SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.
 
 rublishcd ly 
 WILLIAM HODGE & Co., Glasgow 
 
 WILLIAMS & NOKOATE, London and Edinburgh
 
 Hbbotsforfc Series 
 
 of tbe 
 
 Scotttsb ipoets 
 
 Edited by GEORGE EYRE-TODD 
 
 SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY 
 
 VOLUME I 
 
 LORD YESTER LADY GRIZEL HAILLIE LADY WARDLAW 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF GILBERTFIELD SIR JOHN 
 CLERK ALLAN RAMSAY ROBERT CRAWFORD - 
 ROBERT BLAIR THE AUTHOR OF ALBANIA- ALEX- 
 ANDER ROSS JAMES THOMSON- DAVID MALLET- 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR ALEXANDER 
 WEBSTER GEORGE HALKET ALISON RUTHERFORD- 
 JOHN WILSON SIR GILBERT ELLIOT TOBIAS 
 SMOLLETT ADAM SKIKVING WILLIAM WILKIE - 
 THOMAS BLACKLOCK JOHN SKINNER JOHN HOME- 
 JEAN ELLIOT-JOHN LAPRAIK WILLIAM FALCONER- 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE 
 
 LONDON AND EDINBURGH 
 SANDS & COMPANY
 
 Cotteg* 
 
 Library 
 
 K/ 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 IN compiling these pages use has been made of a 
 number of valuable, if partial, collections, such as 
 Leyden's Scottish Descriptive Poems, Chambers's 
 Songs of Scotland prior to Burns, Paterson's 
 Ayrshire Contemporaries of Burns, Walker's Bards 
 of Bon-Accord, and Harper's Bards of Galloway, 
 to say nothing of the collections of the eighteenth 
 century itself Ramsay's Evergreen and Tea-Table 
 Miscellany, Herd's Collection, and Johnson's Scots 
 Musical Museum, &c. Independent biographies, 
 contemporary records, and original publications by 
 the poets themselves have, however, in most cases 
 been available. 
 
 In order to furnish, what has not existed hitherto, 
 a comprehensive anthology of the eighteenth century 
 poetry of Scotland, and to render the bead-roll of 
 the poets as complete as possible, it has been found 
 necessary to extend the work to two volumes.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, i 
 
 LORD VESTER, 9 
 
 Tweedside, ........ 9 
 
 LADY GRIZEL BAILLIE, 11 
 
 " Werena my heart licht I wad dee," ... 12 
 
 "The Ewe-buchtin's bonnie," .... '14 
 
 LADY WARDLAW, 15 
 
 Hardyknute, ....... 17 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF GILBERTFIELD, ... 30 
 
 The Last Dying Words of Bonnie Heck, . . 31 
 
 SIR JOHN CLERK, 35 
 
 O Merry may the Maid be, . . . . 35 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY, 38 
 
 Elegy on Maggie Johnston, ..... 41 
 
 Patie's Song, . 46 
 
 Peggy and Jenny (The Gentle Shepherd, Sc. //. ), 48 
 
 Epistle to William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, . 57
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY continued. ,, Al . E 
 
 Lochaber no More, ...... 62 
 
 The Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, . . 63 
 
 Up in the Air, 65 
 
 The Widow, 67 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD 68 
 
 Tweedside, 69 
 
 The Bush Abune Traquair, . . . . . 71 
 
 Doun the Burn, Davie, ..... 73 
 
 ROBERT BLAIR, 75 
 
 The Grave, 76 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF ALBANIA, 82 
 
 Albania, ........ 82 
 
 ALEXANDER Ross, 87 
 
 Wooed and Married and A', .... 88 
 
 Wooed and Married and A', .... 92 
 
 The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow, ... 94 
 
 JAMES THOMSON, 98 
 
 Winter, 101 
 
 The Castle of Indolence, 113 
 
 DAVID MALLET, 116 
 
 William and Margaret, . . . . . 118 
 
 Rule Britannia, . . . . . . . 121 
 
 The Birks of Invermay, . . . . . 123 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANV.OUR, . . . . 124 
 
 Song, 126 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow, . . . . . . 127
 
 CONTENTS. x, 
 
 I'AUE 
 
 ALEXANDER WEBSTER, 133 
 
 O, How Could I Venture, . . . . . 133 
 
 GEORUE HALKET, 135 
 
 Logic o' Buchan, 135 
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD, 137 
 
 Lines to Mr. Walter Scott, 138 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, . . . . . 140 
 
 JOHN WILSON, 141 
 
 Clyde, 142 
 
 SIR GILBERT ELLIOT, 148 
 
 My Sheep I Neglected, ..... 148 
 
 TOBIAS SMOLLETT, 150 
 
 The Tears of Scotland, . . . . . 152 
 
 Ode to Leven Water, . . . . . . 155 
 
 ADAM SKIRVING, 157 
 
 Johnnie Cope, . . . . . . . 158 
 
 WILLIAM WILKIE, 160 
 
 The Death of Hercules, . , . . . 160 
 
 THOMAS BLACKLOCK, 172 
 
 On Euanthe's Absence, . . . . . 173 
 Happy Marriage, ..... .175 
 
 JOHN SKINNER, ........ 176 
 
 Tullochgorum, . . . . . . . 177 
 
 The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn, . . . 181 
 
 JOHN HOME, . ...... 185 
 
 Douglas, 187
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JEAN ELLIOT, 204 
 
 The Flowers o' the Forest, 205 
 
 JOHN LAPRAIK, 207 
 
 When I upon thy Bosom lean, .... 208 
 
 WILLIAM FALCONER, 209 
 
 The Smiling Plains, . . . . . . 210 
 
 The Shipwreck, . . . . . . . 211 
 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE, .... 224 
 
 The Sailor's Wife, ...... 226 
 
 Cumnor Hall, . ..... 229
 
 SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 IT has been the fashion since the time of 
 Scott and Byron and Wordsworth to look 
 with something of disdain upon the English 
 poetry of the days of Queen Anne and the 
 early Georges. Nor is this disdain altogether 
 without good reason. The poetic splendours 
 of the Stuart period, the most glorious in the 
 annals of English letters, appear to have flushed 
 and paled in curious unison with the fortunes 
 of the Stuart kings.* The exuberant blaze of 
 imagination which followed the accession of 
 James I., and spread to its widest in the 
 
 * Curiously enough, the great period of English genius is always 
 termed Elizabethan, though the only great literary reputations 
 which belong strictly to the reign of the Tudor queen are those 
 of Spenser and Marlowe. Shakespeare, it is true, the greatest 
 spirit of all, produced his earlier plays in Elizabeth's time ; 
 but " Hamlet " appeared in the year of James First's accession, 
 and more than a dozen of the plays came afterwards. The 
 works of Bacon, Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, 
 Ford, Webster, and Shirley all the Shakespearean dramatists 
 and poets, in fact belong to the days of James I. and 
 Charles I. ; while the metaphysical and cavalier poets, with 
 the great names of Milton and Butler and Bunyan, all came 
 later, also within Stuart times. 
 
 B VI
 
 2 SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE 
 
 days of Charles, died down, strangely, as if 
 extingufshed, at the death of the latter mon- 
 arch. Twelve years later, at the Stuart 
 Restoration, the smouldering embers of national 
 genius flashed again into fire " Paradise Lost," 
 " Hudibras," and the " Pilgrim's Progress " 
 appeared, and there was a rekindling of Shakes- 
 pearean drama in the works of Wycherley 
 and Congreve, Otway and Lee. All this, 
 however, was finally quenched at the Revolution 
 in 1688; and the death of Dryden in the year 
 1700 severed the last link with a greater age. 
 
 Towards the close of the seventeenth century 
 the standard of poetic merit in England had 
 become one of intellect rather than of emotion. 
 Head, as in all periods of poetic decadence, 
 had taken the place of heart, and manner had 
 come to be of more esteem than matter. 
 For the glow of passion was substituted the 
 brilliance of wit, and instead of the fire of 
 creative imagination there remained only the 
 play of a keenly critical but cold fancy. Poetry, 
 further, fell into a classic mode which was entirely 
 artificial and affected. The poet's mistress was 
 no longer a simple English girl, but, like the 
 court beauties of the time, masquerading in 
 patches and powder and paste, must figure as a 
 make-believe Chloris or Chloe or Phillis. In 
 the verse of the period, Wordsworth has noted,
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 3 
 
 there does not for several decades appear a 
 single new simile drawn directly from nature ; 
 and some critics, like Professer Veitch, have 
 been tempted to include the entire work of 
 the "correct school," as it is called, in one 
 sweeping condemnation of heartlessness and 
 conventionalism. Whether such condemnation 
 be wholly justified or not, one fact may be 
 remarked. The poetic ideals of the early 
 decades of the eighteenth century, the period 
 in question, were wrought to their finest issue 
 by the genius of Addison, Swift, and Pope, and 
 the verse of these writers " The Campaign " 
 and " Cato," " Baucis and Philemon " and " The 
 Grand Question Debated," the " Essay on 
 Criticism " and the " Essay on Man " despite 
 its brilliance of wit and rhetoric, and the high 
 esteem in which it was held in its own day, 
 is hardly now read except by students of 
 literature. 
 
 It was to Scotland that the first inspiration 
 of greater things was to be owed. There, an 
 interesting succession of events had cleared 
 the way for a new beginning. A hundred 
 years earlier, in the end of the sixteenth 
 century, the stern Calvinism of Knox and the 
 Reformers had succeeded in choking the copious 
 ancient stream of national poesy. Lyndsay and 
 Maitland, James V. and Alexander Scot and
 
 4 SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE 
 
 Alexander Montgomerie were without legitimate 
 successors. Next, the removal of the court 
 to London in 1603 had turned the genius of 
 the north into an exotic vein, and for fifty 
 years Scotsmen like Sir William Alexander, 
 Drummond of Hawthornden, and the Marquis 
 Montrose, wrote on an English model and in 
 the English tongue. Then, amid the political 
 troubles of the country, had come a pause the 
 air was too stormy for the bird of poesy to 
 take wing. 
 
 It was late in the evening of the seventeenth 
 century that, as in the first nights of spring, 
 the sweet new singing began to be heard. Out 
 of the simple old folk-songs and ballads of 
 Scotland the lilts that had been crooned over 
 cradle and spinning wheel, and the rude lays 
 of battle and love that had lingered for ages 
 in the memory of the people came the first 
 inspiration of the new world of song. Francis 
 Semple gave the sign, with his " Piper of 
 Kilbarchan " and other pieces, of a return to 
 native and natural themes. But the more 
 general note was struck later. Lord Yester 
 and Lady Grizel Baillie were the real leaders 
 of those who, singing of humble love and sorrow, 
 went back to the old, simple wells of human 
 nature for their subject. A few years after 
 Lord Yester's time, James Watson and Allan
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 5 
 
 Ramsay gathered and published their collections 
 of popular minstrelsy. Then Ramsay's own 
 " Gentle Shepherd " appeared. This at once 
 struck the keynote of the new natural and 
 romantic movement in poetry. From that 
 period, though Pope and the brilliant con- 
 stellation of his followers continued, in shining 
 rhetoric and sparkling wit, to write of "nymphs" 
 and " cupids " and " the fair," to apostrophise 
 the winds as " zephyrs " and the heart as " the 
 vital urn," there was growing in Scotland a 
 sincerer school Thomson was painting winter 
 as he actually knew it on Teviotside ; Hamilton 
 of Bangour and John Home were drawing 
 story and inspiration alike direct from the old 
 narrative ballads ; and Jean Elliot and Isobel 
 Pagan were singing sweetly of Flodden Field 
 and love among the hills. 
 
 It is true that Pope was not without a fol- 
 lowing among Scotsmen in the eighteenth 
 century. The names of Smollett, and Falconer 
 are enough to prove the fact. But the main 
 current of Scottish poetry ran in the fresher, 
 more natural channel. Ramsay, with his 
 humour and warmth of colour, his burnside 
 scenery and pictures of shepherd life among the 
 Pentlands, was succeeded by Robert Fergusson 
 with his "Farmer's Ingle" and " Tron Kirk 
 Bell"; and all the world knows how from these
 
 6 SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE 
 
 two poets the mantle descended upon a greater 
 than either, Robert Burns. 
 
 Two currents are to be traced in the new 
 poetic movement which originated at the begin- 
 ning of the eighteenth century. Both departed 
 definitely from the artificial and formal manner 
 of the " Augustan " poets, and each took its way 
 through a real world of living sight and sound ; 
 but while one ran in a channel among the 
 simple and familiar, though beautiful, objects of 
 ordinary life, the other followed a wilder and 
 more daring course. The latter, the romantic 
 movement, is to be traced from its well-head in 
 ancient national ballads like "Gil Morice" and 
 " The Douglas Tragedy," through works like 
 John Home's "Douglas" and the Ossianic trans- 
 lations of Macpherson, to its culmination in the 
 superb productions of Scott. The other, the 
 movement of the " natural school " of poetry, 
 followed what has always been a characteristic 
 of Scottish genius, the love of wild nature and 
 the love of colour. Descending through the 
 descriptive "Seasons" of Thomson and the verse 
 of a dozen song-writers, it found its most vivid 
 expression in the glowing word-pictures and 
 passionate lyrics of the Ayrshire bard, and left 
 its mark unmistakably on English letters in the 
 poetry of Wordsworth. 
 
 Perhaps the genesis of these two schools is to
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY. ^ 
 
 be traced back to a much earlier period than the 
 beginning of the eighteenth century, but it is 
 enough here to note that, while the "natural" 
 school seems to have derived its inspiration 
 chiefly from the ancient lyrical and reflective 
 poetry of Scotland, the romantic movement 
 appears to have been the lineal inheritor of the 
 more restless and adventurous spirit of the 
 makers of the ancient narrative ballads. 
 
 One point further cannot escape the notice 
 of the reader of eighteenth century Scottish 
 poetry. Whatever the verse of the period may 
 have owed in the way of inspiration or sugges- 
 tion to the ancient ballads of the country, the 
 century was not itself one of ballad produc- 
 tion. Save for a few avowed imitations of the 
 ancient style, like "Sir James the Rose," "The 
 Braes of Yarrow," "William and Margaret," and 
 "Hardyknute," and the somewhat doubtfully 
 dated composition, "The Queen's Marie," there is 
 no narrative ballad to be attributed to the time. 
 Ballads had been the natural outcome of an age 
 of rude action, and that age was past. With a 
 more orderly state of society had come a feeling 
 for the finer things of life, and that feeling found 
 expression in the true vehicle of emotion song. 
 A few sweet extant lyrics may doubtless be 
 attributed to an earlier day, and more recent 
 years have not been without their tender and
 
 8 SCOTTISH POETRY. 
 
 noble productions ; but the eighteenth century, 
 with the wealth of heart's melody which it 
 poured forth, seems likely to remain for all 
 time the song-century of Scotland. 
 
 Altogether, alike for the variety and for the 
 richness of its poetic flower, the period remains 
 in striking contrast with the same period in 
 England certainly the fullest of emotional 
 charm of all the epochs of the nation's muse.
 
 LORD YESTER. 
 
 1646-1713. 
 
 John Hay, tenth Lord Vester, third Earl and second Marquis 
 of Tweeddale, was, in the times of William III. and Queen Anne, 
 best known as an active politician. He married the only 
 daughter of the famous Duke of Lauderdale, and seems to have 
 inherited, along with that nobleman's great wealth, no small 
 part of his influence in the state. At the head of the party 
 known as the Squadrone Volante, he took a large share in 
 effecting the union of the kingdoms. Macky, who wrote in the 
 beginning of the iSth century, mentions him as " a short brown 
 man," very modest, but hot when piqued, a great promoter of 
 the trade and welfare of his country. His single known com- 
 position, which is highly praised by Veitch as "the earliest 
 remaining Tweeddale song," was printed first by Herd in 1776. 
 Its air, which, like several others, has been attributed to David 
 Rizzio, is given by Chambers in his Songs of Scotland prior to 
 Burns. It was adopted by Gay for one of the lyrics in his 
 opera of "Polly" in 1729. Xeidpath Castle, near Peebles, 
 which then belonged to the family, was probably the scene of 
 the song. 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 WHEN Maggie and I were acquaint 
 
 I carried my noddle fu' hie ; 
 Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain, 
 
 Nae gowdspink 1 sae happy as me. -goldfinch. 
 
 But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed, 
 
 I wooed, but I cam' nae great speed : 
 So now I maun wander abroad, 
 
 And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.
 
 LORD YESTER. 
 
 To Maggie my love I did tell, 
 
 Saut tears did my passion express ; 
 Alas ! for I lo'ed her o'enveel, 
 
 And the women lo'e sic a man less. 
 Her heart it \vas frozen and cauld, 
 
 Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
 Therefore I will wander abroad, 
 
 And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.
 
 LADY GRIZEl. DAILI.IE. 
 
 LADY GRIZEL BAILLIE. 
 
 1665-1746. 
 
 One of the most romantic and best known incidents of the 
 times of persecution in Scotland is that of the hiding and escape 
 of Sir Patrick Hume of Marchmont. Hume had been con- 
 cerned in the intrigues against the succession of the Catholic 
 Duke of York, and on that prince's ascent to the throne as 
 James VII., lay in peril of his life. Strict search was made for 
 him, but without success. His first place of concealment was 
 the family vault in Polwarth Kirk. Here, night after night, 
 braving kirkyard bogles and other terrors, his daughter Grizel 
 brought him such provisions as she was able to abstract without 
 the notice of the servants. Amid the darkness of the charnel- 
 house, he beguiled the hours by repeating to himself George 
 Buchanan's Latin version of the Psalms. Afterwards he lay in a 
 pit which Grizel with her own hands dug for him under a bed on 
 the ground-Moor of their house ; and at last he escaped abroad. 
 During their exile Grizel appears to have been the mainstay of 
 the impoverished household cooking, cleaning, mending, and 
 going to mill and market. This, too, while she had anxieties 
 enough of her own; for her lover, George Baillie of Jerviswood, 
 to whom she was deeply attached, lay also under ban of 
 the Government. After the Revolution, however, she had her 
 reward. The exiles then returned home, her father, after hold- 
 ing some of the highest offices of state under King William, was 
 created Earl of Marchmont, and in 1692 she herself was married 
 to the man of her heart. 
 
 Her daughter, Lady Murray of Stanhope, has told the story of 
 her life in a memoir published in 1822. It is repeated also with 
 historical details, in Tytler's Worthies. Lady Murray possessed 
 a MS. volume in which Grizel, during the exile in Holland, had 
 been accustomed to set down the songs she composed. Only 
 two of these pieces, however, are now known to exist. " Werena 
 my heart licht " was printed first in Ramsay's Tea-Table Mis- 
 cellany and the Orpheus Caledonins. It has been praised as one 
 of the most pathetic ballads in the language, and its eighth and 
 ninth stanzas acquire a further interest from the fact that Burns
 
 12 LADY GRIZEL BAILLIE. 
 
 applied them to his own forlorn condition in his last sad days at 
 Dumfries. li The Ewe-buchtin's bonnie '' was first printed on a 
 broadsheet by C. K. Sharpe, with an air composed for it by his 
 father at the age of seven. To this fragment eight additional 
 stanzas were added by Thomas Pringle in the beginning of the 
 present century, and the whole together forms the well-known 
 song. Both pieces with their airs are printed in Chambers' 
 Songs of Scotland prior to Burns. 
 
 "WERENA MY HEART LIGHT I 
 WAD DEE." 
 
 THERE was ance a may, and she lo'ed na men ; 
 'built. See biggit 1 her bonnie bouir doun i' yon glen; 
 
 But now she cries Dule and a well-a-day ! 
 a path. Come doun the green gate 2 and come here away. 
 
 When bonnie young Johnnie cam' ower the sea 
 He said he saw naething sae bonnie as me ; 
 3 promised. He hecht 3 me baith rings and monie braw things; 
 And werena my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 4 sister. He had a wee tittie 4 that lo'ed na me, 
 
 Because I was twice as bonnie as she : 
 She raised sic a pother 'twixt him and his mother, 
 That werena my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 The day it was set and the bridal to be 
 s sudden illness. The wife took a dwam 5 and lay doun to dee; 
 
 She maned, and she graned, out o' dolour and pain, 
 Till he vowed that he ne'er wad see me again.
 
 "WERENA MY HEART LIGHT." 13 
 
 His kin was for ane o' a higher degree, 
 Said, what had he to do wi' the like o' me? 
 Albeit I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie : 
 And werena my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 They said I had 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 tittie she was baith wily 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 bannet stood aye fu' round on his brow 
 His auld ane looked aye as weel as some's new ; 
 But now he lets ; t wear ony gate 1 it will hing, ' wa v- 
 And casts himsel' dowie upon the corn-bing. 
 
 And now he gaes drooping about the dykes 
 And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes 2 ; "' dogs - 
 
 The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks3 his e'e ; 3 doses. 
 
 And werena my heart licht I wad dee. 
 
 Were I young for thee as I ha'e been 
 
 We should ha'e been gallopin' doun on yon green, 
 
 And linkin' it-* on the lily-white lea: 4 going arm-in - 
 
 And wow gin I were but young for thee ! 
 
 arm.
 
 14 LADY GKIZEL BAILLIE. 
 
 "THE EWE-BUCHTIN'S BONNIE." 
 
 ewe-folding. THE ewe-buchtin's ' bonnie, baith e'enin' and morn, 
 When our blithe shepherds play on the bog-reed 
 
 and horn ; 
 While we're milking, they're lilting, baith pleasant 
 
 and clear ; 
 But my heart's like to break when I think on my 
 
 dear. 
 
 O the shepherds take pleasure to blow on the horn, 
 To raise up their flocks o' sheep soon i' the morn; 
 On the bonnie green banks they feed pleasant and 
 
 free, 
 But alas, my dear heart, all my sighing's for thee!
 
 I.ADY IV A Km. AW. 15 
 
 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 1677-1727. 
 
 The earliest and in some respects most curious of the 
 literary mysteries for which the eighteenth century remains 
 notorious was that concerning the authorship of the ba'.lad of 
 Ilardyknute. This composition, then, as now, a fragment, 
 was published by James Watson at Edinburgh in 1719 in a neat 
 folio edition of twelve pages. An apparently earlier, but 
 undated and less finished, copy is known to have been in the 
 possession of the well-known editor, David Laing. Regarding 
 the piece Lady Wardlaw of Pitreavie told a romantic story. She 
 had discovered it, she said, written on some shreds of paper 
 used for the bottoms of weaving clues. The statement was 
 accepted in good faith, the ballad was hailed as a genuine 
 antique poem by men of taste like Lord President Forbes and 
 Elliot of Minto, the Lord Justice-Clerk, and was included by 
 Allan Ramsay in his Evergreen in 1724, among the "poems 
 wrote by the ingenious before 1600. " In doing this, Ramsay 
 took the liberty of altering the orthography to restore it, as he 
 supposed, to something like its original antique shape. 
 
 So the matter stood till 1767. As a contemporary account of 
 an episode of the battle of Largs fought in 1263, "Ilardy- 
 knute " was looked upon as the oldest extant historical ballad in 
 the Scots tongue, taking precedence in this respect of "Sir 
 Patrick Spens." But in 1767 Lord Hailes communicated a new 
 piece of information for the second edition of Percy's Reliqzies. 
 Certain critics, it appeared, had doubted the antiquity of the 
 work. In consequence Lady Wardlaw had been questioned, 
 had admitted the authorship, and, to put the matter beyond 
 doubt, had added two fresh concluding stanzas. 
 
 The question, nevertheless, did not rest here. In his Scottish 
 Tragic Ballads in 1781, Pinkerton printed an amended version 
 of the ballad, including a second part which completed the story. 
 For this version and the conclusion he avowed indebtedness 
 to "the memory of a Lady in Lanarkshire."' Later, in his 
 Select Scottish Ballads (1783) and in his Ancient Scottish Poems 
 (1786), this unscrupulous editor admitted the added second part 
 to be his own composition, but regarding the original poem he 
 made a new statement upon the authority of an alleged communi- 
 cation of Lord Hales. The new story was that Sir John Bruce 
 of Kinross, in a letter to Lord Binning, had narrated his rinding 
 of the MS. in an old vault in Dunfermline, and, desiring to
 
 1 6 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 screen his own connection with the fragment, had induced Lady 
 Wardlaw to become its foster-parent. Pinkerton's new statement 
 was accepted, apparently without question, by Bishop Percy, and, 
 accordingly, in the fourth edition of the Reliques, " Hardy - 
 knute " is attributed directly to Sir John Bruce. These con- 
 flicting statements appear to have left some doubt in the mind 
 even of the historian of Scottish poetry, Dr. Irving. 
 
 It was not till the year 1830 that the question was finally 
 cleared up. Among Pinkerton's correspondence, then published, 
 appeared a letter from Lord Hailes, dated December 2, 1785, 
 explicitly disavowing the new statement to which his name had 
 been attached, and reasserting the authorship of Lady Wardlaw. 
 
 Lord Hailes was of opinion that the ballad had been founded 
 on some antique fragment, and he quoted a statement of 
 Thomson, the editor of the Orpheus Caledoniiis of 1733, that he 
 had heard parts of it repeated in his infancy, before Lady 
 Wardlaw's copy was heard of. But against these considerations 
 there exists the explicit statement of Lady Wardlaw's daughter 
 that her mother was the author of the ballad, and from the 
 internal evidence of the composition itself it is impossible now 
 to believe that any part of it is ancient. 
 
 Whatever may be thought of the method of its introduction 
 to the public, there can be little doubt of the considerable merit 
 of the ballad itself, though it must always appear somewhat 
 affected and faint in colour beside folk-songs of more spontaneous 
 origin. Gray and Warton both praised it very highly, and 
 Irving terms it the most poetical production of its period. Sir 
 Walter Scott in his Minstrelsy called it "a most spirited and 
 beautiful imitation of the ancient ballad," and on the flyleaf of 
 his copy of Ramsay's Evergreen was found written '"Hardy- 
 knute ' was the first poem I ever learned, the last that I shall 
 forget." 
 
 Lady Wardlaw, whose Christian name was Elizabeth, was the 
 second daughter of Sir Charles Halket of Pitferran, and was 
 married in 1696 to Sir Henry Wardlaw of Pitreavie, in Fife. 
 Though Sir Charles Halket averred that she wrote other poems, 
 no further composition from her pen is known to be extant. 
 Robert Chambers, however, at one time took great critical 
 pains to show that some twenty-five of the finest Scots ballads, 
 including " Sir Patrick Spens," were of her authorship. In this 
 idea, curiously enough, he has been recently supported by 
 Professor Masson (in Edinburgh Sketches and Memories}. But 
 Chambers in a later volume abandoned the theory, and its 
 arguments have been treated as insufficient by the editors of 
 all ballad collections. 
 
 In the present pages " Hardyknute " is restored for the first 
 time to the style of the edition of 1719, of which a copy is 
 preserved in the Advocates' Library, with the addition, of course, 
 of the two final stanzas from the Evergreen. The stanzas in 
 brackets are not included in the Advocates' Library edition.
 
 HARDYKNUTE. 17 
 
 HARDYKNUTE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 STATELY slept 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 mickle wae, 
 And ay his sword tauld to their cost 
 
 He was their deadly fae. 
 
 High on a hill his castle stood, 
 
 With ha's and towers a height, 
 And goodly chambers, fair to see, 
 
 Where he lodged mony a knight. 
 His dame, sae peerless anes and fair, 
 
 For chast and beauty deemed, 
 Nae marrow had in all the land 
 
 Save Elenor the queen. 
 
 Full thirteen sons to him she bare, 
 
 All men of valour stout ; 
 In bloody fight, with sword in hand, 
 
 Nine lost their lives but l doubt. without. 
 
 c vi
 
 i8 LADY WARDLAIV. 
 
 Four yet remain, lang may they live 
 To stand by liege and land ; 
 
 High was their fame, high was their might, 
 And high was their command. 
 
 Great love they bare to Fairly fair, 
 
 Their sister saft and dear ; 
 slender. jjer girdle shaw'd her middle jimp 1 , 
 
 And gowden glist her hair. 
 What waefou wae her beauty bred ! 
 
 \Vaefou to young and auld, 
 Waefou, I trow, to kyth and kin, 
 
 As story ever tauld. 
 
 The King of Norse in summertyde, 
 
 Puffed up with power and might, 
 Landed in fair Scotland the isle 
 
 With mony a hardy knight. 
 The tidings to our good Scots King 
 
 Came as he sat at dine 
 With noble chiefs in brave Aray, 
 
 Drinking the blood-red wine. 
 
 "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 Mage, dapple-gray!" 
 
 Our good King rose and cried ; 
 " A trustier beast in all the land 
 
 A Scots King never tried.
 
 HARDYKNUTE. 19 
 
 "Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, 
 
 That lives on hill so hie, 
 To draw his sword, the dread of faes, 
 
 And haste and follow me." 
 The little page flew swift as dart 
 
 Flung by his master's arm, 
 "Come down, come down, Lord Hardyknute 
 
 And rid your king of harm." 
 
 Then red, red grew his dark-brown cheeks, 
 
 Sae did his dark-brown brow ; 
 His looks grew keen as they were wont 
 
 In dangers great to do. 
 He's ta'en a horn as green as glass, 
 
 And gi'en five sounds sae shrill 
 That trees in greenwood shook thereat, 
 
 Sae loud rang every hill. 
 
 His sons in manly sport and glee 
 
 Had passed that summer's morn, 
 When lo, down in a grassy dale, 
 
 They heard their father's horn. 
 "That horn," quo' they, "ne'er sounds in peace; 
 
 We've other sport to bide 1 ." 'attend. 
 
 And soon they hied them up the hill, 
 
 And soon were at his side. 
 
 " Late, late yestreen I weened in peace 
 
 To end my lengthened life ; 
 My age might well excuse my arm 
 
 Frae manly feats of strife ;
 
 20 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 But now that Norse does proudly boast 
 
 Fair Scotland to enthrall, 
 It's ne'er be said of Hardyknute 
 
 He feared to fight or fall. 
 
 " Robin of Rothesay, bend thy bow, 
 
 Thy arrows shoot sae leal ; 
 Mony a comely countenance 
 
 They've turned to deadly pale. 
 Braid Thomas, take ye but your lance 
 
 You need nae weapons mair ; 
 If you fight wi't as you did anes 
 
 'Gainst Westmoreland's fierce heir. 
 
 " Malcolm, light of foot as stag 
 
 That runs in forest wild, 
 Get me my thousands three of men 
 
 Well bred to sword and shield. 
 Bring me my horse and harnisine 1 , 
 
 My blade of metal clear." 
 If faes but kenn'd the hand it bare 
 
 They soon had fled for fear. 
 
 " Fareweel, my dame sae peerless good ! " 
 
 And took her by the hand ; 
 " Fairer to me in age you seem 
 
 Than maids for beauty famed. 
 My youngest son shall here remain, 
 
 To guard these stately towers, 
 And shut the silver bolt that keeps 
 
 Sae fast your painted bowers."
 
 HAKDYKNUTE. 21 
 
 And first she wet her comely cheeks 
 
 And then her bodice green, 
 Her silken chords of twirtle twist, 
 
 Well plet 1 with silver sheen 2 ; [ gaining. 
 
 And apron set with mony a dice^ i>. .lie, square 
 
 (Modern word.) 
 
 Of needlewark sae rare, 
 Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, 
 Save that of Fairly fair. 
 
 And he has ridden o'er muir and moss, 
 
 O'er hills and mony a glen, 
 When he came to a wounded knight 
 
 Making a heavy mane. 
 "Here maun 4 I lie, here maun I die *must. 
 
 By treachery's false guiles : 
 Witless I was that ere ga'e faith 
 
 To wicked Woman's smiles ! " 
 
 " Sir Knight, gin you were in my power, 
 
 To lean on silken seat, 
 My lady's kindly care you'd prove, 
 
 Who ne'er kenn'd deadly hate. 
 Herself would watch you a' the day, 
 
 Her maids a' dead of night, 
 And Fairly fair your heart would cheer, 
 
 As she stands in your sight. 
 
 ["Arise, young knight, and mount your steed, 
 
 Full lowers the shining day ; 
 Choose frae my menzie 5 whom ye please 5 following. 
 
 To lead ye on the way.''
 
 22 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 With smileless look and visage wan 
 The wounded knight replied, 
 
 " Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, 
 For here I maun abide. 
 
 " To me nae after day nor night 
 
 Can ere be sweet or fair ; 
 But soon beneath some drooping tree 
 
 Cauld death shall end my care." 
 With him nae pleading might prevail : 
 
 Brave Hardyknute, to gain, 
 With fairest words and reason strang 
 
 Strave courteously in vain.] 
 
 1 hence. Syne he has gane far hynd ' out o'er 
 
 Lord Chattan's land sae wide. 
 That lord a worthy wight was aye 
 
 When faes his courage 'sayed 
 Of Pictish race by mother's side, 
 
 When Picts ruled Caledon 
 Lord Chattan claimed the princely maid 
 
 When he saved Pictish crown. 
 
 [Now with his fierce and stalwart train 
 
 He reached a rising height 
 Where, braid encampit on the dale, 
 
 Norse army lay in sight. 
 3 comrades. " Yonder, my valiant sons and feres-, 
 
 Our raging reivers wait, 
 On the unconquered Scottish sward 
 
 To try with us their fate.
 
 HAKDYK'NUTE. 23 
 
 " Mak' orisons to him that saved 
 
 Our souls upon the rood, 
 Syne l bravely show your veins are filled ' l hcn - 
 
 With Caledonian blood. 
 Then forth he drew his trusty glaive, 
 
 While thousands all around, 
 Drawn frae their sheath, glanced in the sun, 
 
 And loud the bugles sound. 
 
 To join his king, adown the hill 
 
 In haste his march he made, 
 While, playing pibrochs, minstrels meet 
 
 Afore him stately strade. 
 "Thrice welcome, valiant stoup 2 of war, * support. 
 
 Thy nation's shield and pride ! 
 Thy king nae reason has to fear 
 
 When thou art by his side."] 
 
 When bows were bent and darts were thrawn, 
 
 For thrang scarce could they flee; 
 The darts clove arrows as they met, 
 
 The arrows dart 3 the tree. 3 struck. 
 
 Lang did they rage and fight fou fierce 
 
 With little skaith to man, 
 But bloody bloody was the field 
 
 Ere that lang day was done. 
 
 The king of Scots, that sinle brooked <* 4 seldom enjoyed. 
 
 The war that looked like play, 
 Drew his braid sword and brake his bow, 
 
 Sin' bows seemed but delay.
 
 24 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 Quoth noble Rothesay, "Mine I'll keep: 
 
 I wat it's bled a score." 
 " Haste up, my merry men," cried the king, 
 
 As he rode on before. 
 
 The Iving of Norse he sought to find, 
 begin the fight \yith him to mense the faucht 1 ; 
 
 in mannerly 
 
 fashion. But on h j s f or ehead there did light 
 
 A sharp and fatal shaft ; 
 As he his hand put up to find 
 
 The wound, an arrow keen, 
 O waefou chance ! there pinned his hand 
 
 In midst, between his een. 
 
 " Revenge, revenge!" cried Rothesay's heir, 
 
 "Your mail-coat shall na bide 
 The strength and sharpness of my dart." 
 
 Then sent it through his side. 
 Another arrow well he marked, 
 
 It pierced his neck in twa ; 
 His hands then quat the silver reins, 
 
 He low as earth did fa'. 
 
 "Sair bleeds my liege! sair, sair he bleeds!" 
 
 Again with might he drew 
 And gesture dread his sturdy bow ; 
 
 Fast the braid arrow flew. 
 * aimed at. \Vae to the Knight he ettled at 2 ! 
 
 Lament now Queen Elgreed ! 
 High dames too wail your darling's fall, 
 
 His youth and comely meed.
 
 HARD YKNUTE. 25 
 
 "Take aff, take aff his costly jupe 1 !" '* 
 
 Of gold well was it twined 2 , 
 Knit like the fowler's net through which 
 
 His steely harness shined. 
 "Take, Norse, that gift frae me, a.nd bid 
 
 Him venge the blood it bears; 
 Say, if he face my bended bow 
 
 He sure nae weapon fears." 
 
 Proud Norse, with giant body tall, 
 
 Braid shoulders, and arms strong, 
 Cried, "Where is Hardyknute sae famed 
 
 And feared at Britain's throne? 
 The Britons tremble at his name ; 
 
 I soon shall make him wail 
 That e'er my sword was made sae sharp, 
 
 Sae saft his coat of mail." 
 
 That brag his stout heart couldna bide, 
 
 It lent him youthful might ; 
 " I'm Hardyknute this day," he cried, 
 
 "To Scotland's king I heght^ 3 promised, 
 
 To lay thee low as horse's hoof; 
 
 My word I mean to keep." 
 Syne with the first stroke e'er he strake 
 
 He garr'd his body bleed. 
 
 Norse een like grey gosshawk's stared wild ; 
 
 He sighed with shame and spite 
 " Disgraced is now my far-famed arm, 
 
 That left you power to strike .'"
 
 26 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 Then ga' his head a blow sae fell, 
 
 It made him down to stoop 
 As low as he to ladies used 
 
 In courtly guise to lout. 
 
 i 
 Fou soon he raised his bent body, 
 
 His bow he marvelled sair, 
 struck - Sin blows till then on him but darr'd 1 
 
 As touch of Fairly fair. 
 Norse marvelled too as sair as he 
 
 To see his stately look 
 Sae soon as e'er he strake a fae 
 
 Sae soon his life he took. 
 
 [Where, like a fire to heather set, 
 
 Bold Thomas did advance, 
 A sturdy fae, with look enraged, 
 
 Up towards him did prance. 
 He spurred his steed through thickest ranks 
 
 The hardy youth to quell, 
 Who stood unmoved at his approach, 
 
 His fury to repell. 
 
 "That short brown shaft sae meanly trimmed, 
 
 Looks like poor Scotland's gear, 
 But dreadful seems the rusty point!" 
 
 And loud he leugh in jeer. 
 "Aft Britons' blood has dimmed its shine; 
 
 This point cut short their vaunt." 
 Syne pierced the boisterous bearded cheek 
 
 Nae time he took to taunt.
 
 HARDYKNUTE. 27 
 
 Short while he in his saddle swung, 
 
 His stirrup was nae stay, 
 Sae feeble hung his unbent knee 
 
 Sure token he was fey 1 . 'doomed. 
 
 Swith 2 on the hardened clay he fell, 'Quickly. 
 
 Right far was heard the thud ; 
 But Thomas looked not as he lay 
 
 All weltering in his blood. 
 
 With careless gesture, mind unmoved, 
 
 On rode he north the plain, 
 He seemed in thrang of fiercest strife 
 
 When winner aye the same. 
 Nor yet his heart dame's dimpled cheek 
 
 Could meise 3 saft love to brook, i soften, seduce. 
 
 Till vengeful Ann returned his scorn ; 
 
 Then languid grew his look. 
 
 In throes of death, with wallowit 4 cheek, 4 faded. 
 
 All panting on the plain, 
 The fainting corpse of warriors lay, 
 
 Ne'er to arise again 
 Ne'er to return to native land, 
 
 Nae mair with blithesome sounds 
 To boast the glories of the day, 
 
 And show their shining wounds. 
 
 On Norway's coast the widowed dame 
 
 May wash the rocks with tears 
 May lang look o'er the shipless seas 
 
 Before her mate appears.
 
 28 LADY WARDLAW. 
 
 Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain ; 
 
 Thy lord lies in the clay : 
 
 suffer - The valiant Scots nae reivers thole 1 
 
 To carry life away.] 
 
 There, on a lea where stands a cross 
 
 Set up for monument, 
 Thousands fou fierce that summer's day 
 
 Killed keen war's black intent. 
 Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute, 
 
 Let Norse the name aye dread 
 Aye how he fought, aft how he spared, 
 
 Shall latest ages read. 
 
 Loud and chill blew the westlin wind, 
 
 Sair beat the heavy shower, 
 Dark - Mirk 2 grew the night ere Hardyknute 
 
 Wan near his stately tower. 
 His tower that used wi' torches' blaze 
 
 To shine sae far at night, 
 Seemed now as black as mourning weed 
 'sighed. Nae marvel sair he sight 3 . 
 
 ["There's nae light in my lady's bower, 
 
 There's nae light in my hall, 
 Nae blink shines round my Fairly fair, 
 
 Nor ward stands on my wall. 
 What bodes it ? Robert, Thomas say ! " 
 
 Nae answer fits their dread, 
 "Stand back, my sons, I'll be your guide;' 
 
 But by they passed with speed,
 
 HARDYKNUTE. 29 
 
 "As fast I've sped ower Scotland's faes 
 
 There ceased his brag of war, 
 Sair shamed to mind aught but his dame, 
 
 And maiden Fairly fair. 
 Black fear he felt, but what to fear 
 
 He wist not yet with dread ; 
 Sair shook his body, sair his limbs, 
 
 And all the warrior fled.]
 
 30 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF 
 GILBERTFIELD. 
 
 1670-1751. 
 
 In a letter to Dr. Moore, Robert Burns once wrote, "The story 
 of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my veins 
 which will boil along there till the floodgates of life shut in 
 eternal rest/' The "story of Wallace" thus alluded to, was of 
 course Henry the Minstrel's great poem, but the version of that 
 poem to which Burns, in common with most of his contemp- 
 oraries, owed his acquaintance with the Minstrel, was a 
 paraphrase into modern Scottish by Hamilton of Gilbertfield. 
 This paraphrase has received scant praise at the hands of the 
 critics, and in the matter of literary style it probably does not 
 deserve much. Something, nevertheless, must be acknowledged 
 as owing to the author whose translation made the work of the 
 elder poet what it otherwise could not have been a living 
 popular influence in Scotland for something like a century 
 and a half. 
 
 His paraphrase of the "Wallace" was not, however, Gilbert- 
 field's best work. To Watson's Choice Collection of Comic and 
 Serious Scots Poems, published in 1706, he contributed the set 
 of verses on which his fame as a poet must be held to depend. 
 "The last Dying Words of Bonnie Heck'' was classed by 
 Allan Ramsay with Semple's famous "Piper of Kilbarchan;" 
 and Allan Cunningham has recorded his opinion that it is "a 
 pretty little pathetic piece of poetry as ever was written.'' Its 
 influence is to be traced, moreover, in at least one of the best- 
 known compositions of Robert Burns. 
 
 William Hamilton invariably mentioned with his territorial 
 title of "Gilbertfield," to distinguish him from the other 
 William Hamilton of his time, the author of "The Braes of 
 Yarrow held in his youth a lieutenant's commission in the 
 army, but while still young he gave up his profession, and spent 
 the rest of his days as a country gentleman. From his estate 
 near Cambuslang, in the neighbourhood of Glasgow, he carried 
 on a poetical correspondence with Allan Ramsay, which is 
 generally printed in the works of that poet, and which afforded 
 the model for the subsequent poetic epistles of Burns. Gilbert- 
 field being sold ultimately to the neighbouring laird ofWestburn, 
 Hamilton removed to Latrick, the other seat of his family in the 
 same vicinity, and there he died on the 24th of May, 1751.
 
 BONNIE HECK. 31 
 
 THE LAST DYING WORDS OF 
 BONNIE HECK. 
 
 A FAMOUS GREYHOUND IN THE SHIRE OF FIFE. 
 
 "ALAS, alas," quo' bonnie Heck, 
 " On former days when I reflect ! 
 I was a dog much in respect 
 
 For doughty deed ; 
 But now I must hing by the neck 
 
 Without remeed. 
 
 "O fy, sirs, for black, burning shame, 
 Ye'll bring a blunder on your name ! 
 Pray tell me wherein I'm to blame? 
 
 Is't in effect 
 Because I'm cripple, auld, and lame?" 
 
 Quo' bonnie Heck. 
 
 "What great feats I have done mysel' 
 Within clink of Kilrenny bell, 
 When I was souple, young, and fell T , 
 
 But fear or dread, 
 John Ness and Paterson can tell, 
 
 Whose hearts may bleed.
 
 32 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 "They'll witness that I was the vier 
 Of all the dogs within the shire ; 
 I'd run all day and never tire; 
 
 But now my neck, 
 It must be stretched for my hire!" 
 
 Quo' bonnie Heck. 
 
 " How nimbly could I turn the hare, 
 Then serve myself ; that was right fair \ 
 For still it was my constant care 
 
 The van to lead, 
 cunning wise. Now what could sery ' Heck do mair ? 
 
 Syne kill her dead. 
 
 "At the Kings-muir and Kelly-law, 
 Where good stout hares gang fast awa', 
 So cleverly I did it claw, 
 
 With pith and speed ; 
 I bure the bell before them a' 
 
 As dear's a bead. 
 
 " I ran alike on a' kind grounds, 
 Yea, in the midst of Ardry whins 
 3 hfndquarters. I gript the maukins 2 by the buns-' 
 
 Or by the neck; 
 Where naething could slay them but guns, 
 
 Save bonnie Heck.
 
 RONNIE HECK. 33 
 
 "I wily, witty was, and gash', 
 
 With my auld felny packy pash 2 ; = cruel, familiar 
 
 Nae man might ance buy me for cash 
 
 In some respect; 
 Are they not then confounded rash, 
 
 That hang poor Heck ? 
 
 "I was a bardy tyke 3 , and bauld ; ^ forward dog. 
 
 Though my beard's grey I'm not so auld. 
 Can any man to me unfauld 
 
 What is the feid* 4 <eud. 
 
 To stane me ere I be well cauld? 
 
 A cruel deed ! 
 
 " Now honesty was aye my drift, 
 An innocent and harmless shift, 
 A kail-pot lid gently to lift 
 
 Or aumrie sneck 5 : 3 cupboard latch. 
 
 Shame fa' the chafts 6 dare call that thift!" 6 cheeks, H P s. 
 
 Quo' bonnie Heck. 
 
 " So well's I could play hocus-pocus 
 And of the servants mak' Jodocus 
 And this I did in every locus, 
 
 Through their neglect ; 
 And was not this a merry jocus ?" 
 
 Quo' bonnie Heck. 
 
 D VI
 
 34 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 " But now, good sirs, this day is lost 
 The best dog in the East-Neuk coast ; 
 For never ane durst brag nor boast 
 
 Me, for their neck. 
 But now I must yield up the ghost," 
 
 Quo' bonnie Heck, 
 
 "And put a period to my talking, 
 For I'm unto my exit making: 
 Sirs, ye may a' gae to the hawking, 
 
 And there reflect 
 Ve'll ne'er get sic a dog for maukin 
 
 As bonnie Heck. 
 
 " But if my puppies ance were ready 
 Which I gat on a bonnie lady, 
 'quick at They'll be baith clever, keen, and beddy 
 
 hunter s cry. 
 
 And ne'er neglect 
 
 ' To clink it2 like their ancient daddy, 
 
 The famous Heck.' 1
 
 ' JOHN CLERK: 35 
 
 SIR JOHN CLERK. 
 
 1680-1755. 
 
 One of the Commissioners of the Union, and a Baron of the 
 Scots Exchequer, the second baronet of Pennicuik was one of 
 the chief figures in the cultured society of Edinburgh during 
 the first half of the eighteenth century. At his country-seat he 
 entertained Allan Ramsay regularly every summer, and the 
 deaths of his eldest son and of himself were among the most 
 lamented events of that poet's life. A close friend of the 
 English antiquary, Roger Gale, he was himself an ardent 
 collector of antiques, and a member of several of the learned 
 societies. Clerk's chief works are treatises of law, economics, 
 and antiquities ; but the composition by which his name is 
 popularly remembered is a song. " O merry may the maid be," 
 of which the first verse is earlier than Clerk's time, was printed 
 first in the Charmer of 1751, and later, with a final fifth stanza 
 from the author's hand, in Herd's Collection of Ancient and 
 Modern Scots Songs. Another poetical composition, of which 
 Clerk is but the reputed author, was addressed to Susanna, 
 daughter of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, and afterwards 
 Countess of Eglinton. It was to this lady that Allan Ramsay 
 dedicated his " Gentle Shepherd." Clerk, it appears, was 
 enamoured of Miss Kennedy, and sent her a flute. When she 
 tried to blow this it would not sound, and unscrewing it, she 
 discovered the lines inside. They are in the ordinary fashion 
 of love verses of the time, and may be found printed in 
 Anderson's Scottish Nation. 
 
 O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE. 
 
 O MERRY may the maid be 
 That marries \vi' the miller, 
 
 For, foul day and fair day, 
 He's aye bringing till her.
 
 36 .SYA' JOHN CLERK. 
 
 He's aye a penny in his purse 
 For dinner or for supper, 
 
 And, gin she please, a guid fat cheese, 
 And lumps o' yellow butter. 
 
 When Jamie first did woo me 
 'asked. I speer'd 1 what was his calling; 
 
 " Fair maid," says he, " O come and see, 
 
 Ye're welcome to my dwalling." 
 Though I was shy, yet I could spy 
 
 The truth o' what he told me, 
 
 * pleasant. And that his house was warm and couth 2 , 
 
 And room in it to hold me. 
 
 Behind the door a bag o' meal, 
 3 chest. And in the kist 3 was plenty 
 
 O' guid hard cakes his mither bakes, 
 
 And bannocks werena scanty. 
 A guid fat sow, a sleeky cow 
 
 Was standing in the byre, 
 Whilst lazy puss with mealy mouse 
 
 Was playing at the fire. 
 
 Guid 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 maut she doesna want, 
 
 Nor onything that's dainty ; 
 And now and then a keckling hen, 
 
 To lay her eggs in plenty.
 
 MERR Y MAY THE MAID RE. 37 
 
 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. 
 Wha'd be a King a petty thing, 
 
 When a miller lives so happy ?
 
 38 ALLAN RAMSA Y. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 1686-1758. 
 
 No Scottish poet, probably, has been subjected at once to 
 praise so much beyond his merits and to detraction so grossly 
 unjust to his deserts, as Allan Ramsay. While by some it has 
 Ijeen averred that he was merely a time-serving manufacturer of 
 verse, who wrote what would sell, by others he has been extolled 
 as not only the first but as one of the greatest of the singers of a 
 new era. Burns himself spoke of Ramsay's " Gentle Shepherd " 
 as the "most glorious poem ever written." Neither the eulogy 
 nor the disparagement perhaps has been exactly just ; but if 
 indeed, as has been said of him, he appears to some to have 
 been less a poet born than one made by circumstances, it must 
 also at least be said that by what he did for the muse of his 
 country he merits a place in Scottish poetic history little behind 
 that of the greatest makars, Barbour, Henryson, Dunbar, 
 Lyndsay, and Burns. 
 
 Fourth in direct descent from a laird of Cockpen who was 
 brother to Ramsay of Dalhousie, the poet was born at Leadhills, 
 in the uplands of Lanarkshire on October 15, 1686. His father 
 was manager of Lord Hopetoun's lead mines on Crawford Muir, 
 and his mother, Alice Bower, was the daughter of an Englishman 
 who had been brought thither from Derbyshire to introduce 
 improved methods of mining. While Ramsay was still an infant 
 his father died, and his mother married again. In the house of 
 his stepfather, a small laird of the neighbourhood, of the name 
 of Crichton, the poet grew up till the age of fifteen, about which 
 time he lost his mother. Apparently the best was done for him 
 that his stepfather could do when he was apprenticed to what 
 was then the thriving trade of wig-making in Edinburgh. At 
 this business Ramsay must have thrived, for in 1712 he married 
 the daughter of an Edinburgh writer, Christian Ross by name, 
 by whom he became the father of a numerous family. About 
 the same time he became a member of one of the literary and 
 political coteries which were then the vogue in Edinburgh. To 
 the members of this society a set of young gallants of suspected 
 Jacobite leanings the poet composed a humorous address, and 
 they in turn dubbed him a gentleman and a good fellow. The 
 Easy Club, as it was called, was suppressed, with other Jacobite 
 societies, after the outbreak of the Rebellion in 1715. 
 
 Ramsay's connection with this club secured him a more or 
 less sympathetic audience for his poetical compositions, and to
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 39 
 
 that connection he owed his acquaintance with the valuable 
 but then unknown reixisitory of ancient Scottish poetry, the 
 Bannatyne MS. of 1568. From this in 1716 he printed 
 James V.'s humorous jx>em "Christ's Kirk on the Green," 
 with an added canto of his own; and the publication was so 
 well received that in 1718 he was encouraged to add a third 
 part. By 1722 this work reached a fifth edition. Meanwhile 
 Ramsay's fame had been growing. Pieces like his " Klegy on 
 the Death of Maggie Johnston" and "Elegy on Lucky Wood" 
 were hawked on broadsheets; and it became a fashion with the 
 burgesses' wives to send out for "Allan's last piece" to discuss 
 over their dish of tea. In 1721 he collected these pieces and 
 published them by subscription, netting some four hundred 
 guineas by the transaction, and obtaining recognition at once 
 as a distinguished poet. Three years later, in 1724, he published 
 the collections which, perhaps as much as his own original 
 poetry, were the means of recalling the muse of the country to 
 native and natural themes. 
 
 "The Tea-Table Miscellany,'' of which the first volume was 
 published then, and the third in 1727, remains one of the l>est 
 collections of songs which have ever been issued ; while the 
 " Evergreen," containing many poems from the Bannatyne MS., 
 was the immediate means of directing popular attention to the 
 rich but neglected stores of ancient Scottish poetry. 
 
 The latter publication was stated to consist of poems "wrote 
 by the ingenious before 1600;" but among other modern con- 
 tents it included Lady Wardlaw's "Hardyknute," and a poem 
 "The Vision," stated to have been " compylit in Latin anno 
 130x3," and signed " Ar. Scot.," which is agreed to be Ramsay's 
 own composition. In the following year, 1725, the poet published 
 his finest and greatest work, "The Gentle Shepherd." He had 
 previously, on the model of Henryson's " Robene and Makyne," 
 written a couple of pastoral dialogues, one of which, "Fatie and 
 Roger," was included in the volume of 1721 ; and it is said to 
 have been suggested to him by friends that the public would be 
 likely to welcome a complete pastoral on the model of these, 
 substituting real peasants and real scenery for the conventional 
 ^hepherds and shepherdesses, nymphs and swains, and their 
 artificial surroundings, of the fashionable "pastorals" of his 
 lime. This suggestion Ramsay carried out, and the success 
 of "The Gentle Shepherd" justified his attempt. 
 
 The pastoral drama thus written was the first of the greater 
 voices of the new natural poetry which was to supersede the 
 work of the artificial school then in vogue. Its immediate 
 successor and imitator was "The Fortunate Shepherdess" of 
 Alexander Ross; but even more vitally is its influence to be felt 
 in the poetry of Fergusson, Burns, and Wordsworth. 
 
 It is to be regretted that the poet did not confine himself to 
 :his natural vein, in which he proved himself so exquisite a 
 craftsman. But the vogue of Pope and his school exerted a
 
 40 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 strong influence upon him. So early as 1718, when the " Iliad " 
 of the Twickenham poet appeared, Ramsay had written to the 
 translator a eulogistic epigram, and in imitation, and perhaps 
 in emulation, of his English contemporary, he composed several 
 elaborate pieces, like his "Morning Interview," "Health" a 
 satirical poem, and a series of "Elegiacs." In 1728 were 
 published his later poems, and in 1730 appeared his last book of 
 verse, a collection of thirty fables, part original and part 
 translated. 
 
 The poet was now forty-five years of age, and he devoted the 
 rest of his days to business and the enjoyment of the position 
 which fame had brought him. Till 1726 he had carried on 
 his business of wig-making in a shop at the sign of the Flying 
 Mercury, on the north side of High Street, opposite Niddry's 
 Wynd. Gradually, however, he had added lx>okselling to his 
 occupation, and in the year mentioned he threw up wig-making, 
 removed to a second-floor shop overlooking the market cross, 
 and at the sign of the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond of 
 Hawthornden, established, with a full-fledged bookselling busi- 
 ness, the first circulating library in Scotland. Here, close by 
 the Law Courts, his shop became the literary lounge of 
 Edinburgh, and, numbering among his real friends many of the 
 foremost Scotsmen of the day, Ramsay throve and was happy. 
 
 The single worldly misfortune which befell the poet occurred 
 in 1737. Up to that time there was no theatre in Edinburgh. 
 Ramsay at his own sole expense built one in Carrubber's Close, 
 and it was about to be opened when the Licensing Act placed 
 a new power in the hands of the magistrates. A majority 
 of the "city fathers," inheritors of the narrow and illiberal 
 spirit of some of the early reformers, refused the license, and 
 the poet was all but ruined. Thenceforth he kept to his proper 
 business, and presently, recovering from his loss, he built himself 
 a house which still stands, though now merged in the Students' 
 Hostel, on the face of the Castle Hill. Two years earlier, in 
 1743, to his great grief, his wife had died, but the last thirteen 
 years of his life he spent in his new romantic abode, gladdened 
 by the growing fame of his son Allan, the portrait-painter to 
 George III., and the society of his two fine daughters; and a 
 great favourite with the young people who continually frequented 
 his house. He retired from business in 1755, and on January 7, 
 1758, he died. He was buried quietly in Grey friars Churchyard. 
 
 Perhaps as good an idea as any, of the personal appearance of 
 the poet, is to be got from his statue by Sir John Steel which 
 stands close by the monument to Scott in Princes Street Gardens ; 
 but references to his short, active figure, his round humorous 
 face, dark twinkling eyes, and mouth ever ready with a merry 
 epigram, live in all the Edinburgh reminiscences of his time. 
 Of all the great personages, indeed, who at that day came and 
 went on the plainstones of Edinburgh, none is remembered more 
 pleasantly and affectionately than the genial bookseller-poet.
 
 ALLAN K A MS AY. 41 
 
 Ramsay's collected works were published during his- lifetime 
 at London in 1731, and at Dublin in 1733. Later editions were 
 produced at London in 1760, Glasgow in 1770, and London 
 again in 1800; but probably the most ample was that edited by 
 the late Charles Mackay, and published by Virtue & Co., 
 London. A complete edition of his poems was also published 
 by Gardner, Paisley, in 1877. 
 
 Like most other poets, from Chaucer and Shakespeare to 
 Burns and Tennyson, Ramsay owed the suggestion of much 
 of his work to poetic predecessors. His humorous tale of 
 "The Monk and the Miller's Wife" is merely a modernising 
 of "The Freirs of Berwick," which has sometimes been attri- 
 buted to Dunbar. His "Vision" again is distinctly a repro- 
 duction of the sentiment and something of the machinery of 
 Sir David Lyndsay's "Dreme." His additions to "Christ's 
 Kirk on the Green" stand avowed as to their initiative. His 
 elegies follow the verse and spirit of Semple's " Piper of 
 Kilbarchan. " And his "Morning Interview" borrows closely 
 both the manner and substance of Pope's "Rape of the Lock." 
 Even his "Gentle Shepherd," as has been seen, owed its first 
 suggestion to Henryson's pastoral, with which Ramsay was 
 acquainted in the Bannatyne MS. Notwithstanding this fact, 
 the real merit of Ramsay remains above all question. His 
 humour, and his sympathy with the humours of actual life, 
 were all his own. His songs, especially the humorous ones, 
 remain, though not now much sung, typical of the gayer 
 Scottish muse. His poetical correspondence with men like 
 Hamilton of Gilbertfield revived and added new lustre to a 
 traditional exercise of the makars. And to say nothing of the 
 influence of his "Evergreen" in reawakening interest in the 
 stores of ancient national poetry, his " Gentle Shepherd," with 
 its simple and exquisite charm, gives him a unique place among 
 the pastoral poets of all time. 
 
 ELEGY ON MAGGIE JOHNSTON. 
 
 AULD REEKIE 1 , mourn in sable hue, -Edinburgh. 
 
 Let fouth 2 o' tears dreep like May-dew: -abundance. 
 
 To braw tippeny-3 bid adieu, 3 twopenny ale. 
 
 Which we wi' greed 
 
 Bended 4 as fast as she could brew, 4 t!rank - 
 
 But, ah ! she's dead.
 
 'beat. 
 : crowd. 
 3 shoemakers. 
 * forthwith. 
 
 42 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 To tell the truth now, Maggie dang 1 , 
 O' customers she had a bang 2 ; 
 For lairds and souters 3 a' did gang 
 
 To drink bedeen 4 : 
 The barn and yard was aft sae thrang, 
 
 We took the green ; 
 
 And there by dizzens we lay down ; 
 Syne sweetly ca'd the healths aroun', 
 To bonny lasses, black or brown, 
 
 As we lo'ed best : 
 In bumpers we dull cares did drown, 
 
 And took our rest. 
 
 3 coppers. 
 
 'ale. 
 
 When in our pouch we fand some clinks 5 , 
 And took a turn o'er Bruntsfield Links, 
 Aften in Maggie's, at high-jinks, 
 
 We guzzled scuds 6 , 
 Till we could scarce, wi' hale-out drinks, 
 
 Cast aff our duds. 
 
 7 Choose your 
 bone (i.e. die). 
 
 We drank and drew, and filled again, 
 O wow, but we were blythe and fain ! 
 When ony had their count mistane, 
 
 O it was nice! 
 To hear us a' cry, "Pike ye'r bane 7 
 
 And spell ye'r dice."
 
 ELEGY ON MAGGIE JOHNSTON. 43 
 
 Fu' close we used to drink and rant 
 
 Until we did baith glower and gaunt', -yawn. 
 
 and yesk, and maunt 2 , -hiccup and 
 
 stammer. 
 
 Right swash ^ I trow: (swollen with 
 
 drink. 
 
 Then o' auld stories we did cant 
 Whan we were fou. 
 
 Whan we were wearied at the gowff, 
 
 Then Maggie Johnston's was our howff; 
 
 Now a' our gamesters may sit dowff-*, * sad 
 
 Wi' hearts like lead ; 
 Death wi' his rung rax'd her a yowffs, s reached her a 
 
 * whack. 
 
 And sae she's dead. 
 
 Maun we be forced thy skill to tine 6 , 
 For which we will right sair repine? 
 Or hast thou left to bairns o' thine 
 
 The pawky knack 
 O' brewing ale a'maist like wine, 
 
 That ;ar'd us crack. 
 
 Sae brawly did a pease-scone toast 
 Biz i' the queff?, and fley 8 the frost: 
 There we got fou wi' little cost, 
 
 And meikle speed ; 
 Now, wae worth Death 9! our sport's a' lost, 
 
 Since Maggie's dead.
 
 strip of land. 
 
 : breathed 
 heavily. 
 
 44 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Ae summer nicht I was sae fou, 
 Amang the rigs I gaed to spue, 
 Syne down on a green bawk 1 , I trow, 
 
 I took a nap, 
 And soucht 2 a' night balillilow, 
 
 As sound's a tap. 
 
 3 began. 
 
 4 raised rustling 
 
 5 scare -crow. 
 
 And when the dawn begoud 3 to glow, 
 
 I hirsled 4 up my dizzy pow, 
 
 Frae 'mang the corn, like wirricows, 
 
 Wi' banes sae sair, 
 And kenn'd nae mair than if a ewe 
 
 How I cam' there. 
 
 6 mashing-vat. 
 
 7 fume. 
 
 8 chopin-measure 
 did empty. 
 
 Some said it was the pith o' broom 
 That she stow'd in her masking-loom 6 , 
 Which in our heads raised sic a foum 7 ; 
 
 Or some wild seed, 
 Which aft the chappin-stoup did toom 8 , 
 
 But filled our head. 
 
 But now since it's sae that we must 
 Not in the best ale put our trust, 
 But whan we're auld return to dust, 
 
 Without remead, 
 Why should we tak' it in disgust 
 
 That Maggie's dead?
 
 ELEGY ON MAGGIE JOHNSTON. 45 
 
 O' warldly comforts she was rife, 
 And lived a lang and hearty life, 
 Right free o' care, or toil, or strife, 
 
 Till she was stale, 
 And kenn'd to be a canny 1 wife ' ca k'lM*' 
 
 At brewing ale. 
 
 Then fareweel, Maggie, douce and fell 2 , = sober and keen. 
 
 O' brewers a' thou boor the bell : 
 Let a' thy gossips yelp and yell, 
 
 And, without feid, 
 Guess whether ye're in heaven or hell. 
 
 They're sure ye're dead.
 
 46 ALLAN KAMSA Y. 
 
 PATIK'S SONG. 
 
 (THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, SCENE i.) 
 
 MY Peggy is a young thing 
 Just entered in her teens, 
 Fair as the day, and sweet as May- 
 Fair as the day, and always gay. 
 My Peggy is a young thing, 
 
 And I'm na very auld ; 
 Yet weel I like to meet her at 
 The wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly 
 
 Whene'er we meet alane, 
 I wish nae mair to lay my care 
 I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare. 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 
 
 To a' the lave I'm cauld : 
 But she gars o' my spirits glow 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly 
 Whene'er I whisper love, 
 That I look doun on a' the toun- 
 That I look doun upon a croun.
 
 PATIKS SONG. 47 
 
 My Peggy smiles sac kindly 
 
 It mak's me blythe and bauld ; 
 And naething gie's me sic delight 
 
 As wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly 
 
 When on my pipe I play, 
 By a' the rest it is confessed 
 By a' the rest that she sings best. 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly, 
 
 And in her sangs are tald 
 
 Wi' innocence the wale 1 o' sense, 'choicest. 
 
 At wauking o' the fauld.* 
 
 * The watching of the fold was a necessity for several nights 
 annually at weaning time. To this duty it was usual to set 
 apart a couple who were understood to be kindly inclined to 
 each other; and the opportunity was in especial favour among 
 pastoral lovers.
 
 48 ALLAN KAMSAY 
 
 PEGGY AND JENNY. 
 (THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, SCENE n.) 
 
 A flowerie howm, between twa verdant braes, 
 Where lasses use to wash and spread their claes, 
 A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, 
 Its channel pebbles shining smooth and round : 
 Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean and clear ; 
 First please your eye, next gratify your ear : 
 While Jenny what she wishes discommends, 
 And Meg, wi' better sense, true love defends. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 COME, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green, 
 This shining day will bleach our linen clean ; 
 sky. The water's clear, the lift 1 , unclouded blue, 
 
 Will male' them like a lily wet wi' dew. 
 
 Peggy. 
 Hollow. Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe 2 , 
 
 Where a' the sweets o' spring and simmer grow 
 Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn, 
 The water fa's and mak's a singin' din : 
 A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, 
 Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bordering grass. 
 We'll end our washing while the morning's cool 
 And when the day grows het we'll to the pool,
 
 PEGGY AND JENNY. 49 
 
 There wash oursels 'tis healthfu' now in May, 
 
 And sweetly cauler 1 on sae warm a day. fresh, cool. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say 
 Gif our twa herds come brattling 2 down the brae, = clattering. 
 And see us sae? that jeering fallow Pate, 
 Wad taunting say, "Haith lasses, ye're no blate 3 ! " 3 bashful. 
 
 We're far frae ony road, and out o' sight ; 
 
 The lads they're feeding far beyont the height. 
 
 But tell me, now, dear Jenny, we're our lane, 
 
 What gars ye plague your wooer wi' disdain ? 
 
 The neibours a' tent 4 this as weel as I, 4 note. 
 
 That Roger lo'es ye, yet ye carena by. 
 
 What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, 
 
 He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end. 
 A herd mair sheepish yet I never ken'd. 
 He kaims his hair, indeed, and gaes right snug, 
 Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bannet lug, 
 Whilk pensilie he wears a thought a-jee, 
 And spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee. 
 He falds his o'erlay 5 down his breast wi' care, s neck -cloth. 
 And few gangs trigger 6 to the kirk or fair: 6 smarter. 
 
 For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, 
 Except, "How d'ye?" or "There's a bonnie day." 
 
 E VI
 
 50 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 fessy- 
 
 Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride ; 
 
 Hatred for love is unco sair to bide. 
 
 But ye'll repent ye if his love grow cauld : 
 'saucy. What like's a dorty 1 maiden when she's auld? 
 
 ~; delays' Like dawted 2 wean, that tarrows3 at its meat, 
 
 4 worthless. That for some feckless-* whim will orps and greet: 
 
 5 fret. 
 
 'rest. The lave 6 laugh at it, till the dinner's past; 
 
 And syne the fule thing is obliged to fast, 
 Or scart anither's leavings at the last. 
 Fy ! Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time. 
 
 Jenny. 
 I never thought a single life a crime. 
 
 Peggy. 
 
 Nor I. But love in whispers lets us ken 
 That men were made for us, and we for men. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 If Roger is my jo, he kens himsel', 
 For sic a tale I never heard him tell. 
 He glowers and sighs, and I can guess the cause ; 
 But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws? 
 Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, 
 I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. 
 They're fules that slavery like, and may be free ; 
 7 lads. The chiels? may a' knit up themsel's for me. 
 
 Peggy. 
 
 Be doing your wa's ; for me I ha'e a mind 
 To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.
 
 PEGGY AND JENNY. 51 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 Heh, lass ! how can ye lo'e that rattle-skull ? 
 A very deil, that aye maun ha'e his will. 
 We'll soon hear tell what a puir fechting life 
 You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife. 
 
 Peggy. 
 
 I'll rin the risk, nor ha'e I ony fear, 
 But rather think ilk langsome day a year, 
 Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal bed, 
 Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head. 
 There we may kiss as lang as kissing's guid, 
 And what we do, there's nane daur ca' it rude. 
 He's get his will. Why no ? It's good my part 
 To gi'e him that, and he'll gi'e me his heart. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days, 
 
 Mak' meikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise 1 , a great flattery. 
 
 And daut ye baith afore folk, and your lane. 
 But soon as his newfangleness is gane, 
 He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, 
 And think he's tint 2 his freedom for your sake. =iost. 
 Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delight, 
 Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte 3 ; .vscoki. 
 And maybe, in his barlickhoods*, ne'er stick 4 fits of violent m- 
 
 humour. 
 
 To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. 
 
 Peggy. 
 
 Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move 
 My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love. 
 Patie to me is dearer than my breath,
 
 52 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 But want o' him I dread nae other skaith. 
 There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green 
 Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een : 
 And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art, 
 His words they thirl like music through my heart, 
 How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, 
 And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave ! 
 Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, 
 
 wonderful. He reads fell ' books that teach him meikle skill ; 
 He is but what need I say that or this? 
 I'd spend a month to tell ye what he is ! 
 
 manner. In a' he says or does there's sic a gate 2 , 
 
 3 ninnies. The rest seem cuifs 3 compared wi' my dear Pate. 
 
 His better sense will lang his love secure ; 
 
 * dwells. Ill-nature hefts* in sauls that's weak and puir. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 Hey, Bonnie lass o' Branksome! or 't be it lang, 
 Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. 
 O 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride ; 
 
 5 ^MWren. Syne whinging gettss about your ingle-side, 
 
 6 troublesome. Yelping for this or that wi' fashous 6 din: 
 
 7 pinafores. f o mak' them brats 7 then ye maun toil and spin. 
 8sc ^ tselfwith Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsel' wi' broe 8 , 
 
 Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe ; 
 
 The Deil gaes o'er Jock Wabster, hame grows hell, 
 
 And Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell. 
 
 Yes it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, 
 
 When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife.
 
 PEGGY AND JENNY. 53 
 
 <if I'm sae happy, I shall ha'e delight 
 
 To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. 
 
 Wow ! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be 
 
 Than see sic wee tots tulying 1 at your knee; -playing. 
 
 When a' they ettle 2 at their greatest wish, -aim. 
 
 Is to be made o', and obtain a kiss? 
 
 Can there be toil in tenting day and night 
 
 The like o' them, when love mak's care delight? 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 But puirtith, Peggy, is the warst o' a', 
 Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw ; 
 But little love or canty cheer can come 
 Frae duddy 3 doublets, and a pantry loom*. Dragged. 
 
 * J 4 empty. 
 
 Your nowt 5 may die; the spate may bear away Seattle. 
 
 Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks o' hay. 
 
 The thick-blawn wreath o' snaw, or blashy thows 6 , e deluging thaws. 
 
 May smoor? your wathers, and may rot your ewes. ? smother. 
 
 A dyvour 8 buys your butter, woo', and cheese, bankrupt. 
 
 But, or the day o' payment, breaks and flees : 
 
 Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent ; 
 
 It's no to gi'e ; your merchant's to the bent : 
 
 His honour maunna want ; he poinds your gear : 
 
 Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer? 
 
 Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life ; 
 
 Troth, it's nae mows? to be a married wife. 9 P iay. 
 
 May sic ill luck befa' that silly she 
 
 Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. 
 
 Let folk bode I0 weel, and strive to do their best ; io plan
 
 54 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Nae mair's required; let Heaven male' out the rest. 
 I've heard my honest uncle aften say 
 That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray ; 
 For the maist thrifty man could never get 
 A weel-stored room, unless his wife wad let : 
 Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part, 
 To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart : 
 Whate'er he wins I'll guide wi' canny care, 
 And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, 
 For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. 
 A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo', 
 Shall first be said, to pay the laird his due ; 
 Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear, 
 
 plenty. Wi' love and rowth 1 , we through the warld will steer ; 
 
 And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, 
 He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 * wanton wench. But what if some young giglet 2 on the green, 
 
 Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een, 
 Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, 
 i. And her ken'd kisses, hardly worth a feg 3 ? 
 
 Peggy* 
 
 Nae mair o' that ! Dear Jenny, to be free, 
 There's some men constanter in love than we. 
 
 marvel. Nor is the ferly* great, when nature kind 
 
 Has blest them wi' solidity of mind. 
 They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile, 
 When our short passions wad our peace beguile : 
 
 5 mates. Sae, whenso'er they slight their maikss at hame,
 
 PEGGY AND JENNY. 55 
 
 It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. 
 
 Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art 
 
 To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. 
 
 At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, 
 
 I'll ha'e a' things made ready to his will. 
 
 In winter when he toils in wind and rain, 
 
 A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane ; 
 
 And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, 
 
 The seething pat's be ready to tak' aff; 
 
 Clean hag-a-bag 1 I'll spread upon his board, coarse table- 
 
 linen. 
 
 And serve him wi' the best we can afford ; 
 
 Good humour and white bigonets 2 shall be * linen caps. 
 
 Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld, 
 And dosens^ down to nane as folk grow auld. nesssns. 
 
 Peggy. 
 
 But we'll grow auld thegither, and ne'er find 
 The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. 
 Bairns and their bairns mak' sure a firmer tie, 
 Than aught in love the like o' us can spy. 
 See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, 
 Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom and 
 
 bride ; 
 
 Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, 
 Till wide their spreading branches are increased, 
 And in their mixture now are fully blest : 
 This shields the other frae the eastlin blast, 
 That, in return, defends it frae the wast.
 
 56 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you !) 
 Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 I've done I yield, dear lassie, I maun yield : 
 Your better sense has fairly won the field, 
 With the assistance of a little fae 
 Lies darned within my breast this mony a day. 
 
 Peggy- 
 
 Alake, poor pris'ner ! Jenny, that's no fair, 
 That ye'll no let the wee thing tak' the air : 
 Haste, let him out; we'll tent as weel's we can. 
 Gif he be Bauldy's or puir Roger's man. 
 
 Jenny. 
 
 Anither time's as gude for, see, the sun 
 Is right far up, and we're not yet begun 
 
 TO make ready To freath the graith '. If canker'd Madge, our aunt, 
 water for Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant : 
 
 washing. 
 
 But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind ; 
 For this seems true nae lass can be unkind.
 
 EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HAMILTON. 57 
 
 EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HAMILTON 
 OF GILBERTFIELD. 
 
 EDINBURGH, September 2, 1719. 
 
 MY TRUSTY TROJAN, 
 Thy last oration orthodox, 
 
 Thy innocent auldfarren 1 jokes, 'sagacious. 
 
 And sonsie 2 saw o' three, provokes 2 C0 h ^' u f e d od " 
 
 Me ance again, 
 
 Tod-lowrie3 like, tO lowse my pocks, 3 Reynard. 
 
 And pump my brain. 
 
 By a' your letters I ha'e read, 
 
 I eithly 4 scan the man weel-bred, 4 easily. 
 
 And soger that, where honour led, 
 
 Has ventured bauld. 
 Wha now to youngsters leaves the yed 5 , s strife. 
 
 To 'tend his fauld. 
 
 That bangster billy 6 , Csesar July, 6 violent fellow. 
 
 Wha at Pharsalia wan the tulye 7 , 7 strife. 
 
 Had better sped, had he mair hoolie 8 a softly. 
 
 Scampered through life, 
 And 'midst his glories sheathed his gully, 
 
 And kissed his wife.
 
 58 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 Had he, like you, as weel he could, 
 Upon burn banks the muses wooed, 
 Retired betimes frae 'mang the crowd, 
 
 Wha'd been abune him? 
 The senate's dirks, and faction loud, 
 
 Had ne'er undone him. 
 
 Yet sometimes leave the riggs and bog, 
 Your howms, and braes, and shady scrog 1 , 
 And helm-a-lee the claret cog, 
 
 To clear your wit ; 
 Be blithe, and let the warld e'en shog 
 
 As it thinks fit. 
 
 Ne'er fash about your neist year's state, 
 Nor wi' superior powers debate, 
 charms. Nor cantrips 2 cast to ken your fate; 
 
 There's ills eneu' 
 
 To cram our days, which soon grow late ; 
 Let's live just now. 
 
 When northern blasts the ocean snurl, 
 * hollows look And gar the heights and howes look gurl-\ 
 
 stormy. 
 
 Then left about the bumper whirl, 
 
 And toom the horn : 
 
 Grip fast the hours which hasty hurl : 
 
 The morn's the morn.
 
 EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HAMILTON. 59 
 
 Thus to Leuconoe sang sweet Flaccus, 
 Wha nane e'er thought a gillygapus': 
 And why should we let whimsies balk us, 
 
 When joy's in season, 
 And thole 2 sae aft the spleen to whauk us "suffer 
 
 Out o' our reason? 
 
 Though I were laird o' ten-score acres, 
 
 Nodding to jouks o' hallenshakers 3, "Tgg^ 1 "^ 
 
 Yet crushed wi' humdrums, which the weaker's 
 
 Contentment ruins, 
 I'd rather roost wi' causey-rakers, 
 
 4 soured oat-m<vi I 
 
 And SUp Cauld SOWeilS 4 . dust, a kind^f 
 
 porridge. 
 
 I think, my friend, an folk can get 
 
 A dole of roast beef pipin' het, 
 
 And wi' red wine their wysons wet, s throat. 
 
 And claithing clean, 
 And be na sick, or drowned in debt, 
 
 They're no to mean 6 . * lament for. 
 
 I read this verse to my ain kimmer 7 , 7 comrade. 
 
 Wha kens I like a leg o' gimmer 8 , 8 tw e we " ear - !a 
 
 Or sic and sic, guid belly-timmer ; 
 
 Quoth she, and leugh, 
 "Siccar^ o' thae, winter and simmer, 9 secure. 
 
 Ye're weel eneuch."
 
 60 ALLAN RAMSA Y. 
 
 'gossip- My hearty goss 1 , there is nae help, 
 
 2fist - But hand to neive 2 we twa maun skelp 
 
 Up Rhine and Thames, and o'er the Alp- 
 ines and Pyrenians : 
 The cheerfu' carles do sae yelp 
 
 T' hae's their minions. 
 
 sjiearty, merry. Thy raffans rural rhyme sae rare, 
 
 4 hand-picked. sic wordy, wanton, hand-waled 4 ware, 
 
 e become eager. Sae gashs and gay, gars folk gae gare 6 
 
 To ha'e them by them ; 
 7la vioknfi Though gaffin'7 they, wi' sides sae sair, 
 
 Cry, "Wae gae by him." 
 
 Fair fa' that sodger did invent 
 To ease the poet's toil wi' prent : 
 Now, William, we maun to the bent, 
 
 'push. And pouse 8 our fortune, 
 
 And crack wi' lads wha're weel content 
 Wi' this our sporting. 
 
 Gin ony sour-mou'd girning bucky 
 Ca' me conceity keckling chucky, 
 9 itchy. That we like nags whase necks are yucky?, 
 
 Ha'e used our teeth ; 
 I'll answer fine, " Gae kiss your Lucky, 
 
 She dwells i' Leith."
 
 EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HAMILTON. 61 
 
 I ne'er wi' lang tales fash my head, 
 But when I speak, I speak indeed: 
 Wha ca's me droll, but ony feid', ' w S e n u c t e any 
 
 I'll own I am sae : 
 And while my champers can chew bread, 
 
 Yours, ALLAN RAMSAY.
 
 62 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 LOCHABER NO MORE. 
 
 FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, 
 Where heartsome wi' thee I've mony day been ; 
 For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
 We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
 These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, 
 And no for the dangers attending on weir 1 , 
 Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
 Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 
 
 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, 
 They'll ne'er mak' a tempest like that in my mind ; 
 Though loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar, 
 That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; 
 By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; 
 And beauty and love's the reward o' the brave, 
 And I must deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse ; 
 Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? 
 Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
 And without thy favour I'd better not be. 
 I gae, then, my lass, to win honour and fame, 
 And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
 I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er, 
 And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
 
 THE YOUNG LAIRD AND KATIE. 63 
 
 THE YOUNG LAIRD AND 
 EDINBURGH KATIE. 
 
 Now wat ye wha I met yestreen 
 Coming down the street, my jo? 
 
 My mistress in her tartan screen, 
 Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my jo. 
 
 "My dear," quoth I, "thanks to the night 
 That never wished a lover ill ; 
 
 Since ye're out o' your mither's sight, 
 Let's tak' a walk up to the hill. 
 
 " O Katie, wiltu gang wi' me, 
 
 And leave the dinsome town a while? 
 
 The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, 
 And a' the simmer's gaen to smile. 
 
 The mavis, nightingale, and lark, 
 
 The bleating lambs and whistling hind, 
 
 In ilka dale, green shaw, and park, 
 
 Will nourish health and glad ye'r mind. 
 
 "Soon as the clear guidman o' day 
 
 Does bend his morning draught o' dew, 
 
 We'll gae to some burn-side and play, 
 And gather flowers to busk your brow.
 
 64 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 We'll pu' the daisies on the green, 
 . The lucken-gowans' frae the bog; 
 
 Between hands now and then we'll lean, 
 And sport upon the velvet fog 2 . 
 
 "There's up into a pleasant glen, 
 
 A wee piece frae my father's tower, 
 A canny, saft, and flowery den, 
 
 Which circling birks ha'e formed a bower 
 Whene'er the sun grows high and warm, 
 
 We'll to the cauler shade remove, 
 There will I lock thee in my arm, 
 
 And love and kiss, and kiss and love."
 
 UP IN THE AIR. 65 
 
 UP IN THE AIR. 
 
 Now the sun's gane out o' sight, 
 
 Beet the ingle 1 , and snuff the light: mend the fire. 
 
 In glens the fairies skip and dance, 
 
 And witches wallop o'er to France, 
 
 Up in the air 
 
 On my bonnie grey mare ; 
 And I see her yet, and I see her yet. 
 
 The wind's drifting hail and snaw 
 
 O'er frozen hags 2 like a foot-ba', 3 ^fand^ 
 
 Nae starns keeks through the azure slit, 3 stars peep. 
 It's cauld and mirk* as ony pit. 4 dark. 
 
 The man i' the moon 
 
 Is carousing abune, 
 D'ye see, d'ye see, d'ye see him yet? 
 
 Tak' your glass to clear your een, 
 It's the elixir heals the spleen ; 
 Baith wit and mirth it will inspire, 
 And gently puffs the lover's fire. 
 
 Up i' the air, 
 
 It drives away care, 
 Ha'e wi' ye, ha'e wi' ye, and ha'e wi' ye, lads, yet. 
 
 F VI
 
 66 ALLAN RAMSA Y. 
 
 Steek 1 the doors, keep out the frost, 
 Come, Willy, gie's about your toast, 
 Till't lads, and lilt it out, 
 And let us ha'e a blythsome bout. 
 Up wi't there, there, 
 Dinna cheat, but drink fair, 
 Huzza, huzza, and huzza, lads, yet !
 
 THE WIDOW. 67 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 THE widow can bake, and the widow can brew, 
 The widow can shape, and the widow can sew, 
 And mony braw things the widow can do; 
 
 Then have at the widow, my laddie ! 
 Wi' courage attack her baith early and late; 
 To kiss her and clap her ye maunna be blate : 
 Speak weel, and do better : for that's the best gate ' * w *v- 
 
 To win a young widow, my laddie. 
 
 The widow she's youthfu', and never ae hair 
 
 The waur o' the wearing, and has a guid skair 2 2 shar 
 
 O' everything lovely ; she's witty and fair, 
 
 And has a rich jointure, my laddie. 
 What could ye wish better, your pleasure to crown, 
 Than a widow the bonniest toast in the town, 
 Wi' naething but draw in your stool and sit down, 
 
 And sport wi' the widow, my laddie? 
 
 Then till 3 her, and kill her wi' courtesy dead, .no. 
 
 Though stark love and kindness be a' ye can plead ; 
 Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed 
 
 Wi' a bonnie gay widow, my laddie. 
 Strike iron while it's het, if ye'd have it to wald ; 
 For fortune aye favours the active and bauld, 
 But ruins the wooer that's thoughtless and cauld, 
 
 Unfit for the widow, my laddie.
 
 68 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 1695-1732. 
 
 Among the "ingenious young gentlemen" who were contri- 
 butors to the Tea-7'able Miscellany in 1724, one of the most 
 distinguished was Robert Crawford. Four songs in that 
 collection "The Bush abune Traquair," "The Broom of the 
 Cowdenknowes," "One day I heard Mary say," and "My 
 Dearie, if thou dee " were from his pen, while a fifth, entitled 
 "Sweet Susan," is generally ascribed to him ; and to the Orpheus 
 Caledonius, published shortly afterwards, he contributed other 
 three "Tweedside," " Doun the burn, Davie lad," and "The 
 bonniest lass in a' the warld." In Johnson's Musical Museum 
 there is also a song by Crawford, set to the tune of "Allan 
 Water." 
 
 Nearly all that is known of the poet is given by Chambers 
 in his Songs of Scotland, prior to Burns. Crawford was the 
 second son of Patrick Crawford of Drumsoy in Renfrewshire. 
 His elder brother Thomas acted as secretary to the embassy 
 to France under Lord Stair, and was afterwards appointed 
 Envoy Extraordinary to the French Court. It was probably 
 owing to this fact that Robert Crawford spent several years 
 in France; and he is understood to have died in returning 
 from that country in 1732. Little is known of the personality 
 of the poet. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, writing to Burns in 1787, 
 mentions that he had just conversed with a Colonel Edmondstone, 
 a cousin of Robert Crawford, who remembered attending the 
 poet's funeral fifty-five years before. "Crawford," said Edmond- 
 stone in the cant phrase of the time, " was a pretty young man." 
 
 Of the songs by this pretty gallant in the Orpheus Caledonius 
 two were addressed to ladies. "The bonniest lass in a' the 
 warld" was indited to Miss Anne Hamilton, and "Tweedside," 
 the poet's best-known piece, is believed by tradition to have 
 had for its object Miss Mary Scott, second daughter of John 
 Scott of Harden. Colonel Edmondstone, it is true, stated that 
 the latter song was addressed to a Mary Stewart of the Castle- 
 milk family, but internal evidence seems to be against this 
 supposition, and a remark of Sir Walter Scott makes the matter 
 certain. Whether or not anything more than mere poetic feeling 
 underlay either of these compositions can hardly now be dis- 
 covered ; but when the Orpheus Caledonius appeared in 1725 
 Mary Scott must have been in her freshest bloom. An earlier 
 Mary Scott, daughter of Scott of Dryhope of the time of
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 69 
 
 <,)ueen Mary, who married Walter Scott of Harden, had been 
 called the Flower of Yarrow, and celebrated in a song of which 
 four verses alone remain: 
 
 Mary's black and Mary's white; 
 Mary is the king's delight 
 The king's delight, the prince's marrow : 
 Mary ijcott, the Flower of Yarrow. 
 
 To the air of this, Allan Ramsay composed a new song on her 
 descendant, to whom he also gave the title of the Flower of 
 Yarrow. Allan Ramsay, junior, painted a portrait of the lady, 
 which hangs in Hamilton 1'alace. But, whether her heart was 
 set on the dead poet of the Orpheus Caledonius, or, among the 
 press of suitors, she found herself unable to make a choice, 
 Mary Scott remained unmarried. Sir Walter Scott in his 
 autobiographical fragment states that he remembered meeting 
 in his early youth the once famous Edinburgh belle. " I remem- 
 ber her," he writes, "as an old lady distinguished for elegant 
 manners and high spirit, though struggling with the disadvantages 
 of a narrow income, as her father's estate, being entailed on 
 heirs-male, went to another branch of the Harden family. I 
 have heard a hundred times, from those who lived at the time, 
 that ' Tweedside ' and 'Mary Scott the Flower of Yarrow' 
 were both written upon this much admired lady." 
 
 Curiously, as Crawford was anticipated in the title of his best- 
 known piece by the "Tweedside" of Lord Yester, and in that 
 of his "Broom of Cowdenknowes " by one of the finest of the 
 ancient ballads, his own "Bush abune Traquair" has had 
 its title infringed by the later and very beautiful ballad of 
 Principal Shairp. 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 WHAT beauties does Flora disclose ! 
 
 How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! 
 Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, 
 
 Both nature and fancy exceed. 
 No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 
 
 Not all the gay flowers of the field, 
 Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, 
 
 Such beauty and pleasure does yield.
 
 70 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 The warblers are heard in the grove, 
 
 The linnet, the lark, and the thrush ; 
 The blackbird and sweet cooing dove 
 
 With music enchant every bush. 
 Come, let us go forth to the mead ; 
 
 Let us see how the primroses spring ! 
 We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 
 
 And love, while the feathered folk sing. 
 
 How does my love pass the long day ? 
 
 Does Mary not tend a few sheep? 
 Do they never carelessly stray 
 
 While happily she lies asleep? 
 Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest, 
 
 Kind nature indulging my bliss, 
 To ease the soft pains of my breast 
 
 I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 
 
 'Tis she does the virgins excel ; 
 
 No beauty with her may compare ; 
 Love's graces around her do dwell : 
 
 She's fairest where thousands are fair. 
 Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? 
 
 Oh, tell me at noon where they feed ? 
 Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay, 
 
 Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ?
 
 THE BUSH ABUNE TRAQUAIR. 71 
 
 THE BUSH ABUNE TRAQUAIR. 
 
 HEAR me, ye nymphs and every swain, 
 
 I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
 Though thus I languish and complain, 
 
 Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 
 My vows and sighs, like silent air 
 
 Unheeded, never move her; 
 At the bonnie bush abune Traquair, 
 
 'Twas there I first did love her. 
 
 That day she smiled and made me glad, 
 
 No maid seemed ever kinder ; 
 I thought myself the luckiest lad, 
 
 So sweetly there to find her. 
 I tried to soothe my amorous flame 
 
 In words that I thought tender; 
 If more there passed 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 shews disdain, 
 
 She looks as ne'er acquainted.
 
 72 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 The bonnie bush bloomed 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? 
 O 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 abune Traquair, 
 
 To lonely wilds I'll wander.
 
 DOUN THE BURN DA VIE. 73 
 
 DOUN THE BURN, DAVIE. 
 
 WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green, 
 
 And broom bloomed fair to see, 
 When Mary was complete fifteen, 
 
 And love laughed in her e'e, 
 Blyth Davie's blinks 1 her heart did move 'glances. 
 
 To speak her mind thus free, 
 "Gang doun the burn, Davie love, 
 
 And I shall 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 white, 
 
 Her e'en were bonnie blue, 
 Her looks were like Aurora bright, 
 
 Her lips like dropping dew. 
 
 As down the burn they took their way, 
 
 What tender tales they said ; 
 His cheek to hers he aft did lay 
 
 And with her bosom played.
 
 74 ROBERT CRAWFORD. 
 
 Till baith at length impatient grown 
 
 To be mair fully blest, 
 In yonder vale they leaned them down 
 
 Love only saw the rest. 
 
 What passed, I guess was harmless play, 
 
 And naething, sure, unmeet, 
 For ganging hame I heard him 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."
 
 ROBERT BLAIR. 75 
 
 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 1699-1746. 
 
 Of an equal boldness with Ramsay in departing from the 
 conventions of the school of Pope, but at the same time of a 
 very different spirit from the author of "The Gentle Shepherd," 
 was Robert Blair. As Ramsay was the chief exponent of 
 Scottish humour of the time, Blair may be regarded as the 
 apostle of melancholy. His work, with its rude pathos, strength, 
 and keen feeling for nature, remains typical of the darker side of 
 the Scottish spirit. 
 
 Grandson of Robert Blair, the celebrated Covenanter, and 
 eldest son of a minister of the same name in Edinburgh, the 
 poet was educated at Edinburgh University, and travelled for a 
 time on the continent, before settling as minister of Athelstaneford 
 in Haddingtonshire in 1731. His first printed verses appeared 
 in the Edinburgh Miscellany in 1720, and he was the author of 
 several pieces, but his sole title to remembrance is his chief 
 poem, "The Grave." This was begun before his settlement at 
 Athelstaneford, but was not published till 1743. The poem was 
 long popular, and if the rhythm does not always appear entirely 
 harmonious, the imagery is vigorous and unhackneyed, and the 
 style in admirable keeping with the subject. In more than one of 
 the passages, as that on the gravedigger and on the question of 
 a hereafter, the inspiration appears obviously Shakespearean ; 
 but the main conception is entirely original, the number of 
 quoted phrases in a piece of no more than 750 lines is remarkable, 
 and the final passage, the best thing Blair wrote, expresses 
 worthily the spirit of triumphant Christian philosophy " O 
 Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?" 
 One of Blair's lines, that of visits "like those of angels short 
 and far between," remains familiar in the form in which it was 
 repeated and spoiled by Campbell. 
 
 The poet died of fever on February 4, 1746, and was succeeded 
 in his charge by John Home, author of the tragedy of "Douglas." 
 Blair's wife was a daughter of Mr. Law of Elvingston, Professor 
 of Moral Philosophy at Edinburgh University, a lovely and 
 amiable woman, by whom he had five sons and a daughter. 
 His fourth son afterwards became President of the Court of 
 Session. Among numerous editions of Blair's work, that 
 illustrated by William Blake, and published by Cromek in 1808, 
 remains specially notable.
 
 76 KOREKT BLAIR. 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 WHILST some affect the sun, and some the shade, 
 Some flee the city, some the hermitage, 
 Their aims as various as the roads they take 
 In journeying through life ; the task be mine 
 To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb, 
 Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all 
 These travellers meet. Thy succours I implore, 
 Eternal King ! whose potent arm sustains 
 The keys of hell and death. 
 
 The Grave, dread thing ! 
 
 Men shiver when thou'rt named : Nature, appalled, 
 Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah, how dark 
 Thy long-extended realms and rueful wastes, 
 Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark 
 
 night, 
 
 Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 
 Was rolled together, or had tried its beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound ! The sickly taper 
 By glimm'ring through the low-browed, misty vaults, 
 Furred round with mouldy damps and ropey slime, 
 Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
 And only serves to make the night more irksome. 
 Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,
 
 THE GRAVE. 77 
 
 Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell 
 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms, 
 Where light-heeled ghosts and visionary shades, 
 Beneath the wan cold moon, as fame reports, 
 Embodied thick, perform their mystic rounds. 
 No other merriment, dull tree ! is thine. 
 
 See yonder hallowed fane ! the pious work 
 Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, 
 And buried midst the wreck of things that were : 
 There lie interred the more illustrious dead. 
 The wind is up: hark! how it howls! methinks 
 Till now I never heard a sound so dreary. 
 Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, 
 Rooked in the spire, screams loud. The gloomy 
 
 aisles, 
 Black-plastered and hung round with shreds of 
 
 scutcheons 
 
 And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound, 
 Laden with heavier airs from the low vaults, 
 The mansions of the dead. Roused from their 
 
 slumbers, 
 
 In grim array the grisly spectres rise, 
 Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, 
 Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. 
 Again the screech-owl shrieks ungracious sound ! 
 I'll hear no more ; it makes one's blood run chill. 
 
 [The supernatural terrors of the churchyard are described, the 
 pangs of widowed love, and the dear memories of friendship. ] 
 
 Dull Grave ! thou spoil'st the dance of youthful 
 blood,
 
 78 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, 
 
 And ev'ry smirking feature from the face; 
 
 Branding our laughter with the name of madness. 
 
 Where are the jesters now? the men of health, 
 
 Complexionally pleasant? Where the droll 
 
 Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke 
 
 To clapping theatres and shouting crowds, 
 
 And made even thick-lipped, musing Melancholy 
 
 To gather up her face into a smile 
 
 Before she was aware? Ah, sullen now, 
 
 And dumb as the green turf that covers them ! 
 
 Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war, 
 The Roman Caesars and the Grecian chiefs, 
 The boast of story? Where the hot-brained youth 
 Who the tiara at his pleasure tore 
 From kings of all the then discovered globe, 
 And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hampered 
 And had not room enough to do its work? 
 Alas ! how slim, dishonourably slim, 
 And crammed into a space we blush to name ! 
 Proud royalty ! how altered in thy looks, 
 How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue ! 
 Son of the morning ! whither art thou gone ? 
 Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, 
 And the majestic menace of thine eyes 
 Felt from afar? 
 
 [A royal funeral is described, and the futility of human fame 
 descanted on. In turn the grave is made to furnish a lesson to 
 beauty, strength, and learning ; the orator, the physician, and 
 the hoarder of wealth are each warned of the end that waits 
 them. The soul is brought to face the eternal gulf, and the 
 question asked of a hereafter. The folly of pride is pointed out, for
 
 THE GRAVE. 79 
 
 tyrant and slave, prude and coquette, alike lie forgotten under- 
 ground. Man's first estate is dwelt on, and the effects of the 
 coming of sin, then the work of Christ and the triumph of the 
 human spirit over death and the grave. The poem ends with a 
 diatribe on the folly of the fear of death.] 
 
 We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom ; 
 
 But straight our wish revoke and will not go. 
 
 So have I seen, upon a summer's even, 
 
 Fast by the riv'let's brink a youngster play. 
 
 How wishfully he looks to stem the tide ! 
 
 This moment resolute, next unresolved. 
 
 At last he dips his foot; but as he dips, 
 
 His fears redouble, and he runs away 
 
 From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now 
 
 Of all the flowers that paint the further bank 
 
 And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome Death ! 
 
 That after many a painful, bleeding step, 
 
 Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe 
 
 On the long-wished-for shore. Prodigious change ! 
 
 Our bane turned to a blessing ! Death, disarmed, 
 
 Loses his fellness quite ; all thanks to Him 
 
 Who scourged the venom out. Sure the last end 
 
 Of the good man is peace ! How calm his exit ! 
 
 Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, 
 
 Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft. 
 
 Behold him in the evening-tide of life 
 
 A life well spent, whose early care it was 
 
 His riper years should not upbraid his green 
 
 By unperceived degrees he wears away, 
 
 Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. 
 
 High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches 
 
 After the prize in view, and like a bird
 
 8o ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 That's hampered, struggles hard to get away, 
 Whilst the glad gates of sight are wide expanded 
 To let new glories in, the first fair fruits 
 Of the fast-coming harvest. Then, oh ! then 
 Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears, 
 Shrunk to a thing of nought. Oh how he longs 
 To have his passport signed, and be dismissed ! 
 'Tis done, and now he's happy; the glad soul 
 Has not a wish uncrowned. E'en the lag flesh 
 Rests too in hope of meeting once again 
 Its better half, never to sunder more. 
 Nor shall it hope in vain ; the time draws on 
 When not a single spot of burial earth, 
 Whether on land or in the spacious sea, 
 But must give back its long committed dust 
 Inviolate ; and faithfully shall these 
 Make up the full account, not the least atom 
 Embezzled or mislaid, of the whole tale. 
 Each soul shall have a body ready furnished ; 
 And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane ! 
 Ask not how this can be ! Sure the same Power 
 That reared the piece at first, and took it down, 
 Can reassemble the loose scattered parts, 
 And put them as they were. Almighty God 
 Hath done much more ; nor is his arm impaired 
 Through length of days ; and what he can he will. 
 His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. 
 When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumb'ring dust 
 Not unattentive to the call, shall wake, 
 And every joint possess its proper place 
 With a new elegance of form unknown
 
 THE GRAVE. 81 
 
 To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul 
 Mistake its partner, but amidst the crowd 
 Singling its other half into its arms 
 Shall rush, with all th' impatience of a man 
 That's new come home, and, having long been 
 
 absent, 
 
 With haste runs over every different room, 
 In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting ! 
 Nor time nor death shall ever part them more. 
 
 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night ; 
 We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. 
 
 Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird 
 Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake 
 Cowers down and doses till the dawn of day, 
 Then claps his well-fledged wings, and bears away. 
 
 VI
 
 82 THE AUTHOR OF ALBANIA. 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF ALBANIA. 
 Fl. 1737. 
 
 All that is known of the author of Albania : a Poem addressed 
 to the Genius of Scotland, is told by Dr. John Leyden in his 
 little volume of Scottish Descriptive Poems (Edin. 1803). The 
 author and the original editor, he says, are equally unknown, 
 and of the original edition of the poem, printed at London for 
 T. Cooper, in 1737, only one copy is known to exist. From 
 the advertisement to that single copy Leyden quotes the sentence, 
 "The poem was wrote by a Scots clergyman, some years ago, 
 who is since dead," and from an allusion in the poem itself the 
 author appears to have been twenty-four years of age at the time 
 of composition. Leyden further quotes a verse of Aaron Hill 
 declaring the author and also the earlier editor of the poem to 
 have been Scotsmen, and he states that the preservation of the 
 piece is due to the taste of "the ingenious author of The 
 Minstrel." This last fact, and a reference to "Devana" in the 
 body of the piece, point to the conclusion that the poet was a 
 native, or at least a resident, of Aberdeen. Nothing further has 
 been discovered of the author of Albania, and he seems to have 
 left no other work to the world. Within the short length of its 
 296 lines, however, the poem contains passages which are hardly 
 surpassed by anything written in its time. It is put together 
 without artistic method, and some of its parts treat of matters 
 hardly suited for poetry ; but throughout it has a fresh strength 
 and a breath of soil and sea that are of a kind by themselves, 
 and must rank the unknown author among the original geniuses 
 of his age. The passage descriptive of the superstition of invisible 
 hunting has been quoted by Beattie in his Essays on Poetry and 
 Music, and by Scott in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 
 
 ALBANIA. 
 
 O LOVED Albania ! hardy nurse of men ! 
 Holding thy silver cross, I worship thee, 
 On this thy old and solemn festival, 
 Early, ere yet the wakeful cock has crowed.
 
 ALBANIA. 83 
 
 Hear ! goddess, hear ! that on the beryl flood, 
 Enthroned of old, amid the waters sound, 
 Reign'st far and wide o'er many a sea-girt spot. 
 Oh smile ! whether on high Dunedin thou 
 Guardest the steep and iron-bolted rock 
 Where trusted lie the monarchy's last gems, 
 The sceptre, sword, and crown, that graced the 
 
 brows, 
 
 Since father Fergus, of an hundred kings : 
 Or if, along the well-contested ground, 
 The warlike Border-land, thou marchest proud, 
 In Teviotdale, where many a shepherd dwells, 
 By lovely winding Tweed, or Cheviot brown. 
 Nor ween I now in Durham's lofty spire 
 To seek thee, though thy loved St. David's work ; 
 Nor where Newcastle opes her jetty mines 
 Of coal ; nor in strong Berwick ; nor in Man, 
 That never dreaded plague ; nor in the wilds 
 Of stony Westmorland : all once thy own. 
 
 Hail, land of bowmen ! seed of those who scorned 
 To stoop the neck to wide imperial Rome. 
 O dearest half of Albion, sea-walled ! 
 Hail ! state unconquered by the fire of war, 
 Red war, that twenty ages round thee burned ! 
 To thee, for whom my purest raptures glow, 
 Kneeling with filial homage, I devote 
 My life, my strength, my first and latest song. 
 
 Shall I forget thy tenderness? shall I 
 Thy bounty, thy parental cares forget, 
 Hissing with viper's tongue? who born of thee, 
 Now twice twelve years have drawn thy vital air,
 
 84 THE AUTHOR OF ALBANIA. 
 
 And eat thy fruit, protected with thy sons; 
 Though stronger far and holier is the tie 
 By which are knit my heart-strings to thy love ; 
 Thou gav'st me, yet an infant unbaptised, 
 Immortal wealth, the seeds of better life. 
 
 Thou goddess ! by the softening sun beloved, 
 Rejoicest, he with unfulfilled desire 
 Delights not only on thy face to dwell 
 In amorous smile the live-long summer's day, 
 But, looking back from the Atlantic brine, 
 Eyes thy glad slumbers with reflected beam, 
 And glitters o'er thy head the clear night long. 
 
 Neglect not thou the sea, that yields thee salt, 
 Salt, origin of tastes, with which we eat 
 The well-fed ox, and bread by labour earned. 
 Thence too the coal its nitrous spirit draws 
 Coal such as dug from firry Elphingston, 
 Or Winton's level land that smiles with wheat, 
 Brings back bright ore, reward of industry, 
 Or such as in Montrose, fair harboured town, 
 They burn ; or in Alectum, lofty domed, 
 And dims, Edina, thy aspiring brow. 
 No other fuel claimeth Glasgow blue, 
 Watery Linlithgow's royal seat, or Perth, 
 Whose evening bells the roving Highlander 
 Hears sweet, though far descending Stenton hill, 
 Nor Fife, well-peopled in her sea-towns tiled. 
 Such also we in high Devana burn, 
 Glancing on marble hearth, the oily jet 
 Crackling full fast makes mild the bitter air
 
 ALBANIA. 85 
 
 With sulphured steam, and thaws with grateful warmth 
 The frozen pilgrim, while the glowing grate 
 Doubles the heat, and gay the enlivened hall 
 Laughs wide, illumined with the pleasing gleam. 
 
 Ere since of old the haughty thanes of Ross 
 So to the simple swain tradition tells 
 Were wont with clans and ready vassals thronged 
 To wake the bounding stag or guilty wolf, 
 There oft is heard at midnight, or at noon, 
 Beginning faint, but rising still more loud 
 And nearer, voice of hunters and of hounds 
 And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen. 
 Forthwith the hubbub multiplies, the gale 
 Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din 
 Of hot pursuit the broken cry of deer 
 Mangled by throttling dogs, the shouts of men, 
 And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill. 
 Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale 
 Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears 
 Tingle with inward dread. Aghast he eyes 
 The mountain's height and all the ridges round ; 
 Yet not one trace of living wight discerns, 
 Nor knows, o'erawed and trembling as he stands, 
 To what or whom he owes his idle fear 
 To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend ; 
 But wonders, and no end of wondering finds. 
 
 Albania dear, attend ! behold I seek 
 Thy angel night and day with eager feet 
 On peopled coast and western mountain lone, 
 In city paved and well-aired village thatched,
 
 86 THE AUTHOR OF ALBANIA. 
 
 From end to end of Scotland many-mined. 
 Oft too I dare the deep, though winter storms 
 Rage fierce, and round me mad Corbrecho roar, 
 Wafted with love to see Columba's isles. 
 
 There view I winged Skye, and Lewes long, 
 Resort of whales ; and Wyste where herrings swarm ; 
 And talk, at once delighted and appalled, 
 By the pale moon, with utmost Hirta's seers, 
 Of beckoning ghosts and shadowy men that bode 
 Sure death. Nor there doth Jura's double hill 
 Escape my sight ; nor Mull, though bald and bare ; 
 Nor Hay, where erewhile Macdonalds reigned. 
 Thee too, Lismore ! I hail St. Moloch's shrine ; 
 Inchgall, first conquered by the brand of Scots ; 
 And, filled with awe of ancient saints and kings, 
 I kiss, O Icolmkill ! thy hallowed mould. 
 
 Thus, Caledonia, many-hilled ! to thee, 
 End and beginning of my ardent song, 
 I tune the Druid's lyre, to thee devote 
 This lay, and love not music but for thee.
 
 ALEXANDER ROSS. 87 
 
 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 1699-1784. 
 
 The immediate successor and indeed imitator of Allan Ramsay 
 as the writer of a Scottish pastoral was the teacher of a remote 
 parish school among the Grampians. Son of an Aberdeenshire 
 farmer, Alexander Ross was born at Kincardine O'Neil, on 
 April 13, 1699. After taking his degree at Marischal College in 
 1718, he acted for a time, like many Scottish students, as a 
 tutor. Afterwards he became schoolmaster successively at 
 Aboyne and Laurencekirk, settling finally at the remote Lochlea 
 in Forfarshire. There he remained, reared a large family on 
 scanty means, and wrote the various poetical pieces by which 
 he is remembered. In 1766 he carried the manuscript of his 
 pastoral, " Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess," to Aber- 
 deen. Beattie, the author of The Minstrel, at that time a 
 professor there, took an interest in the rustic poet, helped his 
 work to publication, and secured it a hearing. The piece 
 proved successful, and brought its author no small local fame, 
 with the, to him, not inconsiderable sum of 20. To the 
 present day "Helenore" remains popular in the north, but in 
 spite of its frequent touches of nature and the stamp of truth 
 about its characters, its many incongruities destroy its effect as a 
 work of art. The poem is written in the Buchan dialect, and 
 possesses some interest on that account ; but the reader is 
 startled to find a Helenore and a Rosalind (in this case the 
 hero's name) among the peasantry of Scotland, and still more so 
 to come upon these high-sounding titles contracted with easy 
 familiarity into "Nory" and " Lindy." The pastoral, however, 
 has not been without an influence upon the work of later poets, 
 and Burns has acknowledged that Scota, the muse to whom 
 Ross addresses his invocation, afforded the suggestion for his 
 own Coila. 
 
 It is by his songs, however, that Ross is most widely known. 
 " Wooed and married and a'," "The Rock and the wee pickle 
 tow," "The Bridal o't," "What ails the lasses at me?" and 
 " To the begging we will go !" are rich in typical Scots humour,
 
 88 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 and full of spirit, while their homely sense, and the distinct 
 individual tang which they possess, ensure them a place in every 
 collection. 
 
 Ross died at Lochlea at a green old age in 1784. A life of 
 him by his grandson, the Rev. Alexander Thomson, minister of 
 Lentrathen, was prefixed to the fifth edition of his poems, 
 published at Dundee in 1812; and to a more recent edition, 
 published at Glasgow in 1868, a further memoir was written by 
 Dr. John Longmuir. The poet at his death left some eight 
 small volumes of verse and prose which still remain unprinted. 
 
 WOOED AND MARRIED AND A'.* 
 
 WOOED and married and a', 
 
 Married and wooed and a' ; 
 spoiled. The dandilly 1 toast of the parish 
 
 Is wooed and married and a'. 
 The wooers will now ride thinner, 
 
 And by, when they wonted to ca' ; 
 'Tis needless to speer for the lassie 
 
 That's wooed and married and a'. 
 
 * By a curious carelessness, another song with this title was 
 substituted for this in the Brechin edition of Ross's poems. 
 Following that mistake, Stenhouse, in his notes to Johnson's 
 Museum, while attributing the Brechin version to Ross, stated 
 that the longer piece was the work of Mrs. Scott of Dunbarton. 
 It is possible that Ross was also the author of the substituted 
 Brechin version ; it was a habit of his to write curtailments of 
 his songs for popular purposes. For this reason the Brechin 
 version is also appended here. But the nine-stanza copy first 
 given is the copy of the first two editions of Ross's poems, and 
 must necessarily be his work. Still another song with the same 
 title and on the same theme was written by Joanna Baillie, and 
 is included among her poetical works.
 
 WOOED AND MARRIED AND A\ 89 
 
 The girss 1 had na freedom of growing 'grass. 
 
 As lang as she wasna awa', 
 Nor in the town* could there be stowing a . steading. 
 
 For wooers that wanted to ca'. 
 For drinking and dancing and brulyies 3 , 3 broils. 
 
 And boxing and shaking of fa's, 
 The town was for ever in tulyies*; * quarrels. 
 
 But now the lassie's awa'. 
 
 But had they but .ken'd her as I did 
 
 Their errand it wad ha'e been sma'; 
 She neither kent spinning nor carding, 
 
 Nor brewing nor baking #va'. 
 But wooers ran all mad upon her, 
 
 Because she was bonnie and braw, 
 And sne I dread will be seen on her, 
 
 When she's byhand and awa'. 
 
 He'll rooses her but sma' that has married her, s rate, extol. 
 
 Now when he's gotten her a', 
 And wish, I fear, he had miscarried her, 
 
 Tocher and ribbons and a'. 
 For her art it lay all in her dressing ; 
 
 But gin her braws ance were awa', 
 I fear she'll turn out o' the fashion, 
 
 And knit up her moggans 6 with straw. 6 ^witho 
 
 For yesterday I yeed? to see her, ? went. 
 
 And O she was wondrous braw, 
 Yet she cried to her husband to gi'e her 
 
 An ell of red 'ribbons or twa.
 
 90 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 He up and he set doun beside her 
 A reel and a wheelie to ca' ; 
 
 She said, Was he this gate to guide her? 
 And out at the door and awa'. 
 
 Her neist road was hame till her mither, 
 
 Who speer'd at her now, How was a'? 
 She says till her, "Was't for nae ither 
 
 That I was married awa', 
 But gae and sit down to a wheelie, 
 
 And at it baith night and day ca', 
 1 lad - And ha'e the yarn reeled by a cheelie ', 
 
 That ever was crying to draw ! " 
 
 Her mother says till her, " Hech, lassie, 
 
 He's wisest, I fear, of the twa ; 
 meal-dish. Ye'll ha'e little to put in the bassie 2 , 
 
 Gin ye be backward to draw. 
 'Tis now ye should work like a tiger 
 
 And at it baith wallop and ca', 
 As lang's ye ha'e youthhead and vigour, 
 
 And little anes and debt are awa'. 
 
 4hoid\ng "Sae swythe^ awa' hame to your hadding*, 
 
 Mair fool than when ye came awa' ; 
 Ye maunna now keep ilka wedding ; 
 
 Nor gae sae clean-fingered and braw; 
 s neighbour. But mind with a neipers you're yokit, 
 
 And that ye your end o't maun draw, 
 6d 2SrtMied. Or else ye deserve to be dockit 6 ; 
 
 Sae that is an answer for a'."
 
 WOOED AND MARRIED AND A\ 91 
 
 Young lucky now finds herself nidder'd 1 , kept under. 
 
 And wist na well what gate to ca'; 
 But with hersel' even considered 
 
 That hamewith were better to draw, 
 And e'en tak' her chance of her landing, 
 
 However the matter might fa' ; 
 Folk need not on frets 2 to be standing * SI S' 
 
 That's wooed and married and a'.
 
 92 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 THE bride cam' out o' the byre, 
 
 wiped. And O, as she dighted 1 her cheeks, 
 
 " Sirs I'm to be married the-night, 
 
 And ha'e neither blankets nor sheets 
 Ha'e neither blankets nor sheets, 
 
 Nor scarce a coverlet too ; 
 The bride that has a' thing to borrow, 
 
 Has e'en right meikle ado ! " 
 
 Wooed and married and a'! 
 Married and wooed and a'! 
 And was she na very weel aff 
 That was wooed 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, 
 nag with white And our braw bawsint yade 2 
 
 spot on lace. J 
 
 Will carry hame your corn : 
 What wad ye be at, ye jade?"
 
 WOOED AND MARRIED AND A\ 93 
 
 Out spake the bride's mither : 
 
 "What, deil, needs a' this pride? 
 I hadna a plack' in my pouch ' s^rt"*-'". 
 
 That night I was a bride. EnglUh pcnny ' 
 
 My gown was linsey-wolsey, 
 
 And ne'er a sark ava ; 
 And ye ha'e ribbons and buskin's 
 
 Mae than ane or twa." 
 
 Out spake the bride's brither 
 
 As he cam' in wi' the kye : 
 " Puir Willie wad ne'er ha'e ta'en ye 
 
 Had he kent ye as weel as I. 
 For ye're baith proud and saucy, 
 
 And no for a puir 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 : 
 " Oh, gin I were but married, 
 
 It's a' that I desire ! 
 But we puir folk maun live single, 
 
 And do the best we can : 
 I dinna ken what I should want 
 
 If I could get but a man !"
 
 94 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 THE ROCK AND THE WEE 
 PICKLE TOW.* 
 
 THERE was an auld wife and a wee pickle tow, 
 
 And she wad gae try the spinning o't ; 
 distaff. She louted her down, and her rock I took a low, 
 
 And that was a bad beginning o't. 
 
 avoided. She sat and she grat 2 , and she flet3 and she flang, 
 
 And she flew and she blew, and she wriggled and 
 
 wrang, 
 
 4 become frantic. And she choked and boaked, and cried like to mang 4 , 
 " Alas for the dreary spinning o't ! 
 
 " I've wanted a sark for these eight years and ten, 
 And this was to be the beginning o't ; 
 
 But I vow I shall want it for as lang again, 
 Or ever I try the spinning o't. 
 
 For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' me, 
 s disaster. Djcl sic 3. mishap or mishanters befa' me ; 
 
 But ye shall ha'e leave baith to hang me and draw me 
 The neist time I try the spinning o't. 
 
 *An abridgement of this piece for singing purposes, made 
 probably by Ross himself, was printed in Herd's collection, and 
 is the version usually given in the song books.
 
 THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW. 95 
 
 " I ha'e keepit my house for these threescore o' years, 
 And aye I kept free o' the spinning o't ; 
 
 But how I was sarked, foul fa' them that speers ! 
 For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. 
 
 But our women are nowadays grown a' sae braw 
 
 That ilk ane maun -ha'e her sark, and some maun 
 ha'e twa ; 
 
 The warld was better when ne'er ane ava' 
 Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't. 
 
 "Foul fa' her that ever advised me to spin, 
 That had been sae lang a-beginning o't ! 
 
 I might well have ended as I did begin, 
 
 Nor have got sic a scare wi' the spinning o't. 
 
 But they'll say 'She's a wise wife that kens her ain 
 
 weird l ' ; ' fate. 
 
 I thought on a day it should never be speer'd, 
 
 ' How loot ye the low tak' your rock by the beard 
 When ye gaed to try the spinning o't?' 
 
 "The spinning, the spinning, it gars my heart sob 
 
 When I think upon the beginning o't ; 
 I thought ere I died to have ance made a wob 2 , 2 web. 
 
 But still I had wears 3 of the spinning; o't. 3 restraints, 
 
 apprehensions 
 
 But had I nine dochters, as I ha'e but three, 
 The safest and soundest advice I could gi'e, 
 Is that they frae spinning wad keep their hands free, 
 For fear of a bad beginning o't.
 
 96 ALEXANDER ROSS. 
 
 "Yet, in spite of my counsel, if they will needs run 
 
 The drearysome risk of the spinning o't, 
 sheltered place. L e t them seek out a lyth r in the heat of the sun, 
 And there venture on the beginning o't. 
 
 But to do as I did, alas I avow ! 
 
 To busk up a rock at the cheek o' the low, 
 
 Says that I had but little wit in my pow, 
 And as little ado wi' the spinning o't. 
 
 " But yet, after a', there is ae thing that grieves 
 My heart to think o' the beginning o't ; 
 
 Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves 
 Then there had been word o' the spinning o't. 
 
 This I wad ha'e washen and bleached like the 
 snaw, 
 
 2 arms. ^nd on m y j- wa gardies 2 like moggans3 wad draw, 
 
 3 stockingette ' 
 
 sleeves. And then folk wad say that auld Girzy was braw, 
 And a' was upon her ain spinning o't. 
 
 4 jog. "But gin I could shog* about till a new spring, 
 
 I should yet ha'e a bout o' the spinning o't; 
 s earth. A mutchkin o' lintseed I'd in the yerd 5 fling, 
 
 6 unlucky. For a' the wanchancy 6 beginning o't. 
 
 7 hollow. I'll gar my ain Tammy gae down to the howe 7 
 s left way And cut me a rock o' a widdershins grow 8 
 
 growing. 
 
 9 rowan-tree. Of good rantry-tree^ for to carry my tow, 
 
 And a spindle o' same for the twining o't.
 
 THE ROCK AND THE WEE I'/CA'LE TOW. 97 
 
 " For now, when I mind me, I met Maggie Grim 
 
 That morning, just at the beginning o't ; 
 She was never ca'd chancy, but canny and slim, 
 
 And sae it has fared wi' my spinning o't. 
 But gin my new rock were ance cutted and dry, 
 I'll a' Maggie's cann and her cantrips' defy, 'cunning and 
 
 And, but ony sussie 2 , the spinning I'll try, -without any 
 
 anxiety. 
 
 And ye shall a' hear o' the beginning o't." 
 
 \ i
 
 98 /AMES THOMSON. 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 1700-1748. 
 
 If not singly the greatest, certainly not second to the greatest 
 of the Scottish poets of the early part of the eighteenth century 
 was James Thomson. Standing side by side with "The Gentle 
 Shepherd" for freshness and charm, "The Seasons," equally 
 with Ramsay's pastoral, sounded the note of revolt against the 
 conventional school of Pope, and led the poetry of the country 
 back to natural and unaffected themes. 
 
 The poet was born at Ednam in Roxburghshire, of which his 
 father was minister, on September 1 1 , 1 700. Shortly afterwards 
 the family removed to Southdean, and from the manse there 
 every day during his boyhood Thomson trudged six miles down 
 the Jed valley to school in the little country town. It was the 
 scenery of that valley which he afterwards described in his poem 
 of "Autumn." Close by Jedburgh an Edinburgh graduate 
 named Riccarton had settled as a farmer. This enthusiast, 
 who appears to have been a man of refinement and a poet, 
 taught the boys Latin in an aisle of the parish church, and a 
 poem of his, "A Winter's Day," is said to have sown the seed in 
 his pupil's mind which years afterwards germinated into "The 
 Seasons." From Jedburgh school Thomson passed to Edin- 
 burgh University, where he studied for five years with a view to 
 entering the church. But a reproof which he received for the 
 poetic and sensuous diction of his trial discourse turned his 
 thoughts from that career, and, his father meantime having died,* 
 he presently made his way to London to seek his fortune. His 
 friend David Mallet was at that time tutor to the sons of the 
 Duke of Montrose, and at the instance of Lady Grizel Baillie, 
 Thomson obtained a similar engagement in the family of Lord 
 Binning. He soon, however, tired of the monotony of his 
 employment, and gave it up. He was lingering in this con- 
 dition, about Barnet, friendless, poor, and despondent, and 
 grieving over the death of his mother, of which news had just 
 reached him, when the idea of his poem of "Winter" occurred to 
 him. At school and at college he had written verses, and some 
 
 * The immediate cause of the death of the poet's father was a cold caught 
 in the process of exorcising a local ghost.
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 99 
 
 of these had been printed in the Edinburgh Miscellany as early 
 as 1820. None of them, however, had attracted notice. The 
 same fate seemed likely to befall his new composition. A 
 publisher, Millan, gave him three guineas for the copyright ; but 
 lor a month "Winter" lay on the counter unnoticed. Then one- 
 day, a clergyman of some literary connection, named Whatley, 
 picked up the volume, perceived its merits, and forthwith rushed 
 off to the coffee-houses with news of his discovery. It was the 
 era of literary patronage, and Thomson had dedicated his work 
 to Sir Spencer Compton. That gentleman presently expressed a 
 desire to see the poet, and at the close of the interview presented 
 him with a gift of twenty guineas, a sum equal perhaps to a 
 hundred sovereigns of the present time. " The poem," says 
 Dr. Johnson, in his "Life," "which, being of a new kind, few 
 would venture at first to like, by degrees gained upon the public, 
 and one edition was very speedily succeeded by another." 
 
 "Winter" was published in 1726, a year after the appearance 
 of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd." In 1727 Thomson followed 
 it up with two compositions " Summer," and a " Poem on the 
 Death of Sir Isaac Newton." "Spring" appeared in 1728, and 
 "Autumn" when the poet's collected works were published in 
 1730. In 1730, also, his first play, "Sophonisba" appeared on 
 the stage, though with only ordinary success. A feeble line 
 which the play contained, "O Sophonisba, Sophonisba, O !" 
 gave rise to a parody " O Jemmy Thomson, Jemmy Thomson O ! " 
 which for years was echoed about the streets. 
 
 Meanwhile the poet had declared himself on the side of the 
 Opposition by the publication of " Britannia," a poetical invec- 
 tive, now forgotten, against the ministry of the day, whom the 
 nation thought slow to resent the Spanish inroads. A little later 
 he was sent to travel with the son of Sir Charles Talbot, and 
 the knowledge of continental politics thus acquired, together 
 with the state of party feeling at home, suggested to him the 
 idea of a great poem on Liberty. Over this work, which was 
 his longest, and which he looked upon as his noblest, he spent 
 two years; but it fell still-born from the press, and has been 
 looked on by every critic since as a dreary performance. 
 
 In 1733, however, he received through the patronage of Sir 
 Charles Talbot the sinecure post of Secretary of Briefs in the 
 Court of Chancery, and for some years his naturally indolent 
 temperament seems to have prevailed over his poetic ambition, 
 for he published nothing. It was only in 1737, when his patron 
 died, and his sinecure came to an end, that he was forced again 
 to bestir himself. He then produced his play of " Agamemnon," 
 which was acted, but made no great mark. Pope, who, it is 
 said, had much regard for Thomson, came to the first perform- 
 ance, and was received in the theatre with a round of applause. 
 Thomson himself, watching the play from an upper gallery, was 
 so excited that he accompanied the players with audible recita- 
 tion till stopped by a friendly hint. Another play which he
 
 loo JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 wrote forthwith, "Edward and Eleanora," failed to obtain the 
 Lord Chamberlain's license, probably because of the author's 
 known political opposition to the court ; and Thomson was once 
 more reduced to indigence. 
 
 About this time Frederick, Prince of Wales, having quarrelled 
 with his father, had set up a separate court, and in his struggle 
 for popularity professed himself a patron of literature. Thomson 
 was introduced to him by Mr. Lyttelton, and being gaily rallied 
 on the state of his affairs, said that " they were in a more 
 poetical posture than formerly," whereupon he had a pension 
 allowed him of a hundred pounds a year. Soon afterwards he 
 was employed, in conjunction with his friend Mallet, to write 
 a masque, "Alfred," which was performed before the Prince at 
 Cliefden House. And in 1744, Mr. Lyttelton being in power, 
 the poet obtained the office of Surveyor-General of the Leeward 
 Islands, a sinecure from which, when his deputy was paid, he 
 received about ^300 a year. 
 
 A year later Thomson produced the most popular of all his 
 plays, "Tancred and Sigismunda," which was acted at intervals 
 down to the latter part of the century. He also wrote another 
 drama, " Coriolanus," which was put on the stage after his death, 
 in 1749. 
 
 His last, and artistically his most perfect work, however, was 
 his "Castle of Indolence," which was published in 1748, three 
 months before he died. Written in the Spenserian stanza and 
 manner, its two cantos picturing indolence and industry respec- 
 tively, it is said to have occupied its author fifteen years in 
 composition, and it remains one of the most perfectly finished 
 English poems of the eighteenth century. 
 
 Catching cold on the river between London and Kew, the 
 poet fell into a fever which ended his life on August 27th, 1748. 
 He was buried in Richmond Church, and a monument to his 
 memory was set up in Westminster Abbey. Rather above the 
 middle size, and of dull, rather gross appearance, Thomson is 
 described as silent in mingled company but cheerful among a 
 select few, and from the stories recorded of devotion towards him 
 he seems to have been capable of inspiring a deep and lasting 
 affection in his friends. It says much for his goodness of heart 
 that in the midst of his own distresses he still managed to send 
 assistance to the sisters left behind him in the north. 
 
 Thomson's collected dramas were published in two volumes in 
 1768 by A. Donaldson, Edinburgh. Of the many editions of 
 his poems probably the finest was that published by the Etching 
 Club in 1842. Among more recent editions the " Aldine" is to 
 be recommended. 
 
 Between the ages of Pope and Scott, Thomson continued the 
 most popular poet in the English language, and it would be 
 difficult to set a limit to the extent of his influence. His plays, 
 cold and undramatic, were of no great moment ; and his political 
 pieces, dreary diatribes and citations, might have remained un-
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 101 
 
 written. Even his "Castle of Indolence," with its rich archaic 
 setting and its sensuous and languid splendour, must have- 
 exercised a charm always only upon the inner few. But his 
 " Seasons " were a new voice on the earth ; their imagery, fresh 
 and exuberant, carried men back to the natural wells of delight 
 the simple enjoyments of sense, the glory of valley and woodland, 
 and the magic and the majesty of the sea. The verse, moreover, 
 in which they were written was the first blank verse of the 
 modern kind. Of the "Seasons," "Winter" was his greatest 
 work. In it, the chief defect of which he has been accused, want 
 of method, remains indeed as evident as elsewhere, but in it also 
 his highest qualities are seen at their richest and best. After his 
 death his friend Lord Lyttelton said of him that his writings 
 contained "no line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 [After an invocation to the subject, the poem opens with an 
 address to the Earl of Wilmington, who is praised as " a firm, 
 unshaken, uncorrupted soul, amid a sliding age." The coming 
 of winter is then described.] 
 
 Now, when the cheerless empire of the sky 
 To Capricorn the Centaur Archer yields, 
 And fierce Aquarius stains th' inverted year; 
 Hung o'er the farthest verge of heaven, the Sun 
 Scarce spreads through ether the dejected day. 
 Faint are his gleams, and ineffectual shoot 
 His struggling rays, in horizontal lines 
 Through the thick air, as, clothed in cloudy storm, 
 Weak, wan, and broad, he skirts the southern sky, 
 And, soon descending, to the long dark night, 
 Wide-shading all, the prostrate world resigns. 
 Nor is the night unwish'd ; while vital heat, 
 Light, life, and joy, the dubious day forsake.
 
 102 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Meantime, in sable cincture, shadows vast, 
 Deep-tinged and damp, and congregated clouds, 
 And all the vapoury turbulence of heaven, 
 Involve the face of things. Thus Winter falls, 
 A heavy gloom oppressive o'er the world, 
 Through Nature shedding influence malign, 
 And rouses up the seeds of dark disease. 
 The soul of Man dies in him, loathing life, 
 And black with more than melancholy views. 
 The cattle droop and o'er the furrowed land, 
 Fresh from the plough, the dun discoloured flocks, 
 Untended, spreading, crop the wholesome root. 
 Along the woods, along the moorish fens, 
 Sighs the sad Genius of the coming storm : 
 And up among the loose disjointed cliffs, 
 And fractured mountains wild, the brawling brook, 
 And cave, presageful, send a hollow moan, 
 Resounding long in listening Fancy's ear. 
 
 Then comes the father of the tempest forth, 
 Wrapt in black glooms. First joyless rains obscure 
 Drive through the mingling skies with vapours foul; 
 Dash on the mountain's brow, and shake the woods, 
 That grumbling wave below. Th' unsightly plain 
 Lies a brown deluge, as the low-bent clouds 
 Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still 
 Combine, and deepening into night, shut up 
 The day's fair face. The wanderers of heaven 
 Each to his home retire ; save those that love 
 To take their pastime in the troubled air, 
 Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool. 
 The cattle from th' untasted fields return,
 
 WINTER. 103 
 
 And ask, with meaning low, their wonted stalls, 
 Or ruminate in the contiguous shade. 
 Thither the household feathery people crowd, 
 The crested cock, with all his female train, 
 Pensive, and dripping ; while the cottage-hind 
 Hangs o'er th' enlivening blaze, and taleful there 
 Recounts his simple frolic. Much he talks, 
 And much he laughs ; nor recks the storm that blows 
 Without, and rattles on his humble roof. 
 
 Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swelled, 
 And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread, 
 At last the roused-up river pours along. 
 Resistless, roaring, dreadful, down it comes 
 From the rude mountain and the mossy wild, 
 Tumbling through rocks abrupt, and sounding far ; 
 Then o'er the sanded valley floating spreads, 
 Calm, sluggish, silent; till again, constrained 
 Between two meeting hills, it bursts away, 
 Where rocks and woods o'erhang the turbid stream; 
 There, gathering triple force, rapid, and deep, 
 It boils, and wheels and foams, and thunders through. 
 
 Nature ! great parent ! whose unceasing hand 
 Rolls round the Seasons of the changeful year, 
 How mighty, how majestic, are thy works ! 
 With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul ! 
 That sees astonished, and astonished sings. 
 Ye too, ye winds ! that now begin to blow 
 With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you. 
 Where are your stores, ye powerful beings ! say, 
 Where your aerial magazines reserved, 
 To swell the brooding terrors of the storm ?
 
 104 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 In what far distant region of the sky, 
 
 Hushed in deep silence, sleep ye when 'tis calm ? 
 
 When from the pallid sky the sun descends 
 With many a spot, that o'er his glaring orb 
 Uncertain wanders, stained red fiery streaks 
 Begin to flush around. The reeling clouds 
 Stagger with dizzy poise, as doubting yet 
 Which master to obey ; while rising slow, 
 Blank, in the leaden-coloured east, the Moon 
 Wears a wan circle round her blunted horns. 
 Seen through the turbid fluctuating air, 
 The stars obtuse emit a shivered ray ; 
 Or frequent seem to shoot athwart the gloom 
 And long behind them trail the whitening blaze. 
 Snatched in short eddies, plays the withered leaf; 
 And on the flood the dancing feather floats. 
 With broadened nostrils to the sky up-turned, 
 The conscious heifer snuffs the stormy gale. 
 Even as the matron, at her nightly task, 
 With pensive labour draws the flaxen thread, 
 The wasted taper and the crackling flame 
 Foretell the blast. But chief the plumy race, 
 The tenants of the sky, its changes speak. 
 Retiring from the downs, where all day long 
 They picked their scanty fare, a blackening train 
 Of clamorous rooks thick-urge their weary flight, 
 And seek the closing shelter of the grove. 
 Assiduous, in his bower, the wailing owl 
 Plies his sad song. The cormorant on high 
 Wheels from the deep, and screams along the land. 
 Loud shrieks the soaring hern; and with wild wing,
 
 WINTER. 105 
 
 The circling sea-fowl cleave the flaky clouds. 
 
 Ocean, unequal pressed, with broken tide 
 
 And blind commotion heaves; while from the shore, 
 
 Eat into caverns by the restless wave, 
 
 And forest-rustling mountain, comes a voice, 
 
 That, solemn sounding, bids the world prepare. 
 
 Then issues forth the storm with sudden burst, 
 
 And hurls the whole precipitated air 
 
 Down, in a torrent. On the passive main 
 
 Descends th' ethereal force, and with strong gust 
 
 Turns from its bottom the discoloured deep. 
 
 Through the black night that sits immense around, 
 
 Lashed into foam, the fierce conflicting brine 
 
 Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to burn. 
 
 Meantime the mountain-billows, to the clouds 
 
 In dreadful tumult swelled, surge above surge, 
 
 Burst into chaos with tremendous roar, 
 
 And anchored navies from their stations drive, 
 
 Wild as the winds across the howling waste 
 
 Of mighty waters. Now th' inflated wave 
 
 Straining they scale, and now impetuous shoot 
 
 Into the secret chambers of the deep, 
 
 The wintry Baltic thundering o'er their head. 
 
 Emerging thence again, before the breath 
 
 Of full exerted heaven they wing their course, 
 
 And dart on distant coasts ; if some sharp rock, 
 
 Or shoal insidious, break not their career, 
 
 And in loose fragments fling them floating round. 
 
 [Night follows, with reflections on the vanities of life and the 
 value of goodness. A snowstorm is then described, overwhelming
 
 io6 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 the landscape, with the death of a man lost in the snow. Con- 
 trasted with this is the wanton city crowd. Winter in the Alps 
 is referred to, and the descent of the wolves "cruel as death and 
 hungry as the grave." Next follows the student's retreat.] 
 
 Now, all amid the rigours of the year, 
 In the wild depth of Winter, while without 
 The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat 
 Between the groaning forest and the shore 
 Beat by the boundless multitude of waves. 
 A rural, sheltered, solitary scene, 
 Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join, 
 To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit, 
 And hold high converse with the MIGHTY DEAD, 
 Sages of ancient time, as gods revered, 
 As gods beneficent, who blest mankind 
 With arts, with arms, and humanized a world. 
 
 [The wise of classic ages are passed in review, from Socrates 
 to Cato, with reflections to which their work and lives give rise.] 
 
 Thus in some deep retirement would I pass 
 The winter-glooms, with friends of pliant soul, 
 Or blithe, or solemn, as the theme inspired : 
 With them would search, if Nature's boundless 
 
 frame 
 
 Was called, late-rising from the void of night, 
 Or sprung eternal from th' ETERNAL MIND 
 Its life, its laws, its progress, and its end. 
 Hence larger prospects of the beauteous whole 
 Would, gradual, open on our opening minds ; 
 And each diffusive harmony unite 
 In full perfection, to th' astonished eye.
 
 WINTER. 107 
 
 Then would we try to scan the moral world, 
 Which, though to us it seems embroiled, moves on 
 In higher order, fitted and impelled 
 By WISDOM'S finest hand, and issuing all 
 In general Good. The sage historic Muse 
 Should next conduct us through the deeps of time ; 
 Shew us how empires grew, declined, and fell, 
 In scatter'd states ; what makes the nations smile, 
 Improves their soil, and gives them double suns ; 
 And why they pine beneath the brightest skies, 
 In Nature's richest lap. As thus we talked, 
 Our hearts would burn within us, would inhale- 
 That portion of divinity, that ray 
 Of purest heaven, which lights the public soul 
 Of patriots, and of heroes. But if doomed 
 In powerless humble fortune to repress 
 These ardent risings of the kindling soul ; 
 Then, even superior to ambition, we 
 Would learn the private virtues ; how to glide 
 Through shades and plains, along the smoothest 
 
 stream 
 
 Of rural life : or snatched away by hope, 
 Through the dim spaces of futurity 
 With earnest eye anticipate those scenes 
 Of happiness and wonder, where the mind, 
 In endless growth and infinite ascent, 
 Rises from state to state, and world to world. 
 But when with these the serious thought is foiled, 
 We, shifting for relief, would play the shapes 
 Of frolic fancy ; and incessant form 
 Those rapid pictures, that assembled train
 
 io8 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Of fleet ideas, never joined before, 
 Whence lively Wit excites to gay surprise ; 
 Or folly-painting Humour, grave himself, 
 Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. 
 
 Meantime the village rouses up the fire; 
 While well attested, and and as well believed, 
 Heard solemn, goes the goblin-story round; 
 Till superstitious horror creeps o'er all. 
 Or, frequent in the sounding hall, they wake 
 The rural gambol. Rustic mirth goes round : 
 The simple joke that takes the shepherd's heart, 
 Easily pleased; the long loud laugh, sincere; 
 The kiss, snatched hasty from the side-long maid, 
 On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep : 
 The leap, the slap, the haul ; and, shook to notes 
 Of native music, the respondent dance. 
 Thus jocund fleets with them the winter night. 
 
 The city swarms intense. The public haunt, 
 Full of each theme, and warm with mixt discourse, 
 Hums indistinct. The sons of riot flow 
 Down the loose stream of false enchanted joy, 
 To swift destruction. On the rankled soul 
 The gaming fury falls ; and in one gulph 
 Of total ruin, honour, virtue, peace, 
 Friends, families, and fortune, headlong sink. 
 Up springs the dance along the lighted dome, 
 Mixed, and evolved, a thousand sprightly ways. 
 The glittering court effuses every pomp ; 
 The circle deepens : beamed from gaudy robes, 
 Tapers, and sparkling gems, and radiant eyes, 
 A soft effulgence o'er the palace waves :
 
 WINTER. 109 
 
 While, a gay insect in his summer shine, 
 
 The fop, light-fluttering, spreads his mealy wings. 
 
 [An address to Chesterfield follows ; then the poet returns to 
 country scenes.] 
 
 To thy loved haunt return, my happy Muse : 
 For now, behold, the joyous winter days, 
 Frosty, succeed ; and through the blue serene, 
 For sight too fine, the ethereal nitre flies, 
 Killing infectious damps, and the spent air 
 Storing afresh with elemental life. 
 Close crowds the shining atmosphere ; and binds 
 Our strengthen'd bodies in its cold embrace, 
 Constringent ; feeds, and animates our blood ; 
 Refines our spirits through the new-strung nerves, 
 In swifter sallies darting to the brain ; 
 Where sits the soul, intense, collected, cool, 
 Bright as the skies, and as the season keen. 
 
 All Nature feels the renovating force 
 Of Winter, only to the thoughtless eye 
 In ruin seen. The frost-concocted glebe 
 Draws in abundant vegetable soul, 
 And gathers vigour for the coming year. 
 A stronger glow sits on the lively cheek 
 Of ruddy fire ; and luculent along 
 The purer rivers flow ; their sullen deeps, 
 Transparent, open to the shepherd's gaze, 
 And murmur hoarser at the fixing frost, 
 
 What art thou. Frost? and whence are thy keen 
 
 stores 
 Derived, thou secret all-invading power
 
 no JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Whom even th' illusive fluid cannot fly? 
 Is not thy potent energy, unseen, 
 Myriads of little salts, or hooked, or shaped 
 Like double wedges, and diffused immense 
 Through water, earth, and ether? Hence at eve, 
 Steamed eager from the red horizon round, 
 With the fierce rage of Winter deep suffused, 
 An icy gale, oft shifting, o'er the pool 
 Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career 
 Arrests the bickering stream. The loosened ice, 
 Let down the flood, and half dissolved by day, 
 Rustles no more; but to the sedgy bank 
 Fast grows, or gathers round the pointed stone, 
 A crystal pavement, by the breath of heaven 
 Cemented firm; till, seized from shore to shore, 
 The whole imprisoned river growls below. 
 Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects 
 A double noise; while, at his evening watch, 
 The village-dog deters the nightly thief. 
 The heifer lows ; the distant waterfall 
 Swells in the breeze; and with the hasty tread 
 Of traveller, the hollow-sounding plain 
 Shakes from afar. The full ethereal round, 
 Infinite worlds disclosing to the view, 
 Shines out intensely keen; and, all one cope 
 Of starry glitter, grows from pole to pole. 
 
 [The effects of the frost are described, with a skating scene on 
 the canals of Holland, and hunting in the Siberian desert. Still 
 farther north, the polar nations are seen, "guiding their daring 
 steps to Finland fairs " ; and at last, amid ice and tempest, 
 the palace of Winter himself is reached. As the type of the
 
 WINTER. 1 1 1 
 
 north, Peter the Great is alluded to, and the civilizing effects of 
 his government. Next follow the dangers of Arctic exploration ; 
 and the poem ends with reflections drawn from the revolution of 
 the seasons.] 
 
 Tis done ! dread Winter spreads his latest glooms, 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year. 
 How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
 How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends 
 His desolate domain. Behold, fond Man ! 
 See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years, 
 Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 
 Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 
 And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 
 And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled 
 Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes 
 Of happiness ? those longings after fame ? 
 Those restless cares? those busy bustling days? 
 Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts 
 Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life ? 
 All now are vanished ! VIRTUE sole survives 
 Immortal never-failing friend of Man, 
 His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 
 'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth 
 Of heaven and earth ! awakening Nature hears 
 The new-creating word, and starts to life 
 In every heightened form, from pain and death 
 For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 
 Involving all, and in a perfect whole 
 Uniting, as the prospect wider spreads, 
 To Reason's eye refined clears up apace. 
 
 Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now,
 
 112 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Confounded in the dust, adore that POWER, 
 
 And WISDOM oft arraigned : see now the cause, 
 
 Why unassuming worth in secret lived, 
 
 And died neglected ; why the good Man's share 
 
 In life was gall and bitterness of soul ; 
 
 Why the lone widow and her orphans pined 
 
 In starving solitude, while Luxury, 
 
 In palaces, lay straining her low thought 
 
 To form unreal wants why ; heaven-born truth 
 
 And moderation fair wore the red marks 
 
 Of superstition's scourge ; why licensed pain, 
 
 That cruel spoiler, that embosomed foe, 
 
 Imbittered all our bliss. Ye good distrest ! 
 
 Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 
 
 Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up a while, 
 
 And what your bounded view, which only saw 
 
 A little part, deemed Evil, is no more. 
 
 The storms of wintry Time will quickly pass, 
 
 And one unbounded Spring encircle all.
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 113 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 OPENING DESCRIPTION. 
 
 O MORTAL man ! who livest here by toil, 
 
 Do not complain of this thy hard estate; 
 That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 
 
 Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; 
 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
 For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
 
 And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, 
 Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
 Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
 
 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, 
 
 With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, 
 A most enchanting Wizard did abide, 
 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; 
 And there a season atween June and May, 
 
 Half prankt with spring, with summer half im- 
 
 browned, 
 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
 No living wight could work, ne cared even for play, 
 
 I VI
 
 114 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Was nought around but images of rest : 
 
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lands between ; 
 
 And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest, 
 From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 
 Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, 
 And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
 
 That as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
 
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur 
 made. 
 
 Joined to the prattle of the purling rills, 
 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
 
 And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
 And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, 
 
 Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; 
 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep : 
 
 Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; 
 Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
 
 As idless fancied in her dreaming mood : 
 
 And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
 Of blackening pines, aye waving to 'and fro, 
 
 Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; 
 And where this valley winded out, below, 
 The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely 
 heard, to flow.
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 115 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy-hed it was, 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass 
 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky ; 
 
 There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
 
 And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh. 
 But whate'er smacked of noyance, or unrest, 
 Was far far off expelled from this delicious nest. 
 
 The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, 
 
 Where INDOLENCE (for so the Wizard hight ' ) ' is named. 
 Close-hid his castle 'mid embowering trees, 
 
 That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright 
 
 And made a kind of chequered day and night. 
 Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, 
 
 Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
 Was placed ; and, to his lute, of cruel fate 
 And labour harsh complained, lamenting man's 
 estate.
 
 ii6 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 1700-1765. 
 
 When the name MacGregor was proscribed in Scotland one 
 of the members of the clan changed his patronymic to that 
 of Malloch. A descendant, possibly a son, of this person, was 
 the poet afterwards known as David Mallet. His parents were 
 in lowly circumstances, and he is said to have acted for a time as 
 janitor of Edinburgh High School. Presently, however, on the 
 recommendation of the University authorities, he became tutor to 
 the sons of the Duke of Montrose, with whom he travelled, and 
 through whom he found an introduction to the greater society of 
 London of his day. So adroitly did he avail himself of his 
 opportunities that he became Under-Secretary to Frederick, Prince 
 of Wales, at a salary of 200 a year. Something of his pliability 
 and astuteness may be gathered from his change of name. 
 Finding that the coffee-house wits were apt to nickname him 
 Moloch, he changed his Scottish surname to an English shape, and 
 turned Malloch into Mallet. 
 
 Of the poet's personal character perhaps the less said the 
 better. Dr. Johnson has recorded that " he was the only Scot 
 whom Scotchmen did not commend," and Professor Walker 
 more recently has summed his vices in a sentence " He was 
 a venal writer, a treacherous friend, a dishonest man."* After 
 the death of Pope, who had been his friend, he accepted a 
 reward from Bolingbroke to blacken the memory of the poet. 
 He took, under the will of the Duchess of Marlborough, a 
 bequest of 1000 to write a life of the Duke, to which he never 
 put his pen. And he accepted the job of stirring popular feeling 
 against the unfortunate Admiral Byng, for whose destruction he 
 wrote and published a letter under the signature of " A Plain 
 Man." For some of his other dishonourable meannesses the 
 reader may be referred to Johnson's " Lives of the Poets." The 
 quondam tutor, however, made some figure in the London life 
 of his time. When Gibbon, the future historian, announced at 
 Oxford that he had embraced Catholicism, it was to Mallet's 
 
 * "Three Centuries of Scottish Literature."
 
 DAVID MALLET. 117 
 
 house that his father took him in the hope of weaning him from 
 that faith. And it was to Mallet that the brilliant and un- 
 scrupulous Bolingbroke bequeathed the atheistic part of his 
 writings, which the poet published in 1754. 
 
 Mallet was twice married. By his first wife he had seven 
 children, and one of his daughters was the authoress of a 
 tragedy performed at Drury Lane. Two years before his death 
 he was appointed Keeper of the Book of Entries for ships in 
 the port of London. 
 
 Mallet's finest and best-known poem, the ballad of "William 
 and Margaret," was founded on an actual incident, the seduction 
 of a daughter of Professor James Gregory of St. Andrews by a 
 son of Sir William Sharpe of Strathyrum, and a nephew of the 
 notorious Archbishop Sharpe. On discovery of his daughter's 
 misfortune Dr. Gregory, it is said, made Mr. Sharpe the offer of 
 half his fortune if he would marry the young lady. The offer 
 was rejected with scorn, and presently, sinking under grief and 
 shame, Miss Gregory died. Shortly after the occurrence the 
 composition of the ballad was suggested to Mallet by a verse in 
 Fletcher's comedy, "The Knight of the Burning Pestle." The 
 piece was published in the Orpheus Caledonius in 1725. 
 
 Another ballad, " Edwin and Emma," which the poet based 
 likewise upon actual circumstance, is tainted with the worst 
 faults of the artificial school. The same thing is to be said of 
 his piece on "Verbal Criticism," which was written to pay 
 court to Pope. And the " Excursion," which he published 
 in 1728, in emulation of Thomson's "Seasons," contains all 
 the faults and none of the merits of his early friend's work. 
 A pastoral, "Amyntor and Theodora," published in 1747, for 
 which he received the sum of ^120, displays somewhat more 
 vigour and spirit, but at its best it also only echoes the 
 blank verse of Thomson. Mallet also produced one or two 
 short pieces in light strain, somewhat in the vein of modern 
 vers de societe. He was author, as well, of poetical epistles, pro- 
 logues and epilogues to the dramas of friends, &c. Besides 
 his poetry he wrote, in 1750, the life of Bacon, still prefixed 
 to that philosopher's works. Some of his pieces had also 
 considerable success on the stage " Eurydice," in 1731, 
 " Mustapha," satirizing Walpole in order to please Prince 
 Frederick, in 1739, and "Elvira," in 1763. He was also joint 
 author with Thomson of the masque of "Alfred"; and this 
 and his other masque, "Britannia," both contain lyrics which 
 are remembered. Mallet's poems were included in the series of 
 poets edited by Dr. Johnson. They have been re-printed in 
 Chalmers's Collection in 1810, and in the Chiswick Poets in 
 1822.
 
 u8 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 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. 
 
 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.
 
 WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 119 
 
 "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? 
 
 " Why did you say my lip was sweet, 
 
 And made the scarlet pale ? 
 And why did I, young witless maid ! 
 
 Believe the flattering tale?
 
 120 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 " 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 warned 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 ever)' limb, 
 
 And raving left his bed. 
 
 He hied him to the fatal place 
 
 Where Margaret's body lay ; 
 And stretched him on the green grass turf 
 
 That wrapt her breathless clay. 
 
 And thrice he called on Margaret's name, 
 
 And thrice he wept full sore ; 
 Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, 
 
 And word spake nevermore.
 
 RULE BRITANNIA. 121 
 
 RULE BRITANNIA. 
 
 (From Masque of Alfred, Act ii. Scene 5.) 
 
 WHEN Britain first, at heaven's command, 
 Arose from out the azure main, 
 
 This was the charter of the land, 
 
 And guardian angels sang this strain. 
 
 " Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : 
 
 Britons never will be slaves." 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee 
 Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 
 
 While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : 
 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke 
 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : 
 
 Britons never will be slaves.
 
 122 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
 All their attempts to bend thee down 
 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame 
 But work their woe and thy renown. 
 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : 
 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
 All thine shall be the subject main, 
 
 And every shore it circles thine. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves : 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 The Muses, still with freedom found, 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair. 
 
 Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 
 Rule Britannia, rule the waves : 
 Britons never will be slaves.* 
 
 * In the edition of "Alfred" of 1751, three stanzas by Lord 
 Bolingbroke were substituted for the three final stanzas of this 
 song as printed in the original editions in 1740. The song is 
 here given in its original form.
 
 THE B1RKS OF IN VERM AY. 123 
 
 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 feathered songsters love no more ; 
 And when they droop and we decay, 
 Adieu the shades of Invermay ! * 
 
 * Invermay is a small woody glen descending to the Evvrie, 
 about nine miles from Perth. To Mallet's two stanzas above 
 other three were added by the Rev. Alexander Bryce of Kirk- 
 newton (1713-1786).
 
 124 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON OF 
 BANCO UR. 1704-1754- 
 
 William Hamilton of Bangour is invariably so called in order 
 to distinguish him from that other William Hamilton of his 
 time, of Gilbertfield, who was also a poet. The second son 
 of a gentlemen of large fortune, of the estate of Bangour in 
 Ayrshire, he early attained a reputation as one 'of the most 
 courtly wits of Edinburgh, was much sought after by the 
 fashionable society of the Scottish capital, and is referred to 
 in contemporary correspondence as ' ' the elegant and amiable 
 Hamilton." At the age of twenty he was one of the ingenious 
 young gentleman whom Ramsay acknowledged as contributors 
 to his Tea-Table Miscellany; and he continued to write verse 
 in the affected artificial vein then in vogue in England. A 
 story is told of him which illustrates well the insincerity of the 
 note of passion which it was fashionable for the poets of the 
 day to affect in their verse. A young lady to whom Hamilton 
 had addressed several amatory effusions complained to Home, 
 who was a mutual friend, of the annoyance which these insincere 
 attentions caused her, and begged his interference. Home 
 refused, but with a smile suggested a better plan. "Go you," 
 he said, "to the Assembly to-night, dance with Mr. Hamilton, 
 and show him every mark of attention, as if you took his suit 
 in earnest and were resolved to favour it, and I warrant you 
 shall be troubled no more with these pretences." The young 
 lady did as she was told, and treated Hamilton's attenti'ons as 
 if she took them to be sincere ; whereupon the gallant, in alarm, 
 at once cooled his ardours and assumed an air as distant as it 
 was respectful. The poet, however, was twice married, and by 
 his first wife, a daughter of Sir James Hall of Dunglas, he 
 l>ecame the father of an only son. 
 
 Upon the outbreak of the Rebellion in 1745 Hamilton joined 
 the Jacobite standard, and his enthusiasm after the victory of 
 Prestonpans found expression in an ode, which established him 
 as the laureate of the cause. He escaped from the overthrow 
 at Culloden with a severe contusion of the head, and in company 
 with John Roy Stewart underwent in hiding some romantic
 
 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 125 
 
 adventures. The two were concealed first by the lady of the 
 minister of Alvey, and they afterwards lay in a cave under a 
 tree root in Glenmore. Finally, after some hairbreadth escapes, 
 they found a means of fleeing to France. Hamilton spent part 
 of his exile in Italy, but in 1749 the interest of friends procured 
 his pardon, and he returned home. In the same year, by the 
 death of his elder brother, he inherited the family estates in 
 Ayrshire. But he did not live long to enjoy these. The hard- 
 ships which he had undergone had undermined his health, his 
 constitution gave way, and though he again went abroad, he died 
 of consumption at Lyons on March 25, 1754. His body was 
 brought home and buried in the Abbey Church at Holyrood. 
 
 A collection of Hamilton's verses " Poems on Several 
 Occasions " was printed without the author's knowledge by 
 the Foulises at Glasgow in 1748, the preface to the edition 
 being written by the celebrated Adam Smith. In 1760 the 
 volume was reprinted with the author's corrections, at Edin- 
 burgh. Hamilton's compositions are also included in Chalmers's 
 ponderous collection, in the Chiswick Press series, and in an 
 edition of the works of Allan Ramsay and his contemporaries 
 edited by Charles Mackay. But the most complete edition is 
 that edited by James Paterson at Edinburgh in 1850. 
 
 Hamilton's poems include a considerable number of imitations 
 and translations of such classics as Homer, Virgil, and Horace, 
 more or less happily turned, a number also of odes, songs, and 
 society verse in the tone of his time. Besides these fashionable 
 productions, he essayed the mock-heroic in a piece " The Maid of 
 Gallowshiels," but owing to his lack of humour the effort falls flat. 
 His single title to remembrance lies in his beautiful ballad com- 
 position, "The Braes of Yarrow," published in the Orpheus 
 Caledonitis when he was no more than twenty-one. The poem 
 forms a kind of sequel to the old Border ballad of ' ' The Dowie 
 Dens o' Yarrow." Its first verse is ancient. A song by Allan 
 Ramsay, beginning with the same verse, appears in Johnson's 
 Musical Museum. But Hamilton's ballad far outstrips the 
 composition of his contemporary. It stands out, one of the 
 few genuine inheritors of the spirit of ancient folksong. Sir 
 George Douglas has recalled the fact that "with its yearning 
 pathos, its fresh touches of nature, its tragic passion, and its 
 haunting tune, it has the distinction of having served as a source 
 of inspiration to Wordsworth." * And Professor Veitch has said 
 of it, "It breathes the soul of the place, and is so permeated 
 by the spirit of its history and traditions, that when all the 
 other writings of the author shall have fallen into oblivion there 
 will still be a nook in memory and a place in men's hearts for 
 4 The Braes of Yarrow. ' " t 
 
 ' " Scottish Minor Poets." 
 
 t " History and Poetry of the Scottish Border."
 
 126 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 AH ! the poor shepherd's mournful fate, 
 
 When doomed to love and doomed to languish, 
 To bear the scornful fair one's hate, 
 
 Nor dare disclose his anguish ! 
 Yet eager looks and dying sighs 
 
 My secret soul discover ; 
 While rapture, trembling through mine eyes, 
 
 Reveals how much I love her. 
 The tender glance, the redd'ning cheek, 
 
 O'erspread with rising blushes 
 A thousand various ways they speak 
 
 A thousand various wishes. 
 
 For, oh ! that form, so heavenly fair, 
 
 Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, 
 That artless blush and modest air, 
 
 So fatally beguiling ! 
 Thy every look and every grace 
 
 So charm whene'er I view thee ; 
 Till death o'ertake me in the chase, 
 
 Still will my hopes pursue thee. 
 Then, when my tedious hours are past, 
 
 Be this last blessing given 
 Low at thy feet to breathe my last, 
 
 And die in sight of heaven !
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 127 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 "BusK 1 YE, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride! Deck, prepare. 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow 2 ! 2 match, mate. 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride, 
 
 And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow ! " 
 
 "Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride? 
 
 Where got ye that winsome marrow ? " 
 " I got her where I durst not well be seen 
 Pu'insr the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride ! 
 
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! 
 Nor let thy heart lament to leave 
 
 Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie 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 ? "
 
 128 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 "Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she 
 weep, 
 
 I^ang 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'ed birks on the braes of Yarrow. 
 
 "Why runs thy stream O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid? 
 
 Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow? 
 And why yon melancholious weeds 
 
 Hung on the bonnie 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. 
 
 41 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.
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 129 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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 flowing!" 
 
 "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 : 
 Though he was fair, and well beloved again 
 
 Than me, he never loved thee better. 
 
 " Busk ye then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie 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!" 
 
 K VI
 
 130 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 "How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie 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. 
 
 "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 ?
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 131 
 
 " 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 threat'ning 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 ! 
 
 " 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 though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved 
 Oh ! could my warmth to life restore thee, 
 
 Ye'd lie all night between my breasts ! 
 No youth lay ever there before thee.
 
 132 WILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 " 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."
 
 ALEXANDER WEBSTER. 133 
 
 ALEXANDER WEBSTER. 
 
 1707-1784. 
 
 One of the ministers of Edinburgh, where he was born and 
 where he died, Dr. Webster has left two songs to the tune of 
 Alloa House, of which much the finer is that here given. 
 According to a tradition preserved by Chambers, this song was 
 written in early life " in consequence of a lady of superior rank, 
 whom Webster was engaged to woo for another, condescending 
 to betray a passion for him." The lady was a daughter of 
 Colonel Erskine of Alloa, a near relation of the Dundonald 
 family, and it is satisfactory to know that she eventually married 
 the man of her choice, who could sing her charms in such 
 fervent fashion. 
 
 O, HOW COULD I VENTURE. 
 
 OH, how could I venture to love one like thee, 
 And you not despise a poor conquest like me 
 On lords, thy admirers, could look wi' disdain, 
 And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain ? 
 You said, while they teased you with nonsense and 
 
 dress, 
 
 " When real the passion the vanity's less." 
 You saw through that silence which others despise, 
 And, while beaux were a-talking, read love in my 
 
 eyes.
 
 1.54 ALEXANDER WEBSTER. 
 
 Oh, how shall I fauld thee, and kiss a' thy charms, 
 Till, fainting wi' pleasure, I die in your arms 
 Through all the wild transports of ecstasy tost, 
 Till, sinking together, together we're lost ! 
 Oh, where is the maid that like thee ne'er can cloy, 
 Whose wit can enliven each dull pause of joy, 
 And, when the short raptures are all at an end, 
 From beautiful mistress turn sensible friend ? 
 
 In vain do I praise thee, or strive to reveal, 
 Too nice for expression, what only we feel, 
 In a' that ye do, in each look and each mien, 
 The graces in waiting adorn you unseen. 
 When I see you I love you ; when hearing, adore ; 
 I wonder, and think you a woman no more : 
 Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna contain, 
 And, kissing your lips, you turn woman again. 
 
 Wi' thee in my bosom how can I despair ? 
 I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa' care : 
 I'll ask thy advice when with troubles opprest, 
 Which never displeases, but always is best. 
 In all that I write I'll thy judgment require ; 
 Thy wit shall correct what thy charms did inspire : 
 I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o'er, 
 And then live in friendship, when passion's no more.
 
 GEORGE HAI.KET. 135 
 
 GEORGE HALKET. 
 
 The author of the fine peasant song "Logic o' Buchan " 
 became, in 1714, schoolmaster at Rathen, in Aberdeenshire. 
 Here he lived in the room in which he taught, and when lie 
 married, the back of the bed made the only division of the house. 
 An enthusiastic Jacobite, he wrote several pieces on the side of 
 the Stuarts, of which the most conspicuous was " Whirry, Whigs, 
 awa', man," or at least a version of it, for Hogg in his Jacobite 
 Relics declares the piece to be of different periods and by 
 different hands. Just before the battle of Culloden, Halket wrote 
 a satirical dialogue between George II. and the Devil, and on its 
 falling into the hands of the Duke of Cumberland a reward of 
 ,100 was offered for the person of the author, alive or dead. 
 In 1725 Halket was expelled by the kirk session for gross mis- 
 conduct. He then removed to Cairnbulg, where he had a full 
 school for a quarter of a century. He afterwards became tutor 
 to the families of Colonel Fraser and Sir James Innes. In 1727 
 Halket published, at Al>erdeen, a small volume of verse, entitled 
 "Occasional Poems upon Several Subjects." Nothing in this, 
 however, rises to the level of " Logic o' Buchan." 
 
 Logic, in the parish of Crimond, was the locality of the well- 
 known song, and the hero of the piece was one James Robertson, 
 gardener at Logie House. The incident was probably an 
 episode of the warlike levies of the Rebellion. Logie o' Buchan 
 has been attributed, but without proof, to Lady Anne Lindsay, 
 authoress of " Auld Robin Gray." Peter Buchan, who in his 
 Gleanings was first to print the song, states that he follows 
 universal tradition in assigning it to Halket. "Whirry, Whigs 
 awa' " is printed, with an account of Halket's life, in Walker's 
 Bards of Bon-Accord. 
 
 LOGIE O' BUCHAN. 
 
 O LOGIE o' BUCHAN, O Logie the laird, 
 They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yaird, 
 Wha played on the pipe and the viol sae sma', 
 They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a' !
 
 136 GEORGE HAI.KET. 
 
 Weary not. He said, "Think na lang 1 , lassie, though I gang 
 
 awa'!" 
 
 He said, "Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa' 1 
 For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa', 
 And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a' ! " 
 
 Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye, 
 holding. A house and a hadden 2 , and siller forbye; 
 
 Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand, 
 Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land. 
 
 mother. My daddy looks sulky, my minnie 3 looks sour; 
 
 They frown upon Jamie because he is poor : 
 Though I lo'e them as weel as a dochter should do, 
 They're nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you. 
 
 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 sixpence, he brak' it in twa, 
 And gi'ed 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'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 137 
 
 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 
 
 1712-1794. 
 
 One of the most interesting figures in Edinburgh society in 
 the middle of the eighteenth century was Mrs. Cockburn of 
 Ormiston. Her husband, Patrick Cockburn, who was an 
 advocate, and son of Adam Cockburn of Ormiston, Lord 
 Justice-Clerk, died in 1753, but throughout the forty years of 
 her widowhood, by her wit and manners she maintained a rank 
 among the elite of the Scottish metropolis similar to the place 
 which Frenchwomen occupy in the society of Paris. She had 
 a great talent for conversation; her entertainments were as gay 
 and witty as they were simple and uncostly ; and within her 
 little parlour used to gather some of the most notable men of the 
 day, such as Lord Monboddo, David Hume, and John Home. 
 "In person and features she resembled Queen Elizabeth; but 
 the nose was rather more aquiline. She was proud of her 
 auburn hair, which remained unbleached by time even when 
 she was upwards of eighty years old." Like some of the 
 Frenchwomen whom in character she resembled, she could with 
 great readiness upon occasion set flying both squib and parody. 
 .Many of these, of her composition, went the round of Edinburgh 
 society in their time, and one of them at least is preserved for 
 us. While she was still in the summer of her charms the father 
 of Sir Walter Scott was a young man, and eight lines by her 
 which were given as one of a set of toasts among a few friends 
 are said to have depicted him so vividly that "the original was 
 recognised so soon as they were read aloud "- 
 
 To a thing' that's uncommon 
 
 A youth of discretion, 
 
 Who, though vastly handsome, 
 
 Despises flirtation : 
 
 To the friend in affliction, 
 
 The heart of affection, 
 
 Who may hear the last trump 
 
 Without dread of detection. 
 
 Mrs. Cockburn was a relative of Sir Walter's mother, who like 
 herself had been born a Rutherford, and when the poet himself 
 was beginning to write verse she addressed some kindly stanzas 
 to him which are here given. Her most famous performance,
 
 138 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 
 
 however, is the well-known song "The Flowers of the Forest." 
 This was written while she was still a young lady in the house 
 of her father, Robert Rutherford of Fernalie, in the county of 
 Selkirk. When it first appeared, about 1765, it was thought to 
 be an old song and to refer to the fall of the "Seventy of 
 Selkirk " on Flodden Field. Burns, however, judged aright. 
 " The manners indeed are old," he wrote, " but the language is 
 of yesterday. Its author must very soon be discovered." The 
 authorship was made clear by Scott, who from personal recol- 
 lection furnished details regarding the song and its writer for 
 Robert Chambers' collection of Scottish songs in 1829. At 
 that time, Scott says, a turret was still pointed out in the old 
 house of Fernalie as the place where Miss Rutherford wrote the 
 piece. The occasion, he added, was "a calamitous period in 
 Ettrick Forest, when no fewer than seven lairds or proprietors, 
 of ancient family and inheritance, having engaged in some 
 imprudent speculations, l>ecame insolvent in one year." 
 
 LINES TO MR. WALTER SCOTT 
 
 On reading his poem of Guiscard and A f at i Ida, inscribed to 
 Miss Keith of Kavelston. 
 
 IF such the accents of thy early youth, 
 
 When playful fancy holds the place of truth ; 
 
 If so divinely sweet thy numbers flow, 
 
 And thy young heart melts with such tender woe; 
 
 What praise, what admiration shall be thine, 
 
 When sense mature with science shall combine 
 
 To raise thy genius and thy taste refine ! 
 
 (1o on, dear youth, the glorious path pursue 
 Which bounteous nature kindly smooths for you; 
 do, bid the seeds her hand hath sown arise, 
 By timely culture, to their native skies ; 
 do, and employ the poet's heavenly art,
 
 LINES TO MR. WALTER SCOTT. 139 
 
 Not merely to delight, but mend the heart. 
 Than other poets happier may'st thou prove, 
 More blest in friendship, fortunate in love, 
 Whilst fame, who longs to make true merit known, 
 Impatient waits to claim thee as her own. 
 
 Scorning the yoke of prejudice and pride, 
 
 Thy tender mind let truth and reason guide ; 
 
 Let meek humility thy steps attend, 
 
 And firm integrity, youth's surest friend. 
 
 So peace and honour all thy hours shall bless, 
 
 And conscious rectitude each joy increase ; 
 
 A nobler meed be thine than empty praise 
 
 Heaven shall approve thy life, and Keith thy lays.
 
 140 ALISON RUTHERFORD. 
 
 THE 
 
 FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 I'VE seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, 
 I've felt all its favours and found its decay : 
 
 Sweet was its blessing, 
 
 Kind its caressing, 
 But now 'tis fled, 'tis fled far away. 
 I've seen the forest adorned the foremost, 
 With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay ; 
 
 Sae bonnie was their blooming, 
 
 Their scent the air perfuming ; 
 But now they are withered, and are a' wede away. 
 
 I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, 
 And the dread tempest roaring before parting day : 
 
 I've seen Tweed's silver streams, 
 
 Glitt'ring in the sunny beams, 
 
 Grow drumlie and dark as they rolled on their way. 
 O fickle fortune ! why this cruel sporting ? 
 O why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day? 
 
 Thy frowns cannot fear me, 
 
 Thy smiles cannot cheer me, 
 For the Flowers of the Forest are withered away.
 
 JOHN WILSON. 141 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 1720-1789. 
 
 Youngest son of a small farmer on the estate of Corehouse, in 
 the parish of Lesmahagow, the author of "Clyde" began the 
 tiattle of life at the early age of 14. In 1746 he obtained the 
 permanent situation of schoolmaster in his native parish, and 
 five years later he married. His culture and humour appear to 
 have made him very acceptable to the society of his neighl>our- 
 hood ; and on the publication of his first poetical essay, a sketch 
 afterwards enlarged into his tragedy of " Earl Douglas," he was 
 invited to an interview with the Duke of Douglas. The story of 
 that interview, told by Leyden, forms one of the two outstanding 
 incidents in Wilson's life. The Duke, it appears, desired the 
 poet to sit down and drink wine with him. At the second glass 
 his Grace suddenly leapt to his feet, produced a pair of pistols, 
 and with stern features walked three times round his astonished 
 guest. Wilson, however, gave no sign of alarm, whereupon the 
 Duke sat down, replaced the pistols in their case, and with a 
 smile returned to his wine. The singular conduct, he said, had 
 been assumed to try the courage of his visitor, and to ascertain 
 whether the latter had been infected by the popular notion of his 
 Grace's insanity. During the interview the Duke expressed a 
 warm interest in education and learning, and offered his visitor 
 his furtherance in any way that would benefit him. These kind 
 expressions, however, remained without fruit, as the eccentric 
 Duke, last of the lineal descent of the old Earls of Angus and 
 Douglas, died shortly afterwards. 
 
 While at Lesmahagow Wilson developed his dramatic sketch 
 into a tragedy entitled "Earl of Douglas"; and a descriptive 
 sketch of the Nethan which he had written he expanded into his 
 other and more famous poem of "Clyde." Both of these were 
 printed at Glasgow in 1764, and inscribed to Margaret, Duchess 
 of Douglas. In the same year the poet received a better paid 
 appointment as classical teacher at Rutherglen, and there he 
 devoted his leisure to the perfecting of his chief work. Me had 
 issued proposals for its re-publication when he was nominated to 
 the position of master of the Grammar School of Greenock. 
 Here occurred the second conspicuous incident in the poet's life. 
 So deeply were the magistrates of Greenock still imbued with
 
 142 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 the narrow spirit of the early Calvinistic reformers that before 
 they conferred the appointment they stipulated that Wilson 
 should sign a paper promising to abandon the "profane and 
 unprofitable art of poem-making." By this time Wilson was 
 father of a family of nine, and the instincts of affection prevailed 
 over the fire of poesie. He accepted the situation, loyally kept 
 to his bond, and from that time, except for a casual improvization 
 or two, sang no more. He died in 1789. In 1803 the poem of 
 "Clyde" was edited, with the author's unpublished emendations, 
 by Dr. John Leyden, and printed in a volume of Scottish 
 Descriptive Poems. 
 
 The poem on which Wilson's fame rests is of the loco- 
 descriptive character, of the same class as Denham's "Cooper's 
 Hill" and Pope's "Windsor Forest." Its chief fault probably 
 is that it contents itself with the mere enumeration of natural 
 objects, instead of bodying forth the human feelings which they 
 inspire. For this reason the traditional and historical passages 
 are apt to be perfunctory and uninteresting. Wilson's descrip- 
 tions, however, are invariably true to nature, and again and 
 again he has a picturesque passage well worthy of enduring 
 remembrance. 
 
 CLYDE. 
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 WHEN Lucifer, unrivalled, marks his way 
 Through fainting stars, to usher in the day, 
 And soft-awakening morn, serenely bright, 
 Pours from her opening eyes the silver light, 
 Less huge the hills, the steeps less dreadful seem, 
 O'er dewy valleys shoots a silver gleam, 
 Brighter and wider dart the reddening rays, 
 Till the pale stars expire amidst the blaze, 
 And all the east, the veil of clouds unrolled, 
 Flames bright in purple and celestial gold. 
 
 Then, glorious as a hero drest for war, 
 Forth issues Phoebus in his radiant car,
 
 CL YDE, 143 
 
 Inflames the heavens, and, rushing on his way, 
 O'erflovvs the world with blazing, boundless day. 
 Each blushing flower, tinged cloud, and gilded field 
 In various lustres grateful tributes yield. 
 Glad swarm the insects forth, the fishes play, 
 The cattle wanton, mankind bless his ray. 
 Healthful and gay the shepherd leaves his rest 
 As early morn first streaks the ruddy east ; 
 His dogs attending, bounds the mountains o'er, 
 Explores, collects, and counts his fleecy store, 
 Then tunes his pipes, and with a cheerful lay 
 Joins the grand hymn to welcome rising day. 
 The towering lark ascends on pinions strong, 
 And as she mounts improves the varying song ; 
 Ssveeter and sweeter modulates the sound, 
 Till song and songster are in ether drowned. 
 Her numbers clear the shepherd's mind employ 
 Who sucks the soul of harmony and joy ; 
 His harmless flock and tender lambs conspire 
 To feed humanity's refining fire. 
 Smooth glide his days in innocence and ease, 
 The half of earth, and more of heaven he sees ; 
 As on the airy hill he lies reclined 
 Each prospect swells his self-illumined mind. 
 
 At dawn the sprightly milk-maid band appears, 
 Whose distant laugh strikes his delighted ears, 
 All fresh as morn, as early summer gay, 
 And sweetly fragrant as the breath of May. 
 Health decks their comely cheeks with rosy grace, 
 And innocence plays cheerful o'er their face. 
 Love lends his pinions, swift the shepherd springs,
 
 144 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 And to the fold the milky mothers brings. 
 Then frolic nymphs and swains with sportful glee ; 
 Pure are their hearts and their behaviour free ; 
 The foaming pails, which snowy floods o'erflow, 
 Raised on their heads, they singing homeward go. 
 
 See how their arms these sturdy mowers wield ! 
 How smooth behind them shines the ravished field ! 
 Swinging their formidable scythes around, 
 Each sweep lays bare a mighty length of ground. 
 Their work behind the active rakers ply, 
 The fragrant herbs around them lightly fly ; 
 The panting steeds drag slow the groaning wain, 
 And deep the wheels imprint the yielding plain ; 
 The maids pile up the stack, while from below 
 The hay into their arms their lovers throw. 
 
 The reapers next appear, a merry band ; 
 A sharp-toothed sickle shines in every hand. 
 Subdued before them falls the yielding grain, 
 Behind, long lines of sheaves load thick the plain. 
 Band strives with band, and harmless dispute breeds ; 
 The rustic jest, the noisy laugh succeeds. 
 As they advance, their lord with lessening fear 
 Sees crowned the hopes and labours of the year, 
 And in his barn-yard lodged, a treasure shines, 
 More precious than the wealth of Indian mines. 
 His weary nymphs and swains behold him call 
 To dear-earned banquet in his rustic hall ; 
 With ale and music their plain hearts they cheer, 
 Dance, and forget the labours of the year.
 
 Cl. YDE. 145 
 
 THK FALLS OF CLYDK. 
 
 WHERK ancient Corehouse hangs above the stream, 
 And far beneath the tumbling surges gleam, 
 Engulphed in crags the fretting river raves, 
 Chafed into foam resound his tortured waves. 
 With giddy heads we view the dreadful deep, 
 And cattle snort and tremble at the steep, 
 Where down at once the foaming waters pour, 
 And tottering rocks repel the deafening roar. 
 Viewed from below, it seems from heaven they fell ; 
 Seen from above, they seem to sink to hell ; 
 But when the deluge pours from every hill, 
 And Clyde's wide bed ten thousand torrents fill, 
 His rage the murmuring mountain streams augment, 
 Redoubled rage in rocks so closely pent. 
 Then shattered woods, with ragged roots uptorn, 
 And herds and harvests down the waves are borne. 
 Huge stones heaved upward through the boiling deep, 
 And rocks enormous thundering down the steep, 
 In swift descent, fixed rocks encountering, roar, 
 Crash as from slings discharged, and shake the shore. 
 From that drear grot which bears thy sacred name, 
 Heroic Wallace, ever dear to fame, 
 Did I the terrors of the scene behold. 
 ,1 saw the liquid snowy mountains rolled 
 Prone down the awful steep ; I heard the din 
 That shook the hill, from caves that boiled within. 
 Then wept the rocks and trees, with dropping hair ; 
 Thick mists ascending, loaded all the air, 
 
 I. VI
 
 146 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 Blotted the sun, obscured the shining day, 
 And washed the blazing noon at once away. 
 The wreck below, in wild confusion tossed, 
 Convolved in eddies or in whirlpools lost, 
 Is swept along, or dashed upon the coast. 
 
 THE BULL OF CADZOW. 
 
 WHERE these high walls round wide enclosures run, 
 
 Forbid the winter, and invite the sun, 
 
 Wild strays the race of bisons, white as snow, 
 
 Hills, dales, and woods re-echo when they low. 
 
 No houses lodge them, and no milk they yield 
 
 Save to their calves, nor turn the furrowed field ; 
 
 At pleasure through the spacious pastures stray, 
 
 No keeper know, nor any guide obey, 
 
 Nor round the dairy with swelled udders stand, 
 
 Or, lowing, court the milk-maid's rosy hand. 
 
 But mightiest of his race the bull is bred ; 
 
 High o'er the rest he rears his armed head. 
 
 The monarch of the drove, his sullen roar 
 
 Shakes Clyde with all his rocks from shore to shore. 
 
 The murdered sounds in billowy surges come, 
 
 Deep, dismal as the death-denouncing drum, 
 
 When some dark traitor, 'mid an armed throng, 
 
 His bier the sable sledge, is dragged along. 
 
 Not prouder looked the Thunderer when he bore 
 
 The fair Europa from the Tyrian shore. 
 
 The beauteous heifers that his nod obey 
 
 Match the famed heifers of the god of day.
 
 CL YDE. 147 
 
 CROOKSTONK AND LANGSIDK. 
 
 BY Crookstone Castle waves the still-green yew, 
 The first that met the royal Mary's view 
 When, bright in charms, the youthful princess led 
 The graceful Darnley to her throne and bed. 
 Embossed in silver now, its branches green 
 Transcend the myrtle of the Paphian queen. 
 
 But dark Langside, from Crookstone viewed afar, 
 Still seems to range in pomp the rebel war. 
 Here, when the moon rides dimly through the sky, 
 The peasant sees broad, dancing standards fly; 
 And one bright female form, with sword and crown, 
 Still grieves to view her banners beaten down.
 
 148 S/fi GILBERT ELLIOT. 
 
 SIR GILBERT ELLIOT. 
 
 1722-1777. 
 
 The third baronet of Minto, to whose suggestion the older 
 version of "The Flowers o' the Forest" is owed, was himself 
 author of at least two songs the one here given, which was 
 very popular among the upper classes in Edinburgh about the 
 middle of last century; and another on Colonel Gardiner, who 
 fell at Prestonpans, which is one of the few ditties of that time on 
 the Hanoverian side. Sir Gilbert was educated for the Scottish 
 Bar, and held several official appointments. He died at Mar- 
 seilles. His son, after acting as Governor-General of India, 
 l>ecame the first Earl of Minto. 
 
 MY SHEEP I NEGLECTED. 
 
 MY sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook, 
 And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ; 
 No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove, 
 For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. 
 
 Oh, why had my youth with ambition to do ? 
 Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow? 
 Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore, 
 And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.
 
 MY SHEEP I NEGLECTED. 149 
 
 Through regions remote in vain do I rove, 
 And bid the wide ocean secure me from love. 
 Oh fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue 
 A love so well founded, a passion so true ! 
 
 Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ; 
 Poor shepherd ! Amynta can never be thine. 
 Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, 
 The moments neglected return not again.
 
 150 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
 
 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
 
 1721-1771. 
 
 It is rather as a novelist than as a poet that Tobias George 
 Smollett is remembered; nevertheless, the author of " Roderick 
 Random" and "Humphrey Clinker" was a noted writer of 
 verse in his time, and has left at least two short pieces of 
 classic rank. 
 
 Born at Dalquhurn House, near Renton, the child of a 
 younger son who died early, the future novelist and poet was 
 educated by his grandfather, Sir James Smollett of Bonhill. 
 From the neighbouring Grammar School in Dunbarton he 
 passed to Glasgow College, was apprenticed to a medical prac- 
 titioner in that city, and is said even to have gone to pursue 
 his studies at Edinburgh, when the death of his grandfather left 
 him at the age of nineteen without means of support. Deter- 
 mining at the pinch to try literature as a profession, he betook 
 himself to London with a play, "The Regicide," in his pocket. 
 This, however, he failed to get a hearing for, and he was glad 
 presently to accept the post of a surgeon's mate on an eighty-gun 
 ship of war. In this capacity he was present at the disastrous 
 siege of Carthagena, in South America. After an experience of 
 six years he left the service in disgust. In Jamaica, where he 
 then spent some time, he met the lady who became his wife 
 Miss Anne Lascelles, the Narcissa of " Roderick Random." 
 
 When Smollett returned to Britain in 1746, the country was 
 ringing with the report of the outrages perpetrated by the 
 Duke of Cumberland on the Jacobite Highlanders. Fired 
 with indignation and heedless of consequences, the whilom 
 surgeon's mate penned what must be considered his finest poem, 
 "The Tears of Scotland." The piece brought him into notice, 
 and presently, falling into embarrassed circumstances through 
 litigation over his wife's inheritance, and forced to literature for 
 a living, he gave to the world his novel " Roderick Random," 
 and followed it up with a variety of publications political, 
 medical, and imaginative. His career was now entirely that of 
 the busy man of letters. In rapid succession he issued a series 
 of works a translation of " Don Quixote," a "Compendium of 
 Voyages," a play "The Reprisals," and a "Complete History
 
 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 151 
 
 of England." He also became editor of the "Critical Review," 
 and when Admiral Knowles prosecuted that periodical for an 
 attack which it had made on him, Smollett stepped forward, 
 avowed himself the author of the article, and submitted to the 
 tine of 100 and a sentence of three months' imprisonment. 
 As a friend and supporter of Lord Bute, he started a weekly 
 paper "The Briton," which involved him in more than one 
 literary and political dispute. And after a stay of two years in 
 Krance and Italy for the l>enefit of his health he published a 
 "Tour," for which, with its petulant and captious spirit, he was 
 satirized under the name of Smelfungus by Laurence Sterne. 
 Driven again to Italy by failing strength in 1770, he wrote, 
 at Monte Nuova, near Leghorn, his last delightful work, 
 " Humphrey Clinker," and at Leghorn itself, in October of the 
 following year, he died. 
 
 As a man Smollett has been blamed for his testy and quarrel- 
 some temper ; and probably, to judge from the number of 
 contentions in which he was engaged, the charge is not made 
 unjustly. In the account of his life, however, there are several 
 touches which reveal another side of his nature. At the height 
 of his fame he went north to visit his mother, then living at 
 Scotston, near Peebles. To test the old lady's perception he 
 had himself introduced as a gentleman from the West Indies, 
 and to carry out the deception, he assumed a frowning and 
 forbidding aspect ; but as Mrs. Smollett kept looking fixedly 
 at him, the attempt gave way, and in a moment his mother's 
 arms were about his neck as she exclaimed, "Oh, laddie, laddie, 
 and you've come at last ! That auld kent smile o' yours has 
 betrayed ye." Another incident was the death of his only 
 daughter, a girl of fifteen. By this event he was thrown into 
 a despondency which seriously affected his health, and from 
 which he never indeed recovered. 
 
 As a novelist he stands among the British classics, probably 
 unsurpassed in his own region an amusing delineation of the 
 stronger humours and absurdities of character. As a poet, 
 besides the two pieces upon which his chief fame rests, he was 
 the author of several odes and songs, which are to be found 
 under his name in Gilfillan's "British Poets" and other collec- 
 tions. These, however, have not the advantage of the perfervid 
 patriotic spirit which warms and elevates the "Tears of Scotland" 
 and the " Ode to Leven Water." Of the " Tears of Scotland " 
 it is said Smollett had written six stanzas when a friend warned 
 him of the danger of such free expression of patriotic feeling at 
 the time. The poet's answer was to sit down and add a seventh 
 of stronger invective than all the others put together.
 
 152 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
 
 THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 MOURN, hapless Caledonia ! mourn 
 Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn ! 
 Thy sons, for valour long renowned, 
 Lie slaughtered 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 famished on the rocks 
 Where once they fed their wanton flocks ; 
 Thy ravished virgins shriek in vain ; 
 Thy infants perish on the plain. 
 
 What boots it then, in every clime, 
 Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
 Thy martial glory, crowned with praise, 
 Still shone with undiminished blaze ?
 
 THE TEAKS OF SCOTLAND. 153 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh, baneful cause ! oh, fatal morn, 
 Accursed to ages yet unborn ! 
 The sons against the 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, doomed to death, 
 Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath ; 
 The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
 Her helpless orphans cry for bread. 
 Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, 
 She views the shades of night descend, 
 And, stretched beneath the inclement skies, 
 Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
 
 154 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
 
 While the warm blood bedews my veins, 
 And unimpaired 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 banished peace, thy laurels torn !
 
 ODE TO LEVEN WATER. 155 
 
 ODE TO LEVEN WATER. 
 
 ON Leven's banks, while free to rove 
 And tune the rural pipe to love, 
 I envied not the happiest swain 
 That ever trod the Arcadian plain. 
 
 Pure stream, in whose transparent wave 
 My youthful limbs I wont to lave, 
 No torrents stain thy limpid source, 
 No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
 That warbles sweetly o'er its bed, 
 With white, round, polished pebbles spread, 
 While, lightly poised, the scaly brood 
 In myriads cleave thy crystal flood 
 The springing trout in speckled pride, 
 The salmon, monarch of the tide, 
 The ruthless pike intent on war, 
 The silver eel, and mottled par. 
 Devolving from thy parent lake, 
 A charming maze thy waters make, 
 By bowers of birch and groves of pine, 
 And edges flowered with eglantine.
 
 156 TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 
 
 Still on thy banks, so gaily green, 
 May numerous herds and flocks be seen, 
 And lasses, chanting o'er the pail, 
 And shepherds, piping in the dale, 
 And ancient faith, that knows no guile, 
 And Industry, embrowned with toil, 
 And hearts resolved and hands prepared 
 The blessings they enjoy to guard.
 
 ADAM SK1RVING. 157 
 
 ADAM SKIRVING. 
 1719-1803. 
 
 For a characteristic undertone of pawkie sarcasm the Jacobite 
 ballad of "Johnnie Cope" holds a place of its own in Scottish 
 literature. The composition, with its spirit-stirring air, has been 
 popular ever since the event which it records. The subject is 
 the overthrow of Sir John Cope and the forces of George II. by 
 Prince Charles Edward at Prestonpans, in Haddingtonshire, on 
 September 22, 1745. Sir John Cope, the general of the King's 
 troops, allowed himself to be taken by surprise, suffered dis- 
 graceful defeat, and galloping in panic from the field, carried 
 everywhere with him, till he reached the walls of Berwick, the 
 tidings of his own overthrow. For his conduct he was after- 
 wards tried by court-martial, but was acquitted. 
 
 The author of the song, who also wrote another piece on the 
 same subject under the title of " Tranent Muir," was a wealthy 
 farmer of the neighbourhood, renowned for his skill in all manly 
 sports and exercises. A story is told of him, how one, Lieutenant 
 Smith, who had displayed great pusillanimity in the action, con- 
 sidering himself aggrieved by Skirving's muse, sent the author a 
 challenge to fight him at Haddington. "Gang awa' back," said 
 the farmer to the Lieutenant's envoy, "and tell Mr. Smith that 
 I ha'e nae leisure to come to Haddington ; but tell him to come 
 here, and I'll tak' a look o' him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht 
 him, I'll fecht him ; and if no, I'll do as he did I'll rin awa'." 
 
 The poet lies buried in the kirkyard of Athelstaneford, where 
 his tombstone thus records his qualities 
 
 " In feature, in figure, agility, mind, 
 And happy wit rarely surpassed, 
 With lofty or low could be plain or refined, 
 Content beaming bright to the last."
 
 158 ADAM SKIRVING. 
 
 JOHNNIE COPE. 
 
 COPE sent a letter frae Dunbar : 
 " Charlie, meet me an ye daur, 
 And I'll learn you the art o' war, 
 If you'll meet me in the morning." 
 
 Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet? 
 Or are your drums a-beating yet ? 
 If ye were wauking I wad wait 
 To gang to the coals i' the morning.* 
 
 When Charlie looked the letter upon, 
 He drew his sword the scabbard from : 
 " Come, follow me, my merry merry men, 
 
 And we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning ! 
 
 " Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word ; 
 Come, let us try both fire and sword ; 
 And dinna flee away like a frighted bird, 
 That's chased frae its nest in the morning." 
 
 * The reference in this refrain has probably some connection 
 with the chief industry of the neighbourhood at the time, the 
 coal mines of Tranent being among the oldest in Scotland.
 
 JOHNNIE COPE. 159 
 
 When Johnnie Cope he heard o' this 
 He thought it wadna be amiss 
 To ha'e a horse in readiness 
 To flee awa' in the morning. 
 
 Fye now, Johnnie, get up and rin ; 
 The Highland bagpipes mak' a din ; 
 It's best to sleep in a hale skin, 
 For 'twill be a bluidy morning. 
 
 When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came 
 They speered at him, "Where's a' your men?" 
 "The deil confound me gin I ken, 
 For I left them a' i' the morning." 
 
 Now, Johnnie, troth, ye are na blate 
 To come \vi' the news o' your ain defeat, 
 And leave your men in sic a strait 
 Sae early in the morning. 
 
 "Oh, faith," quo' Johnnie, "I got sic flegs 1 
 Wi' their claymores and philabegs ; 
 If I face them again, deil break my legs ! 
 So I wish you a gude morning."
 
 160 WILLIAM IVILK'lE. 
 
 WILLIAM WILKIE. 
 
 1721-1772. 
 
 The author of the once-talked-of poem, the Epigoniad, was 
 one of those Scotsmen, types of their race, who have attained 
 their ends by incredible struggle through difficulties and 
 obstacles. Recalled from Edinburgh University, by his father's 
 death, to manage the farm and support his three sisters, he yet 
 persevered with his studies, was licensed, and became minister 
 of the parish of Ratho in Midlothian. Here he wrought his way 
 to some reputation as a poet, though he certainly never deserved 
 the title which Hume rashly conferred upon him of "the 
 Scottish Homer." Absent-minded, and uncouth in manners, 
 though indeed kind of heart, he was but ill-fitted for the dignity 
 of the pulpit. His sound qualities, however, got him the post 
 of Professor of Natural Philosophy at St. Andrews, and in 1766 
 the University there conferred on him the degree of D.D. As 
 professor he no doubt exercised considerable influence on the 
 youth of the country. In particular he is known to have shown 
 friendship towards Robert Fergusson, when a student in his class. 
 
 The Epigoniad, Wilkie's chief work, an ambitious epic in 
 nine books descriptive of the siege of Thebes, appeared in 
 1757. Its inspiration was obviously owed to Pope's translation 
 of the Iliad and Odyssey, and it has many shortcomings not to 
 be found in its model Scotticisms, false rhymes and rhythm, 
 and even flaws of language. Many passages, however, are 
 conceived in singularly happy vein, and the story is vigorous 
 and crisp. Wilkie also wrote a "Dream" in the manner of 
 Spenser, and a volume of somewhat commonplace poetic fables. 
 His poems were included in Chalmers' English Poets in 1810. 
 
 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 
 
 (From the Epigoniaii, Book vii. ) 
 
 " THE wife of Jove," Paeonides replied, 
 " All arts in vain to crush the hero tried ; 
 For brighter from her hate his virtue burned, 
 And disappointed still the Goddess mourned.
 
 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 161 
 
 His ruin to effect at last she strove 
 By jealousy, the rage of injured love. 
 The bane to Dejanira's breast conveyed, 
 Who, as a rival, feared th' (Echalian maid. 
 The Goddess knew that, jealous of her lord, 
 A robe she kept with latent poisons stored 
 The centaur's gift, bequeathed her to reclaim 
 The hero's love, and light his dying flame, 
 If e'er, devoted to a stranger's charms, 
 He strayed inconstant from her widowed arms ; 
 But given with treacherous intent to prove 
 The death of nature, not the life of love. 
 Mad from her jealousy, the charm she tried ; 
 His love to change, the deadly robe applied ; 
 And, guiltless of the present which he bore, 
 Lychas conveyed it to Cenaeum's shore, 
 Where to the Powers immortal, for their aid, 
 A grateful hecatomb the hero paid, 
 When, favoured from above, his arm o'erthrew 
 The proud Eurytus, and his warriors slew. 
 
 " The venomed robe the hero took, nor feared 
 A gift by conjugal respects endeared ; 
 And straight resigned the lion's shaggy spoils, 
 The mantle which he wore in all his toils. 
 No sign of harm the fatal present showed, 
 Till roused by heat its secret venom glowed ; 
 Straight on the flesh it seized, like stiffest glue, 
 And, scorching deep, to every member grew. 
 Then, tearing with his hands th' infernal snare, 
 His skin he rent, and laid the muscles bare, 
 While streams of blood, descending from the wound, 
 
 M VI
 
 162 WILLIAM WILK1E. 
 
 Mixed with the gore of victims on the ground. 
 The guiltless Lychas, in his furious mood, 
 He seized, as trembling by his side he stood ; 
 Him by the slender ankle snatched, he swung, 
 And 'gainst a rocky promontory flung, 
 Which from the dire event his name retains. 
 Through his white locks, impurpled, rushed the 
 brains. 
 
 "Awed by the deed, his desperate rage to shun, 
 Our bold companions from his presence run. 
 .1, too, concealed behind a rock remained, 
 My love and sympathy by fear restrained. 
 For furious midst the sacred fires he flew, 
 The victims scattered, and the hearths o'erthrew. 
 Then sinking prostrate where a tide of gore 
 From oxen slain had blackened all the shore, 
 His form divine he rolled in dust and blood ; 
 His groans the hills re-echoed, and the flood. 
 Then rising furious, to the ocean's streams 
 He rushed, in hope to quench his raging flames ; 
 But burning still the unextinguished pain, 
 The shore he left, and stretched into the main. 
 
 " A galley anchored near the beach we found ; 
 Her curled canvas to the breeze unbound ; 
 And traced his desp'rate course, till, far before, 
 We saw him land on (Eta's desert shore. 
 Towards the skies his furious hands he reared, 
 And thus, across the deep, his voice we heard : 
 
 "'Sovereign of heaven and earth, whose bound- 
 less sway 
 The fates of men and mortal things obey !
 
 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 163 
 
 If e'er, delighted, from the courts above 
 
 In human form you sought Alcmena's love 
 
 If Fame's unchanging voice to all the earth 
 
 With truth proclaims you author of my birth 
 
 Whence, from a course of spotless glory run, 
 
 Successful toils, and wreaths of triumphs won, 
 
 Am I thus wretched ? Better that, before, 
 
 Some monster fierce had drunk my streaming gore, 
 
 Or, crushed by Cacus, foe to gods and men, 
 
 My battered brains had strewed his rocky den, 
 
 Than, from my glorious toils and triumphs past, 
 
 To fall subdued by female arts at last. 
 
 O cool my boiling blood, ye winds, that blow 
 
 From mountains loaded with eternal snow, 
 
 And crack the icy cliffs ! In vain, in vain ! 
 
 Your rigour cannot quench my raging pain ; 
 
 For round this heart the furies wave their brands, 
 
 And wring my entrails with their burning hands. 
 
 Now, bending from the skies, O wife of Jove ! 
 
 Enjoy the vengeance of thy injured love ; 
 
 For, Fate, by me, the Thunderer's guilt atones, 
 
 And, punished in her son, Alcmena groans. 
 
 The object of your hate shall soon expire ; 
 
 Fixed on my shoulders preys a net of fire. 
 
 Whom nor the toils nor dangers could subdue, 
 
 By false Eurystheus, dictated from you, 
 
 Nor tyrants lawless, nor the monstrous brood 
 
 Which haunts the desert or infests the flood, 
 
 Nor Greece, nor all the barbarous climes that lie 
 
 Where Phoebus ever points his golden eye, 
 
 A woman hath o'erthrown ! Ye Gods, I yield
 
 164 WILLIAM WILK'lE. 
 
 To female arts, unconquered in the field ! 
 
 My arms ! alas, are these the same that bowed 
 
 Antaeus, and his giant force subdued? 
 
 That dragged Nemea's monster from his den, 
 
 And slew the dragon in his native fen? 
 
 Alas, alas ! their mighty muscles fail, 
 
 While pains infernal every nerve assail. 
 
 Alas, alas ! I feel in streams of woe 
 
 These eyes dissolved, before untaught to flow. 
 
 Awake, my virtue ! oft in dangers tried, 
 
 Patient in toils, in deaths unterrified 
 
 Rouse to my aid ; nor let my labours past, 
 
 With fame achieved, be blotted at the last. 
 
 Firm and unmoved the present shock endure ; 
 
 Once triumph, and for ever rest secure.' 
 
 " The hero thus ; and grasped a pointed rock 
 With both his arms, which straight in pieces broke, 
 Crushed in his agony; then on his breast 
 Descending prostrate, further plaint supprest. 
 
 " And now the clouds, in dusky volumes spread, 
 Had darkened all the mountains with their shade ; 
 The winds withhold their breath ; the billows rest ; 
 The sky's dark image on the deep impressed. 
 A bay for shelter, opening in the strand, 
 We saw, and steered our vessel to the land. 
 Then mounting on the rocky beach above, 
 Through the thick gloom descried the son of Jove. 
 His head declined between his hands he leaned, 
 His elbows on his bended knees sustained. 
 Above him still a hovering vapour flew, 
 Which from his boiling veins the garment drew.
 
 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 165 
 
 Through the thick woof we saw the fumes aspire, 
 Like smoke of victims from the sacred fire. 
 Compassion's keenest touch my bosom thrilled ; 
 My eyes a flood of melting sorrow filled. 
 Doubtful I stood; and pondering in my mind, 
 By fear and pity variously inclined, 
 Whether to shun the hero, or essay 
 With friendly words his torment to allay ; 
 When, bursting from above with hideous glare, 
 A flood of lightning kindled all the air. 
 From QEta's top it rushed in sudden streams ; 
 The ocean reddened at its fiery beams. 
 Then, bellowing deep, the thunder's awful sound 
 Shook the firm mountains and the shores around. 
 Far to the east it rolled, a length of sky ; 
 We heard Eubcea's rattling cliffs reply. 
 
 "As at his master's voice a swain appears, 
 \Vhen waked from sleep his early call he hears, 
 The hero rose, and to the mountain turned, 
 Whose cloud-involved top with lightning burned ; 
 And thus his sire addressed. 
 
 " ' With patient mind 
 Thy call I hear, obedient and resigned. 
 Faithful and true the oracle which spoke 
 In high Dodona from the sacred oak, 
 That, twenty years of painful labours past, 
 On (Eta's top I should repose at last. 
 Before, involved, the meaning lay concealed ; 
 But now I find it in my fate revealed. 
 Thy sovereign will I blame not, which denies 
 With length of days to crown my victories.
 
 166 WILLIAM WILR'IE. 
 
 Though still, with danger and distress engaged, 
 
 For injured right eternal war I waged; 
 
 A life of pain, in barbarous climates led, 
 
 The heavens my canopy, a rock my bed. 
 
 More joy I've felt than delicacy knows 
 
 Or all the pride of regal pomp bestows. 
 
 Dread sire ! thy will I honour and revere, 
 
 And own thy love with gratitude sincere, 
 
 Which watched me in my toils, that none could 
 
 boast 
 
 To raise a trophy from my glory lost. 
 And though at last, by female arts o'ercome, 
 And unsuspected fraud, I find my doom ; 
 There to have failed, my honour ne'er can shake, 
 Where vice is only strong, and virtue weak.' 
 
 " He said, and turning to the cloudy height, 
 The seat of thunder, wrapt in sable night, 
 Firm and undaunted trod the steep ascent ; 
 An earthquake rocked the mountain as he went. 
 Back from the shaking shores retired the flood ; 
 In horror lost my bold companions stood, 
 To speech or motion. But the present power 
 Of love inspired me in that awful hour. 
 With trembling steps I traced the son of Jove, 
 And saw him darkly on the steep above, 
 Through the thick gloom. The thunder's awful 
 
 noise 
 
 Ceased, and I called him thus with feeble voice. 
 'O son of mighty Jove! thy friend await, 
 Who comes to comfort thee, or share thy fate. 
 In every danger and distress before,
 
 THE DEATH OF HERCULES. 167 
 
 His part your faithful Philoctetes bore. 
 
 O let me still attend you, and receive 
 
 The comfort which a present friend can give, 
 
 Who comes obsequious for your last commands, 
 
 And tenders to your need his willing hands.' 
 
 "My voice he heard, and from the mountain's 
 
 brow 
 
 Saw me ascending on the steep below. 
 To favour my approach his steps he stayed, 
 And pleased amidst his anguish, smiling said, 
 ' Approach, my Philoctetes ! Oft I've known 
 Your friendly zeal in former labours shown. 
 The present, more than all, your love proclaims, 
 Which braves the Thunderer's bolts and volleyed 
 
 flames ; 
 
 With daring step the rocking earthquake treads 
 While the firm mountains shake their trembling 
 
 heads. 
 
 As my last gift, these arrows, with the bow, 
 Accept ; the greatest which I can bestow 
 My glory all my wealth of power to raise 
 Your name to honour and immortal praise, 
 If for wronged innocence your shafts shall fly 
 As Jove by signs directs them from the sky.' 
 
 "Straight from his mighty shoulders, as he spoke, 
 He loosed and lodged them in a caverned rock, 
 To lie untouched till future care had drained 
 Their poison, from the venomed robe retained. 
 And thus again : 
 
 ' The only aid I need, 
 For all my favours past the only meed,
 
 1 68 WILLIAM WILKIE. 
 
 Is that, with vengeful hand you fix a dart 
 In cruel Dejanira's faithless heart. 
 Her treacherous messenger already dead, 
 Let her, the author of the crime, succeed. 
 This awful scene forsake without delay; 
 In vain to mingle with my fate you stay. 
 No kind assistance can my state retrieve, 
 Nor any friend attend me, and survive.' 
 
 "The hero thus his tender care expressed, 
 And spread his arms to clasp me to his breast ; 
 But soon withdrew them, lest his tainted veins 
 Infection had conveyed, and mortal pains. 
 Silent I stood in streams of sorrow drowned, 
 Till from my heart these words a passage found : 
 'O bid me not forsake thee, nor impose 
 What wretched Philoctetes must refuse. 
 By him I swear, whose presence now proclaim 
 The thunder's awful voice and forked flame 
 Beneath whose steps the trembling desert quakes, 
 And earth affrighted to her centre shakes. 
 I never will forsake thee, but remain 
 While struggling life these ruined limbs retain. 
 No form of fate shall drive me from thy side, 
 Nor death with all its terrors e'er divide; 
 Though the same stroke our mortal lives should end, 
 One flash consume us, and our ashes blend.' 
 
 " I spoke, and to the cloudy steep we turned. 
 Along its brow the kindled forest burned ; 
 The savage brood, descending to the plains, 
 The scattered flocks, and dread-distracted swains 
 Rushed from the shaking cliffs ; we saw them come,
 
 THE DEATH Of HERCULES. 169 
 
 In wild disorder mingled, through the gloom. 
 And now appeared the desert's lofty head, 
 A narrow rock, with forest thinly spread. 
 
 His mighty hands displayed aloft in air, 
 To Jove the hero thus addressed a prayer : 
 ' Hear me, dread Power, whose nod controls the 
 
 skies, 
 
 At whose command the winged lightning flies ! 
 Almighty sire ! if yet you deign to own 
 Alcmena's wretched offspring as your son, 
 Some comfort in my agony impart, 
 And bid thy forked thunder rend this heart. 
 Round my devoted head it idly plays, 
 And aids the fire which wastes me, with its rays. 
 By heat inflamed, this robe exerts its power 
 My scorched limbs to shrivel and devour, 
 Upon my shoulders like a dragon clings, 
 And fixes in my flesh a thousand stings. 
 Great sire ! in pity to my suit attend, 
 And with a sudden stroke my being end.' 
 
 "As thus the hero prayed, the lightning ceased, 
 And thicker darkness all the hill embraced. 
 He saw his suit denied : in fierce despair 
 The rooted pines he tore, and cedars fair; 
 And from the crannies of the rifted rocks 
 Twisted with force immense the stubborn oaks. 
 Of these upon the cliff a heap he laid, 
 And thus addressed me as I stood dismayed : 
 Behold, my friend ! the ruler of the skies, 
 In agony invoked, my suit denies. 
 But sure the oracle inspired from heaven,
 
 170 WILLIAM W1LKIE. 
 
 Which in Dodona's sacred grove was given, 
 The truth declared, that now my toils shall cease, 
 And all my painful labours end in peace. 
 Peace death can only bring ; the raging smart, 
 Warped with my vitals, mocks each healing art. 
 Not all the plants that clothe the verdant field, 
 Not all the health a thousand mountains yield, 
 Which on their tops the sage physician finds, 
 Or, digging from the veins of flint, unbinds, 
 This fire can quench. And therefore, to obey 
 My last commands, prepare without delay. 
 When on this pile you see my limbs composed, 
 Shrink not, but hear what must not be opposed ; 
 Approach, and, with an unrelenting hand, 
 Fix in the boughs beneath a flaming brand. 
 I must not longer trust this madding pain, 
 Lest some rash deed should all my glory stain. 
 Lychas I slew upon the Csenian shore, 
 Who knew not, sure, the fatal gift he bore. 
 His guilt had taught him else to fly, nor wait 
 Till from my rage he found a sudden fate. 
 I will not Dejanira's action blame ; 
 Let heaven decide, which only knows her aim, 
 Whether from hate, with treacherous intent, 
 This fatal garment to her lord she sent ; 
 Or, by the cunning of a foe betrayed, 
 His vengeance thus imprudently conveyed. 
 If this, or that, I urge not my command, 
 Nor claim her fate from thy avenging hand. 
 To lodge my lifeless bones is all I crave, 
 Safe and uninjured, in the peaceful grave.'
 
 THE DEATH OF HEKCUI.ES. 171 
 
 " This with a hollow voice and altered look, 
 In agony extreme, the hero spoke. 
 I poured a flood of sorrow, and withdrew 
 Amid the kindled groves to pluck a bough, 
 With which the structure at the base I fired. 
 
 " On every side the pointed flames aspired ; 
 But ere involving smoke the pile enclosed, 
 I saw the hero on the top reposed, 
 Serene as one who, near the fountain laid, 
 At noon enjoys the cool refreshing shade. 
 The venomed garment hissed ; its touch the fires 
 Avoiding, sloped oblique their pointed spires. 
 On every side the parted flame withdrew, 
 And levelled, round the burning structure flew. 
 At last, victorious to the top they rose, 
 Firm and unmoved the hero saw them close. 
 His soul, unfettered, sought the blest abodes, 
 By virtue raised to mingle with the gods. 
 His bones in earth with pious hands I laid ; 
 The place to publish nothing shall persuade, 
 Lest tyrants, now unawed, and men unjust, 
 With insults should profane his sacred dust. 
 E'er since, I haunt this solitary den, 
 Retired from all the busy paths of men ; 
 For these wild mountains only suit my state, 
 And soothe, with kindred gloom, my deep regret."
 
 172 THOMAS BLACK LOCK. 
 
 THOMAS BLACKLOCK. 
 1721-1791. 
 
 A poet whose verse remains little more than an echo of the 
 prevailing fashion in poetry of his time, the venerable Dr. 
 Blacklock keeps name and fame among eighteenth century 
 singers chiefly by reason of one fact. It was he whose prompt 
 recognition of the genius of Burns arrested that poet on the eve 
 of his departure from Scotland, and effected his introduction to 
 Edinburgh and the greater world of letters. 
 
 The son of humble parents who were natives of Cumberland 
 his father was a bricklayer Blacklock was born at Annan in 
 Dumfriesshire. When only six months old an attack of small- 
 pox left him blind, and it might have been thought that for the 
 rest of his days he was doomed to the fate of a pauper. His 
 spirit, however, proved itself capable of better things, and 
 throughout life his amiability continually secured him friends 
 who did all in their power to help his interests. At the age 
 of twelve he was writing poetry, and though when he was 
 nineteen his father was killed, his promise attracted a patron 
 in the person of Dr. Stevenson, an eminent physician, who 
 carried him to Edinburgh and supported him there for four years 
 at the Grammar School. He found means also to attend the 
 University, and qualify for the church. Among his friends in 
 Edinburgh was David Hume the historian, who went so far as 
 give up to him his salary as librarian of the Faculty of Advocates. 
 Spence, too, the professor of poetry at Oxford, and friend of 
 Pope, took great pains to introduce Blacklock's verse to the 
 English public ; while Beattie, the author of The Minstrel, got 
 him the degree of D.D. from the University of Aberdeen. 
 
 In 1762 Blacklock married, and at the same time was pre- 
 sented to the parish of Kirkcudbright. His settlement was 
 resisted, however, on account of his blindness. For many years 
 .subsequently the chief part of his livelihood was gained by the 
 keeping of a better-class boarding-school in Edinburgh. Two 
 years after his death an edition of his poems was published, 
 with a life by Henry Mackenzie, the author of "The Man of 
 Feeling." His work is also included in Chalmers' English 
 I'oets, vol. v.
 
 ON EUANTHES AfiSENCE. 173 
 
 ON EUANTHE'S ABSENCE. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 BLEST Heaven ! and thou fair world below ! 
 
 Is there no cure to soothe my smart? 
 No balm to heal a lover's woe, 
 That bids his eyes for ever flow, 
 
 Consumes his soul, and pines his heart? 
 And will no friendly arm above 
 Relieve my tortured soul from love? 
 
 As swift-descending showers of rain 
 
 Deform with mud the clearest streams 
 As rising mists Heaven's azure stain, 
 Tinged with Aurora's blush in vain 
 
 As fades the flower in mid-day beams ; 
 On life thus tender sorrows prey, 
 And wrap in gloom its promised day. 
 
 Ye plains where dear Euanthe strays, 
 
 Ye various objects of her view, 
 Bedecked in Beauty's brightest blaze, 
 Let all its forms and all its rays, 
 
 Where'er she turns, her eyes pursue ! 
 All fair as she let nature shine : 
 Ah ! then, how lovely ! how divine !
 
 174 THOMAS KLACKLOCK. 
 
 Where'er the thymy vales descend, 
 
 And breathe ambrosial fragrance round, 
 
 Proportion just, thy line extend, 
 
 And teach the prospect where to end ; 
 
 While woods or mountains mark the bound. 
 
 That each fair scene which strikes her eye 
 
 May charm with sweet variety. 
 
 Ye streams that in perpetual flow 
 
 Still warble on your mazy way, 
 Murmur Euanthe as you go 
 Murmur a love-sick poet's woe. 
 
 Ye feathered warblers, join the lay ; 
 Sing how I suffer, how complain ; 
 Yet name not him who feels the pain. 
 
 And thou, eternal ruling Power ! 
 
 If spotless virtue claims thy care, 
 Around unheard-of blessings shower, 
 Let some new pleasure crown each hour 
 
 And make her blest, as good and fair. 
 Of all thy works to mortals known 
 The best and fairest she alone.
 
 MARRIAGE. 175 
 
 HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
 
 THOU genius of connubial love, attend ! 
 
 Let silent wonder all thy powers suspend, 
 
 Whilst to thy glory I devote my lays, 
 
 And pour forth all my grateful heart in praise. 
 
 In lifeless strains let vulgar satire tell 
 That marriage oft is mixed with heaven and hell, 
 That conjugal delight is soured with spleen, 
 And peace and war compose the varied scene. 
 My muse a truth sublimer can assert, 
 And sing the triumphs of a mutual heart. 
 
 Thrice happy they who through life's varied tide 
 With equal pace and gentle motion glide, 
 Whom, though the wave of fortune sinks or swells, 
 One reason governs and one wish impels, 
 Whose emulation is to love the best, 
 Who feel no bliss but in each other blest, 
 Who know no pleasure but the joys they give, 
 Nor cease to love but when they cease to live. 
 If fate these blessings in one lot combine, 
 Then let th' eternal page record them mine.
 
 176 JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 1721-1807. 
 
 For sixty-five years pastor of the episcopal chapel of Longside, 
 near Peterhead in Aberdeenshire, the Rev. John Skinner experi- 
 enced all the persecution accorded to non-jurors in his day. He 
 was one of those who during the lifetime of the exiled Stuarts 
 refused to take the oath of allegiance to the reigning house. 
 For this conduct on one occasion his chapel was destroyed and 
 his house wrecked, while he himself suffered six months' im- 
 prisonment. At other times he evaded the law forbidding a 
 non-juring clergyman to officiate in a place of worship holding 
 more than four persons, by reading the service at his open 
 window to a congregation gathered outside. Nevertheless, 
 amid all his difficulties and upon a very scanty stipend, he 
 managed, in his small cottage at Linshart, to rear a large well- 
 doing family ; and he lived to see one of his sons appointed 
 Bishop of Aberdeen, the very diocese in which he had himself 
 suffered so much. A man of piety and scholarship, as a recent 
 writer has remarked, "this master of a 'but and ben' with no 
 floor to it, had both wit and will in his head and wisdom in his 
 heart. Nor did there perhaps exist a man to whom all 
 descriptions of people took off their hats and caps with a more 
 zealous respect." By another writer Skinner has been compared 
 for his upright and simple character to the type of Dr. Primrose 
 and Parson Adams, and a story is told of him which well illus- 
 trates his tolerant and sensible spirit. He was one day, it 
 appears, passing a dissenting place of worship, and hearing from 
 within the sounds of psalmody, he reverently took off his hat. 
 "What !" said a friend at his side, "are you so fond of the 
 Anti-burghers?" " Sir," replied the old clergyman with some 
 warmth, " I respect and love any of my fellow-Christians who 
 are engaged in singing to the glory of the Lord Jesus Christ." 
 
 Born at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, Aberdeenshire, where 
 his father was schoolmaster, Skinner was never probably, in all 
 his life, very far from home. One journey only is recorded of
 
 TULLOCHGORUM. 177 
 
 him, when he went as a tutor to Shetland, and brought home as 
 his wife the daughter of the episcopal clergyman there. He 
 was, however, the author of a number of songs which have 
 carried his name wherever there are Scottish lips losing. His 
 best-known piece, "Tullochgorum," printed first in the Scots 
 Weekly Magazine in April, 1776, Burns called "the l>est Scots 
 song Scotland ever saw." The circumstances of its production 
 are thus recorded : Skinner with some friends had gone to dine 
 at the house of an excise officer named Montgomerie, in the little 
 Aberdeenshire village of Ellon. After dinner the talk becoming 
 political, and threatening to grow warm, the hostess with womanly 
 tact diverted it by a reference to the fine old tune of Tulloch- 
 gorum, and a suggestion that Mr. Skinner should fit it with 
 better words than those in use. This he forthwith did, and the 
 result remains. "The Ewie wi' the crookit horn," again, was 
 suggested and indeed begun by Beattie, who, asked to write a 
 pastoral, produced the first three lines, and then sent them to 
 Skinner as the person best qualified to finish the piece. Others 
 of Skinner's productions are "John o' Badenyon," "Tune your 
 fiddles," and " Lizy Liberty," to be found in every Scots song 
 book. His longest poem, "The Moneymusk Christmas Ba'ing," 
 a composition on the model of " Christ's Kirk on the Green," 
 was printed first in Shireff's Caledonian Magazine. The poet 
 also engaged in a racy correspondence with Burns, whom, to the 
 regret of both, he never met. Among his prose works were a 
 learned Ecclesiastical History of Scotland and a treatise on the 
 Hebrew Shechinah, the latter written during his confinement in 
 Aberdeen gaol. He was buried at Longside, where a handsome 
 monument marks his grave. 
 
 Two years after Skinner's death a collection of his poems was 
 published at Edinburgh under the title, Amusements of Leisure 
 Hours. The Rev. William Walker of Moneymusk wrote a Life 
 of the poet, of which a second edition was printed in 1883. 
 
 TULLOCHGORUM. 
 
 COME, gi'e 's a sang, Montgom'rie cried, 
 And lay your disputes a' aside ; 
 What signifies for folks to chide 
 
 For what was done before them ? 
 
 N VI
 
 178 JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 Let Whig and Tory a' agree, 
 Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
 Whig and Tory a' agree 
 
 To drap their whigmigmorum ; 
 Let Whig and Tory a' agree 
 To spend this night in mirth and glee, 
 And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me, 
 
 The reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 Tullochgorum's my delight ; 
 It gars us a' in ane unite ; 
 
 surly fool. ^ n( J Qn y surn p n i tn at keeps Up Spite, 
 
 In conscience I abhor him. 
 Blithe and merry we'll be a', 
 Blithe and merry, blithe and merry, 
 Blithe and merry we'll be a' 
 
 And male' a cheerfu' quorum. 
 For blithe and merry we'll be a' 
 As lang as we ha'e breath to draw, 
 And dance, till we be like to fa', 
 
 The reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 What needs there be sae great a fraise 2 
 i drawling. wi' dringin'3, dull Italian lays? 
 
 1 wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys 
 
 For half a hunder score o' them. 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 sad and doleful. Dowf and dowie 4 , dowf and dowie, 
 
 Dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Wi' a' their variorum.
 
 TULLOCHGORUM. 179 
 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Their allegros and a' the rest ; 
 They canna please a Scottish taste 
 Compared wi' Tullochgorum. 
 
 Let worldly worms their minds oppress 
 Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
 And sullen sots themsel's distress 
 
 Wi' keeping up decorum. 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? 
 Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
 Sour and sulky shall we sit, 
 
 Like auld philosophorum ? 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
 Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
 Nor ever rise to shake a fit 
 
 To the reel o' Tullochgorum ? 
 
 May choicest blessings aye attend 
 Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
 And calm and quiet be his end, 
 
 And a' that's gude watch o'er him ! 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, 
 Peace and plenty be his lot, 
 
 And dainties a great store o' them ! 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 Unstained by ony vicious spot, 
 And may he never want a groat, 
 
 That's fond o' Tullochgorum !
 
 i8o JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 But for the discontented fool, 
 Wha wants to be oppression's tool, 
 May envy gnaw his rotten soul, 
 
 And discontent devour him ! 
 May dule and sorrow be his chance, 
 Dule and sorrow, dule and sorrow, 
 Dule and sorrow be his chance, 
 
 And nane say " Wae's me for him ! " 
 May dule and sorrow be his chance, 
 And a' the ills that come frae France, 
 Whae'er he be that winna dance 
 
 The reel o' Tullochsrorum !
 
 THE ElVJE IVr THE CROOKIT HOA'N. 181 
 
 THE 
 
 EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN. 
 
 WERE I but able to rehearse 
 My ewie's praise in proper verse, 
 I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce 
 As ever piper's drone could blaw. 
 
 The ewie wi' the crookit horn ! 
 Wha had kent her might ha'e sworn 
 Sic a ewe was never born 
 Here about nor far awa'. 
 
 I never needed tar nor keil 
 To mark her upo' hip or heel ; 
 Her crookit hornie did as weel, 
 
 To ken her by amang them a'. 
 
 She never threatened scab nor rot, 
 But keepit aye her ain jog-trot ; 
 Baith to the fauld and to the cot 
 
 Was never sweirt 1 to lead nor ca' 2 .
 
 1 82 . JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 overcame her. Cauld nor hunger never dang her 1 , 
 
 Wind nor weet could never wrang her; 
 'week. Ance she lay an ouk 2 , and langer, 
 
 Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw. 
 
 3 notwithstanding 
 the dog. 
 
 4 moved slowly 
 and cautiously. 
 
 Whan ither ewies lap the dyke, 
 And ate the kale, for a' the tyke 3; 
 My ewie never played the like, 
 
 But tyced 4 about the barn wa'. 
 
 S frail. 
 
 A better or a thriftier beast 
 
 Nae honest man could weel ha'e wist ; 
 
 For, silly s thing, she never missed 
 
 To ha'e, ilk year, a lamb or twa. 
 
 The first she had I ga'e to Jock, 
 To be to him a kind o' stock ; 
 And now the laddie has a flock 
 O' mair nor thirty head ava'. 
 
 6 evil-doer. 
 
 7 pole-cat. 
 
 I lookit aye at even for her, 
 Lest mischanter 6 should come o'er her, 
 Or the foumart 7 might devour her, 
 Gin the beastie bade a\va'. 
 
 1 gras.- 
 
 My ewie wi' the crookit horn 
 Weel deserved baith gerss 8 and corn ; 
 Sic a ewe was never born 
 Here about or far awa'.
 
 THE EWIE Wr THE CROOKIT HORN. 18.3 
 
 Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
 (Wha can speak it without greeting?) 
 A villain cam' when I was sleeping, 
 Sta' my ewie, horn and a'. 
 
 I sought her sair upo' the morn ; 
 And down aneath a buss o' thorn 
 I got my ewie's crookit horn, 
 But my ewie was awa'. 
 
 O ! gin I had the loun that did it, 
 Sworn I have, as well as said it, 
 Though a' the warld should forbid it, 
 I wad gi'e his neck a thraw. 
 
 I never met wi' sic a turn 
 As this, sin' ever I was born; 
 My ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 Silly ewie, stown awa'. 
 
 O ! had she dee'd o' crook or cauld, 
 As ewies do when they are auld, 
 It wadna been, by mony fauld, 
 
 Sae sair a heart to nane o's a'. 
 
 For a' the claith that we ha'e worn, 
 Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, 
 The loss o' her we could ha'e borne, 
 Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'.
 
 1 84 JOHN SKINNER. 
 
 But thus, puir thing, to lose her life, 
 Aneath a bloody villain's knife ; 
 
 'afraid. I'm really fley't 1 that our gudewife 
 
 'get over it at ail. Will never win aboon't ava' 2 . 
 
 O ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
 Call your muses up and mourn 
 Our ewie \vi' the crookit horn, 
 
 Stown frae's, and fell't, and a' !
 
 JOHN HOME. 185 
 
 JOHN HOME. 
 
 1724-1808. 
 
 The author of " Douglas " remains famous for several reasons. 
 He was the successor of Blair, the author of The Grave, as 
 minister of the parish of Athelstaneford, and it was he who, on 
 the bowling-green at Moffat, "discovered" Macpherson, and so 
 brought about the translation and publication of "Ossian." 
 But his chief claim to remembrance lies in the fact that his was 
 the first decided voice of the Romantic movement in British 
 poetry. He may also be said to have been the founder of 
 modern melodrama. It was he who brought about the return to 
 emotion for effect upon the stage, as Ramsay and Thomson 
 brought about the return to emotion for effect in other fields 
 of poetry. 
 
 A native of Leith, Home first attracted notice by an adventure 
 of his student days. Along with a few companions he had gone 
 out from Edinburgh to watch the battle of Falkirk, and on the 
 issue of that fight the party was captured by the Jacobites and 
 confined in the castle of Doune. From an upper chamber of 
 the castle, still pointed out, they escaped by tying their bedclothes 
 together, and sliding at great hazard from the window to the 
 ground. 
 
 The poet was not long settled at Athelstaneford when his 
 dramatic genius asserted itself. Since Sir David Lyndsay's 
 time the drama had been silent in Scotland. One reason which 
 has been assigned for this is that Scotland had ceased to be a 
 separate country before the theatre reached its full birth ; and 
 after that birth the stern spirit of Calvinism forbade an audience, 
 even if there had been a poet who could write plays. Allan 
 Ramsay was all but ruined by the attempt to establish a theatre 
 in Edinburgh ; and the prospect before a minister of the kirk 
 who should so far forget himself as to have anything to do with 
 the stage, was at that time anything but reassuring. Undeterred 
 by his knowledge of this fact, Home produced a tragedy entitled 
 " Agis,"and travelled in person to London to offer it to Garrick. 
 The piece was not accepted, and a subsequent journey south in 
 1755 with the tragedy of "Douglas" had no better result. Home 
 then tried the Edinburgh stage, and there his play met with im- 
 mediate and enthusiastic success.
 
 1 86 JOHN HOME. 
 
 While his play gained Home fame, however, it lost him his 
 living ; for its most immediate result was to raise a hornet's nest 
 which drove him from the kirk, and involved in severe censure 
 several clerical friends broad-minded enough to countenance him. 
 More fortunate, however, than many another object of perse- 
 cution, he was now independent of his cavillers. In June, 1757, 
 he removed to London, and there, countenanced by the Bute 
 administration, from which he received a pension, he staged in 
 succession his plays of "Agis" and "The Siege of Aquileia." 
 The year 1762 saw him back in Scotland, where he produced 
 three further plays "The Fatal Discovery," "Alonzo," and 
 "Alfred." Of these the last-named was put upon the boards in 
 1778, and marked the close of its author s dramatic career. In 
 that year Home had a fall from his horse, and received injury to 
 his head which made further stage-writing impossible. He con- 
 tinued, nevertheless, to be a well-known figure in Edinburgh 
 literary society, and was able to write a "History of the Rebellion 
 of 1745." At his villa, near Edinburgh, Sir Walter Scott in his 
 young days was a frequent guest. The best account of the author 
 of "Douglas" in these latter years is perhaps that given in an 
 article by Scott in the Quarterly Review in 1827. 
 
 Home died in 1808. Seventeen years later his complete 
 works were published with a "life" by Henry Mackenzie. 
 None of his plays is destitute of fine passages. Of them all, the 
 "Siege of Aquileia," has by some critics been considered the 
 best, containing truer sentiment than the others, and less play to 
 the gallery. But "Douglas" is the only one remembered. 
 Scott's criticism of Home's works, in his diary, runs "Good 
 blank verse, and stately sentiment, but something lukewarmish, 
 excepting ' Douglas,' which is certainly a masterpiece. Even 
 that does not stand the closet : its merits are for the stage." 
 
 The tragedy of "Douglas" is founded on the well-known 
 ballad of "Gil Morice," printed first in Percy's Reliques, in 
 1765. According to tradition the scene of the ballad was the 
 ancient forest of Dundaff, on the water of Carron, in Stirlingshire. 
 (For the ballad, and particulars regarding it, see Scottish Ballad 
 Poetry, p. 107, Abbotsford Series. )
 
 DOUGLAS. 187 
 
 DOUGLAS. 
 
 [Lady Randolph, heiress of Sir Malcolm of Balarmo, had in 
 her youth secretly married Douglas, a son of the enemy of her 
 house. Her husband, after three weeks' wedlock, was slain in 
 battle, and her child, sent away for concealment, is supposed to 
 have been lost with his nurse in crossing the water of Carron. 
 The lady, rescued later from the arms of an unknown ravisher 
 by Lord Randolph, has been induced to bestow on her rescuer 
 her hand and estates. She afterwards discovers her would-be 
 ravisher in the person of Glenalvon, Lord Randolph's heir ; 
 but out of consideration for her husband she conceals the 
 fact. Cilenalvon presently sets an ambush to assassinate Lord 
 Randolph ; but the attack is frustrated by the bravery of a 
 shepherd youth. This youth, Norval, is privately discovered by 
 Lady Randolph to be her own long-lost son.] 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. A Court. Flourish of Trumpets. 
 Enter LORD RANDOLPH, attended. 
 
 Ran. Summon an hundred horse by break of day, 
 To wait our pleasure at the castle gate. 
 
 Enter LADY RANDOLPH. 
 
 Lady. Alas, my lord! I've heard unwelcome news; 
 The Danes are landed. 
 
 Ran. Ay, no inroad this 
 
 Of the Northumbrian, bent to take the spoil ; 
 No sportive war, no tournament essay 
 Of some young knight resolved to break a spear
 
 1 88 JOHN HOME. 
 
 And stain with hostile blood his maiden arms. 
 The Danes are landed ; we must beat them back, 
 Or live the slaves of Denmark. 
 
 Lady. Dreadful times ! 
 
 Ran. The fenceless villages are all forsaken ; 
 The trembling mothers and their children lodged 
 In wall-girt towers and castles ; whilst the men 
 Retire indignant. Yet, like broken waves, 
 They but retire more awful to return. 
 
 Lady. Immense, as fame reports, the Danish host ! 
 
 Ran. Were it as numerous as loud fame reports, 
 An army knit like ours would pierce it through. 
 Brothers, that shrink not from each other's side, 
 And fond companions, fill our warlike files ; 
 For his dear offspring, and the wife he loves, 
 The husband, and the fearless father arm : 
 In vulgar breast heroic ardour burns, 
 And the poor peasant mates his daring lord. 
 
 Lady. Men's minds are tempered, like their swords, 
 
 for war ; 
 
 Lovers of dangers, on destruction's brink 
 They joy to rear erect their daring forms. 
 Hence early graves ; hence the lone widow's life, 
 And the sad mother's grief-embittered age. 
 Where is our gallant guest ? 
 
 Ran. Down in the vale 
 I left him managing a fiery steed, 
 Whose stubbornness had foiled the strength and skill 
 Of every rider. But behold he comes, 
 In earnest conversation with Glenalvon.
 
 DOUGLAS. 189 
 
 Enter NORVAL and GLENALVOX. 
 
 Glenalvon, with the lark arise ; go forth, 
 
 And lead my troops that lie in yonder vale ; 
 
 Private I travel to the royal camp : 
 
 Norval, thou go'st with me. But say, young man, 
 
 Where didst thou learn so to discourse of war, 
 
 And in such terms as I o'erheard to-day? 
 
 War is no village science, nor its phrase 
 
 A language taught among the shepherd swains. 
 
 Norv. Small is the skill my lord delights to praise 
 In him he favours. Hear from whence it came. 
 Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote 
 And inaccessible by shepherds trod, 
 In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 
 A hermit lived, a melancholy man, 
 Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. 
 Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 
 Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed, 
 Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 
 I went to see him, and my heart was touched 
 With reverence and pity. Mild he spake, 
 And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 
 As made me oft revisit his sad cell. 
 For he had been a soldier in his youth, 
 And fought in famous battles, when the peers 
 Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, 
 Against th' usurping Infidel displayed 
 The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land. 
 Pleased with my admiration, and the fire 
 His speech struck from me, the old man would shake
 
 190 JOHN HOME. 
 
 His years away, and act his young encounters : 
 Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down, 
 And all the live-long day discourse of w r ar. 
 To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 
 He cut the figures of the marshalled hosts; 
 Described the motions, and explained the use 
 Of the deep column, and the lengthened line, 
 The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm. 
 For all that Saracen or Christian knew 
 Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 
 
 Ran. Why did this soldier in a desert hide 
 Those qualities that should have graced a camp? 
 
 Norv. That too at last I learned. Unhappy man! 
 Returning homeward by Messina's port, 
 Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won, 
 A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea 
 Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought; 
 The stranger fell, and, with his dying breath, 
 Declared his name and lineage. Mighty God ! 
 The soldier cried, My brother ! oh, my brother ! 
 
 Lady. His brother ! 
 
 Norv. Yes ; of the same parents born ; 
 His only brother. They exchanged forgiveness ; 
 And happy in my mind was he that died ; 
 For many deaths has the survivor suffered. 
 In the wild desert on a rock he sits, 
 Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, 
 And ruminates all day his dreadful fate. 
 At times, alas ! not in his perfect mind, 
 Holds dialogues with his loved brother's ghost : 
 And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch,
 
 DOUGLAS. 191 
 
 To make sad orisons for him he slew. 
 
 Lady. To what mysterious woes are mortals born ! 
 In this dire tragedy were there no more 
 Unhappy persons? Did the parents live? 
 
 Norv. No ! they were dead ; kind Heaven had 
 
 closed their eyes 
 Before their son had shed his brother's blood. 
 
 Ran. Hard is his fate ; for he was not to blame. 
 There is a destiny in this strange world, 
 Which oft decrees an undeserved doom : 
 Let schoolmen tell us why. 
 
 \Trumpets at a distance. 
 From whence these sounds? 
 
 Enter an OFFICER. 
 
 Off. My lord, the trumpets of the troops of Lorn : 
 Their valiant leader hails the noble Randolph. 
 
 Ran. Mine ancient guest! does he the warriors lead? 
 Has Denmark roused the brave old knight to arms? 
 
 Off. No; worn with warfare, he resigns the sword; 
 His eldest hope, the valiant John of Lorn, 
 Now leads his kindred bands. 
 
 Ran. Glenalvon, go. 
 With hospitality's most strong request 
 Entreat the chief. [Exit GLENALVON. 
 
 Off. My lord, requests are vain. 
 He urges on, impatient of delay, 
 Stung with the tidings of the foe's approach. 
 
 Ran. May victory sit upon the warrior's plume ! 
 Bravest of men ; his flocks and herds are safe ; 
 Remote from war's alarms his pastures lie,
 
 192 JOHN HOME. 
 
 By mountains inaccessibly secured ; 
 Yet foremost he into the plain descends, 
 Eager to bleed in battles not his own. 
 Such were the heroes of the ancient world ; 
 Contemners they of indolence and gain ; 
 But still, for love of glory and of arms, 
 Prone to encounter peril, and to lift 
 Against each strong antagonist the spear. 
 I'll go and press the hero to my breast. 
 
 \Exit with OFFICER. 
 
 Lady. The soldier's loftiness, the pride and pomp 
 Investing awful war, Norval, I see 
 Transport thy youthful mind. 
 
 Noru. Ah, should they not? 
 Blest be the hour I left my father's house ! 
 I might have been a shepherd all my days, 
 And stole obscurely to a peasant's grave. 
 Now, if I live, with mighty chiefs I stand ; 
 And, if I fall, with noble dust I lie. 
 
 Lady. There is a generous spirit in thy breast 
 That could have well sustained a prouder fortune. 
 Since lucky chance has left us here alone, 
 Unseen, unheard, by human eye or ear, 
 I will amaze thee with a wondrous tale. 
 
 Norv. Let there be danger, lady, with the secret, 
 That I may hug it to my grateful heart, 
 And prove my faith. Command my sword, my life; 
 These are the sole possessions of poor Norval. 
 
 Lady. Know'st thou these gems? 
 
 Norv. Durst I believe mine eyes, 
 I'd say I knew them, and they were my father's.
 
 DOUGLAS. 193 
 
 Lady. Thy father's say'st thou ? ah ! they were thy 
 father's ! 
 
 Norv. I saw them once, and curiously inquired 
 Of both my parents, whence such splendour came. 
 But I was checked, and more could never learn. 
 
 Lady. Then learn of me, thou art not Norval's son. 
 
 Norv. Not Norval's son ! 
 
 Lady. Nor of a shepherd sprung. 
 
 Norv. Lady, who am I, then? 
 
 Lady. Noble thou art, 
 For noble was thy sire. 
 
 Non\ I will believe 
 
 Oh tell me further ! Say, who is my father ? 
 
 Lady. Douglas ! 
 
 Norv. Lord Douglas whom to-day I saw? 
 
 Lady. His younger brother. 
 
 Norv. And in yonder camp ? 
 
 Lady. Alas ! 
 
 Norv. You make me tremble Sighs and tears 
 Lives my brave father ? 
 
 Lady. Ah, too brave indeed ! 
 He fell in battle ere thyself was born. 
 
 Noni. Ah me, unhappy ere I saw the light ! 
 But does my mother live? I may conclude 
 From my own fate, her portion has been sorrow. 
 
 Lady. She lives, but wastes her life in constant woe, 
 Weeping her husband slain, her infant lost. 
 
 Norv. You that are skilled so well in the sad story 
 Of my unhappy parents, and with tears 
 Bewail their destiny, now have compassion 
 
 Upon the offspring of the friends you loved, 
 o vi
 
 194 JOHN HOME. 
 
 Oh ! tell me who and where my mother is ! 
 Oppressed by a base world, perhaps she bends 
 Beneath the weight of other ills than grief, 
 And, desolate, implores of heaven the aid 
 Her son should give. It is, it must be so : 
 Your countenance confesses that she's wretched. 
 Oh, tell me her condition ! Can the sword 
 Who shall resist me in a parent's cause? 
 
 Lady. Thy virtue ends her woe My son, my son! 
 
 Norv. Art thou my mother? 
 
 Lady. I am thy mother, and the wife of Douglas. 
 
 \Falls upon his neck. 
 
 Norv. O heaven and earth, how wondrous is my 
 
 fate! 
 Ever let me kneel ! 
 
 Lady. Image of Douglas ! fruit of fatal love ! 
 All that I owe thy sire I pay to thee. 
 
 Norv. Respect and admiration still possess me, 
 Checking the love and fondness of a son. 
 Yet I was filial to my humble parents. 
 But did my sire surpass the rest of men, 
 As thou excellest all of womankind? 
 
 Lady. Arise, my son. In me thou dost behold 
 The poor remains of beauty once admired. 
 The autumn of my days is come already, 
 For sorrow made my summer haste away ; 
 Yet in my prime I equalled not thy father. 
 His eyes were like the eagle's, yet sometimes 
 Liker the dove's; and, as he pleased, he won 
 All hearts with softness, or with spirit awed. 
 
 Norv. How did he fall? sure 'twas a bloody field
 
 DOUGLAS. 195 
 
 When Douglas died ! Oh, I have much to ask ! 
 
 Lady. Hereafter thou shalt hear the lengthen'd tale 
 Of all thy father's, and thy mother's woes. 
 At present this : thou art the rightful heir 
 Of yonder castle, and the wide domains, 
 Which now Lord Randolph, as my husband, holds. 
 But thou shalt not be wronged. I have the power 
 To right thee still. Before the king I'll kneel, 
 And call Lord Douglas to protect his blood. 
 
 Norv. The blood of Douglas will protect itself. 
 
 Lady. But we shall need both friends and favour, 
 
 boy, 
 
 To wrest thy lands and lordship from the gripe 
 Of Randolph and his kinsman. Yet I think 
 My tale will move each gentle heart to pity, 
 My life incline the virtuous to believe. 
 
 Noru. To be the son of Douglas is to me 
 Inheritance enough. Declare my birth, 
 And in the field I'll seek for fame and fortune. 
 
 Lady. Thou dost not know what perils and injustice 
 Await the poor man's valour. Oh, my son ! 
 The noblest blood in all the land's abashed, 
 Having no lackey but pale poverty. 
 Too long hast thou been thus attended, Douglas ; 
 Too long hast thou been deemed a peasant's child. 
 The wanton heir of some inglorious chief 
 Perhaps has scorned thee in thy youthful sports, 
 Whilst thy indignant spirit swelled in vain. 
 Such contumely thou no more shalt bear ; 
 But how I purpose to redress thy wrongs 
 Must be hereafter told. Prudence directs
 
 196 JOHN HOME. 
 
 That we should part before yon chiefs return. 
 
 Retire, and from thy rustic follower's hand 
 
 Receive a billet, which thy mother's care, 
 
 Anxious to see thee, dictated before 
 
 This casual opportunity arose 
 
 Of private conference. Its purport mark : 
 
 For, as I there appoint, we meet again. 
 
 Leave me, my son ; and frame thy manners still 
 
 To Norval's, not to noble Douglas' state. 
 
 Norv. I will remember. Where is Norval now, 
 That good old man? 
 
 Lady. At hand concealed he lies, 
 An useful witness. But beware, my son, 
 Of yon Glenalvon ; in his guilty breast 
 Resides a villain's shrewdness, ever prone 
 To false conjecture. He hath grieved my heart. 
 
 Norv. Has he indeed? Then let yon false Glenalvon 
 Beware of me. \_Exit. 
 
 Lady. There burst the smothered flame. 
 O thou all-righteous and eternal king ! 
 Who father of the fatherless art called, 
 Protect my son ! Thy inspiration, Lord ! 
 Hath filled his bosom with that sacred fire 
 Which in the breasts of his forefathers burned ; 
 Set him on high like them, that he may shine 
 The star and glory of his native land ! 
 Then let the minister of death descend, 
 And bear my willing spirit to its place. 
 Yonder they come. How do bad women find 
 Unchanging aspects to conceal their guilt, 
 When I, by reason and by justice urged,
 
 DOUGLAS. 197 
 
 Full hardly can dissemble with these men 
 In nature's pious cause? 
 
 Enter LORD RANDOLPH and GLENALVON. 
 
 Ran. Yon gallant chief, 
 Of arms enamoured, all repose disclaims. 
 
 Lady. Be not, my lord, by his example swayed. 
 Arrange the business of to-morrow now, 
 And when you enter speak of war no more. [Exit. 
 
 Ran. 'Tis so, by Heaven ! her mien, her voice, 
 
 her eye, 
 And her impatience to begone confirm it. 
 
 Glen. He parted from her now. Behind the mount, 
 Amongst the trees, I saw him glide along. 
 
 Ran, For sad sequestered virtue she's renowned. 
 
 Glen. Most true, my lord. 
 
 Ran. Yet this distinguished dame 
 Invites a youth, th' acquaintance of a day, 
 Alone to meet her at the midnight hour. 
 This assignation \_Skows a letter\ the assassin freed 
 Her manifest affection for the youth, 
 Might breed suspicions in a husband's brain, 
 Whose gentle consort all for love had wedded. 
 Much more in mine. Matilda never loved me. 
 Let no man after me a woman wed 
 Whose heart he knows he has not; though she brings 
 A mine of gold, a kingdom for her dowry. 
 For, let her seem like the night's shadowy queen, 
 ('old and contemplative he cannot trust her ; 
 She may, she will, bring shame and sorrow on him; 
 The worst of sorrow and the worst of shames.
 
 198 JOHN HOME. 
 
 Glen. Yield not, my lord, to such afflicting thoughts, 
 But let the spirit of a husband sleep 
 Till your own senses make a sure conclusion. 
 This billet must to blooming Norval go. 
 At the next turn awaits my trusty spy ; 
 I'll give it him refitted for his master. 
 In the close thicket take your secret stand; 
 The moon shines bright, and your own eyes may 
 
 judge 
 Of their behaviour. 
 
 Ran. Thou dost counsel well. 
 
 Glen. Permit me now to make one slight essay. 
 Of all the trophies which vain mortals boast, 
 By wit, by valour, or by wisdom won, 
 The first and fairest in a young man's eye 
 Is woman's captive heart. Successful love 
 With glorious fumes intoxicates the mind, 
 And the proud conqueror in triumph moves, 
 Air borne, exalted above vulgar men. 
 
 Ran. And what avails this maxim ? 
 
 Glen. Much, my lord ! 
 
 Withdraw a little : I'll accost young Norval, 
 And with ironical derisive counsel 
 Explore his spirit. If he is no more 
 Than humble Norval, by thy favour raised, 
 Brave as he is, he'll shrink astonished from me \ 
 But if he be the favourite of the fair, 
 Loved by the first of Caledonia's dames, 
 He'll turn upon me, as the lion turns 
 Upon the hunter's spear. 
 
 Ran. Tis shrewdly thought.
 
 DOUGLAS. 199 
 
 Glen. When we grow loud, draw near. But let 
 
 my lord 
 His rising wrath restrain. 
 
 [Exit LORD RANDOLPH. 
 Tis strange, by heaven ! 
 That she should run full tilt her fond career 
 To one so little known. She, too, that seemed 
 Pure as the winter stream, when ice, embossed, 
 Whitens its course. Even I did think her chaste, 
 Whose charity exceeds not. Precious sex, 
 Whose deeds lascivious pass Glenalvon's thoughts ! 
 
 Enter NORVAL. 
 
 His port I love : he's in a proper mood 
 
 To chide the thunder, if at him it roared. [Aside. 
 
 Has Norval seen the troops ? 
 
 Norv. The setting sun 
 
 With yellow radiance lightened all the vale, 
 And as the warriors moved, each polished helm, 
 Corslet, or spear, glanced back his gilded beams. 
 The hill they climbed, and, halting at its top, 
 Of more than mortal size, towering, they seemed 
 An host angelic, clad in burning arms. 
 
 Glen. Thou talk'st it well ; no leader of our host 
 In sounds more lofty speaks of glorious war. 
 
 Norv. If I shall e'er acquire a leader's name, 
 My speech will be less ardent. Novelty 
 Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration 
 Vents itself freely ; since no part is mine 
 Of praise pertaining to the great in arms.
 
 2co JOHN HOME. 
 
 Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial 
 
 deeds 
 Have ranked you with the great. But mark me, 
 
 Norval ; 
 
 Lord Randolph's favour now exalts your youth, 
 Above his veterans of famous service ; 
 Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. 
 Give them all honour : seem not to command ; 
 Else they will scarcely brook your late-sprung power, 
 Which nor alliance props, nor birth adorns. 
 
 Norv. Sir, I have been accustomed all my days 
 To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ; 
 And though I have been told that there are men 
 Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, 
 Yet in such language I am little skilled : 
 Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, 
 Although it sounded harshly. Why remind 
 Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power 
 With such contemptuous terms? 
 
 Glen. I did not mean 
 To gall your pride, which now I see is great. 
 
 Norv. My pride ! 
 
 Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper. 
 Your pride's excessive. Yet, for Randolph's sake, 
 I will not leave you to its rash direction. 
 If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men, 
 Think you, will they endure a shepherd's scorn ? 
 
 Norv. A, shepherd's scorn ! 
 
 Glen. Yes ; if you presume 
 To bend on soldiers these disdainful eyes, 
 As if you took the measure of their minds,
 
 DOUGLAS. 201 
 
 And said in secret, You're no match for me, 
 What will become of you? 
 
 Norv. If this were told ! - [A side. 
 
 Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self? 
 
 Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me ? 
 
 Norv. Didst thou not hear? 
 
 Glen. Unwillingly I did ; a nobler foe 
 Had not been questioned thus; but such as thee 
 
 Norv. Whom dost thou think me? 
 
 Glen. Norval. 
 
 Norv. So I am - 
 And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes ? 
 
 Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy ; 
 At best no more ; even if he speaks the truth. 
 
 Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my 
 truth ? 
 
 Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie; and false as hell 
 Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph. 
 
 Norv. If I were chained, unarmed, and bed-rid old, 
 Perhaps I should revile; but as I am, 
 I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval 
 Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. 
 Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour, 
 And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, 
 I'd tell thee what thou art. I know thee well. 
 
 Glen. Dost thou not know Glenalvon, born to 
 
 command 
 Ten thousand slaves like thee 
 
 Norv. Villain, no more ! [Draws. 
 
 Draw and defend thy life. I did design 
 To have defied thee in another cause ;
 
 202 JOHN HOME. 
 
 But Heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. 
 Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs. 
 
 Enter LORD RANDOLPH. 
 
 Ran. Hold, I command you both. The man that 
 
 stirs 
 Makes me his foe. 
 
 Norv. Another voice than thine, 
 That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. 
 Glen. Hear him, my lord ; he's wondrous con- 
 descending ! 
 
 Mark the humility of shepherd Norval ! 
 Norv. Now you may scoff in safety. 
 
 \Sheathes his sword. 
 Ran. Speak not thus, 
 
 Taunting each other ; but unfold to me 
 
 The cause of quarrel : then I judge betwixt you. 
 
 Non>. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you 
 
 much, 
 
 My cause I plead not, nor demand your judgment. 
 I blush to speak I will not, cannot speak 
 Th' opprobrious words that I from him have borne. 
 To the liege lord of my dear native land 
 I owe a subject's homage ; but even him 
 And his high arbitration I'd reject. 
 Within my bosom reigns another lord 
 Honour, sole judge, and umpire of itself. 
 If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph, 
 Revoke your favours, and let Norval go 
 Hence as he came, alone, but not dishonoured. 
 
 Ran. Thus far I'll mediate with impartial voice :
 
 DOUGLAS. 203 
 
 The ancient foe of Caledonia's land 
 
 Now waves his banners o'er her frighted fields ; 
 
 Suspend your purpose till your country's arms 
 
 Repel the bold invader; then decide 
 
 The private quarrel. 
 
 Glen. I agree to this. 
 
 Norv. And I. 
 
 Enter SERVANT. 
 
 Serv. The banquet waits. 
 
 Ran. We come. {Exit with SERVANT. 
 
 Glen. Norval, 
 
 Let not our variance mar the social hour, 
 Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph. 
 Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate, 
 Shall stain my countenance Smooth thou thy brow; 
 Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame. 
 
 Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment; 
 When we contend again, our strife is mortal. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 204 JEAN ELLIOT. 
 
 JEAN ELLIOT. 
 
 1727-1805. 
 
 One of the old Scots ladies of good family, whose presence 
 was a typical feature of society in Edinburgh during the last 
 twenty years of the eighteenth century, was Miss Jean Elliot. 
 Her residence was in Brown Square, then the fashionable 
 quarter. There she kept up some state, being remarked, among 
 greater things, for the fact that she kept her own sedan-chair. 
 She was the only lady in Edinburgh who did so. Riddels Carr, 
 in his Border Memories, describes her, perhaps at a somewhat 
 earlier date, as possessing "a sensible face, and a slender, well- 
 shaped figure. In manner grave, and reserved to strangers, she 
 had high aristocratic notions which she took no pains to conceal." 
 The high breeding on which she prided herself was not, how- 
 ever, all in name. On at least one occasion she had proved 
 herself a woman of character and courage. During the Rebellion 
 of 1745 her father was one of the law officers of the Crown, and 
 when the Jacobite army came to Edinburgh a detachment was 
 sent to seize him. In this crisis it is recorded that she "received 
 and entertained the officers, and by her presence of mind and 
 composure averted the danger." 
 
 Third daughter of Sir (albert Elliot, second baronet of Minto 
 and one of the Lords of Session, the authoress of "The Flowers 
 o' the Forest " came of a poetic family, for her father and her 
 brother both wrote verse. The circumstances of the composition 
 of her famous and only song are well known. One evening, 
 alxnit the year 1756, she was riding home after nightfall in a 
 carriage with her brother Gilbert to Minto House. At dinner 
 some mention had been made of Flodden, and someone had 
 quoted the refrain of an old, forgotten lament on the subject, 
 "The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awa'. " This, her 
 brother suggested, would make a suitable subject for a song. 
 And there, leaning back in the carriage as it rolled along the 
 dark roads, she composed her ballad. The immediate subject 
 of the piece, of course, is the fall of the " Seventy of Selkirk " 
 with James IV. on Flodden Field. The first and last lines, as 
 well as the beautiful, pathetic air to which it is sung, are ancient. 
 The rest is Miss Jean Elliot's composition. When it first
 
 THE F LOWERS O' THE FOREST. 205 
 
 appeared, the entire composition was supposed to he antique, 
 and some confusion was introduced into the question by Herd, 
 who included Miss Elliot's, along with Mrs. Cocklmrn's stanzas 
 with the same title, in a long, single ballad. This, however, is 
 of obviously modern make-up. 
 
 Miss Jean Elliot was born at Minto House, in Teviotdale, and 
 died at Mount Teviot, Roxburghshire, then the residence of her 
 brother, Admiral Elliot. 
 
 THE FLOWERS O' THE FOREST. 
 
 I'VE heard them lilting at the ewe-milking, 
 
 Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day ; 
 But now there is moaning in ilka green loaning 1 ; ' Iane - 
 
 The flowers o' the forest are a' wede away 2 . - weeded away. 
 
 At buchts3 in the morning nae blythe lads are 3 sheepfoids. 
 
 SCOming 4 ; 4 rallying. 
 
 Lasses are lanely and dowie and wae ; 
 Nae daffin', nae gabbin' 5 , but sighing and sabbing ; s NO joking, no 
 
 chatting. 
 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglin 6 and hies her away. 6 milk-pail. 
 
 In hairst 7 at the shearing 8 nae youths now are jeering ; I harvest. 
 
 ' reaping. 
 
 Bandsters? are runkled and lyart 10 and grey; 9 sheaf-binders. 
 
 10 wrinkled and 
 
 At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae fleeching 11 ; turning grey. 
 The flowers o' the forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At e'en in the gloaming nae younkers are roaming 
 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; 
 But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie 
 
 The flowers o' the forest are a' wede away.
 
 206 JEAN ELLIOT. 
 
 Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the 
 Border ! 
 
 The English for ance by guile wan the day ; 
 The flowers o' the forest, that fought 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 in ilka green loaning 
 The flowers o' the forest are a' wede away.
 
 JOHN LA PR A IK. 207 
 
 JOHN LAPRAIK. 
 
 1727-1807. 
 
 When Johnson was publishing his Scots Musical Museum, one 
 of the songs sent to him by Burns was "When I upon thy bosom 
 lean." The poet had heard it sung at a country " rockin'," and 
 he was so struck with its merits that he forthwith opened a 
 poetic correspondence with its author. To this correspondence, 
 and to the one fine song, is owed the memory of John Lapraik. 
 
 An account of Lapraik's life is given in Ayrshire Contempo- 
 raries of Burns. For several generations his forbears had 
 owned the lands of Dalfram, in the neighbourhood of Muir- 
 kirk, and for the first forty years of his life Lapraik himself 
 enjoyed their possession. The failure, however, of "that 
 villanous bubble, the Ayr Bank," involved him, with many 
 others of the landholders of Ayrshire, in ruin. In turn he tried 
 milling and farming, without success ; and in his last days he 
 supported himself and his family by keeping a small public- 
 house and the village post office in Muirkirk. In 1785, when 
 Burns knew him, he had sold his estate, and was the miller at 
 Muirsmill ; and no doubt fully deserved the description of 
 " bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts," bestowed on him by his 
 illustrious contemporary. 
 
 It was while imprisoned for debt in Ayr gaol, a few years 
 previously, that Lapraik composed his fine lyric. In 1788, 
 inspired by the example and success of Burns, he gathered 
 together and published, at Kilmarnock, a collection of his 
 pieces, including this song among others. In the volume it 
 wears an English dress, and moves somewhat more stiffly than 
 the Museum version, but whether the finer touches of the latter 
 are due to Burns, or to Lapraik himself, or to the improvements 
 of oral transmission, it is impossible to say. As it stands in the 
 Museum it remains one of the few finest lyrics of wedded happi- 
 ness in the language.
 
 208 JOHN LAPRA1K. 
 
 WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM 
 LEAN. 
 
 WHEN I upon thy bosom lean, 
 
 And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, 
 I glory in the sacred ties 
 
 That made us ane, wha ance were twain. 
 A mutual flame inspires us baith 
 
 The tender look, the melting kiss ; 
 Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, 
 
 But only gi'e us change o' bliss. 
 
 Ha'e I a wish? it's a' for thee, 
 
 I ken thy wish is me to please ; 
 Our moments pass sae smooth away 
 
 That numbers on us look and gaze. 
 Weel pleased, they see our happy days, 
 
 Nor envy's seP finds aught to blame ; 
 And aye when weary cares arise, 
 
 Thy bosom still shall be my hame. 
 
 I'll lay me there and tak' my rest ; 
 
 And if that aught disturb my dear, 
 I'll bid her laugh her cares away, 
 
 And beg her not to drap a tear. 
 Ha'e I a joy? its a' her ain. 
 
 United still her heart and mine ; 
 They're like the woodbine round the tree, 
 
 That's twined till death shall them disjoin.
 
 WILLIAM FALCONER. 209 
 
 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 1730-1769. 
 
 The first and greatest of British marine poets was the son of 
 an Edinburgh barber (he was born in the Netherbow), and his 
 life presents a series of slow triumphs over adverse fortune alter- 
 nating with reverses ruinous and disheartening. His experience, 
 in fact, was again and again that of the vessel he has described 
 in his finest poem a voyage slowly advancing to a certain point 
 of prosperity, and then suddenly dissolving in wreck and disaster. 
 
 It was against Falconer's own desire that, as a lad, he entered 
 upon the sailor's life. He made his way in it, however, to the 
 position of second mate, and would shortly have earned further 
 promotion, when the vessel on which he sailed, the "Britannia," 
 merchantman, trading between Alexandria and Venice, was 
 wrecked off Cape Colonna. Of all on board, he and other two 
 alone escaped with their lives. This occurrence, which happened 
 about the year 1749, furnished the material for his poem. 
 
 "The Shipwreck was published in 1762, and at once brought 
 its author into note, not only receiving great praise from the 
 critics, but becoming immediately popular. The Duke of York, 
 to whom it was dedicated, took an interest in the poet, and pro- 
 cured him a rating as midshipman on board the "Royal George," 
 flag-ship of Sir Edward Hawke. When, a little later, the "Royal 
 George " went out of commission, Falconer received the appoint- 
 ment of purser of the "Glory" frigate. This vessel was then 
 lying up at Sheerness, but the captain's cabin was fitted up for 
 him, and there he lived and wrought, producing a " Universal 
 Dictionary of the Marine," which was for long quoted as an 
 authority. Relying on his prospects of employment, he also 
 married. His bride was Miss Hicks, the beautiful daughter of 
 the surgeon of Sheerness Yard ; and it is recorded that she made 
 him an excellent wife. 
 
 Presently, however, his good fortune failed him ; he was in 
 London, reduced to live in an obscure garret. His last glimpse 
 of prosperity came in 1769. The "Aurora" frigate was going to 
 India with a special Commission, and Falconer was appointed 
 purser to the vessel, with a prospect of becoming secretary to the 
 Commissioners. Full of hope in the future which seemed to be 
 opening before him, he sailed from England. The "Aurora" 
 reached the Cape in safety, and proceeded upon the final stage of 
 her voyage. But she never reached her destination. From the 
 hour when she left the Cape to the present day nothing has ever 
 P VI
 
 210 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 been heard either of the vessel or of those on board. So, appro- 
 priately, if pathetically enough, the sailor-poet, whose chief work 
 was of shipwreck, perished himself upon the sea. 
 
 Besides "The Shipwreck," Falconer wrote several other 
 shorter poems, including a political satire, "The Demagogue," 
 directed against Pitt, none of which is now perhaps of much 
 account. "The Shipwreck" itself, to which the poet made 
 large additions in 1764, remains a somewhat unequal perform- 
 ance in three cantos. Much of it follows the conventional strain 
 of the school of Pope, and it is only where the author writes 
 directly out of his own knowledge and experience that the 
 merit, the vigour, interest, and originality of his work appear. 
 Falconer's "Shipwreck," it will be remembered, furnished Byron 
 with material for the storm scene in " Don Juan." 
 
 The best editions of Falconer's poems are those of the Chiswick 
 Press and the more recent Aldine Poets. 
 
 THE SMILING PLAINS. 
 
 THE smiling plains, profusely gay, 
 
 Are dressed in all the pride of May ; 
 
 The birds on every spray above 
 
 To rapture wake the vocal grove. 
 
 But ah ! Miranda, without thee, 
 
 Nor spring nor summer smiles on me ; 
 
 All lonely in the secret shade, 
 
 I mourn thy absence, charming maid ! 
 
 O soft as love ! as honour fair ! 
 Serenely sweet as vernal air ! 
 Come to my arms ; for you alone 
 Can all my absence past atone. 
 O come ! and to my bleeding heart 
 The sovereign balm of love impart: 
 Thy presence lasting joy shall bring 
 And give the year eternal spring.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 [Canto I. describes the arrival of the ship at Candia. Her 
 officers are Albert the captain, Roclmond the first mate, Arion 
 the second mate, and Palemon the purser and son of the owner, 
 who has been sent to sea to cure him of a passion for the 
 daughter of Albert. His love-story is recounted to Arion ; a 
 social scene in the forecastle is described, and the vessel sails. 
 Canto II. describes with much technique the various operations 
 of shortening sail as the storm rises, and the labour of the ship in 
 the heavy seas. The cannon are at last thrown overboard, the 
 mizzen-mast is cut away, and the vessel is resigned to scud under 
 bare poles up the Gulf of Corinth.] 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 WHEN in a barbarous age, with blood defiled, 
 The human savage roamed the gloomy wild, 
 When sullen Ignorance her flag displayed, 
 And rapine and revenge her voice obeyed, 
 Sent from the shores of light, the Muses came, 
 The dark and solitary race to tame. 
 Twas theirs the lawless passion to control, 
 And melt in tender sympathy the soul, 
 The heart from vice and error to reclaim, 
 And breathe in human breasts celestial flame. 
 The kindling spirit caught th' empyreal ray, 
 And glowed congenial with the swelling lay.
 
 212 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 Roused from the chaos of primeval night, 
 
 At once fair truth and reason sprung to light. 
 
 When great Maeonides, in rapid song, 
 
 The thundering tide of battle rolls along, 
 
 Each ravished bosom feels the high alarms, 
 
 And all the burning pulses beat to arms. 
 
 From earth upborne, on Pegasean wings, 
 
 Far through the boundless realms of thought he 
 
 springs ; 
 
 While distant poets, trembling as they view 
 His sunward flight, the dazzling track pursue. 
 But when his strings, with mournful magic, tell 
 What dire distress Laertes' son befel, 
 The strains, meand'ring through the maze of woe, 
 Bid sacred sympathy the heart o'erflow. 
 Thus in old time, the Muses' heavenly breath 
 With vital force dissolved the chains of death ; 
 Each bard in epic lays began to sing, 
 Taught by the master of the vocal string. 
 'Tis mine, alas ! through dangerous scenes to stray, 
 Far from the light of his unerring ray. 
 While, all unused the wayward path to tread, 
 Darkling I wander with prophetic dread, 
 To me in vain the bold Mneonian lyre 
 Awakes the numbers, fraught with living fire. 
 Full oft, indeed, that mournful harp of yore 
 Wept the sad wanderer lost upon the shore ; 
 But o'er that scene th' impatient numbers ran, 
 Subservient only to a nobler plan. 
 'Tis mine, the unravelled prospect to display, 
 And chain the events in regular array ;
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 213 
 
 Though hard the task, to sing in varied strains, 
 While all unchanged the tragic theme remains. 
 Thrice happy ! might the secret powers of art 
 Unlock the latent windings of the heart ; 
 Might the sad numbers draw compassion's tear 
 For kindred miseries, oft beheld too near ; 
 For kindred wretches, oft in ruin cast 
 On Albion's strand, beneath the wintry blast; 
 For all the pangs, the complicated woe, 
 Her bravest sons, her faithful sailors know. 
 So pity, gushing o'er each British breast, 
 Might sympathise with Britain's sons distrest. 
 For this, my theme through mazes I pursue, 
 Which nor Maeonides nor Maro knew. 
 
 Awhile the mast, in ruins dragged behind, 
 Balanced th' impression of the helm and wind. 
 The wounded serpent agonized with pain, 
 Thus trails his mangled volume on the plain. 
 But now, the wreck dissevered from the rear, 
 The long reluctant prow began to veer ; 
 And while around before the wind it falls, 
 "Square all the yards!" th' attentive master calls. 
 " You timoneers, her motion still attend ! 
 For on your steerage all our lives depend. 
 So, steady ! meet her, watch the blast behind, 
 And steer her right before the seas and wind !" 
 "Starboard, again!" the watchful pilot cries; 
 "Starboard!" th' obedient timoneer replies; 
 Then to the left the ruling helm returns ; 
 The wheel revolves ; the ringing axle burns ; 
 The ship, no longer foundering by the lee,
 
 214 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 Bears on her side th' invasions of the sea. 
 All lonely o'er the desert waste she flies, 
 Scourged on by surges, storm, and bursting skies. 
 As when the masters of the lance assail, 
 In hyperborean seas, the slumbering whale ; 
 Soon as the javelins pierce his scaly hide, 
 With anguish stung, he cleaves the downward tide. 
 In vain he flies ; no friendly respite found, 
 His life-blood gushes through th' enflaming wound. 
 The wounded bark, thus smarting with her pain, 
 Scuds from pursuing waves across the main ; 
 While, dashed apart by her dividing prow, 
 Like burning adamant the waters glow. 
 Her joints forget their firm elastic tone, 
 Her long keel trembles, and her timbers groan. 
 Upheaved behind her, in tremendous height, 
 The billows frown, with fearful radiance bright. 
 Now shivering, o'er the topmast wave she rides, 
 While, deep beneath, th' enormous gulf divides. 
 Now, launching headlong down the horrid vale, 
 She hears no more the roaring of the gale; 
 Till up the dreadful height again she flies, 
 Trembling beneath the current of the skies. 
 As that rebellious angel who, from Heaven, 
 To regions of eternal pain was driven ; 
 When dreadless he forsook the Stygian shore, 
 The distant realms of Eden to explore ; 
 Here, on sulphureous clouds sublime upheaved, 
 With daring wing th' infernal air he cleaved ; 
 There, in some hideous gulf descending prone, 
 Far in the rayless void of night was thrown.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 215 
 
 Even so she scales the briny mountain's height, 
 
 Then down the black abyss precipitates her flight. 
 
 The masts, around whose tops the whirlwinds sing, 
 
 With long vibration round her axle swing. 
 
 To guide the wayward course amid the gloom, 
 
 The watchful pilots different posts assume. 
 
 Albert and Rodmond, stationed on the rear, 
 
 With warning voice direct each timoneer : 
 
 High on the prow the guard Arion keeps, 
 
 To shun the cruisers wandering o'er the deeps : 
 
 Where'er he moves, Palemon still attends, 
 
 As if on him his only hope depends : 
 
 While Rodmond, fearful of some neighb'ring shore, 
 
 Cries, ever and anon, "Look out afore!" 
 
 Four hours thus scudding on the tide she flew, 
 When Falconera's rocky height they view. 
 High o'er its summit, through the gloom of night, 
 The glimmering watch-tower casts a mournful light. 
 In dire amazement riveted they stand, 
 And hear the breakers lash the rugged strand. 
 But soon beyond this shore the vessel flies, 
 Swift as the rapid eagle cleaves the skies. 
 So, from the fangs of her insatiate foe, 
 O'er the broad champaign scuds the trembling roe. 
 That danger past, reflects a feeble joy ; 
 But soon returning fears their hope destroy. 
 Thus, in th' Atlantic, oft the sailor eyes, 
 While melting in the reign of softer skies, 
 Some alp of ice, from polar regions blown, 
 Hail the glad influence of a warmer /one. 
 Its frozen cliffs attempered gales supply ;
 
 216 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 In cooling stream th' aerial billows fly; 
 Awhile delivered from the scorching heat, 
 In gentler tides the feverish pulses beat. 
 
 So, when their trembling vessel passed this isle, 
 Such visionary joys the crew beguile ; 
 Th' illusive meteors of a lifeless fire, 
 Too soon they kindle, and too soon expire. 
 
 [The action of the poem is here suspended in order to describe 
 the classic associations of the region in which the poet finds him- 
 self. The narrative is resumed as the vessel drives past the cliffs 
 of St. George towards the headland of Colonna.] 
 
 But now Athenian mountains they descry, 
 And o'er the surge Colonna frowns on high. 
 Beside the cape's projecting verge are placed 
 A range of columns, long by time defaced, 
 First planted by devotion to sustain, 
 In elder times, Tritonia's sacred fane. 
 Foams the wild beach below, with madd'ning rage, 
 Where waves and rocks a dreadful combat wage. 
 The sickly heaven, fermenting with its freight, 
 Still vomits o'er the main the feverish weight. 
 And now, while winged with ruin from on high, 
 Through the rent cloud the ragged lightnings fly, 
 A flash, quick-glancing on the nerves of light, 
 Struck the pale helmsman with eternal night. 
 Rodmond, who heard a piteous groan behind, 
 Touched with compassion, gazed upon the blind ; 
 And, while around his sad companions crowd, 
 He guides th' unhappy victim to the shroud. 
 " Hie thee aloft, my gallant friend ! " he cries ; 
 "Thy only succour on the mast relies."
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 217 
 
 The helm, bereft of half its vital force, 
 Now scarce subdued the wild unbridled course. 
 Quick to th' abandoned wheel Arion came, 
 The ship's tempestuous sallies to reclaim. 
 Ama/ed he saw her, o'er the sounding foam 
 Upborne, to right and left distracted roam. 
 So gazed young Phaeton, with pale dismay, 
 When, mounted in the flaming car of day, 
 With rash and impious hand, the stripling tried 
 Th' immortal courses of the sun to guide. 
 The vessel, while the dread event draws nigh, 
 Seems more impatient o'er the waves to fly. 
 Fate spurs her on. Thus, issuing from afar, 
 Advances to the sun some blazing star ; 
 And, as it feels th' attraction's kindling force, 
 Springs onward with accelerated course. 
 
 With mournful look the seamen eyed the strand, 
 Where death's inexorable jaws expand. 
 Swift from their minds elapsed all dangers past, 
 As, dumb with terror, they beheld the last. 
 Now, on the trembling shrouds, before, behind, 
 In mute suspense they mount into the wind. 
 The genius of the deep on rapid wing 
 The black eventful moment seemed to bring ; 
 The fatal sisters on the surge before, 
 Yoked their infernal horses to the prore. 
 The steersmen now received their last command, 
 To wheel the vessel sidelong to the strand. 
 Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend, 
 High on the platform of the top ascend. 
 Fatal retreat ! for while the plunging prow
 
 2i8 WILLIAM FALCONEK. 
 
 Immerges headlong in the wave below, 
 Down-prest by watery weight the bowsprit bends, 
 And from above the stem deep-crashing rends. 
 Beneath her beak the floating ruins lie; 
 The foremast totters, unsustained on high; 
 And now the ship, fore-lifted by the sea, 
 Hurls the tall fabric backward o'er the lee; 
 While, in the general wreck, the faithful stay 
 Drags the main-topmast from its post away. 
 Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain 
 Through hostile floods their vessel to regain. 
 The waves they buffet till, bereft of strength, 
 O'erpowered they yield to cruel fate at length. 
 The hostile waters close around their head, 
 They sink for ever, numbered with the dead. 
 Those who remain their fearful doom await, 
 Nor longer mourn their lost companions' fate. 
 The heart that bleeds with sorrows all its own, 
 Forgets the pangs of friendship to bemoan. 
 Albert and Rodmond and Palemon here, 
 With young Arion, on the mast appear. 
 Even they, amid the unspeakable distress, 
 In every look distracting thoughts confess ; 
 In every vein the refluent blood congeals ; 
 And every bosom fatal terror feels. 
 Inclosed with all the demons of the main, 
 They viewed th' adjacent shore, but viewed in vain. 
 Such torments in the dread abodes of hell, 
 Where sad despair laments with rueful yell 
 Such torments agonize the damned breast, 
 While fancy views the mansion of the blest.
 
 THE SH/PWA'ECA'. 219 
 
 For Heaven's sweet help their suppliant cries implore; 
 But Heaven relentless deigns to help no more. 
 
 And now, lashed on by destiny severe, 
 With horror fraught, the dreadful scene drew near. 
 The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, 
 Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath. 
 In vain, alas ! the sacred shades of yore 
 Would arm the mind with philosophic lore ; 
 In vain they'd teach us, at the latest breath, 
 To smile serene amid the pangs of death. 
 Even Zeno's self, and Epictetus old, 
 This fell abyss had shuddered to behold. 
 Had Socrates, for godlike virtue famed, 
 And wisest of the sons of men proclaimed, 
 Beheld this scene of frenzy and distress, 
 His soul had trembled to its last recess. 
 O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above, 
 This last tremendous shock of fate to prove ! 
 The tottering frame of reason yet sustain ; 
 Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain ! 
 
 In vain the cords and axes were prepared, 
 For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 
 High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, 
 And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. 
 Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 
 Her shattered top half buried in the skies, 
 Then, headlong plunging, thunders on the ground, 
 Earth groans, air trembles, and the deeps resound. 
 Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
 And quivering with the v.-ound, in torment reels. 
 So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
 
 220 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 The bleeding bull beneath the murd'rer's blows. 
 Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock 
 Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock. 
 Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, 
 The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes 
 In wild despair; while yet another stroke 
 With deep convulsion rends the solid oak ; 
 Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
 The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
 At length asunder torn, her frame divides, 
 And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 
 
 O were it mine with tuneful Maro's art 
 To wake to sympathy the feeling heart, 
 Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress 
 In all the pomp of exquisite distress; 
 Then too severely taught by cruel fate, 
 To share in all the perils I relate 
 Then might I, with unrivalled strains, deplore 
 Th' impervious horrors of a leeward shore. 
 
 As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung, 
 Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung. 
 Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, 
 And there by oozy tangles grappled fast, 
 Awhile they bore th' o'erwhelming billows rage, 
 Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; 
 Till all benumbed and feeble they forego 
 Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below. 
 Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown 
 On marble ridges die without a groan. 
 Three, with Palemon, on their skill depend, 
 And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 22 r 
 
 Now on the mountain-wave on high they ride, 
 Then downward plunge beneath th' involving tide ; 
 Till one, who seems in agony to strive, 
 The whirling breakers heave on shore alive : 
 The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, 
 And pressed the stony beach a lifeless crew. 
 Next, O unhappy chief! th' eternal doom 
 Of Heaven decreed thee to the briny tomb. 
 What scenes of misery torment thy view ! 
 What painful struggles of thy dying crew ! 
 Thy perished hopes all buried in the flood, 
 O'erspread with corses ! red with human blood ! 
 So, pierced with anguish, hoary Priam gazed, 
 When Troy's imperial dome in ruin blazed ; 
 While he, severest sorrow doomed to feel, 
 Expired beneath the victor's murdering steel. 
 Thus with his helpless partners to the last, 
 Sad refuge ! Albert hugs the floating mast. 
 His soul could yet sustain this mortal blow, 
 But droops, alas, beneath superior woe; 
 For now soft nature's sympathetic chain 
 Tugs at his yearning heart with powerful strain. 
 His faithful wife for ever doomed to mourn 
 For him, alas ! who never shall return ; 
 To black adversity's approach exposed, 
 With want and hardships unforeseen enclosed ; 
 His lovely daughter left without a friend, 
 Her innocence to succour and defend ; 
 By youth and indigence set forth a prey 
 To lawless guilt, that flatters to betray. 
 While these reflections rack his feeling mind,
 
 222 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 Rodmond, who hung beside, his grasp resigned; 
 And, as the tumbling waters o'er him rolled, 
 His outstretched arms the master's legs infold. 
 Sad Albert feels the dissolution near, 
 And strives in vain his fettered limbs to clear; 
 For death bids every clinching joint adhere. 
 All faint, to Heaven he throws his dying eyes, 
 And, "O protect my wife and child," he cries. 
 The gushing streams roll back th' unfinished sound; 
 He grasps, he dies, and tumbles to the ground. 
 
 Five only left of all the perished throng, 
 Yet ride the pine which shoreward drives along ; 
 With these Arion still his hold secures, 
 And all th' assaults of hostile waves endures. 
 O'er the dire prospect as for life he strives, 
 He looks if poor Palemon yet survives. 
 " Ah, wherefore, trusting to unequal art, 
 Didst thou, incautious, from the wreck depart? 
 Alas ! these rocks all human skill defy, 
 Who strikes them once beyond relief must die ; 
 And now sore wounded thou perhaps art tost 
 On these, or in some oozy cavern lost." 
 Thus thought Arion, anxious gazing round : 
 In vain, his eyes no more Palemon found. 
 The demons of destruction hover nigh, 
 And thick their mortal shafts commissioned fly ; 
 And now a breaking surge, with forceful sway, 
 Two next Arion furious tears away. 
 Hurled on the crags, behold, they grasp, they bleed, 
 And groaning, cling upon th' illusive weed ; 
 Another billow bursts in boundless roar 
 Arion sinks, and memory views no more.
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 223 
 
 Ah, total night and horror here preside. 
 My stunned ear tingles to the whizzing tide. 
 It is the funeral knell ; and gliding near, 
 Methinks the phantoms of the dead appear. 
 
 But lo ! emerging from the watery grave, 
 Again they float incumbent on the wave ! 
 Again the dismal prospect opens round, 
 The wreck, the shores, the dying and the drowned. 
 And see, enfeebled by repeated shocks, 
 Those two who scramble on th' adjacent rocks, 
 Their faithless hold no longer can retain, 
 They sink o'erwhelmed, and never rise again. 
 
 Two, with Arion, yet the mast upbore, 
 That now above the ridges reached the shore. 
 Still trembling to descend, they downward gaze 
 With horror pale, and torpid with amaze. 
 The floods recoil, the ground appears below, 
 And life's faint embers now rekindling glow. 
 Awhile they wait th' exhausted waves retreat, 
 Then climb slow up the beach with hands and feet. 
 O Heaven, delivered by whose sovereign hand, 
 Still on the brink of hell they shuddering stand, 
 Receive the languid incense they bestow, 
 That, damp with death, appears not yet to glow. 
 To Thee each soul the warm oblation pays, 
 With trembling ardour of unequal praise. 
 In every heart dismay with wonder strives, 
 And hope the sickened spark of life revives. 
 Her magic powers their exiled health restore, 
 Till horror and despair are felt no more.
 
 224 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 1734-1788. 
 
 It is well for this victim of a piece of careless editing that his 
 fame does not all depend upon one poetic performance. The 
 writer of the disputed song of "The Sailor's Wife," better 
 known as "There's nae luck about the house," was also the 
 author, among other pieces, of the ballad of "Cumnor Hall," 
 which afforded the suggestion for ( Scott's "Kenilworth,"and was 
 the translator of the great Portuguese epic, Camoens' " Lusiad." 
 
 Born at Langholm, where his father was minister, Mickle 
 began life as a brewer. He was, however, unfortunate in busi- 
 ness, and to escape his creditors betook himself to London. 
 There for a time he subsisted chiefly on the patronage of Lord 
 Lyttleton ; but presently he became corrector for the Clarendon 
 Press, and acquitted himself in various fields as a man of letters 
 and a poet. It stands to his credit that, whenever he found 
 himself in the possession of means, he honourably paid all his 
 former debts. A little later, determining to make a bid for 
 fortune in a bolder way, he obtained the post of secretary to 
 the commander of a naval expedition sailing for the coast of 
 Portugal. The fame of his translation of the national poem had 
 preceded him, and he was received with much honour at Lisbon. 
 The fortune of war in a single year made him a man of sub- 
 stance. Enriched with prize-money, he returned home to marry 
 and settle in the enjoyment of domestic life in the neighbourhood 
 of Oxford. 
 
 Mickle's various poems possess no inconsiderable merit, his 
 feeling for scenery in particular having been remarked as true, 
 tender, and full. But the gem of them all, if, as there is every 
 reason to believe, it is his, remains "The Sailor's Wife." Burns 
 gave it as his opinion that this song was "one of the most 
 beautiful in the Scots or any other language." The piece began 
 to be hawked about the streets in broadsheets about the year 
 1771 or 1772, and it was printed in Herd's collection in 1776. 
 No one doubted Mickle's authorship of it till the year 1810, 
 when the careless Cromek, in his Reliques of Robert Burns, gave 
 it out as the work of one Jean Adams, who had been a school- 
 mistress in Cartsdyke, Greenock. Cromek 's authority was Mrs. 
 Fullarton, a pupil of Jean Adams, who, with others, stated that
 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 225 
 
 she had heard the schoolmistress recite the song as her own 
 comjx)sition. Presently, however, Cromck changed his opinion 
 on learning from the Rev. John Sim, Mickle's biographer, that 
 a copy of "There's nae luck," in Mickle's handwriting, bearing 
 marks of correction as a first copy, had been found among the 
 poet's papers after his death, and that Mrs. Mickle distinctly 
 remembered her husband giving her the song as his own compo- 
 sition, and explaining to her, as she was an Englishwoman, the 
 Scots words which it contained. The point, nevertheless, has 
 been debated many times since. In particular it has been 
 pointed out that none of Mickle's other poems is in the Scots 
 dialect, that he was unfamiliar with the life of a port, and that 
 the song contains many touches which are peculiarly feminine. 
 It is also noted that "The Sailor's Wife" does not appear in any 
 edition of Mickle's poems printed during his lifetime. But it was 
 not printed, either, in Jean Adams' volume, which she published 
 in 1734. Mickle, moreover, as we have seen, led the life of a 
 sailor for over a year ; and he was familiar enough, as a native 
 of the Border, with the Scottish dialect. As for the feminine 
 touches, they would only have been set down as high points to 
 the credit of the poet's imagination had not Cromek's suggestion 
 given them another bearing. And the outrageous way in which 
 Cromek allowed himself, in his " Remains of Nithsdale and 
 Galloway Song," to be deceived by Allan Cunningham and 
 others, is enough for ever to discredit his literary acumen. The 
 point between Mickle and Jean Adams has been successively 
 discussed by Stenhouse in his " Illustrations of the Lyric Poetry 
 and Music of Scotland" (1820), in Ross's "Book of Scottish 
 Poems" (1884), by a writer in the Athenaum of Jan. 27, 1877, 
 and by Mr. Cuthbert Madden in the Scottish Review for April, 
 1895. All these writers sum up in favour of Mickle. The 
 opinion of Dr. Whitelaw, editor of Blackie's "Book of Scottish 
 Songs," is that Jean Adams may have written a song with some 
 such burden as the one in question, and that this was improved 
 on by Mickle to such an extent as to make it his own. 
 
 Jean Adams appears to have been a woman of enthusiasm and 
 energy. But she was unfortunate in life, and died in the town's 
 hospital of Glasgow in 1765. Mickle's poetical works were 
 edited with a "life" by the Rev. J. Sim in 1806. In the song 
 as frequently printed, a penultimate stanza beginning "The cauld 
 blasts " is said to have been interpolated by Dr. Beattie. 
 
 VI
 
 226 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 
 
 AND are ye sure the news is true? 
 
 And are ye sure he's weel? 
 Is this a time to talk o' wark? 
 
 Ye jades, lay by your wheel ! 
 Is this a time to talk o' wark, 
 
 When Colin's at the door? 
 (ii'e me my cloak I'll to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 
 For there's nae luck about the house, 
 
 There's nae luck ava', 
 There's little pleasure in the house, 
 
 When our gudeman's awa'. 
 
 Rise up and mak' a clean fireside, 
 
 Put on the meikle pat : 
 Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, 
 
 And Jock his Sunday's coat.
 
 THE SAILOR'S W/FE. 227 
 
 And male' their shoon as black as slaes, 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw; 
 It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 
 
 He likes to see them braw. 
 
 There is twa hens upon the bauk ', upper rafter. 
 
 'S been 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 ; 
 It's a' for love of my gudeman, 
 
 For he's been lang awa'. 
 
 O gi'e me down my bigonets 2 , * linen cap-. 
 
 My bishop-satin gown ; 
 For I maun tell the baillie's wife 
 
 That Colin's come to town. 
 My Sunday shoon they maun gae on, 
 
 My hose o' pearl blue ; 
 It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 
 Sae true's his word, sae smooth's his speech, 
 
 His breath like caller air ; 
 His very fit has music in't 
 
 When 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 greet 3 ! 3 weep.
 
 228 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLH. 
 
 Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, 
 
 I ha'e nae mair to crave ; 
 Could I but live to mak' him blest, 
 
 I'm blest abune the lave. 
 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 greet !
 
 CUMNOR HALL 229 
 
 CUMNOR HALL. 
 
 THE dews of summer night did fall ; 
 
 The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
 Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
 
 And many an oak that grew thereby. 
 
 Now nought was heard beneath the skies 
 The sounds of busy life were still 
 
 Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 " Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love 
 That thou so oft has sworn to me, 
 
 To leave me in this lonely grove, 
 Immured in shameful privity ? 
 
 " No more thou com'st with lover's speed, 
 Thy once-beloved bride to see ; 
 
 But be she alive, or be she dead, 
 
 I fear, stern earl, 's the same to thee.
 
 230 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 "Not so the usage I received 
 When happy in my father's hall : 
 
 No faithless husband then me grieved ; 
 No chilling fears did me appall. 
 
 " I rose up with the cheerful morn, 
 
 No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; 
 
 And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
 So merrily sang the livelong day. 
 
 " If that my beauty is but small, 
 Among court ladies all despised; 
 
 Why didst thou rend it from that hall, 
 Where, scornful earl, it well was prized? 
 
 "And when you to me first made suit, 
 How fair I was you oft would say ! 
 
 And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, 
 Then left the blossom to decay. 
 
 "Yes, now neglected and despised, 
 The rose is pale, the lily's dead; 
 
 But he that once their charms so prized 
 Is, sure, the cause those charms are dead. 
 
 " For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, 
 And tender love's repaid with scorn, 
 
 The sweetest beauty will decay : 
 
 What floweret can endure the storm?
 
 CUMNOR HALL. % 231 
 
 "At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, 
 
 Where every lady's passing rare ; 
 That eastern flowers that shame the sun 
 
 Are not so glowing, not so fair. 
 
 "Then, earl, why didst thou leave the bed 
 Where roses and where lilies vie, 
 
 To seek a primrose, whose pale shade 
 Must sicken when those gauds are by? 
 
 '"Mong rural beauties I was one 
 Among the fields wild flowers are fair; 
 
 Some country swain might me have won, 
 And thought my beauty passing rare. 
 
 " But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, 
 Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 
 
 Rather ambition's gilded crown 
 
 Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 
 
 "Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
 
 The injured surely may repine 
 Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
 
 When some fair princess might be thine? 
 
 " Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
 And oh ! then leave them to decay ? 
 
 Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
 Then leave to mourn the livelong day?
 
 232 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 "The village maidens of the plain 
 Salute me lowly as they go ; 
 
 Envious they mark my silken train, 
 Nor think a countess can have woe. 
 
 "The simple nymphs, they little know 
 How far more happy's their estate 
 
 To smile for joy than sigh for woe 
 To be content than to be great. 
 
 "How far less blest am I than them 
 Daily to pine and waste with care ! 
 
 Like the poor plant that from its stem 
 Divided, feels the chilling air. 
 
 " Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy 
 The humble charms of solitude ! 
 
 Your minions proud my peace destroy 
 By sullen frowns or pratings rude. 
 
 " Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
 The village death-bell smote my ear : 
 
 They winked aside, and seemed to say 
 ' Countess, prepare, thy end is near ! ' 
 
 " And now, while happy peasants sleep, 
 Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 
 
 No one to sooth me as I weep, 
 Save Philomel on yonder thorn.
 
 CUMNOK HALL. 233 
 
 " My spirits flag, my hopes decay, 
 
 Still that dread death-bell smites my ear ; 
 
 And many a boding seems to say 
 
 ' Countess, prepare, thy end is near ! ' ' 
 
 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; 
 
 And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day appeared, 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 
 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 And many a cry of mortal fear. 
 
 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, 
 An aerial voice was heard to call, 
 
 And thrice the raven flapped its wing 
 Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The mastiff howled at village door, 
 The oaks were shattered on the green, 
 
 Woe was the hour, for nevermore 
 That hapless countess e'er was seen. 
 
 And in that manor now no more 
 Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; 
 
 Fo ever since that dreary hour 
 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 
 
 R VI
 
 234 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 The village maids, with fearful glance, 
 Avoid the ancient, moss-grown wall ; 
 
 Nor ever lead the merry dance 
 
 Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, 
 And pensive wept the countess' fall, 
 
 As, wandering onwards, they've espied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 William Hodge - (a., Printers,
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Book S)ip-35m-9,'62(D221884)4280
 
 UCLA-College Library 
 
 PR 8656 E988C v.1 
 
 L 005 752 713 7 
 
 Library 
 
 PR 
 8656 
 E98sc 
 v.l 
 
 , ,__ 
 
 A 001 299 475