EX IIDI^IS F\OBLh^T3, EH poo ^be Cantcvbun? pocte, Edited by William Sharp. SCOTTISH MINOR POETS. lOEMS OF THE SCOTTISH MINOR POETS, FROM THE AGE OF RAMSAY TO DAVID GRAY: SELECTED AND EDITED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTEf BART. NOTES, BY SIR GEORGE' DOUGLAS LONDON : WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. TO A LADY WHO, BY HER SONGS, HAS WORTHILY MAINTAINED THE TRADITIONS IN SCOTTISH POETRY OF GRISELL BAILLIE, ANNE LINDSAY, JANE ELLIOT, AND CAROLINA OLIPHANT, — TO THE LADY JOHN SCOTT OF SPOTTISWOOD THIS MINIATURE ANTHOLOGY IS INSCRIBED. AUTHORS AND TITLES. Aytoun, William Edmondstoune (liii.) page The Execution of Montrose 225 Baillie, Lady Grisell (bom Hume) (i.) AVerena my heart licht I wad dee 1 Ballantine, James (xlis.) Castles in the Air 213 Naebody's Bairn 214 Beattie, James (xv.) Retirement : an Ode 48 His own Epitaph 51 Bell, Henry Glassford (xlviii.) Mary Queen of Scots ■. . 204 The End 211 Blamire, Susanna (xxi.) And ye shall walk in silk attire 66 Bos well, Sir Alexander (xxix.) Jenny's Bawbee Ill AUTHORS AND TITLES. IlUlCF., MiCHAKL (xviii.) PAGE Fruin the Elegy to Spring 57 Chambers. Robert (xlvii.) Young IJandal 202 Clkuk. Sir John (iii.) Tlu' Miller 14 CRAWFoun, Robert (iv.) Doun the Burn, Davie 16 The Broom of the Cowdenknowes 17 The r>ush aboon Traquair 18 Clnm.noham, Allan (xxxv.) A wet sheet and a flowing sea 130 It's hame, and its hanie 131 Tlie Bonnie Bairns 132 The Poet's Bridal-day Song 134 A Fragment 136 The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill 136 The Lord's Marie 138 Davidson, Thomas (Ixi.) The Auld Ash Tree 274 On the Cheviots 275 Love's lAst Suit 278 Dlnlop, John (rxiv.) Oh I diiuia ask me gin I lo'e thee 75 Elliot, Jane (xi.) The Flowers of the Forest 40 A UTHORS AND TITLES. ix EwE>, John (xvi.) page The Boatie Rows 62 Fergusson, Robert (xxiii.) To the Tr on -Kirk Bell 70 Braid Claith 72 The Lea Rig 74 Gall, Richard (xxx.) Cradle Song , ... 114 Glover, Jean (xxvi.) O'er the moor araang the heather 80 Graham, Robert, of Gartraore (xiv.) If doughty deeds my lady please ..... 46 Gray, Charles (xxxiv.) The Social Cup 128 Gray, David (Ix.) The goldening peach on the orchard wall . . .269 From " In the Shadows " 270 His Epitaph 273 Halket, George (?) (viii.) Logie o' Buchan .... .... 31 Hamilton, William, of Bangour (vii.) The Braes of Yarrow 26 Hyslop, James (xliii.) The Cameronian's Dream 190 X AUTHORS AND TITLES. J AMI KSON. ROBKKT (xxxi.) PAGE My wife's a winsome wee thinj; 116 The t^uern Lilt 117 K>ox. William (xxxix.) Tlie Wooer's Visit 146 Laidlaw, William (xxxii.) Her Bonnie Black E'e 119 Lucy's nittin' 120 Latto. Thomas Carstairs (Ivi.) When we were at the 8chule 251 Li>DSAV, Lady Anne (a/tencards Barnard) (xxii.) Auld Robin Gray Lock HART. John Gibson (xli.) Captain Paton's Lament 154 I^yon.l 158 Logan, John (xix.) Ode to the Cuckoo . 59 The Braes of Yarrow qq Macnkill, Hector (xx.) My lioy Tammy g2 Come un»ler my Plaidie g4 Mam.et, David (vi.) William and Marparet 92 1 In- Birka of Invenuay • ■ • . ! 25 AUTHORS AND TITLES. xi MicKLE, William Julius (xiii.) page The Sailor's Wife . . 43 Miller, William (U.) W^illie Winkie 220 The Sleepy Laddie 221 MoiR, David Macbeth (xliv.) CasaWappy 193 Motherwell, William (xlii.) Jeanie Morrison .... ... 160 My heid is like to rend, Willie 163 The Witches' Joys 166 The Ettin o' Sillarwood 169 The Cavalier's Song 175 Melancholye 176 The Solemn Song of a Righteous Hearte . . .179 The Battle-Flag of Sigurd 182 Nairne, Lady {born Carolina Oliphant) (xxvii.) The Land o' the Leal 82 Caller Herrin' 83 The Lass o' Gowrie 84 The Laird o' Cockpen 85 The Pleughman 87 The Auld House 88 Will ye no come back again 89 The Maiden's Vow 90 Nicholson, William (xxxiii.) The Brownie of Bleduoch 122 WTHORS AND TITLES. NlCtM.I., UOHF.KT (liv.) PAGE I.ife'H IMlRriinape . 233 Death . 236 A Dir^M- . . 23S Song for a SiiiiiiiuT Kvening . . 239 Tin* MorninK Star . 240 Thounht.s of Ik'aveii . 242 A Ih-uji: . 245 J'Ai.AN. 1m»hki. (xvii.) CV the yowes t<> the kiiowe;> pRiNOLE, Thomas (xl.) () the ewe-buchting's boniiy Thi- Nameless Stream A Farewell to the Borderland . . 150 . 152 . 152 UlDDELL, HENRV SCOTT (xlv.) Scotland Yet . . . 19S RoDOEii, Alexander (xxxvi.) My Auld Breeks 141 Ro.sS, ALtUCANDEK (v.) Woo'd and Married and a' RriilKRKORD, Alison (Mrs. Cockburn) (xii.) The Flowers of the Forest StOTT. AVPUKW (XXV.) SjrmoQ and Juuet 76 AUTHORS AND TITLES. xiii Shairp, John Campbell (Ivii.) paok The Bush aboon Traquair 254 Skinner, The Rev. John (x.) John of Badenyon 36 Smith, Alexander (lix.) In winter, when the dismal rain 261 To 203 Sonnet 264 The Change 265 Peebles 267 Smollett, Tobias (ix.) The Tears of Scotland 33 Stewart, James (xlvi.) The Tailor o' Monzie 200 Stirling-Maxwell, Sir William (Iv.^ The Abdication of Charles V 246 Stoddart, Thomas Tod (lii.) The Taking of the Salmon 222 The Angler's Grave 224 Tannahill, Robert (xxviii.) Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane 91 Clean Pease-Strae 92 Gloomy AVinter's now awa' 93 Mine ain dear Somebody 94 The Braes o' Balquhither 94 My Mary 95 Now Winter, wi' his cloudy Brow 96 XIV AL'TIIORS AND TITLES. Tan N All! 1. 1., \\^^\^v.v<.1—contui^^e^l— Wliilf the prey-pinion'tl Lark . Tho Mi(l;;i;* Dance aboon the Burn The l'.^aes.^(;l..ni^■er The Ijiss ()' Armnteenie . I/)Utl()iin's Bonnie Woods and Braes The Flower of I.evern Side lAn^syne, beside the Woodhuul Burn PAGE 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 TlliiMsov, Jami;s (Iviii.) Hu;:nianay . Hairst . " . Thi' Auld SniiiMy End 256 257 259 r^itKii, John (1.) The Channel-Stane . The Pipe of Tobacco . 216 218 Wakdi.aw. Lai>v (\H>rn Elizabeth Halkett) (ii.) li.inlvkuute Wi i.>;tk.ii, David (xxxviii.) Trtk' it, Man, tak' it . Wilson, John (xxxvii.) The Evening f'lond INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The object of this little volume is to present to the public, in a handy form, a selection of the best lyric poetry — the word lyric being here employed in its wider sense — the work of Scottish Minor Poets who flourished between the age of Allan Ramsay and the present day.* Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany was published in the year 1724, and two of the *' ingenious young gentlemen" who assisted the compiler in the preparation of that work — namely, Hamilton of Bangour and Robert Crawford — will be found here represented, together with three writers of an earlier date — Lady Grisell Baillie, Lady Wardlaw, and Sir John Clerk. On the other hand, living writers, with a single exception, are excluded. Celtic poetry and religious poetry do not find a place. Among poets with- in the period who may perhaps be ranked as minors, the Ettrick Shepherd will be missed, a separate volume of the Canterbury Series being devoted to his work ; whilst, in view of his popularity, the poet Tannahill has been represented at a length which the intrinsic poetic merit of * Selections from the original poems of Allan Ramsay form a volume of the present series. xvi INTRO D UCTOR V NO TE. his writings would perhaps not entirely justify. The selections have been made primarily, and indeed almost exclusively, upon poetic grounds ; but, in a very few cases, historical and representative considerations have also been allowed to weigh in determining the admission or exclusion of a poet or a poem. For instance, the "Tears of Scotland " — verses in which a great Scottish writer l)ewails a great national calamity — though possibly, to ?peak strictly, declamatory rather than poetic in their character, are certainly of sufficient value to be welcomed ; whilst, with respect to such writers as Alexander Smith and David Gray, whose rank in literature has not yet been determined, the public curiosity has been so much piqued that a liberal representation of their work will scarcely be held to be here out of place. Among Scottish poems, the preference has generally been given to those which are Scottish in character as well as by authorship. The charm of variety has also been kept in view, and it is hoped that the sense of monotony which is unavoidable in reading a mere collection of songs, even of Scottish songs, will thus have been avoided. Wliere, as has often been the case, more than one reading of a line or passage has been found to exist, some care has been taken to select the best authorised, or the more poetic, version. The punctuation of the poems has also, when necessary, been corrected. In supplying a brief biographical notice of each writer represented, the editor's aim has been to assist the memory of those who know the ground traversed, and to stimulate the curiosity of those who know it not. From the former class of readers he feels the urgent INTROD UCTOR V NO TE. xvii necessity of craving indulgence. Among the crowd of poets* and the mass of poems, his task of selection has not been altogether an easy one, and it remains but too certain that many a reader well qualified to criticise the present Selections will experience disappointment at missing from them some poet whom he specially desired to find, some poem which is a special favourite of his own. In like manner among those included, poets and poems, no doubt a few are destined to be viewed as interlopers. The editor, therefore, takes this opportunity to ask of his leader that the book may be judged, not by some single detail, but as a whole, due regard being had to its narrow limits and to the mass of material having to be selected from. In forming the collection of poems, use has been made, firstly, of the various editions of Herd's Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, and of Allan Cunningham's Songs of Scotland, with their appended Characters of the principal Scottish poets. Next, of Stenhouse's Ilhist ra- tions of the Lyric Poetry and Music of Scotland, a publication which, whilst it contains many inaccuracies, abounds in interesting information regarding Scottish songs and song- writers ; of Whistlebinkie, that rich though too miscellaneous collection of Scottish songs ; and of Miss Mary Carlyle Aitken's volume of Scottish Sojtg, the special feature of which is perhaps its excellent scholarly little glossary of Scots words. Most useful of all, how- ever, the present editor has found General Grant Wilson's comprehensive Poets and Poetry of Scotland; against * It has been stated that Scotland has ^ven Hrth to no fewer than two hundred thousand poets. b xviii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. tlic two large volumes of which work— since they contain cver)'thing, or very nearly everything, in their kind which could possibly be wished for— it were certainly ungracious to urge that they also contain a few things which might readily have been dispensed with. Finally, among ex- isting collections, the omnhcm gatherum known as Rogers' Modern Scottish Minstrel, and among mono- grai)hs the same editor's Life and Songs of Lady Nairne, together with the Bards of Galloxvay of Mr. Malcolm Harper may be specified, many other volumes in both kinds remaining unenumerated. In conclusion, the editor's thanks are due to Messrs. Blackwood & Sons for their kind permission to reproduce at length Professor Aytoun's popular "Execution of Montrose," and to Messrs. Macmillan and Messrs. Maclehose respectively, for no less courteously-accorded leave to print the poems selected from the works of Alexander Smith and David Giay. It would perhaps be scarcely an exaggeration to speak of the poetic literature of Scotland as a Literature of Minor Poets. At the least, the proportion borne therein by the minor to the major poets is an unusually large one ; the minor poets are in their degree unusually dis- tinguished. For, as we will venture to assert, the flower of Scotland's poetry is to be found — first, in her anony- mous ballad literature ; secondly, in the writings of her national poet; and, thirdly, in the writings of her minor poets. Scotland can thus boast of but a single poet of the first magnitude, — and of his stupendous powers, his INTRO D UCTOR V NO TE. xix poetic performance, wonderful and admirable though it be, is scarcely a complete measure. Of her remaining classic poets — of King James the First, William Dunbar, Gawin Douglas, Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, Drummond of Hawthornden, Allan Ramsay, Thomson, Sir Walter Scott, and Campbell — excellent each in his own kind as they are, no one (with a single disputed exception) can claim to reach the first rank. Turning, however, to the minor poets, we find them as thickly sown as stars in heaven on a frosty night. And it is no less by the distinction which, within their own limits, many of them have attained than by their number that they are remarkable. Anne Lindsay and Jane Elliot are each of them known only as the composers of a single poem ; yet their place is not among the minor poets of Scotland alone, but among the poets, if not of the world, at least of the language, as well. And in Scottish literature their poems of the " Flowers of the Forest" and " Auld Robin Gray" rank with the Border Ballads and the poetry of Burns. In number and in excellence, then, the minor poets of Scotland are remarkable. In number — though this may very likely be a point which it would be difficult to estab- lish — we believe them to have, in proportion to the relative populations of the two countries, greatly the advantage of the minor poets of across the Border ; whilst in excellence also they more than hold their own against those rivals. For instance, in Mr. Palgrave's Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language — a work which has justly come to be accepted as the XX INTRODUCTORY NOTE. standard work upon its subject— during the period with which we are in this volume concerned (which may roughly he defined as the last two centuries) England is represented l)y eleven minor poets, Scotland by seven. The English names are— Mrs. Barbauld, Henry Carey, CoUcy Cil)l)cr, Hartley Coleridge, William Collins, a second Collins, author of a poem headed "To-Morrow," Charles Lamb, Ambrose Philips, Samuel Rogers, George Scwell, and Charles Wolfe. The Scottish names are those ofihc authors of "A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea," of the " Flowers of the Forest," " If Doughty Deeds," "Auld Robin Gray," "The Braes of Yarrow," "There's Nae Luck," and the " Land of the Leal." To ask on which side is the verdict of popularity might perhaps be unfair. But we do ask on which side is the balance of solid poetic beauty and achievement, and we think that there can be but one reply. And, if, from the "best songs and lyrical poems in the language," the comparison be transferred to the second best, we venture to assert that the advantage will still, and still more decisively, be upon the side of Scotland. A comparison such as the above, between matters English and Scottish, may seem at this day to savour strongly of an eighteenth-century provincialism ; but it will be understood that it is here employed for critical purposes solely, and that for these it has its uses. After all we are not likely to forget that the question here is one of lyric poetry alone ; or that, where the advantage in the major issue is on her side in a degree so preponderating, England can well afford to allow to Scotland a triumph in the minor. INTRODUCTORY NOTE. xxi Let us now go back and endeavour in some measure to account for the relation in point of number and of excel- lence borne by the minor to the major poets in Scottish literature. The causes must, we think, be sought in national character, and in the history of the country, and the conditions of life there. In the first place, then : are the Scots, in their character as a nation, a poetic people ? No one, surely, will deny that they are. But we main- tain — and here be it remembered that we are not con- cerned with the Gaelic-speaking portion of the population — they are a poetic people within certain clearly-marked limits only. And, in order to indicate what we believe these limits to be, we may take the ancient Greeks to represent the ideal poetic people. It is the poetic glory of the Greeks — a nation crowned to all time with the triple crown of Heroism, Art, Philosophy — that, whilst abounding on the one hand in native poetic genius, they excelled upon the other in the recognition of what we may call the Rights of Poetry and in the cultivation of poetry as an art. Now, in so far as they abound in native poetic genius — and of the two requisites this, it is needless to observe, is the first — the Scottish, we believe, will take a high place as a poetic people. But, in the secondary requisites — and more particularly here in the cultivation of poetry as an art — they have consistently and in a marked measure fallen short. Of the truth of this, a momentary glance upon Scottish literature will go far to convince us. In manifestations of a native poetic genius, in songs, the offspring of the "tuneful impulse," many of them, xxii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. and many of llie best of them the productions of her minor poets, Scottish poetic Uterature abounds. In this particular department, indeed, we will venture to assert that Scotland can hold her own, not only with the sister country whom she here notoriously so far exceeds, but with any other country whatever, no matter which it be. But if once we leave the lyrical department and turn to the class of poems requiring patience and labour, sustained effort, the training and probation of the poetic spirit : if wc turn to the Epic or even to the Drama, what a falling off is there ; what a falling off for Scotland is there ! The nearest approach to an epic poem which our national literature can show is to be found in the "Bruce" of Barbour, or in Blind Harry's " Wallace "—honourable works, as we immediately allow, but belonging scarcely more than half to literature, assuredly upon all grounds wholly inadequate to rank as the crowning glory of a national literature. And from these — since the Ossianic poems are without our scope — we may pass on without a pause to the rhymed romances of Sir Walter Scott; at which point rather than assay the perils, hardships, and fatigues of an excursion through the wilderness, we do not say the desert, of the Coujse of Time, we are fain to call a halt. Then, if we turn to the Poetic Drama, we >hall find that Scotti-h dramatic literature, beginning with the Gentle Shepherd, ends with the tragedy of Doui^laSf and that it consists exclusively of a beginning and an end. For he who should disinter from their well-merited repose the tragedies of Thomson and of Mallet— and these, too, if they are Scottish in their INTRODUCTORY NOTE. xxiii authorship, are in their association Enghsh — would deserve not well but badly of his country. Again, if we turn to the poets who are more essentially poets of study, we find that, omitting Milton, the English list is headed by the great and sweetly-sounding name of Gray. In Scotland, as a poet of style, of learning, of classic elegance and "inwoven harmony," we can pit against Gray no more redoubtable a champion than Beattie. Beattie, like Gray, led a life of collegiate, cloistered, devotion to the Muse ; there were marked points of resemblance in the temperaments of the two poets ; but between the quality of the verse of the Progress of Poesy and that of the verse of the Progress of Genius lies a gulf by a Scotsman truly much to be deplored. And even Beattie, as we know, was more admired in England than at home. But if, on the other hand, we shift the venue from the poets of study to the poets whom on this occasion, for the sake of contrast, we may entitle the poets of nature, the result, if not reversed, will at least be a very different one. The name of Henry Carey has been already mentioned. Carey was the author of the charming song of "Sally in our Alley," and in Mr. Palgrave's book he stands alone among the poets we have named from it as an English popular song- writer of nature. Well, it is within the mark to say that Scotland has a score, nay fifty, Henry Careys. It is, indeed, not too much to add that the proportion in which the songs of Scotland exceed and excel those of England is that in which the drama of England exceeds and excels that of Scotland. xxiv AV TRODUCTOR V AO TE. Allowing then ihat in Scotland the "tuneful impulse" abounds, whilst the cultivation of poetry as an art has iKcn, upon the whole, remarkably neglected, let us examine, first into the national character, if peradventure we may discover causes whence this disparity between the two requisites to the production of a great poetic literature may arise. And in so doing we purpose to confine ourselves strictly to the beaten track, since in all probability there is no single department of speculation whence it is more easy by a false step to be led astray into regions of mere air-beating, baseless theorising, and unwarrantable generalisation, than that of speculation as to national character. We shall, however, certainly be safe in asserting that in the character of the average Scot — the pure-blooded Celt is again omitted from consideration — there is a more than usually large leavening of reserve. Across the Border the "canny Scot" is proverbial,— canny in this sense being equivalent to cautious, and caution in deal- ing being the natural counterpart of guardedness in sjwech. Now an excess, or even an unduly large ad- mixture, of reserve in a nature is on the face of it inimical to the production, or at least to the publication, of poetry. A reserved nature, living in a world where reserve is the rule and the tradition, will incline to go through life keeping its inner existence to itself, checking every impulse to expansion, not expecting, perhaps not even desiring, sympathy, scarcely able without violence to itself to give its feelings or its fancies an external iha|>c, and shrinking before all things from the chance IN TROD UC TOR Y NO TE. xx v of their publicity, even should it venture so far as to whisper them between the pages of a book. A pre- ponderance of natures such as this would naturally go far to check the free production of poetry by individuals, the free development of it in a nation. (That there may be a gain in depth of feeling to set off against this loss in freedom and in quantity — possibly even a gain which may go far towards compensating us for it — is a question which at the present must be pronounced beside the mark. ) And, if from a generalisation we turn to particular cases, we shall find some curious instances of the manner in which this national reserve has affected indi- vidual poets. Lady Wardlaw, authoress of the superb fragment of imitation barbaric entitled ** Hardyknute," palmed off the offspring of her Muse upon antiquity. Lady Anne Lindsay kept the authorship of " Auld Robin Gray" a secret for fifty years. Nor was Lady Nairne less reserved. We read, for example, that she had the manu- script of "Caller Herrin','' "written in a borrowed hand," conveyed to the musician Nathaniel Gow by the gentlewoman to whom she confided " her great secret."* These, it is true, are instances of poetic labours being kept a secret by women; but they are too remarkable not to speak to the effect of constitutional reserve upon Scottish writers of poetry generally. A second national characteristic which has in all probability militated against the free and full develop- ment of the national poetical literature is the tendency to austerity, to "take life seriously." Of the effect of the * Rogers' Life and Songs of Lady Nairne, p. 283. xxvi INTRODUCTORY NOTE. n.ilional faith upon the national poetr)' we propose to sjH.'ak when considering the historical causes which have worked to stunt Scottish song. But there can be little doubt that, but for a native bias to a dull and gloomy view of life, but for a natural preparedness on the part of the people, but for a special fitness of the thing adopted to the race adopting it, the gloomy creed of Calvinism, with its attendant gloomy "way of life," would never have been so eagerly and so entirely embraced as in effect it was. One result of this tendency to take life seriously, to dwell with undue exclusiveness upon certain serious aspects of it, would be the partial abrogation of what we have called the rights of poetry, the inclination to make light of, or discredit that art, even before it had come to be regarded as a dangerous pomp or vanity, not lo say a work of the Evil One himself. In thus acting, the Scots were falling into an error directly opposed to that into which a very different people, the French, have since fallen. In the sight of such a man as Theophile Gautier, of such a man as Gustave Flaubert, to excel in the literary art no matter at what sad cost, was in itself salvation, the be-all and the end-all of a life. They erred most grossly by excess ; but the Scots, on their side, erred not much less grossly by defect. Intent upon matters which to them appeared of infinitely greater importance, they assigned far less than its due importance to poetry. An example of the mental attitude towards the latter which would be not uncommon in this country may be found in that — composed in equal parts of virulence and narrow-mindedness— which is exhibited at large in the IN TROD UCTOR Y NO TE. xxvii writings of the most recent of great Scottish writers. Carlyle, a man of genius, was in many respects a typical Scotsman. His opinions cannot be directly referred to the national faith, which he had rejected, though no doubt its leaven still worked in him. He was himself a great master of English prose — we believe, indeed, that he will come to be ranked among the very greatest. Within certain narrow limits he was a passionate lover of poetry. But when he did not love it, when he did not understand it, when it did not chance to suit his individual taste, what then was his attitude towards it ? With a foul and brutal invective of his own — a slang of "dead dogs," ** shrieking ghosts," "poetical turning-looms," and "weak-eyed, maudlin sensibility," — he assailed, without scruple as without hesitation, the finest works of the greatest masters. And as, thank Heaven ! there are thousands of Scotsmen who can follow him in his generous, glowing, and full- hearted appreciation of Burns, so no doubt there are not a few who can join him in his dull and dogmatic disdain and disparagement of Tennyson, of Shelley, of Gray, and of Keats. Is it surprising, then, that sensitive poetesses, doubtful of sympathy, secure of criticism, should have produced but little poetry ; or that, when they had produced it, they should have kept its author- ship a secret, or pretended that it had been produced by some one else ? The effect likely to be exercised upon the production of poetry by the conditions of life prevailing in Scotland may be seen at a glance. The soil being poor and the xxviii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. country mountainous, the way of life was hard and frugal: the attention and the energy of the inhabitants were absorbed in providing the necessaries of life — a condition of things which is certainly not favourable to the culti- vation of poetry as an art. It is not of Sparta, but of Athens, that we think in connection with the glories of Greek literature. Then the country was small and stood apart, possessing but one near neighbour, with whom she was generally at war: — until within compara- tively recent times Scotland has scarcely a mention or a place in a general view of the history of Europe. She was thus to a very large extent cut off from the cultivating intlucnces of other countries. And, as war was her natural condition, or at least the natural condition of a large number of her inhabitants, it was scarcely in reason to be expected that the arts of peace should flourish within her bounds. Turning to historical considerations, it might at first appear that Scotland had enjoyed unusual advantages for the cultivation of poetic literature. The Stewarts, her rulers for three hundred years, were an artistically- minded race — it might almost have been said a race of artists. King James the First, for instance, was not only a cultivated gentleman, but a poet of sweetness and delight. The weak king, James the Third, paid a dear price to his turbulent nobility for his excessive fondness for the society of artists and craftsmen. Among his favourites hanged at Lauder Bridge are enumerated Rogers, a musician, and Cochrane, described as a mason. As to their calibre we possess no information ; but some colour INTRO D UCTOR V NO TE. xxix may be found for fancying that one, at least, of them was a man of a bold and original genius. William Dunbar was the favourite and pensioner of King James the Fourth, a monarch who in other ways also encouraged science and the arts. The education of King James the Fifth was presided over by Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, who would appear to have met with remarkable success in instilling into, or educing from, his pupil the love of song. The "King of the Poor" was a generous patron of the arts, and, unless the poems of the "Jolly Beggar," the "Gaberlunzie Man," and "Christ's Kirk on the Green," be erroneously attributed to him, himself a humorous poet of uncommon vigour. Mary, Queen of Scots, not only loved, but also wrote, poetry ; and it is a subject for half-fanciful speculation whether, beneath her fostering care, and but for the blighting influence of Knox, a ** Marian" drama might not have been developed about her Court, as the Elizabethan drama was developed about that of her kinswoman and rival. The pedant James the Sixth, besides being the patron of Ben Jonson, himself dabbled in metre ; whilst his son, so unfortunate in the occasion of his birth, as is well known, delighted in Shakespeare. But it did not belong to the fortune of the Stewarts — upon the whole a gallant and humane race of sovereigns enough — to impose their artistic predilections upon the people over whom they ruled. They had sterner work cut out for them — work which in most cases proved too much for them, to the exactions of which they fell martyrs : — surely it does no discredit to the powers which XXX liV TROD UCTOR V NO TE. ihey brought to bear upon that work, but rather does honour to the courage with which they undertook it, to make this avowal. At the date of the accession of James the First, the dread of English conquest, if not of English inroads, was at an end. But if dangers from without to that king and his successors were diminished, it was not so with dangers from within. The problem of grappling successfully with a restless and turbulent nobility remained to be solved ; whilst the personal influence of a king thus occupied had little chance of reaching to the more remote and less civilised jHjrtions of his realm. The isolated position of Scot- land, too, before alluded to, contributed to give to much of her poetry of this date a somewhat outlandish air. After the kill-joy influence of the Scottish Torquemada had made itself felt over Scotland, it was no longer to be expected that the art of poetry should flourish. That the rigorous and heart-breaking discipline to which the country was then subjected may have had some salutary ett'ect in moulding and strengthening the Scottish national character we are certainly not prepared to deny; yet, possibly, at the present day, a just if not a generous estimate will find no more to say in favour of John Knox than that he belonged to that special class of great men who, great by the greatness of their powers not of their achievements, will be pronounced when the balance is adjusted to have accomplished only just more good than harm. An eminent historian* has • Buckle, History of Civilisation ill Engla7id, Yol. ii.,pp. 398,399. IN TROD UC TOR Y NO TE. xxxi drawn the following picture of the ideal next held up to a Scotsman : — **Tobe poor, dirty, and hungry, to pass through life in misery, and to leave it with fear, to be plagued with boils and sores, and diseases of every kind, to be always sighing and groaning, to have the face streaming with tears, and the chest heaving with sobs; in a word, to suffer constant affliction, and to be tormented in all possible ways : to undergo these things was deemed a proof of goodness, just as the contrary was a proof of evil. It mattered not what a man liked ; the mere fact of his liking it made it sinful. Whatever was natural was wrong. The clergy deprived the people of their holidays, their amusements, their shows, their games, and their sports ; they repressed every appearance of joy, they for- bade all merriment, they stopped all festivities, they choked up every avenue by which pleasure could enter, and they spread over the country an universal gloom. Then truly did darkness sit on the land. Men, in their daily actions and in their very looks, became troubled, melancholy, and ascetic. Their countenance soured and was downcast. Not only their opinions, but their gait, their demeanour, their voice, their general aspect, were influenced by that deadly blight which nipped all that was genial and warm. The way of life fell into the sere and yellow leaf; its tints gradually deepened; its bloom faded and passed off; its spring, its freshness, and its beauty were gone ; joy and love either disappeared or were forced to hide themselves in obscure corners, until at length the fairest and most endearing parts xxxii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. of our nature, being constantly repressed, ceased to bear fruit, and seemed to be withered into perpetual sterility." From the days of the Reformation until the termination of the troubles connected with the Solemn League and Covenant, — for upwards of a hundred years, that is, — these conditions, in a more or less wholesale manner, prevailed in Scotland. And for long after the conditions themselves had ceased to exist their influence continued to be felt. Is it necessary to insist that, for poetry — an art which finds its ideal in the justly tempered use of each and all of the manifold faculties beneficently con- ferred upon a humanity glorious in its nature and its ori;;in — such conditions are nothing less than annihilat- ing ? Many a great poet has learned in suffering what he taught in song ; but it was not, we may feel sure, in a suffering so mean or so mentally degrading as that described by the writer quoted from above. We have now briefly glanced at a few of the causes which may be considered to have modified the poetic literature of Scotland : — a poor and mountainous country, difficult of access, and cut off from communication with the rest of the world ; an undue preponderance in the national character of austerity and reserve; a troubled history ; and, finally, a religious tyranny scarcely less monstrous than any which the world has seen. Whilst militating against poetry' generally, these causes would naturally be especially hostile to the cultivation of poetry as an art. And, in glancing at the numerous and distinguished array of the Scottish minor poets, we are INTRODUCTORY NOTE. xxxiii probably justified in believing that the development of not a few among them has been checked by circumstance ; and that, under more favourable conditions, sustained and inspired by a more generous national poetic tradition, these might have accomplished work which would have ranked them not among the minor, but among the major, poets. On the other hand, it is only within recent years that the crowd of minor, purely imitative poets which a high civilisation sometimes brings with it has made its appearance in Scotland. The History of the period under our consideration may, for present purposes, be summed up in a paragraph. Beginning with the Covenanting troubles, in which Grisell Baillie played a part, and from which Hyslop drew the subject of his poem, we pass on to the peaceful and prosperous era of the Union — the age of Thomson and Mallet — in which the gold-fields of England were thrown open to the enterprise of the sister country. Here begin the Jacobite risings, which, from our present point of view, constitute the history of Scotland during the better part of the eighteenth century, and which give us in Lady Nairne — the child of a later day, born out of date and related to the subject of her song only by asso- ciations and traditions of childhood — the sweetest singer of a lost cause. And, from the close of this period onward, it may be said that Scotland has no separate history of her own. It now only remains to touch upon one or two of the more prominent general characteristics of our group of xxxiv IXTRODUCTOR V NOTE. Scottish poets. The first of these is the Love of Nature. Mr. Stopford Brooke^ specifies as the first of the dis- tinctive characteristics of Scottish poetry — which he altrihiitcs to the presence of Celtic blood in the race who produced it — "the love of wild nature for its own sake." A Scotsman, Gawin Douglas,^ was the first who, writing in English verse, made a business of de- scribincj Nature. His " Singular lernit Prologue of the Description of May" teems with little object-pictures tes- tilying to the same minute observation, the same delicate recorvling art, though not the same fairy fancy, as is ilisplayed in Shakespeare's lines — " Cowslips tall her pensioners be ; In their gold coats spots you see — These be rubies, fairy favours." For example — "Tlie daisy did on bredeS her crownel sraale. "Sere-i downis smale on dentilioun sprang." Or- "The sparrow chirraisS in the wallis elyft." Or again — " In comeris and clere fenesteris of glas Full besely Arachne wevand was, To knit hyr nettis and hyr wobbi's sle, Tharewith to cauch the litil mige or flee " Yet again, Milton's vignette of Chanticleer is antici- pated — 1 Primer of English Literature, p. 62. - Died 1522. 3 j)id on hrede—O^ened wide, * Manifold. 5 chirps. IN TROD UCTOR V NO TE. xxxv " Phebiis' rede foule his curale i creiste gan steere,^ Oft, streckand furth his hekkil, crawand clere, Amyd the wortis and the rutis gent, 3 Pickland his mete in alayis quhare he went— His wyffis, Toppa and Partolet, him by, As bird al tyme that hantis^ bygamy." These examples are drawn from a few lines of a single poem, and might be added to at will. And if we pass on two hundred years, we shall find that, after the Union, it was a Scotsman, Thomson, who, inspired in part no doubt by his countryman Ramsay, in the midst of a highly artificial age, with his Seasons took the lead and gave the impetus towards a new poetry having Nature for its subject-matter. In the poems of the minor poets now before us there is everywhere abundant evidence of this love of Nature inherent in the race — a love which is, perhaps, most frequently illustrated by the perfect rendering in verse of some beautiful natural feature or incident. Mallet is a poet who, among poets, as a character not indeed misguided, hot-blooded, or addicted to excess, but coldly calculating, base, and mean, excepting Young, can be compared to few. Yet when Mallet would describe the face of Margaret's ghost — which, in the silent hour "when night and morning meet" has glided to the foot of her false lover's bed — with a subtlety of sympathy and of analogy as rare as it is perfect in its beauty, he likens it to "an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud." 1 Coral. 2 Stir. 3 Vain, elegant. * Uses, practices. xxxvi INTRO D UCTOR V NO TE. Trobably no single image to denote a tender and pro- mising loveliness untimely veiled and marred, at once more touching, simpler, or more expressive, could have been found in the whole realm of Nature. In another style, Logan apostrophises bis Cuckoo with an accent which is itself as clear and sweet as the wild whistle of the thrush — " Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear : Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year 1 " Again, no Daudet nor De Goncourt — men who have made observation and literary delineation the study of their lives — could have produced a more vivid or charac- teristic portrait of the Owl than is presented in the following lines, taken from the "Ode to Retirement" of the recluse Beattie : — " My haunt the hollow clifiE whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream, Whence the scared owl, on pinions grey, Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose." Nor does the poetry of Wordsworth himself contain a touch of natural description more truthful and more delicate than is to be found in Laidlaw's lines — " The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's drookit, The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea ; But Lucy likes Jamie . . ." INTROD UCTOR Y NO TE. xxxvii The "braird" is the *' first sprouting of the grain." Neither has this love of Nature in the Scottish poets failed or grown weaker with the course of time. In the following fine lyric outburst, harmonised to the low- breathing, inarticulate speech of murmuring wind and faltering rill, Thomas Davidson, who died only in 1870, in his poem *' On the Cheviots," speaks indeed as if with the voice of Nature herself — " Oh, western ■wind, so soft and low, Long-lingering by furze and fern, Rise ! From thy wing the languor throw. And by the marge of mountain tarn, By rushy brook, and lonely cairn. Thy thousand bugles take, and blow A wilder music up the fells ! " It would be easy to multiply illustrations ; but the very easiness of the task forbids us to pursue it further. The second characteristic of the subjoined poems is that they belong to a Literature of the People ; and they may be said to share this characteristic also, like the love of nature, with Scottish poetry generally. For we have already alluded to the very high place in the national literature which must be assigned to the early popular poems, the Border Ballads ; and it is not necessary to remind the reader that the national poet is an "inspired ploughman." From these two great sources much of the inspiration of our minor poets is derived. And, if we examine their work in detail, this same democratic char- acter is there also abundantly apparent. The difference of class does not exist. For instance, several of the xxxviii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. finest of the poems to which we refer are the work of women of rank ; but Lady Anne Lindsay, Miss Elliot, and Lady Nairne all speak the language of the farm, the cottage, or the fishing-village, as to the manner born. Lady Grisell Baillie shows herself thoroughly familiar (as, indeed, we know her to have been) with the processes of the brew-house and the mill. Sir John Clerk and Sir Alexander Boswell, too, both of them men of uncommon literary attainments, must, to judge from their writings, have been qualified to enter freely into the sports and humours of their tenants and servants. To the writer this appears a winning and lovable characteristic in a literature ; for there can be little doubt that it is the direct result of the affectionate and intimate relations between superior and dependents subsisting, especially in rural districts and in old families, in Scotland perhaps more than elsewhere. Certainly it is a singular fact that the Scotsman, often so noticeable in daily life for the angular independence of his character, should under properly favouring conditions become the most faithful and attached of all servants; and that nowhere does the sentiment of devotion and loyalty to a name and a family exist in such force and fervour as in democratic, Radical, Scotland. In like manner the dialect of the people is, also with- out distinction of class, the chosen medium of poetical expression. Whether it will continue so or not appears, however, to be open to question. By the three recent Scottish poets of most vigorous and original genius — by Alexander Smith, David Gray, and James Thomson, themselves sprung from the people — we have seen it cast IN TROD UC TOR Y NO TE. xxxix aside : — their verse is formed upon English models, and contains little or nothing of a distinctively Scottish character. And though it is true that minor poets among the minor poets still pursue their labours upon the time-honoured lines, it is scarcely from such as these that we must look to see the cue taken. At the present moment, therefore, there seems to exist something more than a mere passing danger that, as a medium of poetical expression, the Scottish Doric, at its best so racy and so sweet, may fall into disuse. Upon the other hand it might be shown that certain Scots words — such as, for instance, "mirk," "lilt," "wraith," "gloaming," "leal," and many more — have become adopted into the English language. But, winning and endearing as it may be, this popular character of Scottish poetry is by no means without its correlative disadvantage. The range of subject treated is hmited to the comparatively few and simple feelings, the comparatively few and ordinary incidents, of an humble and uneventful life ; and, notwithstanding that within this limited range the highest poetic beauty is attainable and has been again and again attained, there results from it a certain monotony, together with the neglect by literary enterprise of wider though not richer fields. The three poets whose names are mentioned in the last paragraph would be entitled to our thasks, if for nothing else, at least for having broken up and occupied new ground. Thus, in reading a collection of Scottish poems, identical situations, identical trains of feeling will be found tc ^ecur with an iteration which xl INTRODUCTORY NOTE. only poetic beauty ol an uncommon order can save from becoming wearisome. Again and again, on green hill- side or on greener haugh, as he goes forth at early morn to tend his sheep, or as she returns at the gloaming-hour from milking, does Jocky meet his Jean. Or the situa- tion may be varied by the courtship of a girl who scarcely knows her own mind by an old rich suitor, as in Macneill's " Come under my plaidie ;" or by the love acknowledged by a girl for a lover beneath her in station, as in the "Ranting Ilighlandman," and "Fee him, father." Again, swain after swain wanders at noontide, or by the light of eve's one star, beside the river of his native valley, apostrophises its beauty, bewails his own hard fortune, and laments over happy days gone never to return. It is true that such simple situations have produced many beautiful songs ; yet it can scarcely be doubted that some at least of the many Scottish poets who have treated them with grace would have found their account in a wider choice of subjects. The kind of poetry which is here represented by the noble utterance of a life's convictions in Lockhart's poem of *' Beyond," or by the stereotyping, perhaps of a passing mood of love-sick waywardness, as in Davidson's "Love's Last Suit," perhaps of a fleeting vision born of self-conscious- ness and melancholy, as in Tringle's "Nameless Stream," is rare amongst our minor poets. And now, with the foregoing few and brief consider- ations, and without further introduction, we take leave to hand over to the reader our group of Scottish Minor Poets. They form a motley and variously-composed INTRO D UC TOR V NO TE. xli throng— a veritable Masque of Minor Poets — enlisted, indeed, from one country and from one period of time, but from the most widely different stations, the most widely different callings, in life. And thus, in their picturesque, fantastic dance — if as such we may figure it — the strangest, the most seemingly incongruous, com- binations repeatedly occur. John Dunlop, the dignified Lord Provost of the City of Glasgow, is brought face to face with Tibby Pagan, the withered, smoke-dried, half witch-woman, half smuggler, of the hovel on the Ayr- shire waste. Robert Fergusson, " atheist" and dare-devil, singing his own ballads in disguise through the streets of Old Edinburgh, rubs shoulders with John Skinner, the shrewd and saintly, the simple-subtle, the truly reverend. The inspired gaberlunzie-man of Galloway, Willie Nicholson, gives his hand to the Lady Anne Lindsay, the daughter of many earls. And, upon the common ground of a poetic insight into life, in the bond of a common poetic inspiration, these poets and poetesses are more closely united than by a country, or a date, possessed in common. For poetry, as it is the language not of an age but of the ages, is also, not the mere dialect of a class or calling, but the language of the human soul. And, by him who knows to read aright, the true life of the poet may often be found not so much in his biography as in his poems. And so the long line of the minor poets — of whom but a handful are here represented — continues to defile before us. It is the hour when masks have been dropped. In his uniform as a soldier, or his lietherel's suit of black— xlii INTRODUCTORY NOTE. for lie in liis time played both the characters— with his picturesque doj^gerel and his rich Doric brogue, we recognise Andrew Scott, the impressed Border peasant, compelled against his will to serve his King and Country. In her paint and tinsel and gaily-coloured attire, beating iijwn her tambourine, that bom Bohemian, handsome Jean Glover, the mountebank's wife, flits by. The gifted, gentle, and ill-fated Bruce looks with a poet's eye on Nature and laments his doom. The voice of the jovial seafarer, Charles Gray, peals out to celebrate Bacchus and the pleasures of good company — " And let me tell, the moon hersel' Aft dips her toom horn i' the sea !" The distracted Tannahill, the pensive Moir, the love- lorn "Muse of Cumberland," Alexander Boswell, deplor- ably cut off in his prime, The Flower of Strathearn, and many more, succeed. Upon Little Parnassus each one has his place. And, though the fate of many a one among them was tragic, though the lot almost of each of them was deeply chequered by misfortune, we know that in poetry they found at least one consolation. And so, as they pass on before us, memory reaches back to the fair face of Grisell Baillie, sweetly smiling after many years. Spri.ngwood Park, May 1891. SCOTTISH MINOR POETS. Scotti6b fIDlnor poeta* LAD Y GRISELL BAILLIE.'^ 1665-1746. WERENA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DEE. There ance was a may, and she loo'd na men : She biggit her bonnie bower doun in yon glen ; But now she cries, Dool ! and well-a-day ! Come doun the green gait and come here away ! When bonnie young Johnnie cam' ower the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me ; He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things, — And werena my heart licht I wad dee. He had a wee titty that loo'd na me, Because I was twice as bonnie as she ; She raised such a pother 'twixt him and his mother That werena my heart licht I wad dee. * Vide Thomas Pringle. 792 LADY GRISELL BAILLIE. The day it was set, and the bridal to be : The wife took a dwam, and lay doun to dee ; She maned and she graned out o' dolour and pain, Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said, What had he to do wi' the like of me? Albeit I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie, — And werena my heart licht I wad dee. They said I ha.' neither cow nor calf, Nor dribbles o' drink rins through the draff. Nor pickles o' meal rins through the mill-e'e ; And werena my heart licht I wad dee. His titty she was baith wylie and slee : She spied me as I cam' ower the lea ; And then she ran in and made a loud din, — Believe your ain een an' ye trow na me. His bonnet stood aye fu' round on his brow, — His auld ane look'd aye as weel as some's new ; But now he lets 't wear ony gait it will hing, And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. And now he gaes daund'ring about the dykes. And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his e'e ; And werena my heart licht I wad dee. Were I but young for thee, as I hae been, We should hae been gallopin' doun on yon green, And linkin' it on the lily-white lea, — And wow ! gin I were but young for thee ! LADY WARDLAW. LADY WARDLAW. 1670-1727. HARDYKNUTE: K FRAGMENT OF AN OLD HEROIC BALLAD. Stately stept he east the wa', And stately stept he west ; Full seventy years he now had seen, With scarce seven years of rest. He lived when Britons' breach of faith Wrought Scotland meikle wae ; And aye his sword tauld to their cost He was their deadly fae. Hie on a hill his castle stude, With halls and towers a-hight, And guidly chambers fair to see Where he lodged mony a knight. His dame, sae peirless anes and fair For chaste and beauty deimt, Nae marrow had in all the land Save Elenor the Queen. f.ADV WARD LAW. Full thirteen sons to him she bare, All men of valour stout : In bluidy fight, with sword in hand, Nyne lost their lives hot doubt. Four yet remain ;— lang may they live To stand by liege and land ! Hie was their fame, hie was their might, And hie was their command. Great love they bare to Fairly fair, Their sister saft and deir : Her girdle shaw'd her middle jimp, And gowden glist her hair. What waefu' wae her bewtie bred ! Waefu' to young and auld, Waefu', I trow, to kyth and kin As story ever tauld. The King of Norse in summer-tide, PufT'd up with power and might. Landed in fair Scotland the isle With mony a hardy knight. The tidings to our gude Scots King Came as he sat at dyne W^ith noble chiefs in brave array, Drinking the blude-red wyne. " To horse, to horse, my royal liege ; — Your faes stand on the strand : Full twenty thousand glittering spears The King of Norse commands ! " "Bring me my steed Madge dapple-gray, Our gude King raise and cry'd ; ' A trustier beast in all the land A Scots king never sey'd ! LADY WARDLAVV. " Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, That lives on hill so hie, To draw his sword, the dreid of faes, And haste and follow me." The little page flew swift as dart Flung by his master's arm : *' Come doun, come doun, Lord Hardyknute, And redd your king frae harm ! " Then reid, reid grew his dark-brown cheiks, Sae did his dark-brown brow; His looks grew keen — as they were wont In dangers great to do : He has ta'en a horn as green as grass, And gi'en five sounds sae shrill That trees in greenwood shook thereat — Sae loud rang ilka hill. His sons in manly sport and glie Had past the summer's morn; When lo ! down in a grassy dale. They heard their father's horn. "That horn," quoth they, " ne'er sounds in peace, — We've other sport to byde." And soon they hied them up the hill, And soon were at his syde. " Late, late yestreen I ween'd in peace To end my lengthen'd life, — My age might weel excuse my arm Frae manly feats of strife; But now that Norse does proudly boast Fair Scotland to enthrall. It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute He fear'd to fi^ht or fall ! LADY WARDLAW. " Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow, — Thy arrows shoot so leal, Mony a comely countenance They have turn'd to deidly pale. Brave Thomas, tak' ye but your lance,— Ye neid nae weapons mair Gif ye fight wi't as ye did anes 'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir. " And Malcom, light of foot as stag That runs in forest wyld. Get me my thousands three of men Well bred to sword and shield. Bring me my horse and harnisine. My blade of metal cleir . . ." (If faes kenn'd but the hand it bare They soon had fled for fear. ) " Farewell, my dame, sae pierless good, (And took her by the hand), "Fairer to me in age you seem Than maids for beauty famed. My youngest son sail here remain, To guard these stately towirs, And shut the silver bolt that keips Sae fast your painted bowirs." And first she wet her comely cheiks And then her boddice green. Her silken cords of twirtle twist Weel plet with silver sheen, And apron set with mony a dyce Of needle-wark sae rare. Wove by nae hand (as ye may guess) Save that of Fairly fair. LADY WARDLAW. And he has ridden owre muir and moss, Owre hills and mony a glen, When he came to a wounded knight Making a heavy mane : "Here maun I lye, here maun I dye, By treachery's false guiles : Witless I was that e'er gave faith To wicked woman's smyles ! " *• Sir Knight, gin ye were in my bowir, To lean on silken seat, My lady's kindly care you'd prove, Wha ne'er kenn'd deidly hate: Herself wad watch ye all the day, Her maids at deid of nicht; And Fairly fair your heart wad cheir As she stands in your sight. " Arise, young knight, and mount your steid, Full lowan's the shynand day: Chuse frae my menzie whom ye please To lead ye on the way ! " With smileless look, and visage wan, The wounded knight replied, ** Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abyde. •* To me nae after day nor night Can e'ir be sweit or fair ; But soon, beneath some draping tree, Cauld death sail end my care ! " With him nae pleading might prevail: — Brave Hardyknute to gain, With fairest words and reason Strang, Strave courteously in vain. LADY WARD LA IV. Syne he has gane far hyne — attour Lord Chattan's land sae wyde ; — That lord a worthy wight was aye When faes his courage sey'd : Of Pictish race by mother's syde, When Picts ruled Caledon, Lord Chattan claim'd the princely maid When he saved Pictish crown. Now, with his fierce and stalwart train, He reach'd a rising height, Where— braid encampit on the dale — Norse menzie lay in sight : " Yonder, my valiant sons and feirs, Our raging reevers wait, On the unconquer'd Scottish swaird, To try with us their fate ! " Mak' orisons to Him that saved Our sauls upon the rood ; Syne bravely shaw your veins are fill'd With Caledonian blude." Then furth he drew his trusty glaive, — While thousands all around Drawn frae their sheaths glanced in the sun, And loud the bougies sound. To join his king, adown the hill In haste his march he made ; Whyle, playand pibrochs, minstrels meet Afore him stately strade. '* Thrice welcome, valiant stoupe of weir. Thy nation's shield and pryde ! Thy king nae reason has to feir "V^Tien thou art by his syde." LADY WARDLAW. When bows were bent and darts were thrawn, For thrang scarce could they flie, — The darts clove arrows as they met, The arrows dart the trie. Lang did tbey rage and fight full fierce With little skaith to man ; But bluidy, bluidy was the field Or that lang day was done ! The King of Scots, that sindle bruik'd The war that look'd like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow — Sen bows seimt but delay. Quoth noble Rothsay, " Myne I'll keip, — I wot it's bled a score ! " *' Haste up, my merry men ! " cry'd the King, As he rade on before. The King of Norse he sought to find, With him to mense the faught ; But on his forehead there did light A sharp unsonsie shaft. As he his hand put up to find The wound, an arrow keen (O waefu* chance !) there pinn'd his hand, In midst between his e'en. "Revenge, revenge! " cry'd Rothsay's heir, " Your mail-coat sail nocht byde The strength and sharpness of my dart," — Then sent it through his syde. Another arrow weel he mark'd, — It pierced his neck in twa : His hands then quat the silver reins. He laigh as eard did fa'. lo LADY WARDLAW. " Sair bleeds my liege ; sair, sair he bleeds ! Again with might he drew, And gesture dreid, his sturdy bow; — Fast the braid arrow flew. Wae to the knight he ettled at ! Lament now, Quene Elgried ! Hie dames, too, wail your darling's fall. His youth and comely meid ! " Take aff, take aff his costly jupe I" (Of gold weil was it twined — Knit lyke the fowler's net — through which His steilly harness shyn'd.) •• Take Norse that gift frae me and bid Him venge the bluid it beirs." " Say, if he face my bended bow He sure nae weapon feirs ! " Proud Norse, with giant body tall, Braid shoulders, and arms strong, Cry'd, " Where is Hardyknute sae famed And feir'd at Britain's throne ? The Britons tremble at his name ; — I soon shall make him wail That e'ir my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail ! " That brag his stout heart couldna byde, — It lent him youthful might: *' I'm Hardyknute ! — This day," he cry'd, **To Scotland's king I height To lay thee low as horse's hufe : — My word I mean to keip ! " Syne, with the first strake e'ir he strake, He garr'd his body bleld. LADY WARDLAW. Norse' e'en, lyke gray gosehawk's, stared wyld; He sigh'd with shame and spyte : " Disgraced is now my far-famed arm, That left thee power to strike ! " — Then gave his head a blaw sae fell It made him down to stoup As laigh as he to ladies used In courtly guise to lout. Full soon he raised his bent body : His bow he marvell'd sair; — Sen blaws till then on him but darr'd As touch of Fairly fair. Norse ferliet too, as sair as he. To see his stately look, — Sae soon as e'ir he strake a fae, Sae soon his lyfe he took. Whair, lyke a fyre to heather set, Bauld Thomas did advance, A sturdy fae, with look enraged, Up towards him did prance: He spurr'd his steid through thickest rank, The hardy youth to quell ; Wha stood unmoved at his approach, His fury to repell. " That short brown shaft sae meanly trimm'd Looks lyke poor Scotland's gear, But dreidful seims the rusty poynt ! " And loud he leugh in jeir. " Aft Britons' bluid has dimm'd its shyne — This poynt cut short their vaunt :" — Syne pierced the boaster's bearded cheik, — Nae time he took to taunt. LADY WARDLAW. Short while he in his saddle swang, — His stirrup was nae stay ; Sae feible hung his unbent knee Sure taken he was fey: Swiih on the harden'd clay he fell, — Right far was heard the thud ; But Thomas look'd not as he lay All waltering in his bluid : With careless gesture, mynd unmoved, On raid he north the plain ; — He seimt in thrang of fiercest strife When winner, aye the same: Nor yet his heart dame's dimpelit cheik Could meise saft love to bruik, Till vengeful Ann return'd his scorn, — Then languid grew his look. In thrawis of death, with wailowit cheik, All panting on the plain The fainting corpse of warriors lay, Ne'ir to aryse again, — Ne'ir to return to native land, Nae mair, with blythesome sounds. To boast the glories of the day And shaw their shyning wounds. On Norway's coast the widow'd dame May wash the rocks with tears, May lang look owre the shiples seas, Before hir mate appeirs. Ceise, Emma, ceise to hope in vain, — Thy lord lyis in the clay: — The valiant Scots nae reevers thole To carry life away ! LADY IVARDLAIV. 13 There, on a lee, whair stands a cross Set up for monument, Thousands full fierce that summer's day Fill'd keen war's black intent. — Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute ; Let Norse the name aye dreid : Aye how he faught, aft how he spared, Sail latest ages reid. — Now loud and chill blew westlin' wind, Sair beat the heavy showir, Mirk grew the night e'ir Hardyknute Wan near his stately tower. His tower, that used with torches' bleise To shine sae far at night, Seim'd now as black as mourning weed, — Nae marvel sair he sigh't. " There's nae light in my lady's bouir, There's nae light in my hall ; Nae blink shynes round my Fairly fair, Nor ward stands on my wall. What bodes it ? Robert, Thomas, say ! " Nae answer fits their dreid. "Stand back, my sons, I'll be your guide . . ." But by they pass'd with speid. "As fast as I've sped owre Scotland's faes . ." There ceist his brag of weir, Sair shamed to mynd aught but his dame And maiden Fairly fair. Black fear he felt — but what to fear He wist not ; yet with dreid Sair shook his body, sair his limbs, And all the warrior fled. S/J^ JOHN CLERK. in. SIR JOHN CLERK 1680—1755. THE MILLER. Merry may the maid be That marries the miller ; For, foul day and fair day, He's aye bringing till her, — Has aye a penny in his purse For dinner and for supper ; And, gin she please, a good fat cheese And lumps of yellow butter. When Jamie first did woo me, I speir'd what was his calling : " Fair maid," says he, " O come and see- Ye're welcome to my d walling." Though I was shy, yet I could spy The truth of what he told me, And that his house was warm and couth, And room in it to hold me. Behind the door a bag of meal ; And in the kist was plenty Of good hard cakes his mither bakes, And bannocks werena scanty ; SIR JOHN CLERK. 1 5 A good fat sow ; a sleeky cow Was standin' in the byre ; While lazy puss, with mealy mou'. Was playing at the fire. Good signs are these, my mither says, And bids me tak' the miller; For, foul day and fair day. He's aye bringing till her : For meal and malt she doesna want, Nor anything that's dainty, — And noo and then a keckling hen To lay her eggs in plenty. In winter when the wind and rain Blaws o'er the house and byre. He sits beside a clean hearth-stane Before a rousing fire : With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, Which rows him o'er fu' nappy: — Who'd be a king — a petty thing, When a miller lives so happy? ROBERT CRA WFORD. IV. ROBERT CRA WFORD. 1695?— 1733? DOUN THE BURN, DAVIE. When trees did bud, and fields were green, And broom bloom'd fair to see ; When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laugh'd in her e'e ; Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move To speak her mind thus free : Gang doun the burn, Davie, love, And I will follow thee ! Now Davie did each lad surpass That dwelt on this burnside ; And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride : Her cheeks were rosy-red and while, Her e'en were bonny blue, Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. ROBER T CRA WFORD. 1 7 What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, And naething sure unmeet ; For, ganging hame, I heard them say They liked a walk sae sweet, And that they aften should return Sic pleasure to renew. Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you ! THE BROOM OF THE COWDENKNOWES. When summer comes, the swains on Tweed Sing their successful loves, — Around the ewes and lambkins feed, And music fills the groves. But my loved song is then the broom So fair on Cowdenknowes ; For sure so sweet, so soft, a bloom Elsewhere there never grows. There Colin tuned his oaten reed, And won my yielding heart ; — No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed Could play with half such art. He sang of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, The hills and dales all round, Of Leader-haughs and Leader-side, — Oh ! how I bless'd the sound. 793 ROBERT CRA WFORD. Yet more delightful is the broom So fair on Cowdenknowes ; For sure so fresh, so bright, a bloom Elsewhere there never grows. Not Teviot braes so green and gay May with this broom compare, — Not Yarrow banks in flowery May, Nor the bush aboon Traquair. More pleasing far are Cowdenknowes, My peaceful, happy home, — Where I was wont to milk my ewes At e'en among the broom. Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains Where Tweed with Teviot flows, Convey me to the best of swains And my loved Cowdenknowes ! THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. Hear me, ye nymphs and every swain, — I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ! Tho' thus I languish, thus complain, Alas ! she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air Unheeded, never move her : At the bonny bush aboon Traquair, 'Twas there I first did love her ! ROBERT CRA WFORD. That day she smiled and made me glad- No maid seem'd ever kinder : I thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her. I tried to soothe my am'rous flame In words that I thought tender : If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame— I meant not to offend her. Yet now she scornful flees the plain, The fields we then frequented : If e'er we meet she shows disdain, — She looks as ne'er acquainted. The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,— Its sweets I'll aye remember ; But, now her frowns make it decay, It fades as in December. Ye rural powers who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me ? Oh ! make her partner in my pains ; Then let her smiles relieve me. If not, my love will turn despair, — My passion no more tender, I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair — To lonely wilds I'll wander. 20 ALEXANDER ROSS. V. ALEXANDER ROSS, 1699—1784. WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'. The bride cam' out o' the byre, An' O ! as she dighted her cheeks, "Sirs, I'm to be married the-night. And hae neither blankets nor sheets — Hae neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too: The bride that has a' thing to borrow Has e'en right muckle ado ! " Woo'd and married and a', Married and woo'd and a' ! And was she na very weel aflf That was woo'd and married and a' ? Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh : " O haud your tongue, my dochter. And ye'se get gear eneugh : The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yade Will carry ye hame your com : — WTiat wad ye be at, ye jade? " ALEXANDER ROSS. 21 Out spake the bride's mither : " What, deil, needs a' this pride? I hadna a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride : My gown was linsy-woolsy, And ne'er a sark ava ; And ye hae ribbons and buskin's Mae than ane or twa! " Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye : " Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I ; For ye're baith proud and saucy, And no for a poor man's wife : Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak' ane i' my life ! " Out spake the bride's sister. As she cam' in frae the byre : ** O, gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire ! But we poor fouk maun live single, And do the best we can : I dinna ken what I should want If I could get but a man 1 " DA VI D MALLET, VI. DAVID MALLET, About 1700—1765. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 'TwAS at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet ; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. DAVID MALLET, 23 Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budded in her cheek — Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime : The rose grew pale, and left her cheek — She died before her time. " Awake ! " she cried, " thy true love calls — Come from her midnight grave: Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. '* This is the dumb and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain; — When yawning graves give up their dead To haunt the faithless swain. •• Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath ! And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth. *' Why did you promise love to me. And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright — Yet leave those eyes to weep ? ** How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break ? 24 DAVID MALLET. " Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid ! Believe the flattering tale? " That face, alas ! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red : Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. " The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. " But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence- A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." The lark sang loud ; the morning smiled, With beams of rosy red : Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay; And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name, And thrice he wept full sore ; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave. And word spake never more ! DAVID MALLET, 25 THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. The smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing ; And while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them improve the hour that flies; And in soft raptures waste the day Among the shades of Invermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear; At this, thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the vernal shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o'er ; The feather'd songsters love no more ; And when they droop, and we decay, Adieu the shades of Invermay 1 HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. YII. HAMILTON OF BANGOUR, 1704—1754. THE BRAES OF YARROW. A. *'BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." B. "Where got ye that bonny bonny bride, Where got ye that winsome marrow?" A. " I got her where I durst not well be seen — Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ; Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ! " B. " Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ? " HAMILTON OF BANCO UR. 27 * ' Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow ; And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow: For she has tint her lover, lover dear — Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; And I have slain the comeliest swain That e'er pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow ! Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid ? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow ? And why yon melancholious weeds, Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood ? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow. Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow ; And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow; And weep around, in woeful wise, His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow. The fatal spear that pierced his breast — His comely breast on the braes of Yarrow ! 28 HAMILTON OF BANGOUR, Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, And warn from fight ? but, to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm Thou met'st — and fell on the braes of Yarrow I " C. "Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass. Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan ; Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan." A. "Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow ; As sweet smells on its braes the birk. The apple from its rocks as mellow. Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love ; In flowery bands thou didst him fetter : Tho' he was fair, and well beloved again. Than me he never loved thee better. Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow; Busk ye and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow. " C. ** How can I busk, a bonny bonny bride, How can I busk, a winsome marrow ; How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover ; For there was basely slain my love — My love as he had not been a lover ! HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 29 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest — 'twas my ain sewing : Ah, wretched me ! I little, little knew He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow ; But ere the to-fall of the night He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. Much I rejoiced that woeful, woeful day; I sang — my voice the woods returning ; — But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my love and left me mourning. What can my barbarous, barbarous father do But with his cruel rage pursue me ? My lover's blood is on thy spear ; How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? My happy sisters may be, may be proud ; With cruel and ungentle scoffin'. May bid me seek on Yarrow's braes My lover nailed in his coffin : My brother Douglas may upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move me : — My lover's blood is on thy spear. How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love ; With bridal sheets my body cover ; Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover. 30 HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. But who the expected husband, husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me ! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ] O lay his cold head on my pillow : Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds. And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, O, could my warmth to life restore thee, Ye'd lie all night between my breasts, — No youth lay ever there before thee ! Pale, pale indeed ! O lovely, lovely youth. Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter ; And lie all night between my breasts,— No youth shall ever lie there after." " Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride; Return and dry thy useless sorrow : Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs. — He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow,'" GEORGE HALKET, 31 VIIL GEORGE HALKET (Attrihided to). Died 1756. LOGIE O' BUCHAN. O LOGIE o' Buchan, O Logie the laird, They hae ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yaird Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol sae sma', — They hae ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a' ! He said, Thinkna lang, lassie, tho' I gang awa' ; He said, Thinkna lang, lassie, tho' I gang awa'; For simmer is coming — cauld winter's awa'. And I'll 'come and see thee in spite o' them a'. Tho' Sandy has owsen, has gear, and has kye, A house and a hadden, and siller forbye ; Yet I'd tak' my ain lad, wi' his stafif in his hand, Before I'd hae him, wi' the houses and land. My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour; They frown upon Jamie because he is poor : Tho' I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do, They're nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you. 32 GEORGE HALKET. I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel, And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel; He had but ae saxpence — he brak it in twa, And gied me the hauf o't when he gaed awa'. Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa' ; Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa'; The simmer is coming — cauld winter's awa', And ye'U come and see me in spite o' them a'! TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 33 IX. TOBIAS SMOLLETT 1721—1771. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door: — In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war, — Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. 794 34 TOBIAS SMOLLETT, What boots it then, in every clime, Through the wide -spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy towering spirit now is broke. Thy neck is bended to the yoke : — What foreign arms could never quell By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day ; No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night ; No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe. — While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. O baneful cause, O fatal morn, Accursed to ages yet unborn ! The sons against their father stood. The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased; — The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murdering steel ! The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath: The bleak wind whistles round her head, fier helpless orphans cry for bread: Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. She views the shades of night descend; And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 35 While the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate Within my filial breast shall beat ; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathising verse shall flow. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ' 36 REV. JOHN SKINNER. REV. JOHN SKINNER. 1721—1807. JOHN OF BADENYON. When first I came to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth, And fain the world would know : In best attire I stept abroad, With spirits brisk and gay ; And here and there and everywhere Was like a morn in May. No care I had, nor fear of want, But rambled up and down ; And for a beau I might have pass'd, In country or in town: I still was pleased where'er I went ; And when I was alone, I tuned my pipe and pleased myself With John of Badenyon. REV. JOHN SKINNER. yj Now, in the days of youthful prime, A mistress I must find; For love^ I heard, gave one an air, And ev'n improved the mind : On Philhs fair above the rest Kind fortune fixed my eyes ; — Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice. To Cupid then, with hearty prayer, I offer'd many a vow. And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore, As other lovers do. But when at last I breathed my flame, I found her cold as stone ! I left the girl, and tuned my pipe To John of Badenyon. When love had thus my heart beguiled With foolish hopes and vain, To friejids hip's port I steer'd my course. And laugh'd at lovers' pain : A friend I got by lucky chance — 'Twas something like divine! An honest friend's a precious gift. And such a gift was mine. And now, whatever might betide, A happy man was I — In any strait I knew to whom I freely might apply. A strait soon came : my friend I tried ; He heard, and spurn'd my moan : I hied me home, and tuned my pipe To John of Badenyon. 38 REV. JOHN SKINNER. I thought I would be wiser next, And did a Patriot turn- Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes And cry up Parson Home :* Their manly spirit I admired. And praised their noble zeal, Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain'd the public weal. But, ere a month or two had pass'd, I found myself betray'd ; — 'Twas Self and Party, after all. For all the stir they made. At last I saw these factious knaves Insult the very throne — I cursed them all, and tuned my pipe To John of Badenyon. WTiat next to do I mused awhile, Still hoping to succeed : I pitch'd on hooks for company, And gravely tried to read : — I bought and borrow'd everywhere, * And studied night and day, Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote That happened in my way. Philosophy I now esteem'd The ornament of youth ; And carefully, through many a page, I hunted after truth. • Written about the time when the storm raised bv Wilkes' expulsion from the House of Commons and the subsequent events v as raging. RE V. JOHN SKINNER. 39 A thousand various schemes I tried ; And yet was pleased with none: I threw them by, and tuned my pipe To John of PJadenyon. And now, ye youngsters everywhere Who wish to make a show, Take heed in time, nor fondly hope For happiness below: What you may fancy pleasure here Is but an empty name ; Av\di girls, z.x\d friends, and books also, You'll find them all the same. Then be advised, and warning take From such a man as me — I'm neither pope nor cardinal Nor one of high degree: You'll meet displeasure everywhere ; — Then do as I have done — E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves With John of Badenyon. 40 JANE ELLIOT. XI. JANE ELLIOT. 1727—1805. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking — Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day ; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaningH The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ; At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scoring ; Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; — Nae daffin', nae gabbin' — but sighing and sabbing Ilk ane lilts her leglin and hies her away. In hair'st, at the .shearing, nae youths now are jeerig— Bandsters are runkled and lyart or grey : At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ! At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roamir^ 'Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk maid sits drearie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. JANE ELLIOT. 41 Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; — The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost — The prime of our land — are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae, Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 42 A LIS ON R UTHERFORD. xn. ALISON RUTHERFORD, 1712—1794. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST, I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay : Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing ; But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. I've seen the Forest adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest — most pleasant and gay : Full sweet was their blooming — their scent the air per- fuming ; But now they are wither'd and a' wede away. I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And the red tempest storming before parting day: I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams. Grow drumly and dark as they roll'd on their way. O fickle Fortune ! why this cruel sporting ? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me — Since the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 43 xm. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 1734—1788. THE SAILOR'S WIFE. And are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark ? Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel ! Is this .the time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door ? Rax down my cloak — I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown ; For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's in the town. 44 WILLTAM JULIUS MICKLE. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My hose o' pearly blue, — It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise up and mak' a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot ; Gie little Kate her button gown, And Jock his Sunday coat ; And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockin's white as snaw, — It's a' to please my ain gudeman — He likes to see them braw. There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, Hae fed this month and mair; Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean — Gar ilka thing look braw; For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa' ? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — In troth I'm like to rreet ! WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 45 If Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave ; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboon the lave. And will I see his face again, /.-. will I hear him speak ? — I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — In troth I'm like to greet ! For there's nae luck aboot the house, There's nae luck ava ; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'. 46 GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. XIV. GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. 1750—1797. If doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I'll mount my steed ; And strong his arm, and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap. Thy picture in my heart ; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart ! Then tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye, ril dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night. And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear. These sounds I'll strive to catch, — Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel' — That voice that nane can match. Then tell me how to woo thee, love ; O tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. 47 But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; — Nae maiden lays her skaith to me; I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue ; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, love ; O tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear ?^ake nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. 48 J A MES BE A TTJE. JAMES BEATTIE. 1735—1803. RETIREMENT: AN ODE. When in the crimson cloud of Even The lingering light decays, And Hesper on the front of heaven His glittering gem displays ; Deep in the silent vale unseen, Beside a lulling stream, A pensive Youth, of placid mien. Indulged this tender theme. "Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled High o'er the glimmering dale ; Ye woods, along whose windings wild Murmurs the solemn gale ; — Where Melancholy strays forlorn. And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep ! JAMES BEATTIE. 49 *' To you, ye wastes — whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye — 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly : Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline. Where Solitude, mild, modest power, Leans on her ivied shrine. "How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? Thy heavenly smile how win ? — Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within. O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring ; And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing ? " Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When, in the lap of Peace reclined, He framed his infant lays ; — When Fancy roved at large, nor Care, Nor cold Distrust alarm'd ; Nor Envy, with malignant glare, This simple youth had harm'd. *' 'Twas then, O Solitude ! to thee His early vows were paid. From heart sincere, and warm, and free, Devoted to the shade. Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam. Remote from all congenial joy ? — O take the Wanderer home ! 795 50 JAMES BEATTIE, " Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, Thy charms my only theme ; My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine Waves o'er the gloomy stream, — Whence the scared owl on pinions grey Breaks from the rustling boughs, And down the lone vale sails away To more profound repose. " O ! while to thee the woodland pours Its wildly warbling song, And balmy from the banks of flowers The zephyr breathes along, — Let no rude sound invade from far, No vagrant foot be nigh, No ray from Grandeur's gilded car Flash on the startled eye. '* But, if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallow'd bowers explore, O guard from hr>.rm his hoary head, And listen to his lore ; For he of joys divine shall tell. That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains this heart below. " For me no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread ; No more I climb those toilsome heights, By guileful Hope misled ; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more To Mirth's enlivening strain ; For present pleasure soon is o'er. And all the past is vain. " JAMES BE A TTIE. 51 HIS OWN EPITAPH. Escaped the gloom of mortal life, a soul Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay, Safe — where no cares their whelming billows roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray. Like thee, I once have stemm'd the sea of life ; Like thee, have languish'd after empty joys ; Like thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife, Been grieved with trifles, and amused with toys. Yet for a while, 'gainst passion's threatful blast, Let steady reason urge the struggling oar ; Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn, at last. Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore. Forget my frailties — thou art also frail ; Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall; Nor read unmoved my artless, tender tale — I was a friend, oh man, to thee, to all ! 52 JOHN EWEN. XVI. JOHN EWEN. 1741-1821. THE BOATIE ROWS. WEEL may the boatie row, And better may she speed ! And leesome may the boatie row, That wins the bairns's bread ! The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ! And happy be the lot of a' That wishes her to speed ! 1 cuist my line in Largo Bay, And fishes I caught nine : There's three to boil, and three to fry, And three to bait the line. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ! And weel may the boatie row That wins my bairns's bread ! JOHN EWEN, 53 O weel may the boatie row That fills a heavy creel, And deads us a' frae head to feet, And buys our parritch meal ! The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed ! And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boatie speed. When Jamie vow'd he would be mine. And wan frae me my heart, muckle lighter grew my creel! He swore we'd never part. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel ! And muckle lighter is the lade When love bears up the creel. My kurtch I put upon my head, And dress'd mysel' fu' braw : 1 trow my heart was dowf and wae When Jamie gaed awa ! But weel may the boatie row, And lucky be her part ! And lightsome be the lassie's care That yields an honest heart ! When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie, Are up and gotten lear, They'll help to gar the boatie row. And lighten a' our care. The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows fu' weel ! And lightsome be her heart that bears The murlain and the creel ! 54 JOHN EWEN, And when wi' age we are worn doun, And hirpling round the door, They'll row to keep us hale and warm, As we did them before : Then, weel may the boatie row That wins the baims's bread ! And happy be the lot of a' That wish the boat to speed ! ISOBEL PAGAN. 55 xvn. ISOBEL PAGAN, 1741—1821. CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. Ca' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca* them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie. As I gaed down the water side, There I met my shepherd lad ; He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, As he ca'd me his dearie. " Will ye gang down the water side. And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? The moon it shines fu' clearly. ** Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep. And ye shall be my dearie." 56 ISOBEL PAGAN. " I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool, And a' the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me. ** If ye'U but stand to what ye've said. I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad ; And ye may row me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie." " WTiile waters wimple to the sea, ^Vhile day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, Ve aye shall be my dearie I" MICHAEL BRUCE. 57 XVIII. MICHAEL BRUCE. 1746—1767. FROM THE ELEGY TO SPRING. Now Spring returns : but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shivering in th' inconstant wind, Meagre and pale — the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, And count the silent moments as they pass — The winged moments, whose unstaying speed No art can stop, or in their course arrest ; — \Vhose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, And lay me down in peace with them that rest. Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate ; — And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true: Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate. And bid the realms of light and life adieu. 58 MICHAEL BRUCE. I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe ; I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, Which mortals visit — and return no more. Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, ^^^lere Melancholy with still Silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve, WTien Sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes, — The world and all its busy follies leave. And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, When Death shall shut these weary aching eyes, — Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone, and the last mom arise. JOHJN LOGAN. 59 XIX. JOHN LOGAN 1748—1788. ODE TO THE CUCKOO. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of Spring ! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green. Thy certain voice we hear : Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant, with thee I hail the time of flowers ; And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood, To pull the primrose gay. Starts the new voice of Spring to hear. And imitates thy lay. 6o JOHN LOGAN. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale — An annual guest, in other lands, Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. No winter in thy year I O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe — Companions of the Spring. THE BRAES OF YARROW. Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, WTien first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover ! For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. He promised me a milk-white steed. To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page. To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring, — The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow: Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas ! his watery grave in Yarrow. JOHN LOGAN. 6i Sweet were his words when last we met ; My passion I as freely told him : Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him ! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow : Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow. His mother from the window look'd, With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walk'd The greenwood path to meet her brother : They sought him east, they sought him west. They sought him all the Forest thorough ; They only saw the cloud of night. They only heard the roar of Yarrow. No longer from thy window look — Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou little maid ; Alas ! thou hast no more a brother. No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the Forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark. He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. The tear shall never leave my cheek. No other youth shall be my marrow — I'll seek thy body in the stream. And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. — The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow ; She found his body in the stream. And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 62 HECTOR MACNEILL. XX. HECTOR MACNEILL. 1746—1818. MY BOY TAMMY. ** Whar hae ye been a' day, My boy Tammy ? Whar hae ye been a' day, My boy Tammy ? " " I've been by bum and flow'ry brae, Meadow green and mountain grey, Courting o' this young thing Just come frae her mammy." " And whar got ye that young thing, My boy Tammy ?" " I gat her down in yonder howe. Smiling, on a broomy knowe. Herding a wee lamb and ewe For her poor mammy." ' ' What said ye to the bonny bairn, My boy Tammy ? " " I praised her een sae lovely blue, Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou', — I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow : She said she'd tell her mammy. HECTOR M ACNE ILL. 63 " I held her to my beating heart, My young, my smiling lammie : * I hae a house — it cost me dear ; I've wealth o' plenishin' and gear; — Ye'se get it a' were't ten times mair. Gin ye will leave your mammy. * " The smile gaed aff her bonny face : * I maunna leave my mammy ! She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claise ; She's been my comfort a' my days ; — My father's death brought mony waes : I canna leave my mammy.' " ' We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, My ain kind-hearted lammie. We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise ; We'll be her comfort a' her days.' The wee thing gies her hand and says : * There ! gang and ask my mammy. ' *' '* Has she been to the kirk wi' thee. My boy Tammy?" " She has been to the kirk wi' me, And the tear was in her e'e; For, oh ! she's but a young thing Just come frae her mammy." 64 HECTOR M ACNE ILL. COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. '* COMR under my plaidie, — the night's gaun to fa*; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw: Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me, — There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidie and sit down beside me, — I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Oh, come under my plaidie and sit down beside me! There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa." " Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae *wa! I fearna the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw: Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie; I'll no sit beside ye, — Ye may be my gutcher; — auld Donald, gae 'wa. I'm gaun to meet Johnnie — he's young and he's bonny ; He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw: Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly; — His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw. ** Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa' : Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava; — The hale o' his pack he has now on his back : He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now and kindly: I'll busk ye aye finely, — To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw; — A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'." '• My father's aye tauld me, my mither and a', Ye'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw : It's true I lo'e Johnnie — he's gude and he's bonnie, — But, wae's me ! ye ken he has naething ava. HECTOR M ACNE ILL. 65 I hae little tocher: you've made a good offer : I'm now mair than twenty — my time is but sma' ; Sae, gie me your plaidie, I'll creep in beside ye, — I thocht ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa." She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa', Where Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a' : The day was appointed, — his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa. He wander'd hame weary : the night it was dreary ; And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw : The owlet was screamin'; while Johnnie cried, "Women Wad marry Auld Nick if he'd keep them aye braw !" 796 66 SUSAJVA/A BLAMIRE. XXI. SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 1747—1794. AND YE SHALL WALK IN SILK ATTIRE. And ye shall walk in silk attire, And siller hae to spare, Gin ye'll consent to be his bride, Nor think o' Donald mair. — Oh, wha wad buy a silken gown Wi' a puir broken heart ? Or what's to me a siller crown, Gin frae my love T part ? The mind wha's every wish is pure Far dearer is to me ; And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me doun and dee : For I hae pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald's fate to share; And he has gi'en to me his heart, Wi' a' its virtues rare. SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 67 His gentle manners wan my heart, — He gratefu' took the gift ; Could I but think to tak' it back, It would be waur than theft. For langest life can ne'er repay The love he bears to me ; And ere I'm forced to break my troth I'll lay me doun and dee ! 68 LADY A NNE LINDSA V. XXII. LADY ANNE LINDSAY. 1750—1825. AULD ROBIN GRAY. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a crown he had naething else beside : To make the crown a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea, — And the crown and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my faither brak' his airm, and the coo was stown awa' ; My mither she fell sick, — and my Jamie at the sea; And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My faither couldna wark, and my mither couldna spin: I toil'd day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win : Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" LADY ANNE LINDSAY. 69 My heart it said nay — I look'd for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; His ship it was a wrack — why didna Jamie dee ? Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me ? My faither urged me sair : my mither didna speak ; But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break. They gi'ed him my hand, — my heart was at the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, — for I couldna think it he, Till he said, *' I'm come hame to marry thee." sair did we greet, and muckle did we say : We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang away. 1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee,- And why was I born to say, Wae's me ? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin : I dauma think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be. For auld Robin Gray is kind to me. 70 ROBERT FERGUSSON. XXIII. ROBERT FERGUSSON. 1751—1774. TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL. Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing, As e'er was framed to jow or ring ! What gar'd them sic in steeple hing, They ken themsel' ; But weel wat I they couldna bring Waur sounds frae hell. Fleece-merchants may look bauld I trow, Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo, Thy sound to bang. And keep it frae gaun thro' an' thro", Wi' jarrin' twang. Your noisy tongue there's nae abidin't : Like scaulding wife's, there is nae guidin't Whan I'm 'bout ony business eident It's sair to thole, — To deave me then, ye tak' a pride in't, Wi' senseless knoll ! ROBER T FERG US SON. 7 1 Oh ! were I Provost o' the town, I swear by a' the powers aboon, I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down ; Nor should you think (Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown) Again to clink ! For, whan I've toom'd the meikle cap, An' fain wad fa' ower in a nap, Troth ! I could doze as sound's a tap Were't na for thee, That gies the tither weary chap To wauken me. I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick : Quo' he, "This bell o' mine's a trick, A wily piece o' politic, A cunnin' snare. To trap folk in a cloven stick Ere they're aware. "As lang's my dautit bell hings there, A' body at the kirk will skair ; Quo' they, if he that preaches there Like it can wound, "We downa care a single hair For joyfu' sound." If magistrates wi' me wad 'gree. For aye tongue-tackit should ye be, Nor fleg wi' anti-melody Sic honest fouk, Whase lugs were never made to dree Thy dolefu' shock. 72 ROBERT FERGUSSON. But far frae thee the bailies dwell, Or they wad scunner at thy knell, Gie the foul thief his riven bell,— And then, I trow, The by-word bauds, "The deil himsel' Has got his due ! " BR-\ID CLAITH. Ve wha arc fain to hae your name Wrote i' the bonnie book o' Fame, Let Merit nae pretension claim To laurell'd wreath ; But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, in gude Braid Claith. He that some ells o' this may fa', And slae-black hat on pow like snaw, Bids bauld to bear the gree awa' \Vi' a' this graith. When bcinly clad wi' shell fu' braw O' gude Braid Claith. Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't For he's a gowk they're sure to geek at- A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit, WTiile he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' gude Braid Claith. ROBERT FERGUSSON. 73 On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Whan he has done wi' scrapin' wark, Wi' siller broachie in his sark, Gangs trigly, faith ! Or to the Meadows, or the Park, In gude Braid Claith. Weel might ye trow, to see him there, That he to shave your hafifits bare, Or curl and sleek a pickle hair. Wad be right laith — When pacing wi' a gawsy air In gude Braid Claith. If ony mettled stirrah grene For favour frae a lady's een. He maunna care for bein' seen Before he sheath His body in a scabbard clean O' gude Braid Claith. For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare, A feg for him she winna care, But crook her bonnie mou' fu' sair. And scauld him baith : Wooers should aye their travel spare Without Braid Claith. Braid Claith lends folk an unco heeze, Maks mony kail-worms butterflees, Gies mony a doctor his degrees For little skaith : — In short, you may be what you please Wi' glide Braid Claith. 74 ROBERT FERGUSSON. For, tho' ye had as wise a snout on As Shakespeare, or Sir Isaac Newton, Your judgment folk wad hae a doubt on, I'll tak my aith, Till they could see ye wi' a suit on O' gude Braid Claith. THE LEA RIG. Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, O ! And cuddle their fu' kindly Wi' me, my kind dearie, O ! At thorny dike, and birken tree, W^e'll daff and ne'er be weary, O ! They'll scug ilk e'e frae you and me. My ain kind dearie, O 1 Nae herds wi' kent or collie there Shall ever come to fear ye, O ! But lav'rocks whistling in the air Shall woo, like me, their dearie, Ol Wliile ithers herd their lambs and yowes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lea my pleasure grows, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O! JOHN DUNLOP. 75 XXIV. JOHN DUNLOP. 1756—1820. OH ! DINNA ASK ME GIN I LO'E THEE. Oh ! dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee,— Troth, I dar'na tell : Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye — Ask it o' yersel'. Oh ! dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true : Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me, I dar'na look at you ! When ye gang to yon braw, braw toun, And bonnier lassies see, Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them. Lest you should mind na me. For I could never bide the lass That ye'd lo'e mair than me ; And oh, I'rn sure my heart would break Gin ye'd prove false to me I 76 ANDREW SCOTT. XXV, ANDRE W SCOTT. 1757—1839. SYMON AND JANET.* Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Where muircocks and plivers are rife, For mony a lang towmont thegither There lived an auld man and his wife. About the affairs o' the nation The twasome they seldom were mute Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot. In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed : • Suggested by the False Alarm (of Bonaparte's landing) in the year 1S04, when the beacons in the Border Country were lighted by mistake. ANDRE W SCOTT. 77 Auld Janet, his ^vife, out a-gazin' (To lock in the door was her care), She, seeing our signals a-blazin', Cam' running in rivin' her hair. " O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit ! Gae look, man, and slip on your shoon ; Our signals I see them extendit, Like the red rising blaze o' the moon ! '' ** What plague, the French landit ! " quo' Symon, And clash ! gaed his pipe to the wa' : " Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin'," Quo' he, "if they're landit ava' ! " Our youngest son's in the militia ; Our eldest grandson's volunteer ; And the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks will appear. " His waistcoat-pouch filPd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun ; His bullets he put in the other. That he for the purpose had run. Then humpled he out in a huny, While Janet his courage bewails, And cries out, " Dear Symon, be wary ; " Whilst teughly she hung by his tails. ** Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares ; If now I be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs." 78 ANDREW SCOTT. Quo' Janet, " O keep frae the riot ! Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead ; — This aught days I've tentit a pyot Sit chatterin' upon the house-head. "And yesterday, workin' my stockin', And you wi' your sheep on the hill, A muckle black corbie sat croakin', — I kenn'd it foreboded some ill." " Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty ; For, ere the next sun may gae doun, Wha kens but I'll shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown ?" " Then, hear me,'' quo' Janet, " I pray thee I'll tend thee, love, Hvin' or dead ; And if thou should fa' I'll die wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed." Syne aff in a hurry he stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun ; At's curpin auld Janet too humpled, — Awa' to the neighbouring toon There footmen and yeomen, paradin', To scour aff in dirdum were seen — Auld wives and young lassies a-sheddin The briny saut tears frae their een. Then aff wi' his bonnet gat Symon, And to the commander he gaes ; Quo' he, " Sir, I mean to go wi' ye, man, And help ye to lounder our faes. ANDREW SCOTT. 79 '• I'm auld, yet I'm teugh as the wire ; Sae we'll at the rogues have a dash — And, fegs, if my gun winna fire, I'll turn her butt-end and I'll thrash ! " "Well spoken, my hearty auld hero !" The Captain did smiling reply ; But begg'd he would stay till to-morrow, Till daylight should glent in the sky. What reck ? a' the stour cam' to naething ; Sae Symon and Janet, his dame, Hale-skart frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed bannin' the French again hame. 8o JEAN GLOVER. XXTT. JEAN GLOVER. 1758—1801. O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. Coming through the craigs o' Kyle, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather — There I met a bonnie lassie, Keeping a' her ewes thegither. O'er the moor amang the heather, O'er the moor amang the heather — There I met a bonnie lassie. Keeping a* her ewes thegither. Says I, My dear, where is thy hame, — In moor or dale, pray tell me whether ? Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks That feed amang the bloomin' heather. We laid us down upon a bank, Sae warm and sunny was the weather : She left her flocks at large to rove, Amang the bonnie bloomin' heather. JEAN GLOVER. 8i While thus we lay, she sang a song — Till echo rang a mile and farther ; And aye the burden o' the song Was — o'er the moor amang the heather. She charm'd my heart, and aye sinsyne I couldna think on ony ither : By sea and sky she shall be mine — The bonnie lass amang the heather ! O'er the moor amang the heather, Down amang the bloomin' heather, — By sea and sky she shall be mine, The bonnie lass amang the heather 797 82 LADY NAIRNE, XXVII. LADY NAIRNE, Bor?i CAROLINA OLIPHANT. 176«}— 1846. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I'm wearin* awa', John, Like snaw- wreaths in thaw, John — I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John ; There's neither cauld nor care, John, — The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. Our bonnie bairn's there, John ; She was baith guid and fair, John; And, oh ! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. LADY NAIRNE. 83 But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy is coming fast, John — The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, John ; Your task's ended now, John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John : This warld's cares are vain, John ; — We'll meet and we'll be fain In the land o' the leal. CALLER HERRIN'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'j Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth ? When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dream'd ye aught o' our puir fellows — Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill our woven willows ? Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? They're no brought here without brave daring: Buy my caller herrin*, Haul'd thro' wind and rain. 84 LADY NAIRNE. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin', — Wives and mithers, 'maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men. When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies clad in silks and laces Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their necks and screw their faces. Caller herrin' 's no got lightly : Ye can trip the spring fu' tightly ; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow* has set you a' a-singin'. Neebour wives, now tent my tellin' : When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in your dealin', — Truth will stand when a' thing's failin' THE LASS O' GOWRIE, 'TwAS on a simmer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed doun, A lassie wi' a braw new goun Cam' owre the hills to Gowrie. The rosebud wash'd in simmer's shower Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower ; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie. * This song: -was written for Nathaniel Gow, a musical com- poser, son of the more celebrated Xeil Gow. LADY NAIRNE. 85 To see her cousin she cam' there ; An* oh ! the scene was passing fair, For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie ? The sun was setting on the Tay, The blue hills melting into grey, The mavis and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie. lang the lassie I had woo'd, And truth and constancy had vow'd, But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed Until she saw fair Gowrie. 1 pointed to my faither's ha' — Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, Sae lown that there nae blast could blaw : — Wad she no bide in Gowrie? Her faither was baith glad and wae ; Her mither she wad naething say ; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kittie gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet ; The blush and tear were on her cheek ; She naething said, and hung her head ; — But now she's Leddy Gowrie. THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great. His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State : He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep ; But favour wi' wooin' was fashous to seek. 86 LADY NAIRNE. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; At his table-head he thought she'd look well — McClish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouther'd and as gude as new ; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue : He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat, — And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? He took the grey mare, and rade cannily, An' rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee : " Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, — She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine : " And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put aff her apron and on her silk goun. Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa doun. An' when she cam' ben he bow'd fu' low ; An' what was his errand he soon let her know. Amazed was the Laird when the lady said '*Na;"- And wi' a laigh curtsey she turn'd awa. Dumbfounder'd was he ; nae sigh did he gie, He mounted his mare, he rade cannily ; And aften he thought as he gaed thro' the glen, *' She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen ! " And, now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said : " Oh, for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten ! I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. " LADY NAIRNE. 87 Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green : Now she sits in the ha', like a weel-tappit hen ; But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.* THE PLEUGHMAN. There's high and low, there's rich and poor, There's trades and crafts eneuch, man ; But, east and west, his trade's the best That kens to guide the pleugh, man. Then, come weel speed my pleughman lad, And hey my merry pleughman : Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the pleughman ! His dreams are sweet upon his bed, His cares are light and few, man ; His mother's blessing's on his head, That tents her weel — the pleughman. The lark sae sweet, that starts to meet The morning fresh and new, man — Blithe tho' she be, as blithe is he. That sings as sweet — the pleughman. * The two last verses of this exquisitely humorous account of the courtship preceding a mariage de convenance are by the novelist, Miss Ferrier, and are quite in her style. 88 LADY NAIRNE. All fresh and gay, at dawn of day, Their labours they renew, man : Heaven bless the seed, and bless the soil. And Heaven bless the pleughman ! THE AULD HOUSE. Oh, the auld house, the auld house ! What tho' the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu' o' glee ! The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa' : How mony cherish'd memories Do they sweet flowers reca' ! Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird, Sae canty, kind, and crouse ! How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house ! And the leddy too, sae genty. That shelter'd Scotland's heir ; And cHpt a lock wi' her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair. The mavis still doth sweetly sing. The blue-bells sweetly blaw ; The bonnie Earn's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. The auld house, the auld house ! Deserted tho' ye be, There ne'er can be a new house Will seem sae fair to me. LADY NAIRNE. 89 WILL YE NO COME BACK AGAIN ? Bonnie Charlie's now awa', Safely ower the friendly main; Mony a heart will break in twa Should he ne'er come back again. Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no come back again ? Better lo'ed ye canna be — Will ye no come back again ? ye trusted in your Hieland men ; They trusted you, dear Charlie ! They kent you hiding in the glen, — Your cleading was but barely. English bribes were a' in vain ; — Tho' puir and puirer we maun be, Siller canna buy the heart That beats aye for thine and thee. We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, We watch'd thee in the mornin' grey ;- Tho' thirty thousand pounds they'd gi'e, Oh, there was nane that wad betray ! Sweet's the laverock's note and lang, Lilting wildly up the glen ; But aye to me he sings ae sang, — Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no come back again ? Better lo'ed ye canna be — Will ye no come back again ? go LADY NAIRNE. THE MAIDEN'S VOW. I've made a vow — I'll keep it true, I'll never married be ; For the only ane that I think on Will never think o' me. Now gane to a far distant shore, Their face nae mair I'll see ; But aften will I think o' them, That winna think o' me. Gi' owre, gi' owre noo, gude Sir John- Oh, dinna follow me ; For the only ane I e'er thocht on Lies buried in the seal ROBERT TANNAHILL. 91 XXVIII. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 1774—1810. JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. How sweet is the brier wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green ; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dun- blane, Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, — Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen : Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 93 ROBERT TANNAHILL. CLEAN PEASE-STRAE. When John an' me were married. Our haudin' was but sma' ; For my minnie, canker't carline, Would gie us nocht ava' : I wair't my fee wi' canny care As far as it would gae ; But weel I wot our bridal bed Was clean pease-strae. Wi' working late and early, We're come to what you see ; For fortune thrave aneath our hands- Sae eident aye were we. The lowe of love made labour light,- I'm sure ye'U find it sae, When kind ye cuddle down at e'en 'Mang clean pease-strae. The rose blooms gay on cairny brae As weel's in birken shaw ; And love will lowe in cottage low As weel's in lofty ha'. Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like, Whate'er your minnie say — Tho' ye should make your bridal bed Of clean pease-strae. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 93 GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA' Gloomy winter's now awa', Saft the westlan' breezes blaw, 'Mang the birks o' Stanley shaw The mavis sings fu' cheery, O ! Sweet the crawflower's early bell Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, Blooming like thy bonnie sel', My young, my artless dearie, O ! Come, my lassie, let us stray O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae — Blithely spend the gowden day 'Midst joys that never weary, O ! Towering o'er the Newton woods, Lav' rocks fan the snaw-white clouds ; Siller saughs, wi' downy buds, Adorn the banks sae briery, O ! Round the sylvan fairy nooks Feathery brackens fringe the rocks ; 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks. And ilka thing is cheery, O ! Trees may bud and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna' bring Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O ! 94 ROBERT TANNAHILL. MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBODY. When gloaming treads the heels of day, And birds sit cowering on the spray, Alang the flowery hedge I stray To meet my ain dear Somebody. The scented brier, the fragrant bean, The clover bloom, the dewy green, A' charm me, as I rove at e'en To meet mine ain dear Somebody. Let warriors prize the hero's name ; Let mad Ambition tower for fame ; I'm happier in my lowly hame, Obscurely blest wi' Somebody. THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. Let us go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang simmer day On the braes o' Balquhither. I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain. And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain : ROBERT TANNAHILL. 95 I will range thro' the wilds And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling. So merrily we'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the simmer's in prime, Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming ; — To our dear native scenes Let us journey together. Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. MY MARY. My Mary is a bonny lassie. Sweet as dewy morn. When Fancy tunes her rural reed Beside the upland thorn : She lives ahint yon sunny knowe, Where flowers in wild profusion grow, Where spreading birks and hazels throw Their shadows o'er the burn. 96 ROBERT TANNAHILL, 'Tis no the streamlet-skirted wood, Wi' a' its leafy bowers, That gars me wait in solitude Amang the wild-sprung flowers ; But aft I cast a longing e'e Down frae the bank out owre the lea, Where haply I my lass may see As thro' the broom she scours. Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie Coming frae the toon ; We raptured sank in ither's arms. And press'd the brackens doon. The pairtrick sung his e'ening note, The corncraik rispt his clam'rous throat, While there the heavenly vow I got That arl't her my own. NOW WINTER, Wr HIS CLOUDY BROW. Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow. Is far ayont yon mountains ; And Spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains : Now on the budding slaethorn bank She spreads her early blossom, And woos the mirly-breasted birds To nestle in her bosom. But lately a' was clad wi' snaw — Sae darksome, dull, and dreary j Now laverocks sing to hail the spring, And Nature all is cheery. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 97 Then let us leave the Town, my love, And seek our country dwelling, Where waving woods and spreading flowers On every side are smiling. We'll tread again the daisied green Where first your beauty moved me ; We'll trace again the woodland scene Where first ye own'd ye loved me ; We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear these pleasures a', When shared wi' thee, my Nancy ! WHILE THE GREY-PINION'D LARK. While the grey-pinion'd lark early mounts to the skies And cheerily hails the sweet dawn, And the sun, newly ris'n, sheds the mist from his eyes And smiles over mountain and lawn, — Delighted I stray by the fairy wood-side, Where the dew-drops the crowflowers adorn, And Nature array'd in her midsummer's pride Sweetly smiles to the smile of the morn. Ye dark waving plantings, ye green shady bowers, Your charms ever varying I view; My soul's dearest transports, my happiest hours, Have owed half their pleasures to you. Sweet Ferguslie, hail ! thou the dear sacred grove Where first my young Muse spread her wing : Here Nature first waked me to rapture and love, And taught me her beauties to sing. 79S 98 ROBERT TANNAHILL. THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa', The pairtricks, down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca' : Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings thro' the briery shaw ; While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'. Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day ; \Yhile weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn; The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking thro' the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell. The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance thro' the dell.— Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, — The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 99 THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw ! The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ; — But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw ; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw : The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie — They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, — 'Tis winter wi' them and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain. And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae; While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. 'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e ; For, O, gin I saw but my bonnie Scotch callan', The dark days o' winter were summer to me 1 loo ROBERT T ANN A HILL. THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.* Far lone amang the Highland hills, 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens, With weary steps I wander. The langsome way, the darksome day, The mountain mist sae rainy, Are naught to me when gaun to thee. Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. Von mossy rosebud down the howe, Just opening fresh and bonnie, Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, And's scarcely seen by ony : Sae, sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, More fair and gay than rosy May — The flower o' Arranteenie. Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, I view the distant ocean, — There Avarice guides the bounding prow, Ambition courts promotion : — Let Fortune pour her golden store. Her laurell'd favours many; Give me but this, my soul's first wish. The lass o' Arranteenie ! ' Properly, Ardentinny. ROBERT TANNAHILL. loi LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES. *' Loudoun's bonnie woods and bracii, I maun lea' them a', lassie; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Would gi'e Britons law, lassie ? Wha would shun the field o' danger ? Wha irae fame would live a stranger ? Now, when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shua her ca', lassie? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Hae seen our happy bridal days; And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie." *' Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie ; But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie : — Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love and thee, laddie : O'er the gory fields of war When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou'lt maybe fall — frae me afar. And nane to close thy e'e, laddie." * This song was composed in honour of the Earl of Moira (afterwards Marquis of Hastings) and the Countess of Loudoun, —to whom his lordship had been recently married, when he was called upon to go abroad in the service of his country. los ROBERT TAN NAM ILL. •• O resume thy wonted smile ! O suppress thy fears, lassie ! Glorious honour crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie. Heaven will shield thy faithful lover Till the vengeful strife is over;— Then we'll meet — nae mair to sever Till the day we die, lassie. 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes We'll spend our peaceful happy days, As blithe's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie," THE FLOWER OF LEVERN SIDE/ Ye sunny braes that skirt the Clyde Wi' simmer flowers sae braw. There's ae sweet flower on Levern side That's fairer than them a'. Yet aye it droops its head in wae. Regardless o' the sunny ray, And wastes its sweets from day to day. Beside the lonely shaw : Wi' leaves a' steepd in sorrow's dew, Fause, cruel man it seems to rue; Wha aft the sweetest flower will pu', Then rend its heart in twa. • The Tavern ia a rivulet that falls into the Cart near Crock- ROBERT TANNAHILL. 103 Thou bonnie flower on Levern side, O gin thou' It be but mine, I'll tend thee wi* a lover's pride Wi' love that ne'er shall tine ; I'll take thee to my sheltering bower, And shield thee frae the beating shower: Unharm'd by aught, thou'lt bloom secure Frae a' the blasts that blaw. Thy charms surpass the crimson dye That streaks the glowing western sky; But here, unshaded, soon thou'lt die, And lone will be thy fa'. LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND BURN. Langsyne, beside the woodland burn, Amang the broom sae yellow, I lean'd me, 'neath the milk-white thorn, On nature's mossy pillow : A' round my seat the flowers were strew'd That frae the wild-wood I had pu'd. To weave myself a summer snood, To pleasure my dear fellow. I twined the woodbine round the rose. Its richer hues to mellow ; Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose To busk the sedge sae yellow ; The crawflower blue and meadow pink I wove in primrose-braided link ; — But little, little did I think I should have wove the willow. ,o4 ROBERT TAANAH/LL. My bonnie lad was forced afar, Toss'd on the raging billow : Perhaps he's fa'en in bloody war, Or wrcck'd on rocky shallow :— Vet aye I hope for his return, As round our wonted haunts I mourn ; And often by the woodland burn I pu' the weeping willow. CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S. Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary : Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, Vet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary. — Ves, Mary, though the winds should rave \Vi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I'd brave For ae aweet secret moment wi' thee. L«ud, o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure ; Eut I will ford the whirling deep That roars between me and my treasure. — Ves, Mary, though the torrent rave \Vith jealous spite to keep me frae thee, Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. ROBERT lANNAHlLL. The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, And makes the nightly wandeier eerie ; But, when the lanesome way is past, I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary. Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave, Wi' a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, The wildest dreary night I'd brave For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. CRAIGIE LEA. los Thou bonnie wood o' Craigie lea ! Thou bonnie wood o' Craigie lea ! Near thee I pass'd life's early day. And won my Mary's heart in thee. The broom, the brier, the birken bush. Bloom bonnie o'er thy flowery lea ; And a' the sweets that ane can wish Frae nature's hand are strew' d on thee. Far ben thy dark green planting's shade, The cushat croodles am'rously ; The mavis, down thy bughted glade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Awa', ye thoughtless, murdering gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee ! They'll sing you yet a canty sang— Then O, in pity, let them be ! io6 ROBERT TANNAHILL. When winter blaws, in sleety showers, Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie, He lightly skiffs thy bonnie bowers, As laith to harm a flower in thee. Though fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea, The happy hours I'll ever min' That I in youth hae spent in ihet. O! ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE? **0 ! ARE ye sleeping, Maggie? O ! are ye sleeping, Maggie ? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie ! *' Mirk and rainy is the night, — No a starn in a' the carry* ; Lightnings gleam athwart the lift. And winds drive wi' winter's fury. "Fearful soughs the bour-tree bank. The rifted wood roars wild and dreary ; Loud the iron yett does clank ; The cry of howlets makes me eerie. • The " carry" commonly signifies the direction in which the clnuda are beinjSf carried by the wind, but it stands here for the sky or firmament. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 107 "Aboon my breath I daurna speak, For fear I raise your waukrife daddy : Cauld's the blast upon my cheek, — O rise, rise, my bonnie lady ! " She oped the door, she let him in : He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie : — "Blaw your warst, ye rain and win' ! Since, Maggie, now I'm in beside ye. **Now, since ye're waking, Maggie, Now, since ye're waking, Maggie, What care I for howlet's cry, For bour-tree bank, or warlock craigic?" THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O ! Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O ! Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O ! Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O, And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O ! But, ah ! wae's me ! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O, The laird's wysed awa' my braw Highland laddie, O ! Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O, That aye seem'd sae blithe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O ! The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O ! Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O 1 Silent are the rocks that echo'd sae gladly, O, The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O ! loS ROBERT TANNAHILL, He pu'd mc the crawberry ripe frae the boggy fen ; He pu'd me the strawberry red frae the foggy glen ; He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, o.— Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O ! Fareweel, my ewes ; and fareweel, my doggie, O ! Fareweel, ye knowes — now sae cheerless and scroggie, O ! Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O, — I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O ! COGGIE, THOU HEALS ME. Dorothy sits i' the cauld ingle-neuk, — Her red rosy neb's like a labster tae ; \Vi' girning, her mou's like the gab o' the fleuk ; \Vi' sm'jking, her teeth's like the jet o' the slae. And aye she sings, " Weel's me !" aye she sings, " Weel's me ! Coggie, thou heals me ; coggie, thou heals me, — Aye my best friend when there's onything ails me : Ne'er shall we part till the day that I die." Dorothy ance was a weel-tocher'd lass, — Had charms like her neighbours, and lovers eneuch ; Lut she spited them sae wi' her pride and her sauce, They left her for thirty lang simmers to rue. Then aye she sang, " Wae's me !" aye she sang, " Wae's me ! O, 111 turn crazy ! O, I'll turn crazy ! Naelhing in a' the wide world can ease me : Dc'il take tlie wooers— O, what shall I do ? " ROBERT TANNAHILL. 109 Dorothy, dozen'd wi' living her lane, Pu'd at her rock wi' the tear in her e'e : She thocht on the braw merry days that were gane ; And coft a wee coggie for company. Now aye she sings, "Weel's me!" aye she sings, "Weel'sme! Coggie, thou heals me ; coggie, thou heals me — Aye my best friend when there's onything ails me : Ne'er shall we part till the day that I die ! " THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. The weary sun's gaen down the west, The birds sit nodding on the tree, All nature now prepares for rest; But rest there's nane prepared for me. The trumpet sounds to war's alarms. The drums they beat, the fifes they play: Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms, — For the morn I will be far away. Good-night and joy — good-night and joy, Good-night and joy be wi' you a'; For since it's so that I must go — Good-night, and joy be wi' you a' ! I grieve to leave my comrades dear, I mourn to leave my native shore — To leave my aged parents here, And the bonnie lass whom I adore. ROBERT TANNAHILL. But tender thoughts maun now be hush'd, — When danger calls I must obey : The transport waits us on the coast, And the morn I will be far away. Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast! Though bleak and drear thy mountains be, When on the heaving ocean toss'd I'll cast a wishful look to thee ! And now, dear Mary, fare-thee-weel; May Providence thy guardian be ! Or in the camp, or on the field, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee ! Slli ALEXANDER BOSWELL, iii XXIX. SIE ALEXANDER BOS WELL, 1775-1822. JENNY'S BAWBEE. I MET four chaps yon birks amang, \Vi' hanging lugs and faces lang ; I speir'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang, Wha's they I see ? Quo' he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the de'il; And here they cam' awa' to steal Jenny's bawbee. The first, a Captain to his trade, Wi' skull ill-lined and back weel clad, March'd round the barn and by the shed, And papp'd on's knee : Quo' he, My goddess, nymph, and queen, Your beauty's dazzled baith my een ! — But de'il a beauty he had seen But Jenny's bawbee. 112 S/R ALEXANDER BOS WELL. A Lawj'cr neist, — wi' bleth'rin' gab, Wha speeches wove like ony wab, In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab, And a' for a fee : Accounts he owed thro' a' the toun. And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could droun ! Haith ! now he thought to clout his goun Wi' Jenny's bawbee. A Norland Laird neist trotted up, Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup, — Cried, There's my beast, lad — baud the grup, Or tie it till a tree. What's gowd to me ? I've wealth o' Ian' ! Bestow on ane o' worth your han'. (He thought to pay what he was awn Wi' Jenny's bawbee, ) A' spruce frae band-boxes and tubs, A fool came neist. But life has rubs; — Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs. And jaupit a' was he. He danced up, squintin' through a glass, And girn'd, I' faith, a bonnie lass ! — He thought to win wi' front o' brass Jenny's bawbee. She bade the laird gae kaim his wig, The sodger no to strut sae big, The lawyer no to be a prig: The fool he cried, Te-hee ! S/7^ ALEXANDER BO SWELL. 113 I kent that I could never fail ! — But she pinn'd the dish-clout to his tail, And soused him frae the water-pail, And kept her bawbee. Then Johnnie came — a lad o' sense. Although he hadna mony pence — And took young Jenny to the spence, Wi' her to crack a wee. Now Johnnie was a clever chiel'; And here his suit he press'd sae weel That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel, And she birl'd her bawbee. 799 114 RICHARD GALL, XXX. RICHARD GALL, 1776—1801. CRADLE SONG. Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e ! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. Thy daddie now is far awa' — A sailor laddie o'er the sea ; But hope aye hechts his safe return To you, my bonnie lamb, an' me. Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e ! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. Thy face is simple, sweet, an' mild, Like ony simmer e'ening fa' ; Thy sparkling e'e is bonnie black, Thy neck is like the mountain snaw. RICHARD GALL. 115 Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e ! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. O, but thy daddie's absence lang Might break my dowie heart in twa, Wert thou not left, a dautit pledge, To steal the eerie hours awa' I 1 1 6 ROBER T J A M IE SON. XXXI. ROBERT JAMIESON, 1780—1844. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. My wife's a winsome wee thing, A bonnie, blythesome wee thing, My dear, my constant wee thing, And evermair sail be : It warms my heart to view her; I canna choose but lo'e her, And oh, weel may I trow her How dearly she lo'es me ! For — though her face sae fair be As nane could ever mair be, And though her wit sae rare be As seenil do we see — Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me. Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me, Not" baith sae lang retain'd me, But for her love to me. ROBERT JAMIESON. 117 When wealth and pride disown'd me, A' views were dark around me ; And sad and laigh she found me As friendless worth could be : When ither hope gaed frae me Her pity kind did stay me, And love for love she ga'e me ; And that's the love for me. And, till this heart is cauld, I That charm of life will hald by ; And, though my wife grow auld, my Leal love aye young will be ; For she's my winsome wee thing, My canty, blythesome wee thing, My tender, constant wee thing, And evermair sail be. THE QUERN LILT. The cronach stills the dowie heart. The jorram stills the bairnie; The music for a hungry wame Is grinding o' the quernie ! And loes me o' my little quernie 1 Grind the gradden — grind it : We'll a' get crowdie whan it's done, And bannocks steeve to bind it. 1 18 ROBERT JAMIESON. The married man his jay may prize, The lover prize his arles; Hut, gin the quernie gangna round, They baith will soon be careless. Sae Iocs me, etc. The whisky gars the bark o' life Drive merrily and rarely; But gradden is the ballast gars It steady gang and fairly. Then loes me, etc. Though winter steeks the door wi' drift, And o'er the ingle hings us, Let but the little quernie gae, We're blythe whatever dings us. Then loes me, etc. And how it cheers the herd at e'en And sets his heart-strings dirlin', When, comin' frae the hungry hill, He hears the quernie birlin'! Then loes me, etc. Though sturt and stride wi' young and auld And flytin' but and ben be, Let but the quernie play, they'll soon A' lown and fidgin'-fain be ! Then loes me o' my little quernie! Grind the gradden — grind it: We'll a' get crowdie whan it's done, And bannocks steeve to bind it. WILLI A M LA IDLA W, 119 XXXII. WILLIAM LAIDLA W, 1780-1845. HER BONNIE BLACK E'E. On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander, The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me; I think on my lassie — her gentle mild nature, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e. When heavy the rain fa's, and loud the win' blaws, An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree, I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e. When, swift as the hawk, in the stormy November The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea, Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e. When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses, Though a' neat an' bonnie, they're naething to me ; I sigh and sit dowie — regardless what passes, When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e. 20 WILLIAM LAIDLA W, When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gpey gloamin', When a' round the ingle's sae cheery to see, Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin', Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e. When, jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry, Though alsent my heart, like the lave I maun be; Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie, An' think o' the smile o' my lassie's black e'e. Her lovely fair form frae my mind's awa' never : She's dearer than a' this hale warld to me ; An' this is my wish, — may I leave it if ever She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e 1 LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 'TwAS when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in', And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear. For Lucy had served in the Glen a' the simmer, — She cam' there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea : An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, — Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in' ; Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see. ** Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! " quo' Jamie, and ran in, — The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. WILLIAM LAID LA W. 1 2 1 As down the burn-side she gaed slaw wi' the flittin', Fare-ye-weel, Lucy 1 was ilka bird's sang ; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. "Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e ? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither, — Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see ; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, — Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e. *' Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon — The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me : Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. Though now he said naething but * Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! ' It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see : He couldna say mair, but just ' Fare-ye-weel, Lucy ! ' — Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. " The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's drookit; The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea ; But Lucy likes Jamie," — she turn'd and she lookit — She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. — Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheer- less ! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn ! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never icLurn. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. XXXIIl. WILLIAM NICHOLSON, 1782—1842. THE BROWNIE OF BLEDNOCIl. There cam' a strange wight to our town-en'; And the fient a body did him ken : He tirl'd na lang ; but he glided ben, Wi' a weary dreary hum. His face did glow, — like the glow o' the west When the drumly cloud has it half o'ercast, Or the strugglin' moon when she's sair distrest. O, sirs ! 'twas Aiken-drum. I trow the bauldest stood aback — Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did crack - As the shapeless phantom mumblin' spak', " Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?" O ! had ye seen the bairns' fright As they stared at this wild and unyirthly wight, As he stauket in, 'tween the dark and the light, And graned out, " Aiken-drum ! " WILLIAM NICHOLSON. 123 ** Sauf us ! " quoth Jock, " d'ye see sic een ? " Cries Kate, " There's a hole where a nose should ha' been ; And the mouth's like a gash that a horn has ri'en. Wow ! keep's frae Aiken-drum ! " The black dog, growling, cower'd his tail ; The lassie, swarf d, loot fa' the pail ; Rob's lingle brak, as he men't the flail, At the sight o' Aiken-drum. His matted head on his breast did rest ; A lang blue beard wan'er'd down like a vest ;- But the glare o' his e'e hath nae bard exprest, Nor the skimes o' Aiken-drum. Roun his hairy form there was naething seen But a philabeg o' the rashes green ; An' his knotted knees play'd aye knoit between What a sight was Aiken-drum ! On his wauchie arms three claws did meet, As they trail'd on the grun' by his taeless feet E'en the auld gudeman himsel' did sweat To look at Aiken-drum. But he drew a score, himsel' did sain : The auld wife tried, but her tongue was gane ; While the young ane closer clasp'd her wean And turn'd frae Aiken-drum. 124 WILLIAM NICHOLSON. But the canny auld wife cam' till her breath ; And she deeni'd the Bible might ward off scaith- Be it benshee, bogle, ghaist, or wraith ; — But it fear'd na Aiken-drum. •• His presence protect us ! " quoth the auld gude- man, ' ' What wad ye ; where won ye — by sea or by Ian' ? I conjure ye — speak — by the beuk in my han' ! '' — What a grane ga'e Aiken-drum ! ** I lived in a Ian' where we saw nae sky; I dwalt in a spot where a burn rins na by ; But I'se dwall now wi' you, if ye like to try : — Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum ? " I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune ; I'll berry your crap by the light o' the moon ; And baa the bairns wi' an unkenn'd tune, — If ye'll keep puir Aiken-drum. *' I'll loup the linn when ye canna wade ; I'll kirn the kirn, and I'll turn the bread ; And the wildest filly that ever ran rede I'se tame't," quoth Aiken-drum. ** To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell — To gather the dew frae the heather-bell — And to look at my face in your clear crystal well, Might gi'e pleasure to Aiken-drum. WILLI A M NICHOLSON. 1 2 5 " I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark : I use nae beddin', shoon, nor savk ; But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' the dark Is the wage o' Aiken-drum." Quoth the wylie auld wife, *' The thing speaks weel Our workers are scant ; — we hae routh o' meal : Gif he'll do as he says — be he man, be he de'il — Wow ! we'll try this Aiken-drum." But the wenches skirl'd, ** He'se no be here His eldritch look gars us swarf wi' fear ; An' the fient a ane will the hoose come near If they think but o' Aiken-drum : " For a foul and a stalwart ghaist is he ; Despair sits brooding aboon his e'e-brae ; And unchancie to light on a maiden's e'e Is the glower o' Aiken-drum." ** Puir slipmalabors, ye hae little wit ! Is'tna Hallowmas now, an' the crap out yet ? " Sae she silenced them a' wi' a stamp o' her fit : " Sit yer wa's down, Aiken-drum.." Roun' a' that side what wark was dune, By the streamers' gleam, or the glance o' the moon ! A word or a wish, and the brownie cam' sune,— Sae helpfu' was Aiken-drum. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. But he slade aye awa' or the sun was up ; He ne'er could look straught on Macmillan's cup : * They watch'd ;— but nane saw him his brose ever sup ; Nor a spune sought Aiken-drum. On Blednoch banks, and on crystal Cree, For mony a day a toil'd wight was he ; ^ And the bairns play'd harmless roun' his knee— Sae social was Aiken-drum. But a new-made wife, fu' o' frippish freaks, Fond o' a' things feat for the first five weeks, Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks By the brose o' Aiken-drum. Let the learned decide, when they convene, What spell was him and the breeks between; For, frae that day forth, he was nae mair seen : And sair miss'd was Aiken-drum, He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve, Crying, " Lang, lang now may I greet and grieve; For, alas! I hae gotten baith fee and leave — O, luckless Aiken-drum!" Awa', ye wrangling sceptic tribe! \Vi' your pros and your cons wad ye decide 'Gain the 'sponsible voice o' a hale country-side On the facts 'bout Aiken-drum? • A local communion cup, used as a test in cases of suspected heresy. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. 127 Though the Brownie o' Blednoch lang be gane, The mark o' his feet's left on mony a stane ; And mony a wife and mony a wean Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum. E'en now light loons, that gibe and sneer At spiritual guests and a' sic gear, At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi' fear, An' look'd roun' for Aiken-drum; And guidly folks hae gotten a fright, When the moon was set and the stars gied nae light, At the roarin' linn, in the howe o' the night, Wi' sughs like Aiken-drum. 128 CAPTAIN CHARLES GRAY. XXXIV. CAPTAIN CHARLES GRAY. 1782—1851. THE SOCIAL CUP. Blj-the, blythe, and merry are we ! Blythe are we, ane and a' ! Aften ha'e we canty been, Eut sic a night we never saw. The gloamin' saw us a' sit down, And meikle mirth has been our fa'; — Then let the sang and toast gae roun' Till chanticleer begins to craw. Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — Pick and wale o' merry men: \\Tiat care we though the cock may craw? We're masters o' the tappit-hen! The auld kirk bell has chappit twal, — Wha cares though she had chappit twa? We're licht o' heart, and winna part, Though time and tide may rin awa'. CAPTAIN CHA-RLES GRA V 129 Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — Hearts that care can never ding: Then let time pass,— we'll steal his glass, And pu' a feather frae his wing ! Now is the witching time of nicht, When ghaists, they say, are to be seen ; And fays dance to the glow-worm's licht, Wi' fairies in their gowns of green. Blythe, blythe, and merry are we ! — Ghaists may tak' their midnicht stroll, Witches ride, on brooms astride, While we sit by the witchin' bowl ! Tut ! never speer how wears the morn, — The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky; And gif, like her, we fill our horn, I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry. Blythe, blythe, and merry are we — Blythe out-owre the barley bree; And, let me tell, the moon hersel' Aft dips her toom horn i' the sea! Then fill us up a social cup, And never mind the dapple-dawn: Just sit awhile — the sun may smile, And licht us a' across the lawn. Blythe, blythe, and merry are we; — See ! the sun is keekin' ben ! Gi'e time his glass, — for months may pass Ere we ha'e sic a nicht again ! 8oo I30 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, XXXV ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1784—1842. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast — And bends the gallant mast, my boys, \\Tiile, like the eagle, free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high — And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free, — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are wc. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud ; But hark the music, mariners ! The wind is piping loud — ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 1 3 1 The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free j While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree ; It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a' ; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannic, An' green it will grow in my ain countree. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! There's naught now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countree. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. The great now are gane — a' who ventured to save ; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their gravej But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee : " I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree." It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! THE BONNIE BAIRNS. (Xotwithstandinfj a foundation in antiquity, this ballad, says ^!r. S. C. Hall,* " must be considered as, in reality, the compo- sition of Cunningham.") The lady she walk'd in yon wild wood, Aneath the hollin tree; And she was aware of two bonnie bairns Were running at her knee. The tane it pull'd a red, red rose, With a hand as soft as silk ; The other, it puU'd the lily pale, Wi' a hand mair white than milk. •' Now, why pull ye the red rose, fair bairns? And why the white lily ? " " O we sue wi' them at the seat of grace P^or the soul of thee, ladie ! " " O bide wi' me, my twa bonnie bairns ! I'll cleid ye rich and fine ; And all for the blaeberries of the wood, Ye se hae white bread and wine. " * Book of British Ballads, p. 235 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 133 She heard a voice, a sweet low voice, Say, ** Weans, ye tarry lang ;" She stretch'd her hand to the youngest bairn : *' Kiss me before ye gang." She sought to take a lily hand, And kiss a rosie chin : — "O, nought sae pure can bide the touch Of a hand red-wet wi' sin ! " The stars were shooting to and fro, And wild-fire fill'd the air, As that lady foUow'd thae bonnie bairns For three lang hours and mair. O ! where dwell ye, my ain sweet bairns ? I'm wae and weary grown ! " O ! lady, we live where woe never is, In a land to sin unknown." There came a shape which seem'd to her As a rainbow 'mang the rain ; And sair these sweet babes pled for her. And they pled and pled in vain. •' And O ! and O ! " said the youngest babe, "My mother maun come in;" = * And O ! and O ! " said the eldest babe, " Wash her twa hands frae sin." ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, " And O ! and O ! " said the younojest babe, " She nursed me on her knee : " ♦* And O ! and O ! " said the eldest babe, ♦' She's a mither yet to me." " And O ! and O ! " said the babes baith, "Take her where waters rin, And white as the milk o' her white breast Wash her twa hands frae sin." THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. O ! MY love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run ; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears, Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain. Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain ; Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes. Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse I see thee sit In maiden bloom and matron wit, — Fair, gentle, as when first I sued Ye seem, but of sedater mood : Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Axbigland tree. We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon ; Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 135 Though I see, smiling at thy feet, Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet ; And time, and care, and birth-time woes. Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose ; To thee and thoughts of thee belong Whate'er charms me in tale or song : When words descend, like dews, unsought, With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, And Fancy in her heaven flies free, — They come, my love, they come from thee. O, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold, 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er How we should deck our humble bower ! 'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for these locks of thine — A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow and woods are green. At times there come, as come there ought, Grave moments of sedater thought. When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light ; And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, Shines like the rainbow through the shower '• — then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye. And proud resolve, and purpose meek, Speak of thee more than words can speak ; 1 think this wedded wife of mine The best of all things not divine 1 136 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, A FRAGMENT. Gane were but the winter cauUl, And gane weic but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods Where primroses blaw. Cauld's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet ; And the finger o' death's at my een, Closing them to sleep. Let nane tell my father, Or my mither sae dear : I'll meet them baith in heaven, At the spring o' the year. THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL. The lark had left the evening cloud, The dew fell saft, the wind waslowne, — Its gentle breath amang the flowers Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down, — The dappled swallow left the pool, The stars were blinking owre the hill, — When I met, amang the hawthorns green, The lovely lass of Preston Mill. * A villaf;e in Galloway ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 137 Her naked feet amang the grass Shone like two dewy lilies fair ; Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks Dark curling owre her shoulders bare ; Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth, Her lips had words and wit at will ; And heaven seem'd looking through her een, — The lovely lass of Preston Mill ! Quoth I, " Fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me Where black-cocks craw and plovers cry ? Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep, Six vales are lowing wi' my kye : I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass, By Nithsdale's holms and mony a hill. . .' She hung her head like a dew-bent rose, — The lovely lass of Preston Mill ! I said, *' Sweet maiden, lookna doun ; But gie's a kiss, and come wi' me." A lovelier face O ne'er look'd up, — The tears were drapping frae her ee : " I hae a lad, wha's far awa', That weel could win a woman's will :^ My heart's already fu' o' love ! " Quoth the lovely lass of Preston JNIill. •* Now who is he could leave sic a lass, And seek for love in a far countrie ?" Her tears dropp'd down like summer dew, — I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'c. I took but ane o' her comely cheek : " For pity's sake, kind sir, be still ! My heart is full o' other love," Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill. 138 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e : " Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God, Or Hght is gladsome to my e'e ; While woods grow green and burns rin clear, Till my last drop of blood be still, My heart shall haud nae other love ! " Quoth the lovely lass of Preston Mill. There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks, And Nith's romantic vale is fu' ; By lanely Cluden's hermit stream Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow : — O they are lights o' a bonnie kind As ever shone on vale or hill ; But there's ae Hght puts them a' out, — The lovely lass of Preston Mill ! THE LORD'S MARIE.* The lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks Up wi' a gowden kame; An' she has put on her net-silk hose, An' awa* to the tryste has gane. O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks, An' saft, saft on her brow; — Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberry lip, An' I kiss'd it aff I trow. * This poem in the manner of an old ballad is founded on a traditional story told of the daughter of a Lord Maxwell of Nithsdale, who is said to have been present, in disguise, at a rustic dancing tryst. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 139 " O where gat ye that leal maiden Sae jimpy laced an' sma'? An' where gat ye that young damsel Wha dings our lasses a' ? O where gat ye that bonny, bonny lass Wi' heaven in her e'e ? O here's ae drap o' the damask wine; — Sweet maiden, will ye pree?" Fu* white, white was her taper neck, Twist wi' the satin twine; But ruddy, ruddy grew her hawse While she supp'd the blude-red wine. ** Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo, Wha wears the gowden kame ! This night will mony drink thy health, An' ken na wha to name." ** Play me up Sweet Marie" I cried. An' loud the piper blew; But the fiddler played aye Strtmtum stru?/i, — An' down his bow he threw : " Now here's thy health i' the red, red wine, Fair dame o' the stranger land ! For never a pair of een before Could mar my gude bow-hand." Her lips were a cloven hinny-cherry, Ripe tempting to the sight; Her locks o'er alabaster brows Fell like the morning light ; An' O ! her hinny breath raised her locks, As thro' the dance she flew ; While love laugh'd out o' her bright blue e'e, An' dwalt on her rosy mou'. I40 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. " Loose hings yere broider'd q;ovvd garter, Fair lady,— daur I speak?" — She, trembling, raised her snowy hand To her red, red flushing cheek. " Ye've drapt yere broach o' the beaten gowd. Thou lord's daughter sae gay." — The tears swam bright in her bonny blue e'e : " O come, O come away I " O haste — unbar the siller bolt — To my chamber let me win ! An' take this kiss, thou peasant youth, — For I daurna let ye in. An' take," quo' she, "this kame o' gowd, Wi' this tress o' yellow hair ; For mickle my beating heart forebodes I never maun meet ye mair ! " ALEXANDER RODGER. 141 XXXVI. ALEXANDER RODGER. 1784—1846. MY AULD BREEKS. My mither men't my auld breeks, — An' wow but they were duddy ! And sent me to get Mally shod At Robin Tamson's smiddy. The smiddy stands beside the burn That wimples through the clachan ; I never yet gae by the door But aye I fa' a-laughin'. For Robin was a walthy carle, And had ae bonnie dochter ; Yet ne'er wad let her talc' a man, Tho' mony lads had sought her : But what think ye o' my exploit ? — The time our mare was shoeing, I slippit up beside the lass And briskly fell a-wooing ! 142 ALEXANDER RODGER. An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks, The time that we sat crackin'. Quo' I, "My lass, ne'er mind the clouts,— I've new anes for the makin' ; — But gin ye'U just come hame wi' me. An' lea' the carle, your father, Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim, Mysel', an' a' thegither." "'Deed, lad," quo' she, "your offer's fair,- I really think I'll tak' it ; Sae gang awa', get out the mare, — We'll baith slip on the back o't : For gin I wait my father s time, I'll wait till I be fifty. But na ! — I'll marry in my prime, An' mak' a wife most thrifty." Wow ! Robin was an angry man At tyning o' his dochter : Thro' a' the kintra-side he ran, An' far an' near he sought her. But when he cam' to our fire-end An' fand us baith thegither, Quo' I, "Gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn, An' ye may tak' my mither ! " Auld Robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow : "Guid sooth," quo' he, "you're merry ! But I'll just tak' ye at your word, An' end this hurry-burry." — So Robin an' our auld wife Agreed to creep thegither : — Now I hae Robin Tamson's pet. An' Robin has my mither ! JOHN WILSON. 143 XXXVII. JOHN WILSON. 1785—1854. THE EVENING CLOUD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun : — A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watch'd the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, — To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven ; — Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies ! 144 DAVID WEBSTER. SXXVIIL DAVID WEBSTER, 1787-1837. TAK' IT, MAN, TAK" IT. When I was a miller in Fife, Losh ! I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak' hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure: But, someway, by random it rackit; For I lifted twa nievefu' or mair, — While the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it. Then hey for the mill and the kill, The garland and gear for my cogie ! And hey for the whisky and yill, That washes the dust frae my craigie ! AUhough it *s been lang in repute For rogues to make rich by deceiving, Vet I see that it doesna weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving j For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, — Od, I thought ilka dunt it wad crackit ! Sae I flang frae my nieve what was in't: — Still the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it. DAVID WEBSTER. 145 A man that's been bred to the plough Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper ; Yet there's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what's said by the happer. I whiles thought it scoff 'd me to scorn, Saying, Shame ! is your conscience no chackit ? But when I grew dry for a horn. It changed aye to, Tak' it, man, tak' it. The smugglers whiles cam' wi' their packs, 'Cause they kent that I likit a bicker ; Sae I barter'd whiles wi' the gowks — Gied them grain for a soup o' their liquor. I had lang been accustom'd to drink ; And aye when I purposed to quat it, The thing wi' its clapperty-clink Said aye to me, Tak' it, man, tak' it. But the warst thing I did in my life, (Nae doubt but ye'll think I was wrong o't), Od, I tauld a bit body in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't. I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singin' I ne'er got the knack o't; Yet I try whiles, — just thinking to please My frien's here wi', Tak' it, man, tak' it. Now, miller and a' as I am. This far I can see thro' the matter : There's men mair notorious to fame Mair greedy than me o' the mutter. For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, (Or wi' safety the half we may mak' it), Hae some speaking happer within That says aye to them, Tak' it, man, tak' it I 146 WILLIAM KNOX. XXXIX. WILLIAM KNOX. 17S9— 1825. THE WOOER'S VISIT. My native Scotland ! how the youth is blest To mark thy first star in the evening sky, When the far curfew bids the weary rest, And in his ear the milk-maid's wood-notes die ! Oh then, unseen by every human eye, Soon as the lingering daylight hath decay'd, Dear, dear to him o'er distant vales to hie — While every head in midnight rest is laid — To that endearing cot where dwells his favourite maid ! Though he has labour'd, from the dawn of morn, Beneath the summer sun's unclouded ray, Till evening's dewdrops glisten'd on the thorn, And wild-flowers closed their petals with the day, — And though the cottage home be far away Where all the treasure of his bosom lies, — Oh, he must see her (though his raptured stay Be short, — like every joy beneath the skies), And yet be at his task by morning's earliest rise ! WILLIAM KNOX. 147 Behold him wandering o'er the moonlit dales, The only living thing that stirs abroad, — Tripping as lightly as the breathing gales That fan his cheek upon the lonesome road. Seldom by any other footstep trod ! Even though no moon shed her conducting ray And light his night-path to that sweet abode. Angels will guide the lover's dreariest way, If but for her dear sake whose heart is pure as they. And see him now, upon the very hill From which, in breathless transport, he doth hail (At such an hour — so exquisitely still) To him the sweetest, far the sweetest, vale That e'er was visited by mountain gale ! And oh, how fondly shall be hail'd by him The guiding lamp that never yet did fail — That very lamp which her dear hand doth trim, To light his midnight way when moon and stars are dim ! But who shall tell what her fond thoughts may be — The lovely damsel's sitting all alone. When every inmate of the house but she To sweet obli\'ion of his cares hath gone ? By harmless stealth, unnoticed and unknown, Behold her seated by her midnight fire, And turning many an anxious look upon The lingering clock, — as if she would require The steady foot of Time to haste at her desire. But, though the appointed hour is fondly sought, At every sound her little heart will beat ; And she will blush even at the very thought Of meeting him whom she delights to meet. 148 WILLIAM KNOX. Be't as it may, her ear would gladly greet The house-dog's bark that watch'd the whole night o'er ; And oh, how gently shall she leave her seat, And gently step across the sanded floor, With trembling heart and hand to ope the creaking door ! The hour is past ; and still her eager ear Hears but the tinkle of the neighbouring rill ; — No human footstep yet, approaching near. Disturbs the night calm so serene and still. That broods, like slumber, over dale and hill. Ah ! who may tell what phantoms of dismay The anxious feelings of her bosom chill — The wiles that lead a lover's heart astray— The darkness of the night — the dangers of the way? But, lo ! he comes ; — and soon shall she forget Her griefs in sunshine of this hour of bliss. Their hands in love's endearing clasp have met. And met their lips in love's delicious kiss: — Oh, what is all the wealth of worlds to this ! Go, — thou mayst cross each foreign land, each sea, In search of honours, yet for ever miss The sweetest boon vouchsafed by Heaven's decree — The heart that loves thee well, the heart that's dear to thee ! And may I paint their pleasures yet to come, — When, like their hearts, their willing hands are join'd, The loving inmates of a wedded home, For ever happy and for ever kind ? WILLIAM KNOX. 149 And may I paint their various charms combined In the sweet offspring that around them plays ; Who, tho' on mountains with the bounding hind Nursed rudely, yet may claim a nation's praise. And on their native hills some proud memorial raise ? My native Scotland ! Oh, thy northern hills. Thy dark brown hills, are fondly dear to me ; And aye a warmth my swelling bosom fills For all the filial souls that cling to thee ! Pure be their loves as human love can be ; And still be worthy of their native land The little beings nursed beside their knee, — Who may at length their country's guardians stand. And own the undaunted heart, and lift the uncon- quer'd hand ! ISO THOMAS PRINGLE. XL. THOMAS FKINGLE. 1789-1834. O THE EWE-BUCHTING'S BONNY.* O THE ewe-buchting's bonny, both e'ening and morn, When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed and horn; While we're milking they're lilting sae jocund and clear; But my heart's like to break when I think o' my dear. O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn, To raise up their flocks i' the fresh simmer morn : On the steep ferny banks they feed pleasant and free — But alas ! my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee ! O the sheep-herding's lightsome amang the green braes, Where Kale wimples clear 'neath the white-blossom'd slaes — Where the wild-thyme and meadow-queen scent the saft gale, And the cushat croods leesomely down in the dale. * The first verse of this song is old. It was transcribed by Pringle from a fragment in the handwriting of the celebrated Lady Giisell Baillie. THOMAS PRINGLE. 151 There the lintwhite and mavis sing sweet frae the thorn, And blithe lilts the laverock aboon the green corn, And a' things rejoice in the simmer's glad prime — But my heart's wi' my love in the far foreign clime ! O the haymaking's pleasant, in bright, sunny June — The hay-time is cheery when hearts are in tune — But while others are joking and laughing sae free, There's a pain at my heart and a tear i' my e'e. At e'en i' the gloaming, adown by the burn, Fu' dowie and wae, aft I daunder and mourn ; Amang the lang broom I sit greeting alane, And sigh for my dear and the days that are gane. O the days o' our youtheid were heartsome and gay, When we herded thegither by sweet Gateshaw brae. When we plaited the rushes and pu'd the witch-bells By the Kale's ferny howms and on Hownam's green fells. But young Sandy bood gang to the wars wi' the laird. To win honour and gowd — (gif his life it be spared !). Ah ! little care I for walth, favour, or fame, Gin I had my dear shepherd but safely at hame ! Then, round our wee cot though gruff winter s'ould roar, And poortith glower in like a wolf at the door ; Though our toom purse had barely twa boddles to clink. And a barley-meal scone were the best on our bink ; Yet, he wi' his hirsel, and I wi' my wheel, Through the howe o' the year we wad fend unco weel — Till the lintwhite and laverock, and lambs bleating fain, Brought back the blithe time o' ewe-buchting again. 52 THOMAS PRINGLE. THE NAMELESS STREAM. I FOUND a Nameless Stream among the hills, And traced its course through many a changeful scene ; — Now gliding free through grassy uplands green And stately forests — fed by limpid rills ; Now dashing through dark grottoes, where distils The poison dew ; then issuing all serene 'Mong flowery meads, where snow-white lilies screen The wild swan's whiter breast. At length it fills Its deepening channels — flowing calmly on To join the Ocean on his billowy beach. — But that bright bourne its current ne'er shall reach : It meets the thirsty Desert — and is gone To waste oblivion ! Let its story teach The fate of one who sinks, like it, unknown. A FAREWELL TO THE BORDERLAND. Our native Land — our native Vale — A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue ! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renown'd in song ; Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads Our hearts have loved so long. THOMAS PRINGLE. 153 Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow ; Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe. The battle-mound, the Border tower, That Scotland's annals tell ; The martyr's grave, the lover's bower — To each — to all — farewell ! Home of our hearts I our fathers' home ! Land of the brave and free ! The keel is flashing through the foam That bears us far from thee : We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the Atlantic main ; We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again : But may dishonour blight our fame, And quench our household fires. When we, or ours, forget thy name, Green Island of our sires ! Our native Land — our native Vale — A long, a last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue. 154 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. XLL JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 1794-1854. CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT. Touch once more a sober measure, And let punch and tears be shed For a prince of good old fellows That, alack-a-day ! is dead, — For a prince of worthy fellows, And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e 1 His waistcoat, coat, and breeches Were all cut off the same web, Of a beautiful snuff-colour. Or a modest genty drab : JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 155 The blue stripe in his stocking Round his neat slim leg did go, And his ruffles of the cambric fine They were whiter than the snow. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! His hair was curl'd in order, At the rising of the sun, In comely rows and buckles smart That about his ears did run ; And, before, there was a toupee That some inches up did grow, And behind there was a long queue That did o'er his shoulders flow. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! And whenever we foregather'd He took off his wee " three-cockit," And he proffer'd you his snuff-box, Which he drew from his side-pocket ; And on Burdett or Bonaparte He would make a remark or so ; And then along the plainstones Like a provost he would go. Oh ' we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! In dirty days he pick'd well His footsteps with his rattan ; — Oh ! you ne'er could see the least speck On the shoes of Captain Paton. And on entering the coffee-room. About two, all men did know They would see him with his Courtet In the middle of the row. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! 156 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, Now and then, upon a Sunday, He invited me to dine On a herring and a mutton chop, Which his maid dress'd very fine: There was also a little Malmsey And a bottle of Bordeaux, Which between me and the Captain Pass'd nimbly to and fro. Oh! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no Or, if a bowl was mention'd, The Captain he would ring And bid Nelly run to the West Port And a stoup of water bring : Then would he mix the genuine stuff, As they made it long ago, W^ith limes that on his property In Trinidad did grow. Oh ! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch And then all the time he would discourse So sensible and courteous, — Perhaps talking of last sermon He had heard from Dr. Porteous, — Of some little bit of scandal About Mrs. So-and-so, Which he scarce could credit — having heard The con, but not the pro. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 157 Or, when the candles were brought forth And the night was fairly setting in, He would tell some fine old stories About Minden field or Dettingen, — How he fought with a French major And dispatch'd him at a blow, While his blood ran out like water On the soft grass below. Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e! But at last the Captain sicken'd, And grew worse from day to day ; And all miss'd him in the coffee-room From which now he stay'd away : On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd Kirk Made a melancholy show, All for wanting of the presence Of our venerable beau. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! And, in spite of all that Cleghorn And Corkindale could do, It was plain from twenty symptoms That death was in his view; So the Captain made his test'ment, And submitted to his foe ; And we laid him by the Ram's-horn Kirk, — 'Tis the way we all must go ! Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! 158 JOHN GIBSON LOCK HART. Join all in chorus, jolly boys! And let punch and tears be shed For this prince of good old fellows, That, alack-a-day! is dead, — For this prince of worthy fellows, And a pretty man also. That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe I For we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton BEYOND. When youthful faith hath fled, Of loving take thy leave; Be constant to the dead, — The dead cannot deceive. Sweet, modest flowers of spring, How fleet your balmy day ! And man's brief year can bring No secondary May, — No earthly burst again Of gladness out of gloom : Fond hope and vision wane, Ungrateful to the tomb. But 'tis an old belief That on some solemn shore. Beyond the sphere of grief. Dear friends shall meet once more, JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 159 Beyond the sphere of time And sin and fate's control, Serene in endless prime Of body and of soul. That creed I fain would keep; That hope I'll not forego : Eternal be the sleep, Unless to waken so ! i6o WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. XLIL WILLIAM MOTHER WELL. 1797—1835. JEANIE MORRISON. I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, Thro' mony a weary way ; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Shall fling their shadows ower my path. And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' lingsyne. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. i6i 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel ; 'Twas then we twa did part : Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule— Twa bairns and but ae heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think ? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads. How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran afif to speel the braes — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea. As, ane by ane, the thochts rush back O' scule-time and o' thee. O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! O lichtsome days and lang. When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 802 1 62 WILLIAM MO THER WELL. Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burn-side, And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And, in the gloamin' o' the wood. The throssil whusslit sweet; — The throssil whusslit in the wood. The burn sang to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat. In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, \Mien freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled — unsung ! I marvel, Jeannie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me ? Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ? Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? WILLI A M MO THER WELL 1 63 I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way, And channels deeper as it rins The luve o' life's young day. O, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness. And happy could I dee. Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me ! MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. My heid is like to rend, Willie — My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie — I'm dyin' for your sake ! Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie, Your hand on my breist-bane : Oh say ye'U think on me, Willie, When I am deid and gane ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie, — Sair grief maun hae its will; 1 64 WILLI A M MO THER WELL, But let me rest upon your breist, To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie- Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Willie, I never sail see mair ! I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, For the last time in my life — A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, A mither, yet nae wife. Ay, press your hand upon my heart, And press it mair and mair; Or it will burst the silken twine, Sae Strang is its despair ! O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, When we thegither met ! O, wae's me for the time, Willie, That our first tryst was set ! O, wae's me for the loanin' green Where we were wont to gae ! And wae's me for the destinie That gart me luve thee sae ! Oh, dinna mind my words, Willie, — I downa seek to blame ; But, oh ! it's hard to live, Willie, And dree a warld's shame! Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, And hailin' ower your chin : Why weep ye sae for worthlessness. For sorrow and for sin? WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 165 I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick wi' a' I see; I canna live as I hae lived, Or be as I should be ; But fauld unto your heart, Willie, The heart that still is thine; And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek Ye said was red langsyne. A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie — A sair stoun' through my heart : Oh, haud me up and let me kiss Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anilher, and anither yet ! — How fast my life-strings break ! — Fareweel ! fareweel ! — through yon kirkyaird Step lichtly for my sake ! The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie Abune the clay-cauld deid ; And this green turf we're sittin' on, Wi' dew-draps' shimmerin' sheen. Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen. But oh ! remember me, Willie, On land where'er ye be ; And oh ! think on the leal, leal heart That ne'er luved ane but thee ! And oh ! think on the cauld, cauld mools That file my yellow hair — That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, Ye never sail kiss mair ! [66 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. THE WITCHES' JOYS, A RHAPSODY MOST PLEASANT AND MERRY. When night winds rave O'er the fresh scoop'd grave, And the dead therein that lie Glare upward to the sky, — When gibbering imps sit down To feast on lord or clown. And tear the shroud away From their lithe and pallid prey ; (Then, clustering close, how grim They munch each wither'd limb; Or quarrel for dainty rare — The lip of lady fair, The tongue of high-born dame That never would defame, And was of scandal free As any mute could be ! Or suck the tintless cheek Of maiden mild and meek!) And when in revel rout They kick peel'd skulls about, And shout in maddest mirth, " These dull toys awed the earth !"— Oh then, oh then, oh then, We hurry forth amain ! For with such eldritch cries Begin our revelries! 11. When the murderer's blanch'd corse Swings, with a sighing hoarse, WILLI A M MO THER WELL. 1 67 From gibbet and from chain, — As the bat sucks out his brain. And the owlet pecks his eyes, And the wild fox gnaws his thighs ; While the raven croaks with glee. Lord of the dead man's tree, And, rock'd on that green skull. With sated look and dull. In gloomy pride looks o'er The waste and wilder'd moor, And dreams some other day Shall bring him fresher prey ; — When over bog and fen, To lure wayfaring men, Malicious spirits trail A ground-fire thin and pale, Which the belated wight Pursues the livelong night, Till in the treacherous ground An unmade grave is found, — Oh then, oh then, oh then, We hurry forth amain ! Ha ! ha ! his feeble cries Begin our revelries. When the spirits of the North Hurl howling tempests forth, When seas of lightning flare And thunders choke the air, When the ocean starts to life — To madness, horror, strife. And the goodly bark breaks up, Like ungirded drinking cup. t68 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, And each stately mast is split In some rude thunder-fit, And like feather on the foam Float shatter'd plank and boom; — When, 'midst the tempest's roar, Pale listeners on the shore Hear the curse and shriek of men As they sink and rise again On the gurley billow's back, And their strong broad breast-bones crack On the iron-ribbed coast, As back to hell they're toss'd, — Oh then, oh then, oh then, We hurry forth again ! For amid such lusty cries Begin our revelries. IV. ^\^len aged parents flee The noble wreck to see, And mark their sons roll in, Through foam and thundering din, All mottled black and blue— Their icy lips cut through In the agony of death. While drifting on their path;— When gentle maidens stand Upon the wreck-rich strand, And every labouring wave That doth their small feet lave Gives them a ghastly lover To wring their white hands over, WILLI A M MO THER WELL. 169 And tear their spray-wet hair In the madness of despair; — Oh then, oh then, oh then, We hurry home amain; For their heart-piercing cries Shame our wild revelries ! THE ETTIN O' SILLARWOOD. "O SiLLARWOOD, sweet Sillarwood! Gin Sillarwood were mine, I'd big a bouir in Sillarwood And theik it ower wi' thyme: At ilka door and ilka bore The red, red rose wud shine!" It's up and sang the bonnie bird Upon her milk-white hand : " I wudna lig in Sillarwood For all a gude Earl's land; I wudna sing in Sillarwood, Tho' gowden glist ilk wand ! "The wild boar rakes in Sillarwood, The buck drives thro' the shaw, And simmer woo's the Southern wind Thro' Sillarwood to blaw: Thro' Sillarwood, sweet Sillarwood, The deer-hounds run so free; But the hunter stark of Sillarwood An Ettin lang is he! " I70 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. " O, Sillarwood, sweet Sillarwood," Fair Marjorie did sing, " On the tallest tree in Sillarwood That Ettin lang will hing!" The Southern wind it blaws fu' saft, And Sillarwood is near; Fair Marjorie's sang in Sillarwood The stark hunter did hear. He band his deer-hounds in their leash, Set his bow against a tree, And three blasts on his horn has brocht The wood-elf to his knee. ' ' Gae bring to me a shapely weed Of silver and of gold, Gae bring to me as stark a steed As ever stept on mold; For I maun ride frae Sillarwood This fair maid to behold ! " The wood-elf twisted sunbeams red Into a shapely weed ; And the tallest birk in Sillarwood He hew'd into a steed, — And shod it wi' the burning gold To glance like ony glede. The Ettin shook his bridle-reins And merrily they rung, For four-and-twenty sillar bells On ilka side were hung. WILLI A M MO THER WELL. 1 7 1 The Ettin rade, and better rade, Some thretty miles and three; A bugle-horn hung at his breast, A lang sword at his knee : " I wud I met," said the Ettin lang, " The maiden Marjorie!" The Ettin rade and better rade Till he has reach'd her bouir; And there he saw fair Marjorie As bricht as lily flouir. " O Sillarwood ! Sweet Sillarwood 1 Gin Sillarwood were mine, The sleuthest hawk o' Sillarwood On dainty flesh wud dine!" "Weel met, weel met!" the Ettin said, ** For ae kiss o' thy chin, I'll welcome thee to Sillarwood And a' that grows therein ! ' " ^f ye may leese me Sillarwood, Wi' a' that grows therein, Ye're free to kiss my cheek," she said, " Ye're free to kiss my chin : The Knicht that hechts me Sillarwood My maiden thocht sal win ! " My luve I've laid on Sillarwood, Its bonnie aiken tree; And gin that I hae Sillarwood I'll link alang wi' thee ! " 1 7 2 WILLI A M MO THER WELL. Then on she put her green mantel Weel furr'd wi' minivere ; Then on she put her velvet shoon, The silver shining clear : She proudly vaulted on the black. He bounded on the bay — The stateliest pair that ever took To Sillarvvood their way. It's up and sang the gentil bird On Marjorie's fair hand, "I wudna wend to Sillarwood For a' its timber'd land; Nor wud I lig in Sillarwood Tho' gowden glist ilk wand ! " The Hunters chace thro' Sillarwood The playfu' herte and rae : Nae maiden that socht Sillarwood Ere back was seen to gae ! " The Ettin leuch, the Ettin sang, He whistled merrilie : " If sic a bird," he said, " were mine, I'd hing it on a tree." " Were I the Lady Marjorie, Thou hunter fair but free, My horse's head I'd turn about And think nae mair o' thee ! " WILLI A M MO THER WELL. 17: It's on they rade, and better rade — They shimmer'd in the sun ; 'Twas sick and sair grew Marjorie Lang ere that ride was done ! Yet on they rade and better rade — They near'd the Cross o' stane ; The tall Knicht when he pass'd it by Felt cauld in every bane. But on they rade and better rade: — It evir grew mair mirk : O loud, loud nicher'd the bay steed As they pass'd Mary's Kirk ! '* I'm wearie o* this eerie road," Maid Marjorie did say, ' ' We canna weel get Sillarwood Afore the set o' day!" " It's no the sinkin' o' the sun That gloamin's sae the ground The heicht it is o' Sillarwood That shadows a' around. " " Methocht, Sir Knicht, broad Sillarwood A pleasant bield wud be, Wi' nuts on ilka hazel bush, And birds on ilka tree ; But oh ! the dimness o' this wood Is terrible to me ! " 1 74 WILLI A M MO THER WELL. " The trees ye see seem wondrous big, The branches wondrous braid ; Then marvel nae if sad suld be The path we hae to tread." Thick grew the air, thick grew the trees, Thick hung the leaves around; And deeper did the Ettin's voice In the dread dimness sound. " I think," said Maiden Marjorie, " I hear a horn and hound." " Ye weel may hear the hound," he said, "Ye weel may hear the horn ; For I can hear the wild halloo That freichts the face o' Morn ! " The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood Hae packs full fifty-three: They hunt all day, they hunt all nicht- They never bow an ee : " The Hunters fell o' Sillarwood Hae steeds but blude or bane: They bear fiert maidens to a weird \\'Tiere mercy there is nane ! "And I, the Laird o' Sillarwood, Hae beds baith deep and wide, (Of clay-cauld earth) whereon to strdk A proud and dainty bride! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 175 " Ho! look beside yon bonny birk, — The latest blink o' day Is gleamin' on a comely heap Of freshly dug red clay. " Richt cunning hands they were that digg'd Forenent the birken tree, ^^^lere every leaf that draps, frore maid, Will piece a shroud for thee : It's they can lie on lily breast As they can lie on lea. ** And they will hap thy lily breist Till flesh fa's aff the bane, Nor tell thy feres how Marjorie To Sillarwood hath gane. *' Thy bed is strew'd, Maid Marjorie, Wi' bracken and wi' brier ; And ne'er will grey cock clarion wind For ane that slumbers here : Ye wedded hae the Ettin stark, — He rules the Realms of Fear ! " THE CAVALIER'S SONG. A STEED, a steed of matchlesse speed ! A sword of metal keene ! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; [ 76 WILLI A M MO THER WELL. And O ! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war cryes swell, May tole from heaven an angel brighte, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, And don your helnies amaine : Death's couriers, Fame and Honour, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand, — Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land ! Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye, Our business is like men to hght, And hero-like to die ! MELANCHOLYE. Adieu ! al vaine delightes Of calm and moonshine nightes; Adieu ! al pleasant shade That forests thicke have made ; Adieu ! al musick swete That little fountaynes poure, When blythe theire waters greete The love-sick lyly-flowre. Adieu ! the fragrant smel Of flowres in boskye dell; And all the merrie notes That tril from smal birdes throates : WILLI A M MO THER WELL. i Tj Adieu ! the gladsome lighte Of Day, Morne, Noone, or E'en; And welcome gloomy Nighte, When not one star is seen. Adieu ! the deafening noyse Of cities, and the joyes Of Fashioun's sicklie birth; Adieu ! al boysterous mirthe, Al pageant, pompe, and state, And every flauntynge thing To which the would-be-great Of earth in madness cling. Come with me, Melancholye, We'll live like eremites holie, In some deepe uncouthe wild Where sunbeame never smylde: Come with me, pale of hue, To some lone, silent spot, Where blossom never grewe. Which man hath quite forgot. Come with thy thought-filled eye, That notes no passer-by. And drouping solemne head, Where phansyes strange are bred, And saddening thoughts doe brood, Which idly strive to borrow A smyle to vaile thy moode Of heart-abyding sorrow. S03 178 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Come to yon blasted mound Of phantom-haunted ground, Where spirits love to be; And list the moody glee Of night-windes as they moane, And the ocean's sad replye To the wild unhallowed tone Of the wandering sea-bird's cry. There sit with me and keep Vigil when al doe sleepe ; And when the curfeu bell Hath rung its mournfull knel, Let us together blend Our mutual sighes and teares, Or chaunt some metre penned, Of the joies of other yeares ! Or in cavern hoare and damp, Lit by the glow-worm's lamp, We'll muse on the dull theme Of Life's heart-sickening dreame — Of Time's resistlesse powre — Of Hope's deceitful lips — Of Beauty's short-lived houre — And Glory's dark eclipse ! Or, wouldst thou rather chuse This World's leaf to peruse, Beneath some dripping vault That scomes rude Time's assaulte ; Whose close-ribbed arches still Frown in their green old age, And stamp an awlull chill Upon that pregnant page ? WILLIAM MO THER WELL. 179 Yes, thither let us turne, To this Time-shattered urne, And quaintly carved stone — (Dim wrackes of as^es gone;) Here on this mouldering tomb We'll con that noblest truth, The Flesh and Spirit's doome — Dust and Immortall Youthe. THE SOLEMN SONG OF A RIGHTEOUS HEARTE. AFTER THE FASHION OF AN EARLY ENGLISH POET. There is a mightie Noyse of Bells, Rushing from the turret free ; A solemn tale of Truthe it tells, O'er Land and Sea, How heartes be breaking fast, and then Wax whole againe. Poor fluttering Soule ! why tremble soe, To quitt L^e's fast decaying Tree ; Time wormes its core, and it must bowe To Fate's decree ; Its last branch breakes, but Thou must scare, For Evermore. i8o WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Noe more thy wing shal touch grosse Earth ; Far under shal its shadows flee, And al its sounds of Woe or INIirth Growe strange to thee. Thou wilt not mingle in its noyse, Nor court its Joies. Fond One ! why cling thus unto Life, As if its gaudes were meet for thee ; Surely its Follie, Bloodshed, Stryfe, Liked never thee ? This World growes madder each newe daie, Vice beares such sway. Couldst thou in Slavish artes excel, And crawle upon the supple knee — Couldst thou each Woe-worn wretch repel, — This Worldes for Thee. Not in this Spheare Man ownes a Brother: Then seek another. Couldst thou bewraie thy Birthright see As flatter Guilt's prosperitye, And laude Oppressiounes iron blowe — This Worldes for Thee. Sithence to this thou wilt not bend. Life's at an end. Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad. As if 'twere spotted Infamy, And prayse as Good what is most Bad — This Worldes for Thee. Sithence thou canst not will it soe, Poor Flutterer, goe ! WILLI A M MO THER WELL. 1 8 1 If Head with Hearte could so accord, In bond of perfyte Amitie, That Falsehood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word — This Worldes for Thee. But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one ! Thy race is run. Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts weep And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye, Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape — This Worldes for Thee ; But with the Weeper thou must weepe, And sad watch keep. Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung The withers of the Poore but Prowde, And by the rootes pluck out the tongue That dare be lowde In Righteous cause, whate'er may be — This Worldes for Thee. This canst thou not ! Then fluttering thing Unstained in thy puritye, Sweep towards heaven with tireless wing — Meet Home for Thee. Feare not, the crashing of Lyfe's Tree — God's Love guides Thee. And thus it is : — these solemn bells. Swinging in the turret free, And tolling forth theire sad farewells, O'er Land and Sea, Tell how Hearts breake, full fast, and then Growe whole againe. 1 82 WILLI A M MO THER WELL. THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD. The eagle hearts of all the North Have left their stormy strand, — The warriors of the world are forth To choose another land ! Again, their long keels sheer the wave. Their broad sheets court the breeze ; Again the reckless and the brave Ride lords of weltering seas. Nor swifter from the well-bent bow Can feather'd shaft be sped Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow Their roaring galleys tread. Then lift the can to bearded lip, And smite each sounding shield : Wassail ! to every dark-ribb'd ship, To every battle-field. So proudly the Skalds raise their voices of triumph, As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosom'd billow. Aloft Sigurdir's battle-flag Streams onward to the land ; — Well may the taint of slaughter lag On yonder glorious strand. The waters of the mighty deep. The wild birds of the sky. Hear it like vengeance shoreward sweep, Where moody men must die. WILLI A M MO THER WELL. 1 83 The waves wax wroth beneath our keel, The clouds above us lower; — They know the battle sign and feel All its resistless power. Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag, Nor shuns an early tomb ? Who shoreward, through the swelling surge, Shall bear the scroll of doom ? So shout the Skalds as the long ships are nearing The low-lying shores of a beautiful land. III. Silent the Self-devoted stood Beside the massive tree : His image mirror'd in the flood Was terrible to see, — As, leaning on his gleaming axe And gazing on the wave, His fearless soul was churning up The death-rune of the brave. Upheaving then his giant form Upon the brown bark's prow, And tossing back the yellow storm Of hair from his broad brow, The lips of song burst open and The words of fire rush'd out; And thundering through that martial crew Peal'd Harald's battle-shout:— It is Harald the dauntless that lifteth his great voice, As the Northmen roll on with the Doom- written banner. lS4 WILLIAM MO THER WELL. IV. ' ' I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag Through sunshine or through gloom; Through swelling surge on bloody strand I plant the scroll of doom ! On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, Beneath a starless sky, The shadowy Three like meteors pass'd And bade young Harald die. They sang the war-deeds of his sires, And pointed to their tomb; They told him that this glory-flag Was his by right of doom. Since then where hath young Harald been But, where Jarl's son should be, 'Mid war and waves — the combat keen That raged on land or sea?" (So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory, As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner.) V. " Mine own death's in this clenched hand, I know the noble trust ; — These limbs must rot on yonder strand, These lips must lick its dust. But shall this dusky standard quail In the red slaughter-day ; Or shall this heart its purpose fail, This arm forget to slay ? I trample down such idle doubt ! Harald's high blood hath sprung From sires whose hands in martial bout Have ne'er belied their tongue: WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 185 Nor keener, from their castled rock, Rush eagles on their prey Than, panting for the battle-shock. Young Harald leads the way." (It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty. Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce of heroes). ** The ship-borne warriors of the North, The sons of Woden's race, To battle as to feast go forth. With stern and changeless face ; And I, the last of a great line, The Self-devoted, long To lift on high the Runic sign Which gives my name to song. In battle-field young Harald falls, Amid a slaughter'd foe ; But backward never bears this flag, While streams to oceans flow. On, on ! above the crowded dead This Runic scroll shall flare ; And round it shall the lightnings spread From swords that never spare." (So rush the hero-words from the Death-doom'd one, Whik Skalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.) VII. ** Flag, from your folds! and fiercely wake War-music on the wind ; Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to shake The sternness of my mind. [86 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Brynhilda ! maiden fair and meek, Pale watcher by the sea, I hear thy wailings on the air — Thy heart's dirge sung for me. In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung Above the salt sea foam ! The wave that bears me from thy bower Shall never bear me home. Brynhilda, seek another love ; But ne'er wed one like me, Who, death-foredoomed from above, Joys in his destiny," (Thus mourn'd young Harald as he thought on Bryn- hilda ; While his eyes fiU'd with tears which glitter'd but fell not.) VIII. *' On sweeps Sigurdir's battle-flag, The scourge of war, from shore : It dashes through the seething foam ; But I return no more ! Wedded unto a fatal bride Boune for a bloody bed. And battling for her side by side. Young Harald's doom is sped. In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp Reel headlong to the grave, There Harald's axe shall ponderous ring, There Sigurd's flag shall wave! Yes, underneath this standard tall. Beside this fateful scroll. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 187 Down shall the tower-like prison fall Of Harald's haughty soul." (So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer and nearer The fleet of the Northmen bears down to the shore. ) " Green lie those thickly-timber'd shores Fair sloping to the sea : They're cumber'd with the harvest stores That wave but for the free. Our sickle is the gleaming sword, Our garner the broad shield : Let peasants sow ; but still he's lord Who's master of the field. Let them come on, the bastard-born. Each soil-stain'd churl ! Alack ! What gain they but a splitten skull, A sod for their base back ? They sow for us these goodly lands ; We reap them in our might, Scorning all title but the brands That triumph in the fight ! " (It was thus the land- winners of old gain'd their glory; And grey stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles. ) '* The rivers of yon island low Glance redly in the sun ; But ruddier still they're doom'd to glow, And deeper shall they run. 1 88 WILLI A M MO THER WELL, The torrent of proud life shall swell Each river to the brim ; And, in that spate of blood, how well The headless corpse shall swim ! The smoke of many a shepherd's cot Curls from each peopled glen ; And, hark ! the song of maidens mild. The shout of joyous men. But one may hew the oaken tree, The other shape the shroud, As the Landeyda o'er the sea Sweeps like a tempest cloud." (So shouteth fierce Harald ; so echo the Northmen, As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering. ) " Sigurdir's battle-tiag is spread Abroad to the blue sky; And spectral visions of the dead Are trooping grimly by : The spirit heralds rush before Harald's destroying brand ; They hover o'er yon fated shore And death-devoted band. Marshall, stout Jarls, your battle fast j And fire each beacon-height ! Our galleys anchor in the sound, Our banner heaves in sight. And through the surge, and arrowy shower That rains on this broad shield, Harald uplifts the sign of power Which rules the battle-field ! " So cries the Death-doom'd on the red strand of slaughter, While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 189 XII. On roll'd the Northmen's war ; — above The Raven Standard flew ; Nor tide nor tempest ever strove With vengeance half so true. 'Tis Harald — 'tis the Sire-bereaved — Who goads the dread career, And high amid the flashing storm The flag of doom doth rear. " On, on," the tall Death-seeker cries, " These earth-worms soil our heel ! " Their spear-points crasp, like crisping ice, On ribs of stubborn steel. Hurra! hurra! their whirlwinds sweep; And Harald's fate is sped. Bear on the flag : — he goes to sleep With the life-scorning dead ! Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires ; And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit. iQO JAMES HYSLOP. XLIIT. JAMES HYSLOP, 1798-1827. THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM. In a dream of the night I was wafted away To the muirland of mist where the mart>TS lay, — Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green. 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood, — When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 'Twas morning ; and summer's young sun from the east Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast : On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue ; And far up in heaven, near a white sunny cloud, The song of the lark was melodious and loud ; And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep, Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep. JAMES HYSLOP. 191 And Wellwood's sweet valley breath'd music and glad- ness ; The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness ; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights, of July's sweet morning. But, ah I there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings (Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings). And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow ; For they knew that their blood would bedew it to- morrow. 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Conceal'd 'mong the mist, where the heath-fowl were crying ; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung thro' the thin misty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd ; But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was ur- breath'd ; — With eyes raised to heaven in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of Salvation. The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing ; But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter. Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded. Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded : Their dark eyes flash'd lightning as, firm and unbending. They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. 192 JAMES HYSLOP. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleam- ing, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streammg: The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling, WTien in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended : Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its door bright and shining- All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining ; And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation. On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding ; Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is before ye — A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory ! DA VID MACBETH MOIR. 193 XLIV. DAVID MACBETH MOIR, 1798-1851. 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 dearth, 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 unfathom'd agony, Casa Wappy ! * "Casa Wappy" was the self-conferred pet name of a favourite child of the poet, who died after a very brief illness at the age of four years. 804 1 94 DA VI D MA CBE TH MO JR. 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, 7 hat found thee prostrate in decay ; And, ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy ! Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled. Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child ! Humbly we bow to Plate's decree ; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy ! Do what I may, go where I will. Thou meet'st my sight; — There dost thou glide before me still, A form of light : I feel thy breath upon my cheek, I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — Till, oh ! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy! DA VID MACBETH MOIR. 195 Methinks thou smil'st before me now With glance of stealth— The hair thrown back from thy full brow, In buoyant health : I see thine eyes' deep violet light, Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright, Thy clasping arms so round and white, Casa Wappy ! The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy bat, thy bow, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; But where art thou ? A corner holds thine empty chair : Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy ! Even to the last thy every word — • To glad, to grieve — Was sweet as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve : In outward beauty undecay'd, Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade ; And like the rainbow thou didst fade, Casa Wappy! 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 thro' thee, Casa Wappy! 1 96 DA VID MA CBE TH MOIR. And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Of casual mirth, It does 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 ! 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 that o'er the grave The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave. Yet God forget our child to save ? — Casa Wappy 1 It cannot be ; for — were it so Thus man could die — Life were a mockery, thought were woe, And truth a lie ; — Heaven were a coinage of the brain. Religion frenzy, virtue vain. And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy! DA VID MA CBE TH MOTR. 197 Then be to us, O 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 thee 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 forever 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 howe'er life's night may be — Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy I 198 HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, XLV. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 1798—1870. SCOTLAND YET. Gae bring my giiid auld harp ance mair, — Gae bring it free and fast, — For I maun sing anither sang, Ere a' my glee be past ; And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes and Scotland's knowes And Scotland's hills for me ;— We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. The heath waves wild upon her hills, And, foaming frae the fells, Her fountains sing o' freedom still, As they dance down the dells ; And weel I loo the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea ; — Then Scotland's vales and Scotland's dales And Scotland's hills for me ; — We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. HENR V SCO IT RIDDELL. 199 The thistle wags upon the fields Where Wallace bore his blade — That gave her foemen's dearest blukl To dye her auld grey plaid ; When looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee — Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me ; — We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies. Where freedom's voice ne'er rang — Gie me the hills where Ossian lies. And Coila's minstrel sang ; For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, That ken na to be free ; — Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me ; — We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honours three. 200 JAMES STEWART. XLVI. JAMES STEWART, 1801—1843. THE TAILOR O' MONZIE. Our gudeman's breeks were riven sair ; The tailor cam' to mak' a pair ; When gloamin' fell assembled were O's a' 'bout thretty-three, man : On stools an' auld tree-roots we sat, An' O, sae muckle fun's we gat Frae funny Patie Whip-the-cat, The Tailor o' Monzie, man ! O, he's a curiosity, A curious curiosity, A perfect curiosity, The Tailor o' Monzie, man ! The lasses' spindles hadna space To whirl an' bob their circlin' race, For, head an' thrawart, back an' face, We sat promiscouslie, man, *• Like midges i' the motty sun, Or corbie craws on tattie grun'," — Sae thick were we to near the fun Frae Patie o' Monzie, man. JAMES STEWART, 201 A lang dispute anent the State Gley'd Andro Toshack held wi' Pate, Wha, drawin' a steek wi' nettled heat, Drobb'd Andro's ringle ee, man. Andro roar'd, grew pale and faint : *'My feth," quo' the gudeman, "I kent He'd gie ye piercing argument, Our Tailor o' Monzie, man ! " Wee Gibbie Bryce was greetin', vext That he had made the Kirk his text ; For Patie gat him jamm'd an' fixt In Patronage's plea, man : He rave poor Gibbie's sense to rags, Made him a lauchin'-stock to wags : — The hale house waved their arms like flags : " Hurrah for Patie Monzie, man ! " Wi' canty tale an' funny joke, Wi' lauchin' when the tailor spoke, The nicht wore on till twal' o'clock In loud guffaw an' glee, man : The gudewife reavilt a' her yarn ; She tint the thread-end o' her pirn, Lauchin' like her youngest bairn At Patie o' Monzie, man. 'Twad tak' a tale as lang's an ell, 'Twad tak' an hour that tale to tell O' what I heard an' saw mysel' That nicht o' nichts to me, man. If there's a man that we should dawt, Whom Nature's made without a faut. He's surely Patie Whip-the-cat, The Tailor o' Monzie, man I 202 ROBERT CHAMBERS. XLVII. ROBERT CHAMBERS. 1802—1871. YOUNG RANDAL. Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa' : 'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'. It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanic, — To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanic, That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee And mony mae friends in the North Countrie. He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha'. His brother at the outer yett but and his sisters twa, And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa'. And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'. "Oh, whan will ye come back ? " sae kindly did she speir, " Oh, whan will ye come back, my hinny and my dear ?" "Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear To dress ye out in peariins and silks, my dear." ROBERT CHAMBERS. 203 Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'; Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa'; And in his bonnie e'e a spark glintit high, Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky. Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame — A sair altert man was he whan he came hame ; — Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name, And grey, grey cheeks did Randal come hame. He lichtit at the outer yett and rispit wi' the ring, And down came a ladye to see him come in ; And after the ladye came bairns feifteen : '• Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean ? '' "Whatna stoure carle is this," quo' the dame, " Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame ? " " Oh, tell me, fair madame, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham? " " In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same." He turn'd him about wi' a waefu' e'e, And a heart as sair as sair could be ; He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee, And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee. Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie. And dule on the wars o' the High Germanic, And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be ; For they've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie !' 204 HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. XLvnx HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. 1805-1S74. MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. I LOOk'd far back into the past; and lo ! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away. It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls ; And o'er the antique dial-stone the creeping shadow crept, And all around the noonday light in drowsy radiance slept. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth when all its prospects please ; And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers. That Scotland knew no prouder names — held none more dear than theirs : HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. 205 And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuait line : Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight ; And, as they flew, they left behind a long continuing light. The scene was changed. — It was the court — the gay court of Bourbon, Where, 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng ; And proudly kindles Henry's eye, well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry: — Grey Montmorency, o'er whose head has pass'd a storm of years. Strong in himself and children, stands the first among his peers : Next him the Guises, who had so well Fame's steepest heights assail'd. And walk'd Ambition's diamond ridge where bravest hearts have fail'd ; (And higher yet their path shall be, and stronger wax their might, For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light.) There, too, the Prince of Conde wears his all-unconquer'd sword, With great Coligni by his side, — each name a household word : And there walks she of Medici, that proud Italian line. The mother of a race of kings — the haughty Catherine. 2o6 HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. The forms that follow in her train a glorious sunshine make — A Milky Way of stars that jjrace a comet's glittering wake ; But fairer far than all the crowd who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she — the new-made bride ! The homage of a thousand hearts, the fond deep love of one, The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun — They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak. Ah ! who shall blame if scarce that day — through all its brilliant hours — She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers ? The scene was changed. — It was a bark that slowly held its way ; And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast-receding hills that dim and distant rise. No marvel that the lady wept : — there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth : It was her mother's land, — the land of childhood and of friends ; It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends, — HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. 207 The land where her dead husband slept ; the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hush'd repose and the splendours of a throne : No marvel that the lady wept, — it was the land of France, The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance ! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark ; The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark. One gaze again — one long last gaze: "Adieu, fair France, to thee ! " The breeze comes forth, — she is alone on the unconscious sea. The scene was changed. — It was an eve of raw and surly mood ; And, in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood, Sat Mary — listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds. That seem'd to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds. The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek, her smile was sadder now, — The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field: The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes— the dreams of youth's brief day. And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play 2o8 HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. The songs she loved in other years— the songs of gay Navarre — The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chastelard : They half beguiled her of her cares, they sooth'd her into smiles, They won her thoughts from bigot zeal and fierce domestic broils. But hark !— the tramp of armed men ! the Douglas' battle-cry ! They come, they come ! and lo ! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye. Stern swords are drawn, and daggers gleam— her words, her prayers are vain ; The ruffian steel is in his heart— the faithful Rizzio's slain ! Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell: "Now for my father's arm," she said; *'my woman's heart, farewell ! " The scene was changed.— It was a lake, with one small lonely isle ; And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile. Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral line. "My lords, my lords !" the captive cried, "were I but once more free, With ten good knights, on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me, That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, And reign once more, a Stuart queen, o'er my remorse- less foes ! " HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. 209 A red spot burn'd upon her cheek j stream'd her rich tresses down : She wrote the words— she stood erect, a queen without a crown ! The scene was changed. — A royal host a royal banner bore ; — The faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once more : She stay'd her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching She heard their shouts, she read success in every flashing eye. The tumult of the strife begins — it roars — it dies away; And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers — where are they? Scatter'd and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone : O God ! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won ! Away! away! — thy gallant steed must act no lag[;ard's part; Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart. The scene was changed. — Beside the block a sullen headsman stood ; And gleam'd the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with blood. With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall. And breathless silence chain'd the lips, and touch'd the hearts of all. 80s 210 HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. Rich were the sable robes she wore, her white veil round her fell, And from her neck there hung the cross — that cross she loved so well ! 1 knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom ; I saw that grief had deck'd it out — an offering for the tomb ! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone ; 1 knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone ; I knew the ringlets, almost grey, once threads of living gold; I knew that bounding grace of step, that symmetry of mould. Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile: Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn — A new star in the firmament to light and glory born ! Alas, the change ! she placed her foot upon a triple throne ; And on the scaffold now she stands, beside the block, alone ! — The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance and round her footsteps bow'd ! Her neck is bared, — the blow is struck, — the soul has pass'd away ! — The bright, the beautiful, is now a bleeding piece of clay. A solemn text ! Go, think of it, in silence and alone ; Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne 1 HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. 211 THE END. I KNOW at length the truth, my friend : — Some ten or fifteen seasons more, And then for me there comes the end — My joys and sorrows will be o'er! Nor deem I the remaining years — Which soon must come and soon must go. Which wake no hopes, excite no fears — Will teach me more than now I know. They'll bring the same unfruitful round — The nightly rest, the daily toil, The smiles that soothe, the slights that wound, The little gain, the feverish moil. As manhood's fires burn less and less, The languid heart grows cold and dull — Alike indifferent to success, And careless of the beautiful : Nought but the past awakes a throb, And even the past begins to dk ,— The burning tear, the anguish'd sob, Give place to listless apathy. And when at last death turns the key And throws the earth and green turf on, Whate'er it was that made up me^ Is it, my friend, for ever gone ? 2 1 2 HENR V GLA SSFORD BELL. Dear friend, is all we see a dream ? Does this brief glimpse of time and space Exhaust the aims, fulfil the scheme, Intended for the human race ? Shall even the star-exploring mind Which thrills with spiritual desire Be, like a breath of summer wind, Absorb'd in sunshine and expire ? Or will what men call death restore The living myriads of the past ? — Is dying but to go before The myriads who will come at last? If not, whence sprung the thought ? and whence Perception of a power divine Who symbols forth omnipotence In flowers that bloom, in suns that shine ? 'Tis not these fleshly limbs that think, 'Tis not these filmy eyes that see : Tho* mind and matter break the link, Mind does not therefore cease to be. Such end is but an end in part, Such death is but the body's goal: Blood makes the pulses of the heart, But not the emotions of the soul ! JAMES BALLANTINE, 213 XLIX. JAMES BALLANTINE. ISOS— 1877. CASTLES IN THE AIR. The bonnie, bonnie bairn who sits poking in the ase, Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face, Laughing at the fuffin' lowe — what sees he there? Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air. His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towering to the moon ; He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun ; Warlds whommlin' up and doun, bleezing wi' a flar?, — See how he loups as they glimmer in the air ! 2T4 JAMES BALLANTINE. For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken ? He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men: A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,- There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air. Sic a night in wmter may weel niak' him cauld : His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld ; His brow is brent sae braid — O pray that daddy Care Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air ! He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light ; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by Night: Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare, — Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd, wi' castles in the air. NAEBODY'S BAIRN. She was Naebody's Bairn, she was Naebody's Bairn She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn, Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn ; For naebody cared about Naebody's Bairn. Though father or mither ne'er own'd her ava. Though rear'd by the fremmit, for fee unco sma' She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern ; For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's Bairn. JAMES BALLANTINE. 215 Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair, She never conipleen'd, though her young heart was sair, And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld aim Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's Bairn. Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth, Heaven sent her, an angel, to gladden the earth ; And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern Heaven couldna but tak' again Naebody's Bairn. She cam' smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw; — Like lown simmer gloamin* she faded awa': And lo ! how serenely that lone e'ening starn Shines on the green sward that haps Naebody's Bairn 2i6 JOHN USHER, L. JOHN USHER. Born 1809. THE CHANNEL-STANE.i {Inscribed wV britherly love to a keen curlers. ) Up ! curlers, up ! oor freen' John Frost Has closed his grip on loch an' lea: Up ! time's ower precious to be lost — An' rally roun' the rink an' tee ;2 \Vi' steady han', an' nerve, an' e'e — Noo cannie, noo \vi' micht an' main. To test by "wick,"3an' "guard, "^an" ^'draWj''^ Oor prowess wi' the Channel-Stane. O the roarin' Channel-Stane ! The cannie, creepin' Channel-Stane! What music to the curler's ear Like music o' the Channel-Stane! ^ The stone iisert in the same of Curling. 2 The mark on the ice aimed at in the game. ^ An indirect shot. * Guard upon a stone which has been well aimed. ^ A straight shot. JOHN USHER. 217 It's bliss to curlers' eye an' ear When '* crack an egg",^ or *' chap an' lie"^ Is greeted wi' responsive cheer, And waving besoms raised on high ; Or — when nocht else is left to try — Wi' rapid glance, an' easy swing. The *' ootring"^ o' a stane is chipp'd. And twirl'd within the inner ring. O the roarin' Channel-Stane! The toddlin', twinklin' Channel-Stane 1 What music to the curler's ear Like music o' the Channel-Stane! The time is call'd — the match a tie ; The game contestit close an' keen Seems seal'd, for guards like bulwarks lie — Nae vestige o' the winner seen : Anon the skip,^ wi' dauntless mien, Puts doon his broom— "Creep till't," cries he; — The stone's sent hirplin' through the "port," ^ And soopit deftly to the tee. O the roarin' Channel-Stane ! The hirplin', wimplin' Channel-Stane ! What music to the curler's ear Like music o' the Channel-Stane ! It boots not whence the curler hails, If curler keen an' staunch he be — Frae Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales, Or colonies ayont the sea; — 1 Touch very gently. ^ Strike and lie. 3 That edge of a stone which happens to lie outward from the tee. * The captain of a side. ^ A narrow passage between other stones. 2i8 JOHN USHER. A social brotherhood are we, And, after we are deid and gane, We'll live in literature an' lair — In annals o' the Channel-Stane ! O the roarin' Channel-Stane ! The witchin', winsome Channel-Stane ! What music to the curler's ear Like music o' the Channel-Stane ! THE PIPE OF TOBACCO. Let the toper regale in his tankard of ale, Or with alcohol moisten his thrapple, — Only give me, I pray, a good pipe of soft clay, Nicely taper'd and thin in the stapple ; — And I shall puff, puff— let who will say enough ! No luxury else I'm in lack o', — No malice I hoard 'gainst Queen, Prince. Duke, or Lord, While I pull at my Pipe of Tobacco. When I feel the hot strife of the battle of life, And the prospect is aught but enticin' — Mayhap some real ill, like a protested bill, Dims the sunshine that tinged the horizon,— Only let me puff, puff — be they ever so rough. All the sorrows of life I lose track o' ; The mists disappear, and the vista is clear, With a soothing mild Pipe of Tobacco. JOHN USHER. 219 And when joy after pain, like the sun after rain, Stills the waters long turbid and troubled, That life's current may flow with a ruddier glow, And the sense of enjoyment be doubled, — Oh ! let me puff, puff — till I feel quantum suff. Such luxury still I'm in lack o' ! Be joy ever so sweet, it would be incomplete Without a good Pipe of Tobacco. Should my recreant muse — sometimes apt to refuse The guidance of bit and of bridle — Still blankly demur, spite of whip and of spur, Unimpassion'd, inconstant, or idle, — Only let me puff, puff — till the brain cries enough ; — Such excitement is all I'm in lack o'; And the poetic vein soon to fancy gives rein, Inspired by a Pipe of Tobacco. And when with one accord, round the jovial board, In friendship our bosoms are glowing. While with toast and with song we the evening prolong, And with nectar the goblets are flowing — Still let us puff, puff— be life smooth, be it rough, Such enjoyment we're ever in lack o' : The more peace and goodwill will abound as we fill A jolly good Pipe of Tobacco ! 220 WILLIAM MILLER. LI. WILLIAM MILLER, 1810—1872. WILLIE WINKIE. Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Upstairs and doonstairs, in his nicht-gown, — Tirling at the window, crying at the lock, " Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock ?" Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben ? The cat's singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen ; The dog's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gi'e a cheep ; But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep ! Onything but sleep, you rogue ! glow'ring like the moon, Rattling in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumbling, tumbling, round about, era wing like a cock, Skirling like a kenna-what, wauk'ning sleeping fock. Hey, Willie Winkie — the wean's in a creel I Wambling aff" a body's knee like a very eel, I^ugging at the cat's lug and raveling a' her thrums — Hey, Willie Winkie — see, there he comes 1 WILLIAM MILLER. 221 Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean— A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an e'e ; — But ae kiss frae aff his rosy lips gi'es strength anew to me. THE SLEEPY LADDIE. Are ye no gaun to wauken the-day, ye rogue ? Your parritch is ready, and cool in the cog ; Auld baudrons sae gaucy, and Tarn o' that ilk, Would fain hae a drap o' the wee laddie's milk. There's a wee birdie singing — get up, get up ! And listen ! it says, tak' a whup, tak' a whup ! But I'll kittle his bosie — a far better plan, And pouther his pow wi' a watering-can. There's a house redd up like a palace — I'm sure That a pony might dance a jig on the floor ; And father is coming, so wauken and meet And welcome him hame wi' your kisses sae sweet. It's far in the day now, and brawly ye ken Your father has scarcely a minute to spen' ; But ae blink o' his wifie and bairn on her knee He says lightens his toil, the' sair it may be. So, up to your parritch, and on wi' your claes ! — There's a fire that might warm the cauld Norlan' braes ; For a coggie weel fill'd and a clean fire-en' Should mak' ye jump up and gae skelping ben I 222 THOMAS TOD STODDART, m. THOMAS TOD STODDART 1810— ISSO. THE TAKING OF THE SALMON. A birr! a whirr! a salmon's on, A goodly fish ! a thumper ! Bring up, bring up the ready gaff, And if we land him we shall quaff Another glorious bumper ! Hark ! 'tis the music of the reel, The strong, the quick, the steady; The line darts from the active wheel, Have all things right and ready. A birr! a whirr! the salmon's out, Far on the rushing river ; Onward he holds with sudden leap. Or plunges through the whirlpool deep, A desperate endeavour! Hark to the music of the reel ! The fitful and the grating ; It pants along the breathless wheel, Now hurried— now abating. THOMAS TOD STODDART, 223 A birrl a whirr! the salmon's off 1 — No, no, we still have got him ; The wily fish is sullen grown, And, like a bright imbedded stone, Lies gleaming at the bottom. Hark to the music of the reel ! 'Tis hush'd, it hath forsaken ; With care we'll guard the magic wheel, Until its notes rewaken. A birr ! a whirr ! the salmon's up. Give line, give line and measure ; But now he turns ! keep down ahead. And lead him as a child is led, And land him at your leisure. Hark to the music of the reel ! *Tis welcome, it is glorious ; It wanders thro' the winding wheel, Returning and victorious. A birr! a whirr! the salmon's in, Upon the bank extended ; The princely fish is gasping slow. His brilliant colours come and go, All beautifully blended. Hark to the music of the reel ! It murmurs and it closes ; Silence is on the conquering wheel, Its wearied line reposes. No birr ! no whirr ! the salmon's ours, The noble fish — the thumper: Strike through his gill the ready gaff. And bending homewards, we shall quaff Another glorious bumper! 224 THOMAS TOD STODDART. Hark to the music of the reel ! We listen with devotion ; There's something in that circling wheel That wakes the heart's emotion ! THE ANGLER'S GRAVE. Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green ! True tears make the grass to grow ; And the grief of the good, I ween, Is grateful to him that sleeps below. Strew sweet flowers, free of blight — Blossoms gather' d in the dew : Should they wither before night, Flowers and blossoms bring anew. Sorrow, sorrow, speed away To our angler's quiet mound, With the old pilgrim, twilight grey, Enter thou on the holy ground ; There he sleeps, whose heart was twined With wild stream and wandering burn, Wooer of the western wind ! Watcher of the April morn ! Sorrow at the poor man's hearth ! Sorrow in the hall of pride ! Honour waits at the grave of worth. And high and low stand side by side. Brother angler ! slumber on ; Haply thou shalt wave the wand, When the tide of time is gone. In some far and happy land. IVM. £DMOJVnSTO(/A£ AYTOUN. 225 LIII. WM. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. 1813—1865. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.* Come hither, Evan Cameron ! Come, stand beside my knee — I hear the river roaring down Towards the wintry sea. There's shouting on the mountain side, There's war within the blast — Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night ! 'Twas I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. * James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, the champion of the Royalist Cause in Scotland, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21st, 1650. 806 226 IVM. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUiV I've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore : I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsay's pride ; But never have I told thee yet How the Great Marquis died ! A traitor sold him to his foes ; — O deed of deathless shame ! 1 charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name — ]5e it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or back'd by armed men — Face him, as thou would'st face the man Who wrong'd thy sire's renown ; Remember of what blood thou art. And strike the caitiff down ! They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span, As though they held a lion there, And not a 'fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart — The hangman rode below — They drew his hands behind his back, And bared his noble brow. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept, A.nd some that came to scoff at him, Now turn'd aside and wept. IVM, EDMONDSTOUNE AY TO UN 227 But onwards— always onwards, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant labour'd. Till it reach'd the house of doom : Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud. And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd : Then, as the Graeme look'd upwards, He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his King for gold — The master-fiend Argyle ! The Marquis gazed a moment, And nothing did he say. But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale. And he turn'd his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side. She shook through every limb. For a roar like thunder swept the street, And hands were clench'd at him ; And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, "Back, coward, from thy place! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face." Had I been there with sword in hand, And fifty Camerons by. That day through high Dunedin's streets, Had peal'd the slogan-cry.* Not all their troops of trampling horse. Nor might of mailed men — Not all the rebels in the South Had borne us backwards then ! * War-cry of a clan. 228 WM. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there ! It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, And perjured traitors fiU'd the place Wliere good men sate before. Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash, They cheer'd the common throng. And blew the note with yell and shout, And bade him pass along. It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day, To watch the keen malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig west-country lords In balcony and bow, There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames. And their daughters all a-row ; And every open window Was full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see ! But when he came, though pale and wan. He look'd so great and high, So noble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye ; — WM. EDMONDSTOUNE A YTOUN. 229 The rabble rout forebore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. With savage glee came Warristoun* To read the murderous doom ; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room. ** Now, by my faith as belted knight, And by the name I bear. And by the bright Saint Andrew's cros-; That waves above us there — Yea, by a greater, mightier oath — And oh, that such should be ! — By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me — I have not sought in battle-field A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope, on my dying day, To win the martyr's crown ! •* There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave, But a betler place ye have named for me Than by my fathers' grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, This hand hath always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower — Give every town a limb — And God who made shall gather them : I go from you to Him ! " • Johnstone of Warristoun, an eminent Covenanter. 230 M'Af. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. The morning dawn'd full darkly, The rain came flashinp; down, And the jigi.;e(l streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town: The thunder crash'd across the heaven, The fata! hour was come ; Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below, And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor. Came forth to see him die. Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! How dismal 'tis to see The great tall spectral skeleton, The ladder and the tree ! Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms — The bells begin to toll— He is coming ! he is coming ! God's mercy on his soul ! One last long peal of thunder — The clouds are clear'd away. And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. He is coming ! he is coming ! — Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die: WM. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. 231 There was colour in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man ! He mounted up the scaffold. And he turn'd him to the crowd ; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But he look'd upon the heavens, And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through : Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within — All else was calm and still. The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near. As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee ; And veil'd his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree. Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away : For he had ta'en his latest look Of earth, and sun, and day. A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven. And he climb'd the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. 232 IVM. EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder-roll ; And no man dared to look aloft, For fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush, and then a groan ; And darkness swept across the sky — The work of death was done ! ROBERT NICOLL. 233 LIV. ROBERT NICOLL, 1814—1837. LIFE'S PILGRIMAGE. Infant ! I envy thee Thy seraph smile, thy soul without a stain : Angels around thee hover in thy glee, A look of love to gain. Thy paradise is made Upon thy mother's bosom ; and her voice Is music rich as that by spirits shed When blessed things rejoice. Bright are the opening flowers : Ay, bright as thee, sweet babe, and innocent They bud and bloom; — and straight their infant hours, Like thine, are done and spent ! Boy ! infancy is o'er : Go with thy playmates to the grassy lea, Let thy bright eye with yon far laverock soar, And blithe and happy be ! 234 ROBERT NICOLL. Go, crow thy cuckoo notes Till all the greenwood alleys loud are ringing ! Go, listen to the thousand tuneful throats That 'mong the leaves are singing ! I would not sadden thee ; Nor wash the rose upon thy cheek with tears : Go, while thine eye is bright — unbent thy knee, Forget all cares and fears ! Youth ! is thy boyhood gone ? — The fever-hour of life at length has come, And passion sits in reason's golden throne. While sorrow's voice is dumb. Be glad ! it is thy hour Of love ungrudging, faith without reserve ; And, from the right, ill hath not yet the power To make thy footsteps swerve. Now is thy time to know How much of trusting goodness lives on earth ; And, rich in pure sincerity, to go Rejoicing in thy birth. Youth's sunshine unto thee — Love, first and dearest — has unveil'd her face ; And thou hast sat beneath the trysting-tree In love's first fond embrace. Enjoy thy happy dream ; For life hath not another such to give : The stream is flowing — love's enchanted stream : Live, happy dreamer, live ! ROBERT NICOLL, 235 Though sorrow dwelleth here, And falsehood, and impurity, and sin, The light of love, the gloom of earth to cheer, Comes sweetly, sweetly in. 'Tis o'er — thou art a man ! — The struggle and the tempest both begin. Where he who faints must fail — he fight who can, A victory to win. Say, toilest thou for gold i Will all that earth can give of drossy hues Compensate for that land of love foretold, Which mammon makes thee lose ? Or, waitest thou for power ? A proud ambition, trifler, doth thee raise ! — To be the gilded bauble of the hour, That fools may, wondering, gaze ! But would'st thou be a man — A lofty, noble, uncorrupted thing. Beneath whose eye the false might tremble wan, The good with gladness sing ? Go, cleanse thy heart, and fill Thy soul with love and goodness ; — let it be Like yonder lake, so holy, calm, and still. And full of purity ! This is thy task on earth — This is thy eager manhood's proudest goal : To cast all meanness and world-worship forth. And thus exalt the soul ! 236 ROBERT NICOLL. 'Tis manhood makes the man A high-soul'd freeman or a fetter'd slave, The mind a temple fit for God to span, Or a dark dungeon-grave. God doth not man despise, — He gives him soul — mind — heart — that living flame : Nurse it, and upwards let it brightly rise To heaven, from whence it came ! Go hence, go hence, and make Thy spirit pure as morning-light and free ! The pilgrim shrine is won, and I awake — Come to the woods with me ! DEATH.* The dew is on the Summer's greenest grass. Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps ; The gentle wind, that like a ghost doth pass, A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps ; But I, who love them all, shall never be Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea ! The sun shines sweetly — sweeter may it shine I — Bless'd is the brightness of a summer day: It cheers lone hearts ; and why should I repine, Although among green fields I cannot stray P Woods ! I have grown, since last I heard you wave, Familiar with death, and neighbour to the grave ! ' This poem is believed to be the last, or one of the last, composed by NicoU. ROBERT NICOLL. 237 These words have shaken mighty human souls : Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound — E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls The ivied remnants of old ruins round. Yet wherefore tremble ? Can the soul decay? — Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away ? Are there not aspirations in each heart After a better, brighter world than this? — Longings for beings nobler in each part — Things more exalted — steep'd in deeper bliss? Who gave us these ? What are they ? Soul ! in thee The bud is budding now for immortality. Death comes to take me where I long to be : One pang — and bright blooms the immortal flower. Death comes to lead me, from mortality, To lands which know not one unhappy hour. I have a hope — a faith ; — from sorrow here I'm led by Death away : — why should I start and fear ? If I have loved the forest and the field, Can I not love them deeper, better, there ? If all that Power hath made to me doth yield Something of good and beauty — something fair, — Freed from the grossness of mortality, May I not love them all, and better all enjoy? A change from woe to joy — from earth to heaven, Death gives me this : it leads me calmly where The souls that long ago from mine were riven May meet again ! Death answers many a prayer. Bright day ! shine on — be glad : — days brighter far Are stretch'd before my eyes than those of mortals are ! 238 ROBERT NICOLL. I would be laid among the wildest flowers, I would be laid where happy hearts can come : — The worthless clay I heed not ; but in hours Of gushing noontide joy, it may be some Will dwell upon my name, and I will be A happy spirit there, Affection's look to see. Death is upon me, yet I fear not now. Open my chamber window, — let me look Upon the silent vales — the sunny glow That fills each alley, close, and copse-wood nook. I know them — love them — mourn not them to leave Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve ! A DIRGE. Sleep on, sleep on, ye resting dead 1 The grass is o'er ye growing In dewy greenness. Ever fled From you hath Care; and, in its stead, Peace hath with you its dwelling made, Where tears do cease from flowing. Sleep on ! Sleep on, sleep on ! Ye do not feel Life's ever-burning fever ; Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel And blanch the loving heart, until 'Tis like the bed of mountain-rill Which waves have left for ever. Sleep on ! ROBERT NICOLL. 239 Sleep on, sleep on ! Your couch is made Upon your mother's bosom : Yea, and your peaceful, lonely bed Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid ; And over each earth-pillow'd head The hand of Nature strews them. Sleep on ! Sleep on, sleep on ! I would I were At rest within your dwelling, — No more to feel, no more to bear The World's falsehood and its care. The arrows it doth never spare On him whose feet are failing. Sleep on ! SONG FOR A SUMMER EVENING. There's a drap o' dew on the blackbird's wing, Where the willows wave the burnie over ; And the happy bird its sang doth sing By the wimpling waves that the green leaves cover. Sing louder yet, thou bonnie, bonnie bird, — There's neither cloud nor storm to fear ye ; But thy sang, though glad as ear ever heard, Is wae to mine when I meet my dearie ! Yon laverock lilts 'mang the snawy clouds, That float like a veil o'er the breast of heaven; And its strain comes down to the summer woods Like the voice of the bless'd and God-forgiven. Sing, laverock, sing thy maist holy sang, — For the light o' heaven is round and near ye, Syne song through thy fluttering heart will gang, As it runs through mine when I meet my dearie ! 240 ROBERT NICOLL. The daisy blinks by the broom-bush side, Pure as the eye o' a gladsome maiden — Fair as the face o' a bonnie bride, When her heart wi' the thoughts o' love is laden. Bloom fairer yet, thou sweet lowly flower, — There's ne'er a heart sae hard as steer thee ; I will think o' thee in that gloaming hour When I meet 'mang the wild green woods my dearie ! THE MORNING STAR. Thy smile of beauty, Star ! Brings gladness on the gloomy face of night : Thou comest from afar, Pale Mystery, so lonely and so bright ! — A thing of dreams — a vision from on high — A virgin spirit — light— a type of purity. Star ! nightly wanderest thou Companionless along thy far cold way : — From Time's tirst breath till now. On thou hast flitted like an ether-fay. Where is the land from whence thou first arose ; And where the place of light to which thy pathway goes ? Pale Dawn's first messenger ! Thou prophet-sign of brightness yet to be ! Thou tellest Earth and Air Of Light and Glory following after thee, — Of smiling Day 'mong wild green woodlands sleeping. And God's own sun o'er all its tears of brightness weeping. ROBERT NICOLL. 241 Sky sentinel ! when first The Nomade Patriarch saw thee from his hill Upon his vision burst, Thou wast as pure and fair as thou art still ; And, changeless, thou hast look'd on race and name And nation lost since then ; for Thou art yet the same ! Night's youngest child ! fair gem ! The hoar astrologer o'er thee would cast His glance, and to thy name His own would join ; — then tremble when thou wast In darkness ; and rejoice when, like a bride, Thou blush'd to Earth : and thus the dreamer dream'd and died. Pure Star of Morning Love ! The daisy of the sky's blue plain art thou ; And thoughts of youth are wove Round thee, as round the flowers that freshly blow In bushy dells, where thrush and blackbird sing: Flower-Star, the dreams of youth and heaven thou back dost bring ! Star of the Morn ! for thee The watcher by affection's couch doth wait : 'Tis thine the bliss to see Of lovers fond who 'mid the broom have met : Into the student's home thine eye doth beam : Thou listenest to the words of many a troubled dream ! 807 242 ROBERT N I COLL, Lone thing ! — yet not more lone Than many a heart that gazeth upon thee, With hopes all fled and gone ; Which loves not now, nor seeks belovcLi to be. Lone, lone thou art ; but we are lonelier far, When blighted by deceit the heart's affections aic i Mysterious Morning Star ! Bright dweller in a gorgeous dreamy home ! Than others nobler far, Thou art like some free soul which here hath come, Alone but glorious, pure, and disenthrall'd — A spark of IMind, which God through earth to heaven hath call'd. Pure Maiden Star ! shine on, That dreams of beauty may be dream'd of thee ! A home art thou— a throne — A land where fancy ever roameth free — A God-sent messenger— a light afar — A blessed beam — a smile — a gem — the Morning Star ! THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. High thoughts ! They come and go. Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden ; While round me flow The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden. ' When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come — When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum — When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky, Watch over all with soft and loving eye — ROBERT NICOLL. 243 While the leaves quiver By the lone river, And the quiet heart From depths doth call And garners all — Earth grows a shadow, Forgotten whole, And Heaven lives In the blessed soul ! High thoughts ! They are with me When, deep within the bosom of the forest. Thy morning melody Abroad into the sky, thou, Throstle, pourest ; — When the young sunbeams glance among the trees — When on the ear comes the soft song of bees — When every branch has its own favourite bird, And summer songs are from each thicket heard, Where the owl flitteth, Where the roe sitteth. Then holiness Seems sleeping there ; While Nature's prayer Goes up to heaven In purity. Till all is glory And joy to me ! High thoughts ! They are my own When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, And see below me strown The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom : — 244 ROBERT NICOLL. When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow- When I can follow every fitful shadow — When I can watch the winds among the corn, And see the waves along the forest borne, — Where blue-bell and heather Are blooming together, And far doth come The Sabbath bell, O'er wood and fell. I hear the beating Of Nature's heart: Heaven is before me — God ! Thou art ! High thoughts ! They visit us In moments when the soul is dim and darken'd They come to bless, After the vanities to which we hearken'd : — When weariness hath come upon the spirit — (Those hours of darkness which we all inherit) — Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine, A winged thought, which bids us not repine ? In joy and gladness, In mirth and sadness. Come signs and tokens. Life's angel brings, Upon its wings. Those bright communings: The soul doth keep Those thoughts of Heaven So pure and deep ! ROBERT NICOLL. 245 A THOUGHT. Yon sail on the horizon's verge Doth like a wandering spirit seem,— A shadow in a sea of light — The passing of a dream. A moment more and it is gone ! We know not how — we know not where: It came — an instant stay'd — and then It vanish'd into air. Such are we all : — we sail awhile In joy, on life's fair summer sea: A moment — and our bark is gone Into Eternity. 246 S/7^ IVM. STIRLING MAXV/ELL, LV. SIR WILLIAM STIRLING MAX WELL. 1818—1878. THE ABDICATION OF CHARLES V. In Bruxelles Emperor Charles abode — fifth Caesar of the name : Weary with life's long toil was he ; and rack'd with gout his frame ; His cheek was pale, his step was frail, seldom he cross'd the door ; — He could not rule as he had ruled in the good days of yore, Nor meet the French in field and trench as he was wont to do. When o'er the Flemish border the lilied banner flew. Wherefore he had devised and dealt to lay the burden down Of pomp, and power, and majesty,— of sceptre, orb, and crown ; And all his world-wide heritage, and all his sword had won, To give unto Don Philip now, his dear and only son — Don Philip, King of England, who that noble realm had brought Back to Christ's faith from heresy by rebel Luther taught. S//^ WM. STIRLING MAXWELL. 247 So Caesar and the English King in Bruxelles town were met ; And paction was between them made, and time of signing set: The year of grace one thousand was, five hundred fifty- five — The famous year that saw the morn of this great deed arrive ; Friday, October twenty-five, three afternoon, the day And hour when Csesar sign'd and seal'd his diadems away. At Bruxelles, in the ancient hall within the castle gate, Where valiant Dukes of Burgundy erst kept their royal state, Upon the dais richly dight, beneath the canopy, The throne was set, and all a-row stood chairs of honour three. Fair Flanders' looms had spread the walls with storied hangings o'er ; And Csesar and Don Philip came, with trumpet blown before, With Mary, Queen of Hungary, high lady wise and wight, And Savoy's Duke of iron mould, and many a lord and knight Of broad Brabant and proud Castille — great chiefs of war and peace. Grave magistrates of towns and states, knights of the Golden Fleece. Then Ccesar sat upon his throne with calm and gracious mien ; And right and left — on either hand — bade sit the King and Queen : 248 SIR WM. STIRLING MAXWELL. And near the Queen the Duke was set ; and down below, the floor Scarce held the folk that throng'd to see — a thousand souls and more. So, when the heralds silence call'd, the whispering; hum was still, And rose the Chancellor of the Fleece to speak the Emperor's will : In weighty, well -graced words he said how Caesar's Majesty Would pass the evening of his days from broil and battle free, — And, giving to Don Philip now his royal place and state, Will'd that his loving people's will the gift should consecrate. Then slowly, when the Chancellor ceased, the Emperor arose ; And told of all his toils at home, and wars with foreign foes, — How twice to heathen Barbary his Christian flag he bore, And now eleven times had pass'd the stormy ocean o'er ; And how one passage more — the twelfth — for him did yet remain. If God should grant his sole desire — to end his days in Spain. From his first hour of royal power, it had been his endeavour Justice to mete, and right to do, with equal balance ever; But if, in absence, or by chance or frailty led astray, Wrong he had done, he pray'd them all to pardon him that day. SIJ^ WM. STIRLING MAXWELL, 249 And so he bade them all farewell, and left them to his son, Their lord, whose rule in other realms the people's hearts had won : — This witting, he, for such a son, could joyfully lay down The sacred trust he else had kept of sceptre, sword, and crown. And, last of all, in earnest wise three things he did com- mend Unto their care, and bid them hold in honour to the end: Their holy faith, their country's peace, their duty to their lord, Who loved them, and would win their love: — this was his parting word. Then rose the King unbonneted, and stood before the throne, And for his father's gracious words, and grace and favour done. Gave thanks: and, humbly kneeling down, he sought to kiss his hand ; But Caesar threw his arms about his neck and bade him stand: And many a tear was shed the while by loving sire and son, And by the Queen, and Duke, and Knights and nobles ever>' one. Next, for the Cities and Estates a learned jurist spake. And told the Emperor how well they were content to take His hopeful son their lord to be. Whereon Don Philip bade The reverend Lord of Arras speak ; who courteous answer made- 2 so SIR WM, STIRLING MAXWELL. Then last the good Queen Mary rose, of her long reign to tell, And bid, in fair and gentle speech, her people all farewell : Foremost of lands to make their land — for this she still had striven ; And now for faults and errors past she sued to be forgiven. In courtly words th' Estates replied, they mourn'd to see her go ; But with them still was law her will,— and she would have it so. Wherewith the goodly company arose and went their way, As evening fell: — and so the King became our Lord that day. THOMAS CARSTAIRS LAI TO. 2^1 LVI. THOMAS CARSTAIRS LATTO, 1818. WHEN WE WERE AT THE SCHULE. The laddies plague me for a sang, — I e'en maun play the fule : I'll sing them ane about the days When we were at the schule ; — Though now the frosty pow is seen Whaur ance waved gowden hair ; An' mony a blythesome heart is cauld Sin' first we sported there. When we were at the schule, my frien When we were at the schule ! An' O sae merry pranks we play'd When we were at the schule ! Yet muckle Jock is to the fore, That used our lugs to pu' ; An' Rob, the pest, an' Sugar Pouch, An' canny Davie Dow ; An' raggit Willie is the laird O' twa-three land'art farms ; An' Katie Spens, the pridefu' thing, Now cuddles in his arms. 252 THOMAS CARSTAIRS LATTO. O, do ye mind the maister's hat, Sae auld, sae bare an' brown, We carried to the burnie's side An' sent it soomin' down ? We thocht how clever a' was plann'd. When — whatna voice was that ? A head is raised aboon the hedge : ** I'll thank ye for my hat ! " O weel I mind our hingin' lugs, Our het an' tinglin' paws ; O weel I mind his solemn look, An' weel I mind the tawse ! What awfu' snuffs that day he took. An' pang'd them up his nose, An' rapp'd the box as if to strike A terror to his foes. An' do ye mind, at countin' time, How watchfu' he has lain, To catch us steal frae ithers' slates An' jot it on our ain ? An' how we fear'd, at writin' hour. His glunches and his glooms ; How many times a day he said Our fingers a' were thooms ? I'll ne'er forget the day ye stood — 'Twas manfu', like yersel' — An' took the pawmies an' the ?hame To save wee Johnnie Bell. The maister found it out belyve : He took ye on his knee ; And, as he look'd into your face, The tear was in his e'e. THOMAS CARSTAIRS LATTO. 253 But mind ye, lad, yon afternoon, How fleet ye skipp'd awa' ; For ye had crack'd auld Jenny's pane, When playin' at the ba' ? Nae pennies had we : Jenny grat ; — It cut us to the core : Ye took your mither's hen at nicht An' left it at her door. An* sic a steer his granny made When tale-py't Jamie Rae We dookit, roarin', at the pump, Syne row'd him down the brae ! But how the very maister leuch When leein' saddler Wat Cam' in an' threept that cripple Tarn Had chased an' kill'd his cat ! Ay, laddies, ye may wink awa' ! Truth maunna aye be tauld : I fear the schules o' modern days Are just siclike's the auld. An' arena we but laddies yet Wha get the name o' men ? How sweet at ane's fireside to live The happy days again — When we were at the schule, my frien'. When we were at the schule; An' fling the snawba's ower again We flang when at the schule ! 254 JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. Lvn. JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRR 1819—1885. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. Will ye gang \vi' me and fare To the bush aboon Traquair? Ower the high Minchmuir we'll up and awa*, This bonnie simmer noon, While the sun shines fair aboon, And the licht sklents saftly doun on holm and ha', And what wad ye do there, At the bush aboon Traquair ? A long dreich road, ye had better let it be ; Save some auld skrunts o' birk I' the hill-side lirk, There's nocht i' the warld for man to see. But the blithe lilt o' that air, "The Bush aboon Traquair" — I need nae mair, it's eneuch for me : Ower my cradle its sweet chime Cam' sughin' frae auld time — Sae tide what may Til awa' and see. JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. 255 And what saw ye there, At the bush aboon Traquair ? Or what did ye hear that was worth your heed ? I heard the cushies croon Thro' the gowden afternoon, And the Quair burn singing doun to the vale o' Tweed, And birks saw I three or four, Wi' grey moss bearded ower — The last that are left o' the birken shaw; Whar mony a simmer e'en Fond lovers did convene, Thae bonny, bonny gloamins that are lang awa'. Frae mony a but and ben. By muirland, holm, and glen, They cam' ane hour to spen' on the greenwood s waird ; But lang ha'e lad an' lass Been lying 'neath the grass — The green, green grass o' Traquair kirkyaird. They were blest beyond compare When they held their trysting there — Amang thae greenest hills shone on by the sun; And then they wan a rest. The lownest and the best, r Traquair kirkyaird when a' was dune. Now the birks to dust may rot, Names o' luvers be forgot, Nae lads and lasses there ony mair convene ! But the blythe lilt o' yon air Keeps the bush aboon Traquair And the luve that ance was there aye fresh and green. 2S6 JAMES THOMSON. LVIII. JAMES THOMSON. 1827— 1SS8. HOGMANAY.* Up frae their cosie beds Afore the peep o' day, Skippin' round the corner, Brattlin' down the brae — Hearts a' sae happy, Faces blithe and gay, A merry band o' bairnies Seek their Hogmanay. Careless o' the blast sae bleak, Snawy drift or shower. Though the roses on their cheek Turn like the blaewart flower, — * Children in Scotland go on the morning of the last day of the year to the neighbours' houses and sing — ** We are children come out to play, Gie's our cakes and let's away." On receiving a cake of oatmeal, they sing— " We joyful wish ye a good day. And thank ye for your Hogmanay 1 "—WilkU M.S. JAMES THOMSON. 257 Frae ilka door they're jinkin' To hail the happy day ; And they a' gang a-linkin' To seek their Hogmanay. Bonny bairnies, come awa' ! It's little I've to gi'e, But ye shall ha'e my blessin' a', An' ae bawbee. When manhood's care comes o'er ye, Ye'll mind the merry day When, happy-hearted bairnies, Ye sought your Hogmanay. HAIRST. The yellow corn waves in the field, The merry hairst's begun ; And steel-plate sickles, sharp and keen, Are glintin' in the sun. While strappin' lads, and lasses braw, A' kiltit to the knee, Bring to my mind a hairst langsyne, W^hen Robin shuire wi' me. Light lie the mools upon his breast ! He was a strappin' chield, — A better shearer ne'er drew huik Upon a harvest field. And didna joy loup in my heart, And sparkle frae my e'e, Sae proud was I, when Robin said He'd shear alang wi' me. S08 258 JAMES THOMSON. That was a lightsome hairst to me, — For love mak's light o' toil, — The kindly blink o' Robin's e'e Could a' my care beguile. At restin' time amang the stooks I sat upon his knee, And wonder'd if the warld could hauJ A blither lass than me. Lang Sandy and his sister Jean Thocht nane wi' them could shear. And a' the hairst at Rab an' me Threw mony a taunt an' jeer. Rab ga'e them aye as guid's they brought, And took it a' in fun ; But inly vow'd to heat their skin Afore the hairst was done. The kirn-day cam', a kemp began, And hard and fast it grew ; Across the rig wi' lightnin' speed The glintin' sickles flew. Lang Sandy wam'let like an eel. But soon fell in the rear ; For no a pair in a' the boon Wi' Rab an' me could shear. We clear'd our rig baith tight and clean, And thought the day our ain, When, wae's my heart ! I brak' my huik Upon a meikle stane. " Mak' bands," quo' Robin — while the sweat Like rain-draps trickled doon ; — But Robin reach'd the land-end first And foremobl o' the boon. JAMES THOMSON, 259 I thought that I wad swoon wi' joy When dightin' Robin's brow, He says, *' Meg, gin ye'll buckle to, I'll shear through life wi' you." What could I do but buckle to — He was sae frank an' free ? And often did I bless the day That Robin shuire wi' me. THE AULD SMIDDY END. Oh, the Auld Smiddy end, where in youth's happy day A merry band o' bairnies wad gather at their play ! I mind the happy faces, and the hours we wad spend Wi' the bools and the peeries at the Auld Smiddy end. Against the batter'd gable were mony orra things — Auld pleughs that wanted couters, new wheels that wanted rings, A pair o' broken harrows that for years had lain to mend : — There was meikle claithin' riven at the Auld Smiddy end. O the fun and frolic, and the mischief that we wrought, — There was lums to set alow, and battles to be fought. And jury courts to baud when some coward laddie henn'd, And gat his buttons scar tit at the Auld Smiddy end. We never thought o' parting at the hour o'gloamin'grey, — The fun was aye beginnin' when the daylight was away : When beddin' time cam' round ilka mither brawly kenn'd She wad find her truant laddie at the Auld Smiddy end. 26o JAMES THOMSON, And in winter we wad gather round the bleezin' smiddy hearth, While block and stithy rang wi' our daffin' an' our mirth : The independent blacksmith — to kings he wadna bend — Was kind to the laddies at the Auld Smiddy end. But youthfu' pleasures winna last, and youthfu' scenes will change ; The smiddy and the smith are gane, and ilka thing is strange : 'Mang a' the happy faces that in ither days I kenn'd There's nane to meet me noo at the Auld Smiddy end. But in the quiet gloamin' hour I sit and muse alane, Till Fancy wi' her fairy wand brings vanish'd scenes again : The Memory, like a bird, to its ain hame will wend, And familiar faces gather round the Auld Smiddy end. ALEXANDER SMIJH. 261 LIX. ALEXANDER SMITH, 1830-1867. In winter, when the dismal rain Came down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder harp of pines, A Poet sat in his antique room — His lamp the valley king'd ; 'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he found Truth, fresh and golden-wing'd. When violets came and woods were green, And larks did skyward dart, A Love alit and white did sit. Like an angel on his heart. From his heart he unclasp'd his love Amid the trembling trees. And sent it to the Lady Blanche On winged poesies. 262 ALEXANDER SMITH, The Lady Blanche was saintly fair, Nor proud, but meek her look ; In hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear As pebbles in a brook. Her father's veins ran noble blood — His hall rose 'mid the trees ; Like a sunbeam she came and went 'Mong the white cottages. The peasants thank'd her with their tears, When food and clothes were given, — ** This is a joy," the Lady said, *' Saints cannot taste in Heaven ! " They met — the Poet told his love. His hopes, despairs, his pains, — The Lady with her calm eyes mock'd The tumult in his veins. He pass'd away — a fierce song leapt From cloud of his despair. As lightning, like a bright wild-beast. Leaps from its thunder-lair. He pour'd his frenzy forth in song, — Bright heir of tears and praises ! Now resteth that unquiet heart Beneath the quiet daisies. The world is old, — oh ! very old, — The wild winds weep and rave ; The world is old, and grey, and cold — Let it drop into its grave ! ALEXANDER SMITH. 263 TO The broken moon lay in the autumn sky, And I lay at thy feet ; You bent above me : in the silence I Could hear my wild heart beat. I spoke — my soul was full of trembling fears At what my words would bring : You raised your face — your eyes were full of tears, As the sweet eyes of Spring. You kiss'd me then — I worshipp'd at thy feet. Upon the shadowy sod. Oh, fool ! I loved thee — loved thee, lovely cheat ! Better than Fame or God. My soul leapt up beneath thy timid kiss : What then to me were groans, Or pain, or death ? Earth was a round of bliss — I seem'd to walk on thrones. And you were with me 'mong the rushing wheels, 'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars ; And where to awe-struck wilds the Night reveals Her hollow gulfs of stars. Before your window, as before a shrine, I've icnelt 'mong dew-soak'd flowers — While distant music-bells, with voices fine, Measured the midnight hours. 264 ALEXANDER SMITH. There came a fearful moment : I was pale ; You wept, and never spoke; But clung around me — as the woodbine frail Clings, pleading, round an oak. Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul, And flung thee from myself; I spurn'd thy love as 'twere a rich man's dole, — It was my only wealth. I spurn'd thee ! I, who loved thee — could have died — That hoped to call thee " wife," And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side, Through all the shocks of life ! Too late thy fatal beauty and thy tears, Thy vows, thy passionate breath ! I'll meel. thee not in Life, nor in the spheres Made visible by Death. SONNET. Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas streets; But I am sitting in my silent room — Sitting all silent in congenial gloom. To-night — while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats — I sit and muse on my poetic doom : Like the dim scent within a budded rose, A joy is folded in my heart ; and when I think on Poets nurtured 'mong the throes And by the lowly hearths of common men, — Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode With gorgeous music growing to a close. Deep-muffled as the dead-march of a god, — My heart is burning to be one of those. ALEXANDER SMITH. 265 THE CHANGE. *' Oh ! never, never can I call Another morning to my day, And now through shade to shade I fall From afternoon to evening grey." In bitterness these words I said, And lo ! when I expected least, — For day was gone,— a moonrise spread Its emerald radiance up the east. By passion's gaudy candle-lights, I sat and watch'd the world's brave play; Blown out,— how poor the trains and sights Look'd in the cruel light of day ! I cursed Man for his spaniel heart, His bounded brain, his lust of pelf — Alas ! each crime of field and mart Lived in a dark disease of self. I saw the smiles and mean salaams Of slavish hearts ; I heard the cry Of madden'd peoples throwing palms Before each cheer'd and timbrel'd lie. I loathed the brazen front and brag Of bloated time ; in self-defence Withdrew I to my lonely crag, And fortress of indifference. But Nature is revenged on those Who turn from her to lonely days : Contentment, like the speedwell, blows Along the common-beaten ways. 266 ALEXANDER SMITH. The dead and thick green-mantled moats That gird my house resembled me, Or some long-weeded hull that rots Upon a glazing tropic sea. And madness ever round us lies, The final bourne and end of thought ; And Pleasure shuts her glorious eyes At one cold glance and melts to nought ; And Nature cannot hear us moan ; She smiles in sunshine, raves in rain — The music breath'd by Love alone Can ease the world's immortal pain, The sun for ever hastes sublime, Waved onward by Orion's lance ; Obedient to the spheral chime. Across the world the seasons dance ; The flaming elements ne'er bewail Their iron bounds, their less or more ; The sea can drown a thousand sail, Yet rounds the pebbles on the shore. I look'd with pride on what I'd done, I counted merits o'er anew. In presence of the burning sun. Which drinks me like a drop of dew. A lofty scorn I dared to shed On human passions, hopes, and jars, I — standing on the countless dead. And pitied by the countless stars. But mine is now a humbled heart, My lonely pride is weak as tears ; ALEXANDER SMITH, 267 No more I seek to stand apart, A mocker of the rolling years. Imprison'd in this wintry clime, I've found enough, O Lord of breath, Enough to plume the feet of time. Enough to hide the eyes of death. PEEBLES. I LAY in my bedroom at Peebles, With my window curtains drawn, While there stole over hill of pasture and pine The unresplendent dawn. And through the deep silence I listen'd, With a pleased, half- waking heed, To the sound which ran through the ancient town- The shallow-brawling Tweed. For to me 'twas a realization Of dream ; and I felt like one Who sees first the Alps, or the Pyramids, World-old, in the setting sun ; First, crossing the purple Campagna, Beholds the wonderful dome Which a thought of Michael Angelo hung In the golden air of Rome. And all through the summer morning I felt it a joy indeed To whisper again and again to myself, This is the voice of the Tweed. 268 ALEXANDER SMITH. Of Dryburgh, Melrose, and Neidpath, Norham Castle brown and bare, The merry sun shining on merry Carlisle, And the Bush aboon Traquair, I had dream'd : but most of the river, That, glittering mile on mile, Flow'd through my imagination, As through Egypt flows the Nile. Was it absolute truth, or a dreaming That the wakeful day disowns. That I heard something more in the stream, as it ran, Than water breaking on stones? Now the hoofs of a flying mosstrooper, Now a bloodhound's bay, half caught, The sudden blast of a hunting-horn. The burr of Walter Scott ? Who knows ? But of this I am certain, That but for the ballads and wails That make passionate dead things, stocks and stones, Make piteous woods and dales. The Tweed were as poor as the Amazon, That, for all the years it has roll'd, Can tell but how fair was the morning red, How sweet the evening gold. DAVID GRAY. 269 LX. DAVID GRAY. 1838—1861. The goldening peach on the orchard wall, Soft feeding in the sun, Hath never so downy and rosy a cheek As this laughing little one. The brook that murmurs and dimples alone Through glen, and grove, and lea, Hath never a life so merry and true As my brown little brother of three — From flower to flower, and from bower to bower, In my mother's garden green, A-peering at this, and a-cheering at that, The funniest ever was seen. Now throwing himself in his mother's lap. With his cheek upon her breast. He tells his wonderful travels, forsooth ! And chatters himself to rest. And what may become of that brother of mine Asleep in his mother's bosom ? Will the wee rosy bud of his being at last Into a wild flower blossom ? 270 DAVID GRAY. Will the hopes that are deep'ning, as silent and fair As the azure about his eye, Be told in glory and motherly pride, Or answer'd with a sigh ? Let the curtain rest : for, alas ! 'tis told That Mercy's hand benign Hath woven and spun the gossamer thread That forms the fabric so fine. Then dream, dearest Jackie, thy sinless dream, And waken as blithe and as free ; — There's many a change in twenty long years. My brown little brother of three ! FROM "IN THE SHADOWS." Why are all fair things at their death the fairest ? Beauty the beautifullest in decay? Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing day With ever-new apparelling the rarest ? Why are the sweetest melodies all born Of pain and sorrow? Mourneth not the dove In the green forest gloom an absent love ? Leaning her breast against that cruel thorn Doth not the nightingale, poor bird ! complain, And integrate her uncontrollable woe To such perfection that to hear is pain? Thus Sorrow and Death — alone realities — Sweeten their ministration, and bestow On troublous life a relish of the skies ! DAVID GRAY. 271 From my sick-bed gazing upon the west, Where all the bright effulgencies of day Lay steep'd in sunless vapours, raw and grey, — Herein (methought) is mournfully exprest The end of false ambitions — sullen doom Of my brave hopes, Promethean desires : Barren and perfumeless my name expires, Like summer day setting in joyless gloom. Yet faint I not in sceptical dismay, Upheld by the belief that all pure thought Is deathless, perfect; — that the truths out-wrought By the laborious mind cannot decay, Being evolutions of that Sovereign Mind Akin to man's — yet orb'd, exhaustless, undefined. The daisy-flower is to the summer sweet, Though utterly unknown it live and die : The spheral harmony were incomplete Did the dew'd laverock mount no more the sky Because her music's linked sorcery Bewitch'd no mortal heart to heavenly mood. This is the law of nature— that the deed Should dedicate its excellence to God, And in so doing find sufficient meed. Then why should I make these heart-burning cries In sickly rhyme, with morbid feeling rife, For fame and temporal felicities ? Forgetting that in holy labour lies The scholarship severe of human life. 272 DAVID GRAY. Sometimes, when sunshine and blue sky prevail — When spent winds sleep, and, from the budding larch. Small birds, with incomplete vague sweetness, hail The unconfirmed yet quickening life of March, — Then say I to myself, half-eased of care — Toying with hope as with a maiden's token, "This glorious, invisible fresh air Will clear my blood till the disease be broken." But slowly, from the wild and infinite west, Up-sails a cloud, full-charged with bitter sleet. The omen gives my spirit much unrest ; I fling aside the hope as indiscreet — A false enchantment treacherous and fair — And sink into my habit of despair ! O Winter ! wilt thou never, never go ? O Summer ! but I weary for thy coming — Longing once more to hear the Luggie How, And frugal bees laboriously humming. Now the east wind diseases the infirm, And I must crouch in corners from rough weather. Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together ; And the large sun dips, red, behind the hills. I, from my window, can behold this pleasure ; And the eternal moon what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, With queenly motion of a bridal mood, Through the white spaces of infinitude. DAVID GRAY, 273 O Thou of purer eyes than to behold Uncleanness ! sift my soul — removing all Strange thoughts, imaginings fantastical, Iniquitous allurements manifold. Make it a spiritual ark — abode Severely sacred, perfumed, sanctified ; Wherein the Prince of Purities may abide- The holy and eternal Spirit of God. The gross, adhesive loathsomeness of sm Give me to see ! Yet, O far more, far more. That beautiful purity which the saints adore In a consummate Paradise within The veil, — O Lord, upon my soul bestow An earnest of that purity here below ! HIS EPITAPH. Below lies one whose name was traced in sand. He died not knowing what it was to live ; — Died, while the first sweet consciousness of manhood To maiden thought electrified his soul, — Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. Bewilder'd reader ! pass without a sigli, In a proud sorrow. There is life with God, In other kingdom of a sweeter air. In Eden every flower is blown : Amen. 809 274 THOMAS DA VIDSON. LXL THOMAS DA VIDSON, 183S— 1870. THE AULD ASH TREE. There grows an ash by my bour door, And a' its boughs are buskit braw, In fairest weeds o' simmer green ; And birds sit singing on them a'. But cease your sangs, ye blithesome birds ; An' o' your Hltin' let me be : Ye bring deid simmers frae their graves, To weary me — to weary me ! There grows an ash by my bour door, And a' its boughs are clad in snaw ; The ice-drap hings at ilka twig, And sad the nor' wind soughs thro' a'. Oh, cease thy mane, thou norlan' wind ; And o' thy wailin' let me be : Thou brings deid winters frae their graves, To weary me — to weary me ! THOMAS DA VIDSON. 275 O, I wad fain forget them a' ; Remember'd guid but deepens ill — As gleids o' licht far seen by nicht Mak' the near mirk but mirker still. Then silent be, thou dear auld tree — O' a' thy voices let me be ; They bring the deid years frae their graves, To weary me — to weary me ! ON THE CHEVIOTS; A REVERIE AT THE END OF SUMMER. Once more, once more upon the hills ! No more the splendour, quivering bright — Which laid, at summer's height, A finger on the lips of half the rills — Pours on them ; but the year's most mellow light. Far through yon opening of the vale, Upon the slopes of Teviotdale, The green has ta'en a fainter tinge : It is the time when flowers grow old, And Summer trims her mantle fringe With stray threads of autumnal gold. The west wind blows from Liddesdale;* And, as I sit — between the springs Of Bowmontt and of Kalef — * A hill district of Roxburghshire, t Streams having their sources in the Cheviot hills 276 THOMAS DA VIDSON. To my half-listening ear it brings All floating vocies of the hill — The hum of bees in heather bells, And bleatings from the distant fells. The curlew's whistle far and shrill, And babblings from the restless rill That hastes to leave its lone hill-side, And hurries on to sleep in Till, Or join the tremulous flow of Teviot's sunny tide. It has not changed — the old hill tune ! And marks that years in me have wrought Fade as its low familiar croon Wakens by turns full many a thought, And many an olden fancy brought From glooms of long oblivion, — Forlornest fragments, torn and strewn, Of dreams which I have dream'd at noon. Long since, when Summer led a fairer June, And wealthier antumns spread the slopes, And younger heart nursed larger hopes Of bounties that the years should bring, Nor dream'd of all the care and all the warfaring. Oh, western wind, so soft and low. Long-lingering by furze and fern, Rise ! From thy wing the languor throw. And by the marge of mountain tarn. By rushy brook, and lonely cairn. Thy thousand bugles take, and blow A wilder music up the fells ! Thy whisper'd spells — THOMAS DA VTDSON. 277 About my heart I feel them twined ; And all the landscape far around 'Neath their still strength lies thrall'd and bound : The sluggard clouds, the loitering streams, And all the hills are dreaming dreams. And I, too, dream with them, O western wind ! This morn, I thought to linger here Till fall of evening and the dew — To think some fresher thought perchance, or rear Old hopes in forms and colours new ; Then homeward by the burn-side wend. When over Cheviot, keen and clear, The moon look'd down upon the land. But sad sweet spots hatli each lost year — • As ruins have their crevice-flowers That sprinkle beauty o'er decay ; And I've been sitting hours on hours. While those old seasons, hovering near. Beguiled me of to-day ! I said that they were faded out, The lines that years in me have wrought. Alas ! there is no hand to smooth Life's graven record from our brows ; Fate drives us from the fields of Youth, And no returning step allows. Let me no more, then, with reverted eyes — Let me no more with covetous sighs Gaze at the light that on them lies. But come, assail me without ruth, Pains of the life that's still my own ! Crowd out of sight the time that's gone : Come, living cares ; and come, the hour's anxieties 1 278 THOMAS DAVIDSON, LOVE'S LAST SUIT. Love, forget me when I'm gone ! When the tree is overthrown, Let its place be digg'd and sown O'er with grass ;— when that is grown, The very place shall be unknown ! So court I oblivion. So I charge thee, by our love, Love, forget me when I'm gone ! Love of him that lies in clay Only maketh life forlorn — Clouding o'er the new-born day With regrets of yester morn. And what is love of him that's low, Or sunshine on his grave that floats? Love nor sunshine reacheth now Deeper than the daisy roots ! So, when he that nigh me hovers — Death — that spares not happy lovers — Comes to claim his little due, Love — as thou art good and true — Proudly give the churl his own. And forget me when I'm gone ! NOTES. NOTES. Lady Grisell Baillie.— This most charming of all heroines of roraance-in-real-life was the daughter of Sir Patrick Hume, of Marchmont, in Berwickshire. Her father, who had been implicated in a plot having for its main object to prevent the succession to the throne of the fanatical Duke of York (afterwards James the Second), found it necessary, on peril of his life, to lie in hiding. The place of his concealment was the burial-place of his family— a vault (which may still be seen) beneath the little ivy-enveloped kirk of " Polwarth on the Green." Here, in the dark, among the bones of his ancestors, he lay hidden ; and, with a philosophy not un- worthy of antique times, beguiled the hours by repeating over to himself George Buchanan's Latin Versions of the Psalms. And hither, at the dead of night— braving the terrors of the churchyard, and of dogs whose barking made night hideous— came, as a veritable ministering angel, his young daughter, Grisell, to bring him food and comfort. The straits in which she was placed in obtaining this food without exciting suspicion (for, except to three persons. Sir Patrick's concealment in the neighbourhood was a secret) were sometimes highly laughable. On one occasion, for instance, whilst the family sat at dinner, she was reduced to plumping a whole sheep's head into her lap— to the con- sternation of her little brothers and sisters, who imagined that she had devoured it. The proscribed man's next hiding-place was a pit which had been hollowed out by Grisell with her own hands, with the sole assistance of one faithful servant, in a room on the ground floor of their house, beneath a bed which drew out. From hence Sir Patrick escaped to the Continent; whither, in time, his family followed him. During her father's absence, Grisell 282 NOTES. was the mainstay of her mother, and of her numerous brothers and sisters. Durins: their residence in Holland— where they passed some years in poverty and exile— she was at once the hfe and soul of the party, and their factotum. " She went to the market," says her biographer, "went to the mill to have their corn ground, dressed the linen, cleaned the house, made ready the dinner, mended the children's stockings and other clothes, made what she could for them." And all this she accomplished in the face of love-troubles of her own. But the story had a happy ending. On the accession of William the Third, Sir Patrick Hume was restored to his native land, to his estates, and to honour ; whilst Grisell was united to George Baillie of Jervisviood, the man of her choice— for whom she had been content to wait at a time when their union had seemed almost hopeless. In her later years Lady Grisell Baillie was no less distinguished for warmth of affection, piety, goodness of heart— the domestic virtues proper to her circumstances — than she had been in early life, when the occasion required it, for fortitude and endurance, cheerful- ness in the face of difficulties, and practical housewifely activity. In the IMemoir of herself and of her husband, written by their daughter. Lady Murray, filial piety has raised a beautiful little monument in their honour. Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Charles Halkett of Pitfirrane, and wife of 8ir Henry Wardlaw of Pitreavie, professed to have "discovered" the ballad of " Hardyknute"— a waif from antiquity— written upon shreds of paper. It was published in Edinburgh in 1719. The poet Gray and the antiquarian Percy, whilst fancying that they detected traces of its having been retouched by a modern hand, believed in its authenticity, and greatly admired it. A suspicion, how- ever, arose that the autlior of the ballad was no other than the soi-disant discoverer, — an impeachment to which that lady tacitly gave her sanction by adding to the fragment as it then stood the present last two stanzas. No other composition from her hand has been preserved. Sir Walter Scott declared that " Hardyknute " was the first poem he had ever learned, and the last he should forget.— The historical event referred to in the verse is the invasion of Scotland by Haco, King of Norway, in the reign of Alexander III., and the year 1263. Having arrived off the western coast with a powerful fleet, and seized the islands of Bute and Arran, Haco landed at Largs. Here a prolonged and desperate NOTES. 283 fi.^ht took place— in the coarse of which the King of Scot- land was wounded in the face by an arrow. While tlie battle was thus racing, a tempest arose which drove the ships of the Northmen from their anchorage— Avrecking many of them upon the coast; where, as they attempted to reach the shore, their crews were put to deatli by the enemy. Seeing this, and that the Scots were being liourly reinforced by fresh arrivals from every quarter, the land forces also lost heart and retired, effecting their escape, Avith great difficulty and after much loss, by getting on board the remnant of their ships and making sail. The fragmentary form of the ballad leaves us tantalisingly in the dark as to the nature of the final catastrophe, the import of the incident of the M'ounded knight, and the "waefu' wae" occasioned by the beauty of the fair Fairly. A " Second Part," to be found in Herd's Collection, ed. 1791, claims to throw light upon these matters. The knight's misfortunes, as we there tind, like those of Sinon, prove to have been simulated, and with a like object. Having M-on admission to the castle, he runs off with Fairly, after a bloody fight in which her youngest brother is slain. Ilardyknute, on hearing of his treachery, at once pursues the runaway pair, and gives battle to Lord Draffan (the pretended knight) before his castle— whilst Fairly looks on from the battlements. Her brotlier Malcolm falls fighting; Rothsay is wounded; and finally the bridegroom himself perishes by the sword of one of his own followers, in compliance with the terms of an oath which he has chivalrously exacted for the protection of his father-in- law's life. Hardyknute laments over his body, and the widoAved Fairly is relegated to a nunnery. III. Sir John Clf.rk, baronet, of Penicuik, took an active part in the public business of his day, and was furthermore recognised as one of the most accomplished Scotchmen of the time. He was a friend and patron of the author of ' ' The Gentle Shepherd," who frequently visited him upon his beautiful estate. An interestini: diary of Sir John's in manu- script is preserved at Penicuik House.— The first verse of the song of " The Miller" is by an older and anonymous hand. IV. The dates of the birth and the death of the poet whose pastoral Muse has so sweetly celebrated the beauties of Tweedside are uncertain— the former being given sometimes as 1690, sometimes as 1605 ; the latter both as 1732 and 1733. Robert Crawford was a younger son of the family of 284 NOTES. Crawford of Drumsoy, and became the friend of Hamilton of Bangour, and of Allan Ramsay— to whose Tea-Table Miscellany he contributed several of his songs. Little is known of his life ; but he is said to have been a remarkably handsome man, to have resided long in Paris, and to have been drowned in returning home from France. Of the broom of the Cowden Knowes— two hills which were at one time overgrown •with that plant— Hender- son, in his Popular Rhymes of Benvickshire, remarks that, according to the popular tradition, it grew so tall and bushy that a man might ride through it on horseback without being seen. "How many fragrant and secluded nooks, calculated for scenes of courtship," he continues, " must there have been throughout such a territory ! " And he goes on to say that " liefdre the recent improvements in Scottish agriculture, there were to be seen everywhere throughout the country whole districts which waved, a sea of glorious yellow, beneath the summer wind ; while for miles around the ground was covered by the blossoms which they shed." Speaking of the Bush aboon Traquair, Dr. Robert Chambers (himself a native of Peebles) says it was a small grove of birches that formerly adorned the left bank of the Quair water in Peeblesshire, about a mile from Traquair House. "But only a few spectral-looking remains now denote the spot so long celebrated in the popular poetry of Scotland. Leafless even in summer, and scarcely to be observed upon the bleak hill-side, they form a truly melancholy memorial of what must once have been an object of gi-eat pastoral beauty, as well as the scene of many such fond attachments as that delineated" (by Crawford). V. Alexander Ross, born in the parish of Kincardine O'Neil in Aberdeenshire, became schoolmaster at Lochlee, a wild and thinly-peopled district in the heart of the Grampian Hills ; where he continued, "almost secluded from the converse of books and men," for the space of fifty years; and where he wrote his poem of " Helenore ; or, the Fortunate Shep- herdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect." VI. D.4TID Mallet (such was the form of his patronymic, Malloch, which, for the convenience of Southron lips, he adopted when he had come to live in England) was the son of an innkeeper of Perthshire. He became tutor to the sons of the Duke of Montrose — a position of vantage which his con- spicuous suppleness and address knew well now to improve. NOTES. 285 He was thus introduced into the society of the great ; whilst his ballad of '•William and Margaret" procured for him the acquaintance of Pope, Thomson, and other leading literary men of the day. In course of time he became under- secretary to Frederick, Prince of Wales, — besides enjoying other valuable patronage. Considered from a worldly point of view his career was singularly successful ; from all other standpoints it was that of a self-seeking and unprincipled literary adventurer. , William Hamilton, of Bangour— so called to distinguish him from another poet, William Hamilton, of GUbertfleld, author of " Willie was a Wanton Wag " — was descended from an ancient Ayrshire family. He received an elegant educa- tion, and at an early age turned his attention to poetry- contributing before he was twenty to Ramsay's Tea-Tahle Miscellany. He was also much sought after as a man of fashion, and was spoken of as "the elegant and amiable Hamilton." In the rising of '45 he joined the army of Charles Edward ; and by means of an ode in celebration of the victory of Gladsmuir (otherwise of Prestonpans), became recognised as the laureate of the Jacobites. When his party were defeated and scattered, Hamilton took refuge among the mountains ; whence, after perils, wanderings, and privations, he escaped to France. Influential friends at home were, however, not long in obtaining his pardon, and he was restored to his native land and ancestral estate. But illness soon sent him abroad once more ; and he died, of consumption, at Lyons, at the age of fifty. He is credited with having been one of the first lyric poets who sought to communicate "a classic grace and courtly decorum" to Scottish poetry. On the other hand, it must be added with regret that he was charac- terised by a very marked vein of affectation, and that his compositions, with a single exception, are couched in the artificial style which was fashionable in his day. With reference to that one exception, it is probably unnecessary to remind the reader that " The Braes of Yarrow," with its yearning pathos, its fresh touches of nature, its tragic passion, and its haunting tune, has the distinction of having served as a source of inspiration to Wordsworth.— For the sake of clearness, the portions of the poem allotted to the different speakers— namely, the bride- groom, a bystander, and the bride — are here marked A, B, and C. 286 NOTES. VIII. George Ha'-KET, a schoolmaster at Rathen.in Aberdeen- shire, was a great Jacobite, and wrote various pieces in support of his party— one of the best known of which is the song called " Whirry, Whigs, awa' man." Another, now lost, called " A Dialogue between the Devil and George the Second," having fallen into the hands of the Duke of Cum- berland when on his way to Culloden, a reward of £100 is said to have been offered for the author, either alive or dead The Logie* mentioned in the son-; is situated in Crimond, a parish adjoining the one where Halket resided ; and the "Jamie" of the piece was a James Robertson, gardener at the mansion-house there. IX. Tobias Smollett, the creator of Hawser Trunnion, and of many other characters not less laui;hable or less lovable, was born at Renton, in Dumbartonshire, of a good family, and was educated at the University of Glasgow for the medical profession. In 1740, being thrown on his own resources, he obtained an appointment as surgeon's mate on board a man-of-war; and, the war with Spain being then in progress, joined the rieet under Admiral Vernon, and was present during the disgracefully-managed expedition to Carthagena (S. America),— the horrors of which he has depicted. He did not remain long in the service. His poem of "The Tears of Scotland" was composed in 1746, when he had returned to London ; and was inspired by the barbarities committed in the Highlands by the English forces under the "Butcher" Cumberland. The rest of Smollett's life was devoted chiefly to the production of his famous novels, and of other literary wtn'ks of less interest. He died at Leghorn, whither he had betaken himself in search of health. Dr. James Browne, in his History of the Highlands, states that, after the victory of Culloden, the Duke of Cumberland advanced with his army into the hill-district as far as Fort Augustus, where he encamped. Resolving to inflict a signal chastisement upon the rebels, he then sent out detachments of his troops in all directions to devastate the country with fire and sword. The seats of Lochiel, Glengarry, and other chieftains were plundered and burnt to the ground ; and great numbers of the houses of the common people shared the same fate. But not content with devastating the country, the duke's emissaries also shot down the men upon the mountains like wild beasts, or murdered them in cold * Territorial appellations are usual in Scotland. NOTES. 287 blood. The Avomen, after witnessing their male relatives butchered before their eyes, were subjected to violence, and then turned out naked with their children to starve on the barren heaths. One whole family was shut up in a barn and burnt to death. So alert, indeed, Avere these ministers of vengeance, that in a few days, according to the testimony of a volunteer who served in the expedition, ' neither house, cottage, man, nor beast was to be seen within the compass of fifty miles: all was ruin, silence, and desola- tion,'— Vol. iii., p. 270. X. The Reverend John Skinner, author of the popular songs of "Tullochgorum" and "The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn," stands in contrast to most of the many other clerical poets of Scotland. He was a clergyman of the Episcopal Church, a classical scholar, and a homely philosopher— the amiable simplicity of whose genius reminds us rather of Parson Adams or of Doctor Primrose than of the generality of their northern brethren of the cloth. Skinner was born at Balfour, in Aberdeenshire. As a " Non- Juror "—that is, one who had refused during the lifetime of the exiled Stuarts to take the oath of allegiance to the House of Hanover — he was called upon to undergo persecution, his chapel being destroyed, and he himself imprisoned for six months. On another occasion he managed to keep within the letter of the law— which forbade a non-juring clergy- man to officiate in a place of worship where more than four persons were gathered together— by the expedient of reading the service at the open window of his cottage to the congregation assembled outside. Poetry was the mere pastime of his leisure moments ; his graver hours were occupied with weightier writings— among them a Dissertation on the Sheldnah, an Ecclesiastical History, and a second dissertation, on Jacob's Prophecy — in which last, as we are told, "by a critical examination of the original language, the author has established that the words rendered ' sceptre ' and ' law-giver ' in the authorised version ought to be translated 'tribeship' and ' typifier'; — a difference of interpretation," as is added, "which obviates some difficulties respecting the exact fulfilment of the remarkable prediction."* Mr. Skinner officiated as pastor to the parish of Longside for sixty-five years, and lived to see one of his sonsBishop of Aberdeen. It is related of hiui that once when, passing near a Dissenting place of * Rogers' Modern Scottish Minstrel, vol. i., p. 5. 288 NOTES. worship, he heard the sounds of psalmody, he was seen to reverently take off his hat. "What !" exclaimed a friend who was with him ; "are you so fond of the Anti-burghers?" There was both dignity and Christian charity in the old man's reply: "Sir, I respect and love any of my fellow- Christians who are engaged in singing to the glory of the Lord Jesus Christ." Of "John of Badenyon," Cunningham remarks: "There is something of the sermon in this clever song : the author puts his hero through a regular course of worldly pursuits, and withdraws him from love, friendship, politics, and philosophy, with the resolution of seeking and finding consolation in his own bosom." XI. Jane Elliot — daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot, second baronet of Minto— was born at Minto House, in Teviotdale. During the rebellion of '45, when her father was compelled to con- ceal himself among the neighbouring crags from a party of Jacobites, she received the officers of the search-party, and, by her adroitness and composure, threw them off the scent and averted discovery. Much of her life was spent in Edinburgh, but she returned to her native place the year before her death. She is said to have had many admirers, but did not marry. The Lament of the "Flowers of the Forest " refers to the desolation which was wrought in "The Forest" — the old name for a district comprising Selkirkshire with part of Peeblesshire and Clydesdale, and formerly noted for its archers— by the fatal battle of Flodden, in which they perished almost to a man. The first and fourth lines— the foundation upon which r^Iiss Elliot worked— are ancient. XII. The ruined mansion-house of Fairnilee, standing amid soft green natural scenery in the sparsely populated shire of Selkirk, is shown as the birthplace of Alison Rutherford ; and there, in a turret, she composed her song. She was beau- tiful, and early in life lost by death a lover to whom she was deeply attached. Later on she married Mr. Patrick Cockburn, of Ormiston, an advocate, and became associated as a leader with all that was brilliant in Edinburgh society. XIII. William Julius Mickle, the translator of the Lusiads, who was born at Langholm, began life as a brewer. But, being either too good or too bad a poet to succeed in business, he became bankrupt. He then betook himself to litera- ture (which had always been his hobby) as a profession ; NOTES. 289 but, after a trial, finding the profits small, decided to accompanjr a naval expedition destined for the coast of Portugal, in the capacity of secretary to the commander. He was received with distinguished honours at Lisbon— whither the fame of his translation had preceded him ; and returned to this country in the following year, enriched with prize-money, — to marry, and spend the remainder of his days in domesticity in tlie neighbourhood of Oxford. Thesong, " There's nae luck," has by some been attributed to Jean Adams ; but the weight of evidence appears to be on the other side. XIV. Robert Graham was the son of Nicol Graham, of Gart- more, by Elizabeth, daughter of William, 12th Earl of Glencairn. He filled for some time the post of Receiver- General for Jamaica ; and married, as his first wife, INIiss Taylor, an heiress of that island. He represented Stirling- shire in Parliament 1794-6, when he introduced a Bill of Rights, which (as I am informed by the present representa- tive of his family) anticipated the Reform Bill, and surpassed it in liberality and breadth. In 1796, when, on the death of the Earl of Glencairn, he succeeded to the estate of Finlay- stone, he assumed the additional surname of Cunninghame. Besides the fine chivalrous song given in the text— which Sir Walter Scott, by whom it was first printed, at one time attributed to Montrose— he wrote other fragments, XV. Beattie, the disciple of Gray in poetry, and the antagonist of Hume in philosophy, is the representative of Classical Elegance among the Minor Poets of Scotland. He was the son of a farmer of Laurencekirk, in Kincardineshire. Whilst still a boy, he received from his schoolfellows the nickname of " The Poet." At eighteen he became schoolmaster of the neighbouring parish of Fordoun— a locality which must have fostered his delightful talent for painting natural scenery, and his love for its wild and romantic features. At this time he was publishing poems in the Scots Magazine. In 1760 he was advanced to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the Marischal College at Aberdeen. In 1770 he published the first part of the "Minstrel"— the poem upon which his repu- tation rests. Another publication of a less enduring fame, in prose, had already made him celebrated ; and, on visiting London in 1771, he was graciously received by the King, and enjoyed the society of Dr. Johnson, Boswell, Goldsmith, Garrick, Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and other well-known 810 290 NOTES. men of the day. The later years of Beattie's life were clouded by domestic aflaiction :— his wife became insane, and he lost, in early manhood, two promising sons, who were his only children. On beholding the corpse of his second son, he is said to have exclaimed, " I have done with this world ! " From that time his life became more retired, and the last three years of his existence were passed in absolute seclusion. XVI. .TOHN EWEN was born at Jlontrose, in humble circum- stances. By means of industry and frugality, aided by an advantageous marriage, he succeeded in making his way in the world — residing during the principal part of his life at Aberdeen. When he died, a highly flattering obituary nutice appeared, which praised him as "a most useful member of society," one of the most highly respected citizens of the town of his adoption, a man of uncommon intelligence, and so forth ; and further dwelt especially upon his charitable w-orks. He had left his estate to endow a hospital ; and herein appeared a singular contradiction ; for the author of that exquisite, artless embodiment of the affection of the mother and the wife, " The Boatie Rows," was now discovered to have employed his ingenuity to deprive his only child of a fortune which was hers by right ! His will was appealed against and set aside— as is stated by btenhouse, " to the satisfaction of every one." XVII. IsOBEL, or Tibbie, Pagan .lived chiefly in the neighbour- hood of Muirkirk, in Ayrshire. Deserted in youth by her relations, she was drawn into iiTegularities and dissolute habits from which a happier up-bringing might have pre- served her. She was deformed in person and singularly ill- favoured ; but was noted for her sarcastic wit and for her vocal powers. Her chief means of subsistence was the com- position of verses, which she would sing for alms. She was also in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. She added to her slender gains by retailing whisky without a licence ; and we are informed that " often, especially during the shooting season, her hut or hovel would be filled with gentlemen of the aristocracy, who were glad to enjoy a laugh at her humour or to hear her sing." XVIII. Michael Bruce was born at Kinnesswood— a little hamlet, "skirted by a circle of old ash trees," about two miles from Kinross. His home was a thatched cottage, over the window of which the poet had himself trained a NOTES. 291 honeysuckle plant to climb. His father, a weaver, is de- serving of praise for having early detected the promise of superiority in the future poet, and determined— though it must have been at the cost of many a sacrifice— to give him a good education. In intervals of his schooling, Michael was employed in herding cattle among the hills which over- look Loch Leven and its castle— where he mijrht commune in solitude with nature. At sixteen he entered the Univer- sity of Edinburgh, where he underwent a course of training for the ministry. He also tried his hand as a schoolmaster — under circumstances which were sufficiently discouraging. But he was forced by illness to desist ; and soon afterwards, when he was twenty-one years old, his life was cut short by consumption. He appears to have been not less pious than he was highly gifted. XIX. John Logan was the son of a farmer at Soutra, in Mid- lothian, and was the college friend of the unfortunate Michael Bruce. He entered the ministry, where his preaching and attainments generally attracted attention, and he was employed in the revision of the INletrical Versions of Scripture in use in the Church of Scotland. Subsequently he incurred the censure of his congregation by his connection with the stage (a tragedy from his pen, entitled Runnymede, had been produced in Edinburgh), as well as by alleged occasional excesses. He was placed on the retired list, and died after a lingering illness. The present editor follows Campbell and others in attri- buting the " Ode to the Cuckoo " to Logan ; but the question as to its authorship is one which is not likely ever to be finally resolved. In his edition of his friend Bruce's poems, Logan had the inconceivable stupidity— it cannot surely have been knavery — to include (as he avows in his preface) certain poems by other hands rvithout distinguishing betiveen the different authors. But the fact that his own claim to the authorship of the Ode was not called in question during the six years which intervened between the time of its publica- tion under his name and that of his death is strongly in his favour. XX. Hector Macneill was born at Roslin, and was the son of a retired captain of the 42nd Regiment. Several of his earlier years were spent at sea, and in following various pursuits in the West Indies ; and he had also a taste of the perils of war. Tiring at length of hardships 292 NOTES. and of a roving life, he returned to his native land, estab- lished himself in a farm-house near Stirling, and betook himself to literature as a means of earning a livelihood. The hopes which he had formed were, however, disap- pointed, and he went abroad once more, his mode of life continuing unsettled and his circumstances straitened. At last, in 1795, he published his poem directed against the abuse of drink, and entitled "Scotland's Skaith ; or, the History of Will and Jean," which quickly made his reputa- tion. From this time his circumstances improved, and the latter years of his life were chiefly spent in literary activity and in the enjoyment of his position as a literary celebrity in Edinburgh society. His novel. Memoirs of Charles Maephermn, Esq., is supposed to contain an account of his early adventures and trials. XXI. It is only by adoption that Miss Blamire can be included among the poets of Scotland, for she was a native of Cum- berland. However, as she made the Scottish tongue the vehicle of her best poetry, it is certainly permissible for Scotland to claim her as an adopted daughter. Whilst she was visiting as a girl at Chillingham, the seat of the Earl of Tankerville, an attachment sprung up between herself and Lord Ossulston, the heir to the earldom. Their marriage was not deemed suitable, and the lady remained single till her death. The last twenty years of her life were divided betv.'een a country-house in Cumberland and the county town — where she spent the winters. Her poems remained uncollected until some fifty years after her death, — when they were issued in a volume upon the title-page of which her name appeared dignified with the addition, "the Muse of Cumberland." XXII. Lady Anne Lindsay, afterwards Barnard, was the eldest daughter of the fifth Earl of Balcarres, and was born at the place of that name in Fife — Avhere, "amidst the sylvan recesses of her ancestral domains," she cherished the' pas- toral I\Iuse. At the age of twenty-one she wrote the beautiful poem with which her name is associated. The plaintive music of an old song which she had lieard sung by an inmate of the house haunted her fancy ; but the words, beginning " The bridegroom greets when the sun gaes doon," were unworthy of the melody, and her song was composed to replace them. Its authorship remained a secret for fifty years. But it must have been shrewdly suspected in certain NOTES. 293 quarters. For instance, on one occasion, when she hatl been singing her song (which she gave out as an old one), a Mr. Dalziel, well kiiown as a Scottish antiquarian, slily observed to her— in allusion to the value of the old "pound Scots," "You should rather have said 'To make the crown twenty merks. . . .'"—The story is also told that while Lady Anne was seated at her desk in the act of composing "Auld Robin Gray," and when she had come to a mo- mentary hitch, her little sister chanced to enter the room. " My dear, I am writing a ballad," said the elder girl, " and am heaping misfortunes upon my heroine's head. I ha,ve already sent her sweetheart to sea, broken her fathei-'s arm, made her mother fall sick, and given her old Robin Gray for a lover ; but I wish to load her with yet another misfor- tune . . .?" "Steal the cow!" cried the little girl, — and the immortal song was completed. XXIII. To the world at large Fergusson is mainly known from the admiration lavished upon him by Burns ; who, obeying a generous impulse of poetic brotherly-feeling, caused a tomb- stone with inscription to be erected over his hitherto un- marked grave in the Canongate Churchyard in Edinburgh. Burns spoke of Fergusson as his "elder brother in misfor- tune ;" and the expression is apt enough. The passion for social enjoyment, coupled with the lack of self-restraint, which were the younger poet's bane, also cut short, at a much earlier age, the life of his less robustly constituted predecessor. Fergusson was the son of a clerk in the British Linen Company's Bank in Edinburgh. He was educated partly at the High School of that town, partly at the University of St. Andrews. He had been originally intended for the ministry; but on leaving college, having abandoned this idea, he obtained, in course of time, a poor employment as a copying clerk. At this period his poems were appea.ring in Ruddiman's Weekly Mayazine, and attracting considera,ble attention. The reputation as a wit and poet which by their means he acquired, added to his talent for music and the brilliancy of his conversation, caused his society to be much in request, and unhappily led to his falling into intemperate courses. His health was injured ; he suffered by fits from religious despondency ; and finally his mind gave way and he had to be confined in the Edinburgh lunatic asylum. The poet Campbell relates that, at the moment of his entrance there, a consciousness of his dreadful fate seemed 294 NOTES. to come over him, and he uttered a wild cry of despair, Avliich was re-echoed by a shout from all the inmates of the dismal mansion, and left an impression of indescribable horror on the friends who had the task of attending him. After about two months of incai'ceration, Fergusson died, at the age of twenty-three. It is certainly not possible to endorse all that was said by Burns in commendation of his poems. At the same time it must be conceded that the humour, point, and observation displayed in his metrical comments upon the world he saw about him are deserving of warm praise — particularly if the shortness of the author's life be considered. His Scots vocabulary, too, is a very rich one. On the whole, perhaps he is justly entitled to be called the Laureate of Old Edinburgh. XXIV. John Dunlop was born at his father's house of Carmyle, in Lanarkshire. Having embraced the career of a merchant, in the year 1796 he became Lord Provost of Glasgow, He is said to be remembered as a man of an excellent dis- position and eminent social qualities, who sang with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous con- versation. It is also stated that he left behind him four volimies of poetry in MS. His son became the author of the well-known History of Fiction. XXV. Andrew Scott was born at the village of Bowden, Rox- burghshire, and the spirit of poetry was awakened in him, whilst he was herding in the fields there as a boy, by means of a pamphlet copy of the " Gentle Shepherd." Having been entrapped into enlisting in the army, he served as a soldier in the American \Var of Independence. When the war was over he returned to Britain, procured his discharge, and retired to his native parish, where he married ; and where the rest of his life was spent in the avocations of an agricul- tural labourer, with which he combined the duties of beadle, or church-officer. He is described as a "kindly, quiet man— always blithe and well pleased ; " and he himself modestly defends his taste for poetry on the ground that it was "an amusement more congenial to his best feelings than the everyday talk of common life." XXVI. Burns relates that he wrote out the words of this song from the singing of the author — a girl into whose character we need not here too closely inquire— "as she was strolling through the country with a sleight-of-hand blackguard." NOTES. 295 " An old woman with whom we conversed," says the author of Bums and his Conteniporaries, "also remembered to have seen Jean at a fair at Irvine, gaily attired, ami playing on a tambourine at the mouth of a close, in which was the exhibition room of her husband the conjurer. ' Weel do I remember her,' said our informant, 'and thocht her the brawest woman I had ever seen step in leather shoon.'" Jean Glover was born at Kilmarnock, and died at Letter- kenny, in Ireland. XXVII. Carolina Olipiiant was born on the 16th July 17GG, at the "auld house" of Ga'k, where her grandfather had had the honour of being visited by Prince Charles Edward Stuart, and where her grandmother had cut a lock from the wandering prince's hair. This grandfather, Laurence Oliphant, had taken part in the Jacobite risings of '15 and '45, in the latter of which his son and namesake (the father of the subject of this biographical note) had also been engaged. Carolina's baptismal name was conferred in honour of Charles Edward, and it was in an atmosphere highly charged with Jacobitism that her early years were passed. The "King's" health, for instance, and his happy Restoration, was a daily toast at Gask ; whilst in the copies of the Prayer Book which Mr. Oliphant placed in the hands of his children the names of the reigning Royal Family had been obliterated and those of the Stuarts inserted in their place. Again, from her earliest years, Carolina's imagination must have been aroused by narratives of the varied adventures of her father and others of her kinsfolk during the " Forty -Five,"— when Laurence Oliphant the younger, then a youth of nineteen, had supped with the Prince at the very outset of the Rebellion, had galloped to Edinburgh with the news of Prestonpans after fighting single-handed with Sir John Cope's runaway dragoons, had discovered the enemy's movements after the battle of Falkirk, had exchanged a few words with the Prince at CuUoden after all was lost, and had escaped from Scotland by sea and landed in Sweden, a beggar in all but honour. Her eyes, also, must have fallen frequently upon Prince Charlie's bonnet, spurs, cockade, and crucifix, and on the immortalised lock of his hair, and other relics in a collec- tion formed by her father. Messages, too, from the exiled Prince came occasionally to his devoted adherent, whose strained and exaggerated loyalty in his later years is well illustrated by the story that, when failing eyesight 296 NOTES. prevented his reading the newspaper for himself, he would never allow the reader whose services he employed to allude to the reiaininc: sovereign and his consort in any other way than by the initials K.'and Q. George the Third showed a stronger sense certainly of humour, if not also of fitness, when he desired his compliments— " not the compliments of the King of England, but those of the Elector of Hanover"— to the Laird of Gask, accompanying them with a tribute of respect to his steadiness of principle. It is of course needless to trace to these early impressions the inspiration of such songs as " Wha'll be King but Charlie ? " "He's ower the hills that I lo'e weel," "The Hundred Pipers," "Charlie is my darling," "Will ye no come back again ? " Amid these surroundings, Carolina grew up into a charm- ing young lady, who, from her beauty and sweetness, became known throughout her native district as "The Flower of Stratheam." Her poetic talent asserted itself early, when she characteristically applied herself to the task of fitting new and more refined poems to the dearly- loved national melodies of her country. From the very first her songs attained a wide popularity; but with extra- ordinary and, as one cannot help thinking, regrettable reserve, she kept the secret of their authorship from all but a few intimate friends. In the year 1S06 Miss Oliphant gave her hand to her cousin. Major Nairne, selecting him, as we are told, from among many suitors. A few years later, by the removal of an attainder which the Jacobitism of the previous peer had brought upon his family, this gentleman succeeded to the family honours by the style of Baron Xairne. By him his wife had one son, whom, as well as his father, she endured the sorrow of surviving. A deep religious feeling was a marked feature in the generally lovable and admirable character of this sweet Singer of a Lost Cause. xxviir. The known facts in the life of Robert Tannahill are disappointingly few and poor in interest. He was born at Paisley— at that time a very flourishing town, where high wages were earned, famed for the periodical merry-makings of its to%vnspeople— was the son of a weaver of silk gauze, and one of a large family. When he grew up he in his turn became a weaver. But he varied the monotony of weaving in a manner all his own. Nature had gifted him with a musical ear; he was a performer on the flute, and took NOTES. 297 pleasure in hunting up old song-tunes, to which he sought to wed new poems. Being in the habit of composing his poetry during working hours, " weaving threads and verses alternately," he contrived a rude desk which could be fastened to his loom, so that he might be able to jot down ideas as they occurred to him without rising from his seat. His manual occupation does not appear to have been dis- tasteful to him ; for when at a later date he was offered the post of overseer in a factory, he declined it,— preferring a life which left him free to think his thoughts, and, poet-like, negligent of material advancement. In the course of time he became acquainted with others of musical tastes residing in the neighbourhood— his song-writing enterprise receiving an especial stimulus from his association with Robert Archibald Smith, afterwards well known as a musical com- poser. In the first year of the new century, Tannahill, accompanied by one of his brothers, removed to Lancashire — the journey thither being performed on foot. He settled at Bolton, where he remained for two years working at his craft ; at the end of which time he was recalled to Paisley by the declining health of his father. By this time some of his songs had been set to music by Smith and another ; and in 1807 he published Poems and Songs. These, or at least the songs, became widely popular. But, though chaunted far and wide by the irresponsible, in those whose business it was to cater for the public taste they appear to have inspired but little confidence. The fastidious George Thomson (who was at that time forming his Collection), after maturely weighing their merits, concluded to reject some few of them which had been offered to him in all humility by their author. At the same time the publishing firm of Constable & Company declined a proposal which had been made to them for a second volume of poems. Poor Tannahill — whose mental horizon, as must be remembered, was narrowly restricted, and who suffered from the alternate undue eleva- tion and proportionate depression which often characterise the poetic temperament — was deeply disappointed. In a moment of pique or despondency, he destroyed not only such unpublished poems as were still in his possession, but also his emended versions of those which had been published ; and he even set about recovering, for a like purpose, those of his manuscripts which were in the possession of friends. In the depth of his depression one mcident occurred to cheer him. James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, made a journey to Paisley for the express purpose of becoming 298 NOTES. acquainted with him— an act of homage to his genius which naturally afforded him great pleasure. The two poets spent an evening together, and the next day Tannahill convoyed his new "friend half-way back to Glasgow. But at the moment of parting— as if with the knowledge of impending evil, or perhaps having already formed his fatal design — he exclaimed, "Farewell! we shall never meet again! Farewell ! I shall never see you more ! " Gloom now settled finally above his head. His countenance grew pale, his form emaciated ; his eyes sunk in his skull. He intimated to bis friends wild plans which he had formed for leaving Paisley, to take up his abode in "some sequestered locality," or for canvassing the country in person for sub- scribers to a new issue of his poems. At last, during a visit to a friend at Glasgow, he complained of the "insup- portable misery of life," and is said at the same time to have exhibited unequivocal symptoms of mental derange- ment. (We are not told what these symptoms were, but may guess them to have been of the regulation coroner's inquest pattern.) At all events his friend returned with him to Paisley. On reaching home, he retired to bed, where he was visited by three of his brothers, who left him at about ten o'clock, when he appeared to them sufficiently calm. Two hours later they returned to inquire for him. They found that his bed was empty and that he had gone out. A search was instituted, which led to the discovery of the poet's coat at the side of the tunnel of a neighbouring brook,— " pointing out but too surely where his body was to be found." He perished thus by his own act before he had yet quite reached the age of thirty-six. Tannahill's poems— his Odes, for instance, written for the celebration of Burns's birthday — contain some pas- sages of vigour and felicity ; but it is by his songs alone that his name continues to survive. He" thus ranks with Dibdin, but far above him. These songs exhibit little variety : his harp was one of but a solitary string ; but from that single string he evoked some melodies of sur- passing sweetness. Occasionally, however, even in some of his masterpieces, a false note is heard — the result of imperfect skill, or of the following of false poetic models. Tannahill, who in the affections of his country- men perhaps ranks next to Burns among the national song- writers, was without the passion or rich humour of his great predecessor. Readers will think as they choose, but there is no authentic record of his ever having been in NOTES. 299 love ; whilst, in society, he was shy and but rarely known to jest. The trait in his life by which his character, unde- veloped, unrecorded, as it is, most does itself justice is his filial piety— especially his devotion to his mother, who sur- vived him. Notwithstanding the wide popularity which his songs enjoyed, he was used to assert that the proof of fame which had afforded him the keenest pleasure was having his musings interrupted, in the course of a solitary walk, by the voice of a country girl in an adjoining field who sang to herself a song of his own, "AVe'U meet beside the dusky glen on yon burn side." And indeed, to quote the words of Chambers, some of his songs may be pronounced to be the very perfection of song-writing, in so far as that consists in the simple and natural expression of feelings common to all. In reading these songs it must be remem- bered that they were wTitten for music, whilst not a few of them were composed under the trying necessity of fitting an existing time with words. XXIX. Sir Alexander Boswell was the eldest son of the biographer of Dr. Johnson. On reaching manhood and succeeding to his estate, he applied himself energetically, on the one hand to the duties of a country gentleman, and on the other to literary pursuits. He was fond of field sports ; represented Ayrshire, his native county, in Parlia- ment, and commanded its Yeomanry Cavalry ; whilst at the same time he produced a succession of interesting original poetical compositions, and directed the reprinting, at a private printing-press, of various literary curiosities which had been preserved in the family library. He pos- sessed a fund of anecdote and humour, and was a favourite in society. In 1821 he was created a baronet, and in the following year his career was tragically cut short. Being connected with a Tory newspaper, his political zeal, gaining the mastery over him, had led him into making a series of unwarrantable attacks upon a certain :Mr. Stuart, of Dunearn, who was a Whig. The authorship of the articles was discovered, and Stuart sent him a challenge. It was accepted, and the parties met,— the seconds being, on Boswell's side the Hon. J. Douglas ; on Stuart's the Earl of Rosslyn. Stuart, a peaceable man, up to the last moment urged his adversary to apologise. This Boswell declined to do ; but, at the same time, feeling himself to have been in the wrong, he resolved not to fire upon his antagonist. Tlie duel was fought, and Stuart's bullet entered Boswell's neck. 300 NOTES. The wounderl man was caniecl to the house of Lord Balrauto, in whose grounds the meetinu, had taken jilace, and there expired the next day. — It is stated by the bio- grapher of sir Walter Scott that "several circumstances ot Sir Alexander's death are exactly reproduced in the duel scene in St. Ronan's Well." XXX. Richard Gall was bom, in poor circumstances, at Link- house, near Dunbar. His poems attracted the attention of Burns, with whom he carried on a correspondence, and of Hector Macneill. He also enjoyed the friendship of Campbell, who entertained a higli opinion of his talents. His promising career was, however, cut short by death at the age of twenty-four. XXXL Egbert Jamiesox, who, besides being the composer of a few original poems, was an accomplished antiquary and an industrious collector of the poetic waifs of a bygone age, compiled and edited two volumes of Popular Ballads and So7i'7S, from Tradition, Manuscript)^, and Scarce Editions, which appeared in Edinburgh in 1S06. After working for some years as a teacher, first at home and then in the north of Europe, he was received, on the recommendation of Sir "Walter Scott, into the Register House of Edinburgh, and there employed upon the publication of the public records. Doctor Johnson, at page 236 of his Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, states that though he found water- mills in Skye and Raasay, the quern was also in use among housewives in the more remote parts of those islands. He describes it as consistinsj of two stones about a foot and a half in diameter, the lower being a little convex and having the concavity of the upper fitted to it. In the middle of the upper stone was a round hole, and on one side a long handle. The grinder shed the corn gradually into the hole with one hand and worked the handle round with the other. The corn slid down the convexity of the lower stone, and by the motion of the upper was ground in its passage. The Doctor adds that these stones were found in Lochaber. xxxn. The author of " Lucj-'s Flitting" was the trusted steward, amanuensis, and friend of Sir Walter Scott. He was born upon his father's farm in the Yarrow district of Selkirkshire. At a later period the " Ettrick Shepherd" worked upon this farm, and young Laidlaw became his NOTES. 301 friend and literary contidant. In the summer of 1801 Scott visited Yarrow in quest of materials for his Border Min- strelsy, and through the instrumentaUty of Leyden became acquainted with the two poetically-gifted bearers of the sheep-hook. A friendship sprung up between him and Laidlaw ; and when the latter had proved unsuccessful in a farm of his own, he accepted Sir Walter's offer of the stewardship at Abbotsford, which he retained until the date of his master's commercial misfortunes — when he was induced by motives of delicacy to resign it. During his residence at Abbotsford he was always invited to meet the men-of-letters who frequented the place. In 1830 he was enabled to return to his old duties; and he continued in Scott's service until the death of the latter two years later. The regard which subsisted between master and steward is illustrated by the following slight anecdote. On Scott's return to Abbotsford from Naples — when he had travelled from London in a state of utter prostration and semi- unconsciousness — he chanced to catch sight of Laidlaw by his bedside. The intelligence returned to his eyes, and he murmured, "Is that you, Willie? I ken I'm hame noo." Laidlaw's original poetical compositions are limited to three songs. xxxiii. William Nicholson, the Galloway poet, born at Tannymaas, was the son of humble parents. On arriving at manhood — defective vision having prevented his be- coming a shepherd or a ploughman— he adopted the life of a pedlar,— a state which in those days held out con- siderable possibilities of gain. Besides being a poet, he was an "exquisite musician, and sang with a sweet and powerful voice ; " so tliat, to quote the words of Dr. John Brown, "one may well imagine the delight of a lonely town-end when Willie the packman and the piper made his appearance, with his stories and jokes and ballads, his songs and reels and 'wanton wiles.'" His poems grew popular, and an edition of them being published in the year 1814, he realised £100. But a life of the kind de- scribed was not conducive either to the moral or the material well-being of the poet. He fell, latterly, ijito dissipated courses, and took to playing on his bagpipes at fairs and markets as a gaberlunzie or beggar-man. In time his health Viecaine impaired, his mind clouded and beset by hallucinations ; and, in tlie end, the grave closed in gloom over the ruins of a true man of genius. His 302 NOTES, " Aiken-drum" is a genuine piece of creation in the super- natural. Dr. Brown relates this characteristic anecdote of him : " A farmer in a remote part of Galloway, one June morning before sunrise, was awakened by music ; he had been dreaming of heaven, and when he found himself awake he still heard the strains. He looked out and saw no one, but at the corner of a grass field he saw his cattle, and young colts and fillies, huddled together, and looking intently down into what he knew was an old quarry. He put on his clothes and walked across the field, everything but that strange wild melody still and silent in this, ' the sweet hour of prime.' As he got nearer the * beasts,' the sound was louder ; the colts with their long manes, and the nowt with their wondering stare, took no notice of him, straining their necks forward entranced. There, in the old quarry, the young sun 'glintin" on his face, and resting on his pack, which had been his pillow, was our Wandering Willie, playing and singing like an angel I Wlien reproved for wasting his health and time by "the prosaic farmer, the poor fellow said : ' Me and this quarry are long acciuant, and I've mair pleesure in pipin' to thae daft cowts, than if the best leddies in the land were figurin' away afore me.'" XXXIV. Charles Gray was born at Anstruther, in Fife, and educated at the same school with Tennant, author of "Anster Fair," and Thomas Chalmers. At the age of twenty-three he obtained a commission in the Royal Marines ; at twenty-nine he published an octavo volume, Poems and Sonrjs, which ran to a second edition. He served thirty-six years in the Marines, retiring in 1841 with full pay and the rank of a captain. He then took up his abode in Edinburgh, in the society of which place his cheerful and amiable disposition, together with a know- ledge of Scottish song for which he became celebrated, soon made him a favourite. In the same year— in compli- ance with the wishes of friends, conveyed to him through the medium of a Round Robin— he published his collected poems. The Round Robin, which bore the autograph of many of his brother poets, is reproduced in facsimile in the volume. He died in 1851. In person he is described as having been of low stature, whilst "his grey, weather- beaten coimtenance" wore a constant smUe. XXXV. Allan Cunningham was a son of the steward on the NOTES, 303 estate upon which was situated EUisland, the farm occupied by Robert Burns. At an early age he was apprenticed to a stone-mason. Later on, being gifted with a turn for poetic composition, he supplied to a certain Cromek, an antiquarian who was employed in collecting Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, various ballads of his own composition, as if they had been relics of antiquity. Their publication attracted attention to him, and he proceeded to London, where he obtained a situation (which he re- tained until his death) in the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, the sculptor. He enjoyed the friendship of Sir Walter Scott, and Avas also among the friends of Thomas Carlyle and his wife when they came to reside in the metropolis. Among his prose writings, which are vol- uminous, may be specified two volumes of Traditional Tales of the English and Scottish Peasantry. XXXVI. Alexander Rodger is represented in the rough wood-cut frontispiece to Whistlebinkie as a jolly-looking elderly man. He was born at East Calder, in'Midlothian, where his father for the time practised farming. In a humble sphere, Alexander in his time played many parts, — among them being that of an apprentice silversmith, a weaver, a teacher of music, a pawnbroker, and a journalist. In the last-named capacity, his strong feelings, satirical propensities, and Radical, if not indeed revolutionary, convictions, having carried him too far, he was, in the year 1819, thrown into prison as a disaffected person. Here, in his seclusion, he managed to derive consolation from singing at the top of his voice, for the advantage of his jailers, his own political compositions. He was of a convivial disposition, and enjoyed very considerable popularity as a poet. xxxvii. Were the question at issue, not who had produced the best poetry, but who had had the most ideal youth, the palm, among modern British poets, would almost with certainty be awarded to John Wilson. Rich, and his own master, he was gifted with remarkable physical strength, and with a temperament which combined the two tastes (not often met with in the same person) which may perhaps contribute most to make a man's life luxuriously enjoyable : —he was a keen and accomplished sportsman (as well as an athlete), and an enthusiastic poet. What he was in external appearance at this period may be judged from the 304 NOTES. splendid portrait by Raeburn which hangs in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. On leaving Oxford he took up his abode at his estate of Elleray, on the banks of Winder- mere, and devoted himself to his favourite pursuits. Here, if tradition may be believed, the exuberant imagination of youth led him into some strange freaks : at one time he joined a company of strolling players ; at another he attached himself to a band of gipsies. And here, also, misfortune, in the shape of loss oJE wealth, came upon him ; yet this very misfortune was, as is probable, the most fortunate thing that ever occurred to him, since without it there is great likelihood that his full powers would never have been put forth. He had stumbled, too, in his poetic com- position, upon a path in literature which was not natural to him ; and it is by his prose Nodes Ambrosiance, written after the stress of circumstances had compelled him to put his shoulder to the wheel, and contributed under the pseudonym of "Christopher North" to the then newly started Blackwood's Magazine, that his name will be remem- bered. In 1S20 he was elected to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, which he filled for over thirty years, — ruling over the literary society of the " Modern Athens," in succession to Sir Walter Scott, by thb. right of a natural sovereign. The Island of Palms in verse, and the Trials of Margaret Lyndsay and Lights and Shadoivs of Scottish Life in prose, are among the remaining productions of his pen. XXXVIII. The authorities consulted yield very little information regarding the author of the quaint piece of rustic morahty entitled '* Tak' it, man, tak' it." David Webster was born at Dunblane, and worked as a weaver at Paisley. W^e are told that his life was much chequered by misfortune ; and that, like Burns and Tannahill before him, he was led into dissipated habits by worthless acquaintances, frequenters of the tavern, who professed to be admirers of his genius. He published, in 1835, a volume of poems and songs entitled Original Scottish Rhymes. XXXIX. William Knox, author of the sweet idealisation of rustic life entitled the Wooer's Visit, was born in the parish of Lilliesleaf, in Roxburghshire. After trying his hand un- successfully at farming, he adopted the precarious profession of literature. He is described as having been a man of genial and benevolent disposition, and a consistently dutiful NOTES. 305 and affectionate son ; but, lacking moral restraint, he became phmged in dissipation, which led to his ruin and premature death. XL. Thomas Pringle was born on the farm of Blakelaw, near Kelso — the descendant of a line of Scottish farmers. Having endeavoured unsuccessfully to gain a livelihood by his pen in Edinburgh, at the age of thirty-one he headed a ])arty of emigrants bound for South Africa. But no better fortune attended him there. After some six years he re- turned to Britain, where he warmly and actively espoused the views of the Anti-Slavery party— living long enough to witness, in the year 1833, the formal Abolition of Slavery in the British Colonies. XLi. John Gibson Lockhart, the son-in-law and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was the son of a Glasgow minister. After distinguishing himself at college, he adopted the legal profession, — from which, however, his inability to make a speech soon caused him to retire. He then applied himself to literature— producing, in particular, Peter's Letters to his Kimfolk, in which he presents a series of portraits of the Scottish literary celebrities of the time. After his marriage with Scott's eldest daughter, Sophia, he took up his abode at Chiefswood, a cottage situated within easy distance of Abbotsford. In his vocation he exercised great and varied activity, being in turn a prolific magazine-writer, a poet, novelist, translator, biographer, and editor. He was buried among the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, where his remains occupy a position at the feet of his Master, the great Wizard of the North. The Captain Paton so sympathetically delineated in the poem was a well-known character in Glasgow ; where he lived for many years, with two maiden sisters, in a tenement of his own opposite the Old Exchange. He died in 1807. XT,Ti. William Motherwell— a prominent figure among those who took part in the Romantic ISIovement of the end of the last and the beginning of the present century— was born at Glasgow,— the son of an ironmonger, but descended of a good old family who had been for many generations the hereditary millers of Dundaff, in Stirlingshire. He was sent to school in Edinburgh (whither his parents had removed), and there made the acquaintance of Jane Morri- son, a little girl of about his own age, who afterwards 811 3o6 NOTES, became the heroine of his celebrated poem. She ia described as a pretty child, neat in her dress, of good capacity, mild temper, and unassuming manners. Her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression. She is stated to have made a great impression upon Motherwell, aged then about eleven : she, however, continued at the same school with him during but one half-year ; after which they never met again. Whilst a schoolboy, ^Motherwell enjoyed a great reputation as a teller of never-ending stories about "castles, robbers, and strange, out-of-the-way adventures." When his education was complete, he was placed as apprentice in the office of the Sheriff -Clerk of Paisley, where he varied the dryness of his labours by producing clever sketches of men in armour, and fed his antiquarian taste by deciphering crabbed ancient legal documents. At twenty-one he be- came Sheriff-Clerk Depute of Renfrewshire. The same year he edited a local miscellany entitled The Harp of Renfre^cshire ; and in 1S27 he published his Minstrelsy: Ancient and Modem, a collection of Scottish ballads prefaced by an historical introduction, which has taken rank as a standard work. Soon after this, having applied himself to journalism, he became editor first of the Paisley Advertiser, and then, after resigning his legal appointment, of the Glasgow Courier. He was still employed in the latter capacity at the time of his death, which occurred from apoplexy at the age of thirty-eight. Three years previously his own 'poems had been published. The two most popular of Motherwell's poems, inspirations of a somewhat too tearful Muse, are not his best. Of the remainder, some exhibit touches of the excess and bizarrerie which attend Romantic Revivals in literature. The poet is fond of copy- ing archaic forms, and at times employs an odd, or obsolete, word in the midst of everyday language. Yet a goodly body of genuine poetry underlies the flaws of the surface. It has been claimed for Motherwell that he was one of the first in our literature to draw themes from Scandinavian mythology. He was a very laborious poetic artificer, and is said to have elaborated " Jeanie Morrison " over a period of twenty years. He declined to read modern history, and was a'believer in ghosts. In politics he was a Tory. XLiii. James Hyslop, author of the popularly esteemed poem entitled "The Cameronian's Dream," was born in the parish of Kirkconnel, in Dumfriesshire. Whilst a boy he was employed as a shepherd in the neighbourhood of Airs NOTES. 307 Moss,— a morass in Ayrshire, where, more than a hundred years before, whilst attempting to elude pursuit, Richard Cameron, one of the most extreme of the Covenanting leaders (he had denied the authority of the King and Government), had met his death in a skirmish with the regulars. The scene described in his poem had thus from an early age been familiar to Hyslop's eyes ; whilst the traditions regarding the place which still floated amongst the peasantry had no doubt impressed his fancy. " The Cameronian's Dream" was published in the Edinburgh Magazine when the author was in his twenty-third year, and attracted attention to him. He was made the object of some patronage ; and, having by his own exertions qualified himself for the post, became schoolmaster on board a man-of-war. His premature death was the result of an imprudent exposure in a treacherous climate. The battle of Airs Moss is thus described by Sir Walter Scott:— "On 22nd July, 1680, while lying at a desolate place, called Airs JIoss, they (the Cameronians) were alarmed with the news that Bruce of Earlshall was coming upon them with a superior force of infantry and dragoons. The Wanderers resolved to stand their ground, and Cameron pronounced a prayer, in which he three times repeated the pathetic expression, ' Lord, spare the green and take the ripe.' He then addressed his followers with great firmness, exhorting them to fight to the very last. 'For I see,' he added, ' heaven's gates open to receive all such as shall die this day.' "Rathillet divided their handful of twenty-three horse upon the two flanks of about forty half-armed infantry. The soldiers approached, and charged with fury. Cameron and eight others were killed on the spot. Of the royalist party, twenty-eight were either there killed or died of their wounds shortly after." Cameron and the eight who fell with him were buried on the spot ; where a grave-stone with their names and an open Bible upon it has been erected over them. XLiv. David Macbeth Moir, the "Delta" of BlacMvood's Magazine, was born at Musselburgh, and practised there as a physician. During the terrible epidemic of cholera which swept over Europe in the early thirties of the present cen- tury, when many medical men abandoned their duty in despair or fled from it in terror, Moir, we are told, was " daUy and hourly to be found at the bedsides of the infected, 3o8 NOTES. endeavouring to alleviate the sufferings of the sick by the resources of his skill, or to comfort the dying with the con- solations of religion." His character, indeed, appears to have been remarkable for virtue and for piety, as well as for a gentleness and kindliness which endeared him to his friends. The best known of his works i-< the humorous novel of Manue Wauch, written after the style of John Gait. XLV. Henry Scott Riddell began life as a shepherd among the hills of the south of Scotland, and afterwards entered the ministry. In the prime of life he was attacked by a malady which necessitated his confinement in an asylum ; and though in the sequel he recovered his health, lie did not resurue his ministerial duties, — spending the remainder of his days, as a pensioner of the Duke of Buccleuch, in retirement, at Teviothead. XLTi. James Stewart was born at Perth, and laboured there and at Dunkeldas a shoemaker. His career was chequered by intemperance. His poem of the "Tailor of Monzie" presents a lively picture of a scene which must have been common in old times in Scotland, and which is highly characteristic of them. The greater number of " his '* Sketches of Scottish Character," of which the poem cited is one, are said to have been drawn from the life. Author's Note to the "Tailor of Monzie." — The genuine old travelling tailor, or ichip-the-cat, as he was generally termed throughout Scotland, is now extinct. To our fore- fathers the arrival of the tailor in the way of his calling was an advent long remembered. He very often united in his person the talent of wit with an accurate knowledge of mankind ; and bein^- likewise a chronicle of all the gossip in his rounds, few people received such a hearty welcome within the halUta as the tailor. The author of the sketch has seen in his younger days something akin to what he attempts to describe. XLvii. Robert Chambers probably is remembered nowadays less as an author than as an enthusiastically patriotic book- maker. Born at Peebles, at the age of tifteen he opened a small shop for the sale of old books in the unpretending Edinburgh thoroughfare known as Leith Walk ; and, from this small beginning, rose by his industry, talent, and sagacity to a position of great distinction,— becoming in NOTES. 309 course of time a rich publisher, as well as the author of upwards of seventy volumes, all of wliich deal with Scotch subjects. In a word, he is the Dick Whittington of modern Scottish men of letters. The powerful and admirable mix- ture of the laughable and the tragic in the close of " Young Randal" affords sufficient evidence that he possessed poetic genius. XLViii. Henry Glassford Bell, more remarkable as a man than as a poet, was born in Glasgow, educated at the University of Edinburgh, and called to the Scotch Bar. But whilst pursuing his legal studies, he had found time to perform no inconsiderable amount of literary work, as well as to cultivate the society of "Christopher North," and of other leading literary men of the time in Edinburgh. In 1839 he was appointed a Sheriff-substitute of Lan- arkshire, — in which position, and that of Sheriff, he con- tinued until his death, without relinquishing his literary tendencies. He was a man of large heart, large mind, and large physique — he is the "Tallboys" of the Nodes Amhrosiance. His poem of " Mary Queen of Scots," if some- what conventional in the view which it presents of the character and career of the heroine, is picturesque and romantic, and contains some capital lines. XLIX. James Ballantine was born in the West Port of Edinburgh, and was at an early age made familiar with straitened circumstances. He was apprenticed to a house- painter, and whilst working at his trade contrived to carry on his education. He subsequently attained eminent success as an artist in stained glass— his designs for the windows of the Houses of Parliament being placed first among those submitted at a competition, and the com- mission to execute them being in consequence entrusted to the firm of which he was a member. Many of his poems made their first appearance in Whistlebinkie. He was the author of the Gaberlunzie's Wallet, and other works. "Ballantine," says Dr. Rogers, "is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character." l. Whilst still a child, John Usher enjoyed the distinguished privilege of standing between the knees of Sir Walter ^cott and singing him a song. Scott, in return, presented 310 NOTES. the singer with a pony. He was also familiarly acquainted with the Ettrick Shepherd. In youth he excelled in manly exercises. In particular he acquired fame as a gentleman- rider of steeple-chases ; nor did he display less judgment, or meet with less success, when the steed bestridden was the fiery winged courser of the Muses. Having adopted the profession of a farmer, he became a leader among the agriculturists of the Scottish Border; and his book on the Sheep is well known to those interested in the subject. Not less celebrated within a narrower circle is his singing, at convivial meetings, of the songs of his own composition. Mr. Usher still lives to enjoy a green old age in that Border Land to which he is a credit and an ornament, and throughout which he is so well known, so highly respected, and so much beloved. LI. William Miller, who has been called the Laureate of the Nursery, was born at Glasgow, but passed most of his early years at Parkhead, then a country village in the neigh- bourhood. Like .James Thomson of Hawick, whose poem of the "Wee Croodlin Doo" so strikingly resembles "Willie Winkie, ' Miller was a woodturner by trade; and is said, in his best days, to have been one of the best-skilled workmen of his craft. His poems have obtained a very wide popularity ; in fact, we have it on the authority of Mr. Robert Buchanan that, "W^herever Scottish foot has trod, wherever Scottish child has been born, the songs of William Miller have been sung." It is not so much in his touches of tenderness as in dramatic appreciation of the life of the nursery that he excels. lil Thomas Tod Stoddart has been called the "Scottish Walton." He was born in Edinburgh in 1810 ; and, as a youth, associated with " Christopher North," the Ettrick Shepherd, and others of a scliool who combined prowess in field-sports Avith the culture of the Muses— and of Bacchus. Fired by their example, he too became a poet. At the age of twenty-six, he made a romantic love-match ; and soon afterwards, renouncing ambition, settled with his wife on the banks of Tweed at Kelso,— where the remainder of a long life was devoted to the "gentle art." He was of social disposition, and a great addition to a festive gathering. His works on angling enjoy no inconsiderable reputation, and the "Taking of the Salmon" was commended by Christopher North as one of the best angling songs ever NOTES. 311 written. But, speaking by the book, it is perhaps less a song than a brilliant piece of histrionic declamation. Llii. Asa young man, Aytoun was cnlled to the Scotch Bar; but tlie reputation which he acquired there is said to have been rather that of a wit than of a lawyer. Admitted among the contributors to Blackwood, he wrote much, both in verse and prose, for that magazine. In 1S45 he was appointed to the Professorship of Rhetoric and Belles-lettres in Edinburgh, and we are informed that during his tenure of office the lectures in that school became some of the most popular in the University. In 1852, in recognition of his services to the party as a writer, he was appointed by Lord Derby Sheriff and Vice-Admiral of Orkney and Shetland. He was twice married— his first wife being a daughter of Professor Wilson (Christopher North). Tliough perhaps scarcely a poet in the finer acceptation of the terra, Aytoun in his Lays of the Scottish Caoalicrs applied with success his picturesque and sounding rhetorical or declamatory verse to the illustration of scenes from the national history ; — for which he effected what Lord Macaulay in his Lays has done for the history of Ancient Rome. Liv. In the respect of high poetic achievement cut short by untimely death, Robert Nicoll is the Keats of Scottish poets. He did not possess the same beautiful gifts which make of the latter one of the greatest "poetic artists" in our literature ; and he only once or twice in his short life attained to his own highest level in composition. On the other hand, at his best, he joined to an exquisite, if not unerring, craftsmanship of his own, a gravity, a power of tliought, a happiness in life, together with a purity and nobility of nature recalling Milton, to which Keats' sen- suously dreaming soul— whatever things may or may not have been possible to it— had not yet at his death been aroused. Keats died when he was twenty-five; Nicoll when he was not yet twenty-four. The poetical high-water- mark among modern Scottish minor poets is reached in the "Life's Pilgrimage" of the latter. "I have written my heart in my poems," he said. If Keats had achieved much more, he had at least attempted less— At the time of Nicoll's birth, his father was a farmer in comfortable cir- cumstances ; but five years afterwards, having become through no fault of his own involved in pecuniary misfor- 312 NOTES. tune, he was reduced to the condition of a day-labourer upon the fields which he had lately rented. The story of the poet's brief hfe is one of stiu,i,^ule and disappointment— not unenlightened, however, by the sunshine of appre- ciative friendship. After passing through a series of humble employments— during his tenure of which he con- tinued perseveringly to cultivate his powers of mind— he was appointed, in the summer of IS^JG, to the editorship of the Leeds Times, a newspaper representing the extreme of Radical opinion. He entered upon his duties with spirit and success ; but the work, at a time when poUtical party- feeling ran so high, proved too much for him. His health broke down, he was removed to the house of friends In the neighbourhood of Leith, and there died. He had been married in the previous year. LV. Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, a highly accomphshed amatei'.r man of letters, who also took a distinguished part in public affairs, was born at Kenmure, near Glasgow. The surname of Maxwell was assumed by hira on succeed- ing to a baronetcy upon the death of a maternal uncle. He married as his second wife the lady who is known in literature as the Honourable Mrs. Norton. In his literary undertakings the collocation of wealth and taste with historical research were productive of very happy results. The fine dignified ballad in the text— a model almost of what an historical ballad ought to be— reads like some ceremonial scene from one of Shakespeare's Histories turned into narrative. LVi. Thomas Carstairs Latto, a contributor to Whistlebinkie, was born at Kingsl)arns, Fifesliire, where his father was schoolmaster, and educated first at his father's school, and afterwards at the University of St. Andrews. After following the legal profession for a time in this country, in the capacity of a clerk, he eng.^ged in mercantile business and emigrated to the United States. LviL John Campbell Shairp was the younger son of Major Shairp of Iloustoun, in Linlithgowshire, the representative of an old Scottish family. He studied at the Edinburgh Academy and at the University of Glasgow, whence he proceeded as Snell Exhibitioner to BaUiol College, Oxford. Here he came under the influence of John Henry Newman, and was associated with Matthew Arnold, Ciough, and NOTES. 313 other leading students of his day. He also wrote a poem which received the Newdigate Prize. Leaving Oxford, he became an assistant master in Rugby School. Later on he was appointed Professor of Humanity in the United College of St. Andrews University, and in 1868 he became Principal of the same College. In 1877 he was elected to the Pro- fessorship of Poetry at Oxford, which appointment he held, in addition to his Principalship, until his death. He was the author of various works in prose and poetry — amongst others, of Kilmahoe, and other Poems. Few men enjoyed more or warmer friendships. Lviii. James Thomson was born at Bowden, the birthplace of Andrew Scott, who (as Thomson himself remarked) had, like Yorick, borne him on his back a hundred times. At an early age he was employed in herding cattle on the slopes of the Eildon hills, where he whiled away the time by stu: lying Burns' poems and a volume of Wh-'gtleurn/de. Subsequently he adopted the calling of a wood-turner, and went to reside at Hawick. He was a man of retiued and gentle manners and of intellectual tastes. Some two or three of his poems have attained a wide popularity both at home and in the colonies. Lix. Alexander Smith, the head of the once much-talked-of " Spasmodic School," had a singular literary history. Born at Kilmai'nock, he was the son of a designer of patterns for lace ; and, after he had for a time entertained thoughts of entering the ministry,— towards which he was influenced by a natural inclination for study,— it was finally decided for him by the force of circumstance that he should embrace his father's calling. Having removed to Glasgow, whilst still a youth he wrote poems which were published in a local newspaper ; and, in course of time, he submitted the manuscript of his "Life Drama" to the Rev, George Gil- fillan. Tliat influential critic, who had presumably mistaken violence of expression for force of thought, sounded, in no measured terms, through the medium of the press, the praises of the forthcoming poem of a new poet. The " Life Drama " appeared when its author was about one-and-twenty years of age. The public endorsed the estimate of its first critic ; the poem made an immense sensation, and enjoyed an exceedingly wide circulation. It contains many passages which are in a manner striking, but is without unity of design or true dramatic quality. Upon the strength of its 314 NOTES. merits, Smith was appointed Secretary to the Edinburgh IFniversity— an honourable and well-paid i^ost, which he retained until his death. But he did not fulfil the expecta- tions—very extravagant ones, no doubt— which had been formed of him, and when he failed to do so, a reaction in public feelinfr set in ; and— though for very different reasons —he met with treatment, at the hands of the world at large, in some respects resembling that which Burns had ex- perienced at the hands of Edinburgh society. He died at t'.ie age of thirty-six. It is perhapslmpossible to do perfect justice to Alexander Smith by means of short lyrical examples of his poetry. Two of the pieces, however, by which he is here represented have at least the merit of being very highly characteristic. LX. The most pathetically interesting figure among recent Scottish poets is tl:.it of David Gray— as that of another Glasgowpoet, James Thomson (B. V.), is the most tragically interesting. The son of a handloom weaver. Gray was born upon the banks of the Luggie — the stream which he after- wards celebrated in his song— at a distance of about eight miles from Glasgow. He was a promising schoolboy, and it was at first intended that he should enter the ministry, with which view his education was extended beyond the period usual for a lad belonging to his class. It was about this time that the passion for letters declared itself in him with extraordinary intensity, leading to a determination to devote himself to literature. A state of mind ensued which was feverish, but probably by no means unhappy. Under its influence the young poet made numerous attempts to secure a footing by gaining the ear of men of established reputation in literature. Some of the utterances of this period are certainly extraordinary. For instance, writing to the poet Sydney Dobell— a stranger to him— he says : " I tell you that, if I live, my name and fame shall be second to few of any age, and to none of my own. I speak thus because Ifeel power. Nor is this feeling an artificial disease as it was in Rousseau, but a feeling that has grown with me ever since I could think." And again, "I am so accus- tomed to compare my own mental progress with that of such men as Shakespeare, Goethe, and Wordsworth, that the dream of my youth will not be fulfilled if my fame equal notatleastthatof the latter of these three." And once more, "Westminster Abbey 1 If I live I shall be buried there— so help me God! A completely defined consciousness of NOTES, 315 fjreat poetical genius is my only antidote against utter despair and despicable failure." When he was twenty-two years and a few months old, he put into execution his chei'ished dream of going to London to seek his fortune as a writer. The story of his life there, in poverty, with a friend of his own age and possessed by like generous illusions,* is a veritable chapter in the Romance of Litera- ture. By means of his prepossessing appearance, his poetical talent, and his sublime self-confidence, Gray had succeeded in arousing the interest of an influential man of letters, Richard Monckton Milnes — afterwards Lord Houghton— the biographer of Keats. It seemed as if things might be about to turn out well with him ; but alas ! at this very time, a cold caught as the result of exposure proved to be the beginning of the end. The brief remainder of Gray's history is that of an invalid hopelessly battling with consumption. He died before reaching the age of twenty-four. His poems are for the most part immature and faintly traced ; yet it seems probable, nevertheless, that his name will survive as that of the incarnation, in our own age, of youthful thirst for fame and consciousness of genius. LXi. Thomas Davidson— whose biography has been given to the world as the Life of a Scottish Probationer— wsls born on a farm in the neighbourhood of Jedburgh,— in which town also his last days were spent. He was destined for the ministry, but had not advanced beyond the rank of Probationer when his labours were cut short by the pulmonary disease to which, after a long illness, he finally succumbed. It is now generally understood that he was the accepted lover of the accomplished Miss Alison Hay Duiilop, who, later on, acquired distinction as an Edinburgh antiquarian. * Now the popular poet Robert Buchanan GLOSSARY. [It has not generally been thought necessary to include in this glossary such Scottish words as are in reality identical with their English equivalents, though somewhat differently spelt and pronounced,— Tieid, for instance, for head ; hraicl, for broad, and the like.] A', all Aboon, above Ae, ane, one A-ft, oft A-hicht, on high Ahint, behind Aiken, oaken Ain, own Aim, iron A-low, adv. alight Anes, ance, once Arle, to give a piece of money to confirm a bargain. — Jamieson Aries, an earnest, a pledge of possession Ase, n. pi. ashes Attour, over, across Aught, eight Auid, old Ava, at all Awn, owing Ayont, beyond BAILLIE, magistrate of a town Baloo, hush ! Band, pret. of v. to bind Bandster, sheaf-binder Bang, V. beat, overpower Bannock, a thick cake Baudrons, "the cat" Bank, cross-beam in the roof of a house Bawbee, ha'penny Bawsint, having a white patch on the face (applied to horses and cows) Bein, snug Beltane, the first day of May Eelyve, 1, at once ; 2, by-and- by Ben, prep, within, in ; n. the inner apartment of a house ; but and ben, (indecl.) the outer and inner rooms of a house Berry, v. thrash (corn) Bicker, n. a wooden bowl used in drinking ale Bide, abide, stay ; endure Bield, n. shelter ; a place of shelter— hence applied to a habitation Big, V. build Bigonet, linen cap, or coif Bink, bench, sideboard Birk, birch-tree 3i8 GLOSSARY. Birl, 1, spend in drink ; 2, spin round ; 3, to "make a noise like mill-stones at work."— J(nn?c6o/i Blaewart, bilberry Bleeze, bleise, n. or v. blaze Blether, n. nonsense; v. to talk nonsense Blink, n. or v. glance Bonny, pretty, handsome Boddle, a copper coin Bogle, 1, ghost ; 2, a game re- sembling hide-and-seek Bogle-boo, hobgoblin Bood, V. must, "had to" Bools, (boys') marbles Boon, band of reapers Bore, n. crevice Bosie, bosom di,n. Boune, ready Bour, bouir, a chamber, "bower" Bour-tree, elder-tree Brachen, bracken, a fern which overgrows hillsides, etc. Brae, /). slope Braird, the first sprouting of sown grain Brattle, clatter Braw, adj. fine, "brave" Bree, 1, blow ; 2, brew ; "bar- ley bree," liquor made from barley, i.e., ale or whisky Breeks, breeches Brent, burnt Bricht, bright Brocht, brought Brose, a kind of porridge made by pouring boiling water or broth on meal Bruik, V. enjoy Bucht, bught, 11. a sheep-fold, V. to fold sheep Buckle, n. curl. (Captain \ Paton's Lament) "Buckle to," V. slang phrase for marry Buffy, chubby Buik, book Burn, n. stream Busk, adorn Busking, n. ornament But and, besides But, prep. 1, besides, as well as ; 2, or bot, without Byre, cow-house CA', V. 1, drive ; 2, call Cairn, a heap of stones thro\vn together in a conical form, generally upon a hUl-top, and sometimes as a me- morial Gallant, boy, lad Caller, fresh Cankert, cross, crabbed Cannie, canny, 1, cautious, shrewd ; 2, well-disposed, gentle Canty, 1, cheerful, lively; 2, small and neat Cap, a wooden bowl for hold- ing meat or drink Carle, man, fellow Carline, old woman Cauf, calf Chap, V. strike, ?i. stroke (of a clock) Chack, V. check Chield, chiel', fellow Clachan, a small vUlage Claise, n. pi. clothes Claithin', clothing Clash, interj. crash I Claucht, V. snatcii Clead, deed, cleid, clothe Cleading, clothing Cleek, to go arm-in-arm Clour, V. to produce a dint by a blow GLOSSARY. 319 Clout, V. patch, n. cloth (term of disparagement) Clud, 71. cloud Cog, cogie, coggie, a small wooden bowl Coff , pret. coft, to buy Coila, Burns's name for Kyle, his native district in Ayr- shire Corbie, raven, crow Couter, coulter Couth, comfortable Crack, v. or n. chat Craig, 1, crag, rock; 2, throat Crap, pret. of v. creep Crapin, the maw or stomach of a fowl Crawberry, the bilberry Creel, a fish-basket made to be carried on the back Creepie, a low stool Crisp, V. pret. crasp, denotes " the crackling sound made by the ground under one's foot when there is a slight frost." — Jamieson Cronach, a lamentation for the dead Crood, V. coo Croodle, v. dim. of the above Crowdie, porridge Cuist, pret. of v. to cast Curpin, buttocks ; properly rump of a fowl Cushat, cushie, wood-pigeon Cuttie, adj. short ; n. a short tobacco-pipe DAFF, V. sport, joke Daft, silly, " out of one's mind" Darr'd, perhaps also dart (" Hardyknute," v. 23, L 4), 'be up pret. of V. dere, 1, to hurt ; 2, dere upon, make impres- sion upon Daunder, saunter Daut, cherish, fondle Daw, n. or v. dawn Deave, deafen Dern, v. hide Dight, wipe ; 2, Eng. clothe Ding, strike, beat, overcome Dinsome, noisy Dirdum, uproar Dirl, V. thrill Doo, dove Dook, V. duck Dool, sorrow, ill-luck Dow, V. to be able, to to" Dowf, spiritless Dowie, sad, dreary Dozen, v. n. to become stu- pefied Dree, undergo, endure Dreich, wearisome Dribbles, drops; "nor drib- bles o' drink rins thro' the draff," i.e., no brewing goes on.— Miss Aitken Drob, V. prick Drookit, drenched Drumlie, drumly, troubled • having a gloomy aspect Dub, pool I Dud, n. rag Duddy, ragged i Dunt, V. to strike, n. a blow I Dwam, a sudden fit of ill- j ness Dyke, fence, ditch I Dyne, dinner I EARD, earth I E'en, 71. even, evening E'en, een, eyes ' E'e-bree, eyebrow 120 GLOSSARY. Eerie, 1, melancholy, dreary ; 2, producing fear or appre- hension Eident, eager, diligent Eldritx;h, weird, "uncanny" Eneuch, enough Ettin, giant Ettle, intend, aim Ewe-buchting, the process of penning ewes for milking FA', n. 1, fall ; 2, lot, fate Fain, happy Fashous, troublesome Fausht, n. tight Fauld, V. to fold, n. a sheep- fold Faut, fault Feck, n. amount, quantity Feckless, spiritless Fee, V. 1, to hire ; 2, to serve for a wage Feg, fig Fegs, interj. faith I Feir, fere, n, companion Fend, to provide for oneself Ferly, wonder Fey, ha\"ing a presentiment of approaching death or calamity Fidgin'-fain, restless with ex- pectation Fient, fiend; "the fient a body," {coll.) devil a one ¥\&vt,'ad]. proud? Fr. fier File, V. defile Find (sometimes) to feel Fire-end, fire-side Flee, n. flee, to "let a (parti- cular) flee stick to the wa'," to drop a subject in cuiiver- sation Fleeching, flattery Fleg, fley, frighten Fleuk, 11. flounder Flow, n. a small quantity Flvte, V. scold Fock, folk Forbye, besides Forenent, in front of Forgather, v. to meet and enter into conversation Fotties, stockings without feet. — Jamieson Fouk, folk Fremmit, strange, foreign Frore, fro'zen Fuff, V. blow, pulf GAB, mouth Gabbing, prating, chatting Gaff, a landing-net with s Diked handle Gait, gate, way Gang, go Gar, compel, cause Gaucy, gawsy, adj. 1, plump ; 2, stately Gaun, going Geek, deride Genty, neat, graceful Gif, if Gin, 1, if ; 2, against (in rela- tion to time) Girn, grin, make sour faces, grin in anger Glaive, sword Glede, gleid, spark Glent, 71. or v. glint Gley'd, squint-eyed Gliss, pret. glist, shine, glitter Gloaming, twilight Glower, v. or n. frown, stare Glimch, a sour look Go wan, daisy Gowd, gold eiowk, 1, the cuckoo ; 2, a fool tJradden, scorched grain Giaith, apparatus of whatever kind GLOSSARY. 321 Gree, superiority, "the prize" Greet, weep, pret. grat Grene, to long for Grit, adj. great Gudeman, master of a house Guclewife, " the mistress" Gurley, stormy Gutcher, grandfather HADDEN, haudin', holding (agricultural) Haffit, the side of the head Hairst, harvest Haith, a minced oath.— Jamieson Hale-scart, adj. and adv. with- out a scratch Hallowmas, the Feast of All Souls Hap, V. wrap, cover up, en- fold Happer, hopper (of a mill) Harnisine, harness, armour Haud, V. hold Haugh, low-lying level pas- ture ground generally by a river Hawse, throat Heartsome, merry Hecht, V. promise, pret. hecht or height Heese, n. a lift Heicht, height Hen, V. "show the white feather " Hie, adj. high Hirple, v. halt, limp Hirsel, a flock of sheep Hogmanay, 1, the last day of the year; 2, the entertain- ment, or gift, given to a visitor on that day Hollin, holly Holm, hown, low level ground beside a river Horn, drinking-horn Hout, interj. tut ! Howe, n. hollow, "the howe o' the year," the depth of winter Huik, hook, reaping-hook Huraple, V. denoting the hurried walk of age and stiffness Hund, V. to set on Hurry-burry, "hurly-burly" Hyne, hence ILK, ilka, each, every Ingle, fireside ; ingle-neuk, chimney-corner JAUD, jade Jaup, bespatter with mud Jeel, jelly Jimp, jimpy, slender Jink, V. 1, to elude a person who is trying to lay hold of one ; 2, to move nimbly, dance Jorram, a slow and melan- choly song Jouk, V. bend Jow, V. toll Jupe, mantle, coat KAIL-WORM, caterpillar Karae, n. or v. comb Keckling, cackling Keek, v. peep Kemp, 1, strife, contest ; 2, champion Kenna-what, " I don't know what" Kent, shepherd's staflF Kep, V. catch, keep Kill, n. kiln S12 522 GLOSSARY. Kiltit, kilted, girt or tucked up Kintra-side, country-side Kim, n. and v. churn Kirn, harvest-home Kist. n. chest Kittle, V. tickle, adj. ticklish Knicht, knight Knoit, 72. a smart stroke Knowe, knoll, hillock Kurtch, a kerchief worn in- stead of a cap Kye, n. {pi. of coo) cows, kine LAIGH, low Lair, lear, lore, learning Laird, master, landed pro- prietor Land-end (in reaping), the end of a rig Landwart, adj. 1, country, boorisii ; 2, in situation lying to the country (in opposi- tion to the town) (Lane), his lane, her lane, alone Langsyne, long ago Lap, or \o\x.^it,pret. of v. loup, to leap Lave, the, the rest, remainder Laverock, the lark Leal, loyal, true Leese, v. gratify, satisfy. (MotherweH's use of this word in the "Ettin o' Sil- larwood" appears to be slightly irregular) Leese me ! loes me ! an ex- clamation expressive of joy or pride in anything Leesome, happy, joyous Leglin, a wooden milking-pail Leir, v. teach Leuch, leugh, pret. of v. to laugh Licht, V. alight Lift, n. firmament Lig, V. to lie, lodge Lightly, V. slight, disparage Lightsome, pleasant, happy Lilt, V. sing blithely Lingle, shoemaker's thread Link, V. to go arm-in-arm Linn, waterfall Lintwhite, linnet Lirk, a hollow in a hill Loaning, loan, lane, path be- tween fields Loof, the palm of the hand Loon, worthless fellow, rogue Loot, -pret. of v. to let (allow) Losh ! interj. Lord ! Lounder, thrash Loup, V. leap I Lout, V. to bow down the body Lowand, flaming Lowe, 11. or v. flame LoAvn, lowne, sheltered, still (of the state of the atmo- sphere) Lowse, V. loose Lug, n. ear Lum, chimney Lunt, V. smoke (of a pipe) Lyart, hoary-headed MAE, mo'e, more 'Maist, for amaist, almost Mark, merk, an ancient Scots silver coin Marrow, mate, match Mavis, the thrush May, maiden Meat, used for food gener- ally Meid, appearance ; bearing Meikle, muckle, great, big, much Meise, v. soften GLOSSARY 323 Mense, n. manners, v. "to mense the f aught " (" Hardy- knute "),chivalrously to open the battle Menzie, followers of a chief- tain, an army Minnie, mother Mirk, dark Mirly-breasted, speckled on the breast Mool, n. mould ; mools, sods Moss, a marshy place, a place where peats may be dug Motty, full of motes Mou', mouth Muir, muirland, moor, moor- land Murlain, fish-basket Mutch, n. cap Mutter, n. the miller's due for grinding grain NAIG, n, a hack Nappy, n. ale ; adj. tipsy Neb, the bill of a bird ; jocosely the nose Neist, next Nicher, v. neigh Nieve, fist Nievefu', handful ORRA, odd (unmatched) Ower, owre, outowre, over Owsen, oxen PAIRTRICK, partridge Pang, V. cram Pap, V. to move with a quick and unexpected motion. — Jamieson. ' ' Pop ' ' Parritch, porridge Pawky, shrewd, sly Pawmies, palmies, schoolboy's name for blows on the hand with a cane or tawse Pearlins, women's ornaments Peerie, top (toy) Philabeg, kilt Pibroch, a Highland air (generally martial music) Pickle, a small quantity Pirn, yarn wound on a reed Plack, an ancient Scots coin equal in value to a third of Id. English Plainstones, pavement Plenishing, n. furniture Plet, plaited Pleugh, n. or v. plough Pliver, plover Poortith, poverty Pouch, pocket Pouther, n. or v. powder Pow, head, poll Pree, v. taste Preen, n. pin Provost, the Chief Magistrate of a Royal Borough Puddling, restless Puir, poor Pyot, magpie (a bird which, like the raven, was deemed of ill omen) QUAT, V. quit Quern, Eng. a hand-mill for grinding grain RACKIT, V. pret. stretched Rae, roe-deer Rake, v. range Rashes, n. pi. rushes Rave, irreg. i)ret. of v. to rive Rax, V. reach Reavilt, ravelled Redd, V. clear, tidy, rid Rede, adj. fierce, furious Rede, reid, tell Reesle, a loud clattering Reever, robber 324 GLOSSARY. Reid, adj. red Ri'en, riven Rig, n. ridge, a line of corn- land Ringle-ee, wall-eye Risp, V. 1, to rub hard bodies together ; 2, to produce the sound caused by the friction of hard hoAiQs.—Jamieson Rock, spinning-wheel Routh, 11. plenty Row, rowe, v. roll, envelope Rowan, the mountain ash Rug, V. pull roughly Runkled, wrinkled SAIN, V. bless Sair, adj. sore ; adv. very Sark, shirt, chemise Sauf, t'. save Saugh, willow Saur, V. savour Saut, salt Scart, V. scratch ; to " scart the buttons," among boys to challenge to fight Schule, n. school Score, n. and v. to "draw a score," to draw a line "above the breath" of a person suspected of sorcery, which was supposed to be a charm against his power Scorn, V. rally, jeer Scroggy, thorny, briery Scug, V. ward, or keep, off Scunner, shudder at, recoil from Seenil, adj. rare ; adv. seldom Seim, n. appearance Set, V. fix Sev, V. 1, make trial of; 2, sit? Shaw, V. to show ; n. a small wood Shear, v. used in Scots for to reap corn Sheen, for schene, 1, shining ; 2, beautiful Shiel, V. to fold sheep Shieling, n. (shielding) shel- ter, hut Shoon, n. pi. shoes Shuire, pret. of v. to shear, reap Shynand, shining. (The old termination of the present participle is in and) Siclike, of the same kind Siller, silver ; hence, money Sin, sen, since Sinder, v. separate Sindle, seldom Sinsyne, since then " Sit yer wa's down," " Sit ye down " Skail, scatter, disperse Skair, skar, v. to take fright Skaith, skai thing, n. hurt Skelp, V. 1, beat; 2, move quickly Skiff, V. skim Skime, n. "the glance of re- flected \\fi\it."—Jamieson Skirl, V. cry shrilly, sing vociferously Sklent, n. or v. slant Skrunt, n. stump, scrub Slae, sloe, the fruit of the black-thorn Slae-black, black as a sloe Slae-thorn, the black-thorn Sleuth, slothful Slipnialabor, also clipmala- bor, lazy worker Sma', small Smiddy, smithy Snood, a fillet by which a woman's hair is confined GLOSSARY. m Socht, pret. of v. to seek Sodger, soldier Soom, V. swim Soop, V. sweep Soot, suet Sough, sugh, 1, 11. or v. sigh or whistle (of the wind); 2, n. stroke Soup, n. a small draught of liquor, a sup Spate, a flood Speel, climb Speer, speir, v. seek to know Spelder, v. spread open, stretch Spence, the inner apartment of a country house.— JamiV- son Spring, a quick and cheerful tune on a musical instru- ment Stapple, the stalk of a tobacco- pipe Starn, star Steek, n. stitch Steek, V. close Steer, v. touch, injure ; n. disturbance Steeve, adj. firm, stiff Stey, adj. steep Stirk, a bullock or heifer Stirrah, a lad Stook, a shock of corn Stoorie, sturdy Stound, 71. pang Stoup, V. stoop Stoupe, a prop Stour, n. dust in motion ; hence, disturbance Stoure, adj. 1, big ; 2, austere Stoussie, a strong, healthy child Stown, stolen Strae, straw Streamers, The, the Aurora Borealis Streek, streik, v. stretch Sturaple, V. hobble Sturt, 11. anger Swaird, sward Swarf, V. swoon Swith, quickly Syne, then, afterwards, since ; lang syne, long ago TAE, adj. only Tale-pyet, tale-bearer Tane, The, one ; generally, one of two Tappit, crested ; tappit-hen, Scots quart measure, so called from a knob on the lid. — Miss Aitkca Tattie, potato Tawse, a leathern instrument in use in schools for admin- istering correction Teat (teats o' woo"), "small parcels of wool " Tent, V. 1, tend, care for; 2, heed ; n. heed Teugh, tough ; pertinacious Thae, those The-day, to-day Thegither, together Theik, v. thatch The-night, to-night Thocht, n. thought ; or pret. of V. to think Thole, endure Thowless, nerveless Thrang, n. crowd, throng Thraw, v. twist, n. throe Thrawart, across ; "head and thrawart," in a state of dis- order, higgledy-piggledy Threep, v. to aver with per- tinacity, insist Thvetty, thirty 8 1 2* 326 GLOSSARY. Throssil, throstle, the thrush Thrum, v. to purr ; " the cat's singing grey thrums," an allusion to the popular say- ing that a purring cat re- peats the words " Three thrums," i.e., ends of weavers' threads Till, (sometimes) to Tine, tyne, ■pret. tint, 1, lose ; 2, perish Tirl, V. 1, twirl; *'tirl the sneck," twirl the latch (of a door) ; 2, tap Titty, sister Tocher, marriage-portion Tod, fox To-fall (of the day), evening Toit, vex Tole, '■. (Eng. obsolete), allure, entice Tongue-tackit, tongue-tied Toom, V. to empty, ad), empty Toun, 1, town ; 2, a farm steading, or small collection of buildings; 3, a single house Touzie, adj. tousled Towmont, twelvemonth Town, used of the buildings of a farm Trig, ad), neat, trim Trinkle, trickle Trow, V. trust, believe Tryst, 1, an appointment to meet ; 2, a fair Twa, two Twa-three, "two or three" Twasome, adj. used as n. two in company, a couple Tyke, dog UNCO, adv. very, particularly Unsonsie, unlucky Unyirthly, unearthly WA', 71.. wall Wab, web Wae, n. woe ; adj. sorrowful Wae's me ! wae's my heart ! waesucks ! exclamations ex- pressive of sorrow or distress Wair, V. spend Wale, V. choose, n. choice Wallow, wither, fade ; wallow- it, form of pant jmrt. Wamble, v. to move in an un- dulating manner. — Jamieson Wame, belly Wanwordy, unworthy Warlock, wizard Warsle, wrestle Wauchie, sallow and greasy. — Jamieson Waukrife, wakeful Waur, worse Wean, n. child ; schule-wean, school-child Wear, v. to ward off, scare Wede, weeded Weel-faured, weU-favoured Weir, n. war Weird, n. doom Westlin, westerly Whiles, sometimes, at times Whommle, v. overturn Whup, whip WhussUt, whistled Wight, adj. strong, powerful Wild-fire, lightning Wimple, V. flow softly Win, gain (in travel), arrive at Winsome, winning, attrac- tive Wizen, weasand Won, V. dwell Wow ! interj. denoting sur- prise, grief, or gratification GLOSSARY. 327 Wraith, the phantasm of a person either recently dead or about to die* Wud, V. would Wyse, wyse awa', v. entice YADE, an old mare Yaird, garden Yeldrin, the yellowharamer Yestreen, yester even Yett, gate Yill, ale Youtheid, youth Yowe, ewe * The "water-wraith" is a poetical term for the kelpie, or spirit of the waters, who, as was vulgarly believed, gave pre- vious intimation of deaths by drowning THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE. 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