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Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — ♦• signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right ar.wing poems, songs, lectures, and letters, wa:^ born in Dundee, on the 20th of Janu- ary 1823. His fiither, after residnig twenty years in Perth, had removed at the previous Martinmas, and was for many years a bookseller and stationer in Dun- dee. His grandfather w^as James Livingston, — who, at tlic end of the last and beginning of the present cen- tury, possessed a farm on tlie Laigh Fields of Ilayston, in the parish of Glaminiss, on the princely estate of the noble family of Stratlimore — who expired three hours after the death of his second wife in 182G, and both were buried in one grave in Glammiss ciiurch-yard. His maternal grandfather was Charles Laing, a wright in Perth — was eminent for .Christian piety. He died in 1 805 ; — the poet's mother is hie eldest daughter.* * Mr (afterwards Sir Walter) Scott, when about to publish one of his earliest works, was anxious to obtain some information about the classic ground of Lyndoch, — its mansion house, the grave of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, all of which are so romanti- cally situated on the banks of the Almond,— and for that purpose, waited on the amiable and aged Major Bariy, then residing at Perth, but formerly proprietor and (with his equally amiable lady) improver of that beautiful estate. Having obtained from the Major ample information — particularly about the means he used to ascertain the exact spot where the bones of tlio beauties lay — the Major's servant (afterwards the poet's mother) was desired to place some refreshments on the table, when Mr Scott made some remarks on her beautifully fair hair; and he afterwards mentioned to one in the establishment of his publishers, that th.it, and her otherwise prepossessing and unassuming appearance, suggested to him the title of his novel, " the Fair Maid of Perth," — and added, tradition has it, that Catherine Glover, though well-favoured and of ruddy countenance, was not fair, but was possessed of coal-black hair. m mmmm m P m fi vn. During his infancy and cliildliood lie exiiibited an affectionate, and kin.'ly disposition, and a contemplative tnrn of mind manifested itself as his years increased. When a mere boy, lie greatly admired the preachinj; of the h'everend Mr Koxburgh of the Cross Church, and always spoke of him with the greatest enthusiasm. By a spark, kindled at this flame, or some other cause, he, about this time, expressed an earnest desire to be- come a preacher ; and in proof thereof, early in the mornings, would rise from his bed, place himself with a table and a bible before him, inducing a younger brother to rise and sit in front of the table to act as precentor. Service was begun in right earnest ; but sometimes the singing, and often the sermon, would be interrupted by the visit of a pillow coming in contact with the person of the orator, and make him bow to his audience, to the no small astonishment of the baby precentor, — this addition to the congregation being ejected from tiie bed of an elder brother, the preacher having disturbed tlie carpenter's repose. Afterwards, the far-famed sermon, by the Reverend George GilHUan, entitled " Hades, or the Unseen,'' made its appearance, and the Poet took tire at, what he considered, severe criticism upon that production, and published a pamphlet in reply, entitled " Hades, or what has its opponents proved ?" in which, young as he was, he defended some of the sentiments contained in the sermon, and opposed the ideas expressed by the critics, with considerable ability, ingenuity, and skill. Ere this, some of his earliest verses appeared in a few of the periodicals with which the locality was then teeming : and they were generally well received, which, no doubt, induced him to collect and publish them in I > \- 1 1 1 . a f?ni}ill volume con.sistin,i>- of olglit limidred copies, which were all subscribed lor in a very short time. Tiius cucouniged, he composed some addition.al pieces, which appeared hi subse([uent editions, — and in visiting the neighbouring towns he was vvcll patronised, and the press reviewed tliC work very favourably. At Brechin, Lord ]*anmure patronised it very handsomely; on going fiirther north, several hundred copies -were sold — and the Karls of Airlie and Kintore became sub- scribers. Afterwards, his progress in Perth and Fife was very successful, and the Professors of St Andrews College nearly all subscribed ; on visiting Edinburgh, Lords JefFre)' and l?obertson, with several of the other Lords of Session and a number of the Professors were among his first patrons ; on going to Glasgow, two editions of the work were called for, and the Earl of Eglinton became its efficient patron. It may be here remarked, that during the author s progress, as above stated, the Ministers of the Gospel, of all de- nominations, subscribed for the work in great numbers ; and their kindly sentiments, often expressed towards him, appeared to have left a deep feeling of gratitude on his mind. He now went to a celebrated college in England where he studied with success ; afterwards preached with acceptance ; delivered many orations, on theology and other popular subjects, among which was his lecture on Burns, and his feeling letter on Dr Dick the Christian ] Philosopher. He is now in London, on the wide field of literature. His oration on the Kev. George Gilfillan, his genius and criticism, likewise his Letter on Sir John Franklin and the Arctic Regions, Avith lec- tures and addresses to various literary societies in and about the Metropolis, form part of his present efforts. ^k .'ia 4 m ^ »• IX and At I The folloffinit Idler'' was adJressoil to llic Mm by ik laic lord JEFFREY ; " 21 Moray Pi.ace, 30//» Dcccmhtr 181G. " Dear Sir, '•' I have now read tlir<»ugli your little volume, and witli verv cousiderahle satisfuctiou ; but have scarcely au3'thing to add t<» wliat i said to you personally aCtor 1 had perused but a part of il. The marked superiority of what I understand to be your later composition?! gives good reason to look lor still greater improvement in those you may produce in f'u- tm-e ; you are still young enough to contemplate great advances, and become a pleasing versifier, and express amiable sentiments and domestic affections in a natural and touching way. " The thoughtful and tender parts are decidedly the best ; and some of the songs arc not without merit. '' You asked my sincere opinion of your work. The expression of it is, tise talent yon possess, if rightly estimated, may always afford you an innocent and elegant amusement, and obtain for you the notice and regai'd of many who may be of use to yon ; and with these advantages I trust you will have sense enough to be satisfied. " In the meantime, believe me, with all good wishes, " Your faithful and obedient servant, " F. JEFFREY.' " To Mr Peter Livingston, Dundee."' ^" The above letter was highly appreciated by tlie Author as a valuable gift from that prince of critics and highly-gifted nnd great man. ERRATA. Paob 58, line 10, for male read made, ... 85, line 2, (or fee read favotir, ... 104, line 15, for Entoimis read Exdropim. if SECOND EDITION A LETTER, ADDRESSED TO THE QUEEN, ON SIR JOHN FRANKLIN AM) TUB ARCTIC REGIONS. MAY IT PLEASE YOUR MAJESTY, The theme upon whicli I take the liberty to address you, is invested with a deep and distressing interest. There are concerned in it the lives and deaths of many individuals, the hopes and fears of many hearts. Your Majesty will pardon me being somewhat mmute -I shall not be lengthy-as, on this subject I address not your Majesty alone, but also the public, m whom tliere exists an ardent desire to know all that can be known on this important question. It may be ot im- portance briefly to inquire into the causes that have led to our earnest exertions on this subject. Wherefore is it that man has sacrificed life-left friends, home, and country '? Why has Government spent so much money and been so unwearied in its exertions to explore the Huknown regions of the North, where is nothing but eter- nal ice and snow V This question is answered to a cer- tain extent by our knowledge of man's nature -,-11 is ll V ' > [ man's nature to Inquire, to know, and to understand all that is around and about him. Man has got the earth for an inlierltance, and he wishes to understand it. Wc do not like to live in a house without knowing its apart- ments. Such is the cause, found in man's nature, of all his intrepidity and daring. It is this that has led man forth, with brave heart, to encounter all the dangers and difficulties which he is sure to meet with in his journeys over flood and field. It was this that led forth the great Columbus to find out the new world of the west, and has made him immortal for his enterprise and daring. This led forth the fearless Cook over that wide waste of waters which covers our earth like a shroud, in the midst of which he lighted on the Owhyee, where he fell a victim to the fury of the natives of a country into which he v/ent intending to bequeath the blessings of civilization. This led Bruce to the mys- terious Nile, and Park to the undiscovered Niger, where he too fell in the midst of those desert regions which have well been called the white man's grave. It is this desire to know that has made man to ascend the everlasting hills, penetrate the unknown deserts, and plant his foot on spots of the earth where the foot of man had never been before. And this desire it is, coupled with a love of gold (perhaps a commendable love of gold), which has led forth our daring mariners to explore those unknown regions of the North, where is nothing but everlasting ice and snow holding sway in the dismal wilderness. '^ I :l It was doubtless a love of gold, in conjunction with onr thirst for knowledge, that has led to all our exer- tions to discover a North-west Passage. The British u 3 Isles arc situated on the globe so as to be far from many commercial ports of great importance in the world. On the west, we have the continents of North and South America between ourselves and the western shores of these continents. On the east, we have the continents of Europe and Africa between us and China and llin- dostan. These facts were seen and known bv our com- ft/ mercial men, and their desire to find a speedy passage to the v^estern shores of America and the golden land of the East, found a ready response in the minds of our navigators, in whom there existed a desire to know if there was a way in the North by which they could sail round the world. The propriety, however, of any ex- ertions on our part, and indeod at any time, may -"itli some show of reason be questioned. In a commercial point of view, the passage, although discovered, could never be rendered available for any practical or useful purpose. In these regions the ice closes in upon us, and thus seems to present a lasting barrier to man's progress in that direction. 4 ■: '\ i ■£ Thus, although the passage were at once discovered, those who come after the original explorers must have the same difficulties to encounter, tlie same natural im- pedhnents in their way that the original explorers had to contend with. Till the sun himself shall melt the everlasting hills of snow, man may never be permitted to approach these regions. 13e this as it may, the ne- cessity for further exertions on our part to discover a North-west Passage is now done away with ; from the fact, that the railway by the Isthmus of Panama and the canal by Lake Nicaragua, as also the proposed railway across the continent of Europe and direct fronn ^^ England to India, will give us the desired end, without having to encounter any of those physical difficulties which impede our progress in the Northern Seas.* Tliis, however, is incidental ; we have to deal with wliat has been done; the conclusions to which I have * The two passages to which I have referred, will entirely do away with the necessity in a commercial point of view for our prosecuting the discovery of a North-west Passage further. Those by the Isthmus of Panama and Lake Nicaragua will open up a floodgate of commercial prosperity to the world, which we have never known before ; they will bring within a vshort dis- tance of our shores the western coasts of North and Soutli America ; they will also open up a direct passage to the vast Pacific Ocean, and to the many Islands which stud that Ocean, which are too numerous for me to name or to number. The Railway across the Continent of Europe from England to India is one of the most gigantic ideas ever conceived by the mind of man. AVI en this Railway is completed, — which in the course of time it doubtless will be, — the golden land of the East will be brought within a distance of seven days' journey from England. Thus do we stand in the prospect of seeing realized a fact so great and so gigantic that had it been told to cur forefathers, they must have deemed it little less than an Arabian tale. Many parties tell us that such a project can never be carried out ; doubtless, to the minds of many, it may seem an impossi- bility, but there is more in heaven and in earth than is dreamt of in their philosophy. In the vocabulary of some men there is no such word as fail ; and such men necessity will find to carry out this great undertaking. Not only will a Railway be laid down from England to the East, but we may not err in prognosticating that an Electric Telegraph will soon be laid down also. Then the pilgrim by the banks of the river Indus, and the hero ot ITindostan may converse with his friends in fatherland; then will the daring fancy of our immortal Shakspeare be reduced to a vulgar reality, that of putting a girdle round the earth in forty minutes. ■wj, -^ M i I referred being come to, expeditions have from time to time been fitted out, only a passing allusion to several of which 1 can give before coming to that of tSir John i'Vanklin ; the voyages of Mackenzie, Davy, Beechy, the Rosses, Back, Dease, Simpson, and others, may be named as connected with our present subject. Captain Parry discovered many lands, bays, and large islands, the principal of which he named. Captain Ross dis- <;overed the large island of Boothia, which is thinly inhabited by Esquimaux. These various expeditions and their successes led to the expedition under the command of Sir John Franklin. That expedition left this country in the month of May, 1845 ; there were composin[^ it in all, two ships, the Erebus and Terror, ■and 138 men ; they took with them provisions calcu- lated, with economy, to last four years and a-half. Sir ^lohn Franklin's instructions were to proceed up by Davis's Straits to Baffin's Bay, so on to Lancaster Sound, Barrow Straits, and thus by Cape Walker, then t(» use his own discretion. The expedition was last seen in Baffin's liay bound on to an iceberg waiting for u passage through the ice. Traces of Sir John Frank- lin's expedition have, however, since been found on lieechy Island, which is situated at the entrance to Wellington Channel. Here were found three graves '.' the light, was ])lown in by the tempest ; the new-made mother, with her baby-boy, sought and received shelter from a neighbour. His father, William Burns, had been a farmer ; but worldly adversity compelled him to be- take himself to the field as a labourer. Robert, at the age of six, was sent to school, where, under Mr John Murdoch, a man of whom the poet makes honourabhi mention, he remained two years. Here he acquired reading, grammar, and some knowledge of the Frencli language. Beyond this, he had not much of what is called school education ; but, as we shall hereafter see, he was " quick to learn, and wise to know." He was at an early age somewhat fortunate in the books he read, having a few of Shakspeare's plays, Locke on the Understanding, Ramsay's Poems, along with other books of value. It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth year of his age that Burns first wrote poetry. Love was the mother of his muse. He was early blest with what was early blighted — his love for Highland Mary. This was a sacred affection, almost too pure for earth. She died ; alas ! too early — died as all the good die — loving, hoping. l?i 13 l^uni>, when a young man, engaged in partnership with a Haxdresser ; but, in a hapless hour, the premises took fire, and left the poet pennyless. He now took the farm of Mosgeil, in conjunction with his brother Gil- bert, a man of sound understanding. Here Burns first met Jean Armour, afterwards his wife ; and their first intimacy ended in misfortune. Our poet now looked to a foreign land for that peace and prosperity which his own denied him. He resolved to go to Jamaica, and published his poems to provide him with the neces- saries for the voyage. These wild irregular utterings came upon the world to make it wonder and admire. He was at once exalted from the condition of a plough- man to that of the first poet of his country. He changed his plans ; was advised to go to Edinburgh. He did so, as we shall hereafter see, to his sorrow. He became a lion among the literary men of the great city. The Ayrshire ploughman sat at the tables of the nobility, — drank wine, — they taught him to drink deep ere he de- parted, — he here carried a Duchess off her feet with the brilliancy of his conversation, — fell in love with the charming Clarinda, — and indulged too often in wild po- tations. This could not last long; he sought peace and something permanent. He left the gay city; took the farm of Ellisland ; spent too much time in preparing for his wife; and the habits he had contracted in Edinburgh sometimes assailed him. He was now appointed to the Excise. A ludicrous mistake. Burns was seen sounding the depth of whisky casks when he should have been holding the plough. This man's days and pleasures on earth were brief, and not delightful. The earthly ta- bernacle gave way under the fiery spirit. His body was racked with pain ; there was malady in his soul. h" I 14 He tried all things ; all would not do. Death was iipor< him. The strong man was bowed down — the daughters of music were brought low — desire had failed, and all was darkness. In the thirty-eighth year of his age, this great man, after severe bodily and mental suffering, yielded up his spirit into the hands of Him who gave it. Such is a brief account of the career of Robert iiurns. (licntlemen, this man's life was a tragedy in one act. Like all other great tragedies, there was much glory, much sublimity, much beauty, and much truth in it. There were besides, interspersed throughout, a fev/ comic scenes, and good. J^urns, when a young man, was a happy man ; and, d ming the whole of his life, he liad seasons of exalted, yea, delirious joy. This we are glad to know and say ; but, taking it all and all, it were difficult to point out a story of more woe than that of Robert Burns. Born amid poverty, this were nothing, — bred to the plough, would he had never left it, — touched oy the 'jmpyrcan fire of genius, honourable ambition seized his soul ; it first was fed, then foully abused ; he was exalted to a giddy height of glory, placed at length upon a l)innaclc of fame, from which he did not fall, but which fell under him ; and, when he did come down, he fell like Lucifer, never, so far as this world is concerned, never to rise again. (Jentlemcn, I do not mourn over the life of Burns as many do. I do not mourn over it lor the world's sake ; but I mourn over it for his own. Even then we need not become very pathetic. What was the world to him ? He seems to have been born not so much to live as to fly across life " like a fierce eomet of tre- mendous size, bidding the nations wonder as he passed." M 15 Many point to him, and say, " You see what he was ; what might he have been V" We venture into no such dangerous speculations. We arc thankful for him as, he was ; and as for tlic world, why he was more to tlic '/orld than the world was to him. It is my impression that the most unfortunate, not to say the most fatal, step in the life 6f J3urns, was his visit to Edinburgh. I kiiow that, at the time, this step was necessary ; we, nevertheless, regret the effects that flowed from it. Burns went among the great folk there as a world's wonder. They ke})t him such during his stay, lie left them, and was forgotten by them. It was a natural result, lie said, he knew it should be so. He said, he would bear it like a man. Doubtless, he thought he would and could do so. It turned out to be easier to ■say this tlian to do it. He was forgotten, but could not in his turn forget. When the trumpet of fame ceased to sound at his coming, the remembrance of what he once was rose up before him, to heat his very brains, to crucify his soul, and to send him, or do much to send him, to an untimely grave. Edinburgh did more ill to Burns tha^ all this. It did not rob him of his inde> pcndence — this was past the power of man ; but it j\)bbcd him to a great extent of his self-dependence, whicli was a gigantic evil. He was a great jioet, and iis such, could )i*)t brook the idea of again becoming a ploughman. I blame no one for this ; I pity all con- cerned, and speak for the future. In this matter the world has yet to learn a lesson. Wc must not neglect genius, but we nmst not abuse it ; we must not kill it with kindness. We must not deprive it of purpose and aim in life. We must teach it that it has to work and remo'^ammffmm |:i 16 live in this world as well as to tell the world truths. Bums was treated in much the same way as a few wcil- meaning men lately treated William Thom. They took him to London ; gave him dinners ; drove him about in carriages ; took him through the great city to see and be seen. He left them at last, and died a beggar — broken-hearted. Far better would we treat genius, were we to put a spade in its hand, and say, "Go now and till tlie soil, bring forth good fruit — feel great truths, and tell them — be a blessing to thyself and mankind ; show to the world that you are a God-sent man." Thus do we leave the life of Burns ; we come now to his character. The tongue of slander, slaked over as it is by the venom of vile thought, has been busy with this man's memory. Far be it from me to say he was infallible. We are not blind to his errors. We think he sinned not a little, and suffered much. But we are strong in the belief that we shall be able to repel many of the charges that have been brought against him. We humbly think that we shall be able to prove that, since his death, he has been more sinned against than he ever sinned, by men to whom (as it has been well said) he was as superior in virtue as be was in genius. First of all, he has been called an uneducated man. Secondly, he has been called an irreligious man. Third- ly, he has been called an immoral man. I shall notice these charges hi the order in which they are here set down. First of all, ho has been called an uneducated man. Tliis charge is true only to a certain extent. He had not what is called a classical education. He did not know Hebrew ; he did not know Greek. 17 He did not read so many books as we in this age of wondrous wisdom are supposed to read ; but therein he was wise, and it was well. If he did not read so mucli as we do, he, perhaps, thought more. He was not an educated man in the high sense of the term, but lie ♦rannot, with truth, be called an unlearned man. He read his Bible, he read Milton, he read Shakspeare ; and who will tell me that the man who reads and understands these books, as Burns did, can remain uneducated? But above and beyond all this, Burns was learned, deeply learned, in the mysteries of the human soul ; he was a philosopher by inspiration. But further still, Burns was taught, and taught profoundly, too, by the Book of Nature, which was his favourite book. He gazed upon the stars, which Avere to him then what they are to us now, the poetry of lieaven. The wind^ when it blew high, rocking castles, telling the wretch to tremble, und letting the v/orld know that the Lord was abroad, was to him a source of deep inspiration. The trees, bending beneath the blast, as if in adoration to their God, taught him a lesson of devotion. The morning star, as it lingered between daylight and darkness, wafted his soul to heaven as it died away. He saw the moonbeam sleeping in the waters, and he said it was no purer than the love of a true woman's soul. A summer cloud, floating in the blue henven like the hist vestige t)f the breath of God, could not pass over him without his special wonder. Spring, with her beauty : Autumn, with her bounty ; Summer, with her golden sunsliine ; and Winter, with lier slicet of snow, to liim were teachers all. Tlie flowers of earth were dear to him. The rose-bud, blushing in the morning dew — the lily, pale as the cheek of a dying child — the daisy. n2 m I m ft 1 18 modest as the blush of a young maiden — he loved them all. The birds, too, earth's sweet choristers, were his delight. The lark's loud song at heaven'': gate — the cuckoo, welcome with the spring — the robin's sweet domestic chirp — the lapwing lamenting the loss of her love — all, all, were very dear to him. Nature, in all her phases, was to him an exceeding joy. The solitary cottage in the desert moor, with its reek curling to the clouds — the lonely cairn on the mountain side, touched his soul with reverence for the glory of the past. The shepherd in his grey plaid, under the old oak tree — the milkmaid's song, the loud laugh of playful cliildren — cattle grazing in the field — sheep at the fell — all were very dear to him. His book, we say, was the Book of Nature, and by it he was taught profoundly. We but show our want of education when we say Burns was an imeducated man. It has also been said that Burns was an irreligious man. I do not believe it, but I deny it. This slander was first sent abroad by those among wliom Burns mingled ; and it was sent abroad because he differed in opinion from them. Burns did differ in religious opinion from the times in whicli he lived, and the men among whom he mingled ; but to call him irreligious because he did this, is to take him up before lie has fallen. For a man to differ from the religion of liis time, is, I maintain, no proof that that man is irreligious. After this fashion Socrates was irreligious. According to the fashion which they called heresy, Paul worshipped the G od of his ftithers. Because Burns, after this fiisliion, differed from his fellow-men, he has been called irre- ligious. We stay not here to enquire what was the religious belief of the times in which Burns lived ; our ^ 19 business now simply is, to prove that Burns was no irre- ligious man. To that do we now address ourselves. Let us first of all take a broad view of the man. Burns believed in G od. He believed in Christ, and loved and admired the beauty of his character. He believed in immortality, and, while here, longed much for another and a better world. If these statements be true, we think it would be hard to prove that the man who held such opinions was irreligious. But above and beyond all this, we believe that Burns was not an irreligious man, because of the general tenor of his writings. As proof of this, witness his many letters, in which he speaks of religion. Witness also his many poems, wherein he refers to the subject. His "Cottar's Satur- day Night," a strain which, without profanity be it spoken, angels might admire. I would direct attention to several, written to Mrs Dunlop, and one to his friend Cunningham. His " address to Mary in heaven," wherein he "holds communion with the sainted spirit of his first affection, each word sealed with a tear and a sigh, the purest that ever flowed on earth, and the sincerest that was ever uplifted to heaven." Above all, remem- ber his own declaration, that an irreligious poet were a monster. This we conceive to be perfectly true. But we go beyond it, and we say, that an irreligious poet were not only a monster, but an irreligious poet is an impossibility. There can be no such thing. No sucli being ever walked God's earth. Shelly said there was no God, but lie did not believe it. Byron, for all his waywardness, said, what we believe to be true, tliat he was readier to die than the world supposed him to be. So was it with Burns. AVe look in vain in the world for an irreligious poet. AVhat is a poet ? He is the 20 if 11 I very man above all others who cannot be irreligious. He is a being who feels great truths, and tells them; whose soul is attuned to the harmonies of nature, lie (-•annot, even if he would, turn against the giver of his gifts ; he must be true to his mission, true to (Jod. Such was Burns. Both in word and deed scorning and giving the lie to much of the world's morality, and also its religion ; he was, nevertheless, not an irreligious man. His soul was deeply imbued witli the spirit of nature, open to the breath of (jod. He reverenced all that was divine and holy, and admired, with a devout admiration, beauty and truth. Burns has been called an immoral man. In answer- ing this charge we must take a broad view of the man, 'And a liberal view of human nature. Man is a com- bination, shall I not say, of good and evil. Ife has a body, which is of tlie earth, earthy ; a soul, wliich is of iieavcn, heavenly : he is a compound of sense and soul — the quintessence of dust and deity ; he has two na- tures, what the Scriptures expressively call the carnal and the spiritual — the one leads to what we call good, the other to what we call evil. To take this view of human nature is, \ think, the best, perhaps the only way ill wliich we can account for the actions of uur great men ; while, at the same time, it leads us to have but little sympathy with that erring philosophy which lias been projiounded by the living, sitting, in stupid wonder, over the scpr.ichrci? of the dead, bespattering the departed sj)irits of the mighty great with condem- nation — making them t)ut to be demons only. Ecpially vain is that philosophy which, in opposition to this, has made out our great men to be angels. The truth is wholly with neither of these parties. Those among Tl t f f [ I 21 men Avlio liave had tlic hoof of the fiend, have also had the tongue of the angel. Giant sons of God, great in good and great in evil, but ever great, now grovelling in earth, now aspiring to heaven. Thus do we account for the lewdness of Voltaire, the vulgarity of Paine, the misanthropy of Byron, the atheism of Shelley, the de- bauchery of Burns, the ambition of Bonaparte. Looking, then, at human nature in this light, we can- not and we do not deny but Burns had strong passions ; sometimes they laid him low and stained his name. But because of this, for his fellowmen to bring against him the general charge of immorality, is to sin against the living and slander the dead. If Burns had the vices of mankind, he also had their virtues — if he sinned, he suffered ; and we hope that he was made pure through suffering. He was a dutiful son, a loving husband, an affectionate father — what more can mortal be. These general charges, damning to the memory of man, are brought against Burns, and such as he, by men who have neither his power to do good, nor his power to do evil ; by men whose chief delight it is, eternally, to rake up the ashes of the dead, and rail on the Lord's anointed. Thus do we hurl back these strictures and for ever consign them to the tomb of all the Capulets, that from it there may be no after resur- rection. We come now to the writings of Burns, before which, however, we have one other charge to refer to, one other murmur to chastise and rebuke. He has been accused of writing no long poem. Now when will this (as it would seem everlasting) murmuring cease. Had the man not liberty to write what he pleased ? Who has a right to accuse him for what he has not done ? *^ 22 Bums was, like all the truly great, too great for writing books. The truly great among men write no books — they have too much faith for this ; they do with their thoughts wliat we are told to do with our bread — cast them upon the waters, believing that, after many days, they will find them safe. Socrates wrote no books — he just uttered his thoughts, and, once uttered, they were ever immortal. So is it with our own Shakspeare; lie, while livhig, wrote no books ; he wrote a few ir- regular poems, which modern admiration and art hatli collected into a book ; but the thoughts expressed of such men live long after books have crumbled into the dust from which they came. So it was with ]5urns, he wrote no long book ; he could not be for ever inspired. The wind bloweth where it listeth, — he wrote when the spirit moved liim. He wrote no great epic ; but his poems, when collected together, may be said to be one great and glorious lyric; abrupt, irregular, lofty, sublime, soft and tender, ravish- ing the soul. He was great " either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, pastoral-liistorical, tragical-historical, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral : scene individual, or poem unlimited." Now moving you to tears, now convulsing you with laughter ; now lifting you to heaven on the wings of the wind ; anon chaining you with love's willing fetters as he mourns the loss of his Mary. Now singing a song to rouse up the patriotic love of a people against oppression. Now inditing his verses to the mouse, wherein he shows us that the humblest thing in God's creation is the earth- born companion and fellow-mortal of man. In his "Cottar's Saturday Night" he has lit the lamp of love, and poured a gleam of glory round the family if I 23 altar, I,i his "Man was made to Mourn," he has given us a gloomy view of man, and told us some truths wiilch the world will not willingly let die. In his "Tani o' Shanter" he draws a picture of pleasure, and sums up the whole in words not soon to be forgotten. In his '* Epistle to a Young Friend" he has shown that he was both poet and philosopher. In his "A ddress to the Dei'l " he gives us proof of the charity that was in his soul, for he tells us that even he may have a stake in heaven. In his .song of " a Man's a Man for a' that," he shows us that a true soul can beat under a tattered garment as well as beneath a Roman toga. It was the mission of Burns to bind man to man — to teach us love and kindness — to sooth the sorrows, to sing the joys, to lighten the labour of the poor — to vindicate the dignity of mind — to speak trumpet- tongued against oppression, and make us in love with liberty — to tell the world great truths, which the world must one day believe. All this has he done, and in doing this he has made life more delightful by the rich feast of poetry and music which he hath provided for his fellow-men. Burns was a remarkable writer in prose as well as poetry, though his poetry has eclipsed his prose. Like Milton, he has hitherto been remembered chiefly as a poet. Still, the letters of Burns are remarkable pro- ductions. I grant that in them we behold him too often on stilts. But all things considered, we cannot but wonder that in his letters there is so much that is u.tble, good, and true. Had it been a peer instead of a jtloughman that wrote them, and had he, the peer, died } oung, men would have said that he was a wild and A\ onderful genius, and but wanted years to amaze man- ii; ! 24 kind. I kncnv few books of the same (limensions from which so many beauties could be culled as from the lett(^rs of liurns. "Thc^ poetic {jjenius of my country found me, as the pro- jihetic bard lOlijali did Elisha — at tlic plough, and threw lier ins|>iring mantle over me." Such is the language of tlie poet. We do not wonder, at the fact, we only name it. IFcavcn and earth are full of poetry, and nature, when she wished a voice wherewith to speak, had as good a right to choose her man from the plough as from the professor's desk. Fergusson, the astrono- mer, was a shepherd boy. Bloomfield, the poet, was a sluH'maker. Burns was bred at the plough. God is with his children everywhere, to bless them and to do them good. Such was Burns, such is the legacy he has left to man. His place as a poet we do not and cannot fix : but he has been well called one of the brightest stars shining round the sun, Shakspeare. Til us let him be, thus let him shine. So long as the thistle bends to the blast — so long as the heather grows in the sun, and gilds the mountain top — so long as honest men and bonny lasses people the town of Ayr — so long as birds sing from the busli, and flowers are lu'autiful — so long as grass waves green on the banks o' bonny Doon — so long as man loves woman, and woman trusts to man — so long shall Burns be remembered. I bid farewell to his nuMnory with gratitude and joy. I rejoice at the opportunity I now have had of strew- ing this frail garland of love and admiration on hi.- glorious grave. »{ i GEORGE GILFILLAN, AND HIS WRITINGS. George Gilfillan is a remarkable man. He is the critic of the present age, as Byron was the poet thereof some years ago. Gilfillan the critic, like Byron the poet, has not had to climb up the hill of fame ; but, from the natural height on which he found himself exalted, he has lighted down upon its top, whereon he now sits enthroned in the garb of immortality. The critic, like the poet, has by one giant stride outstripped all his contem- poraries. What it took them years of labour to accom- plish, he has by one great effort achieved. Gilfillan, as a critic, has the power and eloquence of Macaulay ; the sparkling brilliancy of Jeffrey ; the wildness, if not the wit of Sidney Smith ; is just and unerring in his judgments as Hazlitt. Above and beyond this he has an eloquence belonging to himself, peculiarly his own. He has, among other things, written a book, called " a Gallery of Literary Portraits," which has given him — who six years ago was not known — a fame, which, if not as yet European, is at least British and American. Gilfillan is a painter, and has drawn the mental characteristics of the most eminent literary men of the present and past generations. Jeffrey — alas ! we can no longer say as Byron said, health to him ; but we can at least and do say, peace to the memory of the great immortal, — Chris- topher Korth among the mountains, — Chalmers fit c %i i i w^mmmmm 26 !• !■ %\ ( ri»ll(»\v(;r of tho, Ai)(istl(! Paul, — Emcrsou the tran.scen- (lontalist, (loc'ply iinhued with tlie spirit of nature, — Wordsworth king of rr, in a way nhich almost invariably insures success and eertamty. in his analysis of an author, Gilfillan takes hold of iiim frankly and freely, lie looks at him from top to toe, turns him round about and round about, lifts liim up ami down, and scrutini:n of the moimtains. In the pulpit or r, u ■ - I ■• ^nWVH LETTER ON DR. DICK, THE OHEISTIAN PHILOSOPHER. Sir* — Can we stand idly on, can man, can humanity stand idly on. Is the old tragedy once again to be enacted ? lias blind Homer, the ballad-singer, tanglit us nothing ? Do the voices of the dead call to us in vain? From the graves of Burns, Chatterton, and Thorn, do we not learn nothing ? If so, then, let the dead past bury the dead. How fares the living ? Alas, there are, at the present moment, prophets being ne- glected amongst us. There is a popular authoress, a woman, and an ornament to womankind, she is in poverty ; the Christian philosopher, Dr Dick, is like- wise overlooked. Can such things be and overcome us like a summer cloud without our special wonder. Here is a man, over whose eloquent pages millions in this country, in Europe, and America, have hung witli rapture and pondered with profit. Here 's the man, who has done more than any other man we know, to popularise science among the people. The man who has written the '^ Christian Philoso- pher," in which he speaks of the works of God ; and shows that in wisdom he hath made tliem all, — the man who has written tlic philosophy of a future state, in which he has built up our hope ; confirmed our faith * This Letter was written for the Card {i;' and McH/ii/i' Guar- dian. I ,1/ mmm I, if 35 ill anotlicr and better world, — the man who has written the " Sidereal Heavens," in which he holds communion with the stars and talks to the sun as to a play-fellow^, — the man who has done all this, and much more than this ; he who has given the world so much bread, has received, in return for his gift, a stone. The British Parliament, as we think, is in many re- spects a good parliament. It is in many respects a good political parliament. But in one thing, we think, it is very deficient, — that is, in its j)atronage of good and great men. All parliaments are, and ever have been, deficient in this. We, however, off'er this com- plaint more in sorrow than in anger. Parliament can- not do everything. We very often ought to be doing ourselves when we are babbling about the duties ol' parliament. Let it be so now ; let us have home re- f(n*mation. Let us assist ourselves, and our fellow-men wlio have done us good. With this feeling I call upon Scotchmen ; I call upon Englishmen and Irish- men ; I call upon Britain, not to let this man, of w honi I have been speaking, die neglected. He will die some day ; in the course of nature, that day cannot be far distant ; and when he does die, we shall all then make a universal rush to erect a monument over his grave. But should we before doing this, let the living object, whom, when dead, we would thus honour, die, without shewing him our gratitude ; tiu'n I say, and I say it without sentimentality, that the very stone we UhC siiall rise up in mutiny against us. I have not written without a knowledge of the facts that call forth my re- marks. ■ F know that Dr Dick has lived a long and a laborious life writing books which have done much good to man. Should man therei'ore not slicw him Vj HI 30 good in return ? I know, too, tiiat throughout his life, he has lived with the moderation and meekness of a saint, as he has written witli the wisdom of a sage ; and knowing these things, I would fain save the country the shame of his becoming a martyr. I call, then, on the public to protect this man. Why does not a body of literary men — with George Gilfillan at their head — without delay, set about this labour of love. We hope, and have faitli, that it will at once be done, and be the means of saving tlie feelings of the friends of this great and good man. P. L. al IM if i il si i • I I I II POEMS AND SONGS. inlihntlj ill a ^rottiHlj d ultniit. rro!u scenes like these old -icotia's giaiuleur sprin<,'s, 7'liat makes her loved at iioine. revered abn^ad. I. Hail ! Sabbath morn ; welcome*- sweet day of rest ; Hail to the peaeet'ul joy that comes witli tiiee ; I love this holy feeling in my breast. Which now is caused by all I hear an(' ;-_e. F[ush'd is the din of labour, mute and still Is the loud voice of reapers 'nK^ng the corn ; No more is heard the ploughman whistling shrill. The milkmaid's song has ceased, the hunter's horn Is silent and hung bye— all hail to Sabbath morn! Ml 1 ''it n. Soon as the bright sun beams across the lawn. The humble cottar leaves his lowly bed, With grateful heart he welcomes in the dawn. And thanks the God who watches o'er his head- Uil I 40 Tfie youngsfcrs soon assemble, and all kneel ncfore the Almighty's throne : The futhcr prays: His words go fiom the heart t(. hca\en, — all feel Comfort and peaee, and soon their voices raise (u humble notes of joy, of tho.nlvfidness and praise, III. And now he takes the Bible — blessed book. And reads a portion from the Holy Word ; lie reads of Joseph's story, and all look Amazed, whilst list'ning to the strange rei'onL lie reads of .f esus — God's beloved Son, Whc) came on earth to wash our sins away : He reads of what lie did — of what was done — Of what He bore for us by night and day ; His feelins; heart is touched, and thus the sire doth !j;ay I iM IV. [jo ! Christ our Lord Avas in a stable born. And the young babe was in a manger laid ; No pomp, no grandeur, did his birth adorn. The humble shepherds o'er his body prayed : He was a man of sorrows and became Acquainted with our weakness and our woe ; He knew our frailties, and he bore the same VV^ith patience : our rebellious state below Caused tears of sorrow o'er his sinless cheeks to flow. I 41 s; V. While on this earth, he cured tlic deaf and dumb. He healed the sick, and made the blind to see : At his command, the silent dead did come. From their dark graves the captives were set free. He stilled the raging waters with a word ; He cast out devils — walked upon the sea ; He came to teach mankind to sheath the sword. To live in peace, and brothers all to be ; Yet man received him not, but pierced him on a tree ! ;ty VI. They planted on his head a crown of thorns. And led him forth to Calv'ry, there to die : He bore the cross, and meekly Ijore the scorns Of jeering soldiers; and was heard to cry, My God ! my God ! and then he closed his eye? In death. The Temple's vail in twain is riven ; The sun is darkened : Lo ! the dead arise ; Huge rocks are rent — men to despair are driven. And earth affrighted shakes beneath the frown of heaven. I ■/■..^ 'W. VII. Oh ! think on Jesus, think on what he bore : Obey his word — the sinner's way despise ; Oh ! strive to enter in at that straight door. d2 42 Which leads to peace for aye beyond the skies. Remember thy Creator, and in prayer Implore his aid, then no iglit hast thou to f(!ar : Make God your staff and comfort — tlien, though care Oppress you, wlien your days are ended here, A bright l)el.v'cd saint with Christ you will appear. 'l. I 1 VIII. And thus with them the pleasjnit moments flow. The dainties soon arc on the tab^o spread. Of which they all partake, and then they go To where their fathers fathers have been laid — The church-yard anl the cliurdi. Hark ! the loud bell Is pealing through the wood and o'er the lea ; Now groups are seen on distant hill and dale. Wending their way with joy to where we see The spire that points to iieaven, in wliich they hope to be. IX. The gudeman and gudewife havj each put on Their Sunday clai^-v and se*^;i then bairnies drest : Their eldest daughter J,;ssie, peered by none, Slie too is buskit in her very best ; And John, their worthy guid respected fion — Wha toils wi' pleasure for them day by day, Aud wearies not, but .till h(^ labours on. '' i I ' 43 M'ii id L«e. And ne'er an angry word is heard to say — He's ready for the kirk — his heart is glad and gay. X. They reach the lone sequestered house of God. Where friends arc loitering in the auld kirk-yard. Speaking of those who lie beneath the sod, And heaving sighs o'er friends langsync interred. Lo ! here the widow weeps her husband lost ; Here the forsaken lonely maid may moum, And tell her hapless talc to midnight ghost ; lleie wild-fl:.wers and the green yew tree adorn The graves of those who sleop till life's eternal morn. XL The belj has ceased, — all enter cnurch, and now ServMce begins — a psalm is read and sung : 'Hicir pastor prays ; and see, on every brow Sits holy thought at his iustructivc tongue : Tic reads a chapter, then the text is given ; He knows what erring mortals need and want; He acts and speaks as should a guide to heaven ; — AV'ith him there is no hypocritic cant. No nauseous statements made, no rhapsody, no rant. XII. He bids them first honour and serve their God, Love and adore Ilim, and you will do well ; m I' .; I j^ ! I ', i :>} I'' I 44 He bids them strive to gain that blest abode Beyond the skies, svhere saints for ever dwell. He bids them ail respect their fcnow-n::^.Ti, And Oh, be Ivind, and feel for other's woes ; Be just, — from all dislioucst acts refrain, And the reward is yours. Peace and repose Attend the good man still, where'er on earth he jngst its stones till the eleventh hour had proclaimed the approach of summer's mid- night. About the time it appeared, a friend remarked to the author, " that Auld Kirk-yard seems just an imitation of ' there grows a bonny brier bush in our kail-yard ;'" the youth stood some minutes in a state of apparent stupefaction, his face becoming whiter than the paper on which the poem was printed, but at length said, " you do not know how much you hurt me; I declare I never saw nor heard of the piece of wliich you speak." That friend has sometimes since regretted the occurrence ; and would say to others similarly situated, do nothing rashly— remember the fate of poor Tannabill. I \l 49 II. In the auld kirk-yard I've pleasures That the gay can never hac, Though whiles I may be gloomy, And my heart wi' trouble wae. 0, it's there that I see justice ; There the cottar and the laird Lie side by side, and slumber In the auld kirk-yard. III. Grim Death comes fast upon us, And take's baith ane and a', He flies about on fiery wing, And tears our friends awa. The father and the mither dies, And the bairnie it's no spared : Folk arc freed frae a' their sorrows In the auld kirk-yard. IV. I like to see the charnel-house, Where lie decaying banes ; I like to read the epitaphs Engraven on the slanes ; 1 like to lean upon the tombs, And tread the lang green sward iiiju I \ I .50 That waves o'er friends departed, In tlie auld kirk-yard. V. Here's a nook wi' nae memorial, Wliar the vilhige strangers * sleep, At whose dying hour no bosom friend Was heard to wail or weep. Here they're laid to rest : Nae marbles tell The toils on earth they shared ; But their griefs and woes are ended Jn the auld kirk-yard. VI. How aft hae I sat lanely here — Nae living mortal wi's — When a' was dark and drep"- And the loud wind 'mang the trees ; I thought on grim ghost stones ! But e'en then I wasna fcar'd, For I kenn'd that God was wi' me In the auld kirk-yard. "^ Mr Robert Chambeus, in a beautiful essay, si)eaks tlius of tlie Stranger's Nook : — " In country Church-yards in Scotland, and perhaps in other countries also, there is always a corner near the gateway, which is devoted to the reception of strangers, and is distinguished from the rest of the area by its total want of monuments." 51 VII. 0, wae's me ! what a strange, strange j/iace Is this wee spot o' ground — Sma' though it be, there's mony a true And loving heart that's bound To wander here, an' shed sad tears O'er friends langsyne interred : There's a something that's enticing In the auld kirk-yard. VIII. Still and silent are they sleeping ; But the day will dawn on graves — Their inmates shall b« roused from deatli And ne'er again be slaves. The great Last Day is coming, When their God, eternal guard, Will wake them from their slumber In the auld kirk- yard. i lUS of :land, near I, and mt of r.2 ;i\ it if m 3fat[ /atlin's 33a\ I. My Father's Ha' ! my Father's Ha' I— ! Fve been happy there, When sitting round the blazing tiro, Our hearts sae free frae care. Despite o' a' the ills that came To take our peace awa', We were unco blythe and happy aye Around my Father's Ha'. II. I've wander'd east, Fve wander d west, I've wander'd 'mang the hills, And flowery glens^ and rocky dens. And I hae felt the ills That man on earth is subject to. But I hac felt that a The cares o' life were banished When around my Father's Ha". III. ! weel I mind the winter nigii.s, When Boreas blew sae bauld. ');{ Wlien round the ingle clioek wc sat An' smiled, baith young and auld. We nactliing had to trouble's then. But we heard tlie loud winds blaw, An' wished the houseless wanderer wi's, Around my Father's Ha'. IV. Its there that I first learned To read guid an' holy books, — Its there that I first saw wi' joy A mither's anxious looks, — Its there that I first heard the prayer Sent up for ane an' a', — Its the sweetest, dearest spot on earth To me — my Father's Ha'. 1 V. My Father's Ha' ! my Father's Ha' !— To me 'twill aye be dear ; An' those wha round it used to sit, Alas ! how few are here. They're scattere 1 now, and some are to A better world awa'. An' left us here to think on tliem. Around my Father's Ha'. E 2 ^'t: t I 54 ; W VI. But we'll a' yet be happy When life's journey here is o'er, We'll meet bcyoiitl yon sunny skies. We'll meet to part no more. Our bliss will bo eternal there, It will never flee awa' ; We'll be happier than we've ever beta y^ Around my Father's IIu'. a i^aiut 38BiiiJnii ttjc lldts. I. When the heart's oppressed wi' sorrow, And the hccad bow'd down wi' care ; When we labour wi' a heavy load grief and dark despair ; When a' before seems murky, And black clouds round us rise,— Its a blessed thing to think we hae A hame beyond the skies. II. When the friends wha dearly lo'ed us, Wha by us were aye held dear, When they're lowly laid by fell disease, And stretched upon the bier ; When we kiss the cheek sae lately wanii. And close the glistening eyes,— Its a blessed thing to think we hae A hame beyond the skies. IS III. When our earthly friends forsake us. And upon us shut their door, — "I k v- i r mi D A t ; : Hi I VVIicii left by ti', like, soiiie lone tree Upon a l)lastcd moor, Thoro's ac I'ricnd vvha never leaves us. If we're ju.st, and .'niid, and wise, — Its a blessed tiling to tliink we hae A liamc beyond tlie ,reak ; But I stop the tears, for wecl I ken That her for wha's dear sake I sigh, still lo'es me fondly ; Still Is fondly lo'ed by me, — And our first affection was begun Beneath the trystin' tree. t, XI. \y^yQ mind that time, dear lassie, When I left you to yoursel', I'm sure we balth had sorrows wlilch Nac tongue can ever tell. I came and waited, though I kcnn'd, I wadna meet wl' thee : 67 Oh ! I thought my very heart wad break Beneath the trystin' tree. XII. When winter comes, our trystin" tree Grows naked, hrown, and bare ; Like mother Nature round about, It hangs its head wi' care : But spring returns, an' it revives, As ye may plainly see, — There's no a tree about the burn Like our ain trystin' tree. [I ( . ' 1;: ( I 68 i;(' 3Kntt tn ]h\iu inas 35nvn. In imitation of '' Ma.v was iiADK ro Molun.' I. When gentle spring's utliureal bloom Made fields and forests gay, One morning as I wandered forth Along the banks of Tay, I spied a man whose back was bent. But cankering grief and care Seemed utter strangers to his heart. Though hoary was his hair. II. Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? Began the reverend sage ; Does love of nature call thee forth. Before bow'd doAvn with age ? Or haply wilt thou talk with me Of Providence's plan, And vindicate the ways of G od To noblc-miudcd man. i) 'ii 69 III. Yon sun, that sheds a golden flood Of liglit on tower and tree, And tells us there's a God above, Delights and pleascth me. I've seen yon glorious brilliant sun Twice forty times return, And every time has added proof That man to peace was bom. IV. My son, while young be wise — be not Too prodigal of time ; Do not misspend thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime. 0, iob liOL loilies taivii their sway. Do not let passions bum, — Curb and contemn them, e'en o-day, And then thou wilt not mourn. i V. Tis true that tyrants, while in power, Oppress man here below ; But why from this should it be said That man was doomed to woe. 'Tis madness for the rich and great To treat the poor with scorn ; I i ,!. 70 I why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn. Vi. Were mankind Aviso, we all miglit bo In pleasure's lap caress'd, — There's plenty here for high and low To make us truly blest ; But sordid, sinful, selfish men Hoard up all that they can ; And, while they only serve themselves. Oppress theii" fellow-man. VII. Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame, And oft we cause remorse and grief By bringing ou the same. Oh ! were mankind, wlicr. y<»ung, all tanght The wicked's path to scorn, ITien blest experience soon wo'dd show That man to neacc was born. I 'A VIII. See yonder ploughman on tl.e fiidd. He whistles as he goes ; V Wi 71 Ho knows nor grief, nor care— his heart la ne'er oppress'd with woes. And when at e'en his toil is o'er, He homeward doth return : Lo ! there he meets a cheerful wife, And bahes to bless him bom. IX. f^roud man to be a slave was ne'er By nature's law designed ; Then why should weak and puny man To earth his brother bind ? Oh ! shake the fet' :^ra from the feet Of slaves ; wipe off this scorn And just reproach from Nature ; show To freedom man was boru. ^S' i(\ X. Tet. lot not this too much, iry son, Engage thy youthtul breast; Think not tliis world's a paradise ; Perhaps indeed 'twere best To think and to believe that wo Arc happy hire below ; But, only if we'er just and good ; If not, wc dwell in woe. I » I i I 72 XI. Death is the good man's greatest frieud The kindest and the best ; For then his toils arc at an end — lie's taken to his rest. The vile and wicked fear its blow, l^'rom sin to sorrow torn ; But tiie just and good ne'er fear to go. Who know for what they're born. ' / 73 jilartlia ][ialmH. ' i 1. Oh DiiAR, dear Martha Palmer 1 A' the grief you've gi'en to me, It's far beyond my humble power In words to tell to thee ; P,ut my heart's sae fu' o' sorrow At the change I've lately seen, Til at I canna do but tell you o't, And ask what ye could mean. "i . ^15 11. 1 little thought the slanders, love, Of heartless, envious men, Could e'er hae poison'd your high min.i. Or made you false ; but then I find the love of woman Is a frail and quivering reed, And the heart that doats too fondly, Is a heart that doats to bleed. 74 !f ,• ' fl ^^t' i! in. D'yo niiiid the accrics that, wc twa had Since first wc met th'githcr ; D'ye mind the vows wc made, to live In K)vc wi' anc anither ; D'ye mind the tears we aften shed, For very bliss and joy, — Did you think then, Martha, did )oa meaa Our rapture to destroy ? IV. Oh ! liow aften did we wander, Wb >i: 78 fit ' ' • r 1 lit \u i- ;'i i ■ m '>&\ 51 HHHrniiiE to cHiie^n Uictaria unii ^iriucB Jlltirrt, ON THEIR VISIT TO DUNOKK. The following Verses were seut to the Queen, during her residence at Blair Castle, through her Foreign Secretary, the Earl of Aberdeen. His Lordship was kind enough to send me a note acknowledging the receipt of the Poem by her Majesty. " Stir the beal-fire — wave the banner — Bid the thundering cannon sound. Rend the skies with acclamation, Stun the woods and water round, Till the echoes of our gathering Turn the world's admiring gaze, To this act of duteous homage Scotland to Victoria pays." Dklta. I. Dundee welcomes, with kind greeting, F'air Victoria to our shore ; And wc hail the Queen of Nations, Whom we honour and adore ; And we hail her joyful consort, Worthy of her fondest love, — May their days on earth be happy, Till they reach the land above ! 79 'tt, J her , the d me sty. ri. Thou bright sun! beam forth in .splcndour- Shino out on the royal pair — Rise our beating hearts, and let us Bid a long adieu to care. For this the day and this the hour With heartfelt joy we see Britain's grejit and peerless Queen In our native home, Dundtn;. i !i HI. Lo ! the lofty arch triumphal Rears its columns to the skies, — Widely open'd be its portals To our Queen's admiring eyes. The cannons sound — the banners wave — The fairest flowers are seen. All bound in wreaths right royally — To welcome Albion's Queen. h IV. We would wish that this their visit In auld loyal Scotland, be Mavk'd by all that kindly feeling, Which is ever with the free ! We would wish them to be happy While in Scotia they remam ; i 'tl: 80 And may ever joy attend them To the " merry'* land again. \r V. May their sports among the mountains Be wliat bounding licarts desire ! May the hills, and glens, and fountains, Them with health and mirth inspire I Let all welcome Queen Victoria To her Highland home with glee, Where the heathcock's screaming budly, And the wild deer bounding free. VI. May the reign of Queen Victoria Be a reign of rest and peace ! Prompted by her bright example, May all strife and discord cease ! May her ministers act wisely ! And may all her subjects be Ever Lning — ever loyal — Ever fearless, bold, and free ! VII. May the royal babes be happy Till their parents home return ! In their own lov'd land, ! may they Ne'er have cause to grieve or mourn. SI May they grow in grace and beauty ; May they ever, ever prove Choicest blessings to tlieir parents. Who reward them with tlieir h)ve. VIII. So we welcome here Prince Albert, Consort to our Royal Queen, — May his days to come be happy, As his days gone by have been ! And we welcome, with kind greeting, Fair Victoria to our shore ; And we hail the Queen of Nations, Whom we honour and adore ! I r J ,1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // A f/. 1.0 I.I |50 *^^ 13.2 IM 2.? Ef ^ I- - Ii£ III 10 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 '^ 6" - ► V] VJ ^ 'c^l •ilk. -^ A.' ^;. ^ /A Photographic Sdences Corporation •k-i WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 mm m ^ wm 82 «!it lirk. t; Twaa Sabbath e'en : the setting sun Out o'er the Law* was glowring ; The day o' rest was nearly done, And night's dark clouds were louring. :{i I The golden west I gladly saw Were by the sun's rays riven ; At length he calmly sunk away, — Like saint who soars to heaven. As I stood, and wi' pleasure gazed Upon the face of Nature, I saw what made me much amazed- A maid, wha's every feature Betokened that she hadna been A dweller 'mang the rest o's. For baith her manner and her mien Was better than the best o's. 1^: • The Law, a notable hill behind Dundee, containi'^ g on its lummit the remains of a lioman fortress. wmm 83 Wi' smiling face she took my hand, And, pointing up to heaven, Said, " Sir, that is the happy land, — There jliss to all is given." She smiled again, ^' dear Sir," said she, '* My name is Guide to Glory 5 come wi' me, I'll let you see A scene at which I'm sorrow." 1 bow'd and kiss'd her bonny hand, Then on wi' joy she led me, An' aft to seek the happy land, Wi' smiling face she bade me. She led me to the kirk, where I Hac aften heard a sermon ; But, guid forgie me, when I say, We landed 'mang a vermin. *' Now, Sir, I've brought you here, you «rf , 'Mang mony lads and lasses ; Sit down and tell the warld an' me The scenes that 'mang them passes. And Oh," said she, her hand up high, ** Do a' as I would hae ye ;" Then round my brow a wreath did tie — " May that and God bo wi' you." ^'i m m 11 S«r mmmmm HMipr ^■OT HP ii' if, '^^{'^ - : L :. , tl' - t4' ^ 'IJ rii 'ii I 84 And soon as tlicse kind words she said, She frae my sight was hidden ; I prayed to God, and blest the maid, Then strove to do her bidding. His reverence soon came up the stair, And vow but there's a reaching O' heads and caps, — it's a' the care 0' some to see wha's preaching. For mony a ane I ween is there Wha to the text will listen ; When this is got, they dinna care For sermon or for blessing. r ken na' what that kimmer means — She's no doing aught but looking ; The trifling brat's but in her teens, And watch her how she's poking Her neebour's ribs, saying, '^ Cast your e'e Out ower amang the fellows. And if a wise-like chield you see You'll no forget to tell us." Should some late comer want a seat, And scarce ken whar to find ane ; Some bonny quean will no be blate To crush, and prove a kind ane. ^■■l ■iV iw 8', ,•»< And a' the pay for favour shown, Or fee she seeks frae him, Is just to get his arm when done, And take a daunder wi' him. I cast my e'e across the kirk, Whar folk should aye sit douse ; A rotten seat comes down wi' jerk, And this creates a noise. It put the maist o' folk on edge ; — And yonder's three chields brisk aye ; 8ee Tarn's noo in an awfu' rage. For Bob's drank a' the whisky. A modest matron, sitting douse. Was for some minutes pested ; She thought that 'mang her feet a mous^ Was jumpiiig ; — but to test it, She soon resolved, in spite o' a', She would be at the meaning, — Sae looking down, I ween, she saw A fellow busy preening Her petticoats ; but, weel I wat. The khid chield got a token, — The matron rose to stand, wi' tliat The gallant's joke was ))roken. u t J w li, IfMP mmmm i. ■ I ^ J ; 'I .^1 ■ ■ H I :i ('4V' 1 ' ,.!! ::fn liip 1.' I ! 4.i 86 Look ye up yonder ! there's three chields, At " catch the ten" they're playing ; And hear yon callant how he bans At what his neebour s saying. And round and round are maids and mers Quite the reverse o' civil ; Tliey make the house o' God a den In which to do a' evil. Where is the genius of those rules. Those precepts that would ease us, — Where are the teachers of those schools Begun on earth by Jesus ? I ' t mn iS7 Itntrs /air I I. ti r Come Pate, gie't ower man, work nae raair, Let's baith gae out to see the fair, Ilk lightsome body's fleeing ; The road I see is thickly clad, Wi' mony a bonny lass and lad, They'll a' be worth the seeing." So said my friend, and quickly then I rose and took the road, On which were droves o' merry men, And lasses neat and snod, — And a' that I saw, As I here and there was driven. Just proved ilk ane loved To be lightsome as weel's livin'. II I! n. And many a ploughman chiel was seen, Wha that night had got rowin' een. And some could scarcely stand, J? 1* ■s^ .1 ( l/'t '. •I '■ ,\ [4 i [ like a chiel right glad to he Whene'er he meets wl' twa or three, To grip hard Friendship's hand. f aften ower a hearty stonp ITae spent a happy night, But its far the best and wisest plan To keep ane's sel' near right. Its beastly — I maistly Could ca' the fellow down, Wha sits till his wits Wi' the warld's rinning round. 1 [I. There's mony a poor thing on the road This day hae left their sad abode ; And, waes me, they man beg. Wives, wed to poortith, wi' a bairn, And mony a man without the arm, And some without the leg : I like to see a generous chiel, Wi' open liberal hand, It shows I ween his heart can feel. For this neglected band. To gie what he'll see that To him will ne'er be missing, I like to hear wi' listening ear, The poor auld beggar's blessing. ,'! I ««M b9 IV. '' Hark to tliose sounds from yonder tent, I'm sure there's some ane discontent. Although I wadna wish't : Alas ! my friend, what can it be ?" " The lads wi' scarlet coats you sec Are wanting Will to list. Man, "Will, how can you gang awa'. Frae hame and friends sae far V" Haid Roger, " Can you leave us a', To face the waes o' war. Man, Willie, be nae silly ; Dinna plunge to sic a fate, — I'll no deceive, but me believe, You'll rue't when far ower late." V. Says Will, *' My friend, I ken you weel ; I ken that much for me you feel ; But here, believe me, Roger, I'm gaun to do't — yes, here I'm willing. The minute that I get the shilling, To gae and be a s soger. And as for her, tliat saucy fair — My mind is on a rack — She's slighted me ; but here I sweai-, I'll pay the false ane back : h2 '4 I f . V; ' 'I 90 So Roger, here I vow and swear To leave ilk social chiel', To ilka brae, to ilka burn, To ane and a' farewecl." •j ■' i;- 'I I ■ ■i I: r ■ J- 1 H i VI. Poor senseless Will the shilling got ; The sergeant called the tither pot, And cried, " Our friend will pay't." The beer was brought — round went the drink- Will's spirits soon began to sink. They wi' his shilling gaed. "Come, do not let your spirits down," The winning soldier said ; " Cheer up iny lad, and do not fear, A man you'll soon be made !" He cried then, and dried then The tears that down did fa', Tlie daft ane, the saft ane, W^as easily won awa'. VTl. And list again to that loud noise Of drums and fifes, and men and bo}'8 ; Observe ye, these are players, — They surely lead an awfu' life, Of t
    eing tlie sons of poor parents, they were trained from their earhest days to win their bread by labour. Through life, tiiey had to sti'uggle with poverty ; during the day they laboured, and at niglit. and other limited leisure hours, they Avrote poems and stories which attracted the attention of very eminent literary characters: Mr Murray and Mr K. Chambers being among tlieir patrons. From Woodraill, in the parish of Abdie, tliey ultimately removed to Mount Pleasant, where Alexander and John had built a house, which will long remain as a monument of their industry and perseverance. It stands on a lofty hill, and is the higliest house at the back of the beautiful town of New burgh. Here the family lived for somethne, but death came upon them, and his shafts flew quick. I'he father died first, then John, tlien the mother, and Alexander, who was left alone in this, to him, " bleak world," soon followed them to the grave ; and now they all rest in Abdie church -yard, where a chaste and l)eautiful monument tells who lie below. In the Spring of 1845, I spent a few days at Newburgh- During my stay, 1 was favoured by a friend with Mr Combie's deeply- interesting memoirs of Alexander. I had heard much of tlie llethunes before this ; but being in the locahty where they liad lived and died, and reading this ably compiled work, my in- terest in them was excited, and I had an ardent desire to see the I'uvial place of the brothers. Accordingly, I set out on a Sabbath t^vening to Abdie church-yard, and it was to me a dt^lightful I'vening — such a one, indeed, as memory " wili not willingly let die." I was cnclianted by all I heard and saw. The scenery agreeably surprised me. It was unlooked for. I did not think there was so much beauty in the locality so little talked of. .\round me by \hc hills, reposing in quiet grandeur, and before -1^1 \)l) me lay the Loch of Lindores, bovindt-il ontho n(»nii by tlH> hrn'i- tiful seat of Captam ^afterwards Admiral^ Muithmd, to whdiii Napoleon Bonaparte surrendered, off Koclifort, after the battle of W'aterloo, " which in the calm twilight of a summer's evenin;;, appears like the eye of nature, looking up to its Maker in t he- spirit of meek and quiet devotion." I arrived at Abdie clmrch- yard, and standing over the grave of departed genius, tlu' follow ins: verses were written. It' L Rest In peace, beloved brothers. — Rest in peace, oppress'il no more: Fame is yours which is no other's, Now that all life's tolls arc o'er. II. Bred *mld hardship, shame npoii lier ! Tho' she strove to keep you down, You have gained a name ot'lionoiir. Pirighter far than monarciis erowu. ir- r III. Toil'd from morning's sun till setting,- Students pale o'er glimm'ring lamp, Still harassed by fortune fretting, — Murder'd in a cottage damp. IV Told in your affecting stories, What was right and wlinl was wron-^; ■i: M i fii ' ' y n i J ■ i !; 100 When inspired by nature's glories, Then your souls burst forth in song. . It -I '* . 1 -4 •: A 1. "■■■ 1% ! ,i( rf-ii V. Both were peasants, proud, yet humble, To their lowly lot resigned : Neither at their fate did grumble — (xifted each with noble mind. VI. Both were one in fond affection — One in feeling — one in faith ; One, too, in their name's erection — One in life — and one in death. VII. Standing here, I am not weeping O'er their grave, now free from ills ; Buried here, serenely sleeping Mid auld Scotia's quiet hills. Standing here, I do not mourn O'er this lowly bed of thine, — Oh ! till death's eternal morn, May such bed of rest be mine . 101 IX. Here all lie ! tlie t'iiclier, mother, Silently arc sleeping here ; Here the younger, elder brotlier, Botli are stretched upon one bier. X. Be it so : they all resided In one eot on earth in h»ve ; And they were not long divided From the better land above. XL I'ilgrims liere, with bosoms .swelling. Vet may eome ; and tears may fall O'er the dark and narrow dwelling, Of two brothers — one in all. m P' ■Ml Xli. Ivest in peaee, beloved brothers — Rest in peace, oppress'd no more ; Fame is yom's which is no other",-. Now that all life's toils are o'er. ":i i It i h i J) 5 102 n 1 } ^ €11^ ISinii. I. I DiNNA like that dreary wind, It makes me dull and wae ; It gars me think upon the grave To which we a' maun gae. It brings me to the gates o' death, Wliar a' is dark and drear, — There's something in the howling wind I dinna like to hear. II. It brings to mind the tales I've read 0' mountain, moor, an' glen, Where solitary wanderers found Remains of murder'd men. I think upon the houseless poor Wha wander wet and cauld ; And sigh for a' the sufferings 0' the helpless, young, and auld. III. Hark I how that gust is howling, Oh, it makes my blood run chill ! Wliat a dreary sound gangs through the trees ! It's moaning o'er the hill. io:i Grim sprites arise, and lo ! mcthiuks Right merrily behind The charnel house they're dancing To the music of the wind. IV. Ye howling winds ! oh, spare the bark, On restless billows toss'd : And spare the worthy fiither Deem'd by friends for ever lost. And spare me a' the gloomy ^thoughts That make me shake wi' fear ; There something in the howling wind 1 dinna like to hear. I I „ I B trees ] t t i 1 ' i! i 1 !'. (' ]04 f rnlngtir, WHITTF-N ON THE OCCASION OF AN AMATKUll I'KJIFOKMANCK AT I)H. IlF.AIIlV.S .\(AI>FMV. ■ r ;( 1 i.|!V i ; 1'^ -1 ii. lit- Wflcome to Stony Knolls! ii lieiirty grtu^tiiij,' We give to all at this our joyful meeting. Not, it is true, the Jli^st, for there have been Sueh bright assemblies here before, I weeu. And judging from the glories of the past, I know not, friends, that this should be our last. Shakspeare has said, that " all the world'.s a stage ;" 'Tis said this is the saying of a sage. Full well we know 'tis true, but in this mart Of learning we have mostly played ov part. '' The school-boy, with his shining morning face,'' Plays here his part, — to him a serious case. Here, day by day, and week by week. Arc dull brains cudgelled over puzzling Greek ; Eutopius teases here, and Virgil vexes, Horace is horrible, — Euclid perplexes. Here British commerce, textile manufacture. Are themes on which we shew ourselves the actor. While sums and numbers, added to the sun\ Are themes on which our actors oft prove dumb ; And this truth is told in many a serious look, 1 or, m NCK 'I'liat " Latin made Easy/' is no easy book. Change is the law of Nature. Change has been Since first Creation's dawn beheld the queen Of earth, and women : — pardon, ladies all, I speak of Eve anterior to her fall. Since then, the great and everlasting sea Has sung its wild and endless melody. The beauteous flowers of summer yearly blow, Anon comes surly winter with his snow. Change rules the varied year ; the life of man And woman, too ! though bounded by a span. So, from the ills with which we have to fight. We wished to have a change, and so, " quite right," Exclaimed our actors all, and thus the ending Of this shrewd thought is what just now is pending. Thus have we left the gods of Greek and Rome, And for one night, at least, become the showman. Well, for our own amusement and yours, we Have chosen the Critic, which you soon will see ; The Spoiled Child, — by the way, offence to none, We hope that in our temple there's but one ; — And Monsieur Tonson, with his tricks and fun. With which the night's amusement will be done. Here great Macready will not tread the stage. Nor Vandenhoff the grand your time engage. Here G. V. Brooke, 'tis true, will not be seen. Nor Helen Faucit, Tragedy's Fair Queen. f!' J I. i !f 'I loi; 1^1 i'l.: \ :t 1 I Jut liore's Miss Beard, of whtun the Greek would say Her the gods love to honour and obey : Here's Kriens, to treat us to a (lernian ><»ng, He cannot chaunt too often and too long : Moses, with all his learning too, is here. To show his talent in another sphere. Here's David Salter playing the greatest part, Because most like to steal a lady's heart : Here's Edwin Smith, alias Socrates, Having at once the will and power to please : Here's Blackett, too, with all his fun and tricks. To act, as he himself would say, '' like bricks.'' These will be seen, with many more besides ; So, laughter, now prepare to hold your sides. We'll do our best — if high we cannot soar : — Macready or VandeuhofF could do no more. , _, -a i I- ii= SONGS. IV'ljiir nrr n' tjjr /ripnh. Air.—' O! why left I my liamo ?" 1' I. Oil I whur are a' tlie fiicmis I had ill oarly days, Wlia used to sport about The burnies and the liiacs ; Wha used to sport about, AVi" nu'Iklc nih'th and glee ; I ween they a" are fled i'^rae their ain roinitric. ) II. Tlie sangs they used to sing Are never heard ava ; Tlie viHage ne'er does ring Wi' the fife or bugle's blaw ;- It's true that some are laid Beneath yon auld yew tree : l^ut niaist o' them are fled Frae their ain countne. Hi ■ i I? ^' 1 ! i us i » ., i I' te. i}! I .1 v; _» fj 108 III. At kirk or market noo, We never meet them there ; It makes me wac to think I ne'er may see them mair. We ne'er assemble now Our village sports to see ; A's dull and lonely now In our ain countrie. IV. My friends are far awa', They're scattered here and there ; But, 0, for ane and a' I breathe this earnest prayer, — May God still be their guide. Wherever they may be, — May peace and rest be tliere's In anither countrie. 0)1; I Mt I'm InuT tjiB 15uimi[ tm. Aui — " Oh ! where, and oh, wlierc V Oh ! here lies low the bonny lass, The maiden tiiat I lo'e ; She lies within this narrow bed, Where 1 maun soon lie too ; )fl ■wwfw^w^^T'^r^^' ¥ 100 Dcatli's clay-caiild hand has still'd thii heart Tliat aye was kind and true ; The form o'er whicli I fondly hung Is slieltered by the yew. IT. The flowers bloom bonny o'er the l)ed 0" her that I held dear ; And dark, dark is the envious grave That keeps me mourning here. I've naebody noo to live for, And the warld's nought to mo ; Oh, life's a weary pilgrimage, My Mary, wanting thee. ni. Pale, pale, for ever are those lips That I hae aften kissed ; And cauld for ever arc those checks 'I'hat I hae aften pressed : And still for ever is thai voi'-f.. Once music to my ear ; I'liosc beaming eyt'.s that shone so hrigiit Are closed for ever licre. •1 1 i 1 1 IV. Oh ! may 1 kuow thr, blissful iiomc In which my h)ve duth dwell n r I! i'!i •!^ no In yon bright land where happy ones Tlich- holy anthems swell : VVliere saints for ever sing their songs To God who reigns on high, Where sorrow never more is known, Nov tears bedim the eye. V. Hut I am left alone on earthy My grief I cannot hide ; And I will ne'er find peace or rcht Till slumbering by her side ; Till then, my beating heart, be stilL Which now in sorrow lies, — Oh ! I maun soon be blest wi' her, Reyond yon sunny skies. tl>t]pn (Cljiukiiig iipuii iiin lati h\t i = h j: m t It V I Ant, — My lass's black c'e.' I. When thinking upon my sad fhte, vvi' my Annie. This bosom o' mine it is burdened wi' care ; riiere's something within tells me plain that 1 maiuiua Think I can get peace to my soul ony mair. ^n Kssmi ].n IL I tliink that there's nanc o' her kind hah" .sae b<»nny. There's nane o' her kind half sae bonny can be ; Her face it is fairer, far fairer than ony, Her form it seems like an angel's to mv. III. Sometimes in my fondness, when on her Tni tliinkinj;;, [ stand and look down wi' the tear in my e'e. I find ray wae heart in my bosom aye sinking. Then, start, quite regardless wherever I gae, IV, 1 start, but the wound in my bosom is biding — Ah ! meikle I fear it will ne'er gang awa' ; And though a' my grief frae my friends I am hiding. The cauld hand o' death will devour and tell a*- lill ml itll m StrW in dBrrrn. Ate, — " Gloomy Winter.' Hill and dell are decked in gretn,- Nature's a' in beauty seen ; Ilk thing delights my gazing ten ; And so does lovely Annie, 0. M J (I i r m ;1 til 1 :. • !' ;t f 'S 1 :■ . i i. i il IV, 1 1 1 ri2 11. By yon burn tlie daisies spring, On yon bower the birdies sing, They joy to every bosom bring, And sae does lovely Annie, 0. III. Wha could now be sad or wae, When nature a' is blythe and gay V 'Tis I, because I dinna hae The heart o' lovely Annie, 0. IV. I maun wander here and mourn,— 8he has slighted me wY scorn, And left me here alane forlorn,— My ain, lovely Annie, 0. V. What are nature's joys to me ? What her pleasures— wanting thee? Happy I can never be. Unless wi' lovely Annie, 0. VI. Will ye, bonny lass, be true ? Will ye listen to my vow? And I will ne'er be false to you, My ain, my lovely Annie, 0. 113 3 Mm 3Jlaiitt ttm niit ImI\\ Ml I. i NOW maun leave my lady fair : The wind blaws high — the boat is ready, The boat that fills my lieart wi' care, An' bears me trae my winsome hidy. Oh \ sare, sare is this waefu' heart, An' fain, fain would I langer tarry ; But fate has said that we maun \r<\TU An' I maun leave my bonny Mary. IT. I needna say her heart is true — I needna say she's fair and bonny : For maist folk think her matched by (ew, To me she's fairer far than oriy. I needna say our love will las^t Till baith our een are elo^^ed for ever : But ah ! I fear the joys now past Will never come again — oh, never 1 III. It's no her een, sae bonny blue,— It's no her check, sae red an' rosy, Thixt gars me greet to say adieu.— It's no her fond embrace, sae co-y.~ K 2 1 '^ M '<■ ■ ■ 1 <; i . . till I' ; H H ii 114 It's no that I regret to leave Tlie little cot in which she's dwelling,- It's no for fear that she'll deceive, — It's no for this my bosom's swelling. IV. But it's to leave her all alone, A lovely maiden unprotected ; Oh ! who will guard her when I'm gone- By me she ne'er wad be neglected. The Power aboon keeps watch and care 0' worth an' merit — He'll reward her. This aye will be my earnest prayer — May a' that's guid for ever guard her ! . i 1 :. I »:l! ■I : I I ': 1 '•.! i!?Binr tn {Huht JSiuhe, mt( limit I. Come to yonder bower, my lassie, Come to yonder bower wi' me.— ( 'Ome to yonder bower, my las.^ie. There I'll tell my love to thee. II. Down by yonder wood, my lassie, Blythly a' the birdies sing. And upon the burnie's banks, Roses fair an' lilies spring. I J 115 III. O'er the eastern hill, my lassie, Blythly blinks the rising sun ; Hark ! the birds aboon our heads, Morning s joys arc just begun. IV. Wliat were a' the joys, my lassie, That the smiling morn can gie,— What were a' the joys, my lassie, Nought, believe me, wanting tlice. ttHntfi' ligljte m €m\l Imt WiNTKK nights nrc cauhl, lassie, Winter niglits are cauld, lassie : Come, my love ! 0, come wi' me I AVhiU>, Boreas' blast is banld, lassie. TI. I've a couthic hame, laddie, I've a couthie hame, laddie ; I've my father's humble roof, Bxcept me he has nane, laddie. !!'■ ,1 Ifc. i t I, If IIG III. I'll keep liim trig an' braw, lassie, I'll keep him trig an' braw, lassie ; About your parents dinna fear, But wi' me come awa', lassie. IV. Gin summer time were here, laddie, Gin summer time were here, laddie, Tlien, tlien, I'll come wi' thee ; — Just gic me time to spcer, laddie. Ml ■H''-^ 1 canna bide my lane, lassie, I canna bide my lane, lassie, — ni speer, if ye'U but come wi' mc. An' ease my heart o' pain, lassie. I : I- <' VI. My pleadin's a' in vain, laddie. My pleadin's a' in vain, laddie ; Gae get the guid auld folk's consent, An' then ca' me you ain, laddie. II % &ml Mm ■■^mx to nut nii^ a". •-«« 1' ^Viu,— '• When silent time I. A GUii) New Year to ane and a, 0, mony may you see ! An' (luring a' tlic years tliat come, 0, happy may you be ! An' may you ne'er hae cause to mourn, To sigh or shed a tear ; — To ane an' a', baith great an' sma', A hearty guid New Year. II. 0, time flies fast, he winna wait, My friend, for you or me ; He works his wonders day by day, An' onward still doth flee. I wha can tell gin ilka ane I see sae happy here, Will meet again, an' merry be, Anither guid New Year. III. We twa hae baith been happy lang, We ran about the braes— In ae wee cot, beneath a tree, We spent our early days : H II li (■ " . t lis We ran about the burnie's side, The spot will aye be dear ; — An' those that used to nieet us there We'll think on many a year. IV. Now let us hope our years may be As guid as they hae been ; An' let us hope we ne'er may sec The sorrows we hae seen ; An' let us hope, that ane an' a — Our friends, baith far an' ncai — May aye enjoy, for time to come, A hearty guid New Year. 36nnni|, 3JniiDti mns tlu 3Knrn. AiB. — " Blythe, bljiihe, and merry was she." I. Bonny, bonny was the morn When we rose to rin awa' ; Phoebus did the hills adorn. Scarce a breeze o' wind did blaw. Anna rose and slipped near me, •'■ Johnny, Johnny, come," she cried, '' ! I'm feared the auld folk hear me : If they do, they'll gar us bide." w no II. 1 gal ready, kiss'd my dearie, We each ither's fear did feel : Bundled up our claes, and, eerie. Bade the guid auld folk farewecl. I had wrought and kept them canny, Wrought, I ween, for mony a year ; For my hire I wanted Anna, But o' thi« they wadna hear. III. Soon we left them — reached the halan" I a week before had ta'en ; (Jod sin' syne has blest our toilin', We sin' syne hae baith been ane. Soon the auld folk ceased to scorn, When our weel-doing ways they saw ; Aye sin syne 1 bless the morn, When we rose to rin awa'. <^\)t 351nBiuiug iBntljrr. I. Bonny is the blooming heather, Bonny is the blooming heather ; But it's bonnier still, I ween, When 'mangt twa lovers meet tliegether, 120 B {( 1 f t: * ' i I', i 'I' "i O, tlien it blooms sao fresh and fair, Then ilka thing around is bonny, When the lovely lass is there That wc lo'c mair dear than ony. II. Then tlie bleating lambs that ery, Make ilk thing seem blythe and chei-ry, When upon the breast we lie O' lier tli.at we ean ea' our dearie Honny is the blooming licatlier, Bonny is the blooming heatlier ; Hut dearest to the youthfu' heart, When 'mang't twa lovers meet thcgeth(!r, tin :U I €kt fnr^s nf life. ^ ^ i I. Oh ! why should mankind not be merry. As lang's they are todlin' here V Life at best is a terrible worry : But yet there's nae reason to fear, II. Man meets in wi' mony a iiardship, As life's weary vale he gangs throngli,- B)ut I've aye found a gate to get out al", And liope that I ever will do. 121 III. It's true that we a have <»nr sorrows. At least, for mysi'V, I've my share : Hut the trutli is, to h)ok rouud about mc. There's mony a mortal has mair. IV, Sad poverty presses the poor man. The rieh wiuna look to their state ; liut there's happiness whiles in the cottage, rukend to the mighty and j^neat. V. When this life is done, there's a prosiiect, A hope whieh all honest men have, — A glorious land we mav live iu When laid lowlv down in the grave. (!)lj! ftU liter is Co 111 r Auc.-— ■• Aulcl liob Moriis." I. Oh ! whiter is eomc, an' the eauhl blasts im.o blaw, The hills o' auld Seotland are covered wi" ^naw : My ain fate resembles ilk bush and ilk tree, For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. »« I I • ■■OTfa^'.. . HSU., iiu lai ibj«i«Pna||^B;;HH^gp mm^mfmmmi !| 122 I 1 1 1 ' ri. The spring may return, an' deck a' in green, Tlic hills and the vales may in beaut \ be seen ; Rut pleasure or peace they to me eanna gie, For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. III. Oh ! well may my head aye be stoundin' an' sair. An' well may my heart aye be beatin' wi' care. An' weel mav the tear trickle down frae my e'c, — For Anna, foir Anna ne'er smiles u})on mo. IV. Uut ! when T think that she yet may be mine, When a ray o' this hope in my bosom does shiiio. 1 ask not on earth niair pleasure to hae, Than Anna, fair Anna, to smile upon me. 1 'i M dlUul] of JHr 0111 prism. AiK,— " The Spinning o't.'' uh T. WOULD the wide warld beware o' the ioons, Wha practice sae aften the p;ulling o't, Wha conic frae Auld .Reekie an' ithcr big towns, Their pocke';s — they look to the filling o't. t 12.'} M i Those mountebank eallants. wha hastily lice Prae city to cIty--iVae Pertli and Dundee— And .swear tliat ye'll something astonisiiing see. If ye'll only put faith in their telling o't. II. There's constantly something to tak up our tune. Though a body has ever so little o't ; Some blundering scribblers pest us \vi' rhyme. lUit o' sense they schlom show meikle o't. The flying machine late engaged a our care. Which promised to bear us awa' through the air But noo the concern has blawn up, I fear, — High jiressurc has bursted the metal o't. III. MesuKM-ic riircnology now is the '>'o, A* body's begun to the trying o't ; if the ;cicnce progress in the same ratio. We'll no daur e'en think for the spyiug o't. It's advocates tell us their patients can see The folk in the moon at their toddy and tea, Or what's to tak place in the town of Dundee, There's fairlies, I wat. in the doing o't. IV. If any puir wight fruc his liame gtuu/s nwa'. And offers to show them the folly o't. The pltice that's no yucky he'll get it to claw, i !■ ■ 'I \'K...mmi9^m;w:r'^m>^^''f'Wf9^'i^''iKm!;fmmm mv^ .9 ,.: -J' I'if. 1 rl I" 124 As payment and tlianks for the telling o't. They'll .stand up and sw^.ar that they'll hear him no mt^rc, Tliey'll howl, and they'll hiss, and they'll rant, and they'll roar, Till the piiir t^Illy felloe is dra^j^'ed to tli!' door, — Right glad to escape frac the melling o't/^ V. 1 wonder, in nature, what will we liae next, — Now folk can be " done" by the willing o't : Teeth and legs can be drawn by the mesmeric onch E'en a heart may be had for the stealing; '^ For the mesmerists tell iis their patients can sec. The man o' the moon at his toddy and tea. Or what vail take place next year in Dundee. — There's fairl' s, I wat. in the doing o't. A .• '^' About this time, considerable excitement was occasioned by the visits of itinerant lecturers on niesmeriain. The poet was tlien ratlier sceptical on the subject ; but th . fact of stiff arni;^ and stifTer legs made him appear unsuccessful in tlie debates. Nothing daunted, he resolved to try a lecture in an adjoining town, situated on the braes of Angus ; and for this purpose u meeting was called, and the noveltj^of the lecture drew together a large assemblage. The lecture was begun, and a goodly number of the disciples of Mcsmer were presei. When they saw that the orator was on the negative, a noisy warfare ensued ; which resulted in the lecturer having to beat a speedy retreat. It may here be remarked, that a. relative of the author's is preacli- ing and lecturing in the same place, with greater success, (>}'. }jigher subjects, t.> an intelligent Christian congregation. 125 t. r hiin n«i 'ant. and I i i 1 1 r C ii i U r ni. ot: I ■■'*• 111 see. Um>.— easioneii by lie poet was if stiff arms the ilebrttes. in adjoiaing s purpose i. •ew together id a goodly When thev fare ensued ; eedy retreat, f's is preacti- suecess, '^ ition. l.iTTLi: Cliildrcn make me glad. Though my very sold be sad ; Laiigliing in their sport and gh'c, Climbing up upon my knee : Running round about my chair. With their hearts sae free frae care, Phiying wi' joy at hide-and-seek, Out and in they merrily keek ; And their half pronounced names Tend to cheer our humble hames. \yhilc we soothe them wi' a sang, Winter nights ar*' never hing : While they prattle by our side, Cheerful is our clean fireside ; — They to bless mankind were given,- Home wi' them's a little heaven. J. DURHAM, J'RINTEn, DUNDEE. i