunate difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication of his whole works. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his fame; he was courted with avidity by all the literary circles, and fêted at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of letters, was given him in Freemasons' Hall, on the anniversary of the birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its present owner, Mr Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a publisher for his works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising bookseller in Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of March 1832, under the designation of the "Altrive Tales." By the unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that the unfortunate Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from a three months' residence in London.

Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour; and, though his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and morals, under the title of "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number of _Blackwood's Magazine_ for 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated "_Noctes_," which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subject we are privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by Professor Wilson:--

"_30th April._

"My dear Mr Hogg,--After frequent reflection on the estrangement that has so long subsisted between those who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced that _I_ ought to put an end to it on my own responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you or Mr Blackwood, I have written a '_Noctes_,' in which my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I have done right. I intend to write six within the year; and it is just, and no more than just, that you should receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for No. I. of the new series.

"If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your opinions and sentiments on all things, _angling_, shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic style, it will be easy for you to add £50 per annum to the £50 which you will receive for your '_Noctes_.' I hope you will do so.

"I have taken upon myself a responsibility which nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it; and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent anything happening that can be disagreeable to your feelings.--With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,

"John Wilson."

During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles, the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could exclaim that surely he had found it at last!

The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety, as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London, a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and, though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman. He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks, he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill." The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.

The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the district. Of his literary friends--owing to the remoteness of the locality--Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen appeared in the _Athenæum_ of the 12th of December:--

"When first descending from the moorlands, I saw the stream of Yarrow glide, Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

"When last along its banks I wander'd, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathway, My steps the Border Minstrel led.

"The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; And death, upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.

* * * * *

"No more of old romantic sorrows, For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid, With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"

Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory has been erected by his widow. "When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Riddell, "pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land, many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. And a verse of one of the songs of his early days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified, when he says--

'Flow, my Ettrick! it was thee Into my life that first did drop me; Thee I 'll sing, and when I dee, Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me. Pausing swains will say, and weep, Here our Shepherd lies asleep.'"

As formerly described, Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking and well-formed. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features. His countenance[43] presented the peculiarity of a straight cheekbone; his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with gray. He was rather above the middle height, and was well-built; his chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well-rounded. He disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its ways; in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language, from the honesty of the narrator; never before did man of letters so minutely reveal the history of his foibles and failings. He was entirely unselfish and thoroughly benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way. Towards his aged parents his filial affection was of the most devoted kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man of letters in the land.[44] Fond of conviviality, he loved the intercourse of congenial minds; the voice of friendship was always more precious to him than the claims of business. He was somewhat expert in conversation; he talked Scotch on account of long habit, and because it was familiar to him. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the enthusiasm with which he sung amply compensated for the somewhat discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education; and he built a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit of the children of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he was in the present a devoted loyalist, and strongly maintained that the stability of the state was bound up in the support of the monarchy; he had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit, he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language of fervency and faith. From the strict rules of morality he may have sometimes deviated, but it would be the worst exercise of uncharitableness to doubt of his repentance.

It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the envenomed shafts of calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of the principles of his life. He has been broadly accused[45] of doing an injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was one of his best benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact? Hogg strained his utmost effort to do honour to the dust of his illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume, and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy:--"He had a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a just judge, and a punctual correspondent.... Such is the man we have lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an extraordinary man,--the greatest man in the world."[46] Was ever more panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of such achievements?

Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in the region of the imagination he stands supreme. A child of the forest, nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor Wilson,[47] "he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faëry: the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius. His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer, or more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another ballad in "The Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the Sun." His ballads, generally in his peculiar vein of the romantic and supernatural, are all indicative of power; his songs are exquisitely sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Scottish song had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high; many of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are too frequently disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers and admirers while a love for rural habits, and the amusing arts of pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.

Of the Shepherd it has been recorded by one[48] who knew him well, that at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who had ever attained his age; he was possessed of a buoyancy which misfortune might temporarily depress, but could not subdue. To the close of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and field exercises of his youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running, been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he was famous alike on the moor and by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills; and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable man that ever wore the _maud_ of a Shepherd."[49]

Hogg left some MSS. which are still unpublished,--the journals of his Highland tours being in the possession of Mr Peter Cunningham of London. Since his death, a uniform edition of many of his best works, illustrated with engravings from sketches by Mr D. O. Hill, has been published, with the concurrence of the family, by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow, in eleven volumes duodecimo. A Memoir, undertaken for that edition by the late Professor Wilson, was indefinitely postponed. A pension on the Civil List of £50 was conferred by the Queen on Mrs Hogg, the poet's widow, in October 1853; and since her husband's death, she has received an annuity of £40 from the Duke of Buccleuch. Of a family of five, one son and three daughters survive, some of whom are comfortably settled in life.

[28] The Shepherd entertained the belief that he was born on the 25th of January 1772.

[29] Mr Macturk is well remembered in Dumfriesshire as a person of remarkable shrewdness and unbounded generosity.

[30] Mr Gray was the author of "Cona, or the Vale of Clywyd," "A Sabbath among the Mountains," and other poems.

[31] The ballad of "Gilmanscleuch" appeared in "The Mountain Bard." See "The Ettrick Shepherd's Poems," vol. ii., p. 203. Blackie and Son.

[32] "The Poetic Mirror," for which the Shepherd had begun to collect contributions.

[33] Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth's "Excursion" in the _Edinburgh Review_ for November 1814, and certainly had never used more declamatory language against any poem.

[34] In a letter to Mr Grosvenor C. Bedford, dated Keswick, December 22, 1814, Southey thus writes:--"Had you not better wait for Jeffrey's attack upon 'Roderick.' I have a most curious letter upon this subject from Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a worthy fellow, and a man of very extraordinary powers. Living in Edinburgh, he thinks Jeffrey the greatest man in the world--an intellectual Bonaparte, whom nobody and nothing can resist. But Hogg, notwithstanding this, has fallen in liking with me, and is a great admirer of 'Roderick.' And this letter is to request that I will not do anything to _nettle_ Jeffrey while he is deliberating concerning 'Roderick,' for he seems favourably disposed towards me! Morbleu! it is a rich letter! Hogg requested that he himself might review it, and gives me an extract from Jeffrey's answer, refusing him. 'I have, as well as you, a great respect for Southey,' he says, 'but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth.' But he shall be happy to talk to Hogg upon this and other _kindred_ subjects, and he should be very glad to give me a lavish allowance of praise, if I would afford him occasion, &c.; but he must do what he thinks his duty, &c.! I laugh to think of the effect my reply will produce upon Hogg. How it will make every bristle to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine!"--_Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, edited by his Son_, vol. iv., p. 93. London: 6 vols. 8vo.

[35] The first edition of "Roderick" was in quarto,--a shape which the Shepherd deemed unsuitable for poetry.

[36] Murray of Abermarle Street, the famous publisher.

[37] Hogg evinced his strong displeasure with Sir Walter for his refusal, by writing him a declamatory letter, and withdrawing from his society for several months. The kind inquiries which his old benefactor had made regarding him during a severe illness, afterwards led to a complete reconciliation,--the Shepherd apologising by letter for his former rashness, and his illustrious friend telling him "to think no more of the business, and come to breakfast next morning."

[38] See Hogg's autobiography, prefixed to the fifth volume of Blackie's edition of his poems, p. 107.

[39] See the Works of Professor Wilson, edited by his Son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, vol. i., p. xvi. Edinburgh: 1855. 8vo.

[40] When the Shepherd was tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-slack, on the great hill of Queensberry, in Nithsdale, he was visited by Allan Cunningham, then a lad of eighteen, who came to see him, moved with admiration for his genius.--(See Memoir of Allan Cunningham, _postea_). [Transcriber's Note: This Memoir appears in