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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN.
 
 THE 
 
 MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN; 
 
 OB A GLANCE AT 
 
 iar Iptitl loeteB aii^ |oets 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 REIGN OF QUEEN ELIZABETH TO THE PRESENT TIME, 
 
 INCLUDING A 
 
 DISSERTATION 
 
 ON THE 
 
 GENIUS AND LYRICS OF BURNS. 
 
 BY HENRY HEAVISIBES, 
 
 Antlinv of the " Pleasures of Homo." 
 
 STOCKTON : 
 PBTNTKD r,Y HENRY HEAVISIDES. 
 
 1860.
 
 3'SH 
 n 357n, 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN KEED APPLETON, F. S. A., 
 
 WESTERN HILL, DURHAM, 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 WITH THE WARMEST FEELINGS OF ESTEEM, 
 JBY HIS SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 S57844
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The greater portion of the contents of this work 
 was delivered some time since by the author in the 
 form of lectures — and though he then stood in a new 
 jiosition as a public lecturer, yet he is proud to say, 
 that they were listened to with marked attention by 
 large auditories. Having frequently been solicited 
 to publish the lectures, he has lately re -written them, 
 with the addition of much new matter ; and now, 
 more suitably arranged for publication, he respect- 
 fully presents the produce of his efforts to the public, 
 humbly hoping; that the volume will be found worthy 
 of perusal — and, in many respects, an appropriate 
 companion to the third edition of his " Pleasures of 
 Home." 
 
 Stockton, Aug. 3rd, 1860.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 OUR LYRICAL POETRY AND POETS. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The jwwer of Lyrical Poetry — the Elizabethan age — 
 
 Shakqiere, Carew, Jonson, dc = 9 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 Eciyn of Charles II — a decline in literary taste — the 
 
 Commonwealth — Milton and Dryden 15 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 The Reigns of William III, Queen Anne, and George I — 
 Pope, Gray, Collins, Allan Ramsay, and Lady 
 Anne Barnard 95 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 The age of Dibdiri — his patriotic and sea songs — tJie 
 effect they had on our seamen — Burns, his won- 
 derfiil powers as a lyrist 30 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 The beginning of the 19i/i century — the galaxy of poets 
 then — anecdotes of Campbell — the lyrics of Eliza 
 Cooke and Mackay 37
 
 Vlll 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The vitiated taste of the present age for Cockney songs — 
 their vulgarity — the negro melodies — the lyrics of 
 Tennyson, Gerald Massey, dc. — Conclusion 46 
 
 THE GENIUS AND LYRICS OP BURNS. 
 
 Chapter VII. 
 Introductory Remarks 63 
 
 Chapter VIII. 
 Burns as the poet of the Beautiful 66 
 
 Chapter IX. 
 Burns as the poet of the Humorous and the Social 79 
 
 Chapter X. 
 The Influence of Woman on Burns as a jmet 89 
 
 Chapter XI. 
 On the Nationality and Indeiwndence of Burns 98 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 Concluding Remarks 104
 
 §nx Jgrital |oeti'j ani> ^oet$. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The 2>oiver of Lyrical poetry — the Elizabethan age — 
 Shakspere, Carew, Jonson, dec. 
 
 It is generally acknowledged by those best ac- 
 quainted with the subject, that Lyrical Poetry has 
 more power over the human heart than any other 
 species of poetical literature. The lyre had its origin 
 in remote ages, when the bards or minstrels of old, 
 by the light of their own inspiration, sang of passing 
 events or the heroic achievements of warriors, and 
 thus, at the same time, gave birth both to Poetry and 
 Music. 
 
 At a more advanced peripd, when " burning Sap- 
 pho loved and sung," and when Pindar and Anacreon 
 composed their inimitable odes, such effusions were 
 generally sung and accompanied by the lyre, a musi- 
 cal instrument much in vogue at that time in Greece, 
 and from the name of which instrument the poetry now 
 denominated Lyrical owes its present appellation. 
 Since that distant age our lyrical literature has been 
 enriched by the best poets with the sweetest poetic 
 strains, so pure in diction, so just in sentiment, and 
 
 B
 
 10 THE MINSTEELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 SO truthful to Nature that outliving even the pyra- 
 mids and the most enduring marble monuments they 
 will be valued and admired as long as there are hu- 
 man hearts to feel their power and appreciate their 
 beauty. 
 
 The Lyiic is undoubtedly the purest and highest 
 order of Poetry. It requires the most exalted genius 
 to excel in it. While the jiroductions of the Epic 
 Muse have sprung into existence and soon been no 
 more, we see the rich parterre of her lyric sister still 
 glowing with the choicest flowers of Poesy, blooming 
 in perennial beauty, ever fresh and ever fair! How 
 are we to account for this ? The reason is obvious. 
 The effusions of the latter Muse sj)eak to the heart in 
 the simple language of Truth and with all the force 
 of musical expression. When energetic, how trumpet 
 tongued are her strains— when plaintive, how touch- 
 ing and tender— and when, like aserajihfrom heaven, 
 she strikes her divine harp to Love, how beautiful, 
 how exquisitely she gives utterance to " thoughts that 
 breathe and words that burn !" 
 
 One of our most jDopular writers, when speaking 
 on this subject, says, " The world must become pro- 
 saic indeed, our railways, our other mechanical tri- 
 umphs, and our joolitical economy, must produce the 
 worst effects foretold by our darkest prophets before 
 the genuine lyric — the Song — will lose its hold on 
 the human heart. It is the genuine offspring of the 
 heart, and therefore it will never be forgotten." The 
 truth of these observations is established by facts that 
 cannot be well contradicted. " Give me the making 
 of the national ballads," said an illustrious statesman,
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 1 1 
 
 "and I care not who makes the laws." In this 
 utilitarian age many will think this remark extremely 
 foolish and extravagant. Those who think so, how- 
 ever, are generally aj)t to consider even the best Poetry 
 as mere nonsense, and all the time dedicated to Music 
 as time idly wasted, and which might be better and 
 more profitably spent. Bat those who have paid more 
 attention to this subject — who have deeply felt in 
 their hearts the j)otent, inexpressible power of "im- 
 mortal verse married to immortal song" — those who 
 have deeply felt this power, will at once acknowledge 
 there is more justness, more wisdom, and more truth 
 in the emphatic words just quoted than some are 
 aware of or others are disposed to admit. 
 
 Innumerable instances, both from ancient and 
 modern history, might here be cited to prove what 
 we have advanced ; but two or three of a modern 
 date must suj6S.ce. It is a well-known fact, that the 
 bands of the Swiss regiments were strictly forbidden 
 to play the "Eanz des Vasches," as this national air 
 brought to their recollection the hapjjy scenes of 
 Home, with all its endearing associations, and thus 
 with a strong impulse they wished to return to their 
 native country. What, during the latter part of the 
 last century, so much contributed to hurl the Bour- 
 bons from the throne of France ? The Marseilles 
 Hymn. What greatly accelerated in that kingdom 
 the downfall of the unfortunate Louis Philip ? The 
 spirit of Liberty burning in that hymn like a volcanic 
 fire. What contributed to quell the mutiny of the 
 Nore, and induced our disafiected seamen to return to 
 a state of subordination ? The naval songs of Dib-
 
 12 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 din, which so j)owerfully tended, during our war with 
 France, to rouse our "ocean warriors" to the high- 
 est pitch of patriotic daring and enthusiasm. Inspired 
 too by the shrill tones of the bagpipe how frequently 
 have our highland regiments fought and conquered. 
 And as one of our writers has said, " Who knows 
 how much of loyalty might have remained unexcited 
 if the music of the national anthem had not been so 
 magnificent, and the air of "Eule Britannia" had 
 had not been so inspiriting ?" 
 
 Such is the power of the Lyric, which is certainly 
 the most delightful species of our poetic literature. 
 But the Lyric Muse instructs as well as delights. In 
 the most captivating style she brings before us the 
 pure and the beautiful, both in the natural and the 
 moral world. Alike in the lowly cot and the stately 
 hall — alike in the home circle as at the social 
 board — she brings " to our business and bosoms" 
 thoughts and feelings "too deep for tears." Where- 
 ever we move and have our being she displays to us 
 all the realities of life, and thus shews us " the image 
 of man and of nature," which is the very essence, 
 the very soul of Poetry, emphatically denominated 
 by Wordsworth, as the first and last of all knowledge, 
 as it is the language of the heart. 
 
 We shall now dismiss this part of our subject and 
 proceed to give a passing glance at the productions 
 of our most popular lyrists from the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth to the present time, and in doing this we 
 shall endeavour to shew the wide diflerence that exists 
 between a pure and a vitiated taste for metrical com- 
 positions, especially such as have been set to music.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 13 
 
 The reign of Elizabeth has justly been termed the 
 golden age of English poetic literature, for it was the 
 age of ShakesiJeare, the great exponent of human 
 nature, the intellectual Titan, who "piles up his 
 magnificent thoughts, Olympus high, grasps the 
 lightnings of creative Jove, and speaks the words 
 that call spirits and mortals and worlds into existence." 
 It was the age of Beaumont and Fletcher, the Siamese 
 twins in dramatic literature, whose lyrics are so 
 sweet in versification and so highly polished that 
 even at the present day they might pass for modern 
 productions. It was the age of Massinger, and 
 Spencer, and Jonson — " rare Ben Jonson" — the 
 minor poets at that period being George Wither, 
 Drummond, Browne, Carew, Herrick, and others, 
 whose lyrics for elegance of diction and originality of 
 thought can scarcely be surpassed. These were the 
 mighty master spirits of that glorious age, who formed 
 the brightest galaxy of poetic genius that ever shed 
 lustre on the literary hemisj^here. "They being 
 dead yet speaketh." Though their mortal i^emains 
 have long laid mouldering in the tomb, yet their words, 
 their thoughts, stamped with the impress of immor- 
 tality, will live and breathe to the " last syllable of 
 recorded Time." 
 
 The lyrics of Shakespeare are still sung in his un- 
 rivalled dramatic works, the music to Macbeth being 
 composed by John Locke, who flourished in the 17th 
 century, and the music to the songs in the " Tempest" 
 and "As you like it," being the joint production of 
 Dr. Bull and Dr. Arne, who lived in the same age. 
 That some idea may be formed of the sweet songs
 
 14 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 of the Elizabethan era, we shall now give two speci- 
 mens of them, our limits not allowing us to give 
 more. The first, as follows, is by Thomas Carew : — 
 
 " He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 
 Or a coral lip admires, 
 Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain its fires, 
 As old Time makes these decay 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and stedfast mind, 
 Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined 
 Kindle never-dying fires ; 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes." 
 
 The next specimen is the song entitled "Drink to 
 me only with thine eyes." This song is from the 
 pen of Ben Jonson. It has long floated on the stream 
 of jDopularity, and still continues a favorite in the 
 musical world. 
 
 Illustration. 
 
 DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES. 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes 
 
 And I will pledge with mine. 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from my soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine. 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath 
 
 Not so much honourina: thee 
 Asgivmg it a hope, that there 
 
 It would not withered be ;
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OE BRITAIN. 15 
 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
 
 And sent it back to me ; 
 Since then it grows and smells, I swear. 
 
 Not of itself but thee. 
 
 This song and the one previously quoted were 
 composed nearly 300 years ago, yet how musi- 
 cally, how sweetly they flow ! They will bear compar- 
 ison with the best songs of the present day, and 
 present a refreshing contrast to the numberless insi- 
 pid compositions which have lately been set to music. 
 
 It is not known who is thecomposer of the beauti- 
 ful air adapted to the last song, " Drink to me only 
 with thine eyes." It must have been composed, how- 
 ever, many years after the reign of Elizabeth, as it is 
 said there is not a scrap now extant of the original 
 music to the lyrics of that period. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Keiyn of Charles II. — a decline in literary taste — 
 the Commomvealth — Milton and Dry den. 
 
 Though rather tinctured with a quaintness of ex- 
 pression peculiar to that age, yet the lyrical poetry 
 of the Elizabethan era, was so extremely original in 
 thought and so truthful in feeling, uniting Doric 
 simplicity with vigour of diction, that the songs then 
 composed might have stood as models for future 
 lyrists. But not so : — a decline in literary taste be- 
 gan in the reign of Charles the second, and the taste for 
 such sweet compositions as those of Cavew, Browne,
 
 16 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Suckling, Herrick, and others, was at once superseded 
 by a strange and unnatural mania for Pastoral Love 
 ditties and Bacchanalian drinking songs. The in- 
 sipidity of the one could only be equalled by the vul- 
 garity of the other. In the amatory effusions just 
 alluded to there is no truth, no nature, no genuine 
 feeling. A perusal of them leads one to imagine, that 
 in by-gone days the length and breadth of old England 
 was swarming with love-sick shepherds and shep- 
 herdesses, who, like amorous turtle doves, had nothing 
 else to do but bill and coo amid arcadian scenes 
 where murmuring streams eternally meandered 
 through flowery meeds and myrtle groves. 
 
 A writer on this subject says, that " Corydonthen 
 wept among his flocks because Chloe or Phcebe was 
 cruel, and Chole called upon echo to repeat the name 
 of Corydon, the falsest of shepherds and of men." 
 hopeless, unrequited Love ! thou relentless breaker 
 of human hearts ! were all true that babbling poets 
 tell us of the shepherdesses of that puling age, how 
 terrible must be thy power ! 
 
 We have now in our possession upwards of one 
 hundred songs, set to music, which were highly popu- 
 lar in the middle of the last century. We shall 
 make two or three extracts from them merely to shew 
 the depraved taste for ballad writing at that period. 
 The first song to which we call attention is entitled 
 "The Shepherd's Complaint," and it concludes thus : 
 
 '^ To Nanny's poultry oats I gave, 
 I'm sure I always had the best, 
 Within this week her pigeons have 
 Eat tip a peck of peas at least ;
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 17 
 
 Her little pigeons kiss, but she 
 Would never take a kiss from me. 
 
 Must Robin always Nanny woo, 
 And Nanny still on Robin frown ? 
 
 Alas ! poor wretch, what shall I do 
 If Nanny does not love me soon ? 
 
 If no relief to me she'll bring 
 
 I'll hang me in her apron string." 
 
 The next song, called " The Despairing Shepherd," 
 represents a love-lorn swain bewailing his hai"d fate 
 to his brother shepherds circled round him. In tears 
 he informs them that his cruel Chloe has deserted 
 him for another, and then he sighs and sighs again, 
 while his brother shepherds in sympathetic concert, 
 return sigh for sigh, till at last he ceases his melan- 
 choly plaint in the following words : — 
 
 " But, oh ! one more deserving 
 
 Has thaw'd her frozen breast. 
 Her heart to him devoting 
 
 She's cold to all the rest. 
 Their love with joy abounding, 
 
 The thought disturbs my brain, 
 cruel maid, then swooning, 
 
 He fell upon the plain !" 
 
 Alas, poor shepherd ! the bare recital of his woes 
 was too much for him, so he swooned, and fell upon 
 the plain, a victim, no doubt, to unrequited love. 
 
 Another despairing swain in a situation similar to 
 the last, after complaining of his Celia's cruelty, thus 
 ends his piteous plaint : — 
 
 c
 
 18 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 *' But Celia, when this conquest's won, 
 
 And I am gone and cold ; 
 Renounce the cruel deed you've done, 
 
 Nor glory when 'tis told ; 
 For every lovely generous maid 
 
 Will take my injured part. 
 And curse thee, Celia, I'm afraid, 
 
 For breaking my poor heart!" 
 
 These extracts sufficiently' shew the character of 
 the lack-a-daisical love effusions, which, with a host of 
 vile Bacchanalian songs, equally as silly, were quite 
 the rage for nearly two centuries, and were certainly 
 a disgrace to the literature of that period. The fact 
 is, the race of lyrists by whom they were composed 
 sang not from their hearts. They sang of Love indeed, 
 but not with the passionate warmth and truth of 
 Sappho and Petrarch — they sang in praise of wine, 
 but not with the elegance and sparkling wit of 
 Anacreon, and therefore it is matter of astonishment, 
 at the present day, how productions so vapid could 
 have retained so long a hold on the public mind. 
 
 In comparison with the silly effusions we have 
 just alluded to, how full of purity and truthfulness 
 and beauty appears the following pastoral production, 
 by Cunningham, a sweet pastoral poet and comedian, 
 who played several seasons at the Stockton theatre, 
 and who died at Newcastle during the latter part of 
 the last century.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 19 
 
 lUuslration. 
 
 WHEN THE ROSY MORN APPEARING. 
 
 When the rosy morn appearing 
 Paints with gold the verdant lawn, 
 
 Bees, on banks of thyme disporting, 
 Sip the sweets and hail the dawn. 
 
 Warbling birds, the day proclaiming, 
 
 Carol sweet the lively strain. 
 They forsake their leafy dwelling 
 
 To secure the golden grain. 
 
 See, content, the humble gleaner. 
 
 Take the scatter'd ears that fall, 
 Nature, all her children viewing, 
 
 Kindly bounteous cares for all. 
 
 The music to these verses was composed by Shield. 
 It is considered extremely beautiful, and when sung 
 by the reapers in the opening scene of the opera of 
 Rosina, where it is introduced, a more pleasing pic- 
 ture of rustic felicity cannot be imagined. Shield 
 was born near North Shields, and though appren- 
 ticed to a boat-builder at that place, he afterwards rose 
 by his musical genius to be the finest and most 
 original composer, except Purcell, that this country 
 ever produced. Most of the songs connected with 
 his imperishable music are still sung and much 
 appreciated. 
 
 We return now to the drinking songs of the last 
 century, to which we have previously alluded. It is
 
 20 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 pleasing to remark, that the taste for songs of this des- 
 cription has been gradually declining for some time 
 l^ast. This speaks well for the growing intelligence 
 of the age, as such songs are generally of a senseless 
 description, and have a strong tendency to debase the 
 man. 
 
 A sensible writer, Hugh Kelly, says, in a work 
 published some years ago, "There is nothing at 
 which I am more offended than the unpardonable 
 vein of ignorance and brutality so generally intro- 
 duced in our drinking songs ; nor any thing, in my 
 opinion, which shews a greater reflection upon the 
 understanding of a sensible socieiy." It has justly 
 been observed by another writer, that " every natiori 
 in proportion as it is civilized has abolished intem- 
 perance in wine, and consequently must be bar- 
 barous as it is addicted to excess. We are apt to 
 place good fellowship in riot; and have but too 
 natural a promjDtitude in imagining that the happi- 
 ness of an evening is promoted by an extravagant 
 circulation of the glass ; hence are the songs of festi- 
 vity fraught with continual encomiums on the plea- 
 sure of intoxication, and the whole tribe of Baccha- 
 nalian lyrics telling us how wonderfully sensible it is 
 to destroy our senses, and that nothing can be more 
 rational in a human creature than to drink till he 
 has not left himself a glimmer of reason at all." 
 
 As we have given two or three extracts from Pas- 
 toral Love Songs we shall now quote from two 
 Bacchanalian songs, which may be considered as fair 
 specimens of the rest. The first, entitled " Fill each
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 21 
 
 Bowl," begins with the following strange and ludi- 
 crous stanza : — 
 
 " Fill each bowl with flowing measure. 
 Till it sparkles o'er the brim. 
 The grave of Care and spring of Pleasure 
 Is when the brains in nectar swim." 
 
 We are here told that the spring of Pleasure is 
 " when the brains in nectar swim !" Wliat a beauti- 
 ful idea for a poet ! The other song we shall quote 
 from was long a favorite with the votaries of Bacchus. 
 The former is entitled " Fill each bowl," but the 
 title of this is, " Fill me a bowl." It is rather odd, 
 but so it is, that most of our drinking songs com- 
 mence with filling the bowl, which is generally the 
 first idea they develop. The following is the first 
 verse of the song alluded to : — 
 
 " Fill me a bowl — a mighty bowl — 
 Large as my capacious soul — 
 Vast as my thirst is, let it have 
 Depth enough to be my grave ! 
 I mean the grave of all my care. 
 For I design to bury't there." 
 
 It would be idle to criticise this verse — but the 
 song with which it commences maybe considered as a 
 true representative of most of our drinking songs, 
 which, in general, express only two ideas. The first, 
 which is the most important, is to fill the bowl to the 
 brim, and the other, as a matter of course, is to drink 
 and drown all care and sorrow, and he that is the 
 the first to fall, why, " Down among the dead men 
 let him lie."
 
 22 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 A refrain to one of the popular drinking songs of 
 the last century runs thus : — 
 
 " And this is law I will maintain 
 
 Till wine shall wash me away, Sir, 
 That whatsoever king shall reign 
 
 I'll drink my gallon a day, Sir." 
 
 By this refrain we may imagine that in the last 
 century both loyalty and drinking were in the ascen- 
 dant, as the measure of a man's loyalty then seems 
 to have been one gallon of wine per day, no matter 
 what king I'eigned. 
 
 Though the period of which we have been speak- 
 ing shewed so much depravity in the national taste 
 for metrical compositions, yet about that time an im- 
 mortal bard arose, whose " soul was like a star, and 
 dwelt apart," and whose exalted genius shed a new 
 and radiant light on our poetic literature. We allude 
 to Milton, who has no superior save Shakspere, and 
 whose lyrics are considered the best in our language. 
 Alike musician and poet, with a mind irradiated by 
 beatific visions, the nicety of his ear is evident in all 
 his works, especially in the masque of Comus and 
 some of his minor productions, which breathe the 
 very soul of harmony. 
 
 Soon after Milton struck his divine harp another 
 luminary burst upon the literary world. This bright 
 star was Dryden, "glorious John Dryden," whose 
 vigorous verse flows from the " well of English un- 
 defiled," and whose St. Cecilia and Alexander's 
 Feast are of themselves sufiicient to hand down his 
 name to future generations. With their transcendant
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 23 
 
 genius, however, it is said that neither of these distin- 
 guished poets experienced happiness in the conjugal 
 state. It is recorded that Dryden very much disliked 
 his wife, and that one day while in his study, poring 
 over his manuscripts, she happened to enter. The 
 poet taking no notice of her, she naturally felt piqued, 
 and said to him, " I wish I were a book and then you 
 would pay me more attention." Dryden immediately 
 answered, "I would like youthen to be an almanack, 
 and then I could change you at the end of the year." 
 
 Though Milton and Dryden both flourished during 
 the Commonwealth, a period when ascetic puritanism 
 endeavoured to nip every blossom of Poesy in the 
 bud ; yet some of the songs they then introduced, set 
 to music by Purcell and Arne, have survived two cen- 
 tm'ies, and are still occasionally sung and admired 
 in circles were a taste prevails for enjoying, to use a 
 beautiful idea of Tennyson's, " perfect music linked 
 to noble words." 
 
 Dryden died in 170], and from his songs we 
 select the following : — 
 
 Ulnstratiott. 
 
 FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG. 
 
 Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize 
 Reserv'd for your victorious eyes : 
 From crowds, whom at your feet you see, 
 Oh, pity and distinguish me ! 
 As I from thousand beauties more 
 Distinguish you, and only you adore.
 
 24 THE MINSTRELSY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Your face for conquest was design'd ; 
 Your every motion charms my mind ; 
 Angels, when you your silence break, 
 Forget their hymns to hear you speak ; 
 But when at once they hear and view, 
 Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you. 
 
 No graces can your form improve. 
 But all are lost unless you love ; 
 While that sweet passion you disdain. 
 Your veil and beauty are in vain : 
 In pity then prevent my fate, 
 For after dying all reprieve's too late. 
 
 The music to this song is by Purcell, who is styled 
 the father of our national Ballad music. One of our 
 writers in praise of this eminent composer, states, 
 that " during the brief span of his existence, which 
 extended only to seven and thirty years, he produced 
 a large body of dramatic music, which remains to 
 this day unrivalled in England, and not surpassed in 
 any other country." It is rather remarkable that 
 Bellini, Burns, Byron, RafFaelle, and many other 
 gifted individuals died at the age of thirty- seven — 
 an age which has always been considered extremely 
 fatal to the gifted possessors of exalted gejiius.
 
 THE MINSTRELS!' OF BRITAIN. 25 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 The reigns of Williain III, Queen Anne, and George 
 1st — Pope, Gay, Gray, Collins, Allan Ram- 
 say, and Lady Anne Barnard. 
 
 The period comprising the reigns of William III, 
 Queen Anne, and George I. has been termed the 
 Augustan era of English literature. This period was 
 distinguished for the wits and poets that then shed 
 so bright a lustre on the republic of letters. At the 
 head of these poets stood Alexander Pope, whose 
 biting satire and didactic verse display the vigour of 
 his poetic genius. Like Swift, however, his contem- 
 porary, he possessed neither the Doric simplicity nor 
 the magnificent imagination necessary for the compo- 
 sition of the true lyric. The only one in the circle of 
 wits .and poets at that time pre-eminently gifted as a 
 lyrical writer, and in any way calculated to excel as 
 one, was Gay, 
 
 " Of manners gentle, of affections mild. 
 In wit a man, simplicity a child." 
 
 This poet was the first that attempted to improve 
 the then prevalent taste for mock affectation in Love 
 pastorals. He wrote a large number of songs ; but 
 the whole of them have sunk into oblivion, except 
 the lively effusion of " Cease your Funning," the pa- 
 thetic ballad of " Black-eyed Susan," and a few more 
 
 D
 
 2Q THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN, 
 
 pieces possessing similar poetic merit, and which still 
 retain their position as admirable English ballads 
 both as regards the words and the music. 
 
 Illustration. 
 
 BLACK-EYED SUSAN. 
 
 All iu the Downs the fleet was moor'd, 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 
 When black -eyed Susan came on board, 
 where shall I my true love find ? 
 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, 
 
 If my sweet William sails among your crew ?' 
 
 AVilliam, who high upon the yard, 
 
 Rock'd by the billows to and fro, 
 Soon as the well-known voice he heard, 
 
 He sighed and cast his eyes below. 
 The cord flew swiftly through his glowing hands. 
 And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 
 
 " Susan, Susan, lovely dear. 
 
 My vows shall always true remain. 
 Let me kiss oflp that falling tear, 
 
 We only part to meet again ; 
 Change as ye list, ye winds, my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 Believe not what the landsmen say. 
 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 
 
 They tell thee sailors, when away. 
 In every port a mistress find ; 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee s». 
 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go."
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 'ZH 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word, 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 
 No longer she must stay on board, — 
 
 They kiss'd, she sighed, he hung his head : 
 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, 
 
 " Adieu !" she cried, and waved her lily hand. 
 
 The music to this ballad is beautiful. It was 
 arranged by Leveridge, from an old English melody. 
 The late Douglas Jerrold, no doubt, was indebted to 
 this song for the idea of his popular drama of " Black- 
 eyed Susan," which so much contributed to establish 
 his fame as a dramatic writer. 
 
 In taking a hasty glance at the lyrists of Britain 
 since the Elizabethan era we cannot pass unnoticed 
 those highly-gifted poets. Gray and Collins. Neither 
 of these favorite sons of Apollo wrote much, but the 
 little they did write was written well. By their incom- 
 parable odes they have obtained permanent niches in 
 the temple of Fame, and abounding as these odes do, 
 with natural sentiments and splendid imagery, clothed 
 in all the elegance of classical language, they can 
 never fail to charm those who have a taste for lyrical 
 compositions of the highest order. 
 
 With none of the sublimity and lofty imagination 
 so conspicuous in the odes of Gray and Collins ; but 
 in strains simple, yet touching and truthful, the old 
 Scotch bard, Allan Ramsay, about this period, attuned 
 his harp to sing of rural life and scenes. As a true 
 and faithful delineator of Scottish manners in hum- 
 ble life he has no superior. His effusions contain
 
 28 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 none of those forced conceits and puling sentimentality 
 which disgraced most of the ballads then produced. 
 His shepherds and shepherdesses, therefore, are not 
 described as love-sick creatures whimpering, and 
 whining, and sighing, and howling, amid Arcadian 
 scenes that never had existence ; but, Shakspere-like, 
 he paints nature with the pencil of Truth, and thus, 
 warm and genuine from the heart, his characters 
 invariably develop, with poetic beauty, the natural and 
 unaffected feelings of the human breast. His " Gentle 
 Shepherd" is allowed to be the finest pastoral drama 
 in the world, and as a lyrist, the forerunner of Mac- 
 neil, Ferguson, Burns, and Tannahill, he may justly 
 be considered the father of Scottish song, and the 
 founder of that general taste for ballad poetry in 
 Scotland which has so long characterised that country. 
 
 About the year 1771, two of the most beautiful 
 ballads ever composed made their appearance. These 
 sterling productions are the " Flowers of the Forest" 
 and " Auld Robin Gray." The former effusion, be- 
 wailing the losses sustained by the Scotch at the bat- 
 tle of Flodden, was composed by Miss Jane Elliott, 
 sister to Sir Gilbert Elliott, of Minto, and the authoress 
 of the latter is Lady Anne Barnard, who set it to an old 
 Scotch air, so plaintive and so touching, that it is 
 hard to say, whether the music or the verses possess 
 the greatest beauty. 
 
 It is rather singular that the fair composer of this 
 charming ballad kept the authorship of it a profound 
 secret for the long space of fifty years. In 1823, how- 
 ever, only two years before her death, she acknow- 
 
 II
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 2^ 
 
 ledged the composition of it in a letter to Sir Walter 
 Scott. 
 
 The ballad of "Auld Kobin Gray" displays 
 much genuine feeling and extreme tenderness, ex- 
 pressed in language so natural and appropriate, that 
 it will ever retain its position in the musical world as 
 a very superior production. 
 
 How beautifully this effusion commences with the 
 following verse : — 
 
 " When the sheep are in the fauld and a' the kye at hame, 
 And a' the iveary world to sleep are gane. 
 The waes o' my heart fall in showers from my e'e, 
 While my gude man sleeps sound by me." 
 
 And then when it is told that the father of " Jennie" 
 " could nae wark," and her " mither could nae spin," 
 and for the sake of getting a livelihood they both en- 
 deavour to prevail upon her to marry " Auld Rob," 
 how hajDpily conceived is the following couplet : — 
 
 " My faither urged me sair, my mither did nae speak, 
 But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break!" 
 
 Nothing can be more natural and touching than 
 the last line of this couplet. But every verse of 
 this sweet composition contains sentiments, though 
 simply expressed, which are full of poetic feeling and 
 beauty.
 
 •iO THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 The age of Dibdin — his patriotic and sea songs — the 
 effect they had on our seamen — Burns, his 
 wonderful powers as a lyrist. 
 
 It has previously been remarked, that the per- 
 verted taste for Pastoral love ditties began to be pre- 
 valent so far back as the reign of Charles II. This 
 taste, strange to say, continued, more or less, until 
 the latter part of the last century, when it gradually 
 declined as the naval and other songs of Charles 
 Dibdin became popular. 
 
 Though this prolific song writer was the author of 
 much trash, yet his best compositions shew that he 
 was not deficient either in poetic or musical genius. 
 His songs amount to 1260 in number. The most 
 popular of them, no doubt, owed much of their extra- 
 ordinary popularity to the strong patriotic feeling 
 that existed in every British bosom during the threa- 
 tened invasion of this country by Napoleon I. Pro- 
 duced at this memorable period, they mostly eulogised 
 the dauntless heroism of our British tars, or con- 
 tained threats to give the French a good drubbing 
 if they dared to land upon our coast. These senti- 
 ments were congenial then to the warlike feelings 
 of John Bull, who, at that time, firmly believed in 
 his own heart that one Englishman, fed on roast beef, 
 was more than a match for five Frenchmen living 
 on frog soup.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 3l 
 
 Dibdin is generally acknowledged as a clever 
 writer ; but, we must say, that a great number of his 
 effusions cannot but be considered as pernicious in 
 their tendency. They abound with false sentiments 
 which inculcate improvident and intemperate habits 
 in the British sailor, and thus urge him to squander 
 away his money, to be reckless, and thoughtless, and 
 "laughing in Care's face," to drink grog as the sum- 
 mit of all earthly enjoyments. 
 
 To shew the very extravagant extent to which 
 the drinking songs at that period went the following 
 laughable effusion of Dibdin's in praise of grog is 
 presented : — 
 
 IllustraJion. 
 
 THERE'S NOTHING LIKE GROG. 
 
 A plague on these mvistj old lubbers 
 
 Who tell us to fast and to think, 
 And patient fall in with life's rubbers 
 With nothing but water to drink ; 
 A can of good stuff had they swigged it 
 'Tvvould have set them for pleasure agog, 
 And in spite of the rules 
 Of tlie schools 
 The old fools 
 Would all of them swigged it, 
 And swore there was nothing like grog. 
 
 My father when last I from Guinea 
 Returned with abundance of wealth, 
 
 Cried, " Jack, never bo such a ninny 
 
 To drink"— said I, " Father, your health!"
 
 32 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 So I shew'd him the stuff and he twigged it, 
 And it set the old codger agog, 
 
 And he swigged it and mother. 
 
 And sister and brother, 
 And I swigged and all of us swigged it. 
 And swore there was nothing like grog. 
 
 'Tother day as the chaplain was preaching, 
 Behind him I cautiously slunk, 
 
 And while he our duty was teaching. 
 As how we should never get drunk, 
 
 I shew'd him the stuff and he twigged it. 
 And it soon set his reverence agog, 
 And he swigged and Dick swigged. 
 And Ben swigg'd and Nick swigged, 
 
 And I swigged, and all of us swigged it, 
 
 And swore there was nothing like grog. 
 
 This song, it must be allowed, is the very anti- 
 thesis to theprinciiDles of the Temperance movement. 
 Id praise of drinking it goes the ivhole hog. Many 
 of Dibdin's songs, however, contain passages of a 
 redeeming character — passages possessing great poetic 
 merit, that not only inculcate the highest sentiments 
 of generosity and humanity, but strongly instill 
 the patriotic principle that " England expects every 
 man to do his duty," 
 
 Dibdin, speaking of his own songs, says, " they have 
 been considered an object of national consequence ; 
 they have been the solace of sailors in long passages, 
 in storm, and in battle ; and have been quoted in 
 mutinies to the restoration of order and discipline."
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 33 
 
 Indeed, they were considered of so much national 
 consequence in fanning the flame of patriotism during 
 our war with France that the government granted 
 Dibdin for his services an annual pension for life. 
 When the whigs, however, came into office in 1814, 
 this pension was taken off, and poor Dibdin, grown 
 old and infirm, was suffered to breathe his last, neg- 
 lected and forgotten, in the greatest destitution and 
 distress. Such, alas, is too often the fate of genius ! 
 In the age of Dibdin, though gifted with a far 
 superior genius to him, appeared the inspired plough- 
 man, Robert Burns, "who walked in glory by the 
 mountain's side." Like Shakspere, he too was the 
 poet of nature ; and though but a ploughman, isolated 
 as it were from men of letters, and mixing only with 
 the peasantry of his native vale ; yet, by the power of 
 his own magnificent genius, he rose to be one of the 
 brightest ornaments to imaginative literature. In 
 exquisite tenderness, impassioned feeling, or the out- 
 pourings of a noble and an independent spirit, where 
 is the poet that can surpass him ? Whatever he touch- 
 ed he beautified, enhanced by the happiest and most 
 felicitous expression. Looking at Nature with a poet's 
 eye as he wandered among the " birks and braes" so 
 dear to him, he caught inspiration from the material 
 imagery around him, and in strains melodious and 
 truthful he sang from the depths of his own sensitive 
 heart. His principal lyrics, especially his songs, 
 abound with numberless beauties. To point out one 
 as superior in poetic excellence to others would be a 
 difficult task. Where all is beautiful it seems im- 
 
 E
 
 34 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 possible to select. A rich parterre may present to 
 us the choicest flowers, all having particular claims 
 to our admiration. Sweetly intermingled with the 
 blushing rose we may behold the graceful pinlc, the 
 fragrant wall-flower, the modest violet, and other 
 productions of Flora ; but though all appear lovely, 
 yet they possess distinctive hues, distinctive fragrance, 
 and distinctive varieties ; therefore to cull one as a 
 representative of the rest would be utterly impossible. 
 So it is with the best songs of "Burns. They all 
 appear beautiful ; but when minutely examined, we 
 find that each contains some distinct poetic beauty, 
 some fascinating charm, diversified by some distinct 
 shade of deep feeling, so that it is difficult to select 
 one as superior to the rest. Bat unlike the flowers 
 of the partei're, which are doomed soon to wither, 
 perish, and be no more, the poetic products of 
 Scotia's best and noblest bard will bloom for ever, 
 and be admired for their beauty as long as " rivers 
 roll and vales are green." 
 
 Burns wrote 268 songs, 120 of which, written 
 when his judgment was matured, he composed for 
 Thomson's splendid edition of Scottish songs. Burns 
 spurned the idea of being paid for his poetic services 
 to this work, as, to use his own emphatic words, he 
 considered it "would be downright prostitution of 
 soul." Allan Cunningham, sjieaking of these songs, 
 says, " It is rather remarkable, that the most naturally 
 elegant and impassioned songs in our literature were 
 written by a ploughman." Another eminent writer, 
 Samuel Tyler, when alluding to them, remarks that
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 35 
 
 " They were conceived and bodied forth in music. 
 They are the gems of thought floating in streams of 
 music, and there are in Scotland few firesides where 
 they are not sung every evening, diffusing through the 
 hearth the sweetness of spiritual pleasure, and refining 
 the sensibilities, by the purifying sympathy with 
 generous sentiments." 
 
 Burns composed most of his lyrics in the open air 
 as he mused on surrounding objects. His well-known 
 effusion, " Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon," 
 exemplifies the truth of this remark. In the moment 
 of inspiration, when about to compose this song, we 
 may imagine him musing in loneliness on the banks 
 of the Doon when all Nature was redolent with beauty. 
 He gazes on the scene, but his heart is sad. It is 
 not in unison with the joyousness around him. He, 
 therefore, with a turn of thought peculiar to himself, 
 thus gives utterance to his feelings : — 
 
 " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 And I sae weary, fu' o' care?" 
 
 One of these feathered choristers then attracts his 
 notice, and how sweet, how tender is the strain he 
 continues, 
 
 "Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; 
 Thou minds mo o' departed joys, 
 Departed — never to return."
 
 36 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 The air adapted to this song was the composition 
 of an amateur of Edinbro'. Napoleon Bonaparte, 
 when conversing with a lady at St. Helena, said, it 
 was the only English air that he could endure. All 
 our other airs he considered execrable. It would 
 have been better for the hero of Marengo if he had 
 never made a more egregious mistake. 
 
 Illustration. 
 
 YE BANKS AND BRAES 0' BONNIE DOON. 
 
 Ye banks aad braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
 Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. 
 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thorn. 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
 
 Departed — never to return. 
 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 While ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. ' 
 
 Wi' heartsome glee I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 And my fause luver stole my rose. 
 
 But, ah 1 he left the thorn wi' me.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 37 
 
 CHAPTEK V. 
 
 The beginning of the I9th century — the galaxy of 
 poets then — anecdotes of Campbell — the lyrics of 
 Eliza Cooke and Mackay. 
 
 The most remarkable period in the history of 
 Literature and Science, perhaps, ever known, is 
 from the commencement of the 19th century to the 
 present time. For though the astonishing achieve- 
 ments of Science during this period have been such 
 as to give us, in appearance, a strong utilitarian cha- 
 racter ; yet, it must be admitted, we think, that the 
 progress of poetic literature has kept j)ace with our 
 mechanical triumphs. The last half century is dis- 
 tinguished, like the Elizabethan era, for the long 
 list of noble poets who adorned it ; at the head of 
 whom may be noticed Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, 
 Byron, Keats, Shelley, Sir Walter Scott, and Camp- 
 bell, who, in every diversified form, have enriched 
 our literature with the brightest gems of Poesy. 
 
 But where are now those refulgent stars that once 
 excited our admiration and shed a blaze of glory over 
 the poetic firmament ? One by one they have disap- 
 peared from amongst us — one by one they have 
 passed ' ' that awful bourne none e'er repassed," 
 and their disappearance has left a blank in the lite- 
 rary world that has not yet been supplied. 
 
 The poems of these bards arc undoubtedly of the
 
 38 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 highest order ; but Wordsworth, Byron, Scott, and 
 Campbell, in this galaxy of genius, can only be con- 
 sidered as lyrical writers. Many of Scott's songs are 
 spirited comijositions, which sustain their deserved 
 popularity. The songs by Byron are few, but wor- 
 thy of his genius. Those by Campbell do not com- 
 prise thirty in number, but they can scarcely be ex- 
 celled for vigour and beauty. His martial songs are 
 the most magnificent effusions in our language. They 
 glow with heroic thoughts expressed with the " elo- 
 quence of Truth." Every strain is manly and impas- 
 sioned, every line energetic, sounding like a trumpet- 
 blast on the battle field. Campbell is the bard of 
 modern Chivalry, the William Tell of patriotic lyrists, 
 who gives utterance to sentiments which are en- 
 shrined in every bosom animated with a love of 
 Freedom. No poet evinces so strong, so utter a detes- 
 tation of Slavery and all despotic rulers as Campbell. 
 He bids defiance to them in words of fire. With a 
 race of poets like him what country wearing a tyrant's 
 fetters would not rise and burst them ? How spirited 
 are the following lines from his " Song fo the Greeks" 
 when he calls upon them to " burst the tyrant's 
 chain," and prove themselves " heroes descended from 
 heroes" : — 
 
 " Again to the battle, Achaians, 
 Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; 
 Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree — 
 It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free. 
 A breath of submission we breathe not, 
 The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not !
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 39 
 
 Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
 
 And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
 
 Earth may hide — wares engulf — fire consume us, 
 
 But they shall not to slavery doom us. 
 
 Accursed may his memory blacken 
 
 If a coward there be who would slacken 
 
 Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves 
 
 worth 
 Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. 
 Strike home, and the world shall revere us, 
 As heroes descended from heroes." 
 
 It is rather remarkable that Campbell, though a 
 most acute critic of the poetry of others, should 
 want the necessary judgment to form a correct estimate 
 of his own. Several of our greatest poets were alike 
 faulty in this respect. Milton always thought his 
 " Paradise Eegained" far superior to his " Paradise 
 Lost;" but no one ever thought so but himself. 
 Thomson, the gifted author of the " Seasons," consi- 
 dered his long, dry, and prosy poem, " Liberty," as 
 his best production. Campbell, however, not de- 
 pending on his own judgment, was in the habit of 
 submitting his manuscript poems for approval to his 
 brother, who was an excellent judge of poetry, though 
 no poet. One day Campbell handed to his brother 
 a poem which he had just composed, and requested 
 his opinion of it. His brother having attentively 
 perused the comj)osition shook his head, when 
 Campbell hastily exclaimed, " What is the matter 
 with it ? Wont it do ? What does it want ?" " It 
 wants fire !" replied his brother, and he immediately
 
 40 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 threw the manuscript into the fire to the great mor- 
 tification of the poet, who had not another copy. 
 
 Campbell, when once in conversation with Sir 
 Walter Scott, said, that " he thought nothing of his 
 ' Hohenlinden' — it was too full of trumpet lines," 
 and strange to say, he never saw the beauties in that 
 immortal ode until pointed out to him then by 
 the author of Waverley. And so it was with his 
 poem, "The Last Man," one of the finest imaginative 
 compositions ever produced. He set little value on 
 this beautiful lyric until he heard it sung by Braham 
 at a concert in Edinbro'. But we shall give, in 
 Campbell's own words, his brief relation of this cir- 
 cumstance. He says, that "During a visit to Edinbro' 
 I was induced to accompany a friend one evening to 
 a concert, where, unexpectedly, I heard my own song, 
 " The Last Man." I shall ever remember my feelings 
 whilst listening. I was overj^owered with my own 
 conceptions — 1 wept — and for the first time I felt that 
 I was a poet !" 
 
 How simple, yet how touching is ^this account of 
 Campbell's feelings ! He listened to his own song, 
 and overpowered by his concei:)tions he wept and for 
 the first time felt that he 2vas a poet. Such is the 
 magic power of song. 
 
 Campbell had an annuity of two hundred pounds 
 awarded to him by government soon after the publi- 
 cation of his " Pleasures of Hope," which he pro- 
 duced at twenty-three years of age. He received this 
 annuity as long as he lived. "Few modern j)oets," 
 says a popular writer, when speaking of Campbell,
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 41 
 
 " have received a more bountiful harvest of fame and 
 comfort from their labours, and few have proved 
 themselves more worthy of the distinction." 
 
 Illustration. 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom — 
 
 The sun himself must die, 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality ! 
 I saw a vision in my sleep , 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of time ! 
 I saw the last of human mould 
 That shall creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime ! 
 
 The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 
 The earth with age was wan ; 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man ! 
 Some had expired in fight — the brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands — 
 
 In plague and famine some ; 
 Earth's cities had no sound or tread, 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
 With dauntless words and high. 
 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood, 
 As if a storm passed by; 
 
 Saying, " We are twins in death, proud sun; 
 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 r
 
 42 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 'Tis mercy bids thee go. 
 
 For thou, ten thousand thousand years^ 
 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 
 That shall no longer flow ." 
 • * * 
 
 " This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 That gave its heavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim. 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No ! it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine. 
 
 By him recalled to breath, 
 "Who captive led captivity. 
 Who robbed the grave of victory, 
 
 And took the sting from death !" 
 
 Amongst the popular song-writers at the present 
 time are Eliza Cook and Charles Mackay, author of 
 the "Lump of Gold.'' These writers have done much 
 towards improving the public taste for songs of real 
 merit, by combining our own characteristic music 
 with words that tend to elevate our ideas and make 
 us more in love with the good and the beautiful. 
 
 The songs of Eliza Cook, in our opinion, are 
 highly suitable to effect these objects. " They possess 
 more the truth and vigour of Burns than the elegance 
 and sj>arkling fancy of Moore, for like Burns she has 
 the power of creating the most exalted sentiments 
 from the commonest objects. By her own beautiful 
 thoughts we are told what a " sacred thing" is an old 
 arm chair. Her numerous effusions are well calcu- 
 lated to exercise a moral influence upon the minds 
 of the people, by whom they are much estimated, and 
 whom by her genius she is eminently qualified to
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN, 4S 
 
 instruct and elevate though not gifted with great 
 poetic powers. 
 
 IHustratiou. 
 
 THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 
 
 I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 
 
 To chide me for loving that old arm chair ? 
 
 I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
 
 I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs : 
 
 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my|heart ; 
 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
 
 Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat there ! 
 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I linger'd near 
 
 The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; 
 
 And gentle words that mother would give 
 
 To fit me to die — to teach me to live. 
 
 She told me that shame would never betide 
 
 With truth for my creed, and God for my guide ; 
 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer 
 
 As I knelt beside that old arm chair. 
 
 I sat and watch 'd her many a day, 
 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey ; 
 
 And I almost worshipp'd her when she smil'd, 
 
 And turned from the Bible to bless her child. 
 
 Years roll'd on, but the last one sped — 
 
 My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled ! 
 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear 
 
 AVhen I saw her die in her old arm chair.
 
 44 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN, 
 
 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 
 "With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow : 
 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
 Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek : 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm chair. 
 
 The most prolific song writer of the present day 
 is Charles Mackay, the poet of progress. Though 
 this pleasing writer displays little of the imaginative 
 faculty, though his lyrics are never adorned with the 
 sparking graces of Fancy, yet they are of a health- 
 ful and vigorous character. They abound with truth- 
 ful sentiments, well expressed, that have a powerful 
 tendency to improve the mind and refine the feelings. 
 Many of his songs, such as " Cheer, hoys, cheer," and 
 " There's a good time coming," have deservedly gained 
 considerable popularity. He has lately been en- 
 gaged in comj)osing a series of songs, one hundred in 
 number, for our national music, in which important 
 work he was assisted by the late Sir Henry Bishop, 
 who was so eminently qualified for the undertaking. 
 Such a publication has long been wanted, as it is 
 greatly calculated to enrich our vocal music with 
 strains wherein we may feel 
 
 " That magic sympathy of sense with sound 
 That pictures all it sings." 
 
 This work, moreover, has the advantage of preventing
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 45 
 
 from sinking into oblivion many of our beautiful old 
 English melodies, which, for unaffected simplicity and 
 racy originality, are not surjDassed by those of any 
 other country. The object in publishing the songs 
 alluded to, of which the following illustration is a 
 fair specimen, was, we are told, " To restore the 
 music of England to the place in the j)opular heart 
 which it never would have lost had the morality and 
 graces of the poetry been equal to the beauties of the 
 melodies." 
 
 lUustralion. 
 
 THE GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 MACKAY. 
 
 Through the green lanes of England the long summer day. 
 We have wander'd at will in our Youth's merry May ; 
 We snatched at the blooms o'er the hedgerows that hung, 
 Or mocked the sweet song that the nightingale sung. 
 
 In the Autumn we knew 
 
 Where the blackberries grew, 
 And the shy hazel nuts hidden deep in the shade, 
 
 Or with shouting and cheer, 
 
 When the Christmas drew near, 
 In search of the ripe, ruddy holly we stray 'd. 
 
 But the green lanes of England though dear to us then, 
 Were dearer by far when we grew to be men. 
 When the heart's first emotions were fervent and pure, 
 And the world had no grief that a smile could not cure. 
 
 'Twas beneath the green leaves 
 
 In the calm summer eves. 
 That we breath'd the young hopes in our bosoms that biirn'd ; 
 
 Or in Love's gentle eyes 
 
 Read the tender replies 
 That shew'd the fond passion as fondly returned.
 
 46 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Ye green lanes of England, wherever we roam, 
 Ye are link'd in our hearts with the memories of home, 
 With the sports of our Childhood, the love of our prime. 
 And the pensive delights of a soberer time. 
 
 Other lands may be fair, 
 
 With their balm-breathing air, 
 And their beauties and grandeur that charm or appall ; 
 
 But to young and to old 
 
 Till our hearts shall grow cold 
 Shall the green lanes of England be dearer to all. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The vitiated taste of the present age for Cockney 
 songs — their vulgarity — the negro melodies — 
 the lyrics of Tennyson, Gerald Massey, dc. — 
 Conclusion. 
 
 At the present time the depraved taste in this 
 country for songs utterly destitute of the morality 
 and graces noticed in the preceding chapter is a dis- 
 grace to the intelligence of the age. Bad as the 
 insipid compositions of the 17th century were, a 
 great number of the songs now popular are still 
 worse. It is really astonishing how such effusions, 
 the very essence of vulgarity, could have become so 
 popular. They are chiefly produced from the Cockney 
 school of versifiers, at the head of which is Sam Cowell, 
 who has obtained a world-wide popularity for singing 
 them. Though entirely devoid of originality, wit, or 
 humour ; yet these wretched ditties have been sung in
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 47 
 
 most of the singing saloons and concert rooms in the 
 kingdom, as though they were lyrical gems of the 
 first order. " Can such things be?" Is the throne of 
 Taste to be thus usurped by a host of illiterate scrib- 
 blers ? Are such productions, abounding with Cockney 
 slang, double entendres, and indelicate allusions, to 
 be longer tolerated ? Forbid it, shade of the immortal 
 Burns, ! It is high time such nonsensical rubbish as 
 " Vilikens and his Ditiah," "Billy Barlow," and the 
 "Ratcatcher's Daughter," was discountenanced, and 
 a higher and more refined taste evinced for genuine 
 songs of an elevating nature, pure in sentiment, rich 
 in natural feeling, and bearing the impress of having 
 sprung spontaneous from the depths of the poet's 
 heart. 
 
 The following vulgar effiision is a specimen of the 
 songs just alluded to : — 
 
 iKnstratiojt. 
 
 BILLY TAYLOR. 
 
 Billy Taylor was a gay young feller 
 
 Full of fun and full of glee, 
 And his heart he did diskiver 
 
 To a lady fair and free, 
 
 Tiddy, iddy, &c. 
 
 (Spoken.) This werse describes how he fell a wictim 
 to the liberty of the press.
 
 48 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Four and twenty stout young fellers, 
 
 Clad they were in blue array, 
 Came and pressed poor Billy Taylor, 
 
 And off to sea bore him away. 
 
 Tiddy, iddy, &c. 
 
 (Spoken. J The next werse tells wot his true love resolved 
 to do, and how she did it. 
 
 Soon his true love followed arter, 
 
 Under the name of Richard Carr, 
 And her lily-vite hands she daubed all over 
 Vith the nasty pitch and tar. 
 
 Tiddy, iddy, &c. 
 
 (Spoken.) The next werse describes wot wasn't wisible 
 when she went aboard the wessel. 
 
 But she was wounded in the first engagement 
 When fighting like a man among the rest. 
 And they diskiver'd her sex-uation 
 When she came to be undressed. 
 
 Tiddy, iddy, &c. 
 
 (Spoken.) This werse tells you how the capting had his 
 weather-eye open. 
 
 The capting was every inch a sailor, 
 
 Says he, " What wind has blown you here ?" 
 Says she, " I'm looking for Billy Taylor, 
 Whom you pressed and I love dear." 
 
 Tiddy, iddy, &c. 
 
 Other verses succeed too contemptible and inde- 
 licate to quote. 
 
 For some years past another class of compositions
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 49 
 
 misnamed " Negro Melodies,'' have inundated the 
 musical world. These effusions, though occasionally 
 wed to good music, are, generally speaking, miserable 
 abortions as regards possessing any poetic merit. 
 They emanate from the Metropolis, and are written 
 by Cockneys who never beheld the " Ohio," and who 
 know nothing whatever of the scenes and manners 
 they pretend to delineate ; and yet, strange to say, 
 these melodies have been sung at our principal places 
 of amusement through the length and breadth of the 
 land. Even since the days when "^ Jump Jim Croiv,'' 
 became popular, and it was nightly sung in London by 
 Mr. Kice, parties styling themselves " Ethiopean 
 Serenaders," African Troupes,'' &c. have taken the 
 tour of the provinces, and though picked from the 
 metropolitan singing saloons they have professed to 
 give true representations of negro life and character ! 
 Togged out in seedy black suits, with white cravats, 
 curly wigs, and blackened faces, they have attempted 
 by unnatural grimaces, and winks, and nods, and 
 stale conundrums, to impose on the gullibility of 
 poor simple John Bull. These wandering minstrels, 
 however, with their doleful banjos, have had their 
 day — the negro ditties, with their broken English, 
 are fast sinking in public estimation, and in a short 
 time, it is hoped, they will descend into utter oblivion, 
 and be replaced by others of a more refined and ele- 
 vating nature. 
 
 We turn now to the lyrics of Tennyson, and 
 other distinguished poets of the present day. The 
 fame of Tennyson has been gradually increasing 
 
 G
 
 50 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 during the last thirty years. His genius is retros- 
 pective ; and though not so popular as our greater 
 poets who have passed the bourne of life, yet he is 
 undoubtedly the best "poet of the age." He has won 
 the poet's crown, and he has won it honorably. His 
 first volume of poems he published so far back as 
 1630. About four years afterwards he produced ano- 
 ther volume. Both these volumes being severely 
 criticised in some of the leading reviews, his Muse 
 remained silent for eight years. He then reprinted 
 them, much altered and improved, with several addi- 
 tional pieces. Subsequently he has published many 
 poems of superior merit, all of which have had a 
 favorable reception. 
 
 The style of Tennyson is particularly quaint, yet 
 always graceful and elegant. His greatest charac- 
 teristic is a beautiful simj)licity. He has neither the 
 fervency of Campbell nor the passion of Byron. His 
 poetry is calm and meditative. It flows like a placid 
 brook gliding gently along through " quiet meadows" 
 and " sighing reeds," where nothing interrupts the 
 even tenor of its way. He embodies in his verse 
 the deepest thoughts in the most simjDle language, 
 and many of his poems, such as " Mariana in the 
 moated grange,'' breathe the very soul of sadness, as 
 though, at times, he felt in his heart the " charm 
 of melancholy." 
 
 The following ballads, selected from his early 
 poems, exliibit much poetic power combined with 
 extreme simplicity of diction ; —
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 51 
 
 lllastrntion. 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It is the miller's daughter. 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
 
 That I would be the jewel 
 That trembles at her ear : 
 
 For hid in ringlets day and night, 
 
 I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
 And I would be the girdle 
 
 About her dainty dainty waist, 
 And her heart would beat against me, 
 
 In sorrow and in rest : 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 And I would be the necklace. 
 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 Upon her balmy bosom 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs, 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 I scarce should be unelasp'd at nighL 
 
 IIInstratioK. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
 
 It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
 
 Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ;. 
 And the New-year's coming up, mother, but T shall never see 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
 
 52 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; 
 And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
 Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 
 
 There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again ; 
 I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
 1 long to see a flower so before the day I die. 
 
 The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. 
 
 And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 
 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 
 
 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
 In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hUl, 
 When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 
 
 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
 You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
 When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
 On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 
 
 You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
 And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
 I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, 
 With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 
 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
 You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
 Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
 You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 
 
 If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
 Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
 Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall barken what you say. 
 And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 6'4 
 
 Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, 
 And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
 Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : 
 She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 
 
 She'U find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
 Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
 But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
 About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. 
 
 Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born, 
 All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 
 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New -year, 
 So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 
 
 Many of our living poets, though considered 
 inferior in genius to Tennyson, have greatly en- 
 riched our literature with lyrics which shew them to 
 be graceful and elegant writers, and men of refined 
 feeling as well as undoubted taste. Amongst this 
 number may be included Bryan Walter Procter, who 
 has produced many beautiful effusions under the 
 assumed name'of Barry Cornwall — Thomas K. Hervey, 
 a sweet poet — Charles Swain, author of " The Mind," 
 W. Monckton Milnes, M. P.— D. M. Moir, better 
 known as the Delta of Blackwood's Magazine — and 
 Gerald Massey. 
 
 The next extract is very touching and beauti- 
 ful. It is from the pen of D. M. Moir, on the death of 
 his infant son, three years old, on whom the pet 
 name of " Casa Wappy" had been self- conferred.
 
 64 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Illustration. 
 
 CASA WAPPY. 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
 
 Our fond dear boy — 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
 
 Where life is joy ? 
 Pure at thy death as at thy birth, 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
 Even by its bliss we mete our death, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell, 
 
 As closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell 
 
 When thou didst die ; 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee, 
 Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
 Of our unfathomed agony, 
 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight 
 
 To bless us given ; 
 Beauty embodied to our sight, 
 
 A type of heaven : 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self than a part 
 Of mine and of thy mother's heart, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright brief day knew no decline, 
 
 'Twas cloudless joy ; 
 Sunrise and night alone were thine. 
 
 Beloved boy ! 
 This morn beheld thee blithe and gay, 
 That found thee prostrate in decay. 
 And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
 Casa Wappy !
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 55 
 
 We mourn for thee when blind blank night 
 
 The chamber fills ; 
 We pine for thee when morn's first light 
 
 Reddens the hills ; 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
 All, to the wall-flower and wild pea. 
 Are changed — we saw the world through thee, 
 Casa Wappy I 
 
 And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 
 
 Of casual mirth, 
 It doth not own whate'er may seem. 
 
 An inward birth : 
 We miss thy small step on the stair ; 
 We miss thee at thine evening prayer ! 
 All day we miss thee, everywhere, 
 Casa Wappy I 
 
 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go. 
 
 In life's spring bloom, 
 Down to the appointed house below, 
 
 The silent tomb. 
 But now the green leaves of the tree, 
 The cuckoo and ' the busy bee,' 
 Return — but with them bring not thee, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 'Tis so ; but can it be (while flowers 
 
 Revive again) — 
 Man's doom, in death that we and ours 
 
 For aye remain ? 
 Oh ! can it be, tliat o'er the grave 
 The grass renewed, should yearly wave. 
 Yet God forget our child to save ? — 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 It cannot be : for were it so 
 
 Thus man could die, 
 Life were a mockery. Thought were wo. 
 
 And Truth a lie ; 
 Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 
 Religion frenzy, Virtue vain. 
 And all our hopes to meet again, 
 Casa Wappy !
 
 5C THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIxV. 
 
 Then be to us, dear, lost child ! 
 
 With beam of love, 
 A star, death's uncongenial wild 
 
 Smiling above ; 
 Soon, soon thy little feet have trod 
 The skyward path, the seraph's road, 
 That led the back from man to God, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Yet 'tis sweet balm to our despair, 
 
 Fond, fairest boy. 
 That heaven is God's, and thou art there, 
 
 With him in joy : 
 There past are death and all its woes, 
 There beauty's stream for ever flows. 
 And pleasure's day no sunset knows, 
 Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Farewell, then — for a while, farewell — 
 
 Pride of my heart ! 
 It cannot be that long we dwell. 
 
 Thus torn apart : 
 Time's shadows like the shuttle flee : 
 And, dark how e'er life's night may be. 
 Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, 
 Casa Wappy I 
 
 The youngest of the living poets previously al- 
 luded to is Gerald Massey. He is a lyrist of the 
 greatest jDromise. In many features of his genius, 
 Walter Savage observes, "he bears a marvellous 
 resemblance to Keats." He has been designated " the 
 poet of the people." He sings " heart-stirring and 
 melodious songs — songs of Liberty and Love, coming 
 warmly from the heart," and the latter so pure and 
 sweet as oft to rival the best love strains of Burns. 
 As a lyrist of superior power Gerald Massey 'at pre- 
 sent stands high. Already he has reaped a rich har-
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 57 
 
 vest and fame, and in all probability he is destined 
 to earn for himself a crown of immortality. In the 
 preface to the third edition of " Babe Christahel," he 
 states, when speaking on this subject, " that the dearth 
 of Poetry should be great in a country where we hail as 
 poets such as have been crowned of late. Formyself," he 
 continues, " I have only entered the lists and inscribed 
 my name ; the race has yet to be run. Whether I 
 shall run it, and win the Poet's crown, or not, time 
 alone will prove, and not the prediction of friend or 
 foe. The crowns of Poetry are not in the keeping of 
 critics. There have been many who have given some 
 signs of promise — ijust set a rainbow of hope in the 
 dark cloud of their life — and have never fulfilled 
 their promise ; and the world has wondered why. I 
 hope that my future holds some happier fate. I 
 think there is a work for me to do, and I trust to 
 accomplish it." 
 
 Thus speaks the author of " Babe Chr'istabeV ; 
 but with due deference to his remarks, we beg to 
 observe, that though he still is young, though his early 
 years were passed in the deepest poverty, deprived 
 of all scholastic instruction except what a penny 
 school afforded, and though, when more advanced in 
 years, he had to labour with his own hands for a very 
 bare subsistence ; yet, by his perseverance and genius, 
 he has surmounted the obstacles that retarded his 
 onward progress, and at length, climbing the steep of 
 Parnassus with the easy grace and bearing of a con- 
 queror, he has far out-distanced his youthful and less 
 gifted compeers in the race for lyrical fame. 
 
 H
 
 58 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 The poetry of Gerald Massey is highly exube- 
 rant in imagery, and healthful in freshness like a 
 sweet morning in Spring. He is the champion of 
 Freedom, and his war odes in her cause are splendid 
 compositions. He sings them with a brave English 
 heart and an unshackled mind, like one not to be 
 cowed down by the carping of critics or any one else. 
 They contain strong words and burning thoughts that 
 flash in almost every line like volleys from the " red 
 artillery" as the " combat deepens." But how great 
 the contrast when he sings of love and beauty. How 
 gentle, how extremely tender, and how full of feeling 
 his effusions then are ! Devoid of any meretricious 
 ornament, they glow profusely with the sweetest 
 flowers of Poesy. 
 
 The following production is selected from his 
 love lyrics : — 
 
 Illustration. 
 
 NO JEWELLED BEAUTY IS MY LOVE. 
 
 No jewelled beauty is my love, 
 
 Yet in her earnest face, 
 There's such a world of tenderness 
 
 She needs no other grace. 
 Her smiles and voice around my life 
 
 In light and music twine, 
 And dear, very dear to me 
 
 Is this sweet love of mine. 
 
 joy ! to know there's one fond heart 
 
 Beats ever true to me ; 
 It sets mine leaping like a lyre, 
 
 In sweetest melody ;
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 59 
 
 My soul upsprings a Deity 
 
 To hear her voice divine ; 
 And dear, very dear to me, 
 
 Is this sweet Love of mine. 
 
 If ever I have sighed for wealth, 
 
 'Twas all for her I trow ; 
 And if I win Fame's victor wreath 
 
 I'll twine it round her brow. 
 There may be forms more beautiful, 
 
 And souls of Summer shine, 
 But none, none, so dear to me. 
 
 As this sweet Love of mine. 
 
 The preceding verses are a fair specimen of the 
 love strains of Gerald Massey. Our next selection is 
 a lyric which shows him in a more pathetic mood. It 
 is entitled "Little Willie," and a sweet production it 
 is. " Little Willie" was a poor boy, nearly related to 
 Massey, and he died in the parish workhouse when 
 the poet was sunk in the deepest poverty. The pity- 
 ing heart of Massey, no doubt, felt deeply when he 
 learnt that the little sufferer, whom he loved, had 
 
 " From the cold world 
 Crouched down to die," 
 
 Where his remains, alas, found their final resting- 
 place — a workhouse grave. 
 
 lUustratioir. 
 LITTLE WILLIE. 
 
 Poor little Willie, 
 
 With his many pretty wiles ; 
 Worlds of wisdom in his looks, 
 
 And quaint, quiet smiles ;
 
 60 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Hair of amber, touched with 
 Gold of heaven so brave ; 
 
 All lying darkly hid 
 In a workhouse grave. 
 
 You remember little Willie ; 
 
 Fair and funny fellow he ! 
 Sprang like a lily 
 
 From the dirt of Poverty. 
 Poor little Willie ! 
 
 Not a friend was nigh, 
 When, from the cold world, 
 
 He crouched down to die. 
 
 In the day we wandered foodless, 
 
 Little Willie cried for bread ; 
 In the night we wandered homeless, 
 
 Little Willie cried for bed, 
 Parted at the Workhouse door. 
 
 Not a word we said ; 
 Ah ! so tired was little Willie, 
 
 And so sweetly sleep the dead. 
 
 'Twas in the dead of Winter 
 
 We laid him in the earth ; 
 The world brought in the new year 
 
 On a tide of mirth : 
 But, for lost little Willie, 
 
 Not a tear we crave ; 
 Cold and hunger cannot wake him 
 
 In a W^orkhouse grave. 
 
 We thought him beautiful, 
 
 Felt it hard to part ; 
 We loved him dutiful ; 
 
 Down, down, poor heart ! 
 The storms they may beat, 
 
 The winter winds may rave, 
 Ijittle Willie feels them not 
 
 1 n a Workhouse grave.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. ^1 
 
 No room for little Willie ; 
 
 In the world he had no part ; 
 On him stared the Gorgon eye 
 
 Through which looks no heart. 
 Come to me, said Heaven ; 
 
 And, if Heaven will save, 
 It little matters though the door 
 
 Be a Workhouse grave. 
 
 Such effusions as the foregoing, so full of natural 
 feeling and graceful excellence, are worthy the nation 
 that has given birth to a Shakspere and a Burns. The 
 poetic element, it seems, is not yet extinct amongst 
 us. Our present popular lyrists, with Tennyson at their 
 head, are yet held in the highest estimation, though 
 lights of greater magnitude have not appeared since 
 the days of Wordsworth. We hail, therefore, with the 
 greatest gratification, their endeavours to charm and 
 instruct us — we hail with pleasure every attempt 
 made to encourage a correct taste for good music 
 united to " immortal verse." 
 
 In our pilgrimage through life Music and Poetry 
 have been to us a consolation and a joy. They have 
 cheered us in the hour of sorrow — they have consoled 
 us in the day of misfortune. They are also con- 
 nected in our mind, with many pleasing reminiscences 
 and associations, and we may justly add, with some 
 of the happiest moments we ever enjoyed. They are 
 to the intellectual world what the glad sunshine, the 
 gay flowers, and all that is beautiful in Creation are 
 in the natural world. Music is of heavenly origin, 
 and her divine sister. Poetry, is the acknowledged 
 civilizer of the human race. Hand in hand they con-
 
 62 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 tribute to brighten our existence as the dispensers of 
 pure and rational enjoyment. May we more and more, 
 then, be induced to cultivate a taste for them. May 
 their influence be felt in every bosom — in the social 
 circle as well as at our own firesides, where they are 
 best appreciated ; — so that they may ever continue 
 to charm and delight us, to refine our feelings, to ele- 
 vate our thoughts, and expand our affections to admire 
 whatever is truly great and good in human nature, 
 and whatever is lovely and delightful to behold when 
 we contem]3late the wondrous works of Him who 
 laid the foundations of the earth, and bid 
 
 " The spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim, 
 For ever singing as they shine, 
 The hand that made us is divine !"
 
 ij\t §mm airb f pics d '^uxu. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Introductory Remarks. 
 
 There is a class of writers who have advanced 
 innumerable arguments to prove, that in the human 
 sjDecies there is originally no intellectual superiority 
 of one over another — that in all men there is no 
 innate capacity, and, consequently, there is no such 
 thing- as genius in the world. These writers affirm, 
 that the great superiority of intellect one person has 
 above another is entirely owing to circumstances 
 which tend, by assiduity and perseverance, to matui'e 
 the mind and expand the understanding. Another 
 class of writers, amongst whom are some of the most 
 profound metaphysicians this country ever produced, 
 have as stubbornly contended that genius is innate, 
 and, in consequence, that some men have naturally a 
 genius for one thing and some for another. The 
 latter is the generally received opinion, and with this 
 opinion we cordially agree, as we can come to no
 
 64 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Other conclusion than that it is correct. What was it, 
 we ask, but the mighty power of genius, united to 
 close observation, that enabled Shakspere to form his 
 wonderful creations — that urged Newton to investi- 
 gate the dark and hidden mysteries of nature — that 
 inspired Herscell to scale, through the illimitable 
 bounds of space, the starry heavens — that prompted 
 Watt to develop the astonishing powers of steam — 
 and that instigated a host of other distinguished 
 characters to soar far beyond the ordinary capacity of 
 men and bequeath us the richest legacies of undying 
 thought and the most masterly productions of scien- 
 tific skill ? 
 
 Amongst this pre-eminently gifted number stands 
 EoBERT Burns, the Shakspere of Scotland, who, in the 
 latter part of the last century, like the refulgent sun 
 emerging from a cloud, burst from his obscurity, and 
 not only astonished his own admiring countrymen, 
 but the whole of the literati of the age, with his 
 matchless productions, which, for natural beauty and 
 exquisite sweetness, have not been surpassed since he 
 himself, in the language of Wordsworth, " walked 
 in glory and in joy behind the i^lough." Yes, com- 
 muning with his own glorious thoughts, he walked 
 behind the plough, and there catching the light of 
 inspiration from Nature herself, he truthfully depicted, 
 in undying strains, the joys and the sorrows, the loves 
 and the toils of the peasantry of his own country. His 
 mission as a poet was to elevate their condition, and 
 no man was better qualified for the task. " By sparks 
 from his etherial soul he wished to elevate their
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 65 
 
 Spiritual natures, and make them in love with all that 
 is pure, and good, and beautiful on the earth." In 
 his char-acter there was no selfishness, no hypocritical 
 bowing down to the titled great, no " Pride that soars, 
 and meanness that licks the dust." Whatever were 
 his failings no charge of this kind was ever made 
 against his character. Inheriting from his birth aj)roud 
 s^jirit, and conscious of his own intellectual power, 
 he walked the earth one of Nature's nobility, acknow- 
 ledging, as it were, no superior. Though nursed 
 in the lap of Poverty, thougli in his after years 
 he had to struggle with adversity and disappointed 
 hopes of every shape ; yet to the last hour of his 
 eventful life the independence of his spirit was never 
 crushed, his integrity never sullied, his manly worth 
 never demeaned. These noble attributes were en- 
 throned in his heart, where, under all circumstances, 
 they ever retained a seat, even when in the full blaze 
 of his fame he shone an intellectual meteor at the gay 
 coteries of " titled dukes and jewelled duchesses," 
 where the honour paid to his genius, says Dugald 
 Stewart, " would have turned any head but his own.' ' 
 But after being lionised, if we may use the ex- 
 pression, in almost every circle of rank and fashion 
 in the metropolis of Scotland, after having enjoyed 
 the society of her greatest men in the republic of 
 letters, who were more astonished, it is said, at the 
 power of his eloquence than even the beauty of his 
 poems, the novelty of his appearance amongst them 
 gradually wore away; and poor, neglected Burns, the 
 greatest poet Scotland ever pi'oduccd, with his pro- 
 
 I
 
 66 THE MINSTEELSY OF BRITAIN, 
 
 pects blasted, his name traduced, and his proud 
 heart stung to the quick by unmerited coldness, was 
 obliged, in a spirit of dejection, to return to that 
 plough where the poetic genius of his country found 
 him. Yes, poor, unfortunate Burns, the man whose 
 poems had so charmed his countrymen — the man 
 whom the higher classes had so feasted, whose com- 
 pany they had so courted, and whose eloquence had 
 so astonished them, was obliged to return to the 
 plough to earn for himself an honest Independence 
 by the labour of his own hands, having learnt this 
 important lesson, that men in every station of society, 
 whether in high life or low, are much about the same. 
 
 " Mourn, guilty Scotland, mourn ! 
 Bow to the dust in widowed shame, 
 Hide thee in sackcloth, with dishevelled hair ; 
 But wreath around the urn of Burns 
 No mournful yew — the laughing thorn, his claim. 
 Twined with harebell and daisy, let him wear." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Burns as the poet of the Beautiful. 
 
 As a poet Burns is universally acknowledged to 
 rank amongst the best masters of the lyre ; and well 
 worthy is he of this high distinction, for in the whole 
 range of British literature where can we find enshrined 
 more endearing memorials of poetic talent than he has 
 left us. In his poems we meet with no unnatural 
 conceits, no sickening sentimentality ; but, strewed
 
 THE MINSTEELSY OF BRITAIN. (J7 
 
 with a prolific hand, we find his jjroductions abound- 
 ing with sentiments that " give the world assurance 
 of A man" — sentiments that exalt our souls, that 
 make our hearts glow within us, so that while we feel 
 their freshness, their vigour, and their beauty and 
 truthfulness, we are at a loss which to admire most — 
 the genius of the heaven-taught bard who gave birth 
 to such glorious conceptions, or the brave and manly 
 heart that gave them utterance. 
 
 The genius of Burns was entirely original. It 
 needed no borrowed lustre to improve it. Unlike that 
 of many of our bards it stooped to the subject it 
 embellished, and so illimitable was its range that in 
 a moment he could change from " grave to gay, from 
 lively to severe," from the ludicrous to the terrible, 
 from the simple to the sublime. The versatility of his 
 powers isjbest shown in " Tarn O'Shanter," which 
 disjjlays all these qualities in rapid succession. 
 Sir Walter Scott, says of Burns, that " no poet, 
 with the exception of Shakspere, ever possessed the 
 power of exciting the most varied and discordant 
 emotions in such rapid succession." Confined to no 
 species of composition, his genius alike shone on 
 whatever subject he touched, no matter how various 
 its features. It combined the humour of Pindar, the 
 sublimity of Milton, the vigour of Junius, and the 
 moral power and withering satire of Pope. As a didac- 
 tic poet and satirist Burns excels all other bards. He 
 has made the Ayr, the Nith, and the " bonnieDoon" 
 classic streams. The fair maidens who attracted his 
 attention on their " banks and braes" he has immor-
 
 08 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 talised in song. These maidens were his Muses — 
 their beauty gave him inspiration. As he described 
 their loveliness, their purity, their delicacy of senti- 
 ment, and other charms, he invested them with every 
 feminine excellence according to his own ideal notions 
 of what a lovely woman ought to be. 
 
 Burns associated with woman whatever was de- 
 lightful to behold in the material world. To heighten 
 her beauty by analogy he sought for images amongst 
 the loveliest objects on the varied face of Nature. 
 It is this association which forms the great secret of 
 his power to charm the popular heart, and this it is 
 which distinguishes him, in the highest degree, as the 
 poet of the beautiful. 
 
 The greatest element in the genius of Burns was 
 his admiration of the beautiful, the strongest trait in 
 his nature was to love — to love all things with a 
 loving heart, no matter how lowly. He delighted, 
 therefore, to draw moral truths from the most trivial 
 things that crossed his path — he loved to describe 
 cottage life in all its holy beauty and purity, and to 
 sing of woman, " lovely woman," as though she were 
 a divinity without one human imperfection. A love 
 for the beautiful, the pure, and the good, in all their 
 various phases, was centred in his heart, and thus, it 
 may be said, he was constituted to adorn all he touched. 
 
 The truth of these remarks is best illustrated by 
 his tender " Address to a Mountain Daisy." This 
 simjole flower, which 
 
 " Died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love,"
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 69 
 
 He met iii the furrowed field, when, with glorious 
 thoughts, far beyond his occupation, he " walked 
 \ behind the plough," as it bloomed in beauty on the 
 mountain side. Its " crimson-tipped" crest met his 
 attentive eye, and crushing its slender stem " amang 
 the stoure," he then, in the moment of inspiration, 
 his heart melting with the soft sympathies of his 
 nature, elegised its fate in immortal strains. 
 
 Illnstration. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 Wee, modest, crirnson-tipped flow'r, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour, 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem : 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to greet, 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 0' clod or stane. 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field 
 
 Unseen, alane.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid, 
 Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
 By love's simplicity betray 'd, 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simi)le bard, 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore, 
 'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 
 Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. 
 By human pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To niis'ry's brink. 
 Till wrench'd of every stay but Heav'n, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink I 
 
 Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine- — no distant date ; 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom, 
 Till|cnish'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom I 
 
 What beautiful moral deductions are associated 
 "with the fate of this " wee, modest, crimson-tipped 
 flower !" How tender in sentiment, how felicitous in 
 expression is every verse ! But take these deductions
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 71 
 
 from the verses and they would lose the charm with 
 which genius has invested them. 
 
 Burns composed the j)i"eceding poem when as a 
 husbandman he received wages amounting only to 
 seven pounds a year. Such a production from one 
 whose livelihood was obtained by the sweat of his brow, 
 whose home was the " cauld clay biggin" that gave 
 him birth, and whose companions were merely the 
 simple rustics of his native vale, may well excite our 
 astonishment — but what is there that genius cannot 
 accomplish ? Burns, however, in addition to his gifted 
 genius, possessed in his manly breast a heart whence 
 flowed, in his moods of mo urnfulness, the most ex- 
 quisite tenderness. For deep pathos and purity of 
 thought where can we find poems to surpass his Ode 
 to " Mary in Heaven" or his sweet song of " High- 
 land Mary V These beautiful compositions will for 
 ever stand as monuments to the memory of the 
 being whose premature death Burns so tenderly be- 
 wailed, and whose image he retained within his 
 "bosom's core" to the latest day of his existence, 
 
 " For dear to him as light and life 
 Was his sweet Highland Mary." 
 
 In Burns's earliest journal, after complimenting 
 the genius of the bards who composed our ancient 
 ballads, and whose very names are buried among the 
 wreck of things that were, we find this beautiful pas- 
 sage, which powerfully shows how deeply he lamented 
 the death of his Highland Mary. "0 ye illustrious 
 names unknown, who could feel so strongly, and
 
 72 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 describe so well ; the last, the meanest of the Muse's 
 train — one who, though far inferior to your flights, 
 yet eyes your path, and, with trembling wing, would 
 sometimes soar after you — a poor, rustic bard, un- 
 known, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory. 
 Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, 
 that you have been unfortunate in the world — unfor- 
 tunate in love^he too has felt the loss of his fortune, 
 the loss of friends; hut, ivorst of all, the loss of the 
 woman he adored." When Burns wrote these words 
 he deeply felt, no doubt, in his own mind the loss of 
 his Highland Mary, the being above all others whom 
 he most loved. The song of " Highland Mary" and 
 his lines " To Mary in Heaven" are sufficient of them- 
 selves to stamp him as the poet of the Beautiful. 
 
 |)Uustr;ttioii:. 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Thou liug'ring star, with less'niug ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usherest in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget, 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love !
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 78 
 
 Eternity cannot efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twin'd am'rous round the raptur' d scene ; 
 The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest. 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray — 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 
 StiU o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time but th' impression stronger makes. 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 These'mournful stanzas were composed by Burns 
 one evening at twilight when his heart was sad, and 
 his thoughts reverted to his Highland Mary, as he 
 lay on some loose sheaves in the stack yard, gazing 
 on a bright, particular star in the sky. He never for- 
 got his early attachment to her ; for, we find, that 
 many years after her death, when he had long been 
 married and had a family to support, he thus spoke 
 of her, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop : — " If there is ano- 
 ther life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, 
 the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea, 
 then, is a world to come ! There shall I, with speech- 
 less rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear 
 
 K
 
 74 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, 
 constancy, and love." 
 
 The next illustration we have selected, to show that 
 Burns is the poet of the Beautiful, is the song " Of a 
 the aiHs the wind can hlaw," which ranks amongst 
 his best productions. Though he has said, " that 
 Hymen was not the divinity he invoked when he 
 wrote any of his love songs ;" yet, it was after he had 
 married his " lovely Jean" that he composed this song 
 in her praise, and a sweeter offering genius could not 
 have presented to her whom he had vowed at the 
 altar to love and to cherish. He composed it when 
 on a visit to Mossgiel, even before the honeymoon had 
 waned, and when her image, no doubt, was constantly 
 in his mind. On his return home he presented 
 this composition to his " Jean," and in the evening 
 he had the pleasure of hearing her sing it. Thus the 
 amiable being that inspired the lay was the first that 
 warbled it with her " wood notes wild." 
 
 Mrs. Burns died in the year 1834, in the 70th 
 year of her age, having survived her husband 38 
 years. She always spoke of him with the greatest 
 respect, and as one of the kindest of husbands. At 
 his demise she was placed by the generosity of the 
 British nation in comfortable circumstances at Dum- 
 fries, where she lived respected, and died lamented 
 for the gentleness of her nature and the amiability of 
 her disposition.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY ul- BRITAIN. 70 
 
 ^ lUustratioiT. 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 
 
 I dearly like the west, 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best : 
 There wild woods grow and rivers row, 
 
 And mony a hill between ; 
 By day and niglit my fancy's flight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air : 
 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw soft, 
 
 Amang tlie leafy trees, 
 Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale, 
 
 Bring hame the laden bees ; 
 And bring the lassie back to me 
 
 That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
 Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae charming is my Jean. 
 
 What sighs and vows amang the knowes 
 
 Hae passed atween us twa 1 
 How fond to meet, how wae to part, 
 
 That night she gaed awa I 
 The powers aboon can only ken. 
 
 To whom the heart is seen, 
 That nane can be so dear to me 
 
 As ray sweet lovely Jean !
 
 70 THE MINSTEELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 It is generally allowed by those who have com- 
 mented on the poetic genius of Burns that his nume- 
 rous songs on the subject of Love are the sweetest of 
 his productions, and that they embody more of the 
 beautiful than can be found in his other effusions. This 
 may be imj)uted to the fact, that the greater number 
 of them were written during the latter part of his life 
 when his judgment had become matured. These 
 productions, therefore, are consequently distinguished 
 by that suj)erior jjolish and elegance of expression, 
 which, in general, we do not find in the earlier efforts 
 of his Muse. 
 
 Some of the most poetical of these lyrics he wrote 
 in praise of Miss Jessy Lewars, a young lady of much 
 modesty and loveliness, who, like a " ministering 
 angel," attended him with all the care and affec- 
 tion of a daughter, during his long, last, fatal ill- 
 ness. These poetic gems may be considered, there- 
 fore, as the poet's songs of gratitude to this lady for 
 the kind offices she performed for him and his family 
 in the hour of sickness. They were written when 
 the suffering bard was gradually sinking, and they 
 thus powerfully shew that as he departed from 
 amongst us his genius shone to the very last, like 
 day's bright luminary setting in a blaze of glory. 
 
 How beautiful are the following verses which the 
 dying poet wrote in honour of this lady, whom he 
 has immortalized :
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 77 
 
 ^Illustration. 
 JESSY. 
 
 Here's a healtli to ane I lo'e dear ; 
 
 Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
 Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 
 And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 
 
 Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
 
 Altho' even hope is denied : 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 
 
 Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 
 
 I mourn through the gay, gaudy day. 
 As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 
 
 But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
 For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
 
 T guess by the dear angel smile, 
 
 I guess by the love -rolling e'e ; 
 But why urge the tender confession 
 
 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ? — Jessy ! 
 
 Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
 
 Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
 Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 
 
 And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 
 
 One day Burns strongly solicited Jessy Lewars 
 to play on the piano-forte one of her favorite old 
 Scotch airs, and he promised to compose words to it 
 complimentary to her. The poet was then very far 
 reduced by sickness, and the young lady to oblige 
 him sat down to the instrument. After playing an
 
 78 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 old Scotch air three or four times over, he hummed it 
 awhile, and then in a few minutes he composed the 
 song of " wert tJiou in the cauld blast," which 
 forms the next illustration to show that Burns is the 
 the poet of the beautiful. 
 
 Many years after this little incident took place, 
 when Burns shone a bright star in the galaxy of Tame 
 and the once lovely Jessy Lewars had become an 
 aged widow, this song attracted the attention of Felix 
 Mendelssohn, the great German composer, who was 
 passionately fond of the music of Scotland. He was 
 particularly struck with the beautiful sentiments so 
 well expressed in this song — he saw that it expressed 
 even more than common love — that it displayed the 
 outpourings of a grateful heart — and, in consequence, 
 he married the words to music which he composed, 
 and which breathes the very soul of tragic mourn- 
 fulness. We are indebted, therefore, for this sweet 
 composition to the genius of Burns, the goodness of 
 Jessy Lewars, and the musical talent of Mendelsshon. 
 
 Illnstratton. 
 OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 
 
 Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 
 
 On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
 My plaidie to the angry airt , 
 
 I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; 
 Or did Misfortune's bitter storms 
 
 Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
 Thy beild should be my bosom, 
 
 To share it a', to share to a'.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 79 
 
 Or were I in the wildest waste, 
 
 Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. 
 The desert were a paradise 
 
 If thou wert there, if thou were there : 
 Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
 
 Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
 The brightest jewel in my crown 
 
 Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Burns as the Poet of the Humorous and the Social. 
 
 Having briefly noticed the great power that Burns 
 possessed in depicting the beautiful in creation, we 
 shall now proceed to speak of him as the poet of the 
 Humorous and the Social ; for with the comprehen- 
 sive and varied powers of his genius he could with 
 the greatest facility, as previously observed, pass 
 from " grave to gay," from the deepest pathos to the 
 broadest humour, so as to electrify every social circle 
 with the originality and vividness of his conceptions, 
 and the glowing energy of his eloquence. Whatever 
 the circle he honoured with his presence he was the 
 delight of all, the distinguished " guest of guests," 
 the " bright, particular star" to which every eye was 
 directed, to which every heart paid the homage of 
 admiration. To enjoy the rich strokes of his humour, 
 to catoh the electric flashes of his wit, to hear a man
 
 80 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 " endowed with the most divine power of speech of 
 any Briton of the age," it is stated, that reapers 
 would qait their work, the cobbler would leave 
 his last, the smith his smithy, ostlers and waiters 
 would hurry out of bed, squires would travel for 
 miles, and titled lords and "jewelled duchesses" 
 would invite him to their feasts. 
 
 There was not a man in all Scotland that pos- 
 sessed such conversational powers, or had a kinder 
 heart or a more social disposition than Burns — there 
 was not a man in all Scotland who would not have 
 felt honoured by having him under his roof. But 
 however he might be flattered by the attentions of 
 the titled and the great, it was the peasantry of his 
 own country that most esteemed him for his worth 
 and most honoured him for his genius. He had been 
 born and bred amongst them — he had associated 
 with them — he had felt as they had felt. He had 
 described their joys, their sorrows, and their virtues, 
 and showed that there could be pure holy love and 
 Christian piety beneath the thatched roof of the most 
 humble cotter. As a man they loved him for the 
 generosity of his nature and the independence of his 
 spirit, and as a poet they admired him for the hold 
 which the beauty and truthfulness of his compositions 
 had on their hearts. 
 
 Professor Wilson, when speaking on this subject, 
 eloquently observes, "But who were they in his own 
 country who continued stedfastly to honour his genius 
 and himself ? The men of his own order, the v^orking 
 PEOPLE. Whatever the instruments of their toil, they 
 
 I
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 8l 
 
 patronised hiiii then — they patronise liim now — they 
 would not hurt a hair of his head — they will not hear of 
 any dishonour to his dust — they know full well what 
 it is to endure, to yield, to enjoy, and to suffer, and 
 the memory of their own bard will be honoured for 
 ever among the brotherhood like a religion." 
 
 But to return to the humour and sociability of 
 Burns. No man was ever by nature more highly 
 gifted with these qualities. His sociality was warm 
 and unrestrained, his humour so rich and racy that 
 on all occasions he was " wont to set the table in a 
 roar." 
 
 When Burns was at Edinbro' he was often in- 
 vited to the splendid suppers then given, after the 
 manner of the ancients, by that eccentric noble- 
 man, Lord Monboddo. At one of these entertain- 
 ments a select party was assembled, by hislordship's 
 special invitation, purposely to see and to hear the 
 wonderful ploughman of Kyle. During the repast, 
 which- was magnificent beyond description, his Lord- 
 shij] presided 
 
 " In all the starch formalities of state." 
 His demeanour on the occasion was so distant, so 
 formal, and so aristocratic, that his guests were all 
 nearly awed into complete silence. On the removal 
 of the cloth, the juice of the grape began to circulate 
 in decanters of a Grecian shape, wreathed in flowers ; 
 but not so the genial current in the veins of the warm- 
 hearted Burns. His lordship's deportment was so 
 extremely cold and repulsive, that it seemed to throw 
 an icy frigidity through the atmosphere of the room,
 
 82 THE MINSTRFJLSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 and the whole of the guests feeling its chilling influ- 
 ence, sat demure, and dull, and uncomfortable. At 
 this moment, his Lordship's butler entered the room, 
 and informed him that he was wanted on urgent busi- 
 ness. His lordship immediately rose, and left the com- 
 pany. At that moment, up started Burns, his gene- 
 rous nature bursting the restraint that had been im- 
 posed upon it — up he started with a roguish smile on 
 his face, and in the richest vein of humour, he ex- 
 claimed, " Gentlemen, I rise to propose a toast — 
 here's to his lordship's butler Avho has been so kind 
 as to take him away." It scarcely need be added, 
 that " the feast of reason and the flow of soul" suc- 
 ceeded this spontaneous outburst from the warm 
 heart of the bard who had " whistled at the plough." 
 
 "The poems of Burns," says an elegant writer, 
 " gi'ow up like flowers before the tread, they come 
 like singing birds from the thickets, they grow like 
 clouds in the sky." Of this character is the poem of 
 " Tarn O'Shanter," the masterpiece of Burns, which 
 abounds with the happiest strokes of natural humour, 
 blended with the most beautiful similes, that come 
 " skelpin' rank and file," as though they had been con- 
 ceived by the poet with little or no effort. It is said, 
 that Burns composed this poem in a day — if so, it was 
 an astonishing performance, and fully verifies the 
 observation, " that his ipoemsgreiv like clouds in the 
 sky." 
 
 The broadest strokes, however, of Burns's humour 
 prevail in his satirical pieces, which for biting sarcasm 
 have not yet been equalled. Pope, Churchill, and
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 83 
 
 Byron stand high in the literary world as satirists. 
 But these distinguished bards invariably weilded the 
 weapons of their satire in a spirit of rancour and hos- 
 tility that showed a bad feeling towards those they 
 attacked. Not so Burns. In a manner peculiar to him- 
 self, he points the shafts of his satire with such ironical 
 humour, though sometimes bordering on vulgarity, 
 that they doubly effect their pur]30se. Like a two-edged 
 sword his satire cuts two ways. While he exposes the 
 foibles of those he lashes ; he, at the same time, 
 holds them up to ridicule with an unsparing hand ; 
 and this he j_ does in the most good humoured style. 
 Who can read his poem of "Death and Doctor 
 Hornbook," and his other j^roductions of a similar 
 character, and not admire the quaint and laughter- 
 provoking humour infused into them ? A rich vein 
 of humour also pervades his poetical epistles, which 
 pourtray many pleasing pictures of social friendship 
 and happiness, and display throughout a complete 
 Shaksperian knowledge of liuman character. 
 
 These epistles appear to have been written without 
 any effort, and just according to the mood of mind 
 the j)oet was in when he composed them, and though 
 merely addressed to his rustic friends and associates, 
 unknown to fame, they rank amongst his happiest 
 productions. 
 
 In his first epistle to " Davie," a brother poet, 
 what a fine social spirit is infused into the following 
 stanzas : —
 
 84 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 " But tent me, Davie, ace of hearts I 
 (To say aught less wad wraug the cartes, 
 
 And flatt'ry I detest,) 
 This life has joys for you and I ; 
 And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 
 
 And joys the very best. 
 There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 
 
 The lover an' the frien' ; 
 Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
 And I my darling Jean ! 
 It warms me, it charms me. 
 
 To mention but her name : 
 It heats me, it beets me, 
 At sets me a' on flame ! 
 
 All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
 The smile of love, the friendly tear. 
 
 The sympathetic glow ! 
 Long since, this world's thorny ways. 
 Had numbered out my weary days, 
 
 Had it not been for you ! 
 Fate still has blest me with a friend, 
 ' In every care and ill ; 
 
 And oft a more endearing band, 
 A tie more tender still. 
 It lightens, it brightens 
 
 The teuebrific scene, 
 To meet with, and greet with 
 My Davie or my Jean 1" 
 
 In Burns's first ejiistle to " Lajwaik," another 
 Scotch bard, how strongly his sociality displays itself 
 in the following lines : — 
 
 " Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
 Wha think that bavin's, sense an' grace, 
 E'en love an' friendship should give place 
 
 To catch the plack ! 
 I dimia like to see your face. 
 
 Nor hear your crack.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 85 
 
 But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
 Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
 Who hold your being on the terms 
 
 ' Each aid the others,' 
 Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 
 
 My friends, my brothers." 
 
 Again, in another epistle to " Lapraik," he says, 
 
 " Thou who gies us each guid gift, 
 Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
 Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 
 
 Through Scotland wide, 
 Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 
 
 In a' their pride. 
 
 For thus the royal mandate ran, 
 When first the human race began, 
 * The social, friendly, honest man, 
 
 AVhate'er he be, 
 'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 
 
 An' none but he !' " 
 
 Though such the social nature of Burns, though 
 by his power he could throw a charm around the fes- 
 tive board ; yet, it is rather singular, that he com- 
 posed no more than five or six drinking songs. These 
 songs, however, though connected with convivial 
 sentiments, are far superior to the generality of those 
 written on the same subject, especially the song of 
 " Willie hreiv'd a peek o' maut," which forms the 
 next illustration. 
 
 This song was composed on the occasion of a 
 " house-warming" given by William Nichol, to which he 
 invited his friends Burns and Allan Masterman, a 
 writing master of Edinbro'. Burns, calling to mind
 
 86 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 this event, says, "We liad such a joyous meeting that 
 Masterman and I agreed, each in his own way, to 
 celebrate the business." The " Willie," therefore, who 
 brewed the malt was William Nichol, the " Allan" who 
 composed the air to the production was Allan Master- 
 man, and he who wrote this choicest of convivial 
 songs was Robert Burns. All three were men of supe- 
 rior genius ; but all three, alas, are gone — their heads 
 have long since been laid 
 
 " Under the hillock where the long grass grows." 
 
 Professor Wilson, when commenting on the poe- 
 try of Burns, says, "You cannot look on this song 
 without crying out, ' rare Roh Burns f So far 
 from wishing you to believe that the poet was addicted 
 to drinking, the freshness and fervour of this song 
 convince you that it came out of a healthful heart in 
 the exliiliration of a night that needed not the in- 
 fluence of the flowing bowl." Wordsworth, who was 
 a water drinker, regarded this song with the compla- 
 cency of a philosopher, knowing well that it is all a 
 pleasant exaggeration, and that " had the moon not 
 lost jDatience and gone to bed, she would have seen 
 Eob and Allan on their way back to Ellisland, along 
 the bold banks of the Nith, as steady as a brace of 
 bishops i" 
 
 lUusiralion. 
 O WILLIE BREWED A PECK 0' MAUT. 
 
 Willie brewed a peck o' maut, 
 And Rob and Allan cam to pree, 
 
 Three blyther hearts that lee lang night 
 Ye wadna find in Christendie.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 87 
 
 " We are nae fou, we're nae that fou ! 
 
 But just a drappee in our e'e ; 
 The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
 
 And aye we'll taste the barley bree." 
 
 Here are we met three merry boys, 
 Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 
 
 And mony a night we've merry been, 
 And mony raae we hope to be. 
 
 " We are not fou, &c. 
 
 It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
 
 That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie ; 
 She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 
 
 But, by my troth, she'll wait a wee. 
 " We are nae fou, &c. 
 
 Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
 
 A cuckold, coward loon is he ; 
 Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 
 
 He is the king amang us three ! 
 " We are nae fou, &c. 
 
 As we advance in the pilgrimage of life how fre- 
 quently, with a feeling of pleasure, we recal sweet 
 memories of the past — how frequently, before our 
 mental vision, we bring the scenes of our early yearB, 
 the companions of our former days, the happy hours 
 departed never to return, which once we enjoyed be- 
 fore becoming acquainted with the anxieties and cares 
 of a more matured stage of existence. This feeling, 
 no doubt, the sensitive heart of Burns felt when he 
 conceived the idea of composing the most popular 
 social song in our language. We allude to the song 
 of " Auld Lang Syne,'' which embodying sentiments,
 
 88 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 as it does, so deeply connected with our best affec- 
 tions, will for ever retain its popularity. 
 
 Burns, in a letter to his esteemed friend, Mrs. 
 Dunlop, says, " Is not the Scotch phrase, ' Auld 
 lang syne,' exceedingly expressive ? There is an old 
 song and tune bears this name which has often thrilled 
 through my soul. Light be the turf on the breast of 
 the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
 fragment." In communicating this song to his pub- 
 lisher, he farther remarked, "The following song, an 
 old song of the olden times, and which I have never 
 seen in print, not even in manuscript, until I took it 
 down from an old man's singing, is enough to recom^ 
 mend any air," Allan Cunningham, however, the 
 eminent biographer of Burns, says, "These are strong 
 words ; but there can be no doubt that, save for a line 
 or two, we owe this song, to no other minstrel, than 
 minstrel, Burns." 
 
 lUnstration. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
 
 And never brought to min, 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And days o' lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes 
 
 And pou't the gowans fine ; 
 But we've wandered rnony a weary foot 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, &c. 
 
 I
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIISf. 89 
 
 We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
 
 Frae mornin' sun till dine : 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, &c. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
 And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 
 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 For auld lang syne, &c. 
 
 And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 
 
 And surely I'll be mine ; 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 We'll tak a cup o" kindness yet. 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Influence of Woman on Burns as a 'poet. 
 
 It is said that Burns, like all men of high senti- 
 ment, never loved fully but once. It was the beauty 
 of Mary Campbell that so strongly awakened in his 
 heart the master passion of his nature. Love, and his 
 love for her was pure as it was ardent. The inten- 
 sity of this love he subsequently diffused through the 
 whole of his beautiful love songs, which breathe the 
 very spirit of tenderness. In them he has exalted the 
 character of woman more than any other poet. With 
 the skill of a master he has alike painted the beauty of 
 her mind and the graces of her person, in strains 
 
 M
 
 00 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN, 
 
 varied with " the sweetest hues of expression and the 
 highest turns of thought." Never did poet kneel at 
 the shrine of female loveliness with more devotion — 
 never did poet offer sweeter incense at this shrine, 
 nor wear Love's fetters with a more willing heart than 
 Robert Burns. Other poets in praise of woman may 
 have sung in more lofty strains, but none with more 
 i^ower and sweetness. He worshipped the pure and 
 beautiful in nature ; but, of all God's creations, he 
 worshij)ped woman most. Within his own heart he 
 strongly felt the witchery of her charms, the magic 
 power of her influence, and most truthfully he des- 
 cribed what he felt. 
 
 To show the influence of the gentler sex, Campbell, 
 in his " Pleasures of Hope," thus praises woman : — 
 
 " Without the smile by partial beauty won 
 what were man ? — a world without a sun !" 
 
 And again how highly he praises her in the fol- 
 lowing couplet : — 
 
 " The world was sad, the garden bloomed a wild. 
 And man, the hermit, sighed till woman smiled." 
 
 But what are the sentiments of Burns on the same 
 subject? He gives utterance to them as though a 
 thrill of transport shot through his veins, as though 
 his heart was proud to acknowledge the great ascen- 
 dency which woman's beauty had over it. " 
 woman," he exclaims, " Nature's darling child," 
 
 " Not the poet, in the moment 
 Fancy lightens in his e'e, 
 Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 
 That thy presence gi'es to me !"
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 91 
 
 And then, as though past delights came rushing 
 into his mind, he exclaims 
 
 " The sweetest hours that I ever spend 
 Are spent amang the lasses O !" 
 
 And with the same feeling he thus gives utterance to 
 the following truthful lines : — 
 
 " What signifies the life o' man 
 
 And 'twere na for the lasses !" 
 
 The fact is, Woman was the inspiring muse of 
 Burns. It was her beauty that first awoke the poetic 
 impulse within him. It was the witchery of her 
 charms that enkindled the finer sensibilities of his 
 nature to adore her. In describing her beauty, her 
 form, and her mind, he gave expression to the most 
 pure, the most exalted sentiments. From the mate- 
 rial imagery around him he produced the sweetest 
 poetic similes to depict the graces of her person and 
 the purity of her mind. He compared her charms to 
 every thing beautiful in nature. When he wrote the 
 image of woman appeared to dwell in his mind. " He 
 wrote," Allan Cunningham says, " as though her eye 
 was always upon him." 
 
 " He saw her in the dewy flowers, 
 He saio her sweet and fair, 
 He heard her in the tunefu' birds, 
 He heard her charm the air." 
 
 " Rapture-giving woman," was to him 
 
 " The gust o' joy, the balm o' woe. 
 The soul o' life, the heaven below." 
 
 And speaking on this subject, in one of his poems, 
 he himself humorously acknowledges that
 
 92 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 ".There's a' wee faut tbey whiles lay to me, 
 I like the lasses, Gude foi-gie me !" 
 
 But the best record connected with this subject in 
 the following happy effusion : — 
 
 lUustratiou. 
 
 THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CARE. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Green grow the rashes, ! 
 
 Green grow the rashes, ! 
 The sweetest hours that I e'er sp,end 
 
 Are spent amang the lasses, 0. 
 
 There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
 In every hour that passes, : 
 
 What signifies the life o' man. 
 An' 'twere na for the lasses, 0. 
 
 The warly race may riches chase, 
 An' riches still may fly them, ; 
 
 An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. 
 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 My arms about my dearie, ; 
 
 An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
 May a' gae tapsalteerie, 0. 
 
 For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 
 
 The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 
 He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. 
 
 Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classess, 0, 
 
 Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man. 
 An' then she made the lasses, 0. 
 
 Green grow, &c.
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 93 
 
 This song is worth a hundred dull homilies in 
 praise of woman. While Burns thus elevates the fair sex 
 he shows his admiration of them. In a letter to Thom- 
 son, his publisher, he says, " Whenever I want to he 
 more than ordinary in song, I put myself in the regi- 
 men of admiring a fine woman, and proportion to the 
 adorability of her charms, in proportion you are de- 
 lighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is 
 the godhead of Pai'nassus, and the witchery of her 
 smiles the divinity of Helicon." One of his happiest 
 productions, "John Anderson, my jo," forms an ex- 
 ception to this rule. This composition displays no 
 impassioned strains that evince the " pulse's madden- 
 ing play," no thrilling relation of a lover's transports 
 "amang the rigs o' barley," nor yet the "heart-felt 
 rapture" of a 
 
 " Youthful, happy pair, 
 In other's arms, breathing out the tender tale 
 Beneath the milk-white thom that scents the evening gale." 
 
 But he presents to us a picture of a happy pair, en- 
 joying domestic peace and happiness, even in the 
 decline of life, by 
 
 " The blink o' their ain fireside." 
 
 In fancy we behold "John Anderson" and his aged 
 partner seated together, bringing to recollection the 
 " days o' lang syne." John we may imagine, who was 
 once so trim from " tap to toe," still looks fresh and 
 hale as an ancient oak, though seventy summers have 
 passed over his head. Thus seated, we may conceive 
 how wistfully his old dame surveys his features, as
 
 94 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 fondly she brings to mind the happy time when they 
 were " first acquent," the time when his " locks were 
 like the raven," and his " bonnie brow was brent." 
 On hearing these words we may fancy how the old 
 man's face mantles with a smile. In tender strain 
 she then continues — 
 
 " But now your brow is bald, John, 
 Your locks are like tbe snaw, 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 John Anderson, my jo. " 
 
 In the next stanza she again reverts to the past. 
 She reminds him of the time when they " clamb the 
 hill thegither" and of the " canty days" they had en- 
 joyed, and then serenely looking through the vista of 
 the future, she thus gives expression to her feelings : 
 
 "We nowmauQ totter down, John, 
 But hand in hand we'll go — " 
 
 And then, as though even Death itself should not 
 part them, she tenderly adds — 
 
 " We'll sleep thegither at the foot, 
 John Anderson, my jo." 
 
 No lyric in our language surpasses this in beauty 
 and tenderness. Every word, every sentiment it 
 breathes, bears the impress of Burns's genius, and 
 like an evergreen in the variegated garden of Poesy 
 it will ever retain its freshness and fragrance.
 
 MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 95 
 
 lUnstration. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent ; 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 John Anderson my jo, John, 
 
 We clarab the hill thegither ; 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go ; 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson my jo. 
 
 In praise of woman Burns is considered the most 
 truthful of all poets. Her beauty is the Alpha and 
 Omega of his poems. The influence which her attrac- 
 tions had on his heart j)ervades the greater part of 
 them. When he was " beardless, young, and blate," 
 as he himself expressed, it was the beauty of a be- 
 witching girl, his partner in the harvest field, that 
 first awoke in his breast the emotions of Love. Al- 
 luding to this, in one of his poems, he exclaims, 
 
 " I see her yet, the sonsie queen, 
 That lighted up my jingle, 
 Hev witching smile, her pauky e'en, 
 That gart my heart-strings tingle."
 
 96 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 It was in praise of this " sonsie queen," with her 
 " witching smile," that he first struck his rustic harp, 
 whose strings he afterwards swept with such wonder- 
 ful power and sweetness, and which he swept for the 
 last time when he comi^osed the following song in 
 honour of Miss Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of 
 Devon : — 
 
 lllustralion. 
 
 FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 
 
 Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
 
 Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
 Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
 
 And smile as thou were wont to do ? 
 Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear I 
 Could't thou to malice lend an ear? 
 1 did not love exclaim " Forbear, 
 Nor use a faithful lover so." 
 
 Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
 Those wonted smiles let me share, 
 And by beauteous self I swear. 
 
 No love but thine my heart shall know, 
 Fairest maid on Devon banks. 
 
 Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
 Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
 
 And smile as thou were wont to do ! 
 
 These stanzas were the last that Burns produced. 
 He composed them only a few days before his death, 
 as his thoughts reverted to early days. His once 
 robust frame was then emaciated, his hopes were fled, 
 his prospects blighted, and his heart, as he said, was 
 "weak as a woman's tear," at the thought of leaving
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 97 
 
 his wife, then near confinement, and his four chil- 
 dren helpless orphans. Speaking on this subject, 
 in a letter to a friend, he says, "Alas, my friend, I 
 fear the voice of the bard will never be heard among 
 you any more. You actually would not know ine if 
 you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occa- 
 sionally to need help from a chair. And the worst 
 of the matter is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, 
 his salary is- reduced to ^635 instead of ^£50. What 
 way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, 
 and keep a horse in country quarters, with a wife and 
 five children, on £35. I mention this, because I had 
 intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all 
 the friends you can muster, to move our commis- 
 sioners of excise to grant me the full salary ; I dare 
 say you know them personally. If they do not grant 
 it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly en 
 poiite ; if I die not of disease, I must perish with 
 hunger." 
 
 What sad forebodings were these to " Scotland's 
 proudly-gifted peasant son," the man who was an 
 honour to her, and who had been feasted and idolised 
 at the tables of her nobility. Poor Burns, the brightest 
 genius Scotland ever produced, the greatest man of 
 the age in which he lived, was afraid — yes, we have 
 his own words for it — was afraid of perishing ivith 
 hunger.' How cheerless, how pitiable, alas, must then 
 have been his condition ! Yet for all this the manly 
 spirit of Burns never sank, his fortitude never gave 
 way ; but, as the sand of his existence was i-apidly 
 running out, his genius, triumphing over the pressure 
 
 N
 
 \)S THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 of poverty and the loss of strength, shone, to the very 
 last, in all its glorious brightness, until at length 
 "stern Kuin's plough-share" crushed him "beneath 
 the furrow's weight," and his melodious harp became 
 silent for ever. 
 
 " Mourn, guilty Scotland, mourn ! 
 Bow to the dust in widow'd shame — 
 Hide thee in sackcloth, with dishevelled hair : 
 But wreathe around the urn of Bums 
 No mournful yew — the laughing thorn, his claim, 
 Twined with harebell and daisy let him wear." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 On the Nationality and Independence of Burns, 
 
 If there is one thing which distinguishes the 
 people of Scotland more than any other people 
 in the world it is their nationality. An ai'dent 
 attachment to his native land, and to every thing 
 associated with it, is a feeling which 
 
 " Grows with the growth, and strengthens with the strength" 
 
 Of every true son of Caledonia. This feeling takes 
 deep root in his heart, he loves to cherish it wherever 
 he moves and has his being. When far away in a 
 distant land how often the well-known carols of Sums 
 beguiles his time and recals^ 
 
 " The scenes that blessed him when a child," 
 
 II
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 99 
 
 And his heart, dwelling on the past, 
 
 " Glows and gladdens at the charms 
 Of Scotia's v/oods and waterfalls." 
 
 The popular ballad of "Annie Laurie" was the 
 favorite ditty of our Highland regiments when serving 
 in the Crimea. These kilted warriors frequently be- 
 guiled the tedious hours there by singing this ballad. 
 They sang it on the tented field as well as in the mid- 
 night trenches before Sebastopol, as their thoughts pro- 
 bably reverted to their beloved country and its dear 
 associations, for whether at home or abroad these 
 regiments never lose their nationality — 
 
 " Wherever they wander, wherever they rove, 
 The hills of the highlands they dearly love." 
 
 And such was the feeling that burned in the breast of 
 Burns. Scotland never produced a man who had 
 this feeling more intensely in his nature. Burns was 
 a Scotchman to the backbone. His heart was in his 
 country. His soul idolized every thing that belonged 
 to it. His love for her is photographed in his poems. 
 The scenes he describes in them are all entirely 
 Scottish. His Muse, in no single instance, ever 
 sought foreign lands for a subject. His nationality, 
 therefore, shines conspicuously throughout the whole 
 of his productions. He was proud of the Scottish 
 name, and he gloried in being a Scotchman. No man 
 could be more proud of the country that gave him 
 birth. He was proud of her ancient heroes, of her 
 heroic achievements, and her glorious struggles to 
 maintain her independence. He loved to pay homage
 
 100 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 to her departed minstrels, he loved her music, her 
 '' bonnie banks and braes," her heather-clad moun- 
 tains, and every thing which added to her glory, to 
 her honour, and to her happiness as a nation. It was 
 this love that prompted him to turn " the weeder 
 clips aside," and spare the " rough burr thistle" for 
 the symbol's sake. It was this love that bound his 
 very soul to Scotland, and gave immortality to his 
 compositions ; for 
 
 ^' Dear to him was Scotland, 
 In her sons and in her daughters, 
 In her Highlands— Lowlands — Islands, 
 Eegal woods and rushing waters; 
 In the glory of her stor3' 
 When her tai-tans fired the field ! 
 Scotland ! oft betrayed— heleagur'd — 
 Scotland ! never known to yield ! 
 Dear to him her Doric language, 
 Thrill'd liis heart-strings at her name, 
 And he left her more than rubies 
 In the riches of his fame ! " 
 
 The nationality of Burns was never more strongly 
 evinced than when he first passed from Scottish on 
 to English ground. Immediately on doing this, he 
 threw off his hat, and kneeling down and looking 
 towards Scotland, he thus, with uplifted hands, 
 solemnly exclaimed — 
 
 " Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
 And ! may heaven their simple lives prevent
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 101 
 
 From luxury's coutagion , weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much lov'd Isle." 
 
 In the moment of enthusiastic ardour, and in this 
 romantic manner, did Burns, with liis patriotic heart, 
 evince his love for old Scotia and her " hardy sons of 
 russet toil" for whom he breathed this prayer, so truly 
 noble and poetical. How beautiful and full of nation- 
 ality is the following production : — 
 
 Illustration. 
 CALEDONIA. 
 
 llieir groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
 
 Where briglit-beaming summers exalt tlie perfume ; 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
 
 Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom ; 
 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
 
 Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 
 For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
 
 A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 
 
 Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
 
 And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
 Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 
 
 What are they ? — The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 
 The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
 
 The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
 He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
 
 Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 
 
 We shall now turn to the independence of Burns, 
 a quality he possessed to so remarkable a degree as
 
 102 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 apjjeared at times to border on extravagance. It is said 
 that no man ever jjrided himself more on the inde- 
 pendence of his character. 
 
 In dedicating his poems to the noblemen and 
 gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, he says, "Though 
 much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach 
 you, my Lords and gentlemen, in the usual style of 
 dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path 
 is so hacknied by prostituted learning that honest 
 rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this ad- 
 dress with the venal soul of a servile author, looking 
 for a continuation of these favours. I was bred to 
 the plough, and am independent.'" Thus spake the 
 brave heart of Burns — " I was bred to the plough, 
 and am independent." His soul disdained cringing 
 to obtain mercenary favours — his heart scorned to 
 prostitute his genius by fulsome adoration— his spirit 
 soared above such degradation. Burns was a man, 
 and despised lowering the dignity of his manhood. 
 He looked on all men as " brothers of the earth," no 
 matter what position they occupied. He believed, 
 and he was correct in his belief, that 
 
 " Worth makes the man, the want of it the fellow, 
 The rest is all but leather and prunella," 
 
 And that it is 
 
 " Man's inhumanity to man, 
 Makes the countless thousands mourn." 
 
 In one of his letters to a friend. Burns, when 
 speaking on this subject, says, " What signify the 
 silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 103 
 
 of greatness. When fellow partakers of the same 
 nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence 
 of heart ; the same nobleness of soul, the same detes- 
 tation of every thing dishonest, and the same scorn 
 of every thing unworthy ; if they are not in the de- 
 pendance of absolute beggary, in the name of com- 
 mon sense are they not equals ? And if the bias, the 
 instinctive bias of their souls were the same way, why 
 may they not be friends ? These were the thoughts of 
 Burns. He was the poet of Independence. His poems, 
 therefore, contain no servile ideas. 
 
 " Nurstin the peasant's lowly shed, 
   To hardy independence bravely bred, 
 
 He scorned to be " the servile, mercenary Swiss of 
 Rhymes." Rather than my character should be thus 
 branded, he indignantly exclaims, in a poetical epistle 
 to Robert Graham, Esq., let 
 
 " My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
 The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more ; 
 " On eighteen pence a week I've lived before." 
 
 But though his race on earth was brief, though the 
 path he trod was dark, and though " hungry ruin" 
 too often " had him in the wind ;" yet 
 
 " He kept his honesty and truth, 
 
 His independent tongue and pen. 
 And moved in manhood and in youth, 
 Pride of his fellow men. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, 
 
 A hate of tyrant, and of knave, 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
 
 Of coward and of slave ;
 
 104 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 A kind true heart, a spirit high, 
 
 That could not fear, that could not bow, 
 
 Were written in his manly eye, 
 And on his manly brow." 
 
 The noblest Ode to Independence in our lan- 
 guage is " A mans a man for a that." Burns believed 
 that this production contained " two or three good 
 thoughts inverted into rhyme." Every verse, how- 
 ever, of this poem glows with gems from the mine 
 of Truth, and shows that in intelligence and ex- 
 tended views of humanity Burns was a century in 
 advance of the age in which he lived. In this effu- 
 sion, which will live while there is a spirit, of inde- 
 pendence in the heart of man, he scans, with the eye 
 of a seer, the vista of the future, and prophecies the 
 " Good time coming," when 
 
 " Sense and worth o'er a' the earth 
 
 May bear the gree and a' that; 
 For a' that and a' that. 
 
 Its coming yet for a' that. 
 That man to man the warld o'er 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Concluding Remarks. 
 
 The great soul of Burns quitted its mortal frame 
 in the morning of the 25th of July, 1797, in the 
 thirty -seventh year of his age. Though lie died in 
 extreme poverty, yet he owed no one a shilling. 
 
 i
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 105 
 
 When looking back on his brief, eventful career, how 
 mucli we find to admire, how much to pity and cen- 
 sure. He had his faults, he had his failings ; but 
 who is there in these respects that is blameless ? While 
 we learn, then, to profit by avoiding his failings, let 
 us cherish in remembrance his virtues, and do honour 
 to one who weighed the " inborn worth of man," and 
 
 made 
 
 " Kustic life and poverty- 
 Grow beautiful beneath his touch." 
 
 That Burns had many failings he himself in his 
 poems frequently admits with sorrow ; but, it is now 
 generally acknowledged that they have been much, 
 very much exaggerated. The greatest of his failings 
 was want of prudence in managing his own aflFairs. 
 But whatever they were, the noble qualities of his 
 nature shone out like bright stars in his character. 
 These qualities were a glorious intellect, a magnani- 
 mous moral nature, a strong religious element within 
 him, a generous manly heart, and an honourable 
 mind that scorned to commit a mean and selfish 
 action. But it is boldly asserted by some that Burns 
 with all his intellectual endowments was at best little 
 else than an habitual drunkard. Those who go so 
 far as to assert this, cannot, we think, possess a 
 general knowledge of his character and writings. Mr. 
 Findlater, many years superintendent of Burns as an 
 excise officer, when defending his character against 
 the base aspersions then cast upon it, says, " I have 
 seen Burns in all his various phases — in his convivial 
 moments, in his scJber moods, and in the bosom of his 
 

 
 1 06 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 family, and I never beheld any thing like the gross 
 enormities with which he has been charged — with his 
 family, I will venture to say, he never ivas seen other- 
 ivise than as attentive and affectionate in a high 
 degree." This we believe to be the case, for during 
 the latter part of his life at Dumfries, how did he 
 employ himself ? Most assuredly not like a drunkard. 
 A great portion of his time he spent in educating 
 his sons in the rudiments of knowledge — he was 
 editing, at the same time, a new edition of his works, 
 corresponding daily with the most distinguished 
 ladies and learned men of Scotland — writing the best 
 songs ever penned, and sending them gratuitously by 
 dozens for insertion in Thomson's Musical Museum — 
 and moreover discharging, in an exemplary man- 
 ner, the onerous duties of an exciseman, in which 
 occupation he was in the habit of riding two hundred 
 miles a week ! What man, we ask, doing so great an 
 amount of mental and bodily labour could be a drun- 
 kard ? The question requires no answer. But the fame 
 of Burns has outlived the malice of his calumnia- 
 tors. His worth as a man has risen in public estima- 
 tion, and his renown as a poet has extended to all 
 parts of the globe. 
 
 How strongly, how universally was this manifested 
 on the memorable twenty-fifth of January, 1859, 
 when the centenary of his birth was so enthusias- 
 tically celebrated. With one generous impulse, 
 wherever the English language was spoken, thousands 
 and tens of thousands then met to do homage to his 
 memory. Never before vras poet so honoured. The
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 107 
 
 mightiest potentate, the greatest conqueror never 
 received so general and so warm-hearted an ovation. 
 Well might the two sons of Bm'ns as they sat that 
 day at the banquet of glory with the nobles and lite- 
 rati of Scotland — well might they be proud of their 
 illustrious father, and rejoice to think that justice 
 had at last been accorded to his worth and genius. At 
 the glorious gatherings in celebration of this day the 
 failings of the bard were all forgotten — his virtues and 
 poetic power only remembered — and now, looking at 
 the bright side of his character, it may truly be said, 
 that " Take him for all in all he was one of the noblest 
 specimens of humanity." 
 
 Burns was a member of the Dumfries volunteers 
 when he died ; he was, therefore, buried with all the 
 pomp of military honours. The late Allan Cun- 
 ningham, who was an eye-witness of the funeral, 
 beautifully observes, in his life of Burns, that " all 
 the military array of foot and horse did not harmo- 
 nise either with the genius or the fortunes of the poet, 
 and that the tears which he saw on many cheeks 
 around, as the earth was replaced, were worth all the 
 splendour of a show which mocked with unintended 
 mockery the burial of the poor and neglected Burns." 
 " As a poet," says Professor Wilson, "he may be 
 placed amongst the highest order of human beings 
 who have benefitted their race by the expressions of 
 noble sentiment and glorious thoughts. From his 
 inexhaustible fancy, warmed by the sunshine of his 
 own heart, he strewed along the weary ways of the 
 world flowers so beautiful that even to eyes that
 
 108 THE MINSTRELSY OF BRITAIN. 
 
 weep — that are familiar with tears — they look as if 
 they were flowers droj^ped from heaven. Burns is 
 the poet of the people. They loved him when living, 
 they mourned for him when dead. They felt that they 
 had lost their greatest man, and it is no exaggeration 
 to say, that Scotland was saddened on the day of his 
 funeral. It is seldom that tears are ever shed close 
 to the grave beyond the inner circle that narrows it 
 round, but that day there were tears in the eyes of 
 many far off at work, and that night there was silence 
 in thousands of cottages that had so often heard his 
 songs." 
 
 " Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! 
 That couldst alternately impart 
 Wisdom and rapture in thy page, 
 And brand each vice with satire strong, 
 Whose lines ai'e mottoes of the heart, 
 Whose truths electrify the sage. '   
 
 Farewell, and ne'er may Envy dare 
 To wing one baleful poison drop 
 From the crushed laurels of thy bust ; 
 But while the lark sings sweet in air, 
 Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, 
 To bless the spot that holds thy dust."
 
 LINES TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR, 
 
 And spoken hij him at the Stockton Centenary Dinner 
 in honour of Burns. 
 
 Soul of th' immortal Burns ! old Scotia's pride ! 
 " Who walked in glory by the mountain's side," 
 Where Coila found thee, by thy numbers led. 
 And smiling bound the holly round thy head ! 
 O soul of Burns ! to whom was kindly given, 
 Th' inspired light that only comes from heaven. 
 This night, to honour thee, we come not here, 
 T' embalm thy memory with a trickling tear ; 
 But come with social hearts, in revelry. 
 To spend, sweet bard, a mental hour with thee. 
 And celebrate with songs thy natal day, 
 After one hundred years have rolled away.
 
 110 
 
 Time was, when Feeling fled the tuneful throng, 
 When mawkish verse usurped the realms of Song, 
 And babbling poets sang in senseless strains 
 Of love-sick shepherds on Arcadian plains. 
 Where every Strephon, when his Phoebe frowned, 
 Made all the rocks with Phoebe's name resound : 
 But Burns arose, and scanning Nature's page. 
 He spurned the puling ditties of the age ; 
 Truth for his polar star, he seized the lyre, 
 And once more gave us sparks of Nature's fire ! 
 Whate'er his theme, so varied were his powers, 
 He beautified it with poetic flowers 
 In manly verse — his constant, dearest plan 
 To raise the inborn dignity of man, 
 To teach with lessons sage all human kind. 
 And Independence plant in every mind. 
 
 How sweet his song when Love inspired the strain, 
 How broad his Humom- when in hapj)y vein. 
 How keen his Satire, how each arrow hit. 
 Pointed with withering Kidicule and Wit ! 
 What Wisdom shines in "man was made to mourn," 
 How grand the battle Ode of Bannock-burn, 
 Where every thought defies a tyrant's aim. 
 And every marshalled word is winged with flame !
 
 Ill 
 
 Scotland, Queen of Song ! to Burns so dear, 
 Well may thy hardy sons his name revere, * 
 
 And love the Land that could in him give birth 
 To so much genius, sense, and sterling worth ; 
 For States may fade, and Empires fall by turns. 
 Ere Nature moulds again another Burns. 
 
 Farewell, dear bard ! sweet lyrist of the heart ! 
 High priest of Song, that can rich joys impart ! 
 While Truth and Nature have the power to charm. 
 While Love can prompt a passion pure and warm. 
 And Scottish breasts with Scotland's deeds are fired. 
 Thy matchless lays will live and be admired ! 
 
 Farewell, sweet bard, who mourned the daisy's fate, 
 And in thy bloom fell 'neath the furrow's weight ; 
 Though this thy lot, yet still in every clime, 
 As ages hasten down the steep of Time, 
 Allied to genius will descend thy name. 
 The best and sweetest lyrist on the page of Fame.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS, 
 
 STOCKTON. 
 
 Mr. John Alderson, Messrs. Faber & Wilson's office 
 Mr. John Alderson, goods manager 
 Mr. George Allan, painter 
 Mr. William Allan, collector 
 Mr. John Addinell 
 
 Edward D'Oyley Bayley, Esq. 
 
 Mr. John Barker, auctioneer 
 
 Mr. George Barnes, clerk 
 
 Mr. Frederick Bell, chemist 
 
 Mr. James Bell, pork dealer 
 
 Mr. F. J. H. Bellringer, clerk 
 
 Mr. G. Y. Blair, engineer 
 
 Mr. Thomas Bowron, builder 
 
 Mr. J. B. Robson, Mr. Dodds's office 
 
 Mr. C. S. Booth, hosier 
 
 Mr. James Brown, iron founder 
 
 Mr. John Brotherton, clerk 
 
 Mr. William Bolam, professor of music 
 
 jMr. A. Brittain, clerk, 2 copies 
 
 Joshua Byers, Esq. 
 
 Mr. Miles Cadle, ironmonger 
 Mr. William Clephan, joiner 
 Mr. John Clephan, grocer 
 Mr. Robert Clennett, painter 
 Mr. Samuel Crummack, fitter 
 
 Mr. John Dent, joiner 
 
 Mr. T. P. Dickenson, Jun., clerk 
 
 Mr. John Danby, commercial traveller, 2 copies
 
 114 
 
 Mr. Lampson Eden, hair dresser 
 
 John Farquharson, Esq., surgeon 
 
 Mr. Henry Fawcus, timber merchant 
 
 Wm. Foss, Esq., surgeon 
 
 Mrs. Foul stone 
 
 Mr. John*Fowler, engineer 
 
 Mr. Gear, painter 
 
 Mr. K. T. Hall, timber merchant, 2 copies 
 „ James Heald, 3, Nelson-street 
 „ John Hind, Jun., plumber 
 „ Thomas Hind, printer 
 „ T. W. Hornsby, auctioneer 
 „ Eobert Higgenbottam, tinner 
 
 Mr. Aleck II ey, joiner 
 „ J. P. Jewson, music dealer 
 „ R. J. Jackson, currier 
 „ Jones, hatter 
 
 Mr. Ketton, miller 
 „ Charles Kirton, Gazette Office 
 
 Mr. Henry Linton, joiner 
 „ Robert Lowe, 101, High-street 
 
 Mr. John Maddison, brass founder 
 
 „ Robert Maw, draper 
 
 „ R. T. Mellanby, grocer 
 Miss Ann Mellanby 
 Mr. John Miller, contractor 
 Mrs. Moses, George inn 
 
 Mr. George Manners, publican, 2 copies 
 „ William Marshall, harbour master 
 „ Thomas Nelson, builder 
 ,, J. Noad, engraver 
 
 Richard Ord, Esq., 2 copies 
 
 Mr. Patterson, reporter " Darlington Times" 
 ,, Johnson Pickering, saddler 
 
 I
 
 115 
 
 Mrs. Plews 
 
 Mr. John Porter, publican 
 
 Mr. Kobert Taylor Band, clerk 
 
 „ George Eaine, milk dealer, 2 copies 
 William Kichardson, Esq., surgeon, 2 copies 
 Thomas Richmond, Esq. 
 Mr. Thomas Richlieu, tailor 
 
 „ Abel Roberts, publican 
 
 „ Thomas Rose, engineman 
 
 ,, William Robinson, clerk 
 
 „ Thomas Robinson, grocer 
 
 ,, Routledge, Messrs. Close & Co.'s Office 
 
 „ Rose, joiner, 2 copies 
 
 The Rev. Robert Spears 
 
 Mr. J. A. Sanders, druggist, 2 copies 
 
 ,, Henry Sanderson, saddler 
 
 ,, William Scaife, tailor 
 
 „ William Sharp, clerk 
 
 „ William Smith, fitter 
 
 ,, W. D. Smith, upholsterer 
 
 „ Thomas Swenson, Bishopton Lane 
 
 „ John Simpson, middle-street 
 William Simpson, Esq., wine merchant, 2 copies 
 
 Mr. Robert Taylor, clerk 
 
 ,, "J. G. Thompson, solicitor 
 Charles Trotter, Esq., 2 copies 
 
 Mr. William Walton, Sen., earthenware dealer 
 „ Thomas Walton, Stockton Saw Mill 
 „ Young Walton, do. 2 copies 
 
 „ W. J. Watson, clerk 
 
 John Hansell Wren, Esq., 2 copies 
 
 Thomas Wren, Jun., Esq., 2 copies 
 
 Mr. J. W- Wilson, painter 
 ,, Francis Wetherall, joiner 
 
 Robert Coruey Weatherill, Esq. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Woolman, bookbinder, 2 copies 
 ,, Byron Webber, rei^orter, 2 copies 
 „ William Wilson, tailor
 
 IIG 
 
 SOUTH STOCKTON. 
 
 Mr. James Bowron, bottle works 
 
 ,, B. R. Smith, tallow chandler 
 
 „ John Whalley, pottery 
 Mr. William Wise, Saw Mill, 2 copies 
 
 DURHAM. 
 
 Mr. John Reed Appleton, F. S. A., Western hill, 
 10 copies 
 
 Charles Ashton, New North Road 
 George Gradon, Western hill 
 William Hutchinson, Western hill 
 John Morton, 2, South-street 
 Henry Reaveley, 10, Elvet Bridge 
 William Shadforth, New North Road 
 Samuel Richardson Vann, 3, Saddler-street 
 Charles Felgate White, 1, Saddler-street 
 Thomas Thompson 
 
 NEWCASTLE. 
 
 Mr. J. H. Bell, 22, Blandford-street 
 A. H. Burdo, Esq. 
 Mr. John Brewis, 28, Groat Market 
 Miss A. Cleugh, Wesley Terrace 
 Mr. J. Cochrane, Sunderland-street 
 
 „ John Chattaway, decorative artist 
 
 „ Cuthbert Edwards 
 
 „ J. W. Fletcher 
 
 „ J. Greener 
 Henry Gilpin, Esq. author of the " Massacre of the 
 
 Bards and other Poems" 
 W. W. Smith, Esq. 
 J. Harrison, Esq. 
 Mr. Henry Hayton, Wesley Terrace 
 
 „ Alexander Nevins 
 
 „ William Robson 
 W. Ross, Esq., Blandford-street 
 W. W. Smith, Esq. 
 Mr. William Simpson
 
 117 
 
 Mr. John Waters, Wellington Hotel 
 Miss Barbara Wcddell 
 „ Alice Wedclell 
 
 NORTON. 
 
 John Hogg, Esq. 
 Charles Swain, Esq. 
 Mr. John Wilkinson 
 
 ,, R. P. Seymour 
 
 ,, E. Richardson, porter merchant 
 
 YARM. 
 
 George Williams, Esq., solicitor 
 Mr. Joseph Ramsey 
 
 MIDDLESBRO. 
 
 Mr. J. A. Anderson 
 
 Burns's Literary and Benevolent Club 
 
 Mr. Charles Bell, draper 
 
 „ William Burnett 
 
 ,, Richard Coates 
 
 „ James Cawthorn 
 
 „ James Duncan 
 
 „ Thomas Davies 
 Edward Gilkes, Esq. 
 Mr.- William Gillespie 
 
 „ William Garbutt, Jun. 
 
 „ Alexander Johnson 
 
 ,, Thomas Lincoln 
 
 „ James Miller 
 
 ,, Richard Potter 
 
 „ W. Petchell 
 
 „ W. Surridge 
 
 „ William Saite 
 
 ,, Thomas Sanderson 
 
 „ John Taylor 
 
 HARTLEPOOL. 
 Mr. John Procter, bookseller, 2 copies
 
 118 
 
 Mr. Jon. Garbatt 
 „ J. E. Eobson 
 „ C. Hoggett 
 „ A. S. Orton, Reporter " Hartlepool Mercury 
 
 WEST HARTLEPOOL. 
 
 Mr. Dalziel, dyer, 12 copies 
 
 „ T. J. Taylor, music teacher 
 Miss Watson, Arches-street 
 
 DARLINGTON. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Watson, author of the " Ruin and other 
 
 Poems," 2 copies 
 Mr. Thomas Turner, King's Head inn 
 
 John Thomas Abbott, Rose Villa 
 
 Anthony Dinsdale 
 
 William Watson 
 
 Richard Benson 
 
 Andrew Common 
 
 E. P. Elgie 
 
 George Brigham 
 
 Nicholas Bragg 
 
 John Bousfield 
 
 Thomas Robinson 
 
 ESCRICK PARK, Yorkshire. 
 
 Mr. C. Abbott, 2 copies 
 Mrs, Chambers 
 
 ALFRETON, Derbyshire. 
 
 Mr. Richard Burbeck, railway works 
 James Cox, railway works 
 Samual Rowbottom, stationer 
 James Rowbottom, ironmonger 
 George Siddell, surgeon 
 Joseph Siddell, assistant surgeon 
 Alexander Smith, railway works 
 John Smith, Croft Head, Kinniemiar, Scotland
 
 119 
 
 Miss Isabella Smith, Devonrove, Scotland 
 Mr. Alexander Wilton, ironworks, 2 copies 
 
 WINDEKMERE, Cumberland. 
 
 Miss Sarah Burgess, Storrs Hall, 2 copies 
 Mr. Heesom, Storrs Hall 
 
 GAINFORD. 
 
 Mr. Bowman, Gainford Academy, 12 copies 
 Miss Jane Hardy 
 
 LEITH. 
 
 Mr. John James Liindy, E. G. S. Primrose Bank 
 Mrs. J. J. Lundy, do. 
 
 EDINBRO'. 
 
 Mrs. Young, Fountain Bridge 
 Mary Ann Young, do. 
 
 MANCHESTER. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Hutton, bookbinder, Manchester 
 
 „ Isaac Bowes, accountant, Manchester 
 Miss S. A, Higgenbottam, Walkden School House, 
 Worsley, near Manchester 
 
 STOKESLEY. 
 
 Mr, George Tweddell, author of " Shakspere and his 
 
 contemporaries" 
 Master George Tweddell, painter 
 
 LEEDS. 
 
 Mr. J. T. Beer, Briggatc, Leeds 
 ., William Garhind, North -street
 
 120 
 
 VARIOUS PLACES. 
 
 Mr. Adkinson, civil engineer. Era Place, Soung lane, 
 Battersea, Loudon, 2 copies 
 „ Edwin Avery, Trafalgar Cottage, Cheltenham, 
 
 6 copies 
 „ William Bowkett, Hop Market Hotel, Worcester 
 
 Mrs. Briggs, Bishopton 
 
 Mr. Edward Capern, author of " Songs and Ballads," 
 Bideford, Devonshire 
 „ John Forster, draper, Barnardcastle 
 
 Frederick Hill, Esq., Birmingham 
 
 Mr. John Anthony Benson, Portrack House 
 
 Miss Lucy Lovell, Naferton, near Driffield 
 
 Mr. Johnson, Temperance advocate, Middleton -one- 
 Row 
 „ William Parker, Percy- street, Hull 
 
 Mr. Parkin, Prospect Terrace, Dronfield, near Shef- 
 field, Yorkshire 
 
 Mrs. Parkin, do. 
 
 Messrs. Parsons, Fletcher, & Co. Bread-street, 
 London 
 
 Mr. William Reynolds, East-street, London Road, 
 Leicester 
 „ Thomas Simpson, 12, Holmside, Sunderland 
 5 copies 
 
 Miss Spencer, Lough Rews, Ireland 
 
 Mrs. Simpson, Petersham, near Richmond, Surrey 
 
 Mr. Harwood Simjoson, Stratford, Essex 
 
 Master H. H. Simpson, do. 
 
 Mr. Robert Sanderson, tailor, Kildale, Yorkshire 
 
 Joseph Wren, Esq. Boston, 2 copies 
 
 Mr. David Wilson Barker, Melksham, Wiltshire 
 ,, Alfred Watt, Guisbro' 
 
 HENBY HEAVISIDES, PRINTER, STOCKTON.
 
 To be had of the Author, i, Finkle-street, Stockton, 
 
 or sent post-free, 
 PRICE 2s. OlI., in cloth, GILT, WITH FRONTISPIECE 
 
 BY DORRINGTON, 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF HOME 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 BY HENRY HEAVISIDES. 
 
 Opinions of the Press, dc. on the Work. 
 
 " The volume befoi-e us is from the pi'ess as well as the pen of 
 Mr. Henry Heavisides, of Stockton, and we have pleasure in 
 noticing the fact that as a product of the typographer's art, it is as 
 commendable a production as are its literary beauties honorable 
 to the author's taste and genius. No one can read the productions 
 of his pen without i-ecognising poetic beauties of a high character, 
 and acknowledging the presence of great moral as well as imagina- 
 tive power." — Hartlepool Mercury. 
 
 " Mr. Heavisides "twangs the homely lyre" most musically, and 
 proves himself an earnest-minded, warm-hearted, and cheei'ful 
 poet of the hearth. His thoughts are manly, generous, and well- 
 oxpressed. The occasional indulgence of a humorous vein brings 
 out another amiable trait of the poet's character, and gives to his 
 verse the charm of variety. The " Pleasures of Home" is a book 
 worthy of any table, and pi'inted as a good book should be." — 
 Darlington Times. 
 
 " The Pleasures of Home contains some very gentle scenes and 
 touching features, more particularly those parts which are drawn 
 from the poet's own heart and copied from his own obser- 
 vations. Other bards have showered more bitter execrations 
 on conquei'ors and despots, but few have sung with truer 
 knowledge, or in more moving strains, the sweets of the domestic 
 hearth or of the faces that gladden it." — Allan Cunningham. 
 
 " The muse of Mr. Heavisides is from the flowery region of 
 Parnassus — she has drank at the spring of Helicon. A proper 
 appreciation of the poet's calling pervades the pictures he has 
 pleasingly coloured; not, perhaps, so richly as faithfully. He 
 pleases the mind and touches the heart, and no one can read 
 the poem without pleasure and awarding to the author the poet's 
 meed." — Stockton Herald. 
 
 To he had also of the same Publisher, the 
 
 Poetical & Prose Remains of Edward Marsh Heavisides, 
 Price 2s. 6d. post 8vo. bound in cloth, gilt, and 
 
 Snowdrift, or Poems for the Christmas Hearth, 
 
 BY CECIL DEVON, 
 
 Price One Shilling, demy 8vo,
 
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