(!|atnell HniQerattg ^library 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 1891 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR8691.R4H2 1872 
 
 The Harp of Renf rewshire:a collection of 
 
 3 1924 013 511 781 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013511781 
 

THE 
 
 HARP OP RENFREWSHIRE: 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 }0ttgj6 anti othtv poetical ll^itczz, 
 
 (MANY OF WHICH ARB ORIGINAL), 
 
 ACCOMPANIED WITH 
 
 NOTES, 
 
 EXPLANATORY, CRITICAL, AND BIOGRAPHICAL, 
 
 AND A SHORT ESSAY ON 
 
 THE POETS OF RENFREWSHIRE. 
 
 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1819. 
 
 Patgles: 
 ALEX. GAKDNEE. 
 
 GLASGOW, D. KOBBKTSON ; BDINB^TEGH, OHVEB & BOYD J 
 LONDON, LONGMANS, GREEN, & 00. 
 
 MDCOCLXXII. 
 
13ot qu^at Xtan&eve fjs oci)t to comjitle, aUau- 
 ^evam Vtfiv Hetvactomig in txxv^ jfUce, 
 ^vewnt'^a^vetiet^eio(th,'bitHii$Mvmt^et\x'ke', 
 §)um iene ^a (vaioavt in malice antt foansvaw, 
 <aui^at fo &)«I«isagii tf)ae lot'f not toorti) an« ace, 
 3Sot ca^tfg iitem eutr to sjig out fait anH cvuhe; 
 m t!)at tl^ag fgnti in i)Hrlrtnt0, f)ivne or nufee, 
 Sri^ag liIalD out, siaganti t'n eurg mannt'jei face, 
 ILo i^eve f)e fatljetss, lo $«rc i^c Ui^, luftc. 
 
 5u|)a KjSt sigt tioun antf mote, 
 
 91 ne 6ti)tr ^agarisi faWt'si to is^g anH note, 
 STI^an Sttt offence or fait tijame iSelf to fovgte ; 
 iSot for to cf)glre isum iiene &o fitrnanlr i)Ote, 
 ^alti t1^agtl)are 3pece,tl^e &)or&e ioalK iscalti ti)ave 
 
 tl^trote, 
 ainti i^asi iSt'c Ctt0ttttne to janst'l anH iiaci^figte, 
 STi^atliottl^ag sicl^entsiuttttl^ag 0uItrI)tv0tfor Sgte : 
 3£ ssag no wore qu'^en al tl^e rer&e t'ss rouns, 
 ®^5at &)tci)t won iSjpetfe,t1^at cannot SalirSt^ toung. 
 
 <^a&tn i9ouB;Ia!S. 
 
P H E F A C E. 
 
 X HE Editors and Publishers of the Harp of Re.nfrewsldre 
 now present their little volume to the public in its completed 
 state. In whole, it consists of two hundred and seventy-five 
 Pieces; seventy-four of which — no inconsiderable proportion — are 
 original: the remainder is supplied from poetical sources of 
 approved worth and celebrity. 
 
 There are many features of this miscellany, in regard to 
 which, a taste too nicely fastidious, not to use a harsher term, 
 may, it is believed, have ample scope and verge enough to 
 pick out faults withal. But they who read for the pure sake of 
 deriving pleasure, and not to gratify their spleen, or display their 
 critical acumen, will, it is hoped, be more indulgent towards its 
 imperfections, and more aptly disposed to recognise what slender 
 claims it may have on the score of merit. 
 
 Every work which issues from a provincial press, has to 
 struggle under numberless disadvantages, peculiar only to its 
 individual case, and to combat with many prejudices entirely 
 of a local origin. In general, its sale is circumscribed— its 
 defects more rigorously tasked — and its undoubted exceUenoies 
 too often looked upon with an evil eye. The author, the editor, 
 the publisher, or the printer, is our next door neighbour, and 
 
VI. 
 
 why he should think himself qualified to instruct, amuse, or 
 delight others as adequate for that office, if not more so than 
 himself, is a problem which neither our vanity nor self-conceited- 
 ness will ever permit to be satisfactorily solved. 
 
 Aware of these circumstances, and foreseeing the consequences 
 which they involve in their train, the Editors of this Publication 
 have exerted themselves not a little to counteract, if .they could 
 not altogether remove, their unfavourable tendencies. They can 
 safely state that, to the utmost of their scanty ability, and the 
 limited nature of their means, they have endeavoured to render 
 it sufficiently valuable in respect of its matter to secure it from 
 contempt; and sufficiently reputable in so far as their character 
 of Editors or Publisher was implicated, to shield it from the 
 petulant and puerile strictures 
 
 " Of the small critic with liis delicate pen." 
 
 No apology, they have deemed, is necessary for again tread- 
 ing a path which has right often been trodden before : nor for 
 selecting, in a variety of instances, those very blossoms of genius 
 and poesy which their predecessors in the same beaten highway 
 have previously culled. They conceive that a good song, like 
 a good story, may be twice told, without deterioration in any 
 degree from its interestingness and intrinsic merit. As a rose 
 loses nothing of its bloom, complexion and fragrance, though 
 enjoyed by our senses every day; in like manner, they can 
 fancy a good song will always be listened to with satisfaction, 
 however often heard, and yet after all, not 'bate one jot of its 
 worth by the frequency of repetition. But independent of this, 
 the Harp of Rmfrewsldre, they are proud to say, has higher 
 claims to notice, altogether distinct from those which a work 
 of mere selection can prefer. It is enwreathed with a fresh 
 garland of wild flowers belonging exclusively to itself — which 
 
YII. 
 
 grew under its auspices — aud which, but for it, might have 
 withered away, unnoticed, uncalled for, and unknown. These 
 will confer on it some portion of that value and importance 
 which a volume wholly consisting of original poetry possesses 
 in the eye of the Bibliographer, and of the genuine lover of 
 Song. 
 
 In justice to those who have written for the work, and to 
 such as have assisted them in the arrangement of materials 
 and other compilatory parts, the Editors now beg, once for all, 
 to acknowledge this assistance in a public and grateful manner. 
 With pleasure therefore, they mention the names of Mr John 
 Sim, late of Paisley, and of Mr Robert Allan of Kilbarchan, 
 as persons for whose numerous favours their warmest thanks 
 and lastmg gratitude are deservedly due. To those beneficent 
 but unknown friends, who have aided them in the course of 
 their editorship, they also return their every acknowledgement 
 which a full sense of their unlooked-for kindnesses can dic- 
 tate. To such of their townsmen as from motives of friend- 
 liness, or otherwise, favoured the undertaking, a like return of 
 thanks is due ; and the same is now made in downright sin- 
 cerity of heart. All these gentlemen wiU find their names in the 
 index affixed to their respective compositions; and if the world 
 appreciate them half so highly as we do, their authors will never 
 have occasion to lament its insensibility, or languish beneath its 
 neglect. 
 
 One other name will they notice in this preface, and but 
 one, namely, that of Mr E. A. Smith. To him in many ways 
 have they been deeply indebted in the course of this publication. 
 Several excellent hints and much miscellaneous information 
 have been supplied by him. And that gentleman's clear and 
 well defined notions of what are the true constituent and es- 
 sential parts of good song writing, and rythmical melody, have 
 often been, they candidly confess, of eminent service to them. 
 
VIII. 
 
 No classification of the materials has been attempted, as they 
 considered this would have been a disadvantage rather than 
 the contrary. A short essay on the poets of Eenfrewshire is 
 however subjoined. To this essay, a valuable appendix oou- 
 taining specimens of their poetry in a regular series down- 
 ward, with some other interesting matter, is now added. 
 
 The Harp of Renfrewshire is now consigned to its fate — 
 to sink or swim— to thrive or fail. In bidding it good bye, 
 they comfort themselves by repeating the old Greek distich, 
 thus Englished; 
 
 " Heart, take thine ease, men bard to please thou haply maist offend, 
 Thoug^h some speak ill of thee, some will say better ; thure's an end." 
 
ESSAY 
 
 ON 
 
 THE POETS OF RENFREWSHIRE. 
 
 Parva nunc civitas, sed gloria ingens ; veterisque famae late vestigia manent ! 
 
 Tacitus. 
 
 THE Poets of Renfrewshire have neither been few in respect 
 of numbers, nor contemptible in regard to merit. Although 
 none of them have ever risen far above mediocrity, yet their per- 
 formances have been such as to entitle their names to an honour- 
 able place amongst the minor bards of Scotland, and to preserve 
 them from the death of total oblivion. As yet nothing like 
 a compendious account, not even so much as a bare catalogue 
 of these Makers has been given, albeit the same is much wanted 
 to fill up some little chasms in the history as well of our anci- 
 ent, as our modem, stock of national biography aud literature. 
 This essay, hastily thrown together though it be, and notwith- 
 standing it pretends as little to give the former, as it does to 
 set aside completely the necessity of the latter, will, in some 
 measure, supply the deficiency complained of, until something 
 more perfect and abounding in minuter detail find its way to 
 the public. Nor will such a work be long desiderated ; for if 
 we may trust report, a gentleman whom we know to be tho- 
 roughly qualified for the task, has it at present in contemplation, 
 and, indeed, is considerably advanced in its progress. The full 
 assurance we have of that gentleman's literary talents, local 
 knowledge of this county, its history and antiquities — intimate 
 acquaintance with the vernacular poetry of Scotland, and other 
 qualifications requisite for such a work, had almost dissuaded 
 us from anticipating in any degree the track of enquiry he has 
 chosen. But as an undertaking of this nature must be the 
 result of time and laborious research, we imagine our desultory 
 
X. 
 
 remarks and scattered hints will neither supersede its utility 
 nor materially interfere with the range of its speculations, or 
 the classification and order .of its topics. 
 
 With regard to the older poets of this county, little can be 
 said, for the best of all possible reasons, because little is known. 
 It is likely that the monastery of Paisley had its metrical, as 
 well as, it is known, it had its prose chroniclers. However, if 
 there were any such, none of their legends are now extant, 
 unless the fragments printed in the appendix, (No. 1) sub- 
 joined to this essay, be considered as genuine. Admitting that 
 they are so, which we believe to be the fact, we wiU yet be 
 thrown into some perplexity, while attempting to ascertain two 
 points of vital consequence, viz. , The name or names of the au- 
 thor or authors, and the precise eera in which he or they flourish- 
 ed. These we now bequeath as two good marrow-bones for 
 the antiquary, to try the soiindness of his teeth and the good- 
 natured patience of his temper upon withal. 
 
 Prior to the reformation of religion we cannot carry our 
 enquiries far ; and even after that event, the dubious light which 
 history affords, is not of itself sufficient, without conjecture, to 
 eke out the meagre and scanty materials on which our narrative 
 must of necessity be raised. In the absence of positive proof, 
 we must therefore be contented with that species of evidence 
 which the nature of circumstances, and the partial and indistinct 
 glimmerings of legitimate history supply, however unsatisfactory, 
 hypothetical, or fruitful of controversy it may chance to be. 
 The human mind is so constituted, that in matters wherewith 
 it is interested, a plausible supposition will be gladly embraced, 
 and aU the weight and authority of a sterling truth conceded 
 at once, rather than it should remain longer in a state border- 
 ing on absolute ignorance, or be tormented for ever with vague 
 incertitude— ceaseless and inconclusive conjecture. 
 
 Of the late poets this Shire has produced enough in all con- 
 science has been written, but whether much to the purpose or 
 not, is a question easier propounded perhaps than conveniently 
 answered. 
 
 Those of what may be called the middle period, are scarcely 
 known at all, except by name and the inimitable pieces they 
 have bequeathed to a forgetful and ungrateful posterity. This 
 will be more obvious and more regretted, when we consider that 
 
XL 
 
 to them we owe Habbie Simpson's Elegy — The Blytliswm Bri- 
 dal — Sclio rase and loot me in — Maggy Lawder — Tweedside — 
 Therms nae Inch about the house, &o., &c., piecea of most sur- 
 passing excellence in their kind, and some of them the choicest 
 songs in our language. 
 
 As closely as possible to chronological order, we now pro- 
 ceed to give the names, and what little we know, of the poets of 
 Renfrewshire. 
 
 Sir Hugh Montgomerie of Eglinton is the first whom we 
 meet with in this enquiry. He was lineally descended from 
 the Montgomeries of Eagleshame, the parent stock of all that 
 name in Scotland, and is therefore justly entitled to be consi- 
 dered a native of the county. According to Crawford, it was 
 in the person of this Sir Hugh the first foundation was laid 
 of the many honours hia posterity have since enjoyed ; for in 
 the fourteenth year of the reign of King James the IV. he 
 was, by the favour of that monarch, created Earl of Eglinton, 
 A. D. 1503. In the continuation of Crawfurd's History by 
 Robertson, the date of his creation is stated to be in 1507. 
 None of his poems are extant : and were it not for the inciden- 
 tal mention of his name by William Dunbar, in the " Lament 
 for the Death of the Mahkaris," the fact of his being ■■• poet 
 would never have been known. That finest of all our Sootish 
 Poets, in the poem alluded to, thus catalogues him as well as 
 many more, whose works have met with the same fate. 
 
 The gude Scldr Hew of Eglintoun, 
 Etrik, Herlot, and Wintoun, 
 He hes tane out of this countrie, 
 Timor mortis conturbat me. 
 
 Of twenty-three poets mentioned by Dunbar — many of whom 
 were his contemporaries — in this poem, the works of no less a 
 number than thirteen, with the exception of one or two frag- 
 ments, have entirely perished. 
 
 When the gude Schir Hew departed this life, the Historian 
 of Renfrewshire confesses that he is at a loss to say, but his 
 continnator (Robertson) has fixed that event in 1545. " Hia 
 Lordship," says that writer, "after a life of great activity, and 
 having been in many a rencontre, died quietly in his own bed 
 in Jtine 1545, in the S5th year of his age." This in sooth is 
 
XII. 
 
 a good old age, and will place his birth in 1460. We imagine, 
 however, there must be some mistake in assigning the above 
 as the period of his death; he must have demised before Dun- 
 bar, who, born in 1465, is supposed to have died in 1530. And 
 that poet surely would not deplore the loss of one who to all 
 intents and purposes was still alive, and as likely to live as 
 himself, and peradventure equally long. It may be said that 
 since the time of Dunbar's death, which has not been disco- 
 vered with any degree of certainty or precision, no contradiction 
 betwixt the age of the Lament and Sohir Hew'a decease can 
 thence arise. But even allowing that Dunbar may have sur- 
 vived beyond 1530 many years — nay till after 1545, this would 
 make him 80 years of age at least, before the Lament was com- 
 posed; a fine time of life, indeed, to write, when his fingers, 
 it is believed, could not hold a pen ! Dunbar's circumstances, 
 so far as can be learned, were never such as to permit him 
 employing an Adam Scrivener to endyte his poems like as 
 the venerable Chaucer seems to have done. 
 
 The next writer of verses that occurs is Alexander Cun- 
 ningham, Earl of Glencairn, a nobleman better known for 
 stoutly espousing the cause of religious reformation under the 
 banners of that determined and Apostolical Champion of Pro- 
 testantism, John Knox. To that famed person and his ad- 
 herents, the house of Glencairn was an ever open asylum; and if 
 we may credit report, it was there for the first time in Scotland, 
 that the Sacraments were administered, agreeably to the rituals 
 of the reformed Church. But it was not merely to the infjuenoe 
 of his wealth, name, rank, and arms, this nobleman trusted, 
 'when he perilled himself and his fortunes in the good cause of 
 the Covenant and Congregation. With his pen he converted 
 to ridicule and held up to contempt, what fell without the chas- 
 tisement and reach of his sword. His "Epistil, derectit from 
 " the holy Heremite of AUareit, to his brethren the Greye 
 " Freers," is caustic and severe. Knox has preserved it in his 
 ' ' Historie of the Reformatioun of Religioun within the Kealm 
 ' ' of Scotland, conteining the manner and be quhat persons the 
 " Lycht of Chrystes Evangell has bein manifested unto this 
 " Realme, after that horribill and universall Defection from 
 ' ' the Treuth wMohe has come by the means of that Romane 
 " Anty Christ;" and Sibbald has reprinted it in his Chronicle of 
 
XIII. 
 
 Sootish Poetry. We also have given it in our Appendix 
 (No. 2,) as exhibiting «, lively picture of the times, and oou- 
 veying a right idea of the species of poetry then chiefly in 
 vogue. At the present moment we know of nothing else 
 which he wrote, though it is more than probable this did not 
 close his poetical attempts. After succeeding so well, it is 
 very likely that he would go on, with all due diligence, in 
 the good work of ripping up the vices, and tearing off the cowls 
 which veiled the infirmities of an indolent, fat, besotted, and ig- 
 norant clergy. Lindsay had previously paved the way for refor- 
 mation, and given such sharp and stunning blows to priestcraft 
 in his day, that the minds of men wore fully prepared to 
 adopt whatever was presented in the shape of purity, uprightness, 
 and good sense. It required but the rousing eloquence and en- 
 ergetic fearlessness of Knox and others of the Calvinistio school, 
 to give them nerve, and urge them on to action against, and 
 revolt from every monastic institution that formerly held them 
 in subjection. We are not, however, in this epooha of our 
 literary history, to look for anything like good poets, for indeed 
 there were none such. All the powers and faculties of the soul 
 seem to have been thoroughly engaged in fathoming and bot- 
 toming religious truths, and in combating with errors and absur- 
 dities prescription had hallowed and the blind acquiescence of 
 ages invested with a sacred mystery of character. Besides it 
 may with safety be remarked, that aU political revolutions are 
 at least for a time inimical to the growth and culture of poetic 
 genius. But especially those which originate from difference 
 in religious sentiments and the clashing of opposite creeds, 
 are more than ordinarily destructive of all its finer sensibilities 
 and more delicate tints. Poetry is not suited to a life of action, 
 uproar and confusion, where the passions and prejudices of men 
 are excited to their highest pitch, and war against each other 
 with the fellest and most rooted rancour. It may look afar off 
 upon such commotions and strifes, but it shrinks to participate 
 in the active workings and energies of their elements. Security, 
 silence, and undisturbed retreats, can only nourish and rear it 
 to the full maturity of its strength, and unfold every blossom of 
 its loveliness: consequently it is a harsh and unkindly tasted 
 fruit we must expect in every Scotish Poet of the period to 
 which we allude. Little sentiment, and no feeling — much in 
 
 B 
 
XIV. 
 
 vective, and little reason — pointed sarcasm — ^intolerant rebuk- 
 ings, and satire all wormwood and gall. The coarser, it would 
 seem, a coarse and filthy gibe could be given, or a severe rub 
 inflicted, so much the more was it to be valued as a notable 
 truth, or deemed excellent as a pithy saying. Hence the divine 
 nature of poetry becomes transmuted into the mean tool of party 
 interest, or degraded to the more contemptible office of cater- 
 ing and pimping for a few selfish and low minded men; inas- 
 much aa it enters warmly into all their concerns, adopts their 
 views, defends their measures, and lauds their abominations. 
 But to return — Glencairn succeeded to his father in 1547, and 
 died in 1576. He lived in a splendid though troubled sera, of 
 our national history, and himself was no inconsiderable actor 
 in its cheqtiered scenes and shifting accidents. His devotion 
 seems to have approached to fanaticism ; his hatred of popery, 
 almost to sacrilege. As a keen and insatiate destroyer of stone 
 images and other church ornaments he was almost unrivalled 
 in his day; and, with the excejition of his leader, the aforesaid 
 John Knox, and Edward of England, the monastic architecture 
 of our country hath no good reason to curse any one more 
 than him. Aided by his own domestics, he pillaged and 
 dismantled the beautiful chapel of HaUruidhous; nor can it 
 be dissembled, that the Abbey of Paisley, which lay so oppor- 
 tunely to his hand, also felt the full weight and measure of its 
 indignation, and smarted severely under its regenerating, or more 
 correctly speaking, its destroying power. 
 
 Alexander Montgomerie, the celebrated author of The Oherrie 
 and the Sloe, a poet of a very different and superior cast from 
 his countrymen already noticed, is the next with whom we 
 meet in the order of time. Like many more of our Makers few 
 particulars that may be depended on can be had respecting him. 
 Neither his family connections, course of life, nor how he came 
 by the title of Captain, (for so he is sometimes called) are pre- 
 cisely known. That he was connected with the house of Eglin- 
 ton, appears not only likely from his name, but also from his 
 so often celebrating, in some of his smaller pieces, Lady Mar- 
 garet Montgomery, eldest daughter of Hugh, the third Earl 
 of Eghnton. One other circumstance of some weight in 
 establishing this, arises from the intimacy and friendship that 
 subsisted between him and Robert Sempill, fourth lord of that 
 
XV. 
 
 name, another poet to whom we can lay claim, it must be 
 confessed, on more unexceptionable grounds. Yet, though the 
 supposing Montgomerie to be a cadet of the Eglinton family, 
 is an opinion unsupported by any historical document, and in- 
 deed is at variance with some trifling conjectures, hazarded both 
 by Irving and Sibbald, nevertheless, it ia one much more plau- 
 sible than some others which have been received and adopted 
 regarding him, of a fancifuUer nature. This however is a 
 matter of little real importance, and the question is left to be 
 discussed by those who have leisure and opportunity on their 
 hands to do it justice in all its parts and bearings. 
 
 The fame of Montgomerie for the most part rests on his OJie/r- 
 rie and the Slcif, a fine allegorical poem, which, with all its tedi- 
 ousness, obscurities, and occasional lameness, has been, and will 
 ever be read with pleasure. The explication of the allegory, 
 found in the "Opus poematicum de virtutum et vitiorum pugna; 
 sive electio status in adolescentia " of the celebrated Thomas 
 Dempster, and the friend and admirer of Montgomerie, is the 
 same as that given by Dr. Irving ; namely, that the paths of 
 virtue, though of the most difficult access, ought to be strenu- 
 ously preferred to those of vice, however smooth and inviting 
 the latter may appear. Others have supposed it is intended to 
 represent the perplexities and doubts of a lover, but to every 
 person who reads it, the explication already given is undoubt- 
 edly the true one. 
 
 Notwithstanding this poem has been long and deservedly 
 esteemed, yet there are not wanting some, who, from a silly af- 
 fectation of singularity, have treated it in a very cavalier-like 
 manner. The pettish criticism of Mr Pinkerton, we consider 
 of this kind. That writer observes, "It is a very poor produc- 
 tion; and yet I know not how, it has been frequently printed, 
 while far superior works have been neglected. The stanza is 
 good for a song, but the worst in the world for a long poem. 
 The allegory is weak and wire-drawn; and the whole piece be- 
 neath contempt." This wholesale way of pronouncing con- 
 demnation, is neither just nor rational, either in regard to 
 persons or things. As applied in the present case, it happens 
 to be the very height of injustice, nay of downright absurdity. 
 Fortunately, other men are endowed with tinderstandings and 
 tastes, as well as Mr. Pinkerton, and have the courage to judge 
 
XVI. 
 
 for themselves in these questions, without implicitly yielding up 
 their opinions to every crude assertion it lists him to make. 
 There be some critics vastly in conceit with themselves, who 
 strain aind strive not a little to gain distinction amongst their 
 common-place brethren of mankind by saying what they are 
 pleased to term smart things. These gentlemen wiU stretch a 
 far point to avoid repeating any remark that has been uttered 
 before, however true; and think nothing of occasionally sacri- 
 ficing truth, sincerity, and principle, for the sake of appearing 
 strikingly original, and marvellously foolish. It need scarce- 
 ly be asked if Mr. Pinkerton sometimes falls under this descrip- 
 tion of writers. Did the limits of these pages admit of detail, it 
 were passing easy to point out beauties in various parts, even 
 of the poor production mentioned above, which we are con- 
 vinced would please even the very fastidious Mr. Pinkerton; 
 but we have neither time nor leisure at present to buffet every 
 babbler that croaketh dissonance in our path. 
 
 Montgomerie was the favourite court poet of his day ; the 
 fame he earned amongst his contemporaries has descended to 
 our own times; for of all the other poets of that period there is 
 not one whose works have been so frequently reprinted, admir- 
 ed, and imitated. Maugre aU that Mr. Pinkerton can say, 
 this is a pretty strong proof that they are not mere tinsel and 
 prunello. Many of his amatory eflfusions and sonnets are in 
 truth exceedingly beautiful and tender, affecting and elegant. 
 His metres are frequently referred to, by our Royal Critic, 
 James VI., in hia " Sewlls and Cautelis for Scoitis Poesie," 
 as models of style, and by him we are told, that in " love 
 materes all kyndis of cuttit and broken verse quhairof newe 
 formes are daylie inventit, according to the poetis pleasour," are 
 right fittittg and meet. This cuttit and broken verse is no 
 other than that in which " The Clierrie and the Slae," is written. 
 
 Like William Dunbar, Montgomerie polluted his fine genius 
 by a Flyting with a brother Maker. Flyting, a species of com- 
 position which appears to have been a source of much pleasure 
 to many of our elder poets, at least one in which they often in- 
 dulged, was the popular name for a poetical invective. Every 
 base calumny, foul reproach, cutting gibe, or filthy image an 
 unclean mind could engender, formed the body and soul of 
 these scurrilous pieces. And it is a singular fact, that perhaps 
 no tongue on earth is more rich and expressive than the Scotish 
 
XVII. 
 
 in flyting terms. Its copiousness, nerve, and nastiness withal, 
 are truly astonishing. Skelton and Nashe are mere drivellers, 
 compared with Dunbar and Kennedie, Montgomerie, and 
 Polwart, which is not surprising, when we know that they 
 handled far blunter tools. 
 
 Contemporaneous with Montgomerie, was his friend Eobert 
 SempiU, a more voluminous, but by no means so good or so 
 popular a poet. It has been said elsewhere, that this Robert 
 SempUl was a titled personage; but it is right to mention in this 
 place, that Dr. Irving is decidedly hostile to such an opinion, 
 and treats the whole matter as a mere figment of an idle ima- 
 gination. "One of the most persevering and unsuccessful ver- 
 sifiers of this period, says he, was Robert Sempill, whom a late 
 writer (Sibbald), who amuses himself with perpetual conjectures, 
 ridiculously supposes to have been a Scottish Peer. — The eulo- 
 gium which Dempster has bestowed on Sempill's genius, is 
 highly extravagant, and must have been conceived without any 
 previous acquaintance with his writings; he represents him as 
 exhibiting the combined excellencies of Propertius, TibuUus, 
 Ovid, and Callimachus. Some pieces of this poetaster are to 
 be found in the Evergreen; and Mr. Dalzell has lately re- 
 published others from the original editions. They are equally 
 indecent and unpoetical." With every mark of deference to the 
 opinions of a writer who seldom dogmatises rashly, and who 
 has by his labours done so much for the memories of Scotland's 
 poets, we at the same time are compelled to dissent as widely 
 from him on this point, as he seems to do from Sibbald and 
 Dempster. 
 
 It is to be observed, that albeit the Doctor contradicts Sibbald, 
 he does not disprove his position, nor even attempt to shake it 
 by any investigation whatever which might throw more light 
 on the subject matter of dispute. Mere assertions are to be 
 received with extreme caution, when unaccompanied with their 
 proofs. As for our simple selves, we see nothing ridiculous 
 at all in Sibbald's supposition ; but on the contrary, every 
 reason to make us believe it perfectly correct. According to 
 Douglas's Peerage and Crawford's History of Renfrewshire, 
 Robert, the fourth Lord Sempill, succeeded to his grandfather 
 in 1571, and died at an advanced age in 1611. Sempill the 
 poet wrote all his works between the years 1565 and 1573: 
 
XVIII. 
 
 for in Birrell's diary occurs the following notice: " 1568 Jan, 
 18. A play was made by Robert Sempill, and performed before 
 the Lord Eegent and divers others of the nobility;" which 
 play Sibbald imagines in all likelihood to be Philotus; and in 
 Ames' typography of Great Britain, it appears that " The Sege 
 of the Castel of Edenburgh," was " imprintit be Robert Le- 
 preuick, anno 1573." By Dempster, the death of SempiU is 
 fixed in 1598, but this discrepancy is over-ruled by the fact that 
 this author was at a distance from his native country when he 
 wrote, and could not therefore be very conversant with, or correct 
 in obituaries, and must of necessity have trusted greatly to vague 
 and uncertain rumours regarding these particulars in the bio- 
 graphies of the celebrated men of his age. Here then we have 
 two individuals bearing the same name, and living at the same 
 period. That these two are one person, we have little hesitation 
 to a£&rm; and with the simple affirmation of this fact we might 
 rest satisfied inasmuch as the Doctor is concerned, because 
 one opinion is quite as good as another, when both happen to 
 be unsupported by any evidence in their favour, and none of 
 them are unplausible in themselves. It is admitted at once, 
 that there is no direct mention made in any writer of SempUl 
 the poet being Lord SempiU, or that that nobleman was the same 
 person with the said poet : and the reason of this is obvious, 
 because none of Sempill's contemporaries were his biographers, 
 and the incidental notices, gleaned from various quarters re- 
 specting him, relate to his literary character, not to his lineage 
 and family connections. Moreover, it never hath been the 
 custom to give poets amy titles, save those which serve to mark 
 their peculiar excellencies: all other trappings are derogatory to 
 the might and majesty of their simple sirname. No one, even in 
 our own days, when speaking in general terms of Byron as a 
 great poet, thinks of saddling his discourse with the epithet Lord. 
 The sirname is enough to let him who bears it be known without 
 this puny prefixture of worldly rank. Now if it should so 
 happen, that everything respecting the birth of this great man 
 were lost, and all the Magazine histories of him and other trash 
 burned to a scroll, and nothing save fragments of his poems 
 were extant, and a few remarks of some critics contemporary 
 with him upon his genius were all that reached to distant 
 posterity, it is very likely that a long headed wiseacre of that 
 
XIX, 
 
 generation, would split his lordship into two halves — one whereof, - 
 to be Lord Byron, son of such a one — and the other, Byron a 
 I)oet, of whose birth nothing was known. 
 
 Such a one might write a very plausible sentence or two, after 
 this fashion. "One of the most celebrated poets of his day, 
 was Byron. His works would appear to have been numerous 
 and excellent, but of them few remnants now survive, and such 
 as I have seen, are so mutilated and imperfect, that it is impos- 
 sible to say anything definitive upon their merits or defects. 
 It has been alleged by some, but without any foundation in 
 truth, that Byron was of noble extraction ; and others have 
 gone so far as to say, he really was titled, than which nothing 
 can be more ridiculous. True, there was a Lord Byron coeval 
 with him, but I find no clue whatever in the history of these 
 times that can lead me to suppose they were one and the same 
 person. Had they been so, such a circumstance would never 
 have been overlooked by the historian. I therefore hold those 
 who cling to this opinion as fools. " And who would dare to 
 beard or contradict so authoritative a wise one ? 
 
 What is now assumed with regard to Byron, has happened 
 to Sempill. Surely there is nothing ridiculous in supposing, 
 that a Nobleman might write poems as well as a Squire of low 
 degree. And yet it is with the ridiculousness of this supposi- 
 tion Dr. Irving is at odds. He may know, or at least he 
 ought to do, that with a very few exceptions, none save Noble- 
 men, Courtiers, and Clerical dignitaries, were the poets, philo- 
 sophers, historians, and literary factotums of that age. Edu- 
 cation then was not, as is the case now, diffused through every 
 rank and condition of society, but confined exclusively to the 
 higher classes or professional orders. Without one having some 
 real or pretended claim to genteel, if not noble birth, it is ques- 
 tioned if they then would even have been admitted to any terms 
 of familiarity with the great, whatever their talents were or 
 labours had been. Feudalism, to be sure, was in that age shaken 
 to its base, but its ramparts were not cast to the ground ; and 
 where it appears in any formidable shape, a mortifying distance 
 is always maintained between the magnates of the land and the 
 other members of the body politic. 
 
 Although the poetry of Sempill cannot be eulogised to the 
 extent which Dempster has done, neither can it be so far de- 
 
xxr 
 
 preoiated as Irving has attempted to do. He wrote in the spirit 
 of the times ; and it is unfair to measure him by the standard 
 of taste established now. We much suspect that the Dr. has 
 but sparingly looked into them, and been in the main as much 
 at fault while speaking of them, as he supposes Dempster to 
 have been on a like occasion. This far we can safely say, namely, 
 that they will bear comparison with similar productions of the 
 same period, and not be greatly the loser by the experiment. 
 
 The poetic vein that began in Lord SempiU, was continued 
 in the person of his cousin-german, Sir James SempUl of BeU- 
 trees, author of the " Packman' s Pater Noster" and by him trans- 
 mitted to Robert SempUI, the author of the celebrated " Epitaph 
 on fTaibie Simpson,'' Piper of Kilbarchan, untU it terminated 
 in the person of Francis Sempill, his son, author of these popular 
 songs: " Scho rase and loot me in" — "Maggy Lauder," — 
 " The ilythsum Bridal," &o., &c., and of a poem, entitled " The 
 Banishvient of Poverty," &c. 
 
 Anything more than this catalogue of names our limits for- 
 bid us to give. It is to be regretted, that the manuscripts of 
 Francis Sempill are irretrievably lost. They fell into hands 
 which knew not their value, and it is to be feared out of them 
 they will never be recovered. Kespecting the SempUls, con- 
 siderable information will be found in two small periodical 
 publications, entitled The Paisley Repository and Annual Recre- 
 ations, printed in 1812. ' Bating some inaccuracies in the matter, 
 and sundry inelegancies of style, the information contained 
 in them wiU be useful to those desirous of knowing more about 
 this distinguished family, more especially in regard to Francis 
 SempiU, of whom several anecdotes were related, and who ap- 
 pears to have been rather of a harum scarum disposition. 
 
 There is a large cumbrous quarto, purporting to be a 
 reprint of Crawfurd's History of Renfrewshire, and a con- 
 tinuation thereof to the present day, into which we have 
 often dipped for information, in the course of writing this 
 essay, expecting to find some notices respecting the history of 
 the hterature of the County, as well as of its pedigrees, 
 parishes, and superficial contents in arable or unarable ground. 
 But this mass of dullness gave no response, all therein was dark- 
 ness, dreariness, and we may add, endless bewilderment. One 
 might aa weU have gone to the meikil stane o' Cloichodrick 
 
XXI. 
 
 and searched for diamonds, as sought for a single bint in the 
 big book alluded to. Speaking of this Volume, it has always 
 struck us with astonishment and sorrow, that a person in the 
 County, a native of it, possessed of intelligence, and science, and 
 literature, could not be found to execute it in the way it should 
 have been done. A knowledge of pedigrees, land surveying, or 
 manures, is not all that is necessary for such a work. 
 
 This digression, peradventure, is ill-timed and ungracious ! 
 but it was written after havLng made a fruitless search for some 
 account of Kobert Crawfurd, a cadet of the Anchinames 
 family, thinking the frigidity of the genealogist would have 
 thawed and dissolved itself, as the fine songs of Tioeedside, 
 and My Dearie an ye die, rung in his ears. But we were 
 mistaken, and must content ourselves with what the laborious 
 and eccentric Ritsou has already communicated of this Renfrew- 
 shire Poet. 
 
 Speaking of Kamsay's Tea Table Miscellany he observes that, 
 "among the contributors to this collection which, except the 
 musical publication at Aberdeen, is supposed to be the first 
 that ever appeared of Scotish Songs, was a gentleman of the 
 name of Crawfurd of the family of Auchinames, whom the 
 pastoral beauties and elegant language of Tioeedside, and the 
 pathetic tenderness of My Dearie an ye die, will ever place 
 ia the first rank of lyric poets." This is a great deal from a 
 critic so gruff as Mr. Eitson. 
 
 Of Mr. Crawfurd's life no particulars are known, except 
 that he was in the army and unfortunately drowned, either in 
 going to, or returning from France. The Mary of his song of 
 Tweedside, is supposed, by "Walter Scott, to have been Mary 
 LUias Scott, of the Harden family, oft-times, on account of her 
 loveliness, styled The Flower o' Yarrow. Besides those songs 
 alluded to above, Daintie Davie and The Bush abune Tra- 
 quair, may also be mentioned as other two happy efforts of this 
 gentleman's muse. 
 
 Another gentleman whom it behoves us not to omit in this 
 sketch, is William Walkinshaw of that ilk, the author of 
 Willy was a Wanton Wag, &c., an especial good song of its 
 kind. Farther than mentioning his name we cannot go, as no 
 other particulars connected with him have we been able to pro- 
 cure. The tome of solidity which we have had occasion to 
 
 C 
 
XXII. 
 
 make honourable mention of before, has been consulted on this 
 subject, but as was to be anticipated, found wanting. 
 
 Again we enter upon debateable ground. Jean Adam, who 
 was born at Cartsdyke, probably about the beginning of last 
 century, and died in the town's hospital of Glasgow, on the 
 3d April, 1755, disputes along with William Julius Mickle, 
 translator of Camoen's Lusiad, the honour of writing the song, 
 There's nae Luck about the House. Every particular in the 
 life of this lady of any consequence at all, and the whole argu- 
 ments for and against her claim to the song in question, are 
 embodied in two well written papers of the Visitor, * to which 
 we beg leave to refer. The writer concludes by giving it to 
 Mickle, and pronouncing Jean Adam incapable of such a per- 
 formance. His reasons, though, on the whole, strong and 
 plausible, are not such as to produce entire conviction. What 
 his argument mainly rests on against Jean Adajn, is the tame 
 and prosaic and religious description of her other poetical mis- 
 cellanies, t so woef uUy contrasted, as they undoubtedly are, to 
 the natural simplicity and beauty of this song; — her never hav- 
 ing attempted to write anything else in the Sootish language, — 
 and the age of the song itself, which, according to Burns, first be- 
 gan to be hawked through the streets in 1771 or 1772, which 
 places it out of her day, or making it ten years older, would 
 have to be written long after she had quitted her poetical 
 labours. His argument for Mickle, hinges on that writer's 
 genius — his having given a copy of the song to his wife, as one 
 of his own productions — there being found in his papers an 
 imperfect or rude sketch of it — its age as given above, which 
 would fix its composition in his twenty-fifth or twenty-eighth 
 year, and having written other songs wherein Scotish words 
 occur, and one of which is written in the same measure. 
 
 We may remark, that it is often found aU arguments tend- 
 ing to prove this or that song to have belonged to a particular 
 author, when drawn from a, knowledge of what he hath writ- 
 ten, and the complexion and power of his genius, are very'fre- 
 
 " TJie Visitor, or Zitomiy Miscellany. Original and selected; printed for 
 John Turner, Greenock, 1818. TMs little periodical contains more good stuff 
 m its pages than is generally to be found in publications of a similar de- 
 scription. 
 
 t Miscellany Poems. By Mrs. Jane .Vdam in Crawfurdsdykc. Glasgow 
 1734, 12mo. * 
 
XXIII. 
 
 queutly altogether nugatory and inept. The general strain of 
 Mickle's poetry and bent of his genius seem to be' as directly 
 opposed to the nature of song as what Jean Adam's, from 
 ought that appears, has been. All inferences therefore, drawn 
 from this source on either side, we would deem unsound, and 
 ought to be dismissed. For it frequently happens, that an in- 
 different writer in other respects, has, by changing his subject, 
 and in a happy moment, produced something that shames, by 
 its excellence, all that he hath written before or will write 
 again. In the same way, an author celebrated for some great 
 performance does not always succeed in every effort he makes, 
 if that be somewhat out of the track he has been accustomed to 
 tread, and a miscarriage and a blot on his genius is the conse- 
 quence. It may be added, that a large portion of Scotish 
 Song is neither the work of professed and celebrated poets, nor 
 gentlemen, nor scholars, but owes its being to obscure rhym- 
 sters, humble individuals, and folks who have lived and died 
 undistinguished by literary acquirements or general talent; and, 
 excepting in one or two solitary instances, have never attempted 
 to veraify in the world. Many songs are floating about in the 
 mouths of people, unknown beyond the parish in which they 
 were composed, and many which have gained popularity are 
 without a father, because they may have acquired fame without 
 the author's knowledge ; or if he was aware of that circum- 
 stance, prudence or modesty may have withheld him from 
 reaping the honour by an avowal ; or they may have risen into 
 notice long after their author had ceased to be. 
 
 This song, therefore, may as well be considered the produc- 
 tion of Mrs. Adam as of Mr. Mickle. It may have been com- 
 posed in her youth; but the character of piety she had acquired 
 amongst her patrons may have prevented her from being 
 guilty of so much incongruity as publishing so hearty a lilt 
 amongst the meek-faced children of her devotional muse. It 
 is said she recited it in her life time as her own, and from her 
 recitation a copy might have found its way to the streets. 
 Mickle, a man of taste, either hearing it there, or procuring an 
 imperfect copy, might have set to the correction of it. And 
 as no one appeared to claim it, he, on the score of those very 
 corrections and improvements, may have been induced to bring 
 forward his own title of self-appropriation, imagining that in 
 
XXIV. 
 
 this caae, as materiam superabat opus, lie was fiilly authorised 
 to do so. If, however, Mr. M.'s emendations were nothing 
 more than a few orthographical ones, or occasionally the sub- 
 stitution of one phrase for another, few will be inclined to 
 think that his conduct in this matter was either honourable or 
 just. He had obtained enough of celebrity by other perform- 
 ances, without requiring to be indebted to the song of a poor 
 and unassuming woman, composed in the joyous simplicity 
 and fullness of her heart, for any portion of or addition to 
 that fame which he already enjoyed through exertions altogether 
 his own. 
 
 The great . evidence of the song belonging to Jean Adam, 
 is, however, derived from the song itself. There are many 
 little indications of its being from a female hand: no man could 
 think in the same way, or rattle over so volubly the contents 
 of the wardrobe, or arrangements in the kitchen for the gude- 
 man'a home coming, as in the song. But the strongest of aU 
 arguments in Jean's favour is the local allusion contained in 
 the song itself, which we imagine will sufficiently establish her 
 claims to it, and at the same time prove to the world that our 
 assertion of her right to do so, is neither fanciful nor unfounded. 
 The local allusion that we mean occurs in these lines: 
 
 " Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay 
 And see him come ashore." 
 
 Now, we submit that none except those who have been bred 
 up in a seaport, would ever have thought of particularizing so 
 minutely the very spot to which it will be necessary to go for the 
 aflfeotionate purpose of seeing the gudeman come ashore. Those 
 educated in landward towns would have had no specialities what- 
 ever, but discoursed loosely in generalities, and talked of the beach 
 or of the seaside, without condescending on any one particular 
 place of it where the gladsome meeting will take place. But 
 the qmy to those living in maritime towns is in fact the centre 
 of all interest, and (pardon the pun) is in good verity the 
 master key to many of their most pleasing associations, remem- 
 brances, tender affections, regrets or joys. Hence it becomes 
 an object of no little moment in the mind's eye, and more and 
 more assumes the character of a dominant and all-pervading 
 idea -one ready to rise uppermost, and engross attention when 
 
XXV. 
 
 any of those agitating concerns of life connected with the hap- 
 piness or wretchedness of the individual are about to happen. 
 Cartsdyke, or Crawf urdsdyke, the place where Jean Adam was 
 born, although now the eastern suburb of Greenock, has still 
 its little quay and fleet of small craft, while its inhabitants are 
 to this day more or less seafaring people. This one little cir- 
 cumstance, trivial as it may appear to many, is nevertheless in 
 our opinion quite decisive of the question at issue, and will 
 also appear so to every one who can rightly decipher the work- 
 ing of the human mind, and estimate the influence which habit, 
 and those associations which grow up from .peculiarities of local 
 situations and modes of living, exert over its most intimate 
 ideas, feelings, and opinions. In speaking thus, we do not 
 arrogate to ourselves more discernment than what seems to be 
 the portion of those who have maintained and ably defended 
 a contrary opinion ; they no doubt must have had good grounds 
 to walk on before they advanced it '; and we seek them not to 
 relinquish it until they discard for a moment hearsay stories, of 
 what this old woman said to t'other old woman about what an- 
 other old one told to nobody knows whom — and throw aside 
 blotted or corrected MSS. at least for a time — and calmly 
 sit down to an investigation and comparison of the intellectual 
 complexions of the two claimants, so far as these may be as- 
 certained from their respective works, or guessed from their 
 condition in life, sex, education, habits and local circumstances. 
 And then let them say in the sincerity of their hearts which 
 of the two is the likelier to be the author. It requires no pro- 
 phetic powers to predict that a general acquiescence in the 
 decision we have already pronounced must eventually follow. 
 
 With the earlier and the later poets of this County, we have 
 now done. It only remains with us, before closing this essay, 
 to notice those of our own day j they are not many, and will 
 not detain us long. It might be more methodical to mention 
 them in their chronological order as hitherto ; but in so abbre- 
 viated and imperfect a sketch as is purposed to be given, this 
 is a matter of indifference. Those who again take up the subject, 
 and treat it at more length may, and it is proper and natural 
 they should, do otherwise. 
 
 From the time of Jean Adam, to that in which we are made 
 familiar with the names of Wilson and Tannahill, Renfrewshire 
 
XXVI. 
 
 was without any song writsrs. It is true there were some songs 
 written by iuhabitants of Paisley, whioli are either forgotten, 
 or if not so, are but seldom, if at aU, sung by those who can 
 say anything regarding their authors. There is one we have 
 ourselves heard from John Wilson, late bar-offioer of the Sheriff 
 Court, and well known through the town by the title of the 
 Philosopher, which should not be omitted. The subject was 
 quite of a local oast, namely, the prohibition issued by the ma- 
 gistrates against the away -taking of peat, feal, and divot, from 
 the town's moss. It was to the tune of the battle of Sheriff- 
 muir, and was, withal, a thing of some humour. But perhaps 
 it was much indebted to our philosopher for the animated way 
 in which he was wont to sing it, for a blyther old man than he 
 was not to be found in three counties. He died at the advanced 
 age of 87, in April, 1818, and with him was buried the memory 
 of many a good anecdote, and merry scrap of an old catch. 
 According to him, it was a tape weaver and boon "companion of 
 his own who composed it. There is another song written, as we 
 have heard, by one John Robertson, in 1793, which still keeps 
 its ground amongst the musical amateurs of Paisley. It is 
 styled the Toom meal poclc, and though of a political cast, and 
 homely enough both in sentiment and expression, it is not alto- 
 gether destitute of point, and may be worth while printing were 
 directions at same time given to the singer, when and how he 
 should imitate the shaking of an empty bag. 
 
 After merely mentioning the names of Archibald Fyfe and 
 James Scadlock, as versifiers of some little merit, our labours 
 wiU be aptly terminated with those of Wilson and Tannahill. 
 The poems of Fyfe, and some few critical essays, were pub- 
 lished shortly after his death in 1806 ; those of Scadlock, iu 
 the present year. As both of these little volumes have short 
 biographical sketches of their respective authors prefixed, to 
 which access may easily be had, we shall pass them over with- 
 out comment. 
 
 We ought in this place to have also noticed Ebenezer Pioken 
 a native of Paisley, whose poems were published in Edinburgh, 
 1813, in two small octavo volumes. Of the author, some par- 
 ticulars will be found iu the periodical work mentioned below,* 
 
 ''The Weavti-s' Magazine and Literary Companion, Vol. II, No XI ri icin 
 Paisley, published and printed by J. Neilson. ' 
 
XXVII. 
 
 to which it has been out of our power to make any addition. 
 His poetical attempts are on the whole pretty tolerable, though 
 not such as will ever render his name anywise popular, or the 
 events of his life a matter of curiosity and regard to the literary 
 anecdote-monger. 
 
 The brilliant era — the golden age of Eenfrewahire song, 
 now opens upon us in the persons of Wilson and Tannahill. 
 Both have contributed not a, little to our stock of native lyric 
 poetry ; and while our language lasts, and music hath any 
 charm, their names will be remembered with enthusiasm, and 
 transmitted to ages more remote with the accumulated applauses 
 of time. 
 
 Alexander Wilson was born at Paisley on the 6th of July, 
 1766 ; he landed in America on the 14th of -Tuly, 1794 ; and 
 died at Philadelphia, on the 23rd of August, 1813, while on the 
 very eve of completing one of the most splendid undertakings 
 that hath ever been projected, perhaps, by a single, solitary, 
 friendless, poor, and almost destitute individual. The severe 
 fatigues, both mental and corporeal which he underwent — the 
 many disappointments which he was doomed to suffer — the 
 unceasing labour and unwearied attention he had to bestow in 
 forwarding this great work, were all instrumental in impairing 
 and sapping his constitution, and in depressing, though they 
 could never subdue, his energetic, inflexible, and persevering 
 mind. Nothing could deter him from going on to place the 
 apex on that pyramid, whose basis had been so deeply, broadly, 
 and solidly executed by himself ; but fate arrested his adven- 
 turous hand, and blasted the lofty thought — he, like the Egyp- 
 tian Monarch perished upon, and was sepulchred in, the im- 
 mense and glorious fabric himself had reared. 
 
 Of this celebrated character, almost every incident connected 
 with his history, has long ere now been laid before the public 
 with scrupulous minuteness. To the last volume of the Orni- 
 thology of America is prefixed a sketch of his life, by his 
 friend Mr Ord ; and the edition of his poems published at 
 Paisley, in 1816 ; is hkewise prefaced with a well written, 
 though diffuse life of the author, interspersed with critical 
 strictures on some of the pieces there inserted. It would be 
 uncandid not to state that we have also seen some interesting 
 
XXYIII. 
 
 details respecting him in a periodical work, to whicli we have 
 had occasion to refer while speaking of Ebenezer Picken, writ- 
 ten as we understand, by one who was on the closest terms of 
 intimacy with him before his departure for America, and which, 
 so far as we know to the contrary, are perfectly consonant to 
 truth. 
 
 The education which Wilson received, though not profound, 
 was far from being totally imperfect, or scanty. Though not 
 what is termed either liberal or classical, it was, nevertheless, 
 such as enabled him to widen its foundations, and improve its 
 superstructure as leisure served, and occasion required. More- 
 over, few towns in Scotland can boast of its inferior classes 
 being such a reading population as could his native place; and 
 notwithstanding they generally evaporate their fine thoughts 
 and literary acquisitions at the corner of some retired street, or 
 drown them in the rattling of shuttles within the precincts 
 of each particular erudite shop, still, the information thus cir- 
 culated, and the studious and literary habits thus introduced, are 
 not without benefit to the inquisitive and iuteUigent-minded 
 youths who submit to listen, and suck in the nurture which 
 ever and anon is yielded, while the elder gossips do discourse 
 on the high matters of church and state, of science and Utera- 
 tnre. On an observant mind, no useful hint, however obscurely 
 given, and no thought, if good, though ever so rudely and 
 imperfectly expressed, are altogether lost. With such a one, 
 no opportunity of improvement, be it trifling or otherwise, is 
 let slip, without being turned to some account either now or 
 afterwards. Wilson appears to have been a man of this stamp; 
 his powers of observation were naturally strong, and practice 
 gave them acuteness; his whole intellect was vigorous and 
 active, and occasions were not at all wanting sufficient to call 
 forth its strength and to assign it a sphere of action, which, 
 though confined, was yet wide enough to afford scope at times 
 for livelier sallies, and bolder conceptions. 
 
 Unhappily for our bard and naturalist, his lot in life was 
 none of the most comfortable or fortunate. Poverty haunted 
 his threshold, and his own desultory, rambling, and unsettled 
 habits were not such as could prevent the frequent intrusion 
 of that most unwelcome of all guests. He was restless and 
 discontented, shifting from one pursuit to another, which was 
 
XXIX. 
 
 as soon abandoned for a third, and that again in its turn be- 
 came as tasteless and unprofitable as any, and consequently as 
 soon discarded. At one time we find him a weaver, at another 
 time a pedlar, a third time qualifying himself to be a school- 
 master, and then again resuming the shuttle. Political senti- 
 ments likewise had their share in adding to hia unhappiness. 
 Enthusiastic in his love of liberty at a time when all were 
 somewhat fanatic on the same subject, the fervour of the poet's 
 imagination distorted and magnified the visible shape of 
 national events beyond their true and just proportions ; giving 
 them a hue they did not possess, and conjuring from the womb 
 of futurity phantoms of utter nonentity, clothed, however, in 
 the most uncouth and frightful habiliments with which fancy 
 and excited feeling can invest their ideal offspring. These 
 waking visions are the sources of many bitternesses and much 
 uneasiness to those in whom they are engendered, and by whom 
 they are fostered maugre their ultimate pernicious effects. So 
 were they no doubt to Wilson. But we cannot think it was 
 owing entirely to them that he first formed the resolution of 
 quitting his country for ever and seeking an asylum in a 
 foreign land. The real patriot, if he imagines the freedom of 
 the constitution under which he was born and which he has 
 been taught from his infancy to idolize is at stake, will not 
 shrink from the coming storm, but abide its fury, and fall 
 greatly amidst the wreck of the falling state. But there was a 
 deeper wound festering in his heart which could not be healed, 
 and which residence near the place where it was inflicted only 
 tended to inflame worse. When a juvenile piece of satire, dic- 
 tated it may be said, from no malicious motive, was extorted 
 from his possession, and burned at the public market-place of 
 bis own town, enough is known of a poet's feelings to keep 
 US from wondering if home then should not appear comfort- 
 less, a country cruel, and this mark of degradation and open 
 contumely mortifying and insupportable, harsh and severe to 
 the last degree^ 
 
 Previous a considerable time to embarking for America, he 
 had published diverse miscellaneous poems, of unequal merit to 
 be sure, but all inheriting some marks of a mind removed from 
 the whimpering and whiffling manufacturers of rhymes, who at 
 that time flooded the printing offices in all parts of Scotland. 
 
 D 
 
XXX. 
 
 On these poems and some more, which he afterwards composed 
 on the other side of the Atlantic, do his claims for poetical dis- 
 tinction rest. And securely may they so rest, since in them are 
 found not only those beautiful descriptive passages which some- 
 times garnish the pages of the Ornithology, but likewise those 
 pieces in which we conceive he mostly excels, namely, Watty 
 and Meg — Eppie and the DeU — Sab and Ringan — The Laurel 
 disputed, &c., aU written in our vernacular tongue. These 
 must ever be considered the corner-stones of his merit as a 
 Maker : for his other pieces written in English without any ad- 
 mixture of Scotish idiomatic phrases and language are frequently 
 cumbrous, tawdry, and tautological in their style, burying as 
 it were in emptiness of sound or glisteringness of verbiage the 
 thought to be expressed. It is true that he published ere his 
 taste was sufficiently matured or his genius fully unfolded — an 
 error which he often regretted, but could not remedy. For the 
 faults which the sharp-eyed critic may discover in these poems 
 of juvenility, limited observation, false embellishment, or de- 
 praved taste no excuse is proffered, because every ingenuous 
 reader wUl be readily inclined to make every allowance the 
 nature of the case may require. In the matter of song- writing, 
 Viis townsman TannahiU has an evident superiority, but in other 
 respects, is confessedly his inferior. Had he written nothing 
 but Watty and Meg, he would have been honourably remem- 
 bered. Without exception it is the very best thing of its kind 
 ever written, delineated as it is with so much graphic effect, 
 and coloured with so much fidelity. None but a Scotsman can 
 truly relish it or fully appreciate the talent it displays. He will 
 place it in company with At Peblis to the -play, Ghristis Kirk 
 on the Grene, and Bums' Jolly Beggars, and he may then 
 challenge any nation on earth to cull so choice a garland of 
 dainty and humorous devices from its native poetry. The tender 
 passion Wilson seems never to have felt in any of its pleasing 
 or distracting degrees of intensity. He sings of love because it 
 was a fashionable thing with other poets to do so, and he sung 
 therefore of its effects with coldness, indifference, and awkward- 
 ness. Had he been madly in love he would have been a power- 
 ful and overwhelming poet. That passion opens the sluices 
 of the whole affections of the heart, and, as it is favoured or 
 counteracted in its growth and progress, so do they glide on in 
 
XXXI. 
 
 a tranquil and continuous stream of gentleness and joy or roll 
 down in tke fury and turbulence of the storm — in tlie one 
 case, becoming the source of all that is beautiful and pleasing ; 
 in the other, of all that is terrific and sublime. 
 
 Some have regretted our poet's departare from Scotland, and 
 judging of what he might have latterly performed here by 
 what he actually accomplished in America, lamented that he 
 should thus be one of his country's lost stars in the hemisphere 
 of letters. That he would have done something more than 
 what he did, had he only remained, is, to be sure, likely enough ; 
 but that he would have performed as much, or gained so great 
 a reputation as he did elsewhere, is an opinion by no means of 
 equal probability. The salvation of his name, its glory and 
 very being, was his voyage to the new world. And, though the 
 animosity and adverse circumstances that drove him hence 
 every friend to injured and unprotected genius wiU join in exe- 
 crating, at same time, every lover of science and natural history 
 win have cause to rejoice at the happy fruits which resulted 
 from otherwise so grieving an event. At home his adventurous 
 and ambitious spirit had no scope to give vent to, or means left 
 it of satisfying its boundless longings. It sickened in the little 
 circle that narrowed its movements and, like a chilling spell, 
 froze its aspirations. The depth, shade, and illimitable extent 
 of the American forest, with its fair tenantry of winged inmates, 
 were wanting for its width of range, and the unfoldment of 
 and formation of its peculiar biases, and the invigoration of its 
 grasping might. While he remained with us, he knew not 
 what he was or wherefore he was bom ; when he first set his 
 foot in America, moneyless and unknown, he awakened to an 
 adequate sense of his ovm powers and resources and intellectual 
 dignity. He had one of those souls which but rise to the 
 full measure of the stature assigned them by nature, owing to 
 the multiform and harassing circumstances that gather round 
 in an endless and perplexed maze, as if to confound and anni- 
 hilate. His was a soul that smiled at difficulties, gloried in the 
 midst of insuperable obstacles, and triumphed over every bar- 
 rier that opposed its march or thwarted its desires. When we 
 look to his brilliant, though short career, and think on what he 
 suffered, and what he finally overcame to compass his stupen- 
 dous work, he could neither have been accused of egotism nor 
 
XXXII. 
 
 untmth, although he had himself uttered this emphatic saying, 
 which we now do for him, Veni, vidi, vid. 
 
 The errings, waywardness, and misfortunes which seem to 
 be the natural birthright and sad inheritance of men of genius, 
 though in themselves to be reprobated and condemned, yet 
 when viewed in relation to those by whom they were com- 
 mitted, or on whom thay have fallen in the fuU measure of 
 their manifold evils, do ever awaken the best sympathies of the 
 heart, and with these, a corresponding and entire forgiveness. 
 Let us have ever so determined a predisposition in our colder 
 moments, and in the pride of our moral worth, to censure such 
 derelictions from the paths of propriety and virtue, it is many 
 chances to one but that kindlier and better feelings, and gentler 
 remembrances will rush in upon us unawares, and ere the un- 
 grateful labour is half begun, quite unnerve the sternness of 
 our purpose. This is peculiarly the case with us at present 
 while about to speak of Robert Tannahill. We are at all 
 times inclined to look with a fearful shuddering on the man 
 who closes the Book of Life on himself, and with his own hand 
 expunges from that book the promises it gives him of eternal 
 happiness ; in a philosophic view of the matter, we, too, can find 
 room to despise the dastardliness of soul which impels to seU- 
 deatruotion to avoid real or imaginaj'y evils, rather than await 
 their on-coming, and then manfully bear up against them with 
 fortitude and abiding courage. In the instance before us, how- 
 ever, these sentiments of moral or religious feeling have but 
 slender influence ; for the recollection of the poet's amiable 
 character, innocence of life, unassuming manners, and kindness 
 of affections, rise up in such impressive and pleading guise be- 
 fore us, that the indignation of the moralist, or the severity of 
 the critic, are alike soothed, modified, and rendered out of 
 place. 
 
 The main incidents of his Ufe, few and unvaried as they were, 
 have already been detailed in different biographical sketches^ 
 with abundant minuteness ; to repeat them, . therefore, were 
 unnecessary, and while we mention the date of his birth on the 
 3rd of June, 1774, and that of his death on 17th May, 1810, we 
 perhaps do all that is requisite in the way of registering the 
 epoohas of an uneventful and even-tenored existence. Indeed, 
 
XXXIII. 
 
 with a retired and shrinking character, as he certainly was, it 
 would be inconsistent to expect any marvellous or moving tale. 
 His heart was wedded to his own home, town, and kindred. 
 Beyond that narrow sphere of humble enjoyment he seldom 
 ventured. But even in regard to Tannahill, since his songs 
 have given him a name in the lyric poetry of his country, it 
 becomes a matter of curiosity to note every minute feature of 
 his mind, and to record every outbreaking of his genius. No 
 person we know of was more capable of doing this well 
 than his intimate and bosom friend, Mr. R. A. Smith, of Pais- 
 ley. That gentleman frequently revised the best effusions of 
 the poet and suggested emendations. Besides this, he gave 
 them a music, to say the least of which, were they deprived of 
 it, would be as it were withdrawing the sunshine from a land- 
 scape that was glorified in it. Possessed, too, of many facts re- 
 lative to his compositions, and the companion of the poet's Satur- 
 day afternoon rambles, Mr. Smith certainly was qualified to 
 furnish the world with more interesting notices respecting him 
 during the latter years of his life, than any that have yet ap- 
 peared. But if the poet was modest, so was the musician and 
 the poet's friend. Diffidence is often the characteristic of true 
 genius, and never was there a better illustration of this position 
 than at present. Nor the one nor the other have preferred their 
 claims on public attention with even that becoming finimeas 
 and consciousness of desert which are to be commended. In 
 an arrogant and presumptive age like the present, a little char- 
 latanship, (however despicable in all cases where circumstances 
 do not imperiously require it,) is absolutely necessary. The man 
 who has assurance enough to say, "I am possessed of genius," 
 may be believed, and his claim thereto acknowledged ; but 
 he who waits tUl his neighbour perceive his merits, without 
 bruiting them himself, or having a convenient friend to take that 
 trouble off his shoulders, may wait a while, we fear, ere they 
 shaJl be known and recognised as such by the popular herd. 
 
 We have seen some letters of the gentleman already men- 
 tioned, respecting TannahiLl's private habits and Uterary com- 
 positions. Written as they are in the carelessness and con- 
 fidence of friendship, and without any of the formality of 
 authorship, we yet imagine some extracts from them will be of 
 sufficient novelty to yield interest and afford pleasure. And 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 though it would have been easy for us to have incorporated 
 and interwoven Mr. Smith's observations in our own sketch, 
 it gives us more satisfaction, and will do him and our readers, 
 we believe, more justice, to present them in their origiual dress. 
 Of that gentleman we must beg pardon for thus freely laying 
 hold on what accident has placed in our power, and printing 
 without permission, what he wrote with no such view. 
 
 Our extracts we give as they occur to our hand. 
 
 "My first introduction to Tannahill was in consequence 
 of hearing his song, Blythe was the time, sung while it was 
 yet in manuscript. I was so much struck with the beauty and 
 natural simplicity of the language that I found means shortly 
 afterwards of being introduced to its author. The acquaintance 
 thus formed between us gradually ripened into a warm and 
 steady friendship, that was never interrupted in a single instance 
 tUl his lamented death. • • » * * 
 
 " It was only from his compositions that a stranger could form 
 any estimate of his talents — his appearance indicated no marks 
 of genius — his manner was rather distant, and it was but in com- 
 pany with a few, with whom he was very intimate, that his 
 conversation became animated ; in a large assembly he ap- 
 peared to great disadvantage, was quite uneasy, and seldom 
 spoke except to the person nearest him, if he happened to be 
 an acquaintance. »**•** 
 
 "For several years previous to his death, we commonly 
 spent the Saturday afternoons together by a walk to the country; 
 but, if the badness of the weather prevented us from enjoying 
 this weekly recreation, the afternoon was passed in my room, 
 reading and reviewing what pieces he had composed through 
 the week, or if I had any new music I played or sung it over 
 to him. »****•» 
 
 " He was particularly averse to enter the company of people 
 above his own station of life; as an instance of this, I shall 
 relate one little anecdote. 
 
 Miss of was particularly fond of 
 
 the Scotish melody. Lord Balgownie's favourite, and had 
 expressed a wish to see it united to good poetry. I accordingly 
 applied to my friend, who produced his song, Ohomy winter' « 
 now awa', in a few days. As soon as I had arranged the 
 air, with symphonies and accompaniment for the pianoforte 
 
XXXV. 
 
 I waited on the lady, who was much delighted with the verses, 
 and begged of me to invite the author to take a walk with me 
 to the house at any leisure time. I knew that it would be 
 almost impossible to prevail on Robert to allow himself to be 
 introduced by fair means, so, for once, I made use of the only 
 alternative in my power by beguUing him thither during our 
 first Saturday's ramble, under the pretence of being obliged to 
 call with some music I had with me for the ladies. This, how- 
 ever, could not be effected, till I had promised not to make 
 him known, in case any of the family came to the door ; but 
 
 how great was his astonishment when Miss came 
 
 forward to invite him into the house by name. I shall never 
 forget the awkwardness with which he accompanied us to the 
 music room. He sat as it were quite petrified, till the magic 
 of the music and the great affability of the ladies reconciled 
 
 him to his situation. In a short time Mr. came in, 
 
 was introduced to his visitor in due form, and with that good- 
 ness of heart and simplicity of manner, for which he is so 
 deservedly esteemed by all who have the pleasure of knowing 
 him, chatted with his guest tUl near dinner time, when Robert 
 
 again became terribly uneasy, as Mr. insisted on 
 
 our staying to dine with the family. Many a rueful look was 
 cast to me, and many an excuse was made to get away, but, 
 alas ! there was no escaping with a good grace, and finding 
 that I was little inclined to understand his signals, the kind 
 request was at length reluctantly complied with. 
 
 * * * After a cheerful glass or 
 
 two, the restraint he was under gradually wore away, and he 
 became tolerably communicative. I believe that, when we left 
 the mansion, the poet entertained very different sentiments 
 from those with which he had entered it. He had formed an 
 opinion that nothing, save distant pride and cold formality, was 
 to be met with from people in the higher walks of life, but on 
 experiencing the very reverse of his imaginings, he wa' quite 
 
 delighted, and when Mr. 's name happened to be 
 
 mentioned in his hearing afterwards, it generally called forth 
 expressions of respect and admiration. Gloomy minter's 
 now awa became a very popular song, and was the reigning 
 favourite in Edinburgh for a considerable time. 
 
XXXVI. 
 
 ♦ • • * 
 
 " It has been noticed by a very able critic, that ' he seldom 
 tried the pathetic,' yet some fine touches of nature are found 
 in his works. I am sadly mistaken if the following lines will 
 not excite a strong sensation of pity in every bosom capable of 
 feeling their force. 
 
 * This 'kerchief he gaye me, a true lover's token. 
 Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake ! 
 I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, 
 Hope died wi' Jamie, and left it to break. 
 
 Cruel remembrance, ah ! why wilt thou wreck me. 
 Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown ! 
 
 Cruel remembrance in pity forsake me. 
 Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown 1 ' 
 
 " The music published with this song was originally composed 
 for other words, but Tannahill took a fancy to the air, and 
 immediately wrote Despairing Mary for it, which, being 
 the better song, was adopted. The opening of the melody is 
 too like the first part of The flowers of the forest to lay 
 claim to great originality, but after it was composed I never 
 could please myself with any alteration I attempted to make, 
 so it remains as it was first sketched. 
 
 Perhaps the most popular of all his songs was Jessh, the fliower 
 o' Dumhlane. Many a bonnie lass whose name chanced to be 
 the same with that in the song has been in her time the sup- 
 posititious heroine of it, and got the blame of having "cvAst the 
 glamior o'er him," though with little reason, for I do sincerely 
 believe the poet had no particular fair one in his eye at the 
 time, and that Jessie was quite an imaginary personage. 
 
 "The third stanza of this song was not written till several 
 months after the others were finished, and, in my opinion, it 
 would have been more to the author's credit had such an ad- 
 dition never been made. The language, I think, faUs consi- 
 derably below that of the two first verses. Surely the Prome- 
 thean fire must have been burning but lovmly, w^en such com- 
 mon-place ideas could be coolly written, after the song had been 
 
XXXVII. 
 so finely wound up with the beautiful apostrophe to the Mavis, 
 ' Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening.' 
 
 " When I had composed the music, Jessie was introduced to 
 the world with this clog hanging at her foot, much against my 
 inclination and advice ; however, I feel confident that every 
 singer of taste will discard it as a useless appendage. 
 
 "The music to Thou bonnie wood of Craigielee was composed 
 by 'Blythe Jamie Barr frae St. Barchan's town.' It does 
 its author great credit. It is a very pleasing and natural 
 melody, and has become most deservedly a great favourite all 
 over the West Kintra side. I think this little ballad possesses 
 considerable merit; one of its stanzas strikes me as being par- 
 ticularly beautiful. 
 
 ' While winter blaws in sleety showers, 
 Frae afE the norland hills sae hie. 
 He lightly skiifs thy bonny bowers, 
 As laith to harm a flower in thee.' 
 
 " The little Bacchanalian Rant you are so anxious to 
 know the history of was written in commemoration of a very 
 happy evening spent by the poet, with four of his musical 
 rKiENDS. At that meeting he was in high spirits, and his 
 conversation became more than usually animated ; many songs 
 were sung, and we had some glee singing, but neither fiddle 
 nor flute made its appearance in company, nor were any of 
 us 'nid, nid, nodding,' — ^we were 'unco happy,' and had 
 just such a ' drappie in our e'e ' as enabled ua to bid defiance 
 to care for the time being, but the poet thought proper to em- 
 bellish his song with the old chorus, ' We're a' nodding,' and 
 rather than throw aside a lucky thought he chose to depict his 
 ain hardship, ' as blind as an owl,' but I assure you this was 
 not the case ; his hardship had aU his faculties ' sitting lightly 
 on him.' As the merry rhymes in question were never in- 
 tended for the public eye I hope you wiU not give a copy to 
 any person. * 
 
 * We have ventured to disagi-ee on this point with Mr. Smith, inasmuch 
 as the courteous reader will find the song alluded to printed at full length in 
 the Appendix. — Editor. 
 
 E 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 " Songs possessing great poetical beauty do not always be- 
 come favourites with the public. — Keen blaws the wind o'er 
 the braes of Gleniffer is perhaps TannahiU's best lyrical effu- 
 sion, yet it does not appear to be much known, at least it is 
 but seldom sung. It was written for the old Scotish melody, 
 Bonnie Dundee, but Burns had occupied the same ground 
 before him. Mr. Koss, of Aberdeen, composed a very pretty 
 air for it, yet, to use the phrase of a certain favourite vocal 
 performer, it did not hit. The language and imagery of this 
 song appear to me beautiful and natural. There is an elegant 
 simplicity in the couplet, 
 
 ' The wild flowers of summer were spread a' sae bonnie. 
 The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree,' 
 
 And the dreary appearance of the scenery in winter is strikingly 
 pourtrayed in the second stanza, 
 
 * Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary : 
 And naething is seen taut the wide-spreading snaw.' 
 
 Again, 
 
 ' The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dcwje. 
 
 They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, 
 And chirp out tlieir plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 
 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter vn' me.' 
 
 The birds shaking ' the cauld drift frae their wings ' is an idea 
 not unworthy of Burns. 
 
 " One of TannahiU's most favourite walks was by the ruins 
 of Stanley Castle, or over the Braes of Gleniffer. There he 
 could recline on the brown heather, or sit on the side of a 
 bracken-fringed rook, listen to the burn murmuring through the 
 glen, and view the wild and varied scene around him with a 
 ' Poet's eye, ' 
 
 ' Whene'er you roam by Stanley's mouldering walls. 
 Think of the lowly bard, who sweetly sung 
 Those scenes around thee — his unhappy fate. 
 Will claim the tribute of a generous sigh,' 
 
XXXIX. 
 
 "He was possessed of a correct ear, and had acquired as 
 much knowledge of music as enabled him to learn any simple 
 melody if written in an easy key for the German Flute ; an 
 old one, cracked in half a dozen places, and bound up with 
 waxed cord, he always kept beside his loom, and latterly he 
 could conmiit any air to paper which he had caught by ear — 
 an earthen ink bottle usually hung on his loom post, and I 
 believe that the greater number of his songs were composed 
 whilst he was steadily occupied at his business. Unfortun- 
 ately his celebrity as a song writer led many an idle person 
 through vanity or curiosity to see him, which was too frequently 
 effected by sending for him to an inn; and he has often lamented 
 bitterly to me in private his want of fortitude to with- 
 stand those intrusions : such deviations from prudence always 
 produced the most agonizing reflections, and I fear formed one of 
 the causes which accelerated his unhappy fate ; that this was 
 the case is obvious from a letter which he wrote about this 
 time to a friend in Glasgow, in which he says, ' That scrib- 
 bling of rhymes hath positively half ruined me. It has 
 led me into a wide circle of acquaintance, of course into 
 an involuntary habit of being oftener in a public house than 
 can be good for any body — although I go there as seldom 
 as possible, yet how often have I sat tiU within my last 
 shiUing, and unlike some of our friends who are better 
 circumstanced, had to return to my loom sick and feverish. 
 This often makes me appear suUen ia company, for if I in- 
 dulge to the extent we have both seen in others, I am in 
 
 for two or three days afterwards.' — Other circumstances com- 
 bined to depress his mind. Several of his printed poems had 
 been censured pretty severely ; he had published too prematurely. 
 Of this he was pretty sensible, and to retrieve his character as a 
 poet had prepared for the press a new edition much corrected, 
 in which all his songs were carefully retouched, and many of 
 his former pieces expunged, so that not a line was suffered to 
 remain that could reasonably give ofifence. How to get it 
 published was now the only remaining difficulty, for the native 
 independence of his spirit could not brook the idea of publish- 
 ing again by subscription. About this time I had been com- 
 missioned by a respectable books^ler in Greenock to treat with 
 
XL. 
 
 him for the copyright, and I believe he sent his manuscripts, or 
 at least a copy of the printed volume, v^ith his corrections, to 
 
 Mr. for inspection, but from tardiness of reply in that 
 
 quarter he sent the completed manuscript to Edinburgh, oflfer- 
 ing the copyright for a very small sum to Mr. Constable. Un- 
 happily that gentleman -was in Loudon at the time, and when 
 written to on the subject answered that he had more new works 
 on hand than he could undertake that season ; accordingly the 
 manuscript was returned. 
 
 " This disappointment preyed heavily on his spirits, and I 
 observed a change of, disposition gradually wear on him from 
 that time ; a proneness to imagine his best friends were disposed 
 to use him ill, and a certain jealous fear of his claims to genius 
 being impugned. These imaginary grievances were frequently 
 confided to me, and I found it impossible to convince him of 
 his error. 
 
 "Two days before his death he showed me several poetical 
 pieces of a most strange texture, and in the afternoon of the 
 same day he called on me again, requesting me to return him 
 a song that had been left for my perusal. I had laid it past in a 
 music book and was unable to find it at the time. It was his 
 last production and he seemed to be much disappointed when, 
 after a long search, I could not procure it for him.' This was 
 the last time I saw him. The anxiety he shewed to get back 
 the manuscript appears to have proceeded from a determination 
 to destroy every scrap of his poetry that he could possibly col- 
 lect. Nothing could be found after his death but what pieces 
 he had sent to different correspondents, which were collected, 
 and the diflferent variations submitted to the editor of his works 
 published by Mr. Criehton. 
 
 " These few particulars are aU I can recollect of the man I so 
 highly esteemed, and I fear you will think them a great deal 
 more than are worth relating. " 
 
 We also subjoin the following postscript to one of Mr. S.'s 
 letters. 
 
 " You may expect the book I promised you a sight of in a few 
 days. It contains the first verse of the major part of his Songs. 
 Those of which the other verses are lost were chiefly imita- 
 
 * This piece is called Why unite to banish Cam, and will be found in 
 tlie Appendix — ^the last two stanzas are for the first time added. — Sditor. 
 
XLI. 
 
 tions of old Scotish songs, written after a perusal of Johnson's 
 Mwgical Museum, and I am inolined to think they would have 
 added but little to the author's fame although he had preserved 
 them.* He had collected their respective melodies, and I 
 had promised to arrange them with an easy accompaniment 
 for the pianoforte. I believe that Mr. Blaikie, of this town, 
 had made an offer to engrave the whole for publication, but 
 the idea of publishing in this form was soon abandoned as 
 being too expensive." 
 
 After these copious extracts we have little to say. It is our 
 opinion, however, that the genius of Tannahill could not, as 
 one of his biographers would insinuate, be equally suited to 
 other species of poetical composition besides those which his 
 inclination at first led him to prefer, and habit at length had 
 rendered easy. His strength lay in song-writing, and to it 
 he, for the most part, judiciously confined himself. He once 
 attempted dramatic composition, but without success. The 
 piece to which we refer was published in the first edition of 
 his poems, but omitted wisely iu every subsequent one. In 
 ballad-writing he also failed. His Oonnel and Flora is read 
 without emotion, and never thought of again after perusal. 
 This piece has none of that noble simplicity of diction and 
 disregard of meretricious ornament which distinguish the 
 ballad from every other kind of poetry, and give it all its 
 pecxiliar charm. With the exception of one or two stanzas, 
 Connel and Flora glisters in all the shewy and unmeaning gar- 
 niture of wordiness and fuUness of sounding epithet that 
 disgusted us so much in the ballad-mongery lately iu vogue, but 
 now happily rooted out and despised, never, it is hoped, to be 
 again cultivated or esteemed. 
 
 The Hanntet Wud is a bonnie little poem, considered as such, 
 but far from being anything like an imitation of John Bar- 
 bour. After Chatterton, there have sprouted up many imi- 
 tators of the language — not of the spirit of the ancient poets. 
 That "marvellous boy," with all the holes the antiquarian 
 may pick in his doublet, is stUl the matchless prince of literary 
 impostors, and the closest imitator, if not in sentiment and 
 style, at least in language, of the models of slumbering ages. 
 TannahiU had neither leisure, education, nor means, to qualify 
 
 • The fragments here spoken of will be found in the Appendix— Jditoc. 
 
XLII. 
 
 himself for tlie perusal of Barbour and other venerable makers, 
 much less to imitate their productions. Yet, though he has 
 been unsuccessful, we cannot help loving him for thus shewing 
 that he was acquainted with the name, if not with the language 
 of one of the oldest of our epic poets. How much better 
 would it have been with him and many other of our bards had 
 they been acquainted with the real orthography of their mother 
 tongue, it is needless to mention. Nothing is a more palpable 
 error than moulding the Scotish language into English forms 
 of spelling, and nothing can be more absurd, since thereby its 
 true pronunciation is inevitably lost. This corrupt mode of 
 writing our language hath, however, got such a hold and foot- 
 ing in the literature of the day that to make any innovation 
 now were to bring down the ridicule and neglect of the frivolous 
 and ignorant multitude on the head of him whose hardihood 
 led him to enterprize it. But it is needless to grumble at 
 things for which there is no remeid. Scotland may part with 
 her language, perhaps as tamely as she yielded up her parlia- 
 ment and surrendered others of her dearest rights. We must 
 have done, however, with this dangerous topic, and remember 
 the advice of the poet : 
 
 Periculoaae plenum opus aleae 
 
 Tractas, et incedis per ignes 
 
 Suppositos cineri doloso. 
 
 The sensibility of Tannahill appears to have been greater than 
 his genius and his heart more susceptible of tender than deep 
 feeling. On the whole, we believe his poetical character to 
 have been over-rated, and that sympathy for his fate has so 
 associated itself in our minds with his many excellences that 
 while we endeavour to estimate his merits as a poet our feel- 
 ings have more to say in the matter than our judgment. Be 
 this as it may, his name will long be remembered with no ordi- 
 nary degree of emotion, and it will be a long day ere another 
 like him shall in these western parts sweep the Scotish lyre with 
 so delicate and so artless a touch. Assuredly the proudest tri- 
 bute ever paid to his genius was the visit which the Ettrick 
 Shepherd paid to him not long before his death. There was 
 something romantic in this pilgrimage of the Mountain Bard, 
 to feel and to see, to converse and to enjoy the fellowship of one 
 
XLIII. 
 
 ■whose heart, like his own, was gifted with the magic voice of 
 song. They spent only one night in each others company." 
 Tannahill, Mr. Hogg informed us, convoyed him haK way to 
 Glasgow on the following morning, where they parted. It 
 was a melancholy adien Tannahill gave him. He grasped his 
 hand, tears gathering in his eyes the while, and said, ** Fare- 
 well, we shall never meet again — farewell, I shall never see 
 you more." These prophetic words were, alas I too soon 
 verified by the event of his death, which happened but a short 
 time after this deeply affecting and tender parting. 
 
 Paisley has now given birth to two men of distiaguished 
 eminence, and both poets. They were her own children, 
 and she acted the step-dame to them both. One lived to 
 shame her ingratitude by raising a, splendid trophy of his 
 genius in a foreign land ; the other withered in the shade and 
 horrors of her neglect. Yes, we scruple not to avow it that 
 one main cause of Tannahill' s premature fate was the chilling 
 aspect of his own town. He had vanity like every man of 
 genius — a thirst for fame, as every noble spirit ought to have; 
 but the first was mortified, and the last was disappointed and 
 ungratified. True, he heard his songs chaunted with delight, 
 and his praises whispered in distant parts, but then not even 
 
 * Our staunch and excellent friend, Mr A. B , whose amiable eccen- 
 tricities and talents have endeared him to every circle, was the means, we be- 
 lieve, of introducing the two poets to each other. The lover of reliquea will 
 in the workshop of Mr. B. find many things worthy of his attention. Our 
 page will not contain a full inventory of them, but we shall mention a few 
 for the edifi-cation of the curious. Irapi'imis, The complete head of the stone 
 effigy which covered the remains of that subtle Magician, famous Wizard, 
 and learned Clerk, Michael Scott — brought from Melrose Abbey. — Iteui. A 
 plank of one of the Spanish Armada. — Itein. Sundry beautiful chippings of 
 Queen Mary's Yew. — Item. A rafter of Allowaj/'s auld hauntit Kirk. — Item, 
 A walking staff of the Broom of the Cowden Kaoices, convertible likewise 
 into a sweet pastoral whistle, when it hsteth one to pipe melodiously in 
 journeying through the classic dales of the southern sMres as a pilgrim 
 towards the noble ruins of Melrose and Dryburgh. — Do. of the Hush abune 
 Traqucdr. — Do. of the Trusting tree on the Borders, &c. &c. Besides a 
 stupendous harpsicord, an antique virginal, with fiddles, flutes, and violon- 
 cellos, great and small, innumerable, and a host of quaighs made of the 
 Torwood and Ellerslie Oak, with as many croaslets and snuflf boxes of 
 the Tew Tree above noticed. The Connoisseur of Painting will also be 
 delighted with some fine spirited sketches in black chalk that adorn the 
 walls, some of which we understand are designed and executed by a very 
 prondsing young artist of this town whose truly original conceptions have 
 often excited our admiration. We were particularly pleased with " the 
 twa Dogs " from Bums. The attitude of " the Gentleman and Scholar " is 
 aptly chosen and admirably delineated. 
 
XLIV. 
 
 hinted at, in the place of his birth. Where was the ooimte- 
 nance the higher ranks should have conferred on him ? — Where 
 the support the wealthy could have given him to prosecute his 
 studies and improve in his darling avocation ? Merit in the 
 lower paths of life was akin to a miracle in the eyes of the 
 richer class of his native community, and miracles having died 
 with the apostles they were not now to be believed. 
 
 We have done with our sketch. Sensible as we are that 
 this essay is very defective in many respects— that it is often 
 abridged where it should have been full and particular, and 
 diffuse where it should have been concise and genera], never- 
 theless, despite these faults, it wOl serve its end of being a kind 
 of rude chart, by which some able hand may direct his course 
 while prosecuting imder happier auspices the same subjects of 
 which we have treated. The mistakes or omissions which the 
 attentive reader may discover, as they were either involuntary 
 on our part or originated from lack of better information, it is 
 hoped will be forgiven or at least charitably construed. What 
 has been written was from the worthy motive of giving to our 
 countrymen a bead roll of names belonging to this district that 
 deserve not to perish without some tribute being paid to their 
 memory, however inadequate such may be to their deserts, or in- 
 sufficient to secure them from the obliviousness which time throws 
 over the most illustrious dead. 
 
 I see that makaris amang tlie laif, 
 
 Playis heir thair padyanis, fyne gois to graif ; 
 
 Spairit is nocht thair facultie ; 
 
 Timor mortis conturbat me. 
 
 QnoD Ddnbae. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 No. 1. 
 
 Cf)e <3tQtt of ^rfjti' (gormali)!! 
 
 at t5e toarltots 
 entf. 
 
 Lythe and listen feeris al, 
 
 In quhat manere thirlit in thralle, 
 
 Wes ane swote May fair, 
 Be ane reid Woulflf, ane ugsum fende, 
 Liggand nie the warldis end ; 
 Quhyll ane knicht breem did wend 
 
 Thilk woulffis hert tiU tere. 
 
 Then this hurde bricht to bring 
 Fra the Woulffis halde indigne, 
 
 Did himael bonne ; 
 His aventuris, grit to tell, 
 Dois mi weake witt precell, 
 Quhairfoir me rede you well. 
 
 His laude to roune. 
 
 Gude Gormalyn bene pricken onne, 
 Ane squyer be him ronne, 
 
 Stalwarth and fre. 
 Ouir forthis, holtis, and how, 
 Quhyll thay proohen tiU a lowe, 
 Brennand bauld on ane knowe, 
 
 Meruailous till see. 
 F 
 
XLVI. 
 
 " Quhar wrainia thow knicKt, 
 In armour clere dicht 1 " 
 
 Spak furth ane man, 
 " I gang, quod Gormalyn, 
 Sum straunge aventur in, 
 Sua betide me hap and gyn. 
 
 Do quhat I can. 
 
 Quhat cace has happit the, 
 Sith sio dolore I see 
 
 Thorow this land gude ? 
 Quhat bene this fyrie flare, 
 Trabland the mokie aire. 
 And sua moche of dispaire. 
 
 With teiria afflude ? 
 
 " Welaway ! mi hertis broken 
 Wi moche wae y wroken, " 
 
 Quod the villeins ; 
 " Syne ane reid woulfis stown. 
 The swete May growan 
 Ala lyk ane rois blowan. 
 
 And hir awa tane. 
 
 This woulff ben grit in bane, 
 Wi lang touzlit mane, 
 
 Hideous to see ; 
 Eyne lyk beadis of fyr. 
 With ane reid selcouth lyre, 
 Paweis soharpenit 
 
 Abune al gre. 
 
 Dwelland at the warldia end, 
 Nocht pitie him kend, 
 
 Bot dois devore 
 Flokkis, Schepperdis, Wemen, 
 Maydis, baimia, eild men, 
 Then alinkis to his den 
 
 In moche glore 
 
XL VII. 
 
 Maliaouaia on him licM, 
 He swoppit ane May bricht. 
 
 Sib to the king 
 Of this royame braid ; 
 And doomit to the deid, 
 Scho is perdie Ilede, 
 
 Sua sorrowis spryng. 
 
 Sith quhen the king heris 
 Fra mi foirflej^it feeris 
 
 Of this oaoe ; 
 Certes, baith me and myne 
 Schal dree moche pyne, 
 Quhilk makis me dwyne 
 
 And sike, alace." 
 
 Up stertit Gormalyn, 
 Lyk ane suche of wynd, 
 
 Fers and fellone, 
 " Be him that bled on tre. 
 This samen May schall I fre, 
 And the grim woulff schaU die 
 
 Be mie yron. " 
 
 Out S3me he drawis his suerd ; 
 Aod settis its poynct till the erd, 
 
 Wittand to ken 
 Quhat airt it mote fall, 
 Qululk fallow he sohall, 
 Qahyll he mote saif mell 
 
 Wi the woulffis den. 
 
 Wafflaud till the west, 
 Joukand tUl the east. 
 
 Was aumdele the suerd, 
 Southlandis it whiles did beck, 
 Quhyll in fine north its neck 
 Bendand bot ane cheque 
 
 Daddit on erd. 
 * "f ^* * 
 
 (Multa deerant) 
 
XLVIII. 
 
 Fiirth prickit he throot the wud, 
 Lyk aiie black clud, 
 
 In tide tempestive, 
 Calland loud and hie, 
 On the woulff ne to flee, 
 Quhan ileand sikarlie, 
 
 He was belive. 
 
 Alace ! in the woulffia mouth, 
 Borne was the mayd in trouth, 
 
 Shrikand delore, 
 Hir waist jimp and sma, 
 Crushit was atwixt his jaw, 
 And hir heid hong law, 
 
 Sad thoeh decore. 
 
 Hir armis salt and lyte, 
 And talse ivorie quhy t 
 
 Sweepit the grund. 
 Quhyll hir goun in the wynd, 
 Trailand wes behind, 
 Alace ! sicht of sic kynd, 
 
 Niver was fund. 
 
 Wae wes Schir Gormalyn, 
 Syne neir he ne win, 
 
 Albe he straive ; 
 Eftsune his horss coupit 
 Ouir ane roche knoupit, 
 To erd Gormaljm loupit. 
 
 Deliver and braive. 
 
 On feet he swyth ran 
 Manie ane myl of land, 
 
 Nicht and day. 
 Thorow day he ay saw 
 Hir sklendir waist in woulffis jaw, 
 And thorow nicht a mane law, 
 
 For meroie alwaie. 
 
XLIX. 
 
 " for ane egillis wing ! 
 O for ane vyperis sting !" - 
 
 Quod Gormalyn. 
 " O for ane lyounia pawe, 
 That this woulf mote I drawe, 
 Lith and limb assinder sma. 
 
 And slay in fine. 
 
 Mi hert ben sair ysmote. 
 Be this mayis wordis awote, 
 
 Tendir and sad. 
 That it bene molten clene, 
 Fulfilland mi tua eyne, 
 With manie saut tene. 
 
 Of dolor and drad. 
 
 woulfiF let the Ladie fre. 
 And ye sohall haif kye thre, 
 
 Soncie and sweit. 
 Ilk yere as manie moe, 
 Scheip wi yong to throw 
 Schall until ye eith goe, 
 
 Trewlie I weet. 
 
 Bot hard wes the Woulfis hert, 
 Lyk heid of ane steel dert, 
 
 Lyte reokit hee 
 Of Sohir Gormalyn gude, 
 Kampagand fell and wnd. 
 And scuddand lyk simmer clud. 
 
 In welkin blee. 
 
 Schakand his salvage pow, 
 Wi bludie eyne on low. 
 
 And ane lang gowl, 
 Up muntanis he speeHs, 
 Doun braes he reelis, 
 Wingis.weren at his heelis, 
 
 Deth in his gowl. 
 
L. 
 
 Evir the mayd he achuke, 
 Wi ane feidf ou leuk, 
 
 Gimand and yamfand. 
 And quhyl he dois hir daaoh, 
 His teith stikia in hir fleach, 
 Makand ane deip gasch. 
 
 With felloun champand. 
 
 Mervailoua it waa to heir 
 Amangia hillia and heuchia dreir, 
 
 The maydia mane. 
 It seemit waneirdlie aound, 
 Suchand in aire around, 
 CaJcuIed to astound, 
 
 Wi fricht and pain, 
 
 Chewand his lippis wi yre, 
 Gormalyn fers as fyr, 
 
 Shoutand peraewit, 
 Bot the Woulff unf oirf aim, 
 Bure aff the bonnie bairn, 
 Eleet lyk ane schot atern, 
 
 Far frae his bruit. 
 
 Doun on the garas grene, 
 Fawia atout Schir Gormalyn, 
 
 In diaperaunce ; 
 Forfauchten foirgane, 
 He list him mak mane. 
 That the May awa waa tane, 
 
 In hour wanchanoe. 
 
 Alaoe ! nouthir Tristram, 
 Nor bauld Schir Gawan, 
 
 Launc^lot du Lak, 
 Nor anie perle of hardiment. 
 Of ChiyaJrie ould scheut. 
 This woulff quha owre the bent, 
 
 Schupeth his trak. 
 
LI. 
 
 " Rise up stalwarth sehir,'' 
 Spak suue his gude Squier, 
 
 As him lay, 
 " Rise up run and rive, 
 Iiang as ye bene on live. 
 This woulf, and reprive, 
 
 The dulce May. 
 
 Here is ane Strang drinok, 
 Famose for hard swynck, 
 
 Eicht blyth of ohere, 
 Gi£ it be al dronck, 
 Thou schall be nevir sonck, 
 In disperaunce donok. 
 
 For ane haU yere. 
 
 Airt quhairswaeir thow list, 
 Natheles -will it assist 
 
 Thee to run 
 Owir everilk holt hoar, 
 Fers as the wud boar, 
 Lustand annone to gore ; 
 
 Or lyk the sun, 
 
 Kydand in blew akyis, 
 
 Throw cluddis of purpour griss. 
 
 Swift for to see, "— 
 
 * * * 
 
 (Ceetera desunt. ) 
 
 Very little more of the manuscript from which the above is 
 transcribed can be at all legible. Several stanzas seem to re- 
 late to the ingredients which composed the sovereign beverage 
 administered to Schir Gormalyn by his Squyer, who, we are 
 elsewhere informed, is " cunnand and lerit in al erbis of erd." 
 From ought that can be perceived, this cordial was of a much 
 more invigorating and wholesome description than that which 
 the lank-jawed knight of La Mancha swallowed after the rib 
 roasting he received from the Yanguesian carriers ; for the 
 pursuit after this wolf is continued with fresh ardour, and as 
 might be expected becomes of no ordinary length, being inter- 
 
LIT. 
 
 rupted by various causes, such as tourneyis, joustis, and like 
 divertiaements met with by the way, in which our Knight hath 
 always to participate. 
 
 The description of the Warldis end is perhaps the best part 
 of this curious little romance. Our original is, however, so very 
 much destroyed in this place, that we have deferred till another 
 time giving any part or specimen of it. 
 
 This legend has a very tragical catsistrophe, which is not gener- 
 ally the case in others of a like nature. It appears that the ad- 
 venturous knight, having by some means or other succeeded in 
 delivering the damsel from her thirldom dern, in a cave belong- 
 ing to the Eeid Woulff at the 
 
 Warldis allutermaist methe, 
 Fomentis the well of dule and dethe, 
 
 proceeds in quest of further perils, accompanied by his fair prize, 
 
 and the worthy Squyer aforesaid. After infinite travel they 
 
 come into a strange country of a very unpromising aspect, and 
 
 in which they have not advanced far till they are attacked by 
 
 a. discourteous " Geaunt grit as tre," who, captivated by the 
 
 Ladyeis mervailous phisnomie 
 
 Of beautie rare and courtisie 
 
 bethinks him to make a seizure, without much ado. In this 
 his Giantship is miserably deceived, for Schir Gormalyn being 
 a genuine imp of Ghivalrie, is not to be subdued or terrified by 
 menace or blow, and accordingly a very furious duel is fought 
 betwixt them. After various " felloun strakis " given and re- 
 ceived on both sides, the giant is brought to the ground with a 
 tremendous shock. But strange to tell, while in the act of fall- 
 ing he catches hold of the knight's steed by some of its furniture, 
 and horse and man and all together tumble to the ground. In 
 the affray, the head of the Reid Woulff, which it seems has 
 been suspended somewhere about the horse's neck, becomes dis- 
 engaged and falls beside the recumbent giant, who, though weak 
 and exhausted by his late exertion seizes the fatal skull and 
 hurls it right in the face of the knight. It unfortunately hits him 
 on the cheek, and the ventale of his helmet being up, one of the 
 Wolf's teeth — "lang, crukit, and of yellow hue on grene," makes 
 a deep incision, and the same being suffused with a mortal 
 poison, which the wolf had been accustomed to imbibe from the 
 black waters of the well of ' ' Dule and Deid, " the wound proves 
 fatal, for the knight shortly afterwards dies in the arms of the 
 
LIII. 
 
 maid he had rescued; and who having fallen in love with him 
 for his courage, good services, and noble demeanour, becomes 
 distracted at his loss — composes a Lai Mortel, and at last, in 
 a fine heroical style, expires by his side. And with this, the 
 whole in a great measure concludes. 
 
 More particulars respecting this metrical Romance, with 
 some conjectures, touching its age and author, and as many- 
 more of its verses as can be deciphered, will appear in the 
 " tSotopenfou of guiirlie Conwrtts, or Kagmrnt o( Kobie 
 ISonlrentB anH ])Iesant mrtettS," to be published in the be- 
 ginning of next year. 
 
 Here foIIolDie ane litill fang elegit 
 " Com IjiVHtv, torn JiBUer, Sr let ug tooo." 
 
 Twa gentil birdis sat on ane tre, 
 Twa bonnie burdis as e'er culd be. 
 And as thay sat for ay thay sang, 
 Quhyl wuddis and rochis wi eohoia rang. 
 
 Com bidder, com bidder, mi bonnie dow, 
 Wi honeyit halse and dew dabbit mou. 
 And ay the ane sang to the uthir — 
 Com hither, bot nae delay come hither, 
 Com bidder, com bidder, & let us woo. 
 
 The sun rase hie in the purpour east. 
 And flichterit doun in the glumie west, 
 And nicht cam on befoir thair dune, 
 In singand of this gentil crune. 
 
 Com bidder, com bidder, &c. 
 
 Syne gaed thir birdis sua traist and free, 
 Be nichtf al to thair herbourie. 
 In suth to say, thair hertis wer licht, 
 Sithens they sang thorow the nicht. 
 Com bidder, come bidder, &c. 
 
 An account of this old aoug will be found in the publication referred to, in 
 the note to the foregoing. In the meantime, we think it is one of the aongs 
 mentioned by Gawln Douglass, in his " Prolouge to the XII. Booke Enea- 
 dos." Edin. 1700, p. 404. 
 
 G 
 
LJV. 
 No. 2. 
 
 ANB BPISTLB DIRECTED FROM THE HOLY HEREMITE OF 
 ALLARBIT, TO HIS BBETHREH THE GRAYE FRERS. 
 
 I, Thomas, hermite of Lareit, 
 Sanct Prances ordour hartely greit; 
 BeseikiBg you, with ferme intent, 
 To be wakryif and diligent. 
 For thir Lutherans, rissen of new, 
 Our ordour dayly dois persew. 
 Thir smaikis do set their hailZ intent 
 To read the Inglisch New Testment; 
 And sayis we have thame clein diaceypit. 
 Therefore in haat they mon be stoppit. 
 Our Stait hypoorisie they pryias. 
 And us blasphemis on this wyiss : 
 Sayand that we are heretykes. 
 And fals loud lying mastif tykes ; 
 Oummerars and quellers of Chriatis kirk, 
 Sweir swyngeours that will not wirk. 
 But idelie our living wynnis. 
 Devouring woilfia into aheepe skinnis ; 
 Hurkland with huidis into our nek, 
 With Judas mind to jouke and bek ; 
 Seikand Christis people to devoir, 
 The doun-thringers of Goddis gloir ; 
 Professors of hypoorisie. 
 And Dootouris in idolatrie ; 
 Stout fisoheiris with the feyndis net, 
 The upclosera of hevins yett ; 
 Canoart oorruptara of the creede, 
 Humlock sawers amang gude seede ; 
 To trow in trators that men do tyist, 
 The hye way kennand them fra Chryist. 
 Monsters with the beistis marke, 
 Dogges that never stintes to barke ; 
 Kirkmen that are to Christ unkend, 
 A sect that Sathanis selfe has send ; 
 
LV. 
 
 Lurkand in hoils lyke trator toddis, 
 Maintainers of idolles and false goddis ; 
 Fautastike fuiles, and fenyeit fleiohers, 
 To turn fra trueth the verray teachers. 
 For to declair their haill sentence, 
 Wald mekill cumber your conscience : 
 To say your faith it is sa stark ; 
 Your cord and lousie cote and sark ; 
 Ye lippin may bring you to salvatioun, 
 And quyte excludis Chrystis passioun. 
 I dread this doctrine, and it last, 
 Sail outher gar ua wirke or fast. 
 Thairfore with speede we menn provide, 
 And not our profiit ovirslide. 
 I schaip myselfe, within short quhUe, 
 To course our Ladie in Argyle. 
 And thair on craftie wyse to wirk, 
 TiU that we biggit haif ane kirk. 
 Syne miracles mak be your advice. 
 The kitteriUs, though they haif bot lyce. 
 The twa part to us they will bring. 
 But orderlie to dresse this thing, 
 A Graist I purpose to gar gang. 
 Be counsayll of frear Walter Lang ; 
 Qululk sail make certaine demonstrations 
 To help us in our procurations, 
 Your hailie order to decoir. 
 That practick he proved ania befoir, 
 Betwixt Kircaldie and Kinghorne ; 
 But lymmaris made therat sic skorue ; 
 And to his fame made sic degression, 
 Synsyne he hard not Kingis confession. 
 Thouch at that time he cam no speide, 
 I pray you tak gude will as deide ; 
 And so me amang you ressave, 
 As ane worth mony of the lave. 
 Quhat I obtaine may, throuch his airt, 
 Keason wald ye had your pairt. 
 Yonr order handHlis na monie ; 
 But for other casualtie, 
 
LVI. 
 
 As beefe, meale, butter, and cheese, 
 
 Or quliat we haif, or that ye pleese. 
 
 To send your brethren tl; habete. 
 
 As now nooht ellis but valete, 
 
 Be Thomas your bruther at command, 
 A culrunne kythit throuch mony a land. 
 
 Alex. Cwfmingluime, Earl of Glencairn. 
 
 THE SOLSEQUIUM ; 
 
 OR, THE LOVEE COMPAIRING HIMSELF TO A SUN"-FLOWBK. 
 
 Lyk as the dum Solsequium with cair owrecum 
 
 Dois sorrow, quhen the sun gois out of sight, 
 
 Hings doun his heid, and droupis as deid, and will not spreid, 
 
 But lukis his levis throw langour all the nicht, 
 
 Til fuliach Phseton aryse with quhip in hand 
 
 To purge the christal skyis, and licht the land. 
 
 Birds in thair bower wait on that hour. 
 
 And to thair King ane glade gude-morrow gives, 
 
 Frae than that flowir lists not to lour. 
 
 But laughs on Phebus lowsing on his levis. 
 
 Swa stands with me, except I be quhair I may se 
 
 My lamp of licht, my lady and my luve, 
 
 Frae scho depairts, a thousand dairts in sindrie airts 
 
 Thirle thruch my heavy heart, bot rest or ruve. 
 
 My countenance deolairs my inward grief. 
 
 And houp almaist dispairs to find relief. 
 
 I die, I dwyne, play dois me pyne, 
 
 I loth on every thing I luke, allace ! 
 
 TiU Titan myne upon me schyne. 
 
 That I revive thruch favour of hir face. 
 
 Frae scho appeir into hir sphere, begins to cleir 
 
 The dawing of my lang desyrit day. 
 
 Then courage cryis on houp to ryse quhen he espyis 
 
 The noysum nicht of absens went away ; 
 
 No noyis, frae I awalke, can me impesche. 
 
 But on my staitly stalk I flurische fresohe, 
 
 I spring, I sprout, my leivis ly ouf. 
 
 My coUour changis in ane hairtsum hew ; 
 
LVII. 
 
 Ka mair I lout, bat stand up stout, 
 As glad of hir for quhome I only grew. 
 
 happy day, go not away, Apollo stay 
 Thy chair frae going doun unto the west. 
 Of me thou mak thy Zodiac, that I may tak 
 My plesour to behald quhome I love best. 
 Thy presens me restoris to lyfe from deth, 
 Thy absens lykways schoris to cut my breth. 
 
 1 wiss in vain, thee to remain. 
 
 Sen primum mobile says me always nay. 
 At leist thy wane bring sune again, 
 Farewell with patiens per forss till day. 
 
 Akx. Montgomeiie. 
 
 THE SEGE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 CASTEL OF EDINBURGH. 
 
 Buschment of Beruik, mak zow for the gait, 
 To ring zour drumis, & rank zour men of weir ; 
 Addres zour armour round zou for debait. 
 With sound of trumpet mak zour steids to steir. 
 Sen ze ar freikis that well dar fecht but feir : 
 As, for exampiU, we haue sene zow ellis, 
 Lyk as the last tym, that your camp come heir. 
 Lend vs ane borrouing of zour auld blak bellis. 
 
 Zour camp conuoyit but cumer throw the land. 
 In gude array, and rewlit by thair rank, 
 Reddie to pas, as plesit vs command. 
 Throw all our bounds, to the west sey bank ; 
 Thocht sum men say ze serue bot lytill thank. 
 Suppose occatioun cum first of thame sellis, 
 As thay haue brouin that bargane, sa thay drank. 
 And rewis that tyme that ener they saw zour bellis. 
 
LVIII. 
 
 The walia wes heioli, we ould not weil pursew thame ; 
 Bot quhen we gat thame doun, full deir thay booht it : 
 Be syde the woll, at sundrie tymes, we slew thame : 
 That euer they saw vs, sum of thame forthocht it, 
 Ane poysonit woll to drink, quhat docht it ? 
 Infekit watter sowUit thame, oheik and chin : 
 Persauing that sorrow, mair they socht it, 
 Bot keppit standfulis at the sklatis thair in. 
 
 The castel segit, and aU beset about 
 With fowseyia wyde inuironit be slyoht, 
 Montanis and myndis, leit neuer man luik out ; 
 For ordinance thay dang at day and nyoht, 
 By weirlyk volyia ; thooht the wallis wes wyoht, 
 Zit dowbaU battrie brak thame all in inschis : 
 Of Daueis toure, in aU the toune menis sycht, 
 Thay riggan stanes come tumland ouir the trinschis. 
 
 The vehement schot zeid in at either syde. 
 By threttie cannonis plasit at partis seuin ; 
 Quhill thay thair in myoht not thair heidis hyde. 
 For pot gun pellettis f alland from the heuin : 
 The bumbard stauis directit fell sa euin. 
 That in to dykes by dint it deidly damg thame ; 
 Quhill all the houssis in the place wes renin. 
 
 The buUatis brak sa in to bladis amang thame. 
 
 * ♦ t> • * 
 
 Lord, Sempill. 
 
 THE PACK-MAN'S PATER-NOSTER. 
 
 r r * » 
 
 Pack-man. But good Sir John, where learn'd our Lady her 
 Latins? 
 For in her days were neither mass nor matins, 
 Nor yet one Priest that Latin then did speak. 
 For holy words were then all Hebrew and Greek. 
 She never was at Rome, nor kiss'd Pope's toe : 
 How came she by the mass, then I would know ? 
 
LIX. 
 
 Priest. Fack-mau, it thou believe the Legendary, 
 The mass is elder far than Christ or Mary: 
 For all the Patriarchs, both more and less, 
 And great Melchisedeok himself said mass. 
 
 Pack-man. But, good Sir John, spake all these fathers Latin ? 
 And said they mass in surplices and satin ? 
 Could they speak Latin, long ere Latin grew ? 
 And without Latin no mass can be true. 
 And as for heretics that now translate it, 
 False miscreants, they shame the mass, and slight it. 
 
 Priest. Well, Pack-man, faith thou art too curious. 
 Thy purblind zeal, fervent, but furious, 
 I'd rather teach a whole convent of monks. 
 Than such a Pack -man with his Puritan spunks. 
 
 m * * * 
 
 Sir Janies Sempill. 
 
 EPITAPH ON HAJBBIE SIMPSON. 
 
 KUbarchan now may say alaoe! 
 
 For scho hes lost hir game and grace, 
 
 Bayth Trixie and the Maidin-trace, 
 
 Bot quhat remeid! 
 For na man can supply his place; 
 
 Hab Simpson's deid. 
 
 Now quha shall play, The day it dawis, 
 Or, Sunt up, quhen the cook he crawis; 
 Or quha can, for owr kirk-townis cans. 
 
 Stand us in steid ? 
 On bag-pypis now na body blawis. 
 
 Sen Habbie's deid. 
 
 Or, quha will caus our scheirers scheir? 
 Quha will bang up the bragis of weir, 
 Bring in the beUis, or gude play meir, 
 
 In time of need ? , 
 Hab Simpson cou'd. Quhat neid ye speir ? 
 
 But now he's deid. 
 
LXVIII. 
 
 Is this the time to spin a thread 
 
 When Coliu'a at the door ? 
 Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay 
 And see him come ashore. 
 
 For there's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There is nae Inch ava; 
 There's little pleasure in the Jiouse, 
 When our gudeman's awa. 
 
 And gie to me my bigonet 
 
 My bishop-satin gown; 
 For I maun tell the bailie's wife 
 
 That Colin's come to town. 
 My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, 
 
 My hose of pearl blue; 
 Its a' to please my ain gudeman. 
 
 For he's baith leal and true. 
 For iliere's nae, tfcc. 
 
 Rise up and mak a clean fire-side, 
 
 Put on the muckle pot, 
 Grie little Kate her cotton gown, 
 And Jock his Sunday's coat; 
 V And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 
 Their hose as white as snaw. 
 Its a' to pleasure my gudeman, 
 He likes to see them braw. 
 
 For there's nae, &c. 
 
 There's twa fat hens upon the bauk 
 
 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. 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared, 
 
 When he was far awa. 
 
 Ah! there's nae, itc. 
 
 Sae true's his word, sae smooth's his speech 
 His breath like caller air. 
 
LXIX. 
 
 His very foot has music in't 
 As he comes up the stair ! 
 
 And shall I see his face again, 
 And shall I hear him speak ! 
 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 
 For there's nae, &c. 
 
 If Colin's weel, I'm weel content, 
 
 I hae nae mair to crave — 
 And gin I live to keep him sae, 
 
 I'm blest aboon the lave. 
 And shall I-see his face again, 
 
 And shall I hear him speak ! 
 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought. 
 
 In troth I'm like to greet. 
 
 For there's nae, <£r. 
 
 The cauld blasts of the winter wind. 
 
 That thrilled through my heart, 
 They're a' blawn by, — I hae him safe. 
 
 Till death we'll never part : 
 But why should 1 of parting talk ? 
 
 It may be far awa ; 
 The present moment is our ain. 
 
 The neist we never saw. 
 
 For there's nae, <tc. 
 
 Jean Adaii, 
 
 THE TOOM MEAL POCK. 
 
 Preserve us a' ! what shall we do, 
 
 Thir dark unhallowed times ? 
 We're surely dreeing penance now 
 
 For some most awfu' crimes. 
 Sedition dauma now appear. 
 
 In reality or joke, 
 For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, 
 
 0' a hinging toom meal pock. 
 
 And sing. Oh waes me ! 
 1 
 
LXX. 
 
 When lasses braw gae'd out at e'en, 
 
 For sport and pastime free, 
 I seem'd like ane in paradise. 
 
 The moments quick did flee. 
 Like Venusea they a' appeared, 
 
 Weel pouthered was their locks, 
 'Twas easy dune, when at their hames, 
 
 Wi' the shaking o' their peeks. 
 And sing, Oh waes me ! 
 
 How happy past my former days, 
 
 Wi' merry heartsome glee, 
 When smiling fortune held the cup. 
 
 And peace sat on my knee ; 
 Nae wants had I but were supplied. 
 
 My heart wi' joy did knock, 
 AVhen in the neuk I smiling saw 
 
 A gauoie weel fill'd pock. 
 
 And sing, Oh waes me ! 
 
 Speak no ae word about reform. 
 
 Nor petition Parliament, 
 A wiser scheme I'U now propone, 
 
 I'm sure ye'll gie consent — 
 Send up a chiel or twa like me. 
 
 As a sample o' the flock, 
 Whase hollow cheeks will be sure proof, 
 
 O' a hinging toom meal pock. 
 
 And sing. Oh waes me ! 
 
 And should a sicht sae ghastly like, 
 
 Wi' rags, and banes, and skin, 
 Hae nae impression on yon folks. 
 
 But tell ye'll stand ahin. 
 O what a contrast will ye shaw. 
 
 To the glowrin Lunnun folk. 
 When in St. James' ye tak' your stand, 
 
 Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. 
 And sing, Oh waes me! 
 
LXXI. 
 
 Then rear your hand, and glour, and stare, 
 
 Before yon hills o' beef. 
 Tell them ye are fraa Scotland come, 
 
 For Scotia's relief; 
 TeU them ye are the vera best 
 
 Wal'd frae the fattest flock, 
 Then raise your arms, and ! display 
 
 A hinging toom meal pock. 
 
 And sing. Oh waes me ! 
 
 Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain 
 
 That hands the State thegither, 
 For Scotland wishes just to tak' 
 
 Gude nicht wi' ane anither. 
 We canna thole, we canna bide 
 
 This hard unwieldy yoke, 
 For wark and want but ill agree, 
 
 Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. 
 
 And sing, Oh waes me ! * 
 
 John RobeyUon, 
 
 BLYTH ARE WE SET WI' ITHER. 
 
 Blyth are we set wi' ither; 
 
 Fling Care ayont the moon; 
 Nae sae aft we meet thegither; 
 
 Wha wad think o' parting soon ? 
 Tho' snaw bends down the forest trees, 
 
 And bum and river cease to flow: 
 Tho' Nature's tide hae shor'd to freeze. 
 
 And winter nithers a' below. 
 
 Blyth are we, &c. 
 
 " We are not very certain to what tune thia song is sung. — We believe it 
 is an old one, but those who may be inquisitive on this topic may apply to 
 
 our worthy friend Mr. G. M of Paisley, who singe it himself ad vivam 
 
 and shakes the toom meal pock to the admiration of all. 
 
LXXII. 
 
 Now, round the ingle oheerly met, 
 
 We'll soog the blast and dread nae harm; 
 Wi' jaws o' toddy, reeking het, 
 
 We'U keep the genial current warm. 
 The friendly crack, the cheerfu' sang, 
 
 Shall cheat the happy hours awa', 
 Gar pleasure reign the e'ening lang. 
 
 And laugh at biting frost and snaw. 
 Blyth are we, &o. 
 
 The cares that cluster round the heart. 
 
 And gar the bosom stound wi' pain. 
 Shall get a fright afore we part. 
 
 Will gar them fear to come again. 
 Then, fill about, my winsome chiels, 
 
 The sparkling glass wiU banish pine: 
 Nae pain the happy bosom feels, 
 
 Sae free o' care as yours and mine. 
 Blyth are we, &c. 
 
 The above song is given from the two volumes of miscel- 
 laneous poetry published by Picken, previous to his death. 
 Some particulars regarding him have been handed to us by a 
 friend, which were, however, too late for insertion in the proper 
 place. That friend has also given us the name of another 
 versifier, by name James Caldwell, of whom we were ignorant. 
 Caldwell, it seems, was the author of several loyal songs, 
 published anonymously, which were sung on His Majesty's 
 birth-day at the annual processions of the weavers of Paisley. 
 These were mostly composed during the period that Wilkes' 
 faction was at its height. He died at an advanced period of 
 life in 1787. 
 
 Ebenezer Picken was bred to the church, but desisted from 
 prosecuting his theological studies for the purpose of enjoying 
 more leisure to cultivate the muses. How much he may have 
 sacrificed for their sakes is not perhaps exactly known ; but 
 certain it is that these coy nymphs adventured but little for his. 
 He was of a social and joyous disposition, fond of company, 
 and intimate with most of the minor constellations in the hemi- 
 sphere of Scotish poetry. He was the friend of Alexander Wil- 
 
LXXIIT. 
 
 son, and like him, delivered a poetic oration in the Pantbeon 
 at Edinburgh. Having embarked in some commercial specula- 
 tions -which failed — Picken, after enjoying comparative affluence 
 and comfort for some time, was reduced to indigence and dis- 
 tress. He died in 1815 or 1816. 
 
 We owe our thanks to the gentleman who furnished ns with 
 the substance of the above notices, and are only sorry that it 
 is incompatible with our limits to insert the judicious reflections 
 with which they were accompanied. Better use of them wiU be 
 made hereafter. 
 
 THE FIVE FRIENDS. 
 
 A famous ScotisJi Sang. 
 Ttine — We're a' noddin. 
 
 Weel wha's in the bourooh, and what is your cheer ! 
 The best that ye'll find in a thousand year. 
 
 And we're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, 
 
 We're a' noddin fou at e'en. 
 
 There's our ain Jamie Clark frae the haU o' Argyle, 
 Wi' his leal Scotish heart, and his kind open smile. 
 Arid we're a' noddin, cfcc. 
 
 There is WiU the gude fallow, wha kills a' our care, 
 Wi' his sang and his joke, and a mutchkin madr. 
 And we're a' noddin, &e. 
 
 There is blythe Jamie Barr frae St. Barchan's town. 
 When wit gets a kingdom, he's sure o' the crown. 
 And we're a' noddin, &c. 
 
 There is Rab frae the south, wi' his fiddle and his flute, 
 I could list to his sangs till the stams fa' out. 
 And we're a' noddin, die. 
 
 Apollo, for our comfort, has furnish'd the bowl, 
 ■And here is my hardship, as blind as an owl. 
 And we're a' noddin, <fcc. 
 
 Rolat To/amih ill. 
 
LXXIV. 
 
 WHY UNITE TO BANISH CAKE. 
 
 Air — Let us taste the sparkling wine. 
 
 Wiy unite to banisli Care ? 
 Let him come our joys to share ; 
 Doubly blest our cup shall flow, 
 When it soothes a brother's woe ; 
 'Twas for this the Pow'rs divine 
 Crown'd our board with generous wine. 
 
 Far be hence the sordid elf 
 Who'd claim enjoyment for himself ; 
 Come, the hardy seaman, lame, 
 The gallant soldier, robb'd of fame. 
 Welcome all who bear the woes 
 Of various kind that merit knows. 
 
 Patriot heroes, doom'd to sigh. 
 Idle 'neath corruption's eye ; 
 Honest tradesmen, credit worn. 
 Pining under fortune's scorn ; 
 Wanting wealth, or lacking fame. 
 Welcome aU that worth can claim. 
 
 Come, the hoary-headed sage, 
 Suffring more from want than age ; 
 Come, the proud, tho' needy bard, 
 Starving 'midst a world's regard : 
 Welcome, welcome, one and all. 
 That feel on this unfeeling ball. 
 
 Robert Tannahill. 
 
 The foUowmg are those rragments mentioned in pages 40 and 41 of the Essay 
 THE LASSIE 0' MERRY EIGHTEEN. 
 
 My father wad hae me to marry the miller. 
 My mither wad hae me to marry the laird. 
 
 But brawly I ken it's the love o' the siUer, 
 That heightens their fancy to ony regard ; 
 
LXXV. 
 
 The miller is orooket, the raiUer is crabbet, 
 The laird, tho' he's wealthy, is lyart and lean, 
 
 He's auld and he's oauld, and he's blin' and he's bald. 
 And he"8 no for a lassie o' merry eighteen. 
 
 LADDIE, CAN YE LEAVE ME. 
 
 laddie, can ye leave me I 
 
 Alas, 'twill break this constant heart, 
 There's nought on earth can grieve me 
 
 Like this, that we must part. 
 Think on the tender vow you made 
 
 Beneath the secret birken shade. 
 And can ye now deceive me ! 
 
 Is a' your love but art ? 
 
 COME HAME TO YOUR LINGALS. 
 
 Come hame to your lingals, ye ne'er-do-weel loon, 
 Ye're the king o' the dyvors, the tauk o' the town; 
 As often 's the Munonday morning comes in, 
 Your wearifu' daedling again maun begin. 
 Gudewife, ye're a skiUet, your tongue's just a bell. 
 To the peace o' gude fellows, it rings the death-kneU. 
 But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill. 
 The souter shall aye hae his Munonday's yill. 
 
 BUAVE LEWIE EOY WAS THE FLOW'R, &c. 
 
 Brave Lewie Roy was the flow'r of our highlandmen. 
 
 Tail as the oak on the lofty Benvoirluch, 
 Fleet as the light-bounding tenants of FUlan-glen, 
 
 Dearer than life to his lovely Neen-voiueh ; 
 Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding, 
 
 When forc'd to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie, 
 Tho' manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless. 
 
 Away from the lady he aye lov'd so dearly. 
 
 I'LL LAY ME ON THE WINTRY LEE. 
 
 I'll lay me on the wintry lee, 
 And sleep amidst the wind and weet, 
 
 And ere another's bride I be, 
 
 bring to me my winding sheet ! 
 
LXXVI. 
 
 What can a hapless lassie, do, 
 
 When ilka friend wad prove her foe, 
 
 Wad gar her break her dearest vow, 
 To wed wi' ane she canna' lo'e ? 
 
 FAITHLESS NANNIE. 
 
 FuU eighteen summers up life's brae, 
 
 I speeded on fu' canny, O, 
 Till sleeky love threw in my way. 
 
 Young, bonnie fair-hair'd Nannie 0. 
 I woo'd her soon, I wan her syne. 
 
 Our vows o' love were mony 0, 
 And, what happy days were mine, 
 
 Wi' bonnie fair-hair'd Nannie O. 
 
 AND WAR YE AT DUNTOCHER BURN. 
 
 And war ye at Duntooher bum, 
 
 And did ye see them a', man ! 
 And how's my wifle and the bairns ? 
 
 I ha'e been lang awa, man. 
 This hedger wark's a weary trade, 
 
 It doesna suit ava, man, 
 Wi' lanely house, and lanely bed, 
 
 My comforts are but sma, man. 
 
 THOU CAULD GLOOMY PEBERWAR. 
 
 Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar, 
 
 gin thou wert awa', 
 I'm wae to hear thy sughing winds, 
 
 I'm wae to see thy snaw. 
 For my bonnie brave young Highlander, 
 
 The lad I lo'e sae dear, 
 Has vow'd to come and see me. 
 
 In the spring o' the year. 
 
 O HOW COULD YE GANG SAE TO GRIEVE ME. 
 
 how can ye gang, lassie, how can ye gang, 
 
 how can ye gang sae to grieve me ? 
 Wi' your beauty and your art, ye hae broken my heart, 
 
 For I never, never dreamt ye wad leave me ! 
 
LXXVII. 
 
 MEG 0' THE GLEN. 
 
 Meg o' the glen set a£f to the fair, 
 
 Wi' ruffles and ribbons, and meikle prepare, 
 
 Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht, . 
 
 For a' the lang way for a wooer she aicht ; 
 
 She spak' to the lads, but the lads slippet by, 
 
 She spak' to the lassies, the lassies were shy. 
 
 She thought she might do, but she didna weel ken, 
 
 For nane seemed to care for poor Meg o' the glen. 
 
 NOW MARION DEY YOUR TEARFU' E'E. 
 
 Now Marion dry your tearfu' e'e, 
 
 Gae break your rock in twa. 
 For soon your gallant sons yell see, 
 
 Returned in safety a'. 
 wow, gudeman, my heart is fain I 
 And shall I see my bairns again ? 
 A' seated round our aiu hearthstane, 
 
 Nae mair to gang awa 1 
 
 DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATY. 
 
 Davie Tullooh's bonnie Katy, 
 Davie's bonnie blythsome Katy, 
 
 Tarn the laird cam' down yestreen. 
 He socht her love, but gat her pity. 
 
 Wi' trembling grip he squeez'd her hand. 
 While his aiild heart gae'd pitty-patty. 
 
 Aye he thought his gear and land 
 Wad vrin the love o' bonnie Katy ; 
 
 Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katy, 
 Davie's bonnie blythsome Katy, 
 
 Aye she smU'd as Davie wil'd, 
 Her smile wag scorn, yet mixt wi' pity. 
 
 KISSED YESTREEN. 
 
 The lassies a' leugh, and the carlin flate. 
 But Maggie was sitten fu' owrie and blate. 
 The auld siUy gawky, she couldna contain 
 How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen, 
 l2 
 
Lxxvni. 
 
 Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen, 
 
 How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen. 
 
 She blether'd it round to her fae and her friend. 
 
 How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen. 
 
 HEY DONALD, HOW DONALD. 
 
 Tho' simmer smiles on bank and brae, 
 And nature bids the heart be gay. 
 Yet a' the joys o' flow'ry May, 
 
 Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me. 
 Hey Donald, how Donald ! 
 Think upon your vow, Donald — 
 Mind the heather knowe, Donald, 
 
 Whare ye vow'd to love me. 
 
 KITTY O'CARROL. 
 
 Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud to be sure, 
 As if there was never such beauty before. 
 But, ere I got wedded to old Thady More, 
 I had dozens of wooers each night at my door. 
 With their, Och dear ! will you marry me, 
 Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul ! 
 
 MY DAYS HAE FLOWN WI' GLEESOME SPEED. 
 
 My days hae flown wi' gleesome speed. 
 
 Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind, 
 Sae happy in my rural reed, 
 
 I lilted every care behind ; 
 I've whiles been vext, and sair perplext. 
 
 When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy, 
 But, like glide John O'Badenyon, 
 
 I crun'd my hit, and car'd na by. 
 
 THE BANKS OF SPEY. 
 
 Scenes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you, 
 Wing'd with rude storms, tho' the winter assails you, 
 Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet hae charms to cheer me, 
 For here amidst my native hills, my bonnie lassie's near me ; 
 'Tis sad to see the withered lea, the drumly flooded fountain. 
 The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps themoorand mountain; 
 But frae the surly swelling blast, dear lassie, I'll defend her. 
 And frae the bonnie banks of Spey I never more shall wander. 
 
THE 
 
 — <»<so j^ cyifxp" 
 
 GLEN-ORRA. 
 
 THE gale is high, the bark is light, 
 
 Swiftly it glides the dark sea over. 
 Why bear, ye waves, so base a freight, 
 
 Why waft, ye winds, a vagrant lover. 
 Wake, artless maid, thy dream is o'er. 
 
 No bright'ning hope can gild the morrow, 
 Thy lover hails a distant shore. 
 
 Nor thinks of thee far in Glen-Orra. 
 
 The moon is up, the maiden's gone. 
 Where flower and tree the night dews cover, 
 
 To weep by mountain streamlet lone, 
 O'er perjur'd vows of faithless lover. 
 K 
 
Turn, faitlileBS wretch, seek Orra's wild. 
 To rapture raise the maiden's sorrow, 
 
 Ah ! see where love so lately smil'd, 
 Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra. 
 
 The moon hangs pale o'er Orra's steep. 
 
 And lists a hapless maiden sighing, 
 The sullen night-winds, cavem'd sleep, 
 
 As loath to rave o'er maiden dying. 
 The hue of death has blench'd the lip, 
 
 The rosy cheek is pale with sorrow. 
 Ere morn, death's chilly hand shall nip 
 
 The loveliest flower in green Glen-Orra, 
 
 LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 
 
 AIR—" Cadil gu lo." 
 
 O slumber, my darling, thy sire is a knight. 
 
 Thy mother a lady so lovely and bright, 
 
 The hills and the dales from the tow'rs which we see, 
 
 They all shall belong, my dear infant, to thee. 
 
 O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day, 
 O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may. 
 
O fear not the bugle, tho' loudly it blows, 
 
 It calls but the wardens that guard thy repose, 
 
 Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, 
 
 Ere the foot of a foeman drew near to thy bed. 
 
 Then rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day. 
 Then rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may. 
 
 O slumber, my darling, the time it may come. 
 When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum, 
 Then hush thee, dear baby, take rest will you may. 
 For strife comes with manhood as light comes with day, 
 O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day, 
 O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.* 
 
 Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried. 
 
 Not a soldier discharged hia farewell shot. 
 O'er the grave where our hero was buried. 
 
 * We have not been able to obtain any information who it was that wrote 
 this poetical elegy, nor are there any traces which afford room for conjecture. 
 It appeared at first in several of the public newspapers, from whence it was 
 copied into Slack-wood's Magazine for the month of June, 1817. The affair, 
 however, to which it refers, and the distinguished person whom it so justly 
 
"We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning, 
 
 By the struggling moon-beams' misty light 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
 Nor in sheets nor in shrouds we bound him, 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow. 
 
 But we stedfastly gaz'd on the face of the dead, 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 comineinorates, are subjects too well known to require from us any circum- 
 stantial detail. They stand high on the roll of national distinction and 
 achievements. Their importance and their renown have both been warmly 
 recognized by the celebrations and the reverence of the public in general. The 
 illustrious commander, in particular, who fell a victim in the contest, lies 
 entombed in the recollections of his generous countrymen, and his memory, 
 no doubt, wiU descend with undiminished lustre for the admiration and the 
 example of ages to come. 
 
 Lieutenant General Sir John Moore was son to the celebrated Dr. 
 Moore of Glasgow, and was bom there in the month of November, 1761. 
 He attached himself early to the profession of arms, and the whole course 
 of his superior distinguished career showed how happy he had been in the 
 choice which he had made. In the active discharge of his military duty, 
 he visited the West Indies, Corsica, Holland, Ireland, and Egypt, and 
 when the expedition to Spain was first meditated, his extensive and very 
 eminent services recommended him as the fittest person to command in the 
 undertaking. Here it was, on the 16th of January, 1809, while engaged at 
 Corunna, and with victory hovering around his standard, that he fell by a 
 shot from the enemy's batteries. With a bravery worthy the most romantic 
 heroism, he sustained his hard but honourable fate, and shortly after, with- 
 
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, 
 
 And smooth'd down his lowly pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread on his head, 
 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, 
 
 But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on, 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock told the hour for retiring, 
 
 And we heard by the distant and random gun. 
 That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 out a struggle, lie breathed his last, having been previously assured of the 
 defeat of the French, and expressing his great happiness at the advantage 
 which his men had so gaUantly obtained. 
 
 An occurrence so solemn, so mournful, and so eventful, the very recital 
 of which thrills the soul with the most varied emotions, was a theme in 
 every view highly respectable, and worthy to awaken the feelings and song 
 of the bard. The tribute of poetical celebration and applause has ever 
 been courted by men of eminence in every department, but the illustrious 
 in war have always preferred particular claims to the enviable distinction, 
 and to them, accordingly, in all ages, it has been most liberally expressed. 
 
 In no unmeaning or trifling references, however, which too frequently 
 jiervade productions of a similar kind, does the piece before us in the least 
 indulge. It is dedicated solely to that concluding but painful scene which 
 finishes for ever all the active duties of the living to the dead. With a 
 tenderness and simplicity properly suited to the occasion, it describes the 
 time and manner of entombment, w^hile the sensations and the fears are 
 pathetically unfolded, which occupied the minds of the sorrowful attendants, 
 ** as they bitterly thought on the morrow." Nor can we forbear remarking 
 how happily and how energetically the author concludes. With impres- 
 sions solemnized by the importance of the moment, when the earth was 
 
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 Prom the field of his fame, fresh and gory, 
 
 We carv'd not a line, we rais'd not a stone, 
 But we left him alone in his glory. 
 
 THOU ART NOT FALSE. 
 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought ; 
 
 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 
 
 Too well thou lov'st — ^too soon thou leavest. 
 
 The wholly false the heart despises, 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
 
 to receive and for ever conceal the sacred remains of the illustrious chief, 
 our poet movingly expresses the sorrow of the troops, as displayed even 
 in the very act of consignment, " Slowly and sadly they laid him down." 
 He adverts, in a highly descriptive strain, to the martial state in which the 
 hero was hurled, " From the field of his fame fresh and gory," and by a 
 single but comprehensively significant line, he describes him as ** Left 
 alone in his glory." [Of course the authorship of these verses is now known 
 to every one. They give poetical immortality to the name of Wolfe. — Editor, 
 1872.] 
 
But she who not a thought disguises, 
 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
 When she can change who loved so truly. 
 It feela what mine has felt so newly. 
 
 To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
 Is doomed to all who love or Kve ; 
 
 And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive, 
 
 That cheated us in slumber only. 
 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely. 
 
 What must they feel whom no false vision, 
 But truest, tenderest passion warmed 1 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 
 As if a dream alone had charmed ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming. 
 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming ? 
 
 TWINE WEEL THE PLAIDEN. 
 
 Oh ! I hae lost my silken snood. 
 That tied ray hair sae yellow ; 
 
I've gi'en my heart to the lad I loe'd, 
 He was a gallant fellow. 
 
 Then twine it weel, my bonny dow, 
 
 And twine it well, the plaiden ; 
 The lassie lost her silken snood 
 In pu'ing of the bracken. 
 
 He prais'd my een sae bonny blue, 
 Sae lily white my skin, O ; 
 
 And syne he prie'd my bonny mou'. 
 And sware it was nae sin, O. 
 Then twine it weel, &c. 
 
 But he has left the lass he loo'd, 
 
 His ain true love forsaken. 
 Which gars me sair to greet the snood, 
 
 I lost amang the bracken. 
 Then twine it weel, &c. 
 
 SONG TO MARGARET. 
 
 In summer when nature her mantle displays. 
 
 Of the richest and loveliest hue. 
 How pleasant, at evening, on Cartha's green banks. 
 
 To wander, dear Margaret, with you. 
 
How sweet 'tis to look at the red blushing cloud, 
 And smile of the azure blue sky, 
 
 But sweeter, far sweeter, the blush on thy cheek, 
 And sweeter the smile of thine eye. 
 
 And when in the bosom of ocean the sun 
 Has sunk for a time from the view, 
 
 StiU lovely the scene, when by moonlight beheld, 
 Of a soft and a silvery hue. 
 
 But what are the richest and loveliest scenes, 
 
 ■That nature or art can display. 
 If wanting my Margaret, nor art can excel. 
 
 Nor summer itself can look gay. 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, 
 And hear a helpless orphan's tale ! 
 Oh ! sure my looks must pity wake, — 
 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. 
 Yet I was once a mother's pride, 
 And my brave father's hope and joy ; 
 But in the Nile's proud fight he died, 
 And now I am an Orphan Boy. 
 
 L 
 
10 
 
 Poor foolish child ! how pleased was I 
 When news of Nelson's vict'ry came, 
 Along the crowded streets to fly, 
 And see the lighted windows flame ! 
 To force me home my mother sought ; 
 She could not bear to see my joy ; 
 For with my father's life 'twas bought, 
 And made me a poor Orphan Boy. 
 
 The people's shouts were long and loud ; 
 My mother, shuddering, stopp'd her ears ; 
 "Rejoice ! Rejoice ! " still cried the crowd. 
 My mother answered with her tears. 
 "Why are you crying thus,'' said I, 
 " While others laugh and shout with joy ? " 
 She kissed me — and, with such a sigh ! 
 She called me her poor Orphan Boy. 
 
 " What is an orphan boy ? " I cried, 
 As in her face I look'd and smil'd ; 
 My mother through her tears replied, 
 " You'U know too soon, iU-fated child ! " 
 And now they've toU'd my mother's knell. 
 And I'm no more a parent's joy. 
 O Lady — I have leam'd too well 
 What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy. 
 
 Oh ! were I by your bounty fed ! 
 Nay, gentle lady, do not chide, — 
 
11 
 
 Trust me, I wish to earn my bread ; 
 The sailor's orphan boy has pride. 
 Lady, yon weep ! — ha ! — ^thia to me ? 
 You'll give me clothing, food, employ ?— 
 Look down, dear parents ! look and see 
 Your happy, happy Orphan Boy. 
 
 THE BATTLE OP BUSACO.* 
 
 AIR. — " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled.' 
 
 Beyond Buaaco's mountains dun, 
 When far had roll'd the sultry sun, 
 And night her pall of gloom had thrown. 
 
 O'er nature's still convexity ; 
 High on tlie heath our tents were spread, 
 The cold turf was our cheerless bed, 
 And o'er the hero's dew-chill'd head, 
 
 The banners flapp'd incessantly. 
 
 "^ We are not prepared at present with certainty to af&rm who may 
 have been the author of this excellent song. Were we, however, to hazard 
 a conjecture, we would ascribe it to the pen of Mr. J. Hogg, more gener^y 
 known by the familiar appellation of "The Ettrick Shepherd." To this 
 we are induced both from the internal evidence which the piece itself 
 exhibits, and by its appearance first of all in the Spy, a periodical work 
 published in Edinburgh, of which Mr. Hogg was himself the Editor. 
 
12 
 
 The loud war trumpet woke the mom. 
 The quivering drum, the pealing horn, 
 From rank to rank the cry is borne, 
 
 Arouse for death or victory ; 
 The orb of day in crimson dye. 
 Began to mount the morning sky, 
 Then what a scene for warrior's eye, 
 
 Hung on the bold declivity. 
 
 The serried bay'nets glittering stood, 
 Like icicles on hills of blood, 
 An aerial stream, a silver wood, 
 
 Reel'd in the flickering canopy. 
 Like waves of ocean rolling fast, 
 Or thunder cloud before the blast, 
 Massena's legions, stem and vast, 
 Bush'd to the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Whoever may have been the author, The Battle of Busaco is a song 
 of considerable merit, and undoubtedly the production of a master in 
 poetry. It is evidently done in the style of Mr. Campbell's Bohmlinden, 
 and though the imitation must be acknowledged to be in some .respects 
 inferior to the model, yet still it possesses particular, nay even distinguished, 
 excellence in its kind. By a variety of bold picturesque allusions, expressed 
 by terms most appropriate and impressive, the poet introduces, describes, 
 and concludes the interesting scenes of action, of contest, and of death. 
 With a concern which it is utterly impossible to suppress, we hear the 
 awfully comprehensive signal to engage, "Arouse for death or victory." 
 In harsh grating sounds, which enter the very soul, we are informed of legions 
 " Rushing to the dreadful revelry," while the poet in a manner highly sig- 
 nificant, personifies " Red Ruin riding triumphantly." The whole, in fact, is 
 a highly finished effusion, eminently calculated to commemorate the affair to 
 which it refers, and by its impulse to rouse the undaunted and heroic to the 
 boldest " Feats of chivalry." 
 
13 
 
 The pause ia o'er, the fatal shock, 
 A thousand thousand thunders woke. 
 The air grows sick, the mountains rock, 
 
 Red ruin rides triumphantly ; 
 Light boU'd the war cloud to the sky. 
 In phantom towers and columns high. 
 But dark and dense their bases lie, 
 
 Prone on the battle's boundary. 
 
 The thistle wav'd her bonnet blue, 
 The harp her wildest war notes threw. 
 The red rose gain'd a fresher hue, 
 
 Busaco, in thy heraldry ; 
 Hail, gallant brothers ! woe befal 
 The foe that braves thy triple wall. 
 Thy sons, O wretched Portugal, 
 
 Rous'd at their feats of chivalry. 
 
 ELIZA. 
 
 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom. 
 Which earth's lonely bounds now enshrouds. 
 
 No star sparkles bright, and retir'd is the moon 
 From her sentinel-watch in the clouds. 
 
14 
 
 Where now are the flowers that embroider'd the vale, 
 And the hills which yon hamlet enclos'd, 
 
 And where are the wild woods that wav'd in the gale, 
 On whose tops the dark ravens repos'd ? 
 
 For a moment they're hid, but soon shall the veil 
 Which o'ershadows them vanish away ! 
 
 With the dawning of mom their return I shall hail, 
 And their beauty again I'll survey. 
 
 But where are the thoughts that once gladden'd my heart, 
 And the hopes I so fondly have cherish'd ; 
 
 And where are the visions which blissful did start ? 
 Alas ! they for ever are perish'd. 
 
 Yes, for ever ! — no more shall Eliza's bright eye. 
 The sun of my soul, shed its light ; 
 
 Its heaven-bom lustre has fled in a sigh. 
 And left my sad bosom in night. 
 
15 
 
 LINES, 
 
 In imitation of the Italian. 
 
 Love under friendship's vesture white, 
 Laughs, his little limbs concealing, — 
 And oft in sport and oft in spite, 
 Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, 
 Smiles through his tears revealing. 
 But now as Rage the god appears ! 
 He frowns, and tempests shake his frame ! 
 Frowning, or smiling, or in tears, 
 'Tis Love — and love is stUl the same. 
 
 THE WISH. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
 A willowy brook that turns a miU 
 With many a fall, shall linger near. 
 
20 
 
 Benign restorer of the soul ! 
 
 Who ever fly'st to bring relief, 
 When first we feel the rude oontroul 
 
 Of love or pity, joy or grief. 
 
 The sages' and the poet's theme, 
 In every cUme, in every age; 
 
 Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream — 
 In Reason's philosophic page. 
 
 That very law * which moulds a tear, 
 And bids it trickle from its source, 
 
 That source preserves the earth a sphere. 
 And guides the planets in their course. 
 
 theme of their song — ^properly alive to its importance and to its influence, 
 and highly qualified for the execution of the design, have so feelingly 
 collected, arranged, and embeUished their respective suhjects, that there is 
 little chance left for any future successful competition. 
 
 * The law of gravitation. 
 
16 
 
 The swallow oft beneath my thatch, 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest — 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivy'd porch shall spring 
 Each fra^ant flower that drinks the dew, 
 And Lucy at her wheel shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village church among the trees, 
 Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n, 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
 And point with taper spire to heav'n. 
 
 AN ITALIAN SONG. 
 
 Dear is my little native vale ; 
 
 The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 
 
 Close by my cot she tells her tale 
 
 To every passing villager. 
 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree 
 And shells his nuts at liberty. 
 
 In orange groves and myrtle bowers. 
 That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
 
17 
 
 I charm the fairy-footed hours 
 With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 
 Or crowns of living laurel weave 
 For those that win the race at eve. 
 
 The shepherd's horn at break of day— 
 The ballet dano'd in twilight glade — 
 The canzonet and roundelay 
 Sung in the silent green-wood shade. 
 These simple joys, that never fail, 
 Shall bind me to my native vale. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 Once more, enchanting girl, adieu ! 
 
 I must begone while yet I may. 
 Oft shall I weep to think of you! 
 
 But here I will not, cannot stay. 
 
 The sweet expression of that face, 
 For ever changing, yet the same. 
 
 Ah no ! I dare not turn to trace. 
 It melts my soul, it fires my frame! 
 
18 
 
 Yet give me, give me, ere I go, 
 One little lock of these so blest. 
 
 That lend your cheek a warmer glow, 
 And on your white neck love to rest. 
 
 Say, when to kindle soft delight, 
 
 That hand has chanced with mine to meet, 
 How could its thrilling touch excite 
 
 A sigh so short, and yet so sweet ? 
 
 say — but no, it must not be — 
 Adieu ! a long, a long adieu ! — 
 
 Yet still, methinks, you frown on me, 
 Or never could I fly from you. 
 
 ON A TEAR.* 
 
 Oh! that the chemist's magic art 
 
 Could crystallize this secret treasure ! 
 
 Long should it glitter near my heart, 
 A secret source of pensive pleasure. 
 
 * This beautiful little song, and likewise the four which immediately 
 precede it, are taken from the compositions of Samuel Rogers, Esq., Banker, 
 London. Besides these, and several others of a similar nature, he is the 
 
19 
 
 The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
 
 Ita lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 
 
 Then, trembling, left ita coral cell — 
 The apring of aensibility ! 
 
 Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 
 
 In thee the raya of virtue ahine; 
 More calmly clear, more mildly bright. 
 
 Than any gem that gilds the mine. 
 
 author of the Voyage, of CoCniiibus, and of the well known production 
 entitled the Pleasures of Memory. These are all exceedingly interesting 
 and beautiful in their kind, heing calcuhited to improve while they amuse 
 and delight. They exhibit to us, in a very emment degree, that power of 
 invention and refinement of feeling, seconded by a certain feUcity of expres- 
 sion, which, whatever may be his subject, form the necessary and distinctive 
 qualifications of the poetic character. 
 
 Of all the performances of Mr. R. the first place is cei-tainly due to 
 his Pleasures of Memory. It is, perhaps, the only exhibition of its kind, 
 whose intrinsic excellence, without suffering any perceptible deterioration, 
 can sustain a critical comparison with the Pleasures of Hope. Botli 
 poets indeed appear to have been peculiarly happy in the choice of their 
 subject, as each has distinguished himself with unrivalled success. They 
 have depicted in a truly poetical style, scenes which, though equally remote 
 from the present, are not, on that account, less interesting or important. 
 Abstracting us for the moment from the particxilar periods of life at which 
 we may have arrived,— from the peculiar situations in which we may for the 
 time be placed, and from the varied emotions which these necessarily inspire, 
 they both most forcibly direct our attention to the days and to the enjoyments 
 of other years. With all the glowing sensibility of fancy and of hope, the 
 one hurries us forward through the regions both of probability and of wish, 
 while the other, with a fascinating but persuasive sweetness, makes us 
 re-act and re-feel what wc may have long ago entirely forgot. The one in 
 the spirit of a fondly fostered child, delights to recollect and to dwell upon 
 the caresses it haa formerly enjoyed ; the other still throbbing, and full of 
 the injuries of his past life, gladly escapes into uncertain futurity, anxiously 
 soliciting amelioratifin and redress. In shoi-t, both poets, pregnant with the 
 
21 
 
 THE WBAKY FUND 0' TOW. 
 
 The tveary pund, the weary pund, 
 The wea/ry pund o' tow ; 
 
 I thmk my wife mil end her life, 
 Before she spin her tow. 
 
 I bought my wife a stane o' lint, 
 As gude as e'er did grow ; 
 
 And a' that she has made o' that, 
 Is ae poor pund o' tow. 
 
 The weary pund, die. 
 
 There sat a bottle in a bole, 
 
 Beyont the ingle low ; 
 And aye she took the tither souk, 
 
 To drouk the stowrie tow. 
 
 The wea/ry pwnd, dec. 
 
 Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 
 Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
 
 She took the rock, and wi' a knock, 
 She brak it owre my pow. 
 
 The wea/ry pund o' tow, dr. 
 
22 
 
 At laat her feet, I sang to see't, 
 Gaed foremost owre the knowe; 
 
 And or I wed anither jade, 
 I'll wallop in a tow. 
 
 The weary pxmd o' tow, dec. 
 
 MORNA. 
 
 Her hair was like the Cromla mist. 
 When evening sun beams from the west, 
 
 Bright was the eye of Morna. 
 When beauty wept the warrior's fall, 
 Then lone and dark was Fingal's hall, 
 
 Sad was the lovely Morna. 
 
 O lovely were the blue-ey'd maids, 
 That sung peace to the warrior's shade, 
 
 But none so fair as Morna. 
 Her hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake. 
 That wav'd beside dark Orma's lake, 
 
 Where wander'd lovely Morna. 
 
 Sad was the hoary minstrel V song, 
 That died the rustling heath among, 
 Where sat the lovely Morna. 
 
23 
 
 It slumber'd on the placid wave, 
 
 It echo'd thro' the warrior's cave, 
 
 And sigh'd again to Moma. 
 
 The hero's plumes were lowly laid ; 
 In Fingal's hall each blue-ey'd maid 
 
 Sung peace and rest to Moma. 
 The harp's wild strain was past and gone. 
 No more it whisper'd to the moan 
 
 Of lovely dying Moma. 
 
 LASS WI' A LUMP OF LAND. 
 
 Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land, 
 
 And we for life shall gang thegither, 
 Tho' daft or wise I'll ne'er demand, 
 
 Or black or fair, it maksna whether. 
 I'm aff wi' wit, and beauty will fade. 
 
 And blude alane is no worth a shilling, 
 But she that's rich, her market's made, 
 
 For ilka charm about her is killing. 
 
24 
 
 Gi'e me a lass wi' a lump o' land, 
 
 Aiid in my bosom I'll hug my treasure ; 
 Gin I had anoe her gear in my hand, 
 
 Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. 
 Laugh on who likes, but there's my hand, 
 
 I hate wi' poortith, the' bonny, to meddle. 
 Unless they bring cash, or a lump o' land, 
 
 They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle. 
 
 There's meikle good love in bands and bags, 
 
 And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion ; 
 But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags, 
 
 Hae tint the art of gaining aflfection ; 
 Love tips his arrows wi' woods and parks, 
 
 And castles and rigs, and moors and meadows, 
 And naething can catch our modern sparks 
 
 But weel tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows. 
 
25 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 LOUD ROAR'D.THE TEMPEST. 
 
 AIR. — " The moon was a-waning." 
 
 Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending, 
 Alone to the beach was the fair maiden wending, 
 She eyed the dark wave thro' its light foaming cover, 
 And chiU grew her heart as she thought on her lover. 
 
 Long has she wander'd, her maiden heart fearing; 
 Wild rolls her eye but no bark is appearing, 
 No kind star of light thro' the dark sky is beaming, 
 And far is the cliflf where the beacon is gleaming. 
 
 Li vain for thy love the beacon flame's burning, 
 And vain is thy gaae to descry him returning ; 
 No longer he strives 'gainst the billows' rude motion. 
 For heavy they roll o'er his bed of the ocean. 
 
 " Ah ! where is my child gone, long does she tarry." 
 Fond mother, forbear, thou'rt not heard by thy Mary, 
 For sound is her sleep on the dark weedy pillow — 
 Her bed the cold sand, and her sheet the rude billow. 
 
20 
 
 SONG OF A HmDUSTANNI GIKL.* 
 
 'Tis thy will, and I must leave thee, 
 
 then, best-belov'd, farewell ! 
 
 1 forbear, lest I should grieve thee. 
 Half my heartfelt pangs to tell. 
 Soon a British fair will charm thee, 
 Thou her smiles wilt fondly woo ; 
 But though she to rapture warm thee, 
 Don't forget thy Pook Hindoo. 
 
 * The following circumstance, we understand, gave occasion to this 
 singularly interesting production. Among the other inmates of a British 
 residence in India, was a Hindustanni girl, distinguished both for her refine- 
 ment and sensibility, and who had conceived for her master a very tender 
 affection. Notwithstanding her particular attachment and attention, how- 
 ever, her best-beloved, it seems, had courted and was about to marry a 
 lady belonging to his own country. Amid many other necessary airange- 
 ments for the reception of his intended and elegant bride, the gentleman 
 judged it proper now to get rid of his poor Hindoo, and accordingly sent her 
 a considerable way up into the country. 
 
 As they were in the act of removing her from the only object of her 
 sincere regard, she was observed to indulge her agonized feelings by singing 
 a plaintive but most harmonious strain, which she had evidently composed 
 for the mournful occasion. Some time afterwards, this melody was com- 
 municated to tiie celebrated Mrs. Opie, for the purpose of suiting it with 
 appropriate words. How well she has succeeded may easily be inferred, 
 even from a cursory perusal of the preceding song, which we may safely 
 af&rm cannot fail to interest every reader who possesses the least spark of 
 sensibility 
 
Well I know this happy beauty, 
 Soon thine envied bride will shine ; 
 But win she by anxious duty 
 Prove a passion warm as mine ? 
 If to rule be her ambition, 
 And her own desires pursue, 
 Thou'lt reoal my fond submission, 
 And regret thy Poor Hindoo. 
 
 Born herself to rank and splendour. 
 Will she deign to wait on thee, 
 And those soft attentions render. 
 Thou so oft has praised in me 2 
 Yet, why doubt her care to please thee 1 
 Thou must every heart subdue ; 
 I am sure each maid that sees thee 
 Loves thee like thy Poor Hindoo. 
 
 No, ah ! no ! — though from thee parted. 
 Other maids wiU peace obtain ; 
 But thy Lola, broken-hearted. 
 Ne'er, oh ! ne'er, will smile again. 
 O how fast from thee they tear me ! 
 Faster still shall death pursue : 
 But 'tis well — death will endear me', 
 And thou'lt mourn thy Poor Hindoo. 
 
28 
 
 SONG TO LOVE. 
 
 Sweet was ycm note to fancy's ear. 
 That died upon the gale, 
 
 Yet sweeter far, in grove remote. 
 To breathe the am'rous tale. 
 
 The maid, in blushes, owns the truth 
 
 She labours to conceal. 
 The panting breast, the averted eye — 
 
 What more can she reveal — 
 
 Then spare, fond youth, in pity spare. 
 
 Nor urge your suit again. 
 Why need her lips that word declare. 
 
 Which looks have made so plain. 
 
29 
 
 JOHN 0' BADENYON. 
 
 When first I came to be a man 
 
 Of twenty years or so, 
 I thought myseK a handsome youth, 
 
 And fain the world would know ; 
 In best attire I stepp'd abroad, 
 
 With spirits brisk and gay. 
 And here and there and every where 
 
 Was like a mom in May ; 
 No care I had nor fear of want, 
 
 But rambled up and down, 
 And for a beau I might have pass'd 
 
 In country or in town ; 
 I still was pleased where'er I went, 
 
 And when I was alone, 
 I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd mysel' 
 
 Wi' John o' Badenyon. 
 
 Now in the days of youthful prime 
 
 A mistress I must find. 
 For love, I heard, gave one an air, 
 
 And even improv'd the mind. 
 On PhiUis fair, above the rest, 
 
 Kind fortune fix'd my eyes. 
 
30 
 
 Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 
 
 And she became my choice ; 
 To Cupid now, with hearty prayer, 
 
 I offered many a vow, 
 And danc'd and sang, and sigh'd and swore. 
 
 As other lovers do ; 
 But when at last I breath'd my flame, 
 
 I found her cold as stone ; 
 I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 When love had thus my heart beguil'd 
 
 With fooUsh hopes and vain. 
 To friendship's port I steer'd my course, 
 
 And laugh'd at lover's pain; 
 A friend I got, by lucky chance, 
 
 'Twas something like divine, 
 An honest friend's a precious gift, 
 
 And such a gift was mine ; 
 And now, whatever might betide, 
 
 A happy man was I, 
 In any strait I knew to whom 
 
 I freely might apply. 
 A strait soon came — my friend I try'd ; 
 
 He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 
 I hied me home, and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 Methought I should be wiser next, 
 And would a patriot turn. 
 
31 
 
 Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes, 
 
 And cry up parson Home; 
 Their manly spirit I admir'd, 
 
 And prais'd their noble zeal, 
 Who had, with flaming tongue and pen, 
 
 Maintain'd the public weal ; 
 But ere a month or two had past, 
 
 I found myself betray 'd, 
 'Twas seK and party after all, 
 
 For all the stir they made. 
 At last I saw the factious knaves 
 
 Insult the very throne, 
 I curs'd them a', and tun'd ray pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 What next to do, I mus'd awhile. 
 
 Still hoping to succeed, 
 I pitch'd on books for company. 
 
 And gravely tried to read : 
 I bought and borrow'd every where, 
 
 And studied night and day, 
 Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote 
 
 That happen'd in my way. 
 Philosophy I now esteem'd 
 
 The ornament of youth. 
 And carefully, through many a page, 
 
 I hunted after truth. 
 A thousand various schemes I tried, 
 
 And yet was pleas'd with none, 
 I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
32 
 
 And now, ye youngsters every where, 
 
 That wish to make a show. 
 Take heed in time, nor fondly hope. 
 
 For happiness below ; 
 What you may fancy pleasure here. 
 
 Is but an empty name, 
 And girls, and friends, and books, and so, 
 
 You'll find them all the same. 
 Then be advis'd and warning take 
 
 From such a man as me ; 
 I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal 
 
 Nor one of high degree ; 
 You'll meet displeasure every where; 
 
 Then do as I have done, 
 Even tune your pipe, and please yourselves, 
 
 With John o' Badenyon. 
 
 MARY OF BUTTERMERE.* 
 
 In Buttermere's woods and wilds among, 
 A floweret blossom'd, and fair it grew ; 
 
 'Twas pure as the brook that rippl'd along, 
 Or the pearly drops of the morning dew. 
 
 '* This song refers to the unfortunate Mary Robinson, better known by 
 t]ie name of Mary of Buttermere. 
 
33 
 
 It sweetly smil'd in its native bower, 
 
 But a cold blast came like the wintry air, 
 
 Which nipt this sweet and enchanting flower, 
 The lovely Mary of Buttermere. 
 
 O ! sweet was the hour^ that like morning clear, 
 
 Rose on this gem so pure and bright. 
 But saw it steep'd in deep sorrow's tear. 
 
 To wither amid the shades of night. 
 Hope fled from the cheek of roseate hue, 
 
 And the lily pale now languish'd there. 
 And dim look'd the eye, of heavenly blue, 
 
 Of the lovely Mary of Buttermere. 
 
 For there was a charm, and a witching speU, 
 
 That stole her guileless heart away ; 
 She lov'd, but, alas ! she lov'd too well, 
 
 And felt a flame that could ne'er decay. 
 Now wandering the wild, unseen, unknown. 
 
 Her sigh is the sigh of sad despair, — 
 Like the blighted flower in its bower alone. 
 
 Is the lovely Mary of Buttermere. 
 
34 
 
 SONG. 
 
 AIR.— " Wlmt ails this heai-t o' mine.' 
 
 Her kiss was soft and sweet, 
 
 Her smiles were free and fain, 
 
 And beaming bright the witching glance 
 
 Of her I thought my ain. 
 
 That kiss has poiaon'd peace, 
 Her smiles have rous'd despair, 
 For kindly tho' her glances be 
 They beam on me nae mair. 
 
 Now lonely's every haunt 
 That I once trode with joy. 
 And dull and dear the sacred grove 
 Where we were wont to toy. 
 
 The rose can please nae mair. 
 
 The lily seems to fade. 
 
 And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang 
 
 That used to cheer the glade. 
 
35 
 
 This bosom once was gay, 
 But now a brow of gloom 
 Pourtraya, in characters of care, 
 That it is pleasure's tomb. 
 
 Yet none shall hear the sigh 
 That struggles to be free, 
 No tear shall trace this sallow cheek. 
 No murmur burst from me. 
 
 Tho' silent be my woe, 
 'Tis not the less severe — 
 Forlorn I brood on former joys 
 To love and mem'ry dear. 
 
 She minds na o' the vowa 
 That seal'd our youthful love, 
 But heaven haa records that will last, 
 My faith and truth to prove. 
 
36 
 
 DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF,* 
 
 Who was executed after the ReT>ellion. 
 
 Son of the mighty and the free, 
 Lov'd leader of the faithful brave. 
 Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee 
 
 To fill a nameless grave ? 
 Oh ! hadst thou slumbered with the slain ; 
 Had glory's death-bed been thy lot. 
 E'en though on red Culloden's plain. 
 
 We then had mourn'd thee not. 
 
 But darkly clos'd thy mom of fame. 
 That morn whose sun-beams rose so fair. 
 Revenge alone may breathe thy name. 
 
 The watch-word of despair ; 
 Yet oh 1 if gallant spirit's power. 
 Has e'er ennobled death like thine, 
 Then glory mark'd thy parting hour. 
 
 Last of a mighty line. 
 
 * This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman on 
 reading, immediately after its first appearance, the well-known work entitled 
 Wa-verley. It was then forwarded to the supposed author, requesting, if he 
 should approve, and, under his correction, that it might be inserted in the 
 future editions of that celebrated novel. The individual, however, to whom 
 it was addressed, being whoUy imconnected with the work referred to, and 
 having no influence to obtain a place for it there, it was judged proper,. 
 
37 
 
 O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls, 
 But cannot cheer their lonely gloom, 
 Those beams that gild thy native walls 
 
 Are sleeping on thy tomb. , 
 Spring on thy mountains laughs the while. 
 Thy green woods wave in vernal air. 
 But the lov'd scenes may vainly smile. 
 
 Not e'en thy dust is there. 
 
 On thy blue hills no bugle sound 
 Is mingled with the torrent's roar, 
 Unmark'd the red deer sport around — 
 
 Thou lead'st the chase no more. 
 Thy gates are clos'd, thy halls are still — 
 Those halls where swell'd the choral strain — 
 They hear the wild waves murmuring shrill, 
 
 And all is hush'd again. 
 
 Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke ; 
 His fire — his joy of song is past ; — 
 One lay to mourn thy fate he woke. 
 
 His saddest and his last. 
 No other theme to him is dear 
 Than lofty deeds of thine ; 
 Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear, 
 
 Last of a mighty line. 
 
 both to preserve the song itself from obhvion, and that the real author of 
 Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to 
 send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work 
 we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will 
 derive that pleasure from its perusal which we conceive it so well calculated 
 to afford. 
 
38 
 
 MONIMIA. 
 
 The bell had toU'd the midnight hour, — 
 Monimia sought the shade, — 
 
 The cheerless yew tree marked the spot 
 Where Leontine was laid. 
 
 With soft and trembling steps, the maid 
 Approaoh'd the drear abode, 
 
 A tear-drop glisten'd on her cheek, 
 And dew'd her lover's sod. 
 
 Cold blew the blast, the yew tree shook. 
 And sigh'd with hollow moan ', 
 
 The wand'ring moon had sunk to rest, 
 And faint the twilight shone. 
 
 Monimia'a cheek grew deadly pale, 
 Dew'd with the tear of sorrow, 
 While oft she press'd her lover's grave. 
 Nor wak'd with dawn of morrow. 
 
39 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE BOAT. 
 
 AIR. — " Jockey's gray breeks." 
 
 Again rejoicing nature sees 
 
 Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
 
 Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
 All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 
 
 And momm I stiU on Menie doat, 
 And bea/r the scorn that's in her e'e .' 
 
 For it's jet, jet black, an' it's lihe a hawk, 
 An' it wvnna let a body be ! 
 
 In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
 In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 
 
 In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
 The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
 
 And maun I still, cbc. 
 
 The merry plowboy cheers his team, 
 Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; 
 
 But life to me's a weary dream, 
 A dream of ane that never wauks. 
 
 And maun I still, &c. 
 
40 
 
 The wanton coot the water skims, 
 Among the reeds the ducklings cry, 
 
 The stately swan majestic swims, 
 And ev'ry thing is blest but I. 
 
 And maun I still, dec. 
 
 The shepherd ateeks his faulding slap. 
 And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, 
 
 Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
 I meet him on the dewy hill. 
 
 And maun I still, &c. 
 
 And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
 Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 
 
 And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
 A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 
 
 And maun I still, &c. 
 
 Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
 And raging bend the naked tree; 
 
 Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
 When nature is all sad like me. 
 
 And maun I still, &c. 
 
41 
 
 THE MINSTREL. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 Silent and sad the minstrel sat, 
 
 And thought on the days of yore ; 
 
 He was old, yet he lov'd his native land, 
 Tho' his harp could charm no more. 
 
 The winds of heaven died away, 
 
 And the moon in the valley slept, 
 
 The minstrel lean'd on his olden harp, 
 And o'er its strains he wept. 
 
 In youth he had stood by the Wallace side. 
 And sung in King Robert's hall, 
 
 When Edward vow'd with his English host 
 Scotland to hold in thrall. 
 
 But the Wallace wight was dead and gone. 
 And Robert was on his death-bed, 
 
 And dark was the hall where the minstrel sung 
 Of chiefs that for Scotia bled. 
 
42 
 
 But oft, as twilight stole o'er the steep, 
 And the woods of his native vale, 
 
 Would the minstrel wake his harp to weep, 
 And sigh to the mountain gale. 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 AIR.— " Ye banks and braes/' &c. 
 
 O fare thee weel, fair Cartha's side. 
 
 For ever, ever fare thee weel ! 
 Upon thy banks I've oft enjoy'd 
 
 What virtuous love alone can feel. 
 With Anna as I fondly stray'd, 
 
 And mark'd the gowan's hamely mien, 
 The vi'let blue, the primrose gay, 
 
 Enrich'd the joyful fairy scene. 
 
 The sun had set, the western clouds 
 Began to lose their radiance bright. 
 
 The mavis' tuneful note was hush'd. 
 And all proclaim'd approaching night ; 
 
43 
 
 Then was the time I fondly pour'd 
 In Anna's ear my ardent tale, 
 
 She blush'd, and oft I fondly thought 
 That love like mine would soon prevail. 
 
 She spoke, she look'd as if she lov'd, 
 
 Yet, ah ! how false was Anna's heart! 
 Tho' heavenly fair her angel form — 
 
 How fraught with guile, how fuU of art! 
 Now far from Anna, far from home. 
 
 By Lugar's stream I sadly mourn ; 
 I think on scenes I still must love. 
 
 On scenes that never can return. 
 
 O fare ye weel, fair Cartha's banks. 
 
 And Anna — O ! — a long fareweel! 
 Nor ever may that pang be thine, 
 
 Which my sad heart so soft doth feel ; 
 But happy, happy may'st thou be, 
 
 By fairy scenes on Cartha's side, 
 And may a better far than me, 
 
 Thro' life be thy true love and guide. 
 
44 
 
 MAID OF ORANSAY. 
 
 Let high Benledi rear ita tap, 
 Crown'd wi' a diadem o' snaw ; 
 Or, at its feet, let hazels drap 
 Their diamonds in the leafy shaw ; 
 Let storms owre wild Benlomond blaw. 
 And chiU the lambs on glen and brae, 
 The storm blaws sweetly, far awa', 
 Amang the braes of Oransay. 
 
 When tempests lash the foaming waves. 
 And a' around is wild and drear, 
 And the wee petterel trembling braves 
 The howling blast, while death is near ; 
 A stranger wiU I be to fear, 
 Tho' Corryvekans* round me play, 
 I'll drap the last, the loneliest tear 
 For the sweet Maid of Oransay. 
 
 O Oransay's a lovely isle. 
 
 It is a paradise to me. 
 
 For there the wildest beauties smile. 
 
 To warm the soul or glad the e'e ; 
 
 * A famous whirlpool not far from Oransay. 
 
45 
 
 Pure is the rapture yet to be, 
 Wlien Peggy gilds my darkening day, 
 And mony a bonny sun I'll see, 
 Grlint cwre the bents of Oransay. 
 
 The dark Atlantic wave may roar 
 
 Around my Isle in noisy pride — 
 
 The mountain surge may sweep the shore. 
 
 And send its thunders far and wide — 
 
 But when I'm nestled by the side 
 
 Of her whom a' my thoughts obey, 
 
 I'U smile at storms, and clasp my bride. 
 
 The lovely Maid of Oransay. 
 
 TIBBY, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
 
 Tibby, I hoe seen the dwy, 
 Ye would na been sae shy ; 
 For laiJc o' gewr ye lightly me. 
 But, trowth, I cwre na by. 
 
 Yestreen I met ye on the moor, 
 Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
 Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
 But fient a hair care I ! 
 Tibby, I hae, &c. 
 
46 
 
 I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
 Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
 That ye can please me at a Tvink, 
 Whene'er ye like to try. 
 
 Tibhy, I hae, (he. 
 
 But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
 Altho' Ms pouch o' coin were clean, 
 Wha foUows ony saucy quean 
 That looks sae proud and high. 
 
 Tilly, I. hae, die. 
 
 Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
 If that he want the yellow dirt, 
 Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
 And answer him fu' dry. 
 
 TMy, I hae, cfcc. 
 
 But if he hae the name o' gear, 
 Ye'U fasten to him like a brier, 
 Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
 Be better than the kye. 
 
 Tilly, I hae, dec. 
 
 But, Tibby, lass, tak my advice: 
 Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice. 
 The de'il a ane wad speir your price. 
 Were ye as poor as I. 
 
 Tihly, I hae, &c. 
 
47 
 
 There lives a lass in yonder park, 
 I wad na gie her in her sark 
 For thee wi' a' thy thousand merk- 
 Ye need na look sae high. 
 
 Tihby, I hoe, Sc. 
 
 O CEASE, YE HOWLING WINDS, TO BLOW. 
 
 O cease, ye howling winds, to blow, 
 In measur'd bounds let ocean flow, 
 For as the billows wildly roll. 
 Anguish most keen o'erwhehns my soul; 
 Go, fell Despair, I seek not thee. 
 Who paints so black things that may be. 
 
 Thro' silent midnight's solenm hour, 
 In horrid dreams I feel thy power. 
 When Terror 'wakening Fancy's rave, 
 I hear the boisterous roaring wave ; 
 My lover's bark, engulph'd I see. 
 And starting, sigh, such things may be. 
 
48 
 
 Come, gentle Hope, assume thy reign, 
 With heavenly smUe to cheer me, deign, 
 Then awful visions quick shall fly, 
 And brighter scenes their place supply, 
 Whilst I adoring, trusting thee, 
 Enraptur'd cry, might such things be. 
 
 TO LAURA. 
 
 Maid of the cold suspicious heart. 
 Oh ! wherefore doubt thy Henry's love 'I 
 Imputing thus to practised art 
 The signs that real passion prove. 
 
 While through the sleepless night I sigh, 
 And jealous fears and anguish own, 
 At morn in restless slumbers lie. 
 Then, languid, rise to muse alone. 
 
 While harmony my soul disdains, 
 And beauties vainly round me shine. 
 Save when I hear thy favourite strains, 
 Or beauties see resembling thine : 
 
49 
 
 While I in fix'd attention gaze, 
 If e'er thou breathe thy plaintive lay, 
 And while, though others loudly praise, 
 I deeply sigh and nothing say : 
 
 While I reject thy offer'd hand, 
 
 And shun the touch which others seek, 
 
 Alone with thee in silence stand. 
 
 Nor dare, though chance befriend me, speak- 
 
 Ah ! Laura, while I thus impart 
 The ardent love in which I pine. 
 While all these symptoms speak my heart. 
 Say, why should doubt inhabit thine ? 
 
 XXXIII, 
 
 MAISUNA.* 
 
 The russet suit of camel's hair. 
 With spirits light, and eye serene. 
 
 Is dearer to my bosom far 
 
 Than all the trappings of a queen. 
 
 * Maisuna was a daughter of the tribe of Calab, and was married whilst 
 very young to tiie Khaliph Mowlah. This exalted situation, however, by no 
 
 Q 
 
50 
 
 The humble tent, and murmuring breeze 
 That whistles thro' its fluttering walls, 
 
 My unaspiring fancy please 
 
 Better than towers and splendid halls. 
 
 The attendant colts that bounding fly, 
 And frolic by the litter's side, 
 
 Are dearer in Maisuna's eye. 
 
 Than gorgeous mules in all their pride. 
 
 The watch-dog's voice that bays, whene'er 
 A stranger seeks his master's cot, 
 
 Sounds sweeter in Maisuna's ear. 
 Than yonder trumpet's long-drawn note. 
 
 The rustic youth, unspoil'd by art. 
 Son of my kindred, poor but free, 
 
 Will ever to Maisuna's heart 
 Be dearer, pamper'd fool, than thee. 
 
 means suited the disposition of Maisuna ; and, amidst aU the pomp and 
 splendour of Damascus, she languished for the simple pleasures of her na- 
 tive desert. 
 
 These feelings gave birth to the preceding simple stanzas, which she took 
 delight in singing, whenever she could find an opportunity to indulge her 
 melancholy in private. — She was overheard one day by Mowiah, who, as a 
 punishment, ordered her to retire from court. — Maisuna immediately oheyed, 
 and taking her infant son, Tezid, with her, returned to Yeman, her native 
 place, to enjoy what '* was dearer to her hosom, far, than all the trappings of 
 a queen." 
 
51 
 
 I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. 
 
 AIR.— " Domhnall." 
 
 I saw thy form in youthful prime, 
 
 Nor thought that pale decay 
 Would steal before the steps of Time, 
 
 And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
 Yet still thy features wore that light 
 
 Which fleets not with the breath ; 
 And life ne'er look'd more purely bright 
 
 Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 
 
 As streams that run o'er golden mines, 
 
 With modest murmurs glide, 
 Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 
 
 Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 
 So, veil'd beneath a simple guise, 
 
 Thy radiant genius shone, 
 And that which charmed all other eyes, 
 
 Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary ! 
 
52 
 
 If souls could always dwell above. 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst left thy sphere ; 
 Or, could we keep the souls we love. 
 
 We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary I 
 Tho' many a gifted mind we meet, 
 
 Tho' fairest forms we see. 
 To live with them is far less sweet 
 
 Than to remember thee, Mary ! 
 
 XXXT. 
 
 PROVE FALSE TO THEE. 
 
 AIR. — " I saw thy form." 
 
 Prove false to thee, my love ! — ah ! no, 
 
 It never shall be said 
 A heart so spotless, pure as thine, 
 
 Was e'er by me betray'd, Mary. 
 One richer choose than thee, deax maid !- 
 
 No, ne'er at splendour's shrine, 
 For wealth of world's would I forego 
 
 The right to call thee mine, Mary. 
 
53 
 
 Nor e'er shall beauty, save thine own, 
 
 A moment o'er me sway, 
 For then, with every earthly charm, 
 
 Hast those will ne'er decay, Mary. 
 Then from thy breast chase every fear, 
 
 For thou art all to me ; 
 And nought, and less than nought, this world 
 
 Would seem, if wanting thee, Mary. 
 
 THE SUMMER GLOAMIN.* 
 
 AIR. — " Alexander Donn's Stratlispey." 
 
 The midges dance aboon the bum. 
 
 The dew begins to fa'. 
 The pairtricks, down the rushy howm, 
 
 Set up their e'ening ca' ; 
 Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 
 
 Rings through the briery shaw, 
 While, fleeting gay, the swallows play 
 
 Around the castle wa'. 
 
 * This song, though not generally known, our readers -will be gratified t<j 
 learn, is the production of the late E. TannahUl. 
 
54 
 
 Beneath the gowden gloaming sky 
 
 The mavis mends his lay, 
 The redbreast pours its sweetest strains, 
 
 To charm the lingering day ; 
 While weary yeldrins seem to wail 
 
 Their little nestUngs torn, 
 The merry wren, frae den to den, 
 
 Gaes jinking through the thorn. 
 
 The roses fauld their silken leaves. 
 
 The foxglove shuts its bell, 
 The honey-suckle and the birk. 
 
 Spread fragrance through the dell. 
 Let others crowd the giddy court 
 
 Of mirth and revelry. 
 The simple joys that nature yields 
 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 O SLEEP NOT, MOSCA. 
 
 A Lapland Song. 
 
 sleep not, Mosca, but wait for thy love, 
 Tho' the night be cold and drear, 
 
 1 fear not the blast, or the mountain steep, 
 But speed with my swift Reindeer. 
 
55 
 
 While cheer'd, my love, by those bright eyes of thine, 
 
 And warm'd with thy bosom's glow, 
 I heed not tho' far and dreary the way, 
 
 But swift with my Reindeer go. 
 
 O hide not, pale moon, thy beams of the night, 
 
 O hide not thy light from me ; 
 My love she has sigh'd, and look'd for thy smile. 
 
 And will bless the night and thee. 
 
 My Mosca I see on yon hUl of snow, 
 
 O speed, O speed, my Reindeer •; 
 How canst thou linger, and not speed thy flight, 
 
 When my Mosca's voice I hear. 
 
 XXXYIII. 
 
 FAIR DREAM OF MY SLUMBER. 
 
 Fair dream of my slumber, sad thoughts of my waking. 
 Sweet — why should the world e'er dissever us more f 
 
 No home can I find but with her I'm forsaking. 
 Even life wants the charm that endear'd it before. 
 
56 
 
 Thy image all ties, all affections expelling, 
 Here lures me to fix my immutable dome, 
 
 Thy bosom's the spot where my soul would be dwelling, 
 And exile — dark exUe, awaits me at home. 
 
 Oh ! when but of friendship the welfare is spoken, 
 And press'd is the hand which we cannot retain, 
 
 We seem as the threads of existence were broken, 
 And happiness fled ne'er to spin them again. 
 
 Then think to how piercing a grief we are fated, 
 . When the being we love, is the friend we adore, 
 
 Wben the void in our hearts must be ever unsated, 
 When the web we have burst can be woven no more ! 
 
 HOW ARDENTLY MY BOSOM GLOWS. 
 
 AIR— "My Nannie, O." 
 
 How ardently my bosom glows 
 Wi' love to thee, my dearie, O, 
 
 My panting heart its passion shows, 
 Whenever thou art near me, O. 
 
57 
 
 The sweetness o' thy artless smile. 
 Thy sparkling e'e's resistless wile, 
 
 Gars sober reason back recoil, 
 Wi' love turn'd tapsalteerie, O. 
 
 Thy lips, sure seats o' sweet delight, 
 
 Wha e'er may haflins see them, O, 
 Maun be a cauldrife, lifeless wight, 
 
 Should he no try to pree them, O. 
 To me thou ever shalt be dear, 
 
 Thy image in my heart I'U wear, 
 Contentment's sun my day shall cheer, 
 
 As lang's thou'lt be my dearie, O. 
 
 Nae will-o'-wisp's delusive blaze, 
 
 Through fortune's fen sae drearie, O, 
 Nor wealth, nor fame's attractive rays. 
 
 Shall lure me frae my dearie, O ; 
 But through the rural shady grove, 
 
 O'er flow'ry lea wi' thee I'll rove ; 
 My cot shall be the seat o' love 
 
 While life remains, my dearie, O. 
 
 The pleasing scenes of nature gay. 
 
 May charm the heart that's sairy, O ; 
 Yet even such scenes to me add was. 
 
 When absent frae my dearie, O. 
 Remembrance broods still on the hour. 
 
 When first within yon lonely bower, 
 I felt the love-enslaving power 
 
 Of thy sweet charms, my dearie, O. 
 
 R 
 
58 
 
 THE MAID OF TRALEE. 
 
 Young Connel was gallant, young Ellen was fair, 
 He gaz'd, and she blush'd, no one whisper'd — beware ; 
 Young Ellen was fair, and young Connel was brave. 
 He swore to her beauty his heart was a slave ; 
 He pip'd, and he danc'd, and he sang full of glee, 
 And his song was of love, and the maid of Tralee. 
 
 Fair EUen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reilly, 
 
 Fair Ellen, the maid of Tralee. 
 
 O say, can the tongue a soft language impart. 
 Persuasive and sweet, yet unknown to the heart ? 
 Can true love so soon with possession grow cold ? 
 Or, say, did he sigh after glory or gold 1 
 For high wav'd the banner, he went o'er the sea. 
 And left to her sorrow the maid of Tralee. 
 
 Fair EUen, sweet Ellen, fair EUen O'ReiUy, 
 
 Fair EUen, the maid of Tralee. 
 
 That cheek where the roses and lilies were spread, 
 
 Now boasts but the Uly — ^the roses are fled ; 
 
 That eye, whose bright glance the heart's raptures reveal'd, 
 
 Now dim with a tear, no more lustre shall yield ; 
 
59 
 
 And broken with sighs, now for ever must be 
 The once tuneful voice of the maid of Tralee. 
 
 Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reilly, 
 
 Fair_Ellen, the maid of Tralee. 
 
 I COME IN THE MORN.* 
 
 Flora's Song. 
 
 I come in the morn, I come in the hour 
 
 When the blossoms of beauty rise ; 
 I gather the fairest and richest flower, 
 Where heaven's dew purest lies. 
 Then rest thee. Bride, 
 In thy beauty's pride — 
 Thou wilt rest to-night by Flora's side. 
 
 " For the'better'xiiiderstanding of this song, it may be necessary to remark 
 that the Western Islanders entertain a tradition that, previous to the 
 death of any young and remarkably beautiful bride among them, an appari- 
 tion, resembling a mennaid, is always observed. This phantom they distin- 
 guish by the name of Flora,, or the spirit of the Green Isle, and concur in 
 affirming that it made its appearance immediately before the death of the lata 
 much-lamented Princess Charlotte of Wales. Whatever credit may be due 
 to the assertion, or even to the fancy on which it is founded, the song itseK 
 X>ossesses considerable merit, and is not unworthy the mournful occasion which 
 
60 
 
 The eye I touch must be soft and blue 
 
 As the sky where the stars are gleaming, — 
 And the breast must be fair as the fleecy clouds 
 
 Where the angels of bliss lie dreaming, — 
 And the spirit within as pure and bright 
 
 As the stream that leaps among tufts of roses, 
 And sparkles along all life and light, 
 
 Then calm in its open bed reposes. 
 Ah ! rest thee, Bride, 
 By thy true love's side, — 
 To-morrow a shroud his hope shall hide. 
 
 it is meant to commemorate. The following stanzas, which we have placed 
 under the note, are, in the original, prefixed to the song, and serve very 
 properly as a viseful introduction, by solemnizing our minds for the mourn- 
 ful dirge. 
 
 A voice said from the silver sea, 
 " Woe to thee, Green Isle ! — woe to thee ! " 
 The Warden from his watch-tow'r bent. 
 But land, and wave, and firmament 
 So calmly slept, he might have heard 
 The swift wing of the mountain bird — 
 Nor breeze nor breath his beacon stirr'd ; 
 
 Yet from th' unfathora'd caves below, 
 Thrice came that drear, death-boding word, 
 
 And the long echoes answer'd, " WOE ! " 
 
 The Warden from his tow'r looks round. 
 
 And now he hears the slow waves bringing. 
 Each to the shore a silver sound, — 
 
 The spirit of the Isle is singing 
 In depths which man hath never found. 
 When she sits in the pomp of her ocean-bed. 
 With her scarf of light around her spread, 
 The mariner thinks on the misty tide. 
 He sees the moon's soft rainbow glide : 
 Her song in the noon of night he hears. 
 And trembles while his bark he steers. 
 
61 
 
 I saw them wreathing a wown for thee, 
 
 With riches of empire in it, 
 And thy bridal robe was a winding sheet, 
 
 And the Loves that crown'd thee sat to spin it. 
 They heap'd with garlands thy purple bed. 
 
 And every flower on earth they found thee, 
 But every flower in the wreath shall fade. 
 
 Save those thy bounty scatter'd round thee, 
 Yet sweetly sleep, 
 While my hour I keep. 
 For angels, to-night, shall watch and weep. 
 
 O, Green Isle ! — woe to thy hope and pride ! 
 
 To-day thy rose was bright and glowing; 
 The bud was full, the root was wide, 
 
 And the streams of love around it flowing ;— 
 To-morrow thy tower shall stand alone. 
 
 Thy hoary oak shall live and flourish; 
 But the dove from its branches shall be gone- 
 
 The rose that deck'd its stem shall perish. 
 
62 
 
 ON PARTING. 
 
 The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left, 
 Shall never part from mine, 
 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 The tear that from thine eyelid streams, 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest. 
 
 In gazing when alone; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast, 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 
 Nor need I write — to tell the tale, 
 My pen were doubly weak: 
 
 Oh! what can idle words avail, 
 Unless the heart could speak 1 
 
63 
 
 By day or nightj in weal or woe, 
 That heart, no longer free, 
 
 Must bear the love it cannot show, 
 And silent ache for thee. 
 
 m SUMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN. 
 
 In simmer, when the hay was mawn. 
 
 And com waved green in ilka field, 
 While clover blooms white o'er the lea, 
 
 And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
 Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel'. 
 
 Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will ; 
 Out spak a dame in wrinkl'd eil', 
 
 O' gude advisement comes nae ill. 
 
 'Tis ye hae wooers mony a ane, 
 
 And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken. 
 Then wait a wee, and canny wale 
 
 A routhie but, a routhie ben : 
 There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
 
 Fu' is his bam, fu' is his byre ; 
 Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 
 
 'Tis plenty beets the lover's fire. 
 
64 
 
 For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen 
 
 I dinna care a single flee ; 
 He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 
 
 He has nae love to spare for me ; 
 But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 
 
 And weel I wat he lo'es me dear ; 
 Ae blink o' him I wadna gie 
 
 For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 
 
 thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 
 
 The canniest gate the strife is sair ; 
 But aye fu' han't is fechting best, 
 
 A hungry care's an unco care : 
 But some will spend and some will spare, 
 
 And wUfu' fouk maun hae their will ; 
 Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 
 
 Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 
 
 O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 
 
 And gear wiU buy me sheep and kye, 
 But the tender heart o' leesome love, 
 
 The gowd and siller canna buy. 
 We may be poor, Robie and I ; 
 
 Light is the burden love lays on : 
 Content and love brings peace and joy ; 
 
 What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 
 
65 
 
 I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 
 
 AIR,— "Miss Molly," 
 
 I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
 A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 
 
 I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining — 
 The bark was still there, but the waters were gone ! 
 
 Oh ! such is the fate of our life's early promise. 
 So passing the spring- tide of joy we have known ; 
 
 Each wave that we dano'd on at morning ebbs from us, 
 And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone i 
 
 Ne'er teU me of glories, serenely adorning 
 
 The close of our day, the cabn of our night ;— 
 
 Give me back, give me back the mild freshness of morning, 
 Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. 
 
 O who would not welcome that moment's returning, 
 When passion first wak'd a new life through his frame. 
 
 And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning. 
 Gave out all his sweets to love's exquisite flame ! 
 
 s 
 
66 
 
 BONNY PEGGY, O. 
 
 AIR. — " Bonny lassie, O," 
 
 O we aft hae met at e'en, bonny Peggy, O, 
 
 On the banta of Cart sae green, bonny Peggy, O, 
 
 Where the waters smoothly rin. 
 
 Far aneath the roaring linn, 
 Far frae busy strife and din, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
 When the lately crimson west, bonny Peggy, O, 
 In her darker robe was drest, bonny Peggy, O, 
 
 And the sky of azure blue, 
 
 Deck'd with stars of golden hue, 
 Rose majestic to the view, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
 When the sound of flute or horn, bonny Peggy, O, 
 On the gale of evening borne, bonny Peggy, O, 
 
 We have heard in echoes die, 
 
 While the wave that rippl'd by. 
 Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
67 
 
 Then how happy would we rove, bonny Peggy, O, 
 Whilst thou blushing own'd thy love, bonny Peggy, 0, 
 
 Whilst thy qvuckly throbbing breast 
 
 To my beating heart I press'd, 
 Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
 Now, alas ! these scenes are o'er, bonny Peggy, O. 
 Now, aJas ! we meet no more, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
 No — oh ! ne'er again, I ween, 
 
 Will we meet at summer e'en, 
 On the banks of Cart sae green, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
 Yet hadst thou been true to me, bonny Peggy, O, 
 As I stUl hae been to thee, bonny Peggy, O, 
 
 Then with bosom, O how light, 
 
 Had I hail'd the coming night. 
 And yon evening-star so bright, bonny Peggy, O. 
 
68 
 
 HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS. 
 
 Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
 Gude night and joy be wi' thee; 
 
 I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door 
 To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 
 
 dinna think, my pretty pink, 
 But I can live without thee; 
 
 1 vow and swear I dinna care 
 
 How lang ye look about ye. 
 
 Thou'rt aye sae free informing me. 
 
 Thou hast nae mind to marry, 
 I'll be as free informing thee, 
 
 Nae time hae I to tarry. 
 I ken thy friends try ilka means, 
 
 Frae wedlock to delay thee. 
 Depending on some higher chance, 
 
 But fortune may betray thee. 
 
 I ken they scorn my low estate. 
 But that does never grieve me; 
 
 For I'm as free as any he, 
 Sma' siller will relieve me. 
 
69 
 
 I'll count my health my greatest wealth, 
 
 Sae lang as I'U enjoy it ; 
 I'll fear nae scant, I'U bode nae want. 
 
 As lang's I get employment. 
 
 But far aff fowls hae feathers fair. 
 
 And aye until ye try them ; 
 Though they seem fair still have a care. 
 
 They may prove poor as I am. 
 Yet still, this night, by clear moonlight, 
 
 My dear, I'U come and see thee. 
 For the lad that lo'es his lassie weel 
 
 Nae travel makes him weary. 
 
 I'VE NO SHEEP ON THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 I've no sheep on the mountains, nor boat on the lake. 
 Nor coin in my cofier to keep me awake ; 
 Nor com in my gamer, nor fruit on my tree. 
 Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. 
 
70 
 
 Softly tapping, at eve, to her window 1 came. 
 And loud bay'd the watoh-dog, loud scolded the dame, 
 For shame, silly Light-foot, what is it to thee, 
 Though the maid of LlanweUyn smiles sweetly on me. 
 
 Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn. 
 Threadbare is my coat and my hosen are torn ; 
 Scoflf on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee. 
 When the maid of LlanweUyn smiles sweetly on me. 
 
 The farmer rides proudly tt) market and fair. 
 And the clerk, at the ale-house, stiQ claims the great chair. 
 But of aU our proud fellows the proudest I'U be. 
 While the maid of LlanweUyn smiles sweetly on me. 
 
 For blythe as the urchin at holiday play, 
 And meek as a matron in mantle of gray, 
 And trim as the lady of noblest degree. 
 Is the maid of LlanweUyn who smiles upon me. 
 
71 
 
 MY HEART'S MY AIN. 
 
 'Tis no very lang sinsyne, 
 
 That I had a lad o' my ain; 
 But now he's awa' to anither, 
 
 And left "me a' my lane. 
 The lass he is courting has siller, 
 
 And I hae nana at a', 
 And 'tis nought but the love o' the tocher 
 
 That's tane my lad awa'. 
 
 But I'm bljrtihe that my heart's my ain, 
 
 And I'll keep it a' my life, 
 Until that I meet wi' a lad 
 
 Wha has sense to wale a good wife. 
 For though I say't mysel', 
 
 That should nae say't, 'tis true, 
 The lad that gets me for a wife 
 
 He'll ne'er hae occasion to rue. 
 
 I gang aye fu' clean and fu' tosh, 
 As a' the neighbours can tell, 
 
 Though I've seldom a gown on my back. 
 But sic as I spin mysel'; 
 
72 
 
 And when I'm clad in my curtaey, 
 
 I think mysel' as braw 
 As Susie, wi' a' her pearling, 
 
 That's tane my lad awa'. 
 
 But I wish they were buckled thegitlier, 
 
 And may they live happy for life ; 
 Though Willie now slights me, and's left me, 
 
 The chiel he deserves a gude wife. 
 But, O ! I am blythe that 1 miss'd him. 
 
 As blythe as I weel can be ; 
 For ane that's sae keen o' the siller. 
 
 Would never agree wi' me. 
 
 But the truth is, I am aye hearty, 
 
 I hate to be scrimpit or scant ; 
 The wee thing I hae I'll mak use o't. 
 
 And there's nane about me shall want ; 
 For I'm a gude guide o' the warld, 
 
 I ken when to haud and to gi'e ; 
 But whinging and cringing for siller 
 
 Would never agree wi' me. 
 
 Contentment is better than riches, 
 
 And he wha has that, has enough ; 
 The master is seldom sae happy 
 
 As Biobin that drives the plough. 
 But if a young lad wad cast up, 
 
 To make me his partner for life. 
 If the chiel has the sense to be happy, 
 
 He'll fa' on his feet for a wife. 
 
73 
 
 DIRGE OF ISHMAEK 
 
 A Bedouin Chief,'* 
 
 Our'father'a brow was cold, his eye 
 Gaz'd on hia warriors heavily ; 
 
 Pangs thick and deep hia bosom wrung, 
 Silence was on the noble tongue ; 
 
 Then writh'd the lip the final throe 
 
 That free'd the struggling soul below. 
 
 *The manuscript journal of a late traveller in Egypt furnished this short but 
 expressive dirge, accompanied with the following very interesting remarks. 
 
 *' The current was against us; and, aa we approached the city Cairo, the wind 
 was lulled almost into a complete calm. Whilst we were biisy at the oar, we 
 were suddenly surprized with the noise of some unusual sounds from the 
 river's side, on hearing of which our watermen immediately threw them- 
 selves on their faces and began a prayer. A few moments after, a procession 
 was discovered advancing from a grove of date trees, which grew only at a 
 short distance from the bank: It was a band of Bedouins, who, in one of their 
 few adventures into the half civilized world of Lower Egypt, for the purpose 
 of trade, had lost their chief by sickness. The whole of the train were mount- 
 ed, and the body was borne along, in the middle of the foremost troop, in a 
 kind of palanquin, rude, but ornamented with that strange mixture of savage- 
 ness and magnificence which we find not unfrequent among the nobler barba- 
 rians of the east and south. The body was covered with a lion's skin, a green 
 and golden embroidered flag waved over it, and some remarkably rich ostrich 
 feathers on the lances formed the capitals and pillars of this Arab hearse. 
 
 "Though the procession moved close to the shore, none of the tribe appeared 
 to observe our boat, their faces being stedfastly directed to the setting sun, 
 which was then touching the horizon, in full grandeur, with an immense 
 canopy of gorgeous clouds closing around him in a beautiful state of deep- 
 ening purple. The air was remarkably still, and their song, in which the 
 
 T 
 
74 
 
 He died ! — Upon the desert gale 
 Shoot up his eagle shafts to sail; 
 He died ! — Upon the desert plain 
 Fling loose his camel's golden rein; 
 He died ! — No other voice shall guide 
 O'er stream or sand its step of pride. 
 
 Whose is the hand that now shall rear, 
 Terror of man, the Sheik's red spear 1 
 Lives there the warrior on whose brow 
 His turban's vulture plumes shall glow ? 
 He's gone, and with our father fell 
 The sun of glory — Ishmael! 
 
 PABTING TOKENS. 
 
 This pledge of affection, dear Ellen, receive, 
 From a youth who's devoted to thee; 
 
 And when on the relic you look, love, believe, 
 Thy Edward still constant will be; 
 
 whole train joined at intervals, sounded most sweet. Their voices were deep 
 and regular : and as the long procession moved slowly away into the desert 
 with their diminishing forms and fading chorus, they gave us the idea of a 
 train solemnly passing into the shades of eternity. The present translation 
 of their song or hymn was collected from one of our boatmen, who had paid 
 particular attention to it." 
 
75 
 
 The gift thou hast woven, I'll wear near my heart, 
 
 And oft the dear token will prove 
 A charm, to dispel every gloom, and impart 
 
 A joyful remembrance of love. 
 
 Nay, weep not, sweet maid, though thy sailor, awhile. 
 
 Must roam o'er the boisterous main, 
 Fond hope kindly whispers that fortune will smile, 
 
 And we shall meet happy again ; 
 One embrace ere we part — see, the vessel's unmoor'd. 
 
 The signal floats high in our view; 
 The last boat yet lingers to waft me on board, 
 
 Adied, dearest Ellen, adieu. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEEP. 
 
 I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 
 Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
 
 And then methought it did appear, 
 A violet dropping dew. 
 
76 
 
 I saw the smile — the sapphire's blaze 
 Beside thee ceas'd to shine; 
 
 I could not watch the living rays 
 That fiU'd that glance of thine. 
 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and meUow dye, 
 Which scarce the shade of coming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky, 
 Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. 
 
 AlB.— " The hopeless lOTer." 
 
 Now Spring has clad the grove in green, 
 And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
 
 The furrowed, waving com is seen 
 Rejoice in fostering showers; 
 
77 
 
 While ilka thing in nature join, 
 Their sorrowa to forego, 
 
 O why thus, aU alone, are mine 
 The weary steps of woe ! 
 
 The trout within yon wimpling burn, 
 
 GUdes swift — a silver dart. 
 And safe beneath the shady thorn 
 
 Defies the angler's art : 
 My life was ance that careless stream, 
 
 That wanton trout was I, 
 But love, wi' unrelenting beam. 
 
 Has scorched my fountains dry. 
 
 The little floweret's peaceful lot. 
 
 In yonder cliflf that grows, 
 Which, save the Unnet's flight, I wot, 
 
 Nae ruder visit knows. 
 Was mine, till love has o'er me passed, 
 
 And blighted a' my bloom ; 
 And now, beneath the withering blast, 
 
 My youth and joy consume. 
 
 The wakened laverock warbling springs, 
 
 And climbs the early sky. 
 Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 
 
 In morning's rosy eye ; 
 As little recked I sorrow's power, 
 
 UntU the flowery snare 
 O' witching love, in luckless hour. 
 
 Made me the thrall o' care. 
 
78 
 
 O, had my fate been Greenland snows, 
 
 Or Afric's burning zone, 
 Wi' man and nature leagued my foes. 
 
 So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
 The wretch whase doom is, " Hope nae mair ! ' 
 
 What tongue his woes can tell ? 
 Within whase bosom, save despair, 
 
 Nae kinder spirits dwell. 
 
 NAE MAIR WE'LL MEET, &c. 
 
 AIR. — " We'll meet beside the dusky glen." 
 
 Nae mair we'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side, 
 Nae mair we'll wander through the grove, by yon bum side. 
 
 Ne'er again the mavis' lay 
 
 Win we hail at close o' day, 
 For we ne'er again will stray, down by yon bum side. 
 
 Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood, on yon burn side. 
 O'er haunts which we sae aft hae trod, by yon bum side. 
 Still the walk wi' me thou'lt share. 
 Though thy foot can never mair 
 Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side. 
 
79 
 
 Now far remov'd from every care, 'boon yon burn side, 
 Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side ; 
 
 And if angels pity" know, 
 
 Sure the tear for me will flow, 
 Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side. 
 
 WHERE DOST THOU BIDE. 
 
 Where dost thou bide, bless'd soul of my love ? 
 
 Is ether thy dwelling ? O, whisper me where ? 
 Wrapt in remembrance, while lonely I rove, 
 
 I gaze on bright clouds, and I fancy thee there. 
 
 Or to thy bower, while musing I go, 
 
 I think 'tis thy voice that I hear in the breeze; 
 Softly it seems to speak peace to my woe. 
 
 And life once again for a moment can please. 
 
 Can this be frenzy ? if so, 'tis so dear. 
 
 That long may the pleasing delusion be nigh ; 
 
 Still Ellen's voice in the breeze may I hear, 
 
 StUl see in bright clouds the kind beams of her eye. 
 
80 
 
 O CHERUB, CONTENT. 
 
 O cherub, Content, at thy mosa-cover'd shrine 
 
 I'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign, 
 
 I'd part with ambition, thy vot'ry to be, 
 
 And breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee. 
 
 I'd part with ambition, &c. 
 
 But thy presence appears from my wishes to fly, 
 Like the gold-colour'd cloud on the verge of the sky ; 
 No lustre that hangs on the green willow tree, 
 Is so short as the smile of thy favour to me. 
 
 No lustre that hangs, &o. 
 
 In the pulse of my heart I have nourish'd a care. 
 That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share, 
 The noon of my youth, slow-departing, I see, 
 But its years, as they pass, bring no tidings of thee. 
 
 The noon of my youth, &c. 
 
 cherub. Content, at thy moss-cover'd shrine, 
 
 1 would oifer my vows, if Matilda were mine ; 
 Could I call her my own, whom enraptur'd I see, 
 
 I would breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee. 
 
 Could I call her my own, &c. 
 
81 
 
 A COGIE O' ALE AND A PICKLE AIT MEAL. 
 
 A cogie o' ale and a pickle ait meal, 
 
 And a dainty wee drappy o' whisky, 
 Was our forefathers' dose to sweel down their brose, 
 
 And mak' them blythe, cheery, and frisky. 
 
 Then hey for the cogie, and hey for the ale, 
 And hey for the whisky, and hey for the meal ; 
 When mir'd a' thegither they do unco wed 
 To mak a chiel cheery and brisk aye. 
 
 As I view our Scots lads, in their kilts and cockades, 
 
 A' blooming and fresh as a rose, man, 
 I think, wi' mysel', o' the meal and the ale. 
 
 And the fruits of our Scottish kaU brose, man. 
 
 Then hey for the cogie, dec. 
 
 When our brave Highland blades, wi' their claymores and 
 plaids. 
 
 In the field drive^ like sheep, a' our foes, man ; 
 Their courage and power spring frae this, to be sure. 
 
 They're the noble eflfeots of the brose, man. 
 
 Then hey for the cogie, cfcc. 
 u 
 
82 
 
 But your spindle-shank'd sparks, wha but ill set their sarks, 
 And your pale visag'd milk-sops, and beaux, man, 
 
 I think, when I see them, 'twere kindness to gi'e them 
 A cogie of ale and of brose, man. 
 
 Then hey for the cogie, d-c. 
 
 VALE OP THE CROSS* 
 
 Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell, 
 'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell ; 
 For there are sainted shadows seen, 
 That frequent haunt thy dewy green : 
 In wandering winds the dirge is sung, 
 The convent bell by spirits rung. 
 And matin hymns and vesper prayer, 
 Break softly on the tranquil air. 
 
 Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell, 
 'Tis sweet within thy woods to' dwell ; 
 For peace hath there her spotless throne, 
 And pleasures to the world unknown ; 
 
 * The beautiful little vale whicla is here referred to is situated near the 
 tjwn of Llangollen. The ruins of a church thatwasbuiltin the form of across, 
 and the remains of an abbey, shaded by hanging woods, contribute greatly to 
 its romantic appearance. 
 
83 
 
 The murmur of the distant rills, 
 The Sabbath silence of the hills, 
 And all the quiet God hath given, 
 Without the golden gates of heaven. 
 
 MAID OF ALDERNEY. 
 
 stop na', bonny bird, that strain, 
 
 Frae hopeless love itself it flows; 
 Sweet bird, O warble it again, 
 
 Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes; 
 O ! luU me with it to repose, 
 
 I'll dream of her who's far away, 
 And fancy, as^my eyelids close. 
 
 Will meet the maid of Aldemey. 
 
 Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief. 
 
 Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove. 
 And fly, to bring my soul relief, 
 
 To where my warmest wishes rove ; 
 Soft as the cooings of the dove, 
 
 Thou'lt sing thy sweetest, saddest lay. 
 And melt to pity and to love. 
 
 The bonny maid of Aldemey. 
 
84 
 
 Well may I sigh and sairly weep; 
 
 Thy songs sad recollections bring; 
 O ! fly across the roaring deep, 
 
 And to my maiden sweetly sing; 
 'Twill to her faithless bosom fling 
 
 Remembrance of a sacred day; 
 But feeble is thy wee bit wing, 
 
 And far's the isle of Alderney. 
 
 Then, bonny bird, wi' mony a tear, 
 
 I'll mourn beneath this hoary thorn. 
 And thou wilt find me sitting here, 
 
 Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn. 
 Then, high on airy pinions borne, 
 
 Thou'lt chaunt a sang o' love and wae. 
 And soothe me weeping at the scorn 
 
 0' the sweet maid of Alderney. 
 
 And when around my wearied head. 
 
 Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie. 
 Death shall eternal poppies spread. 
 
 And close for aye my tearfu' eye, 
 Perch'd on some bonny branch on high, 
 
 Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay. 
 And soothe my spirit passing by, 
 
 To meet the maid of Alderney. 
 
85 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 
 
 NBU- SET. 
 
 AIR.—" The flowers of the forest.' 
 
 On the dark forest side an old minstrel sat playing, 
 White wav'd his thin locks and sad was his lay ; 
 
 He sang the bright laurels of Scotia decaying, 
 And flowers of the forest all weded away. 
 
 I weep for the wrongs on my country inflicted, 
 I weep for your fate who lie cold in the clay ; 
 
 Your struggle, though hopeless, true valour depicted, 
 Yonr mem'ry, brave heroes, lives, ne'er to decay. 
 
 For thee, my lov'd chieftain, in honour grown hoary. 
 Thy evening was bright as unclouded thy day ; 
 
 For ever thou'lt shine in the annals of glory. 
 Thy laurels unsullied shall ne'er fade away, 
 
 I've seen on the green, blooming maidens unfeigiiing. 
 With love their eye smiling most cheerful and gay. 
 
 The lone mountain echoes now return their complaining, 
 Fond hope's brightest prospects are all wed away. 
 
86 
 
 To the contest behold the proud foes fierce returning, 
 What tears must be shed at the fate of the day ! 
 
 While the bards of old Scotia their harps tune to mourning, 
 The flowers of the forest are all wed away. 
 
 THOU'RT GANE AWA.* 
 
 Thou'rt gane awa, thou'rt gane awa, 
 
 Thou'rt gane awa frae me, Mary, 
 Kor friends nor I could make thee stay, 
 
 Thou'st cheated them and me, Mary. 
 
 * Two very different accounts have been given of the particular incident 
 which gave birth to the composition of this well-known song. We shall state 
 both, exactly as we received them, leaving our readers to judge for themselves. 
 
 A London Magazine for the month of August, 17T0, contains the following 
 minute detail : — "A young gentleman in Ireland, on the point of marryinga 
 lady there, to whom he had been for some time most tenderly attached, hap- 
 pened to receive an unexpected visit from the son of one of his father's first 
 friends. The visitor was welcomed with every imaginable mark of kindness ; 
 and, in order to pay him the higher compliment, the intended bride was given 
 to biTTi by her unsuspicious lover for a partner at a ball that early succeeded 
 his arrival They danced together the whole evening, and the next morn- 
 ing, in violation of the laws of hospitality on the one part, and of every moral 
 tie on the other, they took themselves off secretly to Scotland^ where they 
 were married. 
 
 Sorry I am (continues the editor) to add the consequences of tins affair. 
 Where a woman can be guilty of so atrocious a breach of faith, she fcut ill 
 
87 
 
 Until this hour I never thought 
 That ought could alter thee, Mary, 
 
 Thou'rt still the mistress of my heart, 
 Tlxink what thou wilt of me, Mary. 
 
 Whatever he said or might pretend, 
 
 Wha stole that heart o' thine, Mary, 
 True love I'm sure was ne'er his end, 
 
 Nor nae sic love as mine, Mary. 
 I spake sincere, ne'er flatter'd much, 
 
 Had no unworthy thought, Mary, 
 Ambition, w^ealth, nor naething such — 
 
 No, I lov^d only thee, Mary. 
 
 merits the regret of a wortliy miud ; nevertlieless this truly valuable and 
 highly injured young gentleman sank under the double weight of ingratitude 
 and ill^equited love ; and in an hour of melancholy having written these 
 lines, the generosity of which is almost unexampled, he died in a deep de- 
 cline, to the affliction of all who had the pleasure of his acquaintance. 
 
 The other account contrives to fix the scene nearer home. According to 
 it, the author was a gentleman of extensive property in the West of Scotland, 
 and the Mary whom the song so feelingly bewails, his beloved and beautiful 
 wife. After having been for several years married, and notwithstanding all 
 the allurements of her situation, this lady, it is said, disgraced herself, and 
 involved her family in the deepest distress by her dishonourable conduct. 
 Insensible to the attractions of rank and affluence — unworthy of the affection 
 of her amiable husband, and lost to the solemnity of those obligations which 
 are necessarily connected with the matrimonial state, she for some time in- 
 dulged in criminal intercourse, and afterwards eloped with her own footman. 
 
 A treatment at once so unmerited and so unexpected overwhelmed the 
 gentleman with inexpressible anguish. He remained for some time in that state 
 of mute but painful agitation which never fails to attend any great and sudden 
 adversity, and which is only increased to more acute agony, by'revicwing with 
 
Though you've been false, yet while I live, 
 
 No other maid I'll woo, Mary ; 
 Let friends forget, as I forgive, 
 
 Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary. 
 So then, farewell ! Of this be sure, 
 
 Since you've been false to me, Mary, 
 For all the world I'd not endure • 
 
 Half what I've done for thee, Mary. 
 
 THE PEET-CADGER'S LAMENT. 
 
 (In the Cumberland dialect.) 
 
 AIR.— Bum's "Farewell to Jean;" or, "Hey tuttie, tuttie.' 
 
 My bonny black meer's deed ! 
 The thought's e'en leyke to turn my head! 
 She led the peets, and gat me bread; 
 But what wull I dui now ? 
 
 composure the extent of tlie evil, and by the renewed recollection of former 
 enjoyments " departed never to return." As soon, however, aa hia mind re- 
 gained that tranquility necessary to express its feelings with coherence and 
 energy, he gave vent to his grief by composing this simple but sententious 
 address to the d^eluded object of his suffering and disgrace. 
 
89 
 
 She waa bworn when Jwohn was bwom, 
 Just nineteen years last Thuirsday mworn ; 
 Puir beast ! had she got locks o'cwom, 
 She'd been alive, I trow ! 
 
 Wlien young, just leyke a deU she ran 
 The car-geer at Durdar she wan ; 
 That day saw me a happy man, 
 
 Now tears gush frae my e'e: 
 For she's geane, my weyfe's geane, 
 Jwohn's a swodger, — I ha'e neane ! 
 Brokken ! deyl'd ! left my leane, 
 
 I've nin to comfort me ! 
 
 When wheyles I mounted on my yaud, 
 I niver reade leyke yen stark mad ; 
 We toddled on, and beath were glad. 
 
 To see our aonsie deame : 
 The weyfe, the neybors, weel she knew. 
 And aw the deyke-backs where gurse grew : 
 Then when she'd pang'd her belly fou. 
 
 How tow'rtly she cam heame ! 
 
 Nae pamper'd beasts e'er heeded we 
 Nae win or weet e'er dreeded we ; 
 I niver cried woah, hop, or jee, 
 
 She kent — aye, iv'ry turn ! 
 V 
 
90 
 
 And wheyles I gat her teates o' hay, 
 And gev her watter tweyce a-day. 
 She's deed ! she's deed, I'm wae to say ; 
 Then how can I but moum ? 
 
 Frae Tindle-Fell twelve pecks she'd bring- 
 She was a yaud, fit for a king ! 
 I niver strack her, silly thing ? 
 
 Twas hard we twea sud part ! 
 I's auld, and feal'd, and ragg'd, and peer, 
 And cannot raise anither meer ; 
 But cannot leeve anither year ! 
 
 The loss will break my heart. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 NANCY. 
 
 AIR.—" The Legacy." 
 
 Now the ruddy sun is setting, 
 
 Now the clouds with crimson glow, 
 Evening's dew my bower is wetting, 
 
 Fresh again my sorrows flow. 
 O'er these scenes my sportive fancy 
 
 Oft has roam'd with raptur'd joy ; 
 Now their charms have fled with Nancy, 
 
 Saddening thoughts my soul employ. 
 
91 
 
 Lonely in the deep glen straying, 
 
 Lonely on the woody hill, 
 Wildly to the rude blast playing, 
 
 Softly to the weeping rill. 
 On my hapless fate I ponder, 
 
 Whilst thy name on fav'rite tree, 
 Grav'd, where once we us'd to wander. 
 
 Turns my thoughts, false nymph, to thee. 
 
 Tho' the love was false that bound thee. 
 
 Could I harm thee, Nancy ? — No ; 
 Should I wish remorse might wound thee, 
 
 'Tis too late to soothe my woe. 
 Now my dreams of bliss are over, 
 
 And my heart feels anguish sore ; 
 Still, fair Nancy, with thy lover, 
 
 Be thou blest when I'm no more. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er. 
 The war of pride and love. 
 
 And, Mary, now we meet no more. 
 Unless we meet above. 
 
92 
 
 Too well thou know'st how much I lov'd. 
 Thou knew'st my hopes — how fair ! 
 
 But all those hopes are blasted now. 
 They point but to despair. 
 
 Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love, 
 
 I haste to India's shore ; 
 For, herej how can I longer stay, 
 
 And call thee mine no more 1 
 
 Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er. 
 And though I still must love, 
 
 Yet, Mary, here we meet no more, 
 O, may we meet above ! 
 
 KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 
 
 Robin is my only jo, 
 Robin has the art to lo'e, 
 So to his suit I mean to bow. 
 
 Because I ken he lo'es me. 
 Happy, happy was the shower. 
 That led me to his birken bower. 
 Where first of love I felt the power. 
 
 And kent that Robin lo'ed me. 
 
93 
 
 They speak of napkins, speak of rings, 
 Speak of gloves and kissing strings, 
 And name a thousand bonny things. 
 
 And ca' them signs he lo'es me; 
 But I'd prefer a smack of Rob, 
 Sporting on the velvet fog. 
 To gifts as lang's a pl^den wob, 
 
 Because I ken he lo'es me. 
 
 He's tall and sonsy, frank and free, 
 Lo'ed by a', and dear to me, 
 Wi' him I'd Uve, wi' him I'd die. 
 
 Because my Robin lo'es me. 
 My titty, Mary, said to me. 
 Our courtship but a joke wad be. 
 And I, or lang, be made to see. 
 
 That Robin didna lo'e me. 
 
 But little kens she what has been, 
 Me and my honest Rob between, 
 And in his wooing, O sae keen. 
 
 Kind Robin is that lo'es me. 
 Then fly, ye lazy hours, away. 
 And hasten on the happy day, 
 When, "Join your hands,' Mess John shall say, 
 
 And mak him mine that lo'es me. 
 
 Till then, let every chance unite. 
 To weigh our love, and fix delight. 
 And I'll look down on such wi' spite. 
 Who doubt that Robin lo'es me. 
 
94 
 
 O hey, Robin, quo' she, 
 
 O hey, Robin, quo' she, 
 
 O hey, Robin, quo' she. 
 
 Kind Robin lo'es me. 
 
 HELEN, THE PRIDE OF MONTROSE. 
 
 AIR— "Tho flower of Dunblane.' 
 
 While some seek the mountain, and some seek the valley, 
 
 Give me the lone walks where the Esk proudly flows; 
 For there I meet Helen a-wand'ring so gaily, 
 
 Young Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. 
 Her form has been moulded by love and the graces, 
 
 And nature's perfection bewitohingly shows. 
 The eye hangs delighted as fondly it traces. 
 
 The beauty of Helen, the pride of Montrose. 
 
 'Tis charming to stray by the clear winding river. 
 Where thro' the tall arches it pleasantly flows; 
 
 While love's gentle wishes I pause to discover, 
 To Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. 
 
95 
 
 Though mine were the wealth of the eastern mountauis, 
 Where Ganges broad, rolling o'er golden bed, flows, 
 
 I'd pine like the Arab in search of his fountains. 
 And sigh for sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. 
 
 'Tis long since she held her empire in my bosom, 
 
 As time wears apace stiU the dearer she grows ; 
 All nature may languish, and spring cease to blossom, 
 
 But still I'll love Helen, the pride of Montrose. 
 Then come, ye sweet moments, when hymeneal blisses. 
 
 My hopes and my fears with enjoyment shall close. 
 When I live but to love the sweet soul of my wishes. 
 
 Young Helen, sweet Helen, the pride of Montrose. 
 
 MY SOUL IS DARK. 
 
 My soul is dark — oh ! quickly string 
 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
 And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
 If in this heart a hope be dear, 
 
 That sound shall charm it forth again ; 
 If in these eyes there lurks a tear, 
 
 'TwiU flow, and cease to burn my brain. 
 
96 
 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
 I tell thee, Minstrel, I must weep. 
 
 Or else this heavy heart wUl burst ; 
 For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 
 
 And ach'd in sleepless silence long ; 
 And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 
 
 And break at once — or yield to song. 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 AIR, — " Bonny woods o' Cragiulea." 
 
 Best, lovely babe, on mother's hnee, 
 Rest, lovely babe, on mother's knee. 
 And cry na sae to fill wV woe 
 The heart that only heats for thee. 
 
 Thou hast, my babe, nae father now, 
 To care for thee when I am gone ; 
 
 And I hae ne'er a friend sae true 
 As would my bonny baby own. 
 
 Rest, lovely babe, dhe. 
 
97 
 
 O! ance, and I could little think 
 A lot sae hard would e'er be thine, 
 
 Aa thus a mother's tears to drink! 
 For, baby, thou hast drunk o' mine. 
 Rest, hvely babe, dec. 
 
 O smile, my babe! for sic a smile 
 Thy father aye put on to me; 
 
 O smile, my babe, and look the while, 
 For thou look'st wi' thy father's e'e. 
 Rest, lovely babe, d:c. 
 
 O that this widow'd heart would beat 
 TUl thou in years hadst upward grown. 
 
 That I might learn thy future fate, 
 Nor leave thee in the world alone. 
 Rest, lovely babe, <Scc. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 O MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE 0' MY BEAUTY. 
 
 O meikle thinks my love o' my beauty. 
 And meikle thinks my love o' my kin, 
 
 But little thinks my love I ken brawlie 
 My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
 
98 
 
 'Tis a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree, 
 'Tia a' for the hinney he'U cherish the bee; 
 
 My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the sUler, 
 He canna hae love to spare for me. 
 
 Your proffer o' love's an airl-penny, 
 My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
 
 But gin ye be crafty, I'm cunning, 
 
 Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
 
 Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
 Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
 
 Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread. 
 
 And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae than me. 
 
 THE WOWING OP JOK AND JYNNY.* 
 
 Robeyna Jok come to wow our Jynny, 
 On our feist-evin quhen we were fow; 
 
 Scho brankit fast, and maid hir bony, 
 And said, Jok, come ye for to wow ? 
 
 * This well known poem, by frequent publication, has been much corrupt- 
 ed, almost every publisher having'taken the liberty of introducing such altera- 
 tions as his fancy suggested. The present, however, may be received, with- 
 
99 
 
 Scho bumeiat hir baith breist and brow, 
 And maid hir cleir as ony clok ; 
 
 Than spak hir deme, and said, I trow. 
 Ye come to wow our Jynny, Jok. 
 
 Jok said, forsuth I yern full fane, 
 
 To luk my heid, and sit doun by yow : 
 Than spak hir modir, and said agane, 
 
 My bairne hes tocher-gud to ge yow. 
 Te he, quoth Jynny, keik, keik, I se yow ; 
 
 Muder, yone man maks yow a mok ; 
 I schro the lyar, full leis me yow, 
 
 I come to wow your Jynny, quoth Jok. 
 
 My berne, scho sayis, hes of hir awin, 
 Ane guss, ane gryce, ane cok, ane hen, 
 
 Ane calf, ane hog, ane fute-braid sawin, 
 Ane kirn, ane pin, that ye weUl ken. 
 
 out hesitation as a faithful copy, and exhibits to us a very ludicrous pictiu-e of 
 the Curta Supellex of the Scottish Commons in the 16th century. Instead of 
 aiExing a minute glossary of all the wretched goods and chattels of the bride 
 and bridegroom, we shall select a list of those articles only which might be 
 dubious or unintelligible to the majority of our readers : — 
 
 Almry 
 
 Cupboard, 
 
 Jak 
 
 A piece of -warlike 
 
 Ark 
 
 Corn-chest 
 
 
 dress 
 
 Blamit-ledder 
 
 Tanned leather 
 
 Laid Saddill 
 
 Load saddle 
 
 Brochis 
 
 Clasps 
 
 Maskenefatt 
 
 A vessel to boil 
 
 Dubla/ris 
 
 Dishes with covers 
 
 
 malt in 
 
 Fetterit lok 
 
 Fetter-lock 
 
 Nok 
 
 Button of a spindle 
 
 Fidder 
 
 128 cwt 
 
 Polk 
 
 A bag 
 
 Flaik 
 
 Hurdle 
 
 Spounge 
 
 Purse 
 
 FuUbraidsaw 
 
 ■fig Com suf&cient to sow 
 
 Spurtill 
 
 Flat iron for turn- 
 
 
 a foot breadth of 
 
 
 cakes 
 
 
 land 
 
 ThraW'Cruk 
 
 Instrument for 
 
 Gryce 
 
 A pig 
 
 
 twisting hay ropes 
 
 Hobbil schone 
 
 Clouted shoes. 
 
 Trme 
 
 Spout 
 
 
 
 Truncheour 
 
 Platter 
 
100 
 
 Ane pig, ane pot, ane raip thair ben, 
 Ane fork, ane flaik, ane reill, ane rok, 
 
 Dischis and dublaris nyne or ten : 
 Come ye to wow our Jynny, Jok] 
 
 Ane blanket, and ane wecht also, 
 Ane sclnile, ane scheit, and ane lang flail, 
 
 Ane ark, ane almry, and laidills twa, 
 Ane milk-syth, with ane swyne taiU, 
 
 Ane rowsty quhittill to soheir the kaill, 
 Ane quheill, ane mell the beir to knok, 
 
 Ane coig, and caird wantand an^ nail ; 
 Come ye to wow our Jynny, Jok? 
 
 Ane furme, ane furlet, ane pott, ane pek, 
 
 Ane tub, ane barrow, with ane quheilband, 
 Ane tur», ane troch, and ane meil-sek, 
 
 Ane spurtill braid, and ane elwand. 
 Jok tuk Jynny be the hand. 
 
 And cryd, ane feist; and slew ane cok. 
 And maid a brydell up aUand; 
 
 Now haif I gottin your Jynny, quoth Jok? 
 
 Now, deme, I haif your baime mareit; 
 
 Suppois ye mak it nevir sa tuche, 
 I latt you wit sohois nocht miskarrit. 
 
 It is Weill kend I haif anuch: 
 Ane crukit gleyd fell our ane huch, 
 
 Ane spaid, ane speit, ane spur, ane sok, 
 Withouttin oxin I haif a pluche 
 
 To gang togiddir Jynny and Jok. 
 
101 
 
 I haif ane helter, and eik ane hek, 
 
 Ane coird, ane creill, and ala ane cradill, 
 Fyfe fidder of raggis to stuff ane jak, 
 
 Ane auld pannell of ane laid sadill, 
 Ane peper-polk maid of a padell, 
 
 Ane spounge, ane spindUl wantand ane nok, 
 Twa lusty lippis to lik ane laiddill, 
 
 To gang togiddir Jynny and Jok. 
 
 Ane brechame, and twa brochis fyne 
 
 WeUl buMit with a brydill renye, 
 Ane sark maid of the linkome twyne, 
 
 Ane gay grene cloke that will nocht stenye; 
 And yit for mister I wiU nocht fenye, 
 
 Fyve hundirth fleis now in a flok, 
 OaU ye nocht tham and joly menye, 
 
 To gang togiddir Jynny and Jok. 
 
 Ane trene, truncheour, ane ramehome spone, 
 
 Twa buttis of barkit blasnit ledder, 
 AU graith that gains to hobbill schone, 
 
 Ane thrawcruk to twyne ane tedder, 
 Ane brydill, ane grith, and ane swyne bladder, 
 
 Ane maskene-fatt, ane fetterit lok, 
 Ane scheip weill kepit frae iU wedder, 
 
 To gang togiddir Jjniny and Jok. 
 
 Tak thair for my parte of the feist; 
 It is weill knawin I am weill bodin ; 
 
102 
 
 Ye may nocht say my parte is leist, 
 The wyfe said, speid, the kaill ar soddin^ 
 
 And als the laverok is fust and loddin ; 
 When ye haif done, tak hame the brok ; 
 
 The rost wes tuche, sa wer thay bodin ; 
 Syn gaid togiddir bayth Jynny and Jok. 
 
 AND ART THOU GONE. 
 
 And art thou gone, for ever gone, 
 Frae friends, and love, and me ! 
 
 And will nae mair the witching glance 
 Beam frae thy bonny e'e ? 
 
 And is thy heart for ever cauld. 
 
 And can it feel nae mair ! 
 Nae mair be glad at ither's joys. 
 
 In ither's sorrovsrs share ? 
 
 Alas ! 'tis cauld, for ever cauld — 
 And why does life warm mine ! 
 
 Oh ! that it too had ceas'd to beat, 
 And lay in death wi' thine. 
 
103 
 
 But soon, ay soon, my wish will come, 
 To thee I'm hastening fast ; 
 
 My first, my fondest thought was thine, 
 And thine will be my last. 
 
 COME O'ER THE SEA. 
 
 AIR. — " Cuishlili ma chree." 
 
 Come o'er the sea. 
 Maiden ! with me, 
 Mine thro' sunshine, storm and snows ! 
 Seasons may roll, 
 But the true soul 
 Bums the same, where'er it goes. 
 Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not ! 
 
 Then come o'er the sea. 
 
 Maiden ! with me. 
 Come wherever the wild winds blow ; 
 
 Seasons may roll. 
 
 But the true soul 
 Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
 
104 
 
 Is not the sea 
 Made for the free, 
 Land for courts and chains alone ? 
 Here we are slaves ; 
 But on the waves, 
 Love and Liberty's all our own ! 
 No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, 
 All earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! 
 
 Then come o'er the sea. 
 
 Maiden ! with me, 
 Come wherever the wild winds blow ; 
 
 Seasons may roll. 
 
 But the true soul 
 Bums the same, where'er it goes. 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 Weep no more by shading tree, 
 Weep no more by hallow'd stream ; 
 
 Wend thee to yon cloistered wall. 
 Lighted by the taper's beam. 
 
105 
 
 Make thy couch the lonely brake, 
 
 Shun the lover's rosy bower, 
 Ne'er wilt thou with Knight thou lov'dst, 
 
 Pass the noon or twilight hour. 
 
 Far from bow'rs of bliss and thee, 
 Far in wild and desert land, 
 
 Deep he lies the turf below, 
 Fallen by a heathen hand. 
 
 Dance no more in gilded hall, 
 When the light of day is done. 
 
 Thine is now the lonely cell 
 Deck'd in weeds of cloister'd nun. 
 
 Sweet the tale fond love had told, 
 Well that tale thou lov'dst to hear; 
 
 SUent is the voice for aye. 
 Never more to charm thy ear. 
 
 Soft she sang her vesper hymn, 
 At the close of curfew bell. 
 
 Weeping, sought her lover's bower. 
 In the hollow winding dell. 
 
 Fancy told full many a tale, 
 Visions of an ancient day, 
 
 Like the phantom of the night, 
 Quickly, quickly fled away. 
 
106 
 
 Soft as was the breath of night, 
 Soft was Emma's slumbering sigh 
 
 All she lov'd on earth was fled, 
 All she wish'd was then to die. 
 
 SAY NOT THE BABD HAS TURNED OLD. * 
 
 The' the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, 
 And the blooming effulgence of summer is fled, 
 Tho' the Voice that was sweet, as the harp's softest string, 
 Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, 
 Yet say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 Tho' the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize, 
 Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes; 
 Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright. 
 As the smiles of the morn or the stars of the night, 
 Then say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 '' We feel the greatest pleasure in being authorised to place this poem 
 among the number of our originals. It is a production which does honour 
 to the author, and we are only sorry to say that his delicacy has prevented 
 him, at least for the present, from receiving this honour by the concealment 
 of his name. 
 
107 
 
 When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright, 
 In the hall of his chief on a festival night, 
 I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye. 
 While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply ; 
 Then say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done, 
 By his Clan or his Chief in the days that are gone, 
 His strains then are various — now rapid — now slow, 
 As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe ; 
 Then say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 When summer, in gaudy profusion is dress'd. 
 And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast, 
 I list with delight to his rapturous strain. 
 While the borrowing echo returns it again ; 
 Then say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 But not summer's profusion alone can inspire 
 His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre. 
 But rapid his numbers, and wilder they flow. 
 When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow 
 Then say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 The poem is in general beautifully descriptive of that native fire and 
 those tender sensibilities which eminently belong to the poet's character, 
 and which are apt to be awakened by every singular and striking occurrence. 
 What appears, however, to have operated most upon the mind of our 
 author, and suggested the hint for the present production is that light 
 airiness of disposition which is so peculiar to some poets, and which exhibits 
 all the energies of youthful imagination amid the growing infirmities of de- 
 clining years. 
 
108. 
 
 I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven, 
 Terrific and wild by the thunder of heaven, 
 And smile at the billows that angrily rave, 
 Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave ; 
 Then say not the Bard has turned old. 
 
 When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart, 
 Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart, — 
 "When his blood shall be cold as the wint'ry wave, 
 And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave, — 
 Then say that the Bard has turned old. 
 
 SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. 
 
 She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 
 I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
 
 A superficial or fastidious critic ma-y pertapg smile at tlie author for 
 affirming that "The Bard has not turned old," while at the same time 
 he admits that his head is covered with the gray hairs of age. This seeming 
 Inconsistency, however, is explained sufficiently, and we think most happily, 
 in the beginning of the second stanza, by the introduction of the simile : 
 
 Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize. 
 Attract not the gaze of inquisitive eyes. 
 Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright. 
 As the smiles of the mom or the stars of the night ; 
 Then say not the Bai-d has turned old. 
 
109 
 
 She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 
 
 And I may e'en gae hang. 
 A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
 And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
 But woman is only warld's gear, 
 
 Sae let the bonnie lassie gang. 
 
 Whae'er ye be that woman love, 
 
 To this be never blind, 
 Nae ferKe 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 
 
 A woman has't by kind. 
 O woman, lovely woman, fair ! 
 And angel form's faun to thy share, 
 'Twad been o'er meikle to gi'en thee mair — 
 
 I mean an angel mind. 
 
 I HAVE KNOWN WHAT IT WAS TO BE HAPPY 
 AND GAY. 
 
 AIK. — " Soldier's dream.'' 
 
 I have known what it was to be happy and gay, 
 And have cheiish'd both virtue and friendship sincere, 
 
 I have dream'd upon hope tiU my fancy gave way, 
 Till the dream and the dreamer were lost in despair. 
 
110 
 
 I have tasted of joys unassisted by art, 
 And lavish'd my all with a prodigal waste ; 
 
 One passion alone held the sway o'er my heart, 
 But the joy that it gave was too poignant to last. 
 
 I ne'er lov'd but one, and she seem'd to unite 
 
 All we dream of above, or adore upon earth ; 
 I gaz'd on her charms witli distracting delight, 
 
 And a bosom o'ercharg'd with a sense of her worth 
 Let none love like me, if they value their peace, 
 
 For torture lies hid 'neath the fondness of bliss. 
 Nor barter for ever the comforts of ease. 
 
 For the charms of a smile, or the joys of a kiss. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 MARY, THE MAID OF MONTROSE. 
 
 AIR. — " O tell me the way for to woo." 
 
 O sweet is the calm dewy evening 
 When nature is wooing repair. 
 And sweet are the low notes o' echo 
 When dying away on the ear : 
 
 And lovely, thrice lovely, when o'er the blue ocean. 
 The broad moon arising in majesty glows ; 
 And I breathing over ilk tender emotion, 
 Wi' my lovely Mary, the maid o' Montrose. 
 
Ill 
 
 The fopling sae fine and sae airy, 
 
 Sae fondly in love wi' himsel', 
 
 Is proud wi' ilk new female conquest 
 
 To shine at the walk and the ball. 
 But gie me, oh gie me, the dear calm o' nature, 
 By some bush or brae-side, where naebody goes. 
 And ae bonny lassie to lean on my bosom. 
 My ain lovely Mary, the maid o' Montrose. 
 
 O what is the wale o' the warld. 
 
 Gin nane o' its pleasures we prove? 
 
 And where can we prove o' its pleasures 
 
 Gin no wi' the lassie we love ? 
 O sweet are the smiles and the dimples o' beauty. 
 Where lurking the loves and the graces repose, 
 And sweet is the dark o' the e'e saftly rolling. 
 But sweeter is Mary, the maid o' Montrose. 
 
 Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty. 
 
 Though few are sae bonny as thee; 
 
 O Mary, 'tis no for thy person. 
 
 Though handsome as woman can be: 
 Thy fair flowing form is the fair vernal flow 'ret. 
 The bloom o' thy cheek is the bloom o' the rose. 
 But the charms o' her mind are the ties sae endearing. 
 That bind me to Mary, the maid o' Montrose. 
 
112 
 
 MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. * 
 
 AIR.—" Highlander's lament." 
 
 My Harry was a gallant gay, 
 
 Fu' stately strade he on the plain; 
 
 But now he's banished far away, 
 I'U never see him back again. 
 
 for Mm back agam! 
 Ofor hvm bach agam! 
 
 1 wad gie a' Knochhaspie's land 
 For Highlamd Harry bach again. 
 
 "When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
 I wander dowie up the glen, 
 
 I set me down and greet my fill. 
 And aye I wish him back again. 
 O for him, &c. 
 
 O! were some villains hangit high, 
 
 And ilka body had their ain, 
 Then might I see the joyfu' sight. 
 
 My Highland Harry back again. 
 Ofor him, &e. 
 
 * This song is the composition of Bums. It is sfiid that he oT5tained the 
 chonis from the recitation of an old woman who resided in DunbLane. 
 
113 
 
 PROSPECTS OF AMERICA.* 
 
 (By Dr. Dwight, a Native Poet.) 
 
 Columbia ! Columbia ! to glory arise, 
 
 Thou Queen of the World, and thou child of the skies, 
 
 Thy Genius commands thee, with raptures behold, 
 
 While ages on ages thy splendours unfold. 
 
 Thy reign is the last, and the noblest of Time, 
 
 Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime ; 
 
 Let the crimes of the East ne'er inorimson thy name. 
 
 Be Freedom and Science, and Virtue, thy ,fame. 
 
 To conquest and slaughter, let Europe aspire. 
 Whelm nations in blood, wrap cities in fire. 
 Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend. 
 And triumph pursue them, and glory attend ; 
 A World is thy realm ; for a world be thy laws, 
 Enlarg'd as thy empire and just as thy cause, 
 On Freedom's broad basis that Empire shall rise ; 
 Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies. 
 
 * National honour, independence, and prosperity, form a pleasing theme 
 both for the attention and celebration of the bard. They are not only ex- 
 ceedingly fertile, and thus present most ample scope for the exercise of his 
 invention ; they are also recommended by every consideration which can 
 wai-m the heart or elevate the affections. Among the various production.^ 
 which liave been dedicated to this purpose, the present, though short, is 
 
 Y 
 
114 
 
 Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, 
 And the East see thy Mom hide the beams of her star ; 
 New Bards and new Sages imrivaird shall soar, 
 By Fame stiU distinguish'd when time is no more. 
 To thee the last refuge of Virtue's design'd, 
 Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind, 
 There, grateful to Heav'n, with transport shall bring 
 Their incense more fragrant than odours of Spring. 
 
 Nor leas shall thy fair ones to Glory ascend. 
 And Genius and Beauty in harmony blend ; 
 Their graces of form shall wake pure desire, 
 And the charms of the soul still enliven the fire : 
 Their sweetness unmingled, their manners refined, 
 And Virtue's bright image instamped on the mind. 
 With peace and sweet rapture shall teach life to glow, 
 And light up a smile on the aspect of woe. 
 
 nevertheless conspicuous. It displays, in a very impressive mfinner, the sin- 
 cere wishes and anticipations of the Patriot, expressed with all the fervour 
 ana enthusiasm of the Poet. 
 
 The particular circumstaxiee respecting the poem, to which we would 
 direct the attention of our readers, is, that it was composed for the express 
 purpose of vindicating the honour of a nation. A considerable number of 
 years ago a paragraph appeared in a periodical paper belonguig to this coun- 
 try, which contained some hints that America either had not, or could not 
 produce a native poet. These insinuations were, however, soon after dis- 
 proved by the exertions of a Mr. Dwight, who published this poem, and 
 designed himself, as we have done. In the title, "A native poet." Of this 
 gentleman, however, we have not been able to obtain any particular infor- 
 mation, nor have we, at least as far as is known to us, been favoured with 
 any other displays of his poetical talents. 
 
115 
 
 Thy fleete to all regions thy power shall display, 
 The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; 
 Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, 
 And the East and the South yield their spices and gold ; 
 As the day-spring unbounded, thy splendours shall flow, 
 And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow ; 
 While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, 
 Hush Anarchy's sway, and give peace to the world. 
 
 Thus, as down a lone valley, 'mid the poplar's soft shade, 
 
 From the din of the city, I pensively strayed — 
 
 The gloom from the face of fair Heav'n retired. 
 
 The winds ceased to murmur, the thunders expired ; 
 
 Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along. 
 
 And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung : 
 
 Columbia ! Columbia ! to glory arise, 
 
 Thou Queen of the World, and thou child of the skies. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 Sleep on, and dream of heaven awhile. 
 Though shut so close thy laughing eyes ; 
 
 Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, 
 And move and breathe delicious siffhs. 
 
116 
 
 Ah ! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, 
 And mantle to her neck of snow ! 
 
 Ah ! now she murmurs, now she speaks, 
 WTiat most I wish, yet fear to know. 
 
 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
 
 Her fair hands folded on her breast. 
 And now, how like a saint she sleeps, 
 
 A seraph in the realms of rest ! 
 Sleep on, secure, above control. 
 
 Thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee. 
 And may the secrets of thy soul 
 
 Be held in reverence by me. 
 
 O POORTITH CAULD AND RESTLESS LOVE. 
 
 AIR. — " I had a horse/' itc. 
 
 O poortith cauld, and restless love. 
 Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
 
 Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 
 And 'twere na for my Jeanie, 
 
117 
 
 why should fate sic pleasure hace, 
 Life's dearest baiids untu-itiitig ? 
 
 Or why sae siveet a flower as love. 
 Depend on fm-tune's shining. 
 
 This warld's wealth when I think on, 
 Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
 
 Fie, fie on sUly coward man. 
 That he should be the slave o't. 
 why should fate, cC-c 
 
 Her een sae bonnie blue, betray 
 How she repays my passion ; 
 
 But prudence is her o'erword aye. 
 She talks o' rank and fashion. 
 why should fate, d-c. 
 
 O wha can prudence think upon. 
 And sic a lassie by him ? 
 
 O wha can prudence think upon. 
 And sae in love as I am 1 
 
 why should fate, cCc 
 
 How blest the humble cottar's fate ! 
 
 He wooes his simple dearie ; 
 The silly bogles, wealth and state. 
 
 Can never make him eerie. 
 U why should fate, &c. 
 
118 
 
 WHERE IS MY OWEN ? 
 
 Where is my Owen, where is my true love 1 
 
 O saw ye the shepherd that's dearest to me ? 
 Where art thou wandering? come, haste to my view, love ! 
 
 O art thou not eager thy Mary to see i 
 Long, long does he tarry, ah ! surely some new love 
 
 Detains o'er the mountains my Owen from me, 
 But, swains, do not grieve me, still kindly deceive me, 
 
 And answer thy Owen is constant to thee. 
 
 Fain would I think so — sad when we parted 
 
 Appear'd the dear shepherd with tears in his eyes 
 Pale was his cheek, too, but many have smarted 
 
 From treachery hidden in true love's disguise. 
 For men 'tis most certain were ever false-hearted, 
 
 And those who adore them, alas, they despise ! 
 But, oh ! do not grieve me, still kindly deceive me. 
 
 And tell me that Owen for Mary still sighs. 
 
 Heavens, who comes yonder 1 ah ! 'tis my Owen, 
 And smUing he hastens his Mary to greet ! 
 
 His tender impatience each eager step shewing, 
 To which my fond heart gives an answering beat. 
 
119 
 
 Now, foolish tears, wherefore, why thus are ye flowing, 
 My Owen will fancy I grieve when we meet, 
 
 No, he'U never leave me, no never deceive me, 
 O! heaven, those kind glances! my joy is complete. 
 
 A TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY. * 
 
 Merrily every bosom boundeth. 
 
 Merrily, oh! merrily, oh! 
 Where the song of Freedom soundeth. 
 
 Merrily, oh! merrily, oh! 
 There the warrior's arms 
 
 Shed more splendour, 
 There the maiden's charms 
 
 Shine more tender. 
 Every joy the land surroundeth, 
 
 Merrily, oh! merrily, oh! 
 
 * Thii9 song is adapted to the Tjrolcse national air, the words by Thomas 
 Moore, Esq. 
 
120 
 
 Wearily every bosom pinetli, 
 
 Wearily, oh! wearily, oh! 
 Where the bond of slavery twinetli. 
 
 Wearily, oh! wearily, oh! 
 There the warrior's dart 
 
 Hath no fleetness. 
 There the maiden's heart 
 
 Hath no sweetness. 
 Every flower of life declineth, 
 
 Wearily, oh! wearily, oh! 
 
 Cheerily then from hill and valley. 
 
 Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh! 
 Like your native fountains sally, 
 
 Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh I 
 If a glorious death 
 
 Won by bravery, 
 Sweeter be than breath 
 
 Sigh'd in slavery. 
 Round the flag of freedom rally, 
 
 Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh! 
 
121 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 WHY SO SAD IS MY HEART ? 
 
 AIR. — " My native Caledonia." 
 
 Why so sad is my heaxt, thus to leave thee alane ? 
 Kind heaven will thee guard when I'm far frae thee gane, 
 And will bring me safely back ne'er again to gang awa 
 Frae my love, and my native Caledonia. 
 
 Then, think na, dear maid, tho' the sea between us be, 
 That I e'er can forget what I aft hae vow'd to thee, 
 No, as constant as ever will I still be, tho' awa, 
 To my love, and my native Caledonia. 
 
 And tho' fair be the scenes of old Erin's green Isle, 
 And tho' fair are her daughters, tho' winning their smile, 
 They never, no, never, will my heart e'er wile awa 
 Frae my love, and my native Caledonia. 
 
 Dearest maid, then, shouldst thou be as constant to me. 
 As thy lover has vow'd he will aye be to thee, 
 Wi' what joy will I return, when I've been a while awa, 
 To my love and my native Caledonia. 
 z 
 
122 
 
 WILLIAM AND MARGARET.* 
 
 When hope lay hush'd in silent night, 
 And woe was rapt in sleep, 
 
 In glided Margaret's pale-ey'd ghost, 
 And stood at William's feet, 
 
 * We would call the attention of our readers to this Ballad, not only on 
 account of its beautiful simplicity, but also because of the frequent disputes 
 which it has occasioned among critics. It is one of those singtilarly happy 
 productions which recommend themselves to the capacity and to the 
 feelmgs of all. The subject of which it treats, and the characters whom it 
 introduces, are calculated to excite the most lively interest, and it is com- 
 posed in such pathetic and truly melting strains, as cannot fail to make 
 the deepest impression on every one who peruses it with the slightest 
 reflexion. 
 
 It appeared at first in a periodical paper, entitled The Plain Dealer, so 
 early as the year 1724. The copy indeed which was published there dif- 
 fered considerably from that which we have now adopted, yet still it 
 possessed uncommon excellence, and was accordingly honoured with the 
 highest praise. Readers in general were disposed to regard it with unqua- 
 lified approbation, while the pen of criticism Itself was employed in 
 enumerating its beauties, rather than in attempting to point out any of its 
 defects. 
 
 The copy of the Ballad here alluded to, had been communicated to 
 the editor of the paper to which we have now referred without any 
 signature, so that It was impossible to ascertain the name of the author. 
 No sooner, however, were its merits thus generally recognised, and the 
 greatest reputation seciured to the composer, than it was immediately 
 claimed by «, young man of the name of Mallet, who was a native of 
 
123 
 
 Her face was like an April sky, 
 Dimm'd by a scattering cloud, 
 
 Her clay-cold lily hand, knee high, 
 Held up her sable shroud. 
 
 So shall the fairest face appear. 
 
 When youthful years are flown, 
 
 Such the last robe that kings must wear, 
 When death has reft their crown. 
 
 Scotland, and who owed to this circumstance his first introduction to 
 public notice. 
 
 Mallet's claims, however, did not long escape suspicion. Their validity 
 was questioned by many who entertained the highest opinion of the piece 
 itself, and who even grounded their doubts respecting the authenticity on 
 its very excellence. To them it appeared almost impossible that a young 
 man, in his first appeal to public favour, could produce a composition in all 
 respects so highly finished, and thus, at once, attain that eminence in poeti- 
 cal distinction to which Williaw, and Margaret so justly^ exalted its author. 
 Others who attempted to advocate Mallet's pretentions, were inclined to adopt 
 a very different view of the matter. They were equally, if not more forward 
 than the others, to allow the intrinsic excellence of the poem, and that, con- 
 sidering the years and experience of title author, it was much beyond what 
 could either have been anticipated or expected, but they regarded this rather 
 as a decisive proof of superior genius, which could not fa 1 afterwards to 
 develope itself by stiU higher undertakings. 
 
 Such were the views that prevailed at first on this subject, nor have the 
 opinions of after critics been more satisfactorily reconciled. Some have 
 etill continued to insist that Mallet's claims should be implicitly acknow- 
 ledged, and that in justice to his veracity, he ought to be considered as the 
 original author ; while others as strenuously urge that the whole must be 
 regarded as downright plagiarism, having been only a transcript of some 
 more ancient poem which Mallet had accidentally met with, but which 
 at that time was only very partially known, if not totally forgot. 
 
124 
 
 Her bloom was like the morning flower. 
 
 That sips the silver dew ; 
 The rose had budded on her cheek, 
 
 Just op'ning to the view. 
 
 But love had, like a canker worm, 
 Consum'd her tender prime ; 
 
 The rose of beauty pal'd and pin'd, 
 And died before its time. 
 
 Were we to hazard our opinion on this point of dispute, we would readily 
 agree with those who ascribe the "baJlad to some other author than Mallet. 
 To us it appears sufficiently clear that it must have been the production of 
 some superior and much more ancient bard. It carries us back to those 
 periods in the history of our poeta when their effusions were marked by a 
 particular glow of feeling, and when artless simpliciiy formed their principa 
 distinguishing characteristic. The whole tenor of the piece is remarkably 
 expressive, easy, and unaffected, and it may, we think, without offering 
 the least violence to probability, be placed to the account of the six- 
 teenth century. 
 
 Even, at the first. Mallet himself condescended to acknowledge that he took 
 the hint for the composition of his poem from a stanza which he met with 
 in Beaumont and Fletcher's " Knight of the Burning Pestle." Nay, he 
 goes farther, and confesses that this stanza appeared to him (as indeed it must 
 to every one who considers it attentively) to be only a fragment of some 
 more lengthened ballad, Tvluch was familiarly known at the time when 
 they wrote. Might not the one before xis have been this same original which 
 Mallet may have obtained either from recitation or otherwise, and published 
 as his own ? 
 
 Besides, the poem in question does not agree with any of the rest of 
 Mallet's productions. Even his Sdwin arid Ewma, the only piece in his 
 works that can at all be compared to William and Margaret, and which he 
 wrote when he was farther advanced in life, faUs infinitely short of it in 
 many respects. Is it not, however, reasonable to suppose, had his pretentions 
 been genuine, that, as this was the first thing which brought him into notice. 
 
125 
 
 ** Awake ! " she cried, " thy true love calls, 
 Come from her midnight grave ; 
 
 Late let thy pity mourn a wretch 
 Thy love refua'd to save. 
 
 '^ This is the dark and fearful hour 
 When injur'd ghosts complain ; 
 
 And lovers' tombs give up their dead, 
 To haunt the faithless swain. 
 
 and which indeed procured him so much reputaticJn, he would have at- 
 tempted majiy more imitations of the old English Lyre ? May we not rather 
 suspect that he had not the good fortune to meet with any more orphan 
 pieces, or ohsolete originals, which he could appropriate as his own ? 
 
 Our c^inion that Mallet was not the genuine author of William and 
 Margaret is corroborated, and we think sufB,ciently confirmed, by the 
 account which he himself gives of the particular circimistances which 
 suggested the composition. In a letter which he addressed to the editor of 
 TJie Plain J)e(tl&', he informs him that the poem was actually founded 
 on a fact which had recently occurred imder his observation. A young- 
 lady (he adds) of an agreeable person, and possessed of many intellectual 
 accomplishmenis was courted and seduced by a vain, presuming, unprin- 
 cipled young man, whom her unsuspecting heart had too credulousiy 
 trusted. When she could no longer conceal her imprudence and dis- 
 honour, her father, formerly unacquainted with her situation, now applied 
 to the deceitful lover, and generously offered him. the half of his fortune, 
 provided he would marry his daughter. This offer the perfidious wreteb 
 indignantly rejected, notwithstanding the entreaties and tears by which it 
 was urged, and even proceeded so far as to accuse, with the moet injuriouB 
 and public indecency, the innocence of her whom he had thus villainously 
 betrayed. The news of this treatment so deeply ^ected the young lady, 
 that a fever ensued, which, bringing on premature labour, quickly put an 
 end to her life and sufferings, when both she and her child were buried in 
 one grave. 
 
126 
 
 '* Bethink thee, William, of thy fault. 
 Thy pledge of broken truth, 
 
 See the sad lesson thou has taught 
 To unsuspecting youth. 
 
 * ' Why did you first o'erprize my charms, 
 Yet all those charms forsake ! 
 
 Why sigh'd you for my virgin heart, 
 Then left it thus to break ! 
 
 Suctt are the general outlines of the case, as stated by Mallet to have fur- 
 nished him with materials for the composition of William and Margaret, 
 and we could scarcely suppose any more complicated and melancholy. They 
 present up with an example of insidious unrelenting treachery, practiced 
 on the credulity of unsuspecting innocence, aggravated by the prostitution 
 of feeling and honour, and productive of sufferings inconceivably severe. 
 The question is, how far do the poem and the narration coincide ?— what 
 correspondence is there between the several important points contained in 
 this detail, and those to which the poet directs our attention in the produc- 
 tion before us ? 
 
 And here the discrepancy is obvious and striking. In William and Mar- 
 ' garet we have only the two lovers brought forward to view, without any 
 reference to the father. — The general affair of courtship is simply alluded 
 to, without even a hint respecting unwarrantable intercourse. Margaret 
 only blames William for having forsaken her, contrary to his tender and 
 solemn engagements, but never makes the most distant allusion to any 
 imkind or abusive insinuations. She never reminds him of the infamy which 
 had been indelibly stamped on her name by his artifice and infidelity— of 
 the grief and shame which were thereby entailed on her aged parent, and, 
 above all, of the cruel sacrifice which his unmerited treatment had wantonly 
 made of his own child. 
 
 These are the principal points in which the poem and the narration now 
 before us evidently differ, and this difference necessarily obliges us to adopt 
 one of the following conclusions. We must either acknowledge that Mallet's 
 claims are altogether spurious and unfounded, or that he has acquitted 
 
127 
 
 *^ Why did yon present pledge such vows, 
 
 And none in absence keep ? 
 Why said yon that my eyes were bright, 
 Yet taught them thus to weep ? 
 
 *' Why did you praise my blushing lips, 
 Yet make their scarlet pale ! 
 
 And why, alas, did I, fond maid, 
 Believe the flattering tale ? 
 
 himself in a very superficial and defective manner, considering tlie scope 
 which, the story presented. The account which he has transmitted is in all 
 respects so exceedingly striking, and involves such an accumulation of 
 incident, that we wiH scarcely find one more fertile or better calculated for 
 the display of geni\is, yet the principal topics are so totally overlooked in 
 the poem which we are considering that we cannot suppose them to 
 have been known to the original author. There is, indeed, so little obvi- 
 ous correspondence between the two, that it is utterly impossible to believe 
 that the one could be composed with the slightest view to commemorate the 
 other. 
 
 We are well aware that it may be objected to this mode of recisoning, that 
 a poet is not expected implicitly to adhere to all the particular incidents 
 contained in his story. To this we readily and fully subscribe. The con- 
 trary, indeed, would be both injudicioiis and unwarrantable. It would im- 
 pose a restraint on every power and activity of the mind, which all the efforts 
 of genius could neither supply nor overcome. Accordingly we find that poets 
 have always claimed, and are universally allowed an unbounded licence, ex- 
 tending even to the regions of improbability and fiction. We would, however, 
 think meanly of that author, and of his performance, though excellent in its 
 kind, which, instead of exhaustuig or even answering up to the spirit of the 
 subject, had only introduced a few of the more trifling occurrences, without 
 so much as hinting at those which afforded the freest scope both for concep- 
 tion and expression. From the whole, we think we may safely affirm that 
 he who possessed ability to compose William and Margaret had he been ac- 
 quainted with the story which Mallet records, and attempted to perpetuate it. 
 
128 
 
 " But now my face no more is fair, 
 
 My lips retain no red ; 
 Fix'd are my eyes in Death's still glare, 
 
 And love's vain hope is fled. 
 
 " The hungry worm my partner is. 
 The winding sheet my dress ; 
 
 A long and weary night must pass 
 Ere heaven allow redress, 
 
 " But hark ! 'tis day ; the darkness flies. 
 
 Take one long last adieu ; 
 Come see, false man, how low she lies 
 
 Who died for loving you. 
 
 The birds sang out, the morning smil'd, 
 And streak'd the sky with red. 
 
 Pale William shook in every limb. 
 And started from his bed. 
 
 Weeping he sought the fatal place 
 
 Where Margaret's body lay. 
 And stretch'd him o'er the green-grass turf, 
 
 That veil'd her breathless clay. 
 
 mxist have produced an exhibition in all respects as much superior to the 
 poem as it now stands, as it must be allowed to excel the most insignificant 
 sonnet. 
 
129 
 
 Thrice call'd unheard on Margaret's name, 
 And thrice sore wept her fate, 
 
 Then laid his cheek on her cold grave, 
 And died, and lov'd too late. 
 
 JAMIE 0' THE GLEN. 
 
 Auld Bob, the laird o' muckle land. 
 To woo me was na very blate, 
 
 But spite o' a' his gear he fand 
 He came to woo a day owre late. 
 
 A lad sae hlythe, sae fu' o' glee, 
 My heart did never ken', 
 
 And na/ne cam gie sic joy to me 
 As Ja/mie o' the glen. 
 
 My minnie grat like daft, and rair'd, 
 To gar me wi' her wiU comply, 
 
 But still I wadna hae the laird, 
 Wi' a' his ousen, sheep, and kye. 
 
 A lad sae hlythe, &c. 
 a 
 
130 
 
 Ah, what are silks and satins braw ? 
 
 What's a' his wardly gear to me 1 
 They're daft that cast themsel's awa, 
 
 Where nae content or love can be. 
 
 A lad sae blythe, (Sec. 
 
 I couldna bide the silly clash 
 Came hourly frae the gawky laird ! 
 
 And sae, to stop his gab and fash, 
 Wi' Jamie to the kirk repair'd. 
 
 A lad sae blythe, (kc. 
 
 Now Uka summer's day sae lang. 
 And winter's clad wi' frost and snaw, 
 
 A tunefu' Ult and bonny sang 
 
 Aye keep dull care and strife awa. 
 
 A lad sae blythe, &c. 
 
 THE BASHFU' WOOER. 
 
 AIR.—" Dainty Davy." 
 
 Whene'er ye come to woo me, Tarn, 
 Dinna at the window tap, 
 Or cough, or hem, or gie a clap, 
 To let my father hear, man : 
 
131 
 
 He's auld and fail'd and wants his sleep, 
 Sae by the hallan saftly creep, 
 Ye needna watch, and glower, and peep, 
 I'll meet you, never fear, man. 
 
 If a lassie ye wad wi)i, 
 Be clieerfu' ever, bashfn' never 
 Ilka Jock may get a Jean, 
 If he has sense to try, man. 
 
 Whene'er we at the market meet, 
 Dinna look like ane hauf daft, 
 Or talk about the cauld and heat. 
 
 As ye were weather-wise, man. 
 Haud up your head, and bauldly speak. 
 And keep the blushes frae your cheek, 
 For he wha has his tale to seek, 
 
 We lasses a' despise, man. 
 
 If a lassie, dx. 
 
 I met you lately a' your lane. 
 
 Ye seem'd like ane stown frae the dead, 
 
 Your teeth e'en chattered in your head, 
 
 But ne'er a word o' love, man ; 
 I spak, ye look'd anither way, 
 Then trembled as ye'd got a flay, 
 And owre your shouther cried, "gtide day," 
 
 Nor ance to win me strave, man. 
 
 If a lassie, dkc. 
 
132 
 
 My aunty left me threescore poun' 
 
 But de'il a ane o' a' the men 
 
 Till then did bare-legg'd Elspa ken', 
 
 \0r car'd a strae for me, man ; 
 Now tugging at me soon and late, 
 They're cleeking but the yellow bait : 
 Sae mind me. Tarn, I needna wait. 
 When I hae choice o' three, man. 
 
 Jf a lassie, &c. 
 
 There lives a lad owre yonder muir, 
 He has nae faut but ane — he's puir ; 
 Whene'er we meet wi' kisses sweet, 
 
 He's like to be my death, man : 
 And there's a lad ahint yon trees. 
 Wad waud for me aboon the knees ; 
 Sae tell your mind, or, if ye please, 
 
 Nae langer fash ua baith, man. 
 
 If a lassie, dec. 
 
133 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 'TIS SAID THAT MEN ARE FALSE AND 
 FICKLE. 
 
 'Tis said that men are false and fickle, 
 And oft too true the charge may be ; 
 
 But who had thought a tear should trickle 
 For woman, Lela, such as thee. 
 
 When to this bosom last I press'd thee, 
 I little thought we e'er should part ; 
 
 But since another has caress'd thee, 
 Sure thy love to me was art. 
 
 The wind is fair to waft me over, 
 Far from home, and far from thee, 
 
 But in vain thy too-fond lover, 
 Strives to bid his heart be free. 
 
 Sweet Lela, fare thee well ! may heaven 
 Shield thy heart from woes like mine ! 
 
 Be this, thy only fault, forgiven. 
 And peace and joy continue thine. 
 
134 
 
 LIXXVII. 
 
 POOR MARY ANNE. 
 
 AIR. — " At hyd y noa.' 
 
 Here beneath this willow sleepeth 
 Poor Mary Anne ! 
 
 One whom all the village weepeth, 
 Poor Mary Anne ! 
 
 He she lov'd her passion slighted ; 
 
 Breaking all the vows he plighted : 
 
 Therefore life no more delighted 
 Poor Mary Anne ! 
 
 Pale thy cheek now, where thy lover, 
 
 Poor Mary Anne ! 
 Once could winning charms discover, 
 
 Poor Mary Anne ! 
 Dim those eyes, so sweetly speaking, 
 When true love's expression seeking ;- 
 Oh ! we saw thy heart was breaking, 
 Poor Mary Anne ! 
 
135 
 
 Lite a rose we saw thee wither, 
 
 Poor Mary Anne! — 
 Soon, a corpse we brought thee hither, 
 
 Poor Mary Anne! 
 Now our evening pastime flying. 
 We, in heartfelt sorrow vieing, 
 Seek thy willow, — softly sighing, 
 
 " Poor Mary Anne I " 
 
 AYONT THE MOW AMANG THE STRAE. 
 
 AIR. — "Andrew vd' his cutty gun." 
 
 Blythely hae I screw' d my pipei, 
 An' blythely play'd the ke-lang day 
 
 But blyther been wi' bonnie Bess 
 Ayont the mow among the strae. 
 
 When first I saw the bonnie face 
 O' Bessie, blooming in her teens, 
 
 She wil'd awa this heart o' mine, 
 And ca'd it fu o' corking preens. 
 
 Blythely, dec. 
 
136 
 
 At e'en when a' the lave gae by 
 " And grannie steeks her waukrife e'e, 
 Steal out when I the winnock tap, 
 " Ahint the ha' I'll meet wi' thee." 
 
 Blyfhely, dec. 
 
 She leugh, and bade me let her hame, 
 Her mither sair wad fljrte and scauld, 
 
 But ere I quat my bonnie Bess, 
 Anither tale, I trow, she tauld. 
 
 Blythely, dx. 
 
 On Tysday night, fu' weel I wat, 
 
 Wi' hinney words I row'd my tongue, 
 
 Brought down my plaid and steively stak 
 Intil my neive a hazel rung. 
 
 Blythely, <&c. 
 
 Now when I conn'd my artless tale, 
 Gaun linking owre the lily lea, 
 
 Fu' weel I trow'd that ilka bush 
 Some jeering question speir'd at me. 
 
 Blythely, dbc. 
 
 The bittern cry'd frae yont the loch, 
 " O hoolie, hoolie — where ye gaun 1 " 
 
 The quail reply'd frae 'mang the corn, 
 " Turn out your taes, my bonnie man. ' 
 
 Blythely, d;c. 
 
137 
 
 And soon I faund, wi' shiv'ring shanks, 
 My heart play dunt thro' bashfu' fear, 
 
 Whan glowring owre the kail-yard dyke 
 To see gin a' the coast was clear. 
 Blythely, &c. 
 
 And there, like ony nightly thief, 
 Wi' eerie swither look'd awhile. 
 
 Till, rallying ilka traitor nerve, 
 I lightly loupit owre the style. 
 Blythely, <kc. 
 
 &yns gae the glass twa canny pats, 
 And Bessie bade nae lang frae me; 
 
 The rouaty lock was oiled weel, 
 And Uka hinge o' cheeping free. 
 Blythely, d;c. 
 
 O say, ye haly minstrel band, 
 
 Wha saw the saft, the silken hour, 
 
 Tho' joys celestial on ye wait. 
 Say, was your bliss mair chastely pure ? 
 Blythely, &c. 
 
 But fare ye weel, my bonny lass. 
 At e'en ye maunna look for me. 
 
 And fare ye weel, auld mither yirth. 
 Thy hills I never mair will see. 
 
 Blythely, &c. 
 b 
 
138 
 
 SHE IS PAR FROM THE LAJiTD. 
 
 AIR. — " Open the door.' 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers around her are sighing : 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying ! 
 
 She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
 Every note which he lov'd awaking : — 
 
 Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains. 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 
 
 He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwin'd him, — 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 
 
 Oh ! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest. 
 When they promise a glorious morrow. ; 
 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. 
 From her own loved island of sorrow ! 
 
139 
 
 SUMMER COMES, &c.* 
 
 AIR.— "Hey, tuttie, tuttie.' 
 
 Summer comes, and in her train 
 Flora dances o'er the plain, 
 Decking all around again, 
 With her varied scenery. 
 
 "* If we are correct in our supposition, this song comes from one who has 
 already favoured us with a variety of communications. In looking over these, 
 we were particularly struck with the versatility of our author's genius, and the 
 happy mode of expression which he has imiformly adopted. His composi- 
 tions exhibit to us a mind easily affected by the constant vicissitude both of 
 enjoyment and of hope. They are sometimes solemnized by indulging in 
 mournful and tender strains ; at other times they abound in all the gaiety of 
 the most playful fancy. In whatever way, however, he employs his muse, 
 it is still with the greatest advantage to his subject. 
 
 It will, no doubt, be objected to us here, that the good judgment of the 
 author does not appear conspicuous in this song. It may be said that the 
 air and the words do not agree together. This was an objection which the 
 author informs us he himself had anticipated. He had always observed, he 
 says, that this air had been generally appropriated by poets to the celebration 
 of martial or harsh sounding strains, and that, so far as he knew, it had 
 never been adapted with words like the present. He was always, however, 
 of opinion, that this might be very properly attempted, and accordingly in 
 one of his leisure moments, and for his own amusement, he composed these 
 stanzas. 
 
140 
 
 I 
 
 Now the primrose, sweetest flower 
 First to own the genial power 
 Of brighter sun and warmer shower, 
 Blooms in virgin modesty. 
 
 Here the gowan lifts its head, 
 As if afraid some foot would tread 
 Back into his native bed. 
 
 All its lowly finery. 
 There again the heath-bell blue, 
 Forms its cup of azure hue, 
 As if to sip the silver dew 
 
 That falls at eve refreshingly. 
 
 And when evening comes so still, 
 How sweet to hear from yonder hill. 
 The gurgling sound of rapid rill 
 
 Fall on the ear harmoniously. 
 How sweet to hear, from yonder grove. 
 The mavis tune his note to love, 
 While, bless'd with thee, I fondly rove 
 
 Along the glen so cheerily. 
 
141 
 
 MY FATHER AND MOTHER, &c. 
 
 AIR,—" The Harper of Mull." 
 
 "My father and mother now lie with the dead, 
 And friendship, with them, and with fortune has fled. 
 And wilt thou too leave me, my lover 1 ah ! no, 
 Thou never canst add to the weight of my woe. 
 
 " No, Menie, tho' father ajid mother are gone. 
 The' fortune deserts thee, and friends on thee frown. 
 Thy lover when distant afar o'er the sea. 
 Will stUl be as constant as ever to thee. 
 
 "Then how canst thou seek on a far distant strand 
 For what may be found on thy own native land ; 
 If happiness is, and it must be thy bent. 
 Can riches procure peace of mind or content. 
 
 " No more, my dear Menie — thy wish I obey, 
 
 I will not— I cannot from thee go away, 
 
 Though less are our riches yet nothing is lost. 
 
 We're happier than those who their thousands can boasfc. 
 
142 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For others weal avail'd on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air, 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 
 
 Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
 These Ups are mute, these eyes are dry ; 
 
 But in my breast, and in my brain, 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by. 
 
 The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
 I only know we lov'd in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
143 
 
 WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 
 
 whistle, and Fll come to ye, my lad, 
 O whistle, and TU come to ye, m/y lad. 
 Though father and rmther and a' should gae mad. 
 Thy Jeame will ventwre out wV ye, my lad. 
 
 But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
 And come na unless the back yett be a-jee 1 
 Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see. 
 And come as ye were na coming to me. 
 And come as ye were na coming to me. 
 whistle, &c. 
 
 At kirk or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
 Gang by me as though that ye car'd na a flee. 
 But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
 Yet look as ye were na looking at me, 
 Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
 whistle, Jkc. 
 
144 
 
 Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
 And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee 
 But court na anither, though joking ye be, 
 For fear she should wile your fancy frae me, 
 For fear she should wile your fancy frae me. 
 whisiU, &c. 
 
 KELVIN GBOVE. 
 
 AIR. — "Bonnie lassie, O.' 
 
 Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonny lassie, O, 
 Through its mazes let us rove, bonny lassie, O, 
 
 Where the rose, in all its pride. 
 
 Paints the hollow dingle side, 
 Where the midnight fairies glide, bonny lassie, O, 
 
 We will wander by the mill, bonny lassie, O, 
 To the cove beside the rill, bonny lassie, O, 
 
 Where the glens rebound the call 
 
 Of the lofty water-fall, 
 Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonny lassie, O. 
 
145 
 
 Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonny lassie, O, 
 Where so oft beneath its shade, bonny lassie, O, 
 
 With the songsters in the grove. 
 
 We have told our tale of love, 
 And have sportive garlands wove, bonny lassie, O. 
 
 Ah ! I soon must bid adieu, bonny lassie, O, 
 To this fairy scene and you, bonny lassie, O, 
 
 To the streamlet winding clear, 
 
 To the fragrant scented brier, 
 Even to thee of all most dear, bonny lassie, O. 
 
 For the frowns of fortune lower, bonny lassie, O, 
 On thy lover at this hour, bonny lassie, O, 
 Ere the golden orb of day 
 Wake the warblers from the spray, 
 From this land I must away, bonny lassie, O. 
 
 And when on a distant shore, bonny lassie, O, 
 Should I faU midst battle's roar, bonny lassie, O, 
 
 Wilt thou, Ellen, when you hear 
 
 Of thy lover on his bier. 
 To his mem'ry shed a tear, bonny lassie, O. 
 
146 
 
 THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 
 
 Original set of tho words. 
 
 "Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand, 
 
 To sing you a sang which you did me command ; 
 But my memory's sae bad, I had almost forgot 
 That ye ca'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride, 
 rU sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
 For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot. 
 And far afore the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 Tho' my lassie has nae scarlets or sUks to put on, 
 We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne, 
 
 1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she came in her smock 
 Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 Tho' we hae neither horses nor menzie at command, 
 We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand ; 
 And when wearied for rest, we'll find it sweet in ony spot, 
 And we'U value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
147 
 
 If we ha'e ony babies we will count them as lent, 
 Ha'e we less, ha'e we mair, we will aye be content; 
 For they say they ha'e mair pleasure wha win but a groat. 
 Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 I'll not meddle wi' th' aflFairs o' the kirk or the queen, 
 They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim, 
 On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'U hold it still remote, 
 Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 
 
 THE SMOKE FROM YON COTTAGE. 
 
 The smoke from yon cottage no longer is rising, 
 For night in her mantle the world has shrouded; 
 
 Some calmly are sleeping, some fondly devising 
 New schemes to gild over the hopes that are clouded. 
 
 The moon through the blue sky in splendour is sailing. 
 The stars in the noon of their brightness are glowing. 
 
 But these, though so lovely, ah! how unavailing 
 
 To soothe the lone heart that's with sorrow o'erflowing. 
 
W8 
 
 When love still remains where sweet hope is a stranger, 
 The present how bitter — the future how lonely! 
 
 Yet this though I feel — I ne'er pause at the danger, 
 But bid my heart beat, love! for thee, and thee only. 
 
 Soon the red clouds of mom in the east will be blushing, 
 And thousands will hail the long-wish'd-for to-morrow, 
 
 But transient my joy, as the cheek's hectic flushing, 
 That bids us to hope but to add to our sorrow. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 THE GLOAMIN' FRAE THE WELKIN HIGH. 
 
 AIK.— " Ettrick Banks." 
 
 The gloamin frae the welkin high, 
 
 Had chas'd the bonny gowden beam; 
 The curtain'd east, in crimson dye. 
 
 Hung heavy owre the tinted stream: 
 The wild rose blushing on the brier. 
 
 Was set wi' draps o' shining dew — 
 As big and clear, as th' bursting tear 
 
 That glow'd in Betty's e'e sae blue! 
 
149 
 
 She saw the dear — the little cot, 
 
 Where fifteen years flew sweetly by ! 
 And moum'd her shame, and hapless lot, 
 
 That forc'd her frae that hame to fly. 
 Though sweet and mild the e'ening smil'd. 
 
 Her heart was rent wi' anguish keen ; 
 The maTis ceas'd his music wUd, 
 
 And wonder'd what her sobs could mean. 
 
 It wasna kind to rob my mind 
 
 Of a' its peace for evermair ; 
 To blot my name wi' burning shame. 
 
 And mak my parents' heart sae sair. 
 My hame how dare I enter now, 
 
 Hk honour'd face in tears to see ; 
 Where oft I kneel'd to hear the vow, 
 
 Was ofiered frae the heart for me ! 
 
 And can I lo'e the treacherous man 
 
 Wha wrought this dear and deadly Ul, 
 Wha blurr'd wi' clouds my early dawn 1 
 
 Ah ! wae's my heart ! I lo'e him still ! 
 My heart abus'd, my love misus'd ; 
 
 My wretched fate wi' tears I see ; 
 But maist I fear my parents dear 
 
 Gae mourning to the grave for me. 
 
150 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. 
 
 "Well ! thou art liappy, and I feel 
 That I should thus be happy too, 
 
 For stiU my heart regards thy weal, 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot ; 
 
 But let them pass — oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him if he lov'd thee not ! 
 
 When late I saw thy favourite child, 
 I thought my jealous heart would break, 
 
 But when th' unconscious infant smil'd, 
 I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 
 
 I kiss'd it — and repress'd my sighs, 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 
 But then it had its mother's eyes, 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
151 
 
 Mary, adieu ! I must away, 
 
 While thou art blest I'll not repine ! 
 But near thee I can never stay, 
 
 My heart would soon again be thine 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame, 
 
 Nor knew till seated by thy side 
 My heart in all — save hope — ^the same. 
 
 Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look, 
 
 But now, to tremble were a crime, 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face. 
 
 Yet meet with no confusion there ; 
 
 One only feeling couldst thou trace, 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream 
 Remembrance never must awake : 
 
 O ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
 My foolish heart be still, or break ! 
 
152 
 
 you REMEMBER, ELLEN. 
 
 AIB.— " Were I a clerk." 
 
 Tou remember, Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 
 
 How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, 
 When the stranger, "William, had made her his bride. 
 
 And love was the light of their lowly cot. 
 Together they toil'd through winds and rains. 
 
 Till William at length, in sadness, said, 
 " We must seek our fortune on other plains ; " 
 
 Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. 
 
 They roam'd a. long and a weary way, 
 
 Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, 
 When now, at close of one stormy day, 
 
 They see a proud castle among the trees. 
 " To-night,'' said the youth, "we'll shelter there : 
 
 The wind blows cold, the hour is late : " 
 So, he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, 
 
 And the porter bow'd, as they pass'd the gate. 
 
153 
 
 " Now welcome, lady ! exclaimed the youth, — 
 
 " This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." 
 She believ'd him wild, but his words were truth, 
 
 For EUen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! 
 And dearly the Lord of Bosna loves 
 
 What WiUiam the stranger woo'd and wed ; 
 And the light of bliss, in these lonely groves, 
 
 Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. 
 
 THERE IS AN HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST.* 
 
 There is an hour of peaceful rest 
 To mourning wanderers given ; 
 There is a tear for souls distrest, 
 A balm for every wounded breast- 
 'Tis found above — in Heaven ! 
 
 ♦ We cannot forbear expressing our high opinion of this excellent piece of 
 poetry. It lE a production of a very superior kind indeed, and for which wc 
 are indebted to the exertions of some American bard. It was copied from a 
 newspaper belonging to that country, and is no mean specimen of their ability 
 
 d 
 
154 
 
 There is a soft, a downy bed, 
 'Tis fair as breath of even'; 
 A couch for weary mortals spread, 
 Where they may rest the aching head. 
 And find repose — in Heaven ! 
 
 There is a home for weeping souls, 
 
 By sin and sorrow driven ; 
 When toss'd on life's tempestuous shoals. 
 Where storms arise, and ocean rolls. 
 
 And all is drear — but Heaven ! 
 
 There faith lifts up the tearful eye. 
 
 The heart with anguish riven, 
 And views the tempest passing by. 
 The evening shadows quickly S.y, 
 And all serene — in Heaven ! 
 
 There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 
 
 And joys supreme are given ; 
 There rays divine disperse the gloom : 
 Beyond the confines of the tomb. 
 Appears the dawn — of Heaven ! 
 
 and attainment in poetical composition. For sweetness of numbers^ and 
 sublimity of sentiment, it cannot be surpassed, and bas seldom, indeed, been 
 equalled by any thing of the kind which we have hitherto met with. It is 
 the - effusion of a mind endowed by all the inspiration of the poet, and 
 adorned with all the piety of the Christian. From the numerous incon- 
 veniences and anxiety of time, which so greatly embarrass and embitter 
 human life, it carries us forward to that scene where every calamity shall be 
 for ever excluded, and when aU shall be enjoyment and rest — in Heaven. 
 
155 
 
 THE CIRCLE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 AIR. — " The kail brose of auld Scotland.' 
 
 The cauld blasts o' winter blaw chiU o'er the plain, 
 And nature grows pale 'neath the tyrant's domain ; 
 We'll seek our lov'd cottage, and leave the bleak scene ] 
 
 For there's nought like the circle of friendship 
 
 To brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
 The heart leaps with joy, by the canty fireside. 
 Surrounded by faces whose faith hath been tried, 
 "Where kind hospitality loves to preside ; 
 
 For there's nought like the circle of friendship 
 To brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
 Though our table is spread with no epicure's fare ; 
 Though our wealth is but sma', we shall never despair, 
 While we just hae a plack wi' a neighbour to share ; 
 Still we'll meet in the circle of friendship 
 And brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
156 
 
 The nabob surrounded with splendour may pine ; 
 For friends are but scanty where sycophants shine ;- 
 Here the juice of the malt is as sweet as the vine ; 
 And there's nought like the circle of friendship 
 To brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
 Let statesmen delight in the court's vain parade. 
 Where each plays for self in the great masquerade.— 
 Our pleasures, though humble, with trust are repaid 
 
 For there's nought like the circle of friendship 
 
 To brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
 While the coxcomb is lost in the butterfly throng, 
 Where the dance to the music is floating along ; 
 We enjoy our bit crack, wi' a canty Scots song ; 
 For there's naught like the circle of friendship 
 To brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
 Then blest be the faces that welcom'd me here, 
 Wherever I wander they'll ever be dear, — 
 While our glasses, at parting, will brim with a tear ; 
 For there's nought like the circle of friendship 
 To brighten life's path with a smile. 
 
157 
 
 THE NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 All white hung the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream, 
 And pale from its banks the long icicles gleam; 
 The first peep of morning just peers thro' the sky. 
 And here, at thy door, gentle Mary, am I. 
 
 With the dawn of the year, and the dawn of the light. 
 The one that best loves thee stands first in thy sight; 
 Then welcom'd, dear maid, with my gift let me be, 
 A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee ! 
 
 Last year, of earth's treasures I gave thee my part. 
 The new yeax before it I gave thee my heart; 
 And now, gentle Mary, I greet thee again, 
 When only this hand and a blessing remain ! 
 
 Though time should run on with his sack full of care. 
 And wrinkled thy cheek, maid, and whiten thy hair, 
 Yet stiU on this mom shall my offering be, 
 A ribbon, a kiss, and a blessing for thee ! 
 
168 
 
 WHEN LIFE FROM THIS BOSOM. 
 
 When life from this bosom for ever is iled, 
 Is there one for poor Jack that will mourn ? 
 
 la there one that will say, " 'neath this sod there is laid 
 A good fellow as ever was bom ? " 
 
 No — the friends of his youth, for a short fleeting year, 
 
 May remember, when over the bowl, 
 That oft there has joined them in folly's career, 
 
 " Poor Jack, on the whole a good soul." 
 
 But, oh! it was not to companions like these 
 That his heart and his feelings were known 
 
 Though oft, to drown care, and ambitious to please. 
 O'er the most of the club has he shone. 
 
 Nor is it from these that a tear he would ask, 
 Should his mem'ry in theirs ever live; 
 
 No, to them far too hard and too grating the task, 
 Enough that a bumper they give. 
 
159 
 
 But, oh! when he's laid in his last peaceful sleep, 
 
 When his heart is for ever at rest. 
 Sweet Lela, shouldst thou o'er his ashes e'er weep. 
 
 Or his meni'ry e'er heave thy fair breast, 
 
 Then, if spirits of aught that is mortal can taste, 
 
 Lov'd Lela, what joys will be mine, 
 When hovering above on light pinions I haste 
 
 To breathe a soft murmur with thine. 
 
 BONNIE LADIB ANN.* 
 
 There's kames o' hinney 'tween my luve's lips 
 
 And gowd amang her hair. 
 Her breasts are lapt in a holie veU, 
 
 Nae mortal een keek there. 
 
 " This truly excellent baUad was recovered, according to Cromek, from tho 
 recitation of Miss Catherine Macartney, of Hacket, Leaths, Galloway, and 
 is to be found in his Remains of Nitksdale and Galloway Song^ a work which 
 does in f inite honour to the taste of the Editor, — " There is a nohle sublimity, 
 a heart-melting tenderness," says the immortal Bums, "in some of our an- 
 cient ballads, which shew them to be the work of a masterly hand : and it 
 
160 
 
 What lipa dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, 
 
 Or what arm of love dare span 
 The hinney lips, the creamy loof, 
 
 Or the waist o' Ladie Ann? 
 
 She kisses the lips o* her bonnie red rose, 
 
 AVat wi' the blode o' dew; 
 But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip 
 
 Maun touch her Ladie mou. 
 But a broider'd belt wi' a' buckle o' gowd 
 . Her jimpy waist maun span; 
 O she's an armfu' fit for heaven, 
 
 My bonnie Ladie Ann! 
 
 has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such glorious old barda 
 —bards, who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have 
 described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- 
 ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature, — ^that their very names (O how 
 mortifying to a bard's vanity ! ) are now '* buried among the wreck of things 
 which were," 
 
 ** A fairer specimen of romantic Scottish love than is contained in this 
 song, is rare to be met with. It was first introduced to Nithsdale and 
 Galloway about thirty years ago by a lady whose mind was deranged. She 
 wandered from place to place, followed by some tamed sheep. The old 
 people describe her as an amiable and mild creature. She would lie all night 
 under the shade of some particular tree, with her sheep aroiond her. They 
 were as the ewe-lamb in the scripture parable ; — they lay in her bosom, ate 
 of her bread, drank of her cup, and were imto her as daughters. Thus she 
 wandered through part of England, and the low part of Scotland, esteemed, 
 respected, pitied, and wept for by all ! She was wont to sing this song un- 
 moved, until she came to the last verse, and then she burst into tears. The 
 old tree, under which she sat with her sheep, is now cut down. The school 
 boya always paid a kind of religious respect to it — there, on fine Sabbath 
 evenings, the old women sat down and read their Bibles ; there the young 
 men and maidens learned their Psalms, and then went home full of the meek 
 and holy composure of religion." — Cromek. 
 
161 
 
 Her bower casement is lattic'd wi' flowers, 
 
 Tied up wi' silver thread ; 
 And comely sits she in the midst, 
 
 Men's longing een to feed. 
 She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, 
 
 Wi' her milky, milky han' ; 
 And her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God, 
 
 My bonnie Ladie Ann ! 
 
 The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd. 
 
 Like my luve's broider'd cap, 
 And on the mantle which my luve wears. 
 
 Are monie a gowden drap. 
 Her bonnie eebree's a holie arch 
 
 Cast by nae earthlie han'. 
 And the breath o' God's atween the lips 
 
 O' my bonnie Ladie Ann ! 
 
 [I wondering gaze on her statelie steps, 
 
 And I beet a hopeless flame ; 
 To my luve, alas ! she maunna stoop 
 
 It wad stain her honour'd name.] 
 My e'en are bauld, they dwall on a place. 
 
 Where I darena mint my han' ; 
 But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers 
 
 0' my bonnie Ladie Ann ! 
 
 Those lines within brackets are not in the copy printed by Cromek. He 
 says "a deal of unseemly chaff had intermixed with the heavy grain, which 
 has cost a httle winnowing and sieving." Probably the lines in question 
 may be some of the chaff to which he alludes. However, for the sake of con- 
 nection, they are inserted. 
 
 e 
 
162 
 
 I am her father's gardener lad, 
 
 And poor, poor, is my fa' ;* 
 My avild mither gets my wee, wee fee, 
 
 Wi' fatherless baimies twa : 
 My Ladie comes, my Ladie gaes, 
 
 Wi' a f ou and kindly han', 
 O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve, 
 
 An fa' on Ladie Ann ! 
 
 O ! IF YE HAE A HEART TO SPARE. 
 
 AIR. — " Duncan Daviesou." 
 
 O ! if ye hae a heart to spare, 
 
 And yet refuse that heart to gie, 
 It will but gar me try the mair 
 
 To wile awa that heart frae thee. 
 For thou hast stown into my breast, 
 
 And thou hast ta'en my heart awa', 
 Wi' thoughts o' thee I've tint my rest, 
 
 And yet I pardon thee for't a'. 
 
 " Fa:,— lot,— fate. 
 
163 
 
 I canna want thee out my sight, 
 
 I weary for thee night and day, 
 'Tis thee I think o' aye at night, 
 
 Whan I gae ben the house to pray. 
 A youthfu' life's a sinfu' time, 
 
 I've heard my eldrin mither say, 
 But, oh ! if love be made a crime, 
 
 Then I hae cause to be right wae. 
 
 For I'm sae caught by Cupid's snare, 
 
 That if by chance I hear thy name, 
 My heart playa dunt ere I'm aware, 
 
 And sets my bosom in a flame. 
 Sae, if ye're willing, here's my hand. 
 
 And dinna think me pert or bauld, 
 Though young and daft, yet wedlock's band 
 
 Will wear me wise as I grow auld. 
 
 There's Andrew o' the Bramble-knowe, 
 
 He vows and swears he'U hae me soon, 
 I'U gie his rock anither tow. 
 
 And gar the body change his tune. 
 For I hae sworn a haly aith, 
 
 And mair than that, this very day 
 I tauld my mam and dadie baith, 
 
 Nae ither lad than you I'd hae. 
 
164 
 
 THERE'S NONE TO SOOTHE MY SOUL TO 
 REST. 
 
 AIE.~" Bonny was yon rosy brier." 
 
 There's none to soothe my soul to rest, 
 
 There's none my load of grief to share, 
 Or wake to joy this lonely breast, 
 
 Or light the gloom of dark despair. 
 Oft to the winds my grief I tell, 
 
 They bear along the mournful tale. 
 To dreary echo's rocky cell, 
 
 That heaves it back upon the gale. 
 
 The little wild bird's merry lay. 
 
 That wont my lightsome heart to cheer, 
 In murmuring echoes dies away, 
 
 And melts like sorrow on my ear. 
 The voice of joy no more can cheer, 
 
 The look of love no more can warm, 
 Since mute for aye's that voice so dear. 
 
 And clos'd that eye alone could charm. 
 
165 
 
 WINIFRED A.* 
 
 AIR.—" Bveillez vous belle endoi-mie." 
 
 Away! let nought to love displeasing, 
 My Winifreda, move your care ; 
 
 Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, 
 Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 
 
 What though no grants of royal donors. 
 With pompous titles grace our blood ; 
 
 We'U shine in more substantial honours. 
 And, to be noble, we'll be good. 
 
 Our name, while virtue thus we tender. 
 Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; 
 
 And aU the great ones they shall wonder, 
 How they respect such little folk. 
 
 * We extract this chaste and beautiful address to conjugal love from n 
 volume of Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands, published by D. Lewis, 
 London, 1726, wherein it is stated to be " A translation from the ancient 
 British." This, Dr. Aiken, in his Vocal Poetry, p. 152; considers as a 
 
166 
 
 What though from fortune's lavish'd bounty, 
 No mighty treasures we possess ; 
 
 We'll find within our pittance, plenty. 
 And be content without excess. 
 
 Still shall each kind returning season, 
 SuflB^cient for our wishes give; 
 
 For we will live a life of reason, 
 And that's the only way to live. 
 
 Through youth and age in love excelling, 
 We'll hand in hand together tread, 
 
 Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling. 
 And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed. 
 
 How should I love the pretty creatures, 
 WhUe round my knees they fondly clung; 
 
 To see them look their mother's features. 
 To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 
 
 And when with envy, time transported. 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys. 
 
 You'll in your girls again be courted. 
 And I'U go wooing in my boys. 
 
 poetic fiction only, or rather a stroke of satire, by which Dr. Percy was 
 strangely induced to insert the piece among his Reliques of Aiicimt Poe- 
 try. In the Edinburgh Review, Vol. ix. p. 37, the honour of this produc- ■ 
 tion is given to the late Mr. Stephens, (meaning George Stevens, Esq. ;) 
 but with what propriety may be doubted. Ritson, in his Collection of 
 English Songs, ascribes it to Mr Gilbert Cooper. 
 
107 
 
 'TWAS IN A LONELY COTTAGE DWELLING. 
 
 'Twas in a lonely cottage dweUing, 
 
 Oft remember'd with a tear, 
 With, falt'ring voice his sighs repelling, 
 
 Edward own'd his love sincere. 
 But I was vaia and blush'd with beauty, 
 
 He was poor and humbly bom, 
 I coldly pleaded filial duty. 
 
 Treating all his vows with scorn. 
 
 With trembling steps and broken-hearted, 
 
 Edward left his native plain; 
 From that sad day all joy departed, 
 
 Never to return again. 
 For he, o'erwhelmed with hopeless sorrow. 
 
 Frantic to the battle sped; 
 The foe repuls'd — but on the morrow, 
 
 Edward slumber'd with the dead. 
 
168 
 
 THE ROSE THAT BLOOMS. 
 
 AIR. — " I saw thy form,' 
 
 The rose that blooms on yonder brier, 
 Beneath the hawthorn shade, 
 
 Looks full of life, and gay as thee. 
 But, ah, it soon will fade, Mary. 
 
 Nurs'd by the summer dews of heaven, 
 It buds, and soon is blown. 
 
 But long ere winter's frown is seen, 
 'Tis gone — for ever gone, Mary ! 
 
 Perhaps 'tis cropp'd by school-boy hand. 
 
 In search of linnet nest; 
 Perhaps some lover, wandering by. 
 
 May place it in his breast, Mary. 
 
 And what is beauty but a rose. 
 That blooms a short-liv'd hour; 
 
 When not untimely cropp'd by death. 
 Or blighted like the flower, Mary. 
 
J 09 
 
 NO, MARY, WE CAN MEET NAE MAIR.* 
 
 No, Mary, we can meet nae mair, 
 
 Thou'st fause been to thyseF and ine, 
 Thou'st left me for anither's sake — 
 
 The thing I couldna done to thee. 
 The bosom aft that pillow'd thee, 
 
 That bosom how couldst thou forsake ! 
 The heart that was sae set on thee — 
 
 Sae fond a heart, how couldst thou break ? 
 
 ■* In a note which accompanied this song, this author informs us that it was 
 written on occasion of his reading the celebrated speech of councillor 
 Phillips, entitled " Guthrie v, Sterne." This is a case with which, no doubt, 
 the most of our readers will be already well acquainted. It became exten- 
 sively known at the time when it occurred, not only from the peculiar atro- 
 cities which ttie crime itself involved, but chiefly on account of the very 
 spirited address delivered by Mr. Phillips in behalf of the injured husband. 
 
 As it would, however, encroach too much upon our present limits to give 
 even a brief of this interesting case, we shall simply observe that it became 
 highly aggravated on the part of the lady, and particularly distressing to the 
 afflicted husband, from the consideration that her levity had forced her not 
 only from a home where happiness seemed to dwell, but from the superinten- 
 dence and affection of fourhelpless children. The thought so affected the 
 tender father, that he put them into mourning, thereby most significantly 
 referring to their forlorn and orphan situation, and it is to this circumstance 
 that the poet so feelingly alludes in the second stanza, where he introduces 
 " the wee things as eying their moumfu' garb." 
 
 / 
 
170 
 
 All pleasure now wi' thee has fled. 
 
 And harae is dreary, fu' o' wae ; 
 Each former joy adds grief to think 
 
 That her I loved has used me sae. 
 The wee things eye their moumfu' garb. 
 
 Their mother aye they wish to see, 
 Their father's looks and tears they mark. 
 
 And wonder what the cause can be. 
 
 The anguish which my bosom wrings, 
 
 O may'st thou, Mary, never feel ! 
 For a' the ill thou'st done to.me, 
 
 I'U aye sincerely wish thee weel. 
 A deadly stroke to me thou'st gi'en, 
 
 Life ebbing issues frae the woun', 
 Yet hate me not, for soon wUl I 
 
 Baith wi' the world and thee hae done. 
 
 TO THEE, LOV'D DEE. 
 
 To thee, lov'd Dee, thy gladsome vales, 
 Where late with careless steps I rang'd. 
 
 Though press'd with care, and sunk in woe. 
 To thee I bring a heart unchanged. 
 
171 
 
 I love thee, Dee, thy banks and glades, 
 Though memory there my bosom tear. 
 
 For there he rov'd that broke my heart. 
 Yet to that heart, oh ! still how dear. 
 
 Ye shades that echo'd to hia vows, 
 
 And saw me once supremely blest ; 
 Oh yield me now a peaceful grave. 
 
 And give a forlorn maiden rest ; 
 And shoiild the false one hither stray, 
 
 No vengeful spirit bid him fear ; 
 But teU him, though he broke my heart, 
 
 Yet to that heart he still was dear ! 
 
 IS THERE A MAN WHOSE BREAST NE'ER 
 GLOW'D. 
 
 AIR. — " Ib there a heart that never lov'd ?" 
 
 Is there a man whose breast ne'er glow'd 
 
 With Freedom's hallow'd flame, 
 Whose lips with accents never flow'd 
 ■ In praises to her name ; 
 
172 
 
 Oh ! bear him hence to Asia's plains, 
 
 Or Afric's deserts drear, 
 Where not a ray of freedom deigns 
 
 The humble hut to cheer. 
 
 Oh ! there's a charm in Liberty ! 
 
 A spell of heavenly birth. 
 Which souls from meaner cares can free. 
 
 And lift them far from earth : 
 And he whose life's-blood bravely flows 
 
 At freedom's glorious shrine. 
 May smile in triumph on his foes. 
 
 And deem his fate divine 1 
 
 THE LOVELY MAID OF ORMADALE. 
 
 When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, 
 To blaze upon the western wave, 
 
 When peace and love possess the grove, 
 And echo sleeps within its cave ; 
 
173 
 
 Led by love's soft endearing charms, 
 I stray the pathless winding vale, 
 
 And hail the hour that gives to me 
 The lovely maid of Ormadale. 
 
 Her eyes outshine the star of night. 
 
 Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue. 
 And pure as flower in summer shade, 
 
 Low bending in the pearly dew; 
 Nor flower so fair and lovely pure, 
 
 Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail. 
 As angel smile she aye wiU be 
 
 Dear to the bowers of Ormadale. 
 
 Let fortune soothe the heart of care. 
 
 And wealth to all its votaries give; 
 Be mine the rosy smile of love, 
 
 And in its blissful arms t6 live : 
 I would resign fair India's wealth. 
 
 And sweet Arabia's spicy gale. 
 For balmy eve and Scotian bower. 
 
 With thee, lov'd maid of Ormadale. 
 
174 
 
 AT THE CLOSE OF THE DAY. 
 
 At the close of the day, in the sacred aisle, 
 By the light of the taper dim, 
 
 'Tis sweet to sit and list the while 
 To the notes of the vesper hymn. 
 
 When the silver moon, and the evening star, 
 Are through the cloister beaming, 
 
 And the notes of the choir, though distant far, 
 Like an angel's song are streaming. 
 
 Then every care from the tranquil breast, 
 By the sacred scene is driven, 
 
 Each wild desire is hush'd to rest. 
 Bach hope is tum'd to Heaven. 
 
 There would I wish to linger still, 
 TiU my heart had hush'd her motion, 
 
 Nor with less holy feelings thrill, 
 Than mild meek-eyed devotion. 
 
cxv. 
 
 THE EMIGRAJSTT. 
 
 From his booth on the hill the sad shepherd retires, 
 Down the long sloping vale to the sea-beaten shore ; 
 From the scenes of his youth, from the home of his sires, 
 A new home to seek o'er the wild ocean's roar. 
 
 On his arm hung his partner of joy and of woe ; 
 On her cheek the smUe strove to oppose the big tear,- 
 'Twas vain ; for the past still retum'd to her view, 
 And the future was darken'd with sorrow and care. 
 
 By their side the dear pledges of love cheerful, smil'd, 
 For they knew not the cause why their fond father moum'd. 
 And the old shepherd dog, as he foUow'd, howl'd wild, 
 And oft to the dear lonely mansion retum'd. 
 
 O hard, cruel lordling, thy mandate's severe. 
 That sends yon sad band o'er the wide western wave ; 
 O'er thy bier weeping pity shall ne'er shed a tear, 
 Nor love sadly sigh o'er thy dark narrow grave. 
 
170 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 OH ! DEEPLY PLEDGE THE AWFUL VOW ! * 
 
 My dying sire, in battle slain, 
 
 Cried — " Boy, behold this forehead hoary. 
 Its pulses throb with joy and pain, 
 
 Thy father liv'd — and died — for glory. 
 Swear thou to fall as I fall now — 
 
 Oh ! deeply pledge the awful vow ! " 
 
 I grasp'd his hand — it felt my tear — 
 'Mid broken sobs my oath was given — 
 
 The struggling soul just paus'd to hear- 
 Then burst its bonds, and sprang to heaven. 
 
 "Sire ! thron'd in clouds— I greet thee now. 
 And freshly pledge the awful vow ! " 
 
 * From the Play of the Bride of Abydoa. 
 
177 
 
 SEE, IN PRIDE OF SUMMER GROWING.* 
 
 See, in pride of summer growing, 
 
 Roses on yon blooming thorn, 
 
 In beauty and in fragrance blowing, 
 
 Their blushes through pure dew-drops glowing, 
 
 Rival the blushing dawn of mom. 
 
 * Many of our readei*s will doubtless t^coUect that the poem, entitled 
 Tlie Burial of Sir John Moore, No. III^ of this work, was given as anony- 
 mous. Although the piece, on its first publication^ had been most favourably 
 received, and was afterwards copied into several public papers of the day, 
 yet none contained any information respecting the author, nor even attempt- 
 ed to offer a conjecture on the subject. By the kindness of a friend, how- 
 ever, to whose attention we are much indebted, and on whose veracity we can 
 place the greatest confidence, this desideratum has been unexpectedly sup- 
 plied in a note which accompanied the present song. 
 
 " These lines were written by a Mr, Haily» author of The Burial of Sir 
 John Moore., which was published in the first number of the ^arp. Mr. 
 Haily is a native of Ireland, and lives near the village of Tanderagee, in the 
 county of Armagh, He was educated for the chiiroh; but has given up that 
 profession, at least for the present, and amuses himself in composing such 
 verses as you have seen. This information I received lately from an Irish 
 gentleman who was Mr. Haily's greatest friend and companion. As, how- 
 ever, I give the song entirely from memory, I cannot pledge myself that it is 
 altogether correct." 
 
 9 
 
178 
 
 Emblem of joys for ever past 
 See — so desolate and lone, 
 
 The sear-leaf waving in the blast. 
 
 That loves to linger to the last, 
 Arovmd those sweets for ever gone. 
 
 Thus the heart with fond heart meeting, 
 
 Blooms as sweet, as fair and gay ; 
 
 Truth, love, and rapture, wildly beating, 
 Glows with a light as pure, though fleeting, 
 
 As the beam of opening day. 
 
 But slighted, with unkindness aching, 
 Shed each sweet, each pleasure flown ; 
 Yet morning dreams, still fondly waking, 
 Cling round the heart with anguish breaking, 
 And mourn its joys for ever gone. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 
 'Twas in the ev'ning of a wintry day. 
 When safe returning from a long campaign, 
 
 Allen, o'ertoil'd and weary with the way. 
 Came home to see his Sally once again. 
 
179 
 
 His batter'd arms he carelessly threw down, 
 And view'd his Sally with enraptur'd eyes ; 
 
 But she receiv'd him with a modest frown, 
 She knew not Allen in his rough disguise. 
 
 His hair was knotted, and his beard unshorn ; 
 
 His batter'd 'coutrements about him hung ; 
 A tear of pleasure did his cheeks adorn, 
 
 And blessings fell in torrents from his tongue. 
 
 " Am I so alter'd, by this cruel trade. 
 That you, your faithful Allen, have forgot ? 
 
 Or has your heart unto some other stray'd ? 
 Ah ! why did I escape the murd'ring shot '( " 
 
 When this she heard, her wonted colour fled. 
 She ran and sunk upon her Allen's breast. 
 
 All pale awhile she look'd like one that's dead ; 
 He kiss'd, she bi;eath'd, and all her love confess'd. 
 
 " Oh ! my delight, though alter'd as thou art, 
 Reduc'd by honest courage to this strait, 
 
 Thou art the golden treasure of my heart. 
 
 My long-lost husband, and my wish'd-for mate." 
 
180 
 
 ox IX. 
 
 OUE YOUTH WILL FADE * 
 
 AIE.— " When time who steals our years away." 
 
 Our youth will fade, as fades the flower, 
 
 That now adorns the board. 
 Nor can the bloom, by earthly power. 
 
 Be e'er again restor'd. 
 
 The fairest flowei*the florist rears. 
 
 Beneath the genial ray, 
 Like man, within its bosom* bears 
 
 The seeds of sure decay. 
 
 Then let us live as those who know, 
 Howe'er the scene may seem, 
 
 Our joys, our sorrows, here below 
 Will fade like passing dream. 
 
 * This piece was written at the request of a member of the Paisley Florist 
 Club, 1818. 
 
181 
 
 The flowers that boast the richest hue 
 
 Too oft no fragrance give ; 
 Fit emblem of the gaudy few, 
 
 Who rather breathe than live. 
 
 But twine for us a modest wreath 
 Of flowers that deck the field, 
 
 And which, though lowly laid in death, 
 Still sweetest odours yield. 
 
 Then let us live as those who know, 
 Howe'er the scene may seem, 
 
 Our joys, our sorrows, here below 
 Will fade like passing dream. 
 
 cxx. 
 OH ! BRIGHT ROSE THE SUN. 
 
 AIB, — "Jessie, the flow'ro' Dumblane." 
 
 Oh! bright rose the sun on the beautiful ocean. 
 His golden beams flash'd from the murmuring tide, 
 
 While each little wave, with a trembling commotion, 
 Alternately broke on the tall vessel's side; 
 
182 
 
 The sails were all swell'd with the breeze of the morning, 
 She gallantly stemm'd the dark wave of the sea, 
 
 And a proud union ensign her mast-head adorning, 
 Show'd a frigate of Britain, the land of the free. 
 
 Afar on the billows the vessel was heaving, 
 
 The dark rocky shore scarcely seen from the mast, 
 While stretch'd on a cliff gentle Ella lay grieving, 
 
 And mournfully sigh'd to the waves that roU'd past. 
 Ah ! when will my William, from danger returning, 
 
 Display his dear flag o'er this wave-beaten shore, 
 Ah ! when will he hush all my sighing and mourning, 
 
 Saying, sweetly, " My Ella, be anxious no more." 
 
 When far in th' horizon a white speck appearing. 
 
 Grew gradually nearer, and larger to view. 
 And soon a brave frigate, before the winds steering, 
 
 Display'd her broad flag o'er a brave British crew; 
 And soon the brave William, his EUa caressing. 
 
 With fondest endearment dispell'd all her fear, 
 And cried, as his lips to her cheek he was pressing, 
 
 "Never more will I leave thee, sweet Ella, my dear !" 
 
183 
 
 SWEET LADY, LOOK NOT THUS AGAIN. 
 
 Sweet lady, look not thus again : 
 Those little pouting smiles recal 
 
 A maid remember'd now with pain, 
 Who was my love, my life, my all ! 
 
 Oh ! while this heart delirious took 
 Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, 
 
 Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, 
 And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh ! 
 
 Yes, I did love her — madly love — 
 She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! 
 
 And oft she swore she'd never rove. 
 And I was destined to believe her. 
 
184 
 
 Then, lady, do not wear the smile 
 Of her whose smile could thus betray. 
 
 Alas ! I think the lovely wile 
 Again might steal my heart away. 
 
 And when the speU that stole my mind. 
 On lips so pure as thine I see, 
 
 I fear the heart which she resign'd 
 Will err again, and fly to thee ! 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 AH ! MARY, SWEETEST MAID, FAREWELL. 
 
 " Ah ! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell ! 
 
 My hopes are flown, for a'a to wreck. 
 Heaven guard your love, and heal your heart. 
 
 Though mine, alas ! maun break." 
 
185 
 
 ' ' Dearest lad, what ills betide ! 
 
 Is Willie to his love untrue ! 
 Pledg'd the morn to be your bride, 
 
 Ah ! hae ye, hae ye ta'en the rue 2" 
 
 " Ye canna wear a ragged gown, 
 A beggar wed wi' nought ava ; 
 
 My kye are drown'd, my house is down, 
 My last sheep lies aneath the snaw ! " 
 
 " TeU na me o' storm or flood. 
 Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill, 
 
 For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed, 
 Though poor, ye are my Willie still." 
 
 " Ye canna thole the wind and rain, 
 Nor wander friendless far frae hame. 
 
 Cheer, cheer your heart, some richer swain 
 Will soon blot out lost Willie's name." 
 
 " I'll tak my bundle in my hand, 
 And wipe the dew-drap frae my e'e, 
 
 I'll wander wi' ye o'er the land, 
 I'll venture wi' ye o'er the sea." 
 
 " Pardon, love, 'twas a' a snare — 
 The flocks are safe — we needna part, 
 
 I'd forfeit them and ten times mair, 
 To clasp thee, Mary, to my heart.'' 
 h 
 
186 
 
 ' ' Could ye wi' my feelings sport, 
 Or doubt a heart sae warm and true, 
 
 I should wish mischief on ye for't, 
 But canna wish ought ill to you." 
 
 WHERE THE CHILLING NORTH WIND HOWLS.* 
 
 Where the chilling north wind howls, 
 Where the weeds ao wildly wave, 
 Mourned by the weeping willow, 
 Wash'd by the beating billow. 
 Lies the youthful poet's grave. 
 
 ■" This is another vei-y valuable little poem, for whicli we must do homage 
 to the genius of America. It serves to confirm the opinion which we have 
 formerly stated respecting the talents and improvement of our brethren in 
 that far distant land. The merits of the piece, indeed, cannot but be highly 
 appreciated by every man of taste, as well as by every lover of poetry. They 
 are of such a nature as widely to distinguish it from the general tenor of ele- 
 giac compositions, which, for the most part, are either begun without 
 interest, or conducted without ability. On the contrary, we are here presented 
 
187 
 
 Beneath yon little eminence, 
 Mark'd by the grass green turf, 
 
 The winding sheet his form encloses, 
 On the cold stone his head reposes, 
 And near him foama the troubl'd surf. 
 
 " Roars round its base the ocean," 
 Pensive sleeps the moon-beam there, 
 Naiads love to wreathe his urn, 
 Dryads thither hie to mourn, 
 And fairies' wild-notes melt in air ! 
 
 with the effusions of a mind glowing with all the ardour of the most generous 
 feeling, assisted by the dictates of an exuberant fancy, and adorned with the 
 embellishments of classical refinement. 
 
 Of the author of so respectable a production, we are sorry to confess our- 
 selves to be very Ignorant. The only particular, indeed, which we can state 
 respecting him is, that at the time when he composed the present poem ho 
 had scarcely completed his fifteenth year. 
 
 Our information concerning the youth who is here so feelingly comme- 
 morated, has, however, been more satisfactory and complete. He was a Mr. 
 George Spirrin, a native of the State of New York in America. His father, 
 who was by profession a clergyman, and who had discharged the duties of his 
 office for many years in the district referred to, immediately after the birth 
 of his son removed with his family to South Carolina. As George was an 
 only, and, of course, a beloved son, his father took his education solely into 
 his own hands, and was, indeed, the only instructor which he had in his 
 juvenile studies. The attention of the father was amply rewarded by 
 the unprecedented application and progress of the extraordinary youth. 
 At the age of seven he read Caesar's Cominentaries, and before he had at- 
 tained his ninth year had perused the works of Horace. From his earliest 
 infancy he took no delight in the sports of his playful companions, but was 
 often known to steal, even from the most engaging pastime, to wander with a 
 
188 
 
 O'er his tomb the village virgins 
 
 Love to drop the tribute tear. 
 Stealing from the alleys 'round, 
 Soft they tread the haUow'd ground, 
 
 And weave the wild-flower chaplet there. 
 
 By the cold earth mantl'd, 
 Peaceful sleeps he here alone ; 
 Cold and lifeless lies his form, 
 Batters on his grave the storm, 
 Silent now his tuneful numbers. 
 Here the child of genius slumbers. 
 Strangers ! mark his burial stone ! 
 
 friend, and listen to the stories of the Iliad. He possessed a dignity of de- 
 meanour, and an energy of character, which commanded both the admiration 
 and respect of all who knew him. At the early age of sixteen years and eight 
 months, while eagerly engaged in the study of the law, and promising to have 
 become one of the brightest ornaments to his country and profession, he fell 
 a victim to the ravages of the yellow fever, and was interred in Sullivan's 
 Island, opposite the city of Charleston. 
 
 To his other endowments was added that of a rich and happy talent for 
 poetical composition. After his death his poems, which form a small volume, 
 were collected and published by his disconsolate friends. These reflect the 
 highest honour upon his name and genius, and we are particularly informed 
 that the present piece was originally composed after reading one of them, 
 entitled Eliza's Grave, a chaste effort of taste and sensibility. 
 
189 
 
 RISE, MY LOVE, MY CBLIA, RISE. 
 
 Rise, my love, my Celia, rise, 
 
 And let us taste the sweets of mom. 
 
 Orient blushes tinge the skies. 
 Crystal dew bedecks the thorn. 
 
 Sol, emerging from the main, 
 
 Shakes effulgence from his wings. 
 
 Gladness flows o'er hill and plain, 
 Nature smiles, and nature sings. 
 
 Down yon green embroider'd vale. 
 Bright with dew — with violets gay. 
 
 Let us meet the morning gale. 
 Let us share the morning ray. 
 
 Beauty blooms in every flower. 
 Verdure smiles in every grove. 
 
 Music rings in every bower. 
 All is beauty — all is love ! 
 
190 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 THE HEALTH I ONCE SO MUCH ENJOY'D. 
 
 The health I once so much enjoy'd 
 Is gone, — for ever gone ; 
 
 And all the goodly hopes destroy'd 
 That once so brightly shone. 
 
 The hectic flush that mantles o'er 
 
 This cheek of living clay, 
 Hath oft deceived — but, ah ! no more 
 
 Can hope itself betray. 
 
 Then twine for me no flowery wreath, 
 
 To bind my flowing hair. 
 For soon the chill cold hand of death. 
 
 Will mock thy every care. 
 
 By me the love that thou hast shown 
 
 Can never be repaid. 
 But heaven the precious debt will own, 
 
 When I am lowly laid. 
 
191 
 
 Each day thy presence cheers my heart, 
 
 And chastens all my grief, 
 As oft I view each little art 
 
 Thou triest to bring relief; 
 
 And still to soothe the lonely night. 
 Consoling thoughts are given, 
 
 For Fancy paints thy love as bright, 
 And purer far — in heaven. 
 
 TO ENGLAND'S TOWERS OF OAK FAREWELL. 
 
 To England's towers of Oak farewell. 
 No more for me shall be unfurl'd. 
 
 The canvass, in the gale to swell. 
 The Ocean is no more my world; 
 
 Yet there life's earliest years I fearless pass'd, 
 
 "A Sea-boy, pn the high and giddy mast." 
 
192 
 
 There oft to charm the midnight hour, 
 
 The helmsman with a fancy free, 
 His ditty to the waves would pour, 
 
 Of love on shore, or storms at sea, 
 And how the sea-boy, midst the rattling blast, 
 Keeps station on the high and bending mast. 
 
 Dear were the sounds, though rude and hoarse, 
 Of helm-a-lee, or helm-a-weather, 
 
 To bring the vessel to her course, 
 And keep the sails well fill'd together. 
 
 While on the look-out, far my eyes were cast, 
 
 "A sea-boy, on the high and giddy mast." 
 
 THY WOODS AND GLADES, SWEET 
 ARTHURLIE. 
 
 AIR, — '* Bonny "Wood of Craigielee." 
 
 Thy woods and glades, sweet ArtJvwrUe, 
 Thy woods and glades, sweet ArthurUe, 
 Aye fair to view, are fairer now, 
 Sin' lovely Jessie dMells in thee. 
 
]93 
 
 The flower that blooms amid thy glades, 
 The floweret on thy velvet lea, 
 
 Though lovely, all their beauty fades, 
 When bid, fair maid, to vie with thee. 
 Thy woods and glades, etc. 
 
 May heaven protect thy ripening years, 
 Thou bonny maid of ArthurUe, 
 
 And ne'er, unless 'tis pity's tears, 
 May tear, fair maid, be shed by thee. 
 Tliy woods and glades, d-c. 
 
 Belov'd, esteem'd, admir'd by all, 
 StiU happy, happy may'st thou be. 
 
 And O, long may'st thou grace the hall. 
 And glens and glades of Arthurlie.* 
 Thy woods and glades, efcc. 
 
 * Arthurlie, alluded to in this .song, liea in the parish of Neilston, and county 
 of Renfrew, distant from Paisley about four miles, and is the property of 
 WiUiaia Lowndes, Esq. Arthurlie was anciently the inheritance and desig- 
 nation of a family of the simame of Stewart, a branch of the noble family of 
 Damley. It was, at that time, a very extensive estate, but is now parcelled 
 out to various proprietors. It has become a great seat of manufactures, and 
 is embelliahed with several elegant villas, among which that of Mr. Lowndes 
 is the principal, and it may he said to be the only one that bears the name. 
 It is a remarkably pleasant place. 
 
194 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 KENMURE'S ON AN' AWA', WILLIE * 
 
 Kenmure's on an' awa', Willie, 
 
 Kenmnre's on an' awa' ; 
 And Kenmure's lord's the bonniest lord 
 
 That ever Gallowa' saw. 
 
 Success to Kenmure's band, Willie, 
 
 Success to Kenmure's band ; 
 There was never a heart that fear'd a Whig, 
 
 Ere rade by Kenmure's land. 
 
 *'Williain, Viscount Kenmure, ancestor of the present Hon. John Gordon of 
 Kcnmure, was Commander-in-Chief of the Clievalier's forces in the south of 
 Scotland. Having joined General Foster, withabouttwo hundred horsemen, 
 he marched to Preston in Lancashire, and there surrendered himself, with 
 many other nobles, prisoners at discretion. 
 
 In the history of the rebellion, I7l6, it is stated " that the prisoners, viz.. 
 Lords Nithsdale, Derwentwater, Kenmure, with many others, being appoint- 
 ed to be carried to London, arrived there on the ninth of December. They 
 were brought as far as Highgate by Brigadier Panton, Lieutenant-Colonel 
 of Lumley's regiment of horse, under a guard of an hundred of his troopers, 
 and were there received by Mayor-General Tatton at the head of a de- 
 tachment of about three hundred foot guards, and one hundred and 
 twenty horse-gi-enadier guards. Here every one of them had his arms tied 
 
195 
 
 There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, Willie, 
 There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, 
 
 He'll steep it red in ruddie heart's blede 
 Afore the battle drap. 
 
 For Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, 
 For Kenmure's lads are men; 
 
 Their hearts and swords are metal true, 
 And that their faea shall ken ! 
 
 They'll live and die wi' fame, Willie, 
 They'll live and die wi' fame ; 
 
 But soon wi' soun' o' victorie 
 May Kenmure's lads come hame ! 
 
 ■with a cord coming across Ms back ; and being thus pinioned, they were not 
 allowed to hold the reins of the bridle. But each of them had a foot soldier 
 leading his horse, and, being ranged in four different divisions, according to 
 the four different prisons to which they were allotted, and each division 
 placed between a party of the horse grenadiers, and a platoon of the foot. In 
 this manner General Tatton set out from Highgate about noon, and pro- 
 ceeded to London through innumerable crowds of spectators, who all of 
 them expressed their utmost detestation of their rebeUious attempt, by up- 
 braiding them with their crime, shouting them along in this disgraceful 
 triumph, and incessantly crying out, ' King George for ever ; no warming-pan 
 bastard ! ' The mob in the meantime marched before them, beating on a 
 warming-pan, while the General's di-ums beat a triumphant march. After 
 tiiis the noblemen, and three or four others, were sent to the Tower ; Mr. 
 Forster, Mr. M'Intosh, and about seventy more, to Newgate ; sixty to the 
 Marshalaea ; and about seventy-two to the Fleet. " 
 
 Thus ended the unfortunate entei-prise into England, burying all at once the 
 hopes of the Chevalier in that quarter. Viscount Kenmure and others were 
 tried at the bar of the House of Peers, found guilty of the crime of high trea- 
 son, and beheaded on Tower-Hill, on the 24th day of Feb. , 1716. On the day 
 
196 
 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, 
 Here's Kenmure's health in wine, 
 
 There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 
 Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 
 
 He kiss'd his ladie's hand, Willie, 
 He kiss'd his ladie's hand; 
 
 But gane's his ladie's oourtesie. 
 When he draws his bludie brand. 
 
 His ladie's cheek was red, Willie, 
 
 His ladie's cheek was red ; 
 When she saw his steely jupes put on, 
 
 Which smell'd o' deadlie feud. 
 
 Here's him that's far awa', WiUie, 
 Here's him that's far awa' ! 
 
 And here's the flower that I loe best, 
 Tie rose that's like the snaw. 
 
 preceding that on which lie suffered, he wrote to a certain nobleman, stating 
 that he died firm in principles of adherence- to the Chevalier, "whom he 
 believed to be the legitimate son of King James the Second.'"* 
 
 Among the peasantry of Nithsdale and Galloway his memory is still re- 
 vered. He was a virtuous nobleman, calm, sensible, resolute, and resigned, 
 and a devout member of the Protestant Church. " He had ever lived," as 
 he said in the letter to which we have already alluded, " and would die in 
 the profession of the Protestant religion." 
 
 * See Account of the Rebellion in 1715 — Iff, by Gfeo. Charles, S vols. 8vo. 
 
197 
 
 FAIR WIDOW, ARE YE WAUKING. 
 
 O, wha's at my chamber door 1 
 
 " Fair widow, are ye wauking 1" 
 Auld carle, your suit give o'er, 
 
 Your love lies a' in tauking. 
 Gie me the lad that's young and tight, 
 
 Sweet like an April meadow ; 
 'Tis sic as he can bless the sight 
 
 And bosom of a widow. — 
 
 ' ' O widow, wilt thou let me in, 
 
 I'm pauky, wise, and thrifty, 
 And come of a right gentle kin, 
 
 An' little mair than fifty." 
 Daft carle, dit your mouth. 
 
 What signifies how pauky 
 Or gentle bom ye be — hot youth, 
 
 In love you're but a gawky. 
 
 " Then, widow, let these guineas speak, 
 That powerfully plead clinken. 
 
 And if they fail, my mouth I'll ateek. 
 And nae mair love will think on." 
 
198 
 
 These court indeed, I maun confess, 
 I think they make you young, sir-. 
 
 And ten times better can express 
 Affection than your tongue, sir. 
 
 TOMB OF MY FATHERS. 
 
 Subdu'd by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain, 
 I sought on the bosom of peace to recline : 
 
 I hied to the home of my fathers again, 
 
 But the home of my fathers no longer was mine. 
 
 The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone; 
 
 The blaze that shone bright in the hall was no more: 
 A stranger was there, with a bosom of stone, 
 
 And cold was his eye as I enter'd his door. 
 
 'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead. 
 The falling to crush, and the humble to spurn; 
 
 But I staid not his scorn, — from his mansion I fled, 
 And my beating heart vow'd never more to return. 
 
199 
 
 When home shall i-eceive me, one home yet I know, 
 O'er its gloomy recess see the pine-branches wave, 
 
 'Tis the tomb of my fathers. — The world is my foe, 
 And all my inheritance now is a grave. 
 
 'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey moisten'd walls, 
 Declining to earth, speak, emphatic, decay ; 
 
 The gate, off its hinge, and half-opening, calls 
 
 " Approach, most unhappy, thy dwelling of clay." 
 
 Alas ! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear, 
 
 How little this meeting once augur'd my breast I 
 
 From a wanderer accept, oh my fathers, this tear. 
 Receive him, the last of your race, to your rest ! 
 
 AND CAN THY BOSOM BEAR THE THOUGHT. 
 
 AIR. — " Loudon's honnie woods and braes." 
 
 And can thy bosom bear the thought 
 To part frae love and me, laddie ? 
 
 Are all those plighted vows forgot, 
 Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie ? 
 
200 
 
 Oan'st thou forget the midnight hour, 
 When in yon love-inspiring bower. 
 You vow'd by every heavenly power. 
 
 You'd ne'er loe ana but me, laddie. 
 Wilt thou — wilt thou gang and leave me, 
 Win my heart, and then deceive me ? 
 Oh ! that heart will break, believe me, 
 
 Gin ye part wi' me, laddie. 
 
 Aft hae ye roos'd my rosy cheek, 
 
 Aft prais'd my sparkling e'e, laddie. 
 Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek, 
 
 But love, and live wi' me, laddie. 
 But soon those cheeks will lose their red, 
 Those eyes in endless sleep be hid, 
 And 'neath the turf the heart be laid. 
 
 That beats for love, and thee, laddie. 
 Wilt thou — wilt thou gang and leave me, 
 Win my heart and then deceive me 1 
 Oh ! that heart will break, believe me, 
 Gin ye part frae me, laddie. 
 
 You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair. 
 
 Where rarer beauties shine, laddie. 
 But oh ! the heart can never bear, 
 A love sae true as mine, laddie, 
 But when that heart is laid at rest. 
 That heart that loed ye last and best. 
 Oh, then the pangs that rend thy breast 
 Will sharper be than mine, laddie. 
 
201 
 
 Broken vows will vex and grieve me, 
 Till a broken heart relieve me, 
 Yet its latest thought, believe me, 
 Will be love and thine, laddie. 
 
 OH ! THIS WEARY, WEARY WARL.* 
 
 (la the Cumberland dialect J 
 
 Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits, 
 And spins, and sings, and smuiks by fits, 
 And cries, as she had lost her wits — 
 " Oh ! this weary, weary warl ! " 
 
 *■ Such wiU be the exclamation of every one who has lived to that period 
 of life when the powers of sensation are blunted, when worldly objects no 
 longer attach the heart, and when those amusements which gave rapture to 
 youth can no longer please. Weighed down with infirmities and sorrow, 
 and standing on the stage of life as a friendless, forlorn, insuLated individual, 
 the burden of an old man's song must ever Ije, " Oh ! this weary, weary 
 warl ! " 
 
202 
 
 Yenoe Marget was as lish a lass 
 As e'er in summer trode the grass j 
 But fearfu' changes come to pass — 
 In this weary, weary warl t 
 
 Then at a murry-neet or fair, 
 Her beauty made the young fowk stare ; 
 Now wrinkl'd is that feace wi' care — 
 Oh 1 this weary, weary warl ! 
 
 Yenoe Marget she had dowters twee. 
 And bonnier lassies cudna be ; 
 Now nowther kith nor kin has she — 
 Oh ! this weary, weary wari ! 
 
 The eldest wi' a soldier gay 
 Ran frae her heame ae luckless day,] 
 And e'en lies buried far away — 
 Oh ! this weary, weary warl E 
 
 The youngest she did nought but whine. 
 And for the lads wad fret and pine. 
 Till hurried off by a decline 
 
 Frae this weary, weary warl ! 
 
 Auld Andrew toil'd reet sair for bread ; 
 Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead; 
 Nae wonder that turn'd Marget's head — 
 Oh ! this weary, weary warl t 
 
203 
 
 Peer Marget! oft I pity thee, 
 Wi' care-worn cheek and hollow e'e, 
 Bow'd down by yage and poverty — 
 Oh! this weary, weary warl! 
 
 'TWAS ROSA'S LIP, 'TWAS ROSA'S EYE. 
 
 What though 'tis true I've talk'd of love, 
 And other beauties idly strove 
 My heart to free from Rosa's chain, 
 Unbroke the golden links remain, 
 Entwin'd round every part. 
 For if another's charms T prais'd, 
 Those charms some fond remembrance rais'd, 
 Perhaps 'twas not her tresses flowing, 
 Dimpl'd cheek, or blushes glowing, 
 Oh, no! oh, no! 
 'Twas Rosa's lip, 'twas Rosa's eye, 
 'Twas Rosa's self that caus'd the sigh, 
 'Twas Rosa rul'd my heart. 
 
204 
 
 I own, betray'd by youth or wine, 
 I've sworn a face or form divine; 
 Or when some witching syren sung, 
 My yielding soul bewilder'd hung 
 
 Enraptur'd with her art. 
 But soon the feeble spell was gone, 
 Some faint resemblance rais'd alone; 
 Could tones less sweet, and looks less smiling, 
 Long delude my sense beguiling, 
 
 Oh, no! oh, no! 
 'Twas Rosa's voice, or Rosa's glance, 
 'Twas Rosa's self that caus'd the trance. 
 
 And touch'd my conscious heart. 
 
 cxxxiv. 
 
 THE CYPRESS WREATH. 
 
 O, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 Or twine it of the cypress tree! 
 Too lively glow the lilies light, 
 The vamish'd holly's all too bright, 
 
205 
 
 The May-flower and the eglantine 
 May shade a brow less sad than mine ; 
 But, Lady, weave no wreath for me, 
 Or weave it of the cypress tree ! 
 
 Let dimpl'd mirth his temples twine, 
 With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
 The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
 To patriot and to sage be due ; 
 The myrtle bough bids lovers live. 
 But that Matilda will not give; 
 Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me. 
 Or twine it of the cypress tree ! 
 
 Let merry England proudly rear 
 Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
 Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue, 
 With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew ; 
 On favour'd Erin's crest be seen. 
 The iiower she loves of emerald green ; 
 But, Lady, twine no wreath for me. 
 Or twine it of the cypress tree ! 
 
 Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare 
 The ivy, meet for minstrel's hair : 
 And, while his crown of laurel leaves. 
 With bloody hand, the victor weaves. 
 
206 
 
 Let the loud trump his triumph tell; 
 But when you hear the passing-bell. 
 Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me, 
 And twine it of the cypress tree. 
 
 Yes! twine for me the cypress bough; 
 But, oh, Matilda, twine not now ! 
 Stay tiU a few brief months are past, 
 And I have look'd and lov'd my last ! 
 When villagers my shroud bestrew, 
 With pansies, rosemary, and rue. 
 Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me, 
 And weave it of the cypress tree. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN FLOWER. 
 
 My love can boast a sweeter flower. 
 Than can be seen in cultur'd bower, 
 When gently falls the evening shower 
 Upon the opening blossom. 
 
207 
 
 This early flower, on mountain side, 
 Bedecks the slope where streamlets glide 
 In haste to meet the ocean's tide, 
 
 Which guards its native shores. 
 
 I love to seek the primrose pale 
 That bends before the vernal gale 
 Which softly breathes along the vale, 
 When winter's storm is o'er. 
 
 In primrose pale I sometimes trace 
 The sweetness of my Lucy's face; 
 The tender heart, that stamps the grace 
 That blooms when roses wither. 
 
 THE MAID OF GLENCONNEL. 
 
 AIR.—" The banks of the Devon.' 
 
 The pearl of the fountain, the rose of the valley, 
 Are sparkling and lovely, are stainless and mild; 
 
 The pearl sheds its ray 'neath the dark water, gaily, 
 The rose opes its blossom, to bloom on the wild. 
 
208 
 
 The pearl and the rose are the emblems of Mary, 
 The Maid of Glenconnel — once lovely and gay, 
 
 A false lover woo'd her— ye damsels, be wary— 
 
 Now scath'd is the blossom— now dimm'd is the ray. 
 
 You have seen her, when morn brightly dawn'd on the moun- 
 Trip blithely along, singing sweet to the gale, [tain, 
 
 At noon, with her lambs, by the side of yon fountain, 
 Or wending, at eve, to her home in the vale. 
 
 With the flowers of the wiUow-tree blent in her tresses, 
 Now, woe-worn and pale, in the glen she is seen. 
 
 Bewailing the cause of her rueful distresses, — 
 
 How fondly he vow'd, — and how false he has been. 
 
 THE MERMAID.* 
 
 To yon fause stream, that near the sea. 
 
 Hides monie a shelve and plum, t 
 And rives wi' fearfu' din the stanes, 
 
 A witless knicht did come. 
 
 * This beautiful piece of poetry was recovered from the recitation of a lady, 
 ■who heard it sung by the servants in her father's family, about fifty years 
 
 t PlvM, a deep hole in the river. 
 
209 
 
 The day shines clear, — far iii he's gane," 
 Whar shells are silver bricht, 
 
 Fishes war louping a' around, 
 And sparkling to the licht : 
 
 Whan as he lav'd, sounds cam sae sweet, 
 
 Frae ilka rock and tree, 
 The brief* was out, 'twas him ifc doom'd 
 
 The Mermaid's face to see.f 
 
 ago. It is believed, notwithstanding some modem expressions, to be very 
 ancient. The lady mentions that it was very popular on the Carrick coast of 
 Ayrshire. It bears a striking resemblance to a fragment written by Mr. 
 Pinkerton, and to be found in his collection, beginning thus, — 
 
 Whar yon clear bum, frae down the loch, 
 
 Rins saftlie to the sea, 
 There latelie bath'd, in hete o' nune, 
 
 A squire of valour hie.— &c. 
 
 There is another piece to be found in Jamieson's Collection of Popular 
 Ballada and Songs, called the Watenoonian, a translation from the German of 
 Goethe, exactly similar in the story, and nearly so in description with the 
 MeJTiiaid. We do not know at what period the Waterwoinan first made its 
 appearance, but should be inclined to suppose, from internal evidence, that 
 it was not imitated from "Pinkerton's fragment," which, among other 
 things, wants the catastrophe. 
 
 * Brief, literally a writ, here a sentence. In the account of Gourie's Con- 
 spiracy, appended to Gall's Gabmis, it is used in the sense of "irresistible 
 speU." 
 
 t The Mernmid'sface to see. It appears that Mermaids could injure, even by 
 a look ; and on this circumstance turns the ballad of Clerk Colvin, 
 
 I 
 
210 
 
 Frae 'neath a rock, sune, sune she rase, 
 
 And atatelie on she swam, 
 Stopt in the midst, and beok'd and sang,* 
 
 To him to stretch his hand. 
 
 Growden glist the yellow links, 
 That round her neck she'd twine ; 
 
 Her een was o' the skyie blue, 
 Her lips did mock the wine. 
 
 The smile upon her bonnie cheek, 
 Was sweeter than the bee ; 
 
 Her voice excell'd the birdie's sang. 
 Upon the birchen tree. 
 
 Sae couthie, couthie t did she look. 
 And meikle had she fleech'd ;t 
 
 Out shot § his hand, alas, alas ! 
 Fast in the swirl 1[ he screech'd. 
 
 * Becked and sang—'bedked signifies beckoned. Mermaids, too, like other 
 syrens of antiquity, were supposed to have the power of fascination by sing- 
 ing. Thus Shakespeare, — 
 
 " O train me not, sweet Mermaid, with thy soag, 
 To drown me in my sister's flood of tears." 
 
 Comedi/ of Errorx. 
 
 t Couthie, Kindly. 
 X Fleeched, Flattered. 
 § Sluit, Stretched. 
 1[ Swirl, Whirlpool, 
 
211 
 
 The Mermaid leuoh,* her brief was gane, 
 And kelpie's t blast was blawing, 
 
 Fu' low she duked, ne'er raise again, 
 For deep, deep was she fawing. 
 
 Aboon the stream his wraith J was seen, 
 Warlocks § tirl'd lang at gloamin' ; 
 
 That e'en was coarse, H the blast blew hoarse, 
 Ere lang the waves war foamin'. 
 
 THE TRUE MODEL. 
 
 My friend is the man I would copy through Ufe, 
 He harbours no envy, he causes no strife ; 
 No murmurs escape him, though fortune bears hard, 
 Content is his portion, and peace his reward. 
 
 * Zeuch, Laugh 'd. 
 
 t Kelpie, The Water Spirit. 
 
 + Wraith, The spectral appearance of a person about to die, or recently 
 dead. 
 
 § Warloci:s tirl'd lang at gloamin'. — Warlocks, Wizards. — To tirl is to un- 
 cover ; this line is obscure. The meaning may perhaps be that the Warlocks 
 took the roofs off many houses, an occurrence by no means uncommon when 
 Scotland was infested by those sons of darkness. Tirl also signifies to 
 knock gently. 
 
 IT Coarse, tempestuous, rough. 
 
212 
 
 Still happy in his station, 
 He minds Ms occupation, 
 
 Nor heeds the snares, 
 
 Nor knows the cares, 
 Which vice and foUy bring. 
 Daily working, wearily. 
 Nightly singing, cheerily. 
 Dear to him' his wife, his home, his country, and his king. 
 
 His heart is enlarg'd, though his fortune is scant. 
 
 He lessens his little for others that want, 
 
 Though his children's dear claims on his industry press. 
 
 He has something to spare for the child of distress. 
 He seeks no idle squabble, 
 He joins no thoughtless rabble, 
 To clear his way, 
 From day to day, 
 His honest views extend ; 
 When he speaks, 'tis verily, 
 When he smiles, 'tis merrily. 
 
 Dear to him his sport, his toil, his honour, and his friend. 
 
 How charming to find in his humble retreat, 
 That bliss so much sought, so unknown to the great, 
 The wife only anxious her fondness to prove ; 
 The playful endearments of infantine love. 
 Relaxing from his labours 
 Amid his welcome neighbours, 
 With plain regale. 
 With jest and tale, 
 
213 
 
 The happy hero see, 
 No vain schemes confounding him, 
 All his joys surrounding him, 
 Dear he holds his native land, its laws, and liberty. 
 
 WHITE FOAMING RHAIDER. 
 
 AIR. — " Lady Owen's delight.* 
 
 white roaming Rhaider, by thy roaring fall, 
 
 How oft the last words of my love I recal, 
 
 When the fresh blowing blossom he pluck'd from yon tree, 
 
 And gave it all blushing and fragrant to me : 
 
 " Accept it, my Lucy, and long may it prove 
 
 " A pleasing memorial of innocent love." 
 
 O dear is that blossom, though faded, to me, 
 But it ne'er can return to unfold on the tree ! 
 Nor ever will destiny Owen restore 
 To flourish again on his lov'd native shore ; 
 Though its odour exhale, and its beauty decay, 
 'Twill remind me of him and that sorrowful day. 
 
214 
 
 This token of passion, so tender and true, 
 
 My bosom shall cherish, my tears shall bedew, 
 
 When I muse upon Owen and wander alone. 
 
 And think of those hours that for ever are flown, 
 
 I feel its soft magic, and find it a charm 
 
 To keep my heart spotless, and constant, and warm. 
 
 Then why should my youth feel the blight of despair. 
 Sweet visions of fancy may lighten my care ! 
 Rise, pleasing remembrance, and banish my fears. 
 That hope may spring up in the dew of those tears ; 
 For smiling propitious, kind heaven may once more 
 My peace and my pleasure with Owen restore. 
 
 Then Bhaider, hoarse dashing, with clamorous joy. 
 Shall witness the truth that no time can destroy, 
 To welcome my love to his dear native isle : 
 Then gay in new beauty the valley shall smile. 
 And wreaths of fresh flow'rets shall deck out the tree. 
 That so often has shelter'd my Owen and me. 
 
215 
 
 O THOU HAST SEEN THE LILY FAIR. 
 
 AIR, — " I saw thy foiin.' 
 
 O thou hast seen the lily fair 
 
 All bath'd in morning dew, 
 And thou hast seen the lovely rose, 
 
 Just opening to the view, Mary. 
 
 The lily bath'd in morning dew, 
 
 The rose so fair to see. 
 Are not more pure than her I love, 
 
 Are not more fair than thee, Mary. 
 
 But soon before time's withering blast. 
 
 The rose and lily fade, 
 Nor ev'n will beauty such as thine 
 
 Outlive its darkening shade, Mary. 
 
 Yet there is thd within thy breast 
 
 WUl ruthless time defy, 
 A mind — will bloom when beauty fades, 
 
 WUl flourish in yon sky, Mary. 
 
210 
 
 THE WIDOW'S WAIL. 
 
 Now clos'd for aye thy coal-black een, 
 
 That fondly gaz'd on me, — O WiUy, 
 And lifeless lies that manly form, 
 
 I aye was fain to see — my Willy. 
 Ah ! luckless hour thou strave for hame. 
 
 Last night, across the Clyde — dear Willy, 
 This morn a stiffen'd corse brought hame, 
 
 Alake, 'tis hard to bide — O Willy. 
 
 The owlet hooted sair yestreen. 
 
 And thrice the soot it fell — dear WUly, 
 The tyke cam' late, and howl'd aloud. 
 
 It seem'd the dying knell o' Willy. 
 Deep were the snaws, keen were my waes. 
 
 The bairns oft cried for thee — their WUly, 
 I trembling said, he'll soon be here, — 
 
 The wee things ne'er clos'd e'e, Willy. 
 
217 
 
 And when I saw the thick sleet fa', 
 
 A bleezing fire I made for Willy, 
 Then watch'd, and watch'd as it grew dark, 
 
 And I grew mair afraid for Willy. 
 I thought I heard the pony's foot, 
 
 And ran thy voice to hear, — ah, Willy. 
 The ^vind blew hoUow, but nae sound 
 
 My sinking heart did cheer — O Willy. 
 
 The clock struck ane, — the clock struck twa. 
 The clock struck three and four — no Willy; 
 
 I thought I heard the pony's foot, 
 And flew to ope the door to Willy. 
 
 The pony neigh'd — but thou wert lost; 
 
 ■ I sank upon the snaw, for Willy. 
 
 Thy wraith appear'd e'en where I lay. 
 
 And whisper'd thou wert drown'd — O Willy. 
 
 The moon was up, in vain I sought 
 
 The stiffen'd corse o' thine, lost Willy, 
 'TwUl soon, soon mingle wi' the dust, 
 
 And near it sae will mine — O Willy. 
 Gae dry your tears, my baimies five, 
 
 Gae dry your tears o' sorrow, dearies. 
 Your father's cares are at an end, 
 
 And sae wiU mine ere morrow, dearies. 
 
218 
 
 cxm. 
 
 THE COT OP CONTENT. * 
 
 Can a crown give content, 
 Or a palace give peace, 
 
 Ah, say, ah, say, did they ever ? 
 Can pomp care prevent. 
 Or our pleasures increase 1 
 Ah, no, ah, no, no, never ! 
 Then excuse me, nor frown, if my choice must approve. 
 The cot of content, with the lad that I love. 
 
 When we put on a ring. 
 That a suiter may bring. 
 
 It binds us, it binds us, for ever; 
 But the hand without heart. 
 Can it blessing impart ? 
 Ah, no, ah, no, no never! 
 Then excuse me, nor frown, if my choice must approve. 
 The cot of content, with the lad that I love. 
 
 ^ From the Opera of the " Maid of the Mill,'' 
 
219 
 
 FEE HIM, FATHER, FEE HIM.* 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie commin, quo' she. 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie commin ; 
 O saw ye Johnnie commin, quo' she. 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie commin, 
 Saw ye Johnnie commin, quo' she, 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie commin, 
 Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 
 
 And his doggie rinnin', quo' she. 
 
 And his doggie rinnin'? 
 
 * "This song, for genuine humour In the verses, and lively originality in 
 the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old." It diflfers a little from 
 that inserted in Cromek's select Scottish Songs by Bums. — In the second 
 stanza, that of Cromek wants two lines. Fee him, &c., which is immaterial^ 
 but in the last stanza, the difference is greater. That which Cromek has 
 printed, would no doubt be current at the time Bums lived, but fi'om the 
 coarseness of the ending it is highly improbable. 
 
220 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she. 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him ; 
 O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she. 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him ; 
 For he is a gallant lad, 
 
 And a weel doing, quo' she ; 
 And a' the wark about the house 
 
 Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' she, 
 
 Gaes wi' me when I see him. 
 
 What will I do wi' him ? quo' he, 
 
 What will I do wi' him 2 
 He's ne'er a sark upon his back. 
 
 And I hae nane to gi'e him. 
 I hae twa sarks into my kist. 
 
 And ane o' them I'll gi'e him ; 
 And for a mark o' mair fee, 
 
 Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she, 
 
 Dinna stand wi' him. 
 
 For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she, 
 
 Weel do I lo'e him ; 
 For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she, 
 
 Weel do I lo'e him. 
 O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, 
 
 Fee him, father, fee him ; 
 He'll had the pleugh, thrash in the bam. 
 
 And crack wi' me at e'en, quo' shej 
 
 And crack wi' me at e'en. 
 
2*21 
 
 THERE LIVED A MAN. 
 
 Once in the flight of ages past, . 
 
 There liv'd a man : — and who was he ? 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 
 That man resembl'd thee. 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth. 
 
 The land in which he died unknown : 
 
 His name has perish'd from the earth, 
 This truth survives alone : — 
 
 That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
 Alternate triumph'd in his breast ; 
 
 His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear ! 
 — Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb. 
 The changing spirit's rise and fall. 
 
 We know that these were felt by him, 
 For these are felt by all. 
 
222 
 
 He suffer'd — but his pangs are o'er ; 
 
 Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled ; 
 Had friends — his friends are now no more ; 
 
 And foes — his foes are dead. 
 
 He lov'dj^but whom iie lov'd, the grave 
 Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
 
 O she was fair ! — but nought could save 
 Her beauty iroia the tomb. 
 
 He saw — whatever thou hast seen ; 
 
 Encounter'd all that troubles thee : 
 He was — whatever thou hast been ; 
 
 He is — ^what thou shalt be. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 
 Erewhile his portion, lite and light, 
 To him exist in vain. 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye. 
 That once their shades and glory threw. 
 
 Have left, in yonder silent sky. 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 The annals of the human race, 
 Their ruins since the world began, 
 
 Of him afford no other trace. 
 Than this — Thekb eiv'd a man. 
 
223 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 MADAM JANE. 
 
 AIR. — " I will liae a wife.* 
 
 Money maks vis bonny, 
 Money maks us glad ; 
 
 Be she lame or lazy, 
 Money brings a lad. 
 
 When I'd ne'er a penny, 
 Deil a lad had I ; 
 
 Pointing aye at Jenny, 
 Laughing, they flew by. 
 
 Money causes flattery. 
 Money maks us vain ; 
 
 Money changes a' things, 
 Now I'm Madam Jane. 
 
 Sin' auld Robby left me 
 Houses, fields, not few ; 
 
 Lads thrang round in cluaters- 
 I'm a beauty now! 
 
224 
 
 Money maks us merry, 
 'Money maks us braw ; 
 Money gets us sweethearts, 
 That's thebest of a'! 
 
 I hae fat and slender, 
 I hae short and tall ; 
 
 I hae rake and miser, — 
 I despise them all. 
 
 Money they're a' seeking. 
 Money they'se get nane ; 
 
 Money sends them sneaking 
 After Madam Jane. 
 
 There's ane puir and bashfn', 
 
 I hae in my e'e, 
 He's get hand and siller, 
 
 Grin he fancies me. 
 
 Money maks us bonny. 
 Money maks us glad ; 
 
 Be she lame or lazy, 
 Money brings a lad. 
 
225 
 
 WHEN WINDS THE MOUNTAIN OAK ASSAIL. 
 
 When winds the mountain oak assail, 
 
 And lay its glories waste, 
 Content may slumber in the vale, 
 
 Unconscious of the blast. 
 Through scenes of tumult while we roam, 
 The heart, alas ! is ne'er at home. 
 
 It hopes in time to roam no more ; 
 The mariner, not vainly brave. 
 Combats the storm, and rides the wave, 
 
 To rest at last on shore. 
 
 Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe. 
 
 How vain your mask of state ! 
 The good alone have joys sincere. 
 
 The good alone are great; 
 Great, when amid the vale of peace, 
 They bid the plaint of sorrow cease. 
 
 And hear the voice of artless praise. 
 As when along the trophy'd plain, 
 Sublime they lead the victor train, 
 
 While shouting nations gaze. 
 
226 
 
 ON BLYTHSOME MEAD. 
 
 On blythsome mead at morn to stray, 
 Among the dew-clad flowerets gay, 
 Or basking in the noon-day beam, 
 On sedgy bank, by limpid stream, 
 My heart still fondly dwelt on thee. 
 For thou wert then my Rosalie. 
 
 At e'en, when wearing hame the sheep. 
 
 O'er woodland brake, and mountain steep, 
 
 To mark the sun's last setting ray, 
 
 On distant gowd-bespangled brae, 
 
 Still sweet were these, but nought to me 
 
 Compar'd with lovely Rosalie. 
 
 Our sweet retreat, night's silent hour, — 
 Yon rose and ivy-mantled bower, — 
 And if the moon-beams shew'd the while. 
 Thy glistening eye, thy rosy smile, 
 Enraptur'd fancy dwelt on thee, 
 For thou wert then my Rosalie. 
 
227 
 
 Thus fled our smiling days of youth, 
 Thus fled the hours of love and truth; 
 Now thou art cold as winter's snow, 
 Nor bUss can e'er my bosom know, — 
 Yet fancy fondly dwells on thee, 
 Though thou'rt no more, my Rosalie. 
 
 I FOUND THE WARRIOR ON THE PLAIN. 
 
 I found the warrior on the plain, 
 His eye was flxed, his hand was chUl, 
 
 Still bore his breast the life-blood's stain, — 
 The blood was on liis helmet stUl, — 
 
 He died, as hearts like his should die, 
 In the hot clasp of Victory! 
 
 The eye was fixed, — but in its gaze 
 
 Look'd the high soul ; — the crimson'd brow 
 
 Was cold ; but life's departing rays 
 Had lit it with a warrior's glow : 
 
 The soul that from that turf had flown 
 Would not have sought a prouder throne ! 
 
228 
 
 I saw the lover's living shade 
 
 Shivering in summer's rosiest gale, 
 
 The look of woe, the cheek decay'd, 
 
 The eye's dark brilliance sunk and pale, — 
 
 Rather than drag that life of pain 
 
 Give me the sword — the strife — the plain. 
 
 WHEN I BEHELD THY BLUE EYE SHINE. 
 
 When I beheld thy blue eye shine 
 
 Through the bright drop that pity drew, 
 
 I saw beneath those tears of thine, 
 A blue ey'd violet bath'd in dew. 
 
 The violet ever scents the gale. 
 Its hues adorn the fairest wreath; 
 
 But sweeter through a dewy veil 
 Its colours glow, its odours breathe. 
 
 And thus thy charms in brightness rise — 
 When wit and pleasure round thee play, 
 
 When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes, 
 Who but admires their sprightly ray ? 
 
 But when through pity's flood they gleam. 
 Who but must love their soften'd beam ? 
 
220 
 
 O! SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE.* 
 
 O ! synge untoe mie roundelaie, 
 O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, 
 Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, 
 Lycke a reynynge f ryver bee ; 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gron to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 * The name of the unfortunate Chatterton must be familiar to the most 
 of our readers. From his dramatic piece, entitled Mia, a Tragical Enter- 
 lude, or Discoorseynge Tragedie, is this beautiful and highly poetical song 
 extracted. Ella is perhaps one of the finest of those poems which he 
 ascribes to the pen of the fictitious Thomas Rowley, whom he stiled a secular 
 priest of the fifteenth century. It is a complete and well written tragedy, 
 abounding in the most apposite imagery and interesting situations. — Many 
 of the characters are delineated with a powerful and masterly hand, and 
 their interest sustained to the last, with a -vigour of thought, and brilliancy 
 of fancy, altogether astonishing. 
 
 The life of Chatterton, short as it was, presents nothing but a dai-k tissue 
 of repeated disappointments — blasted prospects— neglect — poverty— and de- 
 spair. He was bom at Bristol on the 20th November, 1752. The ancestors 
 
 t R''?/f^l'>W^ limning. 
 
230 
 
 Blacke hys ciyne* as the wyntere nyghte, 
 Whyte hys rode f as the sommer snowe, 
 Rodde hys face as the momynge lyghte, 
 Gale X he lyes ynne the grave belowe; 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gron to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 of his family had been for the space of a century and a half sextons of St. 
 Mary, Redcliffe, in Bristol ; and hia father, who died in August preceding 
 the birth of his son, Thomas Chatterton, was a master in a free school in 
 that city. 
 
 It is a singular circumstance that Chatterton in his infancy displayed 
 few or none of those marks of that "vivid genius which afterwards irradiated 
 the latter part of his brief, but fatal career. On the contrary, so unpromis- 
 ing were Ids faculties, that after attending school a short time, he was 
 sent back tg his mother, as a duU child, incapable of improvement. While 
 at bome, the illuminated capitals of a French miisical manuscript caught 
 his fancy, and his mother, taking advantage of his momentary admiration, 
 initiated hiTn in the alphabet, and afterwards taught him to read from a 
 black-letter testament or bible. To this trifling incident may be attributed 
 the bent which his mind took towards the study of antiquities, and the 
 blazonings of heraldry. He was now admitted into a charity school, where 
 ho was boarded, clothed, and instructed in writing and arithmetic. Instead 
 of the thoughtless levity of childhood, he had now the gravity, pensiveness, 
 and melancholy of maturer life. He was frequently so lost in contemplation 
 that, for many days successively, he would say little, and even that appar- 
 ently by constraint. At the hours allotted for play, he generally retired 
 to read. In July, 1767, he was bound an apprentice to a Mr. Lambert, 
 attorney in Bristol, for seven years ; with him, however, he did not remain 
 long, and he soon abandoned the pursuit of a lucrative profession for the 
 uncertain pursuit of literary emolument. 
 
 Tlius, at an age when young men in general are only begimiing to think, 
 or to choose for themselves theii" future occupation, did Chatterton boldly 
 determine to laimch forth into the world, inexperienced and unprotected. 
 
 t Cnjne, hair. J Red", complexion. T| 0>h, cold. 
 
231 
 
 Swote * hys tyngue as the throstles note, 
 Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canue bee, 
 Defte t hys taboure, codgelle stote, 
 O ! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree ; 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Alle underre the -wyllowe tree. 
 
 London was the field which he choose as the theatre of action. He had been 
 invited there by several book:sellei"s, whose earnest solicitations, and a con- 
 sciousness of his own talent, bade him hope of success, and indulge in those 
 fond dreams of realizing a fortiuie which experience proves are too often 
 fallacious and vain. For a considerable time he managed to support himself 
 with his pen, by engaging warmly in the political disputes of the day. In- 
 deed, the activity of his mind, at this period, was almost unparalleled. But 
 these literary si)eculations, when xmbacked by interest, and un patronized by 
 power, seldom succeed, and are at all times a precarious mode of earning a 
 livelihood. It was even so with him. Before he left Bristol he had written 
 the Hon. Horace Walpole, enclosing some of his pieces, and requesting that 
 gentleman would use hia influence to procure him some situation fitted for 
 his talents. From him, however, he received a cold and mortifying repulse, 
 which the proud soul of Chatterton could neither brook nor forget, Ac- 
 cordtagly, we find Mr. Walpole placed in a very ridiculous light in one of his 
 humorous pieces, styled The Memoirs of a Sad Bog, under the name of the 
 "redoubted baron Otranto, who spent his whole life in conjectures." 
 
 To record the minute events of his life, our limits forbid : suffice it to say, 
 that, disappointed in all the gay visions of happiness and fame, he gradually 
 sunk into a gloomy despondence, ^ad at last, driven to desperation by ab- 
 solute want, ^e on the 24th August, 1770, swallowed poison, of whichhe died 
 next day. All his unfinished productions he had cautiously destroyed be- 
 fore his death, and his room when broken into was found covered with 
 scraps of paper. This melancholy catastrophe happened In his eighteenth 
 year, and little more than four months after the commencement of what he, 
 thoughtlessly and mistakenly, had imagined would prove an unintemipted 
 source of felicitj-. 
 
 t Sicoif. sweet. J Dej'ti-, neat. 
 
232 
 
 Harke ! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, 
 
 In the briered delle belowe ; 
 
 Harke ! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, 
 
 To the nyghte-mares as heie goe j 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 " The person of Chatterton," says his Biogi'apher, "like his j^enius, was 
 premature ; he liad a manliness and dignity beyond his years ; there was 
 something about him remarkably prepossessing. His most remarkable fea- 
 ture was his eyes, which, though grey, were uncommonly piercing ; when 
 he was warmed in argument or otherwise, they sparkled with fire, and one 
 eye it is said was still more remarkable than the other. " 
 
 With regard to the poems ascribed to Rowley, many learned treatises have 
 been written by the first critics and antiquaries of the country. Opinion is 
 much divided on the subject of their genuineness. However, after carefully 
 perusing and comparing them with the poetry of the age in which they are 
 alleged to have been written, we think there can be little doubt but that 
 they are all the fobrlcations of Chatterton himself. If so, he certainly was 
 one of the most extraordinary literary prodigies that this or any other coun- 
 try has produced. Knowledge seems to have been acquired by him in- 
 tuitively ; for these poems evince an intimate acquaintance with the 
 antiquities, language, and customs of the age, to which he uniformly and 
 pertinaciously alleged they belonged. In them his powers of imagination 
 and poetical skill appear most eminently conspicuous. All his avowed 
 pieces are vastly inferior (if we except some of his satires, which are 
 peculiarly caustic, voth his two African Eclogues), and, indeed, unworthy the 
 great mind that produced Slla, Goddwyn, The Battle of Hastings, dec. 
 
 Concerning Chatterton and the Rowleian controversy, one way and ano- 
 ther, there has been no less than twenty volumes of pamphlets or tracts 
 already published. It is to be regi'etted that so much were written, and so 
 little done, for that unfortunate youth — that so many were free with their 
 pens, and so few munificent with their purses. But the annals of literature 
 exhibit many a countei-part to the present melancholy instance ; and the 
 fate of Butler, Otway, and Chatterton will long remain indelible stains on 
 the country which gave them birth. 
 
233 
 
 See ! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; 
 
 Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; 
 
 Whyterre yanne the momynge akie; 
 
 Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude ; 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gon to hys death-bedde, 
 Al under the wyUowe tree. 
 
 Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, 
 Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, 
 Nee one hallie * Seyncte to save 
 Al the celness t of a mayde. 
 Mie love ys dedde,) 
 Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Alle under the wyUowe tree. 
 
 Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente | the brieres 
 Eounde his hallie corse to gre, IT 
 Ouphante § fairie, lyghte youre fyres, 
 Heere loie boddie styUe schalle bee. 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thome, 
 Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie ; 
 Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, 
 Daunce bie nete, || or feaste by daie. 
 
 * Hallie, holy. t Celness, coldness. J Dmte, fasten. 
 
 IT Q^e, grow. § Ouphante, elfin. I( Nete, night. 
 
 
 
234 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gon to hys death-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, * 
 Bare mee to yer leathelle t tyde. 
 I die; I comme; mie true love waytes — - 
 Thos the damselle spake and dyed. 
 
 SPIRITS OF LOVE. 
 
 Spirits of love, who wander on 
 
 The rosy cheek, and the ruby lip, 
 And in the folds of the silken zone : 
 
 Over the lovely bosom trip, 
 O let the cheek of the maid I love 
 
 Be, at mom and even', your rosy bed. 
 And sweetly smile, as the spirits above. 
 
 Spirits by whom the heart is led. 
 
 JReyteSf waterflag, f Leatlialle, deadly. 
 
235 
 
 Spirits of love, whose radiant sphere 
 
 Is the liquid blue of the cherub's eye, 
 Who bask in realms more bright and clear, 
 
 And lovelier than the rainbow's dye. 
 O let the eye of the maid I love 
 
 Be, at morn and even', your resting place. 
 And sweetly smile, as the spirits above. 
 
 Spirits of light, of life, and grace. 
 
 Spirits of love, whose smiles divine, 
 
 And witcherie, fond hearts ensnare. 
 Hearts pure as the twin-rose buds that twine, 
 
 When fann'd by the breath of morning air. 
 O let the heart of the maid I love. 
 
 Be at mom and even' by smiles carest, 
 Smiles sweet as those of the spirits above, 
 
 Spirits by whom the heart is blest. 
 
 A DREAM OF LOVE.* 
 
 Oh! holy be the sod 
 Which her light foot trod, 
 
 "* This poetical piece, we can with confidence state, is the composition 
 of a young gentleman well known in this place, and who has already sent 
 
236 
 
 That night in the alley so green, 
 
 May the little birds sing, 
 
 And the gay woods ring 
 With joy, where true lovers have been. 
 
 There was no ray of light 
 
 On that ever-blissful night. 
 Save the light of her own lovely eye ; 
 
 And sound there were none, 
 
 But the rich dulcet tone 
 Of her voice in the thicket hard by. 
 
 Her sweet voice stUl seems 
 In my bright flushing dreams, 
 
 To carol the Roundel of love ; 
 'Twas more grateful to me 
 Than the hum of the bee, 
 
 Or the waU of the languishing dove. 
 
 And still by the thorn, 
 
 All blushing as morn, 
 Or the rose gemmed with early dew. 
 
 She seems with a smile 
 
 To linger awhile— 
 But the bright vision melts from my view. 
 
 forth into the world many pieces of real merit. We would be proud were we 
 allowed tomention his name. Prohably, towards the close of this publication, 
 we will have that pleasure. Many of his pieces will be found in The Visi- 
 ts-, 2 vols. 18mo, published in Greenock, by Mr Turner, 1818. 
 
237 
 
 Pitchy darkness succeeds, 
 
 And in black mournful weeds 
 Sad phantoms of fear glide along ; 
 
 In horror I start, 
 
 While my wild throbbing heart 
 Asks if truth to these dreams may belong. 
 
 Cllll. 
 
 ODE TO BURNS.* 
 
 Recited by the President oftlie Bums' Anniversary Society, Paisley, 
 S9th January, 1810. 
 
 Again the happy day returns, 
 A day to Scotsmen ever dear, 
 Tho' bleakest of the changeful year. 
 It blest us with a Burks. 
 
 ^ This is the last ode that was -written by Robert Tannahill for the Paisley 
 Bums' Club, who held their sixth anniversary meeting to celebrate the 
 birth of their faTOurite bard in January 1810. It was recited on that occa- 
 sion, by the president, and was received by the company with every mark of 
 
238 
 
 Fierce the whirling blast may blow, 
 
 Drifting wide the crispy snow ; 
 
 Rude the ruthless storm may sweep, 
 
 Howling round our mountains steep, 
 
 While the heavy lashing rains, 
 
 Swell our rivers, drench our plains. 
 
 And the angry ocean roars 
 
 Round our broken, craggj'" shores. 
 
 But mindful of our poet's worth, 
 
 We hail the honoured day that gave him birth. 
 
 Come, ye votaries of the lyre, 
 Trim the torch of heavenly fire, 
 Kaise the song in Scotia's praise, 
 Sing anew her bonnie braes, 
 
 satisfaction and applause. It appeared in the Scots Magazine the next 
 month ; but by some unaccountable neglect it was omitted in the edition of 
 his works published after his lamented death. — We certainly think it no way 
 inferior to his other productions on the same subject, and flatter ourselves 
 that the majority of our readers will be of the same opinion. Indeed it 
 affords a striking proof of the rich stores of his mind when he could thus 
 continue a subject he had so completely exhausted on 'former occasions. — 
 We are informed by a particular friend of his, that on being strongly so- 
 licited to write an Ode for the occasion, it was with considerable reluctance 
 he complied with their request, affii-ming that it was tasking himself some- 
 thing hke the Poet Laureate to write an annual Birth Day Ode, and that he 
 had nothing whatever to say on the subject; he was prevailed on, however, 
 to make the attempt, and the present ode, we are persuaded, will not sully 
 his fame, or tarnish one leaf of the IVY CHAPLET that adorns his honoured 
 brow 1 
 
 Since we have introduced our Bard to the notice of our readers, we beg 
 leave to state that it was not our original intention to publish any of Tan- 
 nahill's compositions which are inserted in the Glasgo%o Eiwyclopedia 
 
239 
 
 Sing her thousand siller streams, 
 Bickering to the sunny beams ; 
 Sing her suns beyond compare, 
 Sing her dochters peerless fair ; 
 Sing, till winter's storms be o'er. 
 The matchless Bards that sung before, 
 And I, the meanest of the muse's train. 
 Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain. 
 
 Dear Scotia^ tho' thy clime be cauld. 
 Thy sons were ever brave and bauld. 
 Thy dochters modest, kind, and leal, 
 The fairest in creation's fiel' ; 
 Alike inur'd to every toU, 
 Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil, 
 Prepared alike in peace and weir. 
 To guide the plough or wield the spear ; 
 As the mountain torrent raves, 
 Dashing thro' its rugged caves. 
 So the Scottish legions pour, 
 Dreadful in th' avenging hour: 
 But when Peace, with kind accord, 
 Bids them sheath the sated sword, 
 
 0/ Songs: but as the present publication will be embellisliBd with his portrait 
 it would be ridiculous not to insert a few of his pieces. We, therefore, intend 
 to publish what we consider the happiest of his lyrical eflEusions, accompan- 
 ied with short notices regarding them, extracted from original documents 
 in the possession of some of his most intimate acquaintances, which, we are 
 happy to state, through their kindness we shall be enabled to furnish ; this 
 Will afford his admirers some idea of the manner and style of his Epistolary 
 Writings, and which, we trust, will not be altogether unacceptable. 
 
240 
 
 See them in their native vales, 
 Jocund as the summer gales, 
 Cheering labour all the day, 
 With some merry roundelay. 
 
 Dear Scotia, tho' thy nights be drear, 
 When surly winter rules the year, 
 Around thy cottage hearths are seen. 
 The glow of health, the cheerful mien ; 
 The mutual glance that fondly shares, 
 A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares. 
 Here oft, whUe raves the wind and weet, 
 The canty lads and lassies meet, 
 Sae light of heart, sae full of glee. 
 Their gadts sae artless and sae free. 
 The hours of joy come dancing on. 
 To share their frolic and their fun. 
 Here many a song and jest goes round. 
 With tales of ghosts and rites profound, 
 Perform'd in dreary wizard glen, 
 By runkled hags and warlock men ; 
 Or of the heU-fee'd crew combin'd 
 Carousing on the midnight wind, 
 On some infernal errand bent, 
 While darkness shrouds their black intent. 
 But chiefly, Bukns, thy songs delight, 
 To charm the weary winter night, 
 And bid the lingering moments flee, 
 Without a care unless for thee, 
 
241 
 
 Wha sang aae sweet and dee't sae soon, 
 
 And sought thy native sphere aboon. 
 
 Thy " Lovely Jean," thy "Nannie 0," 
 
 Thy much-lov'd " Caledonia," 
 
 Thy " Wat ye ivha's in yonder town,^' 
 
 Thy "Banks and braes o' boivnie Doon," 
 
 Thy " Shepherdess on Afton braes," 
 
 Thy "Logan lassie's " bitter waes, 
 
 Are a' gane o'er sa© sweetly tun'd, 
 
 That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound, 
 
 Fa's lown and sings with eerie slight, 
 
 " let me in this ae, ae night." 
 
 Alas ! our best, our dearest Bard^ 
 How poor, how great was his reward ! 
 Unaided he has fix'd his name. 
 Immortal in the roUs of fame; 
 
 Yet who can hear without a tear, 
 
 What sorrows wrung his manly breast, 
 To see his little helpless, filial band, 
 Imploring succour from a father's hand 
 
 And there no succour near ? 
 Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest, 
 
 Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest: 
 For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone, 
 She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone. 
 
 P 
 
242 
 
 POOR NEGRO WOMAN, ULALEE. 
 
 My cruel love to danger go, 
 No think of pain he give to me; 
 
 Too soon me fear like grief to know, 
 As broke the heart of Ulalee ! 
 Poor negro woman, Ulalee. 
 
 Poor soul, to see her hang her head 
 All day beneath the cypress tree; 
 
 And still she sings, "My love be dead," 
 The husband of poor Ulalee. 
 Poor negro woman, Ulalee ! 
 
 My love be kill'd ! how sweet he smil'd ! 
 
 His smile again me never see : 
 Unless me see it in the child. 
 
 That he have left poor Ulalee. 
 Poor negro woman, Ulalee ! 
 
243 
 
 My baby to my breast I fold, 
 
 But little warmth, poor boy ! have he, 
 His father's death made all so cold 
 
 About the heart of Ulalee, 
 
 Poor negro woman, Ulalee ! 
 
 CALEDONIA.* 
 
 Despite of every yoke she bears, 
 
 That land is glory's still and theirs. — Byron. 
 
 On Albyn's mist-clad hills of grey 
 The hosts of Rome, in olden day, 
 Gleam'd bright, beneath the unconscious ray 
 
 That smiled upon their victory. 
 On Albyn's steeps of strength, unfurled 
 Her banners mark'd a conquered world ; 
 And in the wild breeze gaily curled — 
 
 The badge of proud supremacy. 
 
 * We extract this excellent piece of poetry from the Kihnarmck Mirror, a 
 work of taste and merit, published monthly. 
 
244 
 
 On Albyn's rocks the haughty tow'r 
 Told far and wide her giant pow'r, 
 Or hung in rude defying low'r, 
 
 To fix a nation's slaveiy. 
 Where now the hosts that sparkling gleam'd, 
 The banner where, that gaily stream'd ? 
 And where the tower, that proudly seem'd 
 
 To look to heaven in rivalry. 
 
 Low sleep the mighty men of yore 
 Beneath the oaimies on our shore ; 
 The flickering banner waves no more 
 
 O'er pride of Roman chivalry. 
 And where the lofty turrets rose 
 Of Caledonia's scowling foes, 
 No stone is left — the thistle grows 
 
 Where stood their proud security. 
 
 Land of the brave ! oh, could it be. 
 That thou should brook Rome's tyranny ! 
 And must a soil that aye was free, 
 
 Crouch to a servUe enemy ! 
 No ! she may spread her fierce control 
 Far as the waves of ocean roll. 
 But ne'er shall crush thy lion soul — 
 
 Thy freedom is eternity. 
 
245 
 
 TRUE SORROW.* 
 
 Light springs the pang, light passes by, 
 
 That melts itself in tears. 
 
 The stricken spirit that can sigh. 
 
 No mortal sorrow bears ; 
 
 When comes the last, true agony, 
 
 The heart nor heaves, nor melts the eye. 
 
 And mine has come! — no more I weep. 
 
 No more the heart's pale slave ; 
 
 My sleep must be the unwaking sleep. 
 
 My bed must be the grave ; 
 
 Thro' my wild brain no longer move. 
 
 Or hope, or fear, or hate, or love. 
 
 "* From tlie Italiim of Pulci. 
 
246 
 
 CHECK, MY LOVE, THE PALLING TEAR. 
 
 O check, my love, the falling tear 
 
 Which dims thy bonny e'e, 
 The world may frown, and friends prove false, 
 
 But I'll be true to thee. 
 
 O check, my love, the rising sigh, 
 Which gently swells thy heart, 
 
 Hope whispers soon we'll meet again, 
 And never, never part. 
 
 When far awa', that falling tear, 
 
 Shall aft remember'd be. 
 The rising sigh which swells thy heart. 
 
 Shall ne'er be lost on me. 
 
 Then check, my love, the falling tear, 
 
 Which dims thy bonny e'e. 
 The world may frown, and friends prove false. 
 
 But I'll be true to thee. 
 
247 
 
 I WAS YOUNG, AND SHE WAS FAIR. 
 
 Deep in love, yes 'tis love, 
 
 Wakes the fond, the ceaseless sigh, 
 
 Oh ! this love will be my death. 
 Sweetest death, of love to die ! 
 
 Heaven knows I little thought 
 
 That from such eyes such ills could flow, 
 But who could gaze as I have gaz'd, 
 
 And not feel, as I feel now. 
 Deep in love, d-c. 
 
 I was young, and she was fair, 
 
 I was fond and oft she sung 
 Of love, while I, oh simple boy ! 
 
 O'er song and songstress raptur'd hung. 
 Deep in love, &c. 
 
 I was sad, and then she sigh'd, 
 I grew timid, then she smiled. 
 
 Sued for pity, she gave more. 
 
 And thus my youthful heart beguiled. 
 Deep in love, <!cc. 
 
248 
 
 Sleeping, waking, 'tis the same, 
 My dream, my thought will only give 
 
 The form of her for whom I die. 
 Of her for whom alone I'd live. 
 Deep m low, &c. 
 
 MILITARY SONG OF THE FRENCH CHAMPION 
 ROLAND.* 
 
 Iiei every valiant son of Groul 
 Sing Roland's deeds, her greatest glory, 
 Whose name will stoutest foes appal, 
 And feats inspire for future story. 
 
 Roland, in childhood, had no fears, 
 Was full of tricks, nor knew a letter, 
 
 Which, though it cost his mother tears, 
 His father cry'd, "So much the better ; 
 
 * This admirable song in praise of Koland was translated from the French 
 of the Marquis de Pauhny, by Dr. Bumoy, and inserted in the second vol- 
 ume of his Histwy of Music. 
 
249 
 
 " We'll have him for a soldier bred, 
 
 " His strength and courage let us nourish, 
 " If bold the heart, tho' wild the head, 
 " In war he'll but the better flourish." 
 
 Let every, (fee 
 
 Roland arrived at man's estate. 
 
 Proved that his father well admonish'd, 
 For then his prowess was so great. 
 
 That all the world became astonish'd, 
 Battalions, squadrons, he could break, 
 
 And singly give them such a beating, 
 That, seeing him, whole armies quake. 
 
 And nothing think of but retreating. 
 
 Lei every, iL-c. 
 
 Few heroes have been so fortunate as Robvnd, 
 
 " Vi.ci'i'e ferries aate Aganwninoiuif" 
 
 "The brave conquered before Agamemnon,' 
 
 but then their very names have ingloiTlously perished. The military renown 
 and amorous adventures of Roland have been consecrated to Fame by the 
 immortal poems of Ariosto and Berni, His daring courage in battle, his 
 gentleness and courtesy after victory, and his enthusiastic love, are still 
 familiar to every reader : and we have only to regret the loss of his Chanson 
 or military song, which formerly inspirited whole armies to the most peril- 
 ous exploits. This song would have been a singular curiosity to English- 
 men, as it was sung to animate the invading Normans at the battle of Hast- 
 ings, by TaiUefer, one of their minstrels, riding on horseback at the head of 
 their army. 
 
250 
 
 In single combat 'twas the same; 
 
 To him all foes were on a level, 
 For ev'ry one he overcame, 
 
 If giant, aorc'rer, monster, devil. 
 His arm no danger e'er could stay, 
 
 Nor was the goddess, Fortune, fickle. 
 For if his foes he did not slay. 
 
 He left them in a rueful pickle. 
 
 Let every, <l-c. 
 
 In scaling walls with highest glee. 
 
 He first the ladder fix'd, then mounted; 
 Let him, my boys, our model be. 
 
 Who men or perils never counted ! 
 At night with scouts he watch would keep. 
 
 With heart more gay than one in million. 
 Or else on knapsack sounder sleep. 
 
 Than General in his proud pavilion. 
 
 Let every, tl-e-. 
 
 On stubborn foes he vengeance wreak'd. 
 
 And laid about him like a tartar. 
 But if for mercy once they squeak'd, 
 
 He was the first to grant them quarter. 
 The battle won, of Roland's soul 
 
 Each milder virtue took possession; 
 To vanquish'd foes he, o'er a bowl, 
 
 His heart surrender'd at discretion. 
 
 Let every, dc. 
 
231 
 
 When aak'd why Frenchmen wield the brand, 
 
 And dangers new each day solicit, 
 He said, " 'Tis Charlemagne's command, 
 
 " To whom our duty is implicit ; 
 "His ministers and chosen few, 
 
 " No doubt have weigh'd these things in private, 
 " Let us his enemies subdue, ! 
 
 " 'Tis all that soldiers e'er should drive at.'' 
 
 Let every, d-c. 
 
 Roland, like Christian true, would live, 
 
 Was seen at mass, and in procession; 
 And freely to the poor would give. 
 
 Nor did he always shun confession. 
 But Bishop Turpin had decreed 
 
 His council in such weighty matter. 
 That 'twas a good and pious deed, 
 
 His country's foes to drub and scatter. 
 
 Let every, &c. 
 
 At table Roland, ever gay. 
 
 Would eat, and drink, and laugh, and rattle. 
 But all was in a prudent way. 
 
 On days of guard, or eve of battle. 
 For still to king and country true, 
 
 He held himself their constant debtor, 
 And only drank in season due. 
 
 When to transact he'd nothing better. 
 
 Let every, d-c. 
 
252 
 
 To captious blade he ne'er would bend, 
 
 Who quarrels sought on slight pretences; 
 Though he to social joys a friend, 
 
 Was slow to take or give offences. 
 None e'er had cause his arm to dread. 
 
 But those who wrong'd his prince, or nation. 
 On whom, whene'er to combat led. 
 
 He dealt out death and devastation. 
 
 Lei every, etc. 
 
 Roland too much ador'd the fair, 
 
 From whom e'en heroes are defenceless, 
 And by a queen of beauty rare. 
 
 He all at once was rendered senseless. 
 One hapless mom she left the knight, 
 
 Who when he missed her, grew quite frantic, 
 Our pattern, let him be in fight; 
 
 His love was somewhat too romantic. 
 
 Let every, dx. 
 
 His mighty uncle, Charles the Great, 
 
 Who Rome's imperial sceptre wielded, 
 Both early dignity and state, 
 
 With high command, to Roland yielded. 
 Yet tho' a General, Count, and Peer, 
 
 Roland's kind heart all pride could smother, 
 For each brave man from van to rear, 
 
 He treated like a friend and brother. 
 
 Let every, &c. 
 
253 
 
 YES, I WILL GO WITH THEE, MY LOVE* 
 
 AIR. — " Nannie, wilt thou go with me." 
 
 Yes, I win go with thee, my love. 
 
 And leave all else without a sigh ; 
 Through the wide world with thee I'll rove, 
 
 Nor feel one pang if thou art nigh. 
 No costly gems, nor courtly scenes, 
 
 Have now the smallest charms for me ; 
 My heart alone to pleasure leans, 
 
 And all its joys depend on thee. 
 
 When far away from natal shores, 
 And seas divide me from each friend, 
 
 One look from him my soul adores 
 Will courage and fresh vigour lend. 
 
 The parching ray and wintry wind, 
 
 Even women's softness knows to scorn ; 
 
 "^ This admirable and ingenious answer to the beautiful and favourite song 
 of Nannie wilt t]wu go with me, is the composition of the accomplished 
 Lady Charlotte Campbell. 
 
254 
 
 True passion leaves all fears behind— 
 And from the rose it plucks a thorn. 
 
 Then can you doubt my constant love ? 
 
 Or can you think I'd fly thy arms ? 
 All ! give me but the power to prove 
 
 That these are vain unjust alarms ; 
 For sure the flame, that gently fann'd. 
 
 At first beneath a summer's sky, 
 Will with redoubled force expand. 
 
 When ruder winds approach it nigh. 
 
 The lonely cot in desert drear, 
 
 The russet gown and frugal board, 
 Will greater pleasures far appear 
 
 Than all that luxuries here afford. 
 The gay, the busy, glittering throng. 
 
 And baneful flattery, I'll resign ; 
 To courts and cities these belong — 
 
 But not to truth and love like thine. 
 
 And when at last thy life is o'er. 
 
 When sickness baffles all my care, 
 When fairy hope can cheer no more. 
 
 Then, Cupid, hear thy votary's prayer ; 
 My weeping eyes in pity close. 
 
 Ere they behold my lover's death ; 
 Ah ! spare my tears, my helpless woes. 
 
 And join with his my parting breath ! 
 
255 
 
 THE JOYS OF A HAMB. 
 
 Wherever 1 wander, be't foul or be't fair, 
 At kirk, or at market, or straying alane, 
 
 I think o' my dearie, I think o' the weans, 
 How blythely they welcome a body aye hame. 
 
 There's naething could e'er gie sic joy to the heart 
 As a cheerfu' fireside, and a dear loving dame, 
 
 Tho' poortith step in — she maun e'en hing her head. 
 Nor dare to disturb the pure joys o' a hame. 
 
 When winter comes in wi' his sleet and his cauld, 
 And the ingle bright bleezes a bonnie bit flame, 
 
 Sae cosie and snug, then we think wi' oursel's, 
 
 There's naething could tempt us to wander frae hame. 
 
 For goud, and for siller, they wander awa', 
 
 And sail the world round for honour, and fame, 
 
 Be they rich, be they poor, there are nane o' them a', 
 But will sing and rejoice when wandering hame. 
 
256 
 
 The summer may smile, and the winter may frown, 
 But summer and winter to me are the same. 
 The' dark be the day, the night dreary and lang, 
 I'm happy, and blessed wi' the joys o' a hame. 
 
 What's honour and wealth, that we a' covet sae, 
 And what is the worth o' a lang titled name, 
 Gude send us contentment, what mair wad we hae ? 
 It crowns a' our joys, maks a heaven o' hame. 
 
 MARK'D YOU HER EYE OF HEAVENLY 
 BLUE. 
 
 Mark'd you her eye of heavenly blue ? 
 Mark'd you her cheek of roseate hue 1 
 That eye in liquid circles moving 2 
 That cheek abash'd at man's approving ? — 
 The one love's arrows darting round. 
 The other blushing at the wound. 
 
257 
 
 BEAUTY IN SMILES. 
 
 Oh ! weep not, sweet maid, though the bright tear of beauty. 
 To kindred emotion each feeling beguiles ; 
 
 The softness of sorrow no magic can borrow, 
 To vie with the splendour of Beaxity in Smiles. 
 
 Man roves through creation a wandering stranger, 
 A dupe to its foUies, a slave to its toils ; 
 
 But bright o'er the biUows of doubt and of danger. 
 The rainbow of promise is Beauty in Smiles. 
 
 As the rays of the sun o'er the bosom of Nature, 
 Renew every flow'r which the tempest despoils, 
 
 So joy's faded blossom in man's aching bosom. 
 Revives in the sunshine of Beauty in Smiles. 
 
 The crown of the hero, the star of the rover^ — 
 The hope that inspires, and the spell that beguiles 
 
 The song of the Poet, the dream of the Lover, 
 The Infidel's heaven is Beauty in Smiles. 
 
258 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 The wandering exile, doom'd to roam, 
 Still cherishes the thought of home. 
 Not all the toils that round him stand, 
 Can wean him from his native land. 
 
 In every pleasure, every care, 
 Memory still points and lingers there, 
 And fortune's fascinating hand 
 Endears him to his native land. 
 
 Whilst whirlwinds blow and tempests rise, 
 And thunders shake the troubled skies, 
 His feet are on a foreign strand, 
 His heart is in his native land. 
 
 Whilst all is calm and peaceful seen. 
 And nought disturbs the blue serene. 
 He cannot yield to joy's command. 
 An exile from his native land. 
 
2159 
 
 But when, the storms of fortune past, 
 The wish'd-for haven gain'd at last. 
 With what deKght his waving hand 
 Enraptur'd hails his native land. 
 
 Here tarry all his soul holds dear, 
 
 And all his fancy loves his here, 
 
 There are his friends his childhood plann'd, 
 
 And this his lov'd, his native land. 
 
 THAT LIFE'S A FAUGHT, THERE IS NAE 
 DOUBT. 
 
 That life's a faught, there is nae doubt, 
 
 A steep and slippery brae ; 
 And wisdom's sel', wi' a' its rules, 
 
 Will aften find it sae ; 
 The truest heart that e'er was made. 
 
 May find a deadly fae. 
 And broken aiths and faithless vows, 
 
 Gie lovers meikle wae. 
 
260 
 
 When poortith looks wi'. sour disdain, 
 
 It frights a body sair, 
 And gars them think they ne'er will meet 
 
 Delight or pleasure mair : 
 But though the heart be e'er sae sad, 
 
 And press'd wi' joyless care, 
 Hope lightly steps in at the last. 
 
 To flee awa' despair. 
 
 For love o' wealth let misers toil, 
 
 And fret baith late and air', 
 A cheerfu' heart has aye enough, 
 
 And whiles a mite to spare : 
 A leal true heart's a gift frae heav'n, 
 
 A gift that is maist rare, 
 It is a treasure o' itsel', 
 
 And lightens ilka care. 
 
 Let wealth and pride exalt themsel's, 
 
 And boast o' what they hae, 
 Compar'd wi' truth and honesty, 
 
 They are na worth a strae ; 
 The honest heart keeps aye aboon, 
 
 Whate'er the warld may say. 
 And laughs, and turns its shafts to scorn. 
 
 That ithers would dismay. 
 
 Sae let us mak' life's burden light. 
 And drive ilk care awa', 
 
261 
 
 Contentment is a dainty feast, 
 
 Although in hamely ha', 
 It gies a charm to ilka thing, 
 
 And mak's it look fu' braw, 
 The spendthrift and the miser herd, 
 
 It soars aboon them a'. 
 
 But there's ae thing amang the lave, 
 
 To keep the heart in tune, 
 And but for that the weary spleen 
 
 Wad plague us late and soon; 
 A bonnie lass, a canty wife, 
 
 For sic is nature's law. 
 Without that charmer o' our lives. 
 
 There's scarce a charm ava'. 
 
 FRAGMENT, BY TANNAHILJL. 
 
 laddie, can you leave me ! 
 Alas ! 'twill break this constant heart; 
 There's nought on earth can grieve me. 
 Like this, that we must part. 
 Think on the tender vow you made, 
 Beneath the secret birken shade. 
 And can you now deceive me ! 
 Is all your love but art ? 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
262 
 
 SWEET'S THE DEW-DEOKED ROSE IN JUNE. 
 
 Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June, 
 
 And lily fair to see, Annie; 
 But there's ne'er a flower that blooms 
 
 la half so fair as thee, Annie. 
 Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine, 
 The opening rose its beauties tine, 
 Thy lips the rubies far outshine; 
 
 Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie. 
 
 The snaw that decks yon mountain top, 
 
 Nae purer is than thee, Annie; 
 The haughty mien, the pridefu' look, 
 Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie; 
 And in thy sweet angelic face, 
 Triumphant beams each modest grace, 
 "And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace," 
 A form sae bright as thine, Annie. 
 
203 
 
 Wha could behold thy rosy cheek, 
 
 Aiid no feel love's sharp pang, Annie ] 
 What heart could view thy smiling looks. 
 
 And plot to do thee wrang, Annie 1 
 Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave, 
 My heart, my soul wi' thee I'll leave, 
 And never, tiU I cease to breathe, 
 I'll cease to think on thee, Annie. 
 
 THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D. 
 
 AIR. — " The buncli of gi-een nishes," &c. 
 
 This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, 
 That chase one another, like waves of the deep ; 
 
 Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, 
 Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. 
 
264 
 
 So closely our wliims on our miseries tread, 
 
 That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried ; 
 And as fast as the rain-drop of pity is shed, 
 
 The goose-phimage of folly can turn it aside. 
 But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy, 
 
 With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise. 
 Be ours the light grief, that is sister to joy, 
 
 And the short, brilliant folly, that flashes and dies ! 
 
 When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount. 
 
 Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play. 
 Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, 
 
 And neglected his task for flowers on the way. 
 Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted 
 
 The fountain that runs by philosophy's shrine, 
 Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted. 
 
 And left their light urns all as empty as mine ! 
 But pledge me the goblet — while idleness weaves 
 
 Her flowerets together, if wisdom can see 
 One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves 
 
 From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me. 
 
205 
 
 CLXYlir. 
 
 HERE'S TO THEM THAT'S AW A.* 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 And wha winna wish good luck to our cause, 
 
 May never good luck be their fa' ! 
 Its gude to be merry and wise, 
 
 Its gude to be honest and true, 
 Its gude to support Caledonia's cause. 
 
 And bide by the Buff and the Blue. 
 
 *■ We feel much pleasure in presenting to oiu: readers the complete copy of 
 a sbng. the composition of the imm.ortal Biuns. It was first communicated 
 from a highly respectable quarter to the editors of the Scots Magazine, and is 
 to be found in the number for Jan., 1818, Two other fragments, by the same 
 Bard, were also transmitted at the same time, accompanied with the follow- 
 ing note : — "As everything that fell from the pen of Bums is worthy of pre- 
 servation, I transcribe, for your Miscellany, the complete copy of a song which 
 Cromek has printed (page 423 of his vol.) in an unfinished state, together with 
 two fragments that have never yet been published. The originals of these 
 I possess in the hand-writing of their unfortunate author, who transmitted 
 them, inclosed In letters, to a constant friend of liis through all his calami- 
 ties, by whom they were finally assigned to me." 
 
266 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 Here's a health to Charlie,t the chief o' the clan, 
 
 Although that his band be but sma' ! 
 May Liberty meet with success, 
 
 May prudence protect her frae evil ; 
 May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
 
 And wander the road to the devil ! 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa. 
 
 And here's to them that's awa ; 
 Here's a health to Tammie,§ the Norlan' laddie, 
 
 That lives at the lug o' the law! 
 Here's freedom to him that would read. 
 
 And freedom to him that would write; 
 There's nane ever feared that the truth should be heard, 
 
 But they whom the truth would indite. 
 
 The fragments here spoken of, we subjoin, in order that the curiosity of our 
 readers may be gratified. 
 
 FRAGMENT 1st. 
 AIR. — " The ither mom as I forlorn." 
 
 Yon wandering rill that marks the hiU, 
 And glances o'er the brae, sir. 
 
 Slides by a bower, where many a flower 
 Sheds fragrance on the day, sir. 
 
 There Damon lay, with Sylva gay. 
 To love they thought nae crime, sir : 
 
 The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 
 While Damon's heart beat time, sir. 
 
 t Mr Fox. § Lord Erskine. 
 
267 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa, 
 Here's Maitland, and Wycombe, and wha does na hke 'em 
 
 Be built in a hole o' the wa' ! 
 Here's timmer that's red at the heart, 
 
 Here's fruit that is sound at the core: 
 May he that would turn the Buff and Blue coat, 
 
 Be turned t(» the back o' the door. 
 
 Here's a health to them that's awa, 
 
 And here's to them that's awa. 
 Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd. 
 
 Though bred amang mountains o' snaw. 
 Here's friends on baith sides o' the Forth, 
 
 And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed; 
 And wha would betray old Albion's rights. 
 
 May they never eat of her bread. 
 
 FRAGMENT 2d. 
 
 As I came in by our gate end, 
 
 As day was waxen weary, 
 O wha came tripping down the street 
 
 But bonnie Peg, my dearie ! 
 
 Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
 Wi nae proportion wanting. 
 
 The queen of love did never move 
 Wi' motion mair enchanting. 
 
 Wi' linked hands we took the sands 
 
 Adown yon winding river : 
 And, oh ! that hour and broomy bower. 
 
 Can I forget it ever ! 
 
268 
 
 SOLDIER, REST ! THY WARFARE O'ER. 
 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; 
 Dream of battled fields no more, 
 
 Days of danger, nights of waking, 
 In our isle's enchanted hall, 
 
 Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
 Fairy strains of music fall. 
 
 Every sense in slumber dewing. 
 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, 
 Dream of fighting fields' no more; 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 
 
 No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
 Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, 
 
 Trump nor pibroch summon here 
 
 Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 
 
260 
 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, 
 
 At the day-break from the fallow, 
 And the bittern sound his drum, 
 
 Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
 Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
 Guards nor warders challenge here. 
 Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing. 
 Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 
 
 Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done. 
 
 While our slumbrous spells assail ye. 
 Dream not with the rising sun 
 
 Bugles here shaU sound reveille. 
 Sleep ! the deer is in his den. 
 
 Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; 
 Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen. 
 
 How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
 Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
 Think not of the rising sun, 
 For at dawning to assail ye. 
 Here no bugles sound reveUliJ. 
 
270 
 
 ALL IN THE MERRY WHITSUNTIDE. 
 
 All in the merry Whitsuntide, 
 
 When gay, gay flowers are springing. 
 
 And pretty birds, on every side, 
 In the sunny groves are singing. 
 
 When throstles pipe the woods among. 
 
 We heed not the Robin's slender song; 
 
 But when blustering winter strips the trees, 
 
 And summer birds are sleeping, 
 His lonely chirp hath power to please. 
 
 While he perks at the casement peeping; 
 O! then he's caressed, and his chaunt is blest, 
 As he brushes the snow with his ruddy breast. 
 
 Come in, come in, thou bonny Robin, 
 
 And feed on the hawthorn berry. 
 Pull many a warbler we may note. 
 Of brighter plume, and louder throat, 
 But none with heart so merry. 
 
271 
 
 PEACE, PEACE TO THE SHADES. * 
 
 Peace, peace to the shades of those heroes who bled 
 For the freedom of Europe, by glory's aim led. 
 Peace, peace to their shades, though low their dust lies, 
 Never die shall their fame, till immortal they rise. 
 Peace, peace to the shades of those warriors so true, 
 Wbo fell at the battle of fam'd Waterloo. 
 
 While time and fate their course pursue, 
 While fair Europa life retains, 
 
 The Gaul's defeat at Waterloo, 
 
 The muse shall sing in grateful strains. 
 
 * We have the pleasure in presenting to our readers an ode or song, the 
 production of John Carnegie, Esq. It was composed for, and, we understand, 
 sung with much applause by Francis M'Gill, Esq., at the anniversary of the 
 memorable battle of Waterloo, held at Port-Glasgow on the 18th June, 1816. 
 It would be superfluous to prefix a minute account of this glorious achieve- 
 ment. It is yet fresh in the minds of every individual. Suffice it to say, that 
 the battle of Waterloo was fought on the 18th June, 1815, when, by the gal- 
 lant efforts of the British troops under the command of the most noble Duke 
 of Wellington, of the Prussians under the command of the venerable Marshal 
 Blucher, the French army, headed by Buonaparte in person, were completely 
 defeated, by which peace was restored to Europe, and Louis XVIII. ascended 
 the throne of his ancestors. 
 
272 
 
 Let the loud sounding trumpet the triumph proclaim, 
 Of Wellington, Anglesea, Hope, Hill, and G-rssme. 
 Let the nations to Britain, with banners unfurl'd. 
 Give the palm — She gave freedom to half of the world. 
 Raise the trophy to Britain, emblazon her name 
 In the temple of glory, and annals of fame. 
 
 Now the mighty contest's o'er, 
 Joy shall fill the world again. 
 
 War shall cease from shore to shore. 
 Peace shall bless, and freedom reign. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 
 
 AIR.—" The Dandy 0." 
 
 The young May moon is beaming, love. 
 The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love. 
 
 How sweet to rove 
 
 Through Morna's grove. 
 While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
 
273 
 
 Then, awake ! the heavens look bright, my dear ! 
 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear ! 
 
 And the best of all ways 
 
 To lengthen our days 
 Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ! 
 
 Now aU the world is sleeping, love, 
 
 But the sage, his star- watch keeping, love. 
 
 And I, whose star. 
 
 More glorious far. 
 Is the eye from that casement peeping, love ; 
 Then, awake, till the rise of sun, my dear I 
 The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear ! 
 
 Or, in watching the flight 
 
 Of bodies of light. 
 He might happen to take thee for one, my dear ! 
 
 FATHERLESS FANNY. 
 
 Keen and cold is the blast loudly whisthng around : 
 As cold are the lips that once smil'd upon me ; 
 
 And unyielding, alas ! as this hard frozen ground, 
 The armg once so ready my shelter to be. 
 t 
 
274 
 
 Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast, 
 But few to console, and to love me, if any ; 
 
 And my gains are so small, a bare pittance at most, 
 Repays the exertions of fatherless Fanny. 
 
 Once, indeed, I with pleasure and patience could toil. 
 
 But 'twas when my parents sat by and approv'd ; 
 Then, my laces to sell, I went out with a smUe, 
 
 Because my fatigue fed the parents I lov'd ; 
 And at night, when I brought them my hardly eam'd gains, 
 
 Though small they might be, stUl my comforts were many, 
 For my mother's fond blessing rewarded the pains ; 
 
 My father stood watching to welcome his. Fanny. 
 
 But, ah ! now I work by their presence uncheer'd, 
 
 I feel 'tis a hardship indeed to be poor. 
 While I shrink from the labour, no longer endear'd. 
 
 And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door. 
 Then, alas ! when at night I return to my home 
 
 No longer I boast that my comforts are many, 
 To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come, 
 
 Where no one exclaims, " Thou art welcome, my Fanny." 
 
 That, that is the pang ; want and toU would impart 
 
 No pangs to my breast, if my friends I could see, 
 For the wealth I require is that of the heart : 
 
 The fruits of affection are riches to me. 
 Then, ye wealthy, O think, when to you I apply 
 
 To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any. 
 If in accents of kindness you deign to deny. 
 
 You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny. 
 
275 
 
 JOHNNY COUP, t 
 
 Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar, 
 ' * Charlie, meet me an ye daur, 
 And I'll learn you the art o' war, 
 
 If you'll meet wi' me in the morning." 
 
 Hey Johnny Coup, are ye ivaldng yd ? 
 Or are your drums a-heatmg yet ? 
 If ye ivere toaking I would wait 
 To gang to the coals V the morning. 
 
 t The vapouring of Sir John Cope and the of&cers of his army previous to 
 the battle of Preston, September, 1745, was notorious to all the attendants of 
 his camp. His total defeat, therefore, rendered him a butt, to which the shafts 
 of ridicule were directed both by friends and foes. . His bravadoes, when 
 there was no enemy in view, his fear on beholding the Highlanders, and his 
 precipitate flight, are in this song delineated with much good humour. We 
 deem it will not be uninteresting to give an account of this battle as pub- 
 lished by the Highland army. 
 
 *'The Grants of Glenmoriston joined the Prince's army, September 20. 
 That morning his Royal Highness the Prince put himself at the head of the 
 army at Duddlngstone, and presenting his sword said, ' My friends, I have 
 flung away the scabbard.' This was answered with a cheerful hu4za. The 
 ai-ray marched, and drew up on Carberry-hill, where we learned that General 
 Cope had fallen down to the low country, east of Prestonpans. This directed 
 our march along the brow of the hill, till we descried the enemy, upon 
 
276 
 
 When Charlie look'd the letter upon, 
 He drew hia sword the scabbard from : 
 *' Come, follow me, my merry, merry men, 
 And we'll meet Johnny Coup i' the morning.'' 
 
 Hey Johnny -Coup J (he. 
 
 which the Highlanders gave a shout, by way of defiance /expressing- such 
 eagerness to run down upon them, that nothing less than authority could 
 restrain them from coming' to action directly. 
 
 " Some gentlemen went out to observe their camp, and reconnoitre the 
 ground, while the army advanced till it came opposite to, and at half amile's 
 distance from the enemy. These gentlemen returning, informed that they 
 had got into a fastness, having a very broad and deep ditch in front, the town 
 of Preston on the right, some houses and a small morass on the left, and the 
 Frith of Forth on the rear. This made it impracticable to attack them in 
 front but at the greatest risk. 
 
 " That evening Mr. Cope discharged several cannon at us. A gBntleman 
 who had seen their army that day advised us that they were above four 
 thousand strong, besides volunteers, Seceders, &c., from Ediabui^h, and 
 several gentlemen at the head of their tenants ; that General Hamilton's 
 dragoons stood on the right. Colonel Gardiner's on the left; the regiments of 
 LasceHes and Murray, five companies of Lee's, four of Guise's, three of the 
 Earl of Loudon's, and a number of recruits for regiments abroad and at 
 home, formed the centre, and that they were all in top spirits. 
 
 *' Both annies lay upon their arms all night. Mr. Cope's threw ofE several 
 cohoms to let us understand they were alert, and had large fires at several 
 places round their camp. Our men continued very silent, not one word was 
 heard. 
 
 " A-bout three in the morning of Saturday the 21st, we got off the ground 
 and marched eastward; then turning north, formed a line in order to pre- 
 vent the enemy's retreat through the east country, while another body of 
 men was posted to provide against their stealing a march upon us towards 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 ' ' The disposition being made, his Royal Highness the Prince, addressed his 
 army in these words, " Followme, gentlemen; by the assistance of God I will 
 this day make you a free and happy people." We marched cheerfully on and 
 engaged the enemy. The right wing was led on by his Grace the Duke of 
 
277 
 
 *' Now, Johnny, be as gude as your word; 
 Come let us try baith fire and sword, 
 And dinna rin awa' lite a frighted bird 
 That's chas'd frae its nest i' the morning." 
 
 Hey Johnny Coup, dec. 
 
 "When Johnny Coup he heard of this 
 He thought it would not be amiss 
 To hae a horse in readiness 
 To flee awa' i' the morning. 
 
 Hey Johmiy Cmip, d-c. 
 
 Perth, lieutenant-general, and consisted of the regiments of Clanronald, Kep- 
 poch, Glengary, and Glencoe. The left by the Eight Honourable Lord George 
 Murray, lieutenant-general, consisting of the battalions of Camerons, com- 
 manded by Lochiel ; the Stuarts of Appin, by Ardsheill ; one body of the 
 M'Gregors, with Glencaimeg, and the rest of the M'Gregors with the Duke 
 of Perth's men, under Major James Drummond. The enemy's artillery 
 played furiously upon our left, especially on Lochiel's battalions, yet only one 
 private man was killed, and a gentleman wounded; their cannon also raked 
 our right wing, but did no great execution. Their cannon were followed by 
 a very regular fire of the dragoons on right and left, and this again by close 
 platoons of all their infantry, which our men received with intrepidity and 
 an huzza ; nor did we return the enemy's fire till we approached them so 
 near as that the colfin of our shot might set thdr whiskers on fire. The 
 Highlanders then drew their swords, and carried aU before them like a tor- 
 rent, killing or making prisoners every officer of the infantry, except Major 
 Mosman, and one or two more, who escaped with their General 
 
 " The Prince's army found L.4000 Sterling,, in General Cope's military 
 chest. 
 
 " It is computed about five hundred of the enemy were killed ; and that 
 nine hundred were wounded, and that we have taken about fourteen hun- 
 dred prisoners. All their cannon, mortars, several colours, standards, abun- 
 dance of horses and arms were taken, as was all their baggage, equipage, &c. 
 
 " The Prince, as soon as victory declared for him, mounted his horse, and 
 put a stop to the slaughter; and finding no surgeons amongst the enemy 
 
278 
 
 Fy now, Johnny, get up and rin, 
 The Highland bagpipes makes a din, 
 Its best to sleep in a hale skin, 
 For 'twiU be a bluidy morning. 
 
 Hey Johnny Coup, dkc. 
 
 When Johnny Coup to Dunbar came 
 They speir'd at him, " Whar's a' your men ? ' 
 " The deil confound me gin 1 ken. 
 For I left them a' i' the morning." 
 
 Hey Johnny Goup, (ke. 
 
 " Now, Johnny, trouth ye was na blate, 
 To bring the news of your ain defeat, 
 And leave your men in sic a strait. 
 So early in the morning. 
 
 Hey Johrwi/y Goup, <tc. 
 
 despatched an officer to Edinburgh with orders for all the surgeons to at- 
 tend; which was accordingly done. 
 
 " In a subsequent paper it was said that after the most strict enquiry it 
 appeared that only fourteen hundred and fifty-six of the Highland army 
 were engaged. 
 
 " The strokes given by the Highlanders with their swords in this action 
 evinced proofs of their strength; not only men's hands and feet were cut off, 
 but even the legs of horses; and what many saw may be affirmed for truth, 
 viz. , that a Highland gentleman, who led up a division, after breaking through 
 Murray's regiment, fetching a blow at a grenadier, the poor fellow naturally 
 got up his hand over his head, and not only had his hand lopped off, but also 
 his skiiQ cut above an inch deep, so that he expired on the spot. " — See Tran- 
 saction-? in Scotland, flaring the years 1715 and ko, by G. Charles. 
 
279 
 
 " Ah ! faith," quo' Johnny, " I got a fleg, 
 Wi' their claymores and philabegs; 
 If I face them again, deO. break my legs, 
 So I wish you a gude morning." 
 
 Hey Johnny Coup, Jcc. 
 
 YES, DBAHEST MAID, I LOVE THEE STILL. 
 
 Yes, dearest maid, I love thee still, 
 
 Nor would for empires e'er deceive thee ; 
 Through every change of good and ill, 
 
 I'U doat upon thy charms, believe me. 
 Can I peruse a face so fair. 
 
 Where rival hues contend for beauty. 
 Or mark the smile still sporting there. 
 
 And ever think to live without thee. 
 
 Thy lips the cherry's sweets would foil — 
 Thy laughing eye seems so inviting. 
 
 That we must gaze, and love the while, 
 A maid so dear and so delighting. 
 
280 
 
 YeSj gentle maid, thy powerful charms 
 
 Can bind the heart, though fond of changing ; 
 
 One moment's bliss within thy arms 
 
 Would quell the wildest wish of ranging. 
 
 Thy kindly glance, so free of art. 
 
 And melting kiss, my chains shall rivet ; 
 
 O I once admitted to thy heart. 
 What fickle fool would think to leave it. 
 
 Yes, dearest maid, I love thee stUl, 
 •Nor would for empires e'er deceive thee. 
 
 Through every change of good and ill, 
 I'll doat upon thy charms, believe me. 
 
 HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY. 
 
 How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine, 
 When my love's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine. 
 Three years hae come and gaue sin' first he said to me 
 That he wad be at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live and die ; 
 The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild and drear, 
 And every hour that passes by I water wi' a tear. 
 
281 
 
 I kiss my bonny baby, I clasp it to my breast, 
 Ah ! aft wi' sic a warm embrace its father has me prest ! 
 And when I gaze upon its face, as it lies on my knee. 
 The crystal draps out owre my cheeks will fa' frae ilka e'e. 
 O ! mony a, mony a burning tear upon its face will fa', 
 For, oh ! its like my bonny love, and he's far awa'. 
 
 Whan the spring time had gane by, and the rose began to 
 
 blaw, 
 And the harebell and the violet adorned ilk bonny shaw, 
 'Twas then my love came courting me, and wan my youthfu' 
 
 heart. 
 And many a tear it cost my love, ere he could frae me part; 
 But though he's in a foreign land, -far, far across the sea, 
 I kend my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' still to me. 
 
 Ye wastlin' winds, upon the main blaw wi' a steady breeze. 
 And waft my Jamie hame again, across the roaring seas, 
 O ! when he clasps me in his arms, in a' his manly pride, 
 I'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the warld beside. 
 Then blaw a steady gale, ye winds, waft him across the sea. 
 And bring my Jamie hame again, to his wee bairn and me. 
 
282 
 
 GO, LOVELY ROSE : f 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me 
 
 That now she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 t Edmund Waller, the author of this excellent piece of poetry, was bom at 
 Colsliill, in BucklnghamstLire, in 1605. He became a Member of Parliament 
 at the early age of eighteen. In 1643 he was sent to the Tower on a charge 
 of conspiring to deliyer the city to the King. Two persons were executed 
 for the plot, and Waller was condemned to be hanged, but saved himself by 
 an abject submission, and a liberal distribution of money. After a year's im- 
 prisonment he went Into exile, but returned by favour of Cromwell, on 
 whom he wrote an elegant panegyric. He wrote another on the death of the 
 Protector, and afterwards celebrated the Restoration, and praised Charles II, 
 He was a^in elected into Parliament, where, by his eloquence and wit, he 
 was the dehght of the House. He endeavoured to procure the Provostship 
 of Eton, but being refused by Clarendon, he joined in the persecution of that 
 great man. He died in 1687. His poetical pieces are easy, smooth, and 
 generally elegant. 
 
283 
 
 Tell her that's young, 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That, hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide. 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 Suffer herself to be desired, 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die ! that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee ; 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
 
 Yet, though thou fade, 
 From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; 
 
 And teach the maid, 
 That goodness Time's rude hand defies — 
 That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.f 
 
 t This closing stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, a poetical genius 
 of high attainment, and of still more exquisite promise. 
 
284 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 LOVE WILL NOT BLOOM WHlfRE ENVY 
 BREATHES. 
 
 |AIR.— "Gilderoy.- 
 
 Love will not bloom where envy breathes ; 
 
 It shuns ambition's rays, 
 And ne'er its beauteous tendrils wreathes, 
 
 Round hearts which avarice sways : — 
 Then come, my love, we'll fly the town, 
 
 And seek our mountain home, 
 Where, o'er the upland heather brown. 
 
 Free as the winds we'U roam. 
 
 There lightly bounds the vigorous roe, 
 
 The sky-lark carols high ; — 
 There crystal streamlets ceaseless flow 
 
 In artless melody. 
 The purple heath-bell's fresh perfume— 
 
 The daisy's heaven-ward eye — 
 The waving fern — the golden broom — 
 
 All breathe of peace and joy. 
 
285 
 
 There scowls, nor jealousy, nor pride — 
 
 No worldly passions war — 
 And, though the great our joys deride. 
 
 Their own are meaner far ; 
 Long, long shall love its flowers display 
 
 Beneath contentment's smile, 
 "VMiere minds are innocently gay. 
 
 And hearts devoid of guile. 
 
 THE PLEASURE OP A TEAR. 
 
 There is, when day's last shadows fly, 
 
 And no observer near, 
 'Neath memory's retrospective eye, 
 A secret rapture in a sigh — 
 
 A pleasure in a tear. 
 
286 
 
 There ia,' when hush'd is every sound, 
 
 The world absorb'd in sleep, 
 When peaceful silence reigns around, 
 A charm in pensive mood profound, 
 To sit alone and weep. 
 
 Then come, now bustling day is o'er, 
 
 And tranquil hoiu's appear. 
 Peace to my wounded heart restore, 
 And let experience taste once more 
 The pleasure of a tear. 
 
 THE LORD'S MARIE.* 
 
 The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks 
 
 Up wi' a gowden kame, 
 And she has put on her net-sUk hose. 
 
 And awa to the tryste has gane ; 
 
 « Tliis truly excellent old song was procured by the Editor of the Re- 
 liques of Bums, from Mrs. Copeland of Dalbeattie, in Galloway, by whose 
 exertions many specimens of the Caledonian Muse, of unquestionable merit, 
 have been rescued from obUvion. It ia founded, says Mrs. Copeland, on a 
 
287 
 
 O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks, 
 
 And saft, saft on her brow ; 
 Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip, 
 
 And I kiss'd it aff, I trow ! 
 
 " whare gat ye that leal maiden, 
 
 Sae jimpy lac'd and sma' i 
 O whare gat ye that young damsel, 
 
 Wha dings our lasses a' I 
 " O whare gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass, 
 
 Wi' heaven in her e'e ? 
 O here's ae drap o' the damask wine ; — 
 
 Sweet maiden, will ye pree V 
 
 Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck, 
 
 Twist wi' the satin twine, 
 But ruddie, ruddie grew her hause. 
 
 While she supp'd the bluid-red wine. 
 "Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo, 
 
 Wha wears the gowden kame ; 
 This night will mony drink thy health, 
 And kend na wha to name." 
 
 traditional story of a daughter of Lord Maxwell of Nithadale accom- 
 panying, in diflguiae, a peasant to a rustic dancing tryste, " The Lord's 
 daughter sae gay," was discovered through the disguise of her rustic habili- 
 ments. Tradition places the song at the Revolution, 1688. The language is 
 more modem — but the ideas belong to that period. It is one of those happy 
 productions which keep a lasting hold of the mind by their enticing tale and 
 simple dramatic narration ; indeed, the simplicity of our lyrics, their broad 
 humour, their vivid description, and their strong touches of native feeling 
 and sensibility make a lasting impression on the heart. They are perhaps 
 the fairest any nation can boast, and will survive amid the wreck of those 
 which society tramples down in its progi'ess. 
 
288 
 
 Play me up, "Sweet Marie," I cry'd, 
 
 And loud the piper blew, — 
 But the fiddler play'd aye strmitwm strum, 
 
 And down his bow he threw. 
 " Here's thy kind health, i' the ruddie red wine, 
 
 Fair dame o' the stranger land ! 
 For never a pair o' e'en before 
 
 Could mar my good bow-hand." 
 
 Her lips were a cloven hinney-cherrie, 
 
 Sae tempting to the sight ; 
 Her locks owre alabaster brows. 
 
 Fell like the morning light ; 
 And, O ! her hinney breath lift her locks, 
 
 As through the dance she flew, 
 While luve laugh'd in her bonnie blue e'e, 
 
 And dwalt on her comely mou'. 
 
 " Loose hings yere broidered gowd garter. 
 
 Fair ladie, dare I speak 1" 
 She, trembling, lift her silken hand 
 
 To her red, red flushing cheek. 
 ' Ye've drapp'd, ye've drapp'd yere broach o' gowd, 
 
 Thou Lord's daughter sae gay. 
 The tears o'erbrimm'd her bonnie blue e'e, 
 
 * O come, O come away ! 
 
 O maid unbar the siller bolt, 
 To my chamber let me win, 
 
 And tak this kiss, thou peasant youth, 
 I daur na let ye in, 
 
289 
 
 " And tak," quo she, "tlus kame o' gowd, 
 
 Wi' my lock o' yellow hair, 
 For meikle my heart forbodes to me 
 
 I never maun meet ye mair. " 
 
 HONEST MEN AND BONNY LASSIES!* 
 
 AIR.—" Roy's Wife o' AldivaUoch," 
 
 How green the fields, the flowers so fair, 
 How bright the sun, that o'er us passes, 
 
 How useless these if that there were 
 Nae honest men, nor bonny lassies. 
 
 Honest men and bonny lassies, 
 Honest men amd bonny lassies, 
 Lang may lime and happy be, 
 A' honest men and bonny lassies. 
 
 *' The gentleman who transmitted tMs song states, "that he is Infonned it 
 is the production of Patie Blmie, fiddler, Kinghom, but as to the truth of 
 this he cannot be certain." 
 
 V 
 
290 
 
 God's noblest work's an honest man, 
 A bonny lass by far's the fairest, 
 
 Of all that's fair in nature's plan, 
 And e'er to man will be the dearest. 
 
 Honest men, dec. 
 
 How happy, and how blest the man, 
 His days or nights can ne'er be dreary. 
 
 Who calls an honest man his friend. 
 And has a bonny lass for's deary. 
 
 Sorted men and homvy lassies, 
 Honest m.eri and borniy lassies, 
 A' they wish cmd a' they want, 
 To honest men amd howay lassies. 
 
 OLXIV. 
 
 DIRGE OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE. 
 
 They lighted a taper at the dead hour of night, 
 
 And chaunted their holiest hymn, 
 But her brow and her bosom was damp'd with affright. 
 
 Her eye was all cheerless and dim : 
 
291 
 
 The lady of Ellerslie wept for her lord, 
 
 And the death-watch beat in her lonely room, 
 For the curtains had shook of their own accord, 
 And the raven flapp'd at Jier window board. 
 To tell of her warrior's doom. 
 
 Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray 
 
 For the soul of my knight so dear. 
 And call me a widow this wretched day, 
 
 Since the warning of God is near, 
 For the night-mare rides in my strangled sleep; 
 
 The lord of my bosom is doomed to die, 
 His valorous heart they have wounded deep. 
 And the blood-red tears shall his country weep, 
 
 For William of Ellerslie. 
 
 Yet knew not his country that ominous hour. 
 
 Ere the loud matin bell had rung, 
 That the trumpet of death on an English tower. 
 
 Had the dirge of her champion sung. 
 When his dungeon light look'd dim and red, 
 
 On the high-bom blood of a martyr slain. 
 No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed, 
 No weeping there was when his bosom bled. 
 
 And his heart was rent in twain. 
 
 Oh! it was not thus when his oaken spear, 
 
 Was true to the knight forlorn. 
 When hosts of a thousand were scatter'd like deer. 
 
 At the blast of a hunter's horn. 
 
292 
 
 When he strode o'er the wreck of each well fought field, 
 
 With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native land, 
 His spear was not shiver'd on helmet or shield, 
 And the sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield 
 Was light in his terrible hand. 
 
 Yet, bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight 
 
 For his much lov'd country die. 
 The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight 
 
 Than William of EUersUe. 
 But the day of his glory shall never depart. 
 
 His heart unentomb'd shall with glory be palm'd 
 From the blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start, 
 Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart, 
 
 A nobler was never embalm'd. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 AND HAS SHE THEN FAIL'D IN HER TRUTH.* 
 
 And 7ms she then fail'd in her truth, 
 
 The beautiful maid I adore, 
 Shall I ne'er again hear her voice, 
 - Nor see her lov'd form any more, 
 No, no, no. I shall ne'er see her more. 
 
 * From the Persian tale of Selima and Azor; also introduced in the Farce 
 of " Love in a Village." 
 
293 
 
 Ah ! Selima, cruel you prove, 
 
 Yet sure my hard lot you'll bewail, 
 
 I could not presume you would love. 
 Yet pity I hop'd would prevail. 
 
 And has she then, tfc. 
 
 Since hatred alone I inspire, 
 
 Life henceforth is not worth my care. 
 Death now is my only desire, 
 
 I give myself up to despair. 
 
 And has she then, <£-c. 
 
 WHERE ART THOU? ON THE MOON-BEAMS. * 
 
 Where art thou ? On the moon-beams ? Oh ! no, no ; 
 But in this hard world thou art seen no more ; 
 Sweet Pity, o'er the wild waves let us go, 
 
 '"This mad Bongis from the tale of the Soldiei's Orphan, by Mrs. Castello, 
 It is singular enough, says Dr. Percy, that the English have many more 
 songs and ballads on the subject of madness than any other kingdom what- 
 ever : 'whether there be any truth in the insinuation that we are more 
 liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath 
 
294 
 
 And in some flowery isle, 
 There will we rest all day, 
 And I will kiss my love's last tears away, 
 
 And we again shall smile 
 Like infants in their sleep. Hark ! 'twas the roar 
 Of the remorseless tempest, that whelms all, 
 All my fond hopes. Rock on, thou gloomy deep ! 
 
 To the noise of thy tempest I call ; 
 
 No, no, I will not weep, 
 
 Though they sound in my ear like despair. 
 
 Saw you a child with golden hair ? 
 
 'Twas love, his eyes so sweetly shining. 
 
 All hearts to tenderness inclining, 
 Yet oh ! bewaie. 
 How sweet was his voice, when, hand link'd in hand. 
 
 We pass'd o'er scenes of fairy land ; 
 
 But he left me, unpitied, to fate ! 
 And o'er my sinking head the storm blew desolate. 
 Then he whom I lov'd — but I will not complain. 
 Though T never, oh never, shall see him again. 
 
 peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers. In the French, 
 Italian, and other collections are found very few pieces on this subject. 
 
295 
 
 THE WAY TO BE HAPPY.* 
 
 No glory I covet, no riches I want, 
 
 Ambition is nothing to me ; 
 The one thing I beg of kind heaven to grant, 
 
 Is a mind independent and free. 
 
 With passion unruffled, untainted with pride. 
 By reason my life let me square : 
 
 The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied. 
 And the rest is but folly and care. 
 
 The blessings which Providence freely has lent, 
 
 I'U justly and gratefully prize, 
 While sweet meditation and cheerful content 
 
 Shall make me both healthful and wise. 
 
 ♦This excellent song, whldi, for beauty and strength of sentiment, has 
 few equals, we have extracted from a Collection of " Miscellaneous Poems, by 
 several hands." Published by D. Lewis, London, 1730. 
 
296 
 
 In the pleasures the great man's possessions display, 
 
 Unenvied, I'll challenge my part ; 
 For every fair object my eyes can survey, 
 
 Contributes to gladden my heart. 
 
 How vainly, through infinite trouble and strife, . 
 
 Do many their labours employ. 
 Since all that is truly delightful in life 
 
 Is what all, if they wiQ, may enjoy. 
 
 ROSE OF THIS ENCHANTED VALE. 
 
 Rose of this enchanted vale, 
 
 Why so lone and mournful ? 
 Fairer than the dawn-star pale, 
 
 Why so chill and scornful ? 
 " I am not the rose," she said. 
 
 " Sleep his lid is steeping, 
 I am but a captive maid. 
 
 The rose's slumbers keeping. 
 
297 
 
 Go ! I fear that o'er his ear 
 
 Our heedless tones are creeping — 
 
 Go ! nor let one accent fall, 
 His charming dreams dispelling ; 
 
 Go ! 'tis sacred stUlness all 
 Through our mossy dwelling.'' 
 
 But, though free to roam at will, 
 
 Youthful hopes impelling, 
 I would be a captive still 
 
 In my rose's dwelling. 
 Now upon his arched brows, 
 
 In breathless bliss I ponder ; 
 Now the music of his vows 
 
 Makes my senses wander. 
 No charm to me were Liberty, 
 
 I'm of thraldom fonder. 
 Go ! nor let one accent fall, 
 
 His charmed dreams dispelling. 
 Go ! 'tis sacred stillness all, 
 
 Through our mossy dwelling. 
 
298 
 
 FOR MANY A WISTFUL HOUR TO PITY DEAR.* 
 
 For many a wistful hour io pity dear, 
 
 A wanderer wove aflfection's visions here, 
 
 Kiss'd the memorial form his bosom wore, 
 
 And look'd, till tears would let him look no more. 
 
 All that the heart at last might lean on — gone ; 
 
 Yet madly did he languish — linger on : 
 
 Spent sighs to which no sympathy was given. 
 
 And pledg'd wild vows, unheard of all — save heaven, 
 
 Went by the grave of love ; nor own'd despair, 
 
 Though not one flower of hope bloom'd palely there. 
 
 Her eye — bright herald of a better mind — 
 
 Unkind, or only to the tritter kind — 
 
 That eye, for which his own in tears was dim, 
 
 Glanc'd smiles on all, but would not smile on him. 
 
 * These truly affecting lines, which we present to our readers, were dis- 
 covered penciled on the shutter of a window in a room in Enniskillen, Ire- 
 land. 
 
299 
 
 Whose heart alone, though broken, to conceal. 
 
 Could feel its fire — too deeply — finely feel — 
 
 In wayward thrall, thus many a day went past; 
 
 But freedom came, his spirit rose at last. 
 
 Shook off the spell — march'd — mingled with the brave. 
 
 And sought a resting place in glory's grave. 
 
 OLXXXVII. 
 
 FAREWELL, O SWEET HOPE 
 
 Farewell, oh sweet hope ! I have wept thee in sadness, 
 Thy bright star illumin'd life's gloomiest day ; 
 
 It rose on my soul like an angel of gladness, 
 And smil'd the dark clouds of misfortune away : 
 
 In youth every prospect by pleasure was bounded. 
 And joy was the portion that destiny gave ; 
 
 'Twas pure as the lake by the mountains surrounded, 
 And warm as the sunbeam that danc'd on its wave. 
 
300 
 
 Thy visions were transient as mists of the morning, 
 They shone on my sight like the rainbow of eve ; 
 
 And the first tear of sorrow proclaim'd the sad warning, 
 Those visions were sent to betray and deceive. 
 
 Peace, mUd as the dew-drop descending at evfen, 
 Protected my bosom from sorrow and care. 
 
 But retum'd to her throne in the mansion of heaven, 
 When each object was stamp'd by the hand of despair. 
 
 O'er the flowers of happiness wither'd and blighted, 
 Fond memory lingers, and mourns their decay ; 
 
 For the blossoms thy warmth and thy splendour delighted, 
 Expir'd in the hour that beheld thy last ray. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD. 
 
 By the side of a mountain, o'ershadow'd with trees. 
 With thick clusters of vine, intermingl'd and wove, 
 
 I behold my thatch'd cottage, dear mansion of ease. 
 The seat of contentment, of friendship, and love. 
 
301 
 
 Each morn when I open the latch of my door, 
 My heart throbs with rapture to hear the birds sing, 
 
 And at night when the dance in the village is o'er, 
 On my pillow I strew the fresh roses of spring. 
 
 When I hide in the forest from noon's scorching beam 
 
 WMle the torrent's deep murmurs re-echoing sound, 
 When the herds quit their pasture to quaff the clear stream, 
 
 And the flocks iii the vale lie extended around, 
 I muse, — but my thoughts are contented and free, 
 
 I regret not the splendour of riches and pride. 
 The delights of retirement are dearer to me 
 
 Than the proudest appendage to greatness aUied. 
 
 I sing, and my song is the carol of joy, 
 
 My cheek glows with health, like the wild rose in bloom, 
 I dance, yet forget not, though blythsome and gay, 
 
 That I measure the footsteps that lead to the tomb. 
 Contented to Uve, yet not fearful to die, 
 
 With a conscience unspotted, I pass through life's scene. 
 On the wings of delight every moment shall fly, 
 
 And the end of my days be resign'd and serene. 
 
302 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF WALLACE,t 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK. 
 
 AIR. — "Maids of Arrocliar.' 
 
 Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see, 
 To me thou can'st never give pleasure again, 
 
 My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea, 
 And thy streams are deep-ting'dwith the blood of the slain. 
 
 t The following notice of this song occurs in a letter from Mr. Tannahill 
 to one of his particular friends, for whom it seems he had written other verses 
 to accompany the same beautiful and plaintive air, but which not altogether 
 pleasing himself, he had substituted the above. "According to promise," 
 says he, " I send you two verses for the Maids of An'oehar; perhaps they 
 are little better than the last. I believe the language is too weak for the sub- 
 ject; however, they possess the advantage over the others of being founded on 
 a real occurrence. The battle of Falkirk was Wallace's last, in which he was 
 defeated with the loss of almost his whole army. I am sensible that to give 
 words suitable to the poignancy of his grief on such a trying reverse of for- 
 tune would require all the fire and soul-melting energy of a Campbell or a 
 Bums." 
 
 The modest terms in which our amiable author speaks of his verses quite 
 blunt the edge of criticism, and fuUy compensate for any lack of that deep and 
 powerful feeling, that vigour and grandeur of conception which the loftiness of 
 
303 
 
 Ah! base-hearted treach'ry has doomed our undoing, — 
 My poor bleeding country, what more can I do ? 
 
 Ev'n Yalour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin, 
 And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low. 
 
 his theme required. Be it remembered, that it was no less than the anguish 
 of a fearless and imshaken patriot bewailing the ruins of his native land, and 
 breathing revenge against the insulting and cruel invader, which the poet 
 wished to express — ^that it was no less than all the noble workings of passion 
 in the bosom of the unsubdued, incorruptible, heroic and godlike Wallace, 
 which the poet attempted to embody in words. It was no common strain he 
 chose, and it required no common power of execution to perform it well. We 
 do not mean to say these are the very best verses which could have been writ- 
 ten on such a subject; we only rejoice that they are so excellent as they are, 
 and will have the effect, though it should be in never so partial a degree, of 
 preserving, and extending the glory of our national Champion. 
 
 The battle of Falkirk, in its consequences so fatal to the Scots, was fought 
 on the 22d of July 1298. It was obstinately contested for a long time, butthe 
 superiority of the Bnghsh in the number of their cavalry, decided the day. 
 Some historians aUege that this defeat happened in consequence of the little 
 piques and jealousies which at that time subsisted amongst the leadei^ of the 
 Scottish army; but this is merely conjectural. The Enghsh authors are una- 
 nimous in their praises of the firmness and courage displayed by their ene- 
 mies on that occasion. Langtoft gives a curious description of the mode in 
 which the Scottish phalanx sustained the onset : 
 
 Ther formast courey, ther bakkis togidere sette, 
 Ther speres poynt over poynt, so fare and so thikke. 
 And fast togidere joynt, to se it was ferlike. 
 Als a castelle thei stode, that were walled with stone, 
 Thei wende ne man of blode thorgh theim suld haf gone. 
 
 The life of Wallace is minutely detailed in the metrical work of Henry the 
 Minstrel, better known by the name of Blind Harry, which, with all its chro- 
 nological inaccuracies and romantic fictions, must stUl be considered as form- 
 ing a part of authentic history. A splendid monument we xmderstand, will, 
 within a short time, be raised to the memory of the Knight of EUerslie, at 
 Glasgow. On the 10th of March last, a meeting for this purpose was held in 
 the town hall of that city, and there is every probability that the monument, 
 when it is erected, will not only redound to the honour of the country, but be 
 worthy of the great patriot whom it is intended to commemorate. 
 
304 
 
 Farewell, ye dear partners of peril ! — farewell ! 
 
 Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave, 
 Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell, 
 
 And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave. 
 But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander, 
 
 Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die ! 
 On thy wrongs, O my country! indignant I ponder — 
 
 Ah! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly! 
 
 SANG IN PRAIS OF SCHIR WILYAM WALLAS, 
 
 KNIGHT OF ELKISLE, OAMPIOUN OP SCOTLAND. f 
 
 Ovir CasteU and Towre, ovir Citie and Toune, 
 
 Flew the pennonis of Ingland tryumphandli waivand ; 
 
 Our Lyoun was gyvit and our ThrissUl duschit down, 
 Nae mair in the field the fers fae wer thai braivand. 
 
 t This song is extracted from an Album Rerum Scoticarum, belonging to 
 Mr. James Duncan, Jun., Bookseller, Saltmarket, Glasgow — a gentleman well 
 known amongst his friends for his warm attachment to the antiquities and li- 
 
305 
 
 AUace ! all the fire of our forbearis had fled, 
 And Freedom's fair form was all manglt and deid. 
 
 But a beme frae the west lyke ane flaucht o' the sun, 
 
 Ere he dernis in the braid sea's blew busome for evir, 
 
 Brast owre the mirk kynrik fell tiranny won, 
 
 Revivand ittis spreit and devoii-and ittis Reifar. 
 
 That beme was the flasch frae the suerd o' the free, 
 
 Quhilk hung bimest and shene in thi hallis EUerslie ! 
 
 In grit joyaunce the rerd of the bugill yrung ; 
 
 Throch the holtis, wuddis, and wildis the deip war cry 
 was roll'd, 
 And hie to the blast the braid banner was flung, 
 
 Quhilk bure the red Lyoun all rampand in gold 
 To the stryff, quhar the tliree Libbartis stalwartli stude. 
 There, to bathe his bricht mane and his fangis in their blude, 
 
 Quha raisit owre bauld standartj? quha drew the steill glaive? 
 Quha redd this braid yle frae oppressour and fae? 
 
 tei-ature of his native land, and distinguished more especially for the zeal and 
 activity with which he first set on foot the subscriptions for the monument 
 now proposed to be erected in Glasgow to the great and illustrious chief, 
 whose name and achievements arc embalmed in the memory of every Scots- 
 man. As it is written in our vernacular tongue, though rather of an antique 
 date, we consider it unnecessary to subjoin any glossary to such words as are 
 become obsolete, because, with them, we think it behoves all our countrymen 
 to be conversant. An allusion is made to the arms of Scotland, ^hich is well 
 known was the Lion rampant Gules in a field Or, within a tre&sure azure ; 
 those of England in the time of Edward I. , three leopards passant, which, 
 according to the use of all the old Scottish poets, are termed libbartis, 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 It was WallaSj the flowre of Scottis Chevalre draive 
 
 The Suthroun to deid in the battailis deray. 
 He ruschit on to gloir sempiteme, and to save 
 His King, and his Countre, he rushit to the — grave! 
 
 cxci. 
 
 AMID LOCH CATEINE'S SCENERY WILD. 
 
 AIR. — "The Lasso' Arranteenie,' 
 
 Amid Loch Catrine's scenery wild, 
 
 Is seen my lassie's dwelling, 
 Where cavemed rocks on mountains piled, 
 
 Howl to the sea-breeze swelling : 
 She's purer than the snaw that fa's 
 
 On mountain's summit airy; 
 The sweetest mountain flow'r that blaws 
 
 Is not so fair as Mary. 
 
307 
 
 Tis sweet when woodland echo rings, 
 
 Where purling streams meander, 
 But sweeter when my Mary sings, 
 
 As through the glens we wander. 
 The wild deer on the mountain side, 
 
 The fabled Elf or Fairy, 
 Or skiff that skims the crystal tide, 
 
 Moves not more light than Mary. 
 
 From lowland plains I've wandered far, 
 
 In endless search of pleasure ; 
 TiU guided by some friendly star, 
 
 I found this lovely treasure. 
 Although my native home has charms, 
 
 Amang these hills I'U tarry ; 
 And while life's blood my bosom warms, 
 
 I'll love my dearest Mary. 
 
 A MOMENT PAUSE, YE BRITISH PAIR. J 
 
 A moment pause, ye British fair, 
 
 While Pleasure's plTantom ye pursue ; 
 
 * Composed by a lady on seeing in h list of now music " The Waterloo 
 Waltz." 
 
308 
 
 And say, if sprightly dance or air 
 Suit with the name of Waterloo ? 
 
 Awful was the victory ! 
 Chasten'd should the triumph be 
 Midst the laurels she has won, 
 Britain mourns for many a son. 
 
 VeU'd in clouds the morning rose ; 
 Nature seem'd to mourn the day 
 Which consign'd, before its close, 
 Thousands to their kindred clay. 
 
 How unfit for courtly ball. 
 Or the giddy festival. 
 Was the grim and ghastly view. 
 Ere evening clos'd on Waterloo. 
 
 See the Highland warrior rushing. 
 
 Firm in danger, on the foe, 
 Till the life-blood warmly gushing. 
 
 Lays the plaided hero low ! 
 
 His native pipe's acoustom'd sound, 
 'Mid war's infernal concert drown'd, 
 Cannot soothe his last adieu. 
 Or wake his sleep on Waterloo. 
 
 Chasing o'er the cuirassier, 
 
 See the foaming charger flying, 
 
 Trampling in his wild career, 
 All alike, the dead and dying. 
 
309 
 
 See the bullets through his side, 
 Answer'd by the spouting tide ; 
 Helmet, horse, and rider too, 
 Roll on bloody Waterloo. 
 
 Shall scenes like these the dance inspire. 
 Or wake the enliv'ning notes of mirth ? 
 
 O ! shiver'd be the recreant lyre 
 That gave the base idea birth ! 
 
 Other sounds, I ween were there. 
 Other music rent the air, 
 Other u-altz the warriors knew, 
 When they closed at Waterloo. 
 
 Forbear — till Time with lenient hand 
 Has sooth'd the pang of recent sorrow ; 
 
 And let the picture distant stand. 
 The softening hue of years to borrow. 
 
 When our race has pass'd away, 
 Hands unborn may wake the lay, 
 And give to joy alone the view 
 Of Britain's fame at Waterloo. 
 
310 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 O heard you the Mermaid of the sea, 
 
 When the ship by the rock was sinking ; 
 Saw you the maid with her coral cup, 
 
 A health to the sea-nymphs drinking. 
 The morning was fair, and the ocean calm. 
 
 Not a breath awoke the billow. 
 The foam that play'd in the clefted rook 
 
 Was the Mermaid's resting pillow. 
 
 As round the (jp,ve where the Mermaid slept, 
 
 The vessel light was sailing, 
 A voice was heard in the gathering storm, 
 
 Of Mariners deeply waiUng, 
 And loud came the deep'ning thunder-peal, 
 
 The white waves around were dashing. 
 And the light that illumin'd the pathless way, 
 
 Was the gleam of lightning flashing. 
 
311 
 
 The sails are torn, the ship a wreck; 
 
 The Mermaid sweet is singing. 
 And the crystal haUs where the sea-nymphs bathe, 
 
 Are merrily, merrily ringing. 
 And many a tear for these Mariners lost, 
 
 From maidens' eyes are streaming. 
 While reckless they sleep in their wat'ry shroud, 
 
 Nor of ought that's earthly dreaming. 
 
 NOW WINTER IS GANE.* 
 
 Now winter is gane and the clouds flee away, 
 
 Yon bonny blue sky how delightfu' to see, 
 
 Now Unties and blackbirds sing on ilka spray 
 
 That flourishes round Woodhouselee. 
 
 The hawthorn is blooming. 
 
 The saft breeze perfuming, 
 
 * We extract this Song from a selection made by Mr. R. A. Smith, Teacher 
 of Music, Paisley, for the use of his Pupils, where also occurs the following 
 notice concerning its authors: — 
 
 "It may be interesting to many to learn that this little song is the joint 
 production of the late Mr. John Hamilton of Edinburgh, (author of tho 
 popular Scottish song, Up in tlie riwming early, &c., and Tannahill." 
 
312 
 
 O come, my dear lassie, the season is gay, 
 And naething mair lovely can be; 
 The primrose and lily 
 We'll pu' in the valley. 
 And lean when we like on some gowany brae. 
 That rises beside Woodhouselee. 
 
 Ye mind when the snaw lay sae deep on the hill, 
 
 When cauld icy cranreugh hung white on the tree, 
 When bushes were leafless, and mournfully still 
 Were the wee birds o' sweet Woodhouselee. 
 When snaw showers were fa'ing. 
 And wintry winds blawing. 
 Loud whistling o'er mountain and meadow so chill, 
 We mark'd it wi' sorrowing ee; 
 
 But now, since the ilowers 
 Again busk the bowers 
 O come, my dear Lassie, wi' smiling guidwill. 
 And wander around Woodhouselee. 
 
 "' Mr. H. wrote the first stanza for an ancient IrisTi melody, The fair- 
 haired child, but after several unavailing attempts to proceed further he 
 applied to Tannahill, through the medium of a friend, for a second verse; in 
 a short time the request was complied with, and the Bard sent it to his friend 
 with the following note, ' Mr. Hamilton's stanza is admirably suited to the 
 air; in my opinion his lines possess, in an eminent degree, that beautiful, 
 natural simplicity, which characterises our best Scottish songs. I have at- 
 tempted to add a verse to it, but I fear you wiU think it but a frigid produc- 
 tion; the original one is so complete in itself that he who tries another to it 
 labours under the disadvantage of not knowing what to say farther on the 
 subject. However, I give you all that I could make of it."* 
 
313 
 
 cxcv. 
 
 CLAUDINB LIVED CONTENTED. 
 
 Claudine lived contented, and peace was her lot, 
 No care would have found her abode, 
 
 Hadn't Love, that destroyer, one day to her cot, 
 TJnHndly shewn Sorrow the road. 
 
 To Love she unthinkingly open'd the door, 
 But he laugh'd, and then left her : 
 
 He left her, because she was poor. 
 
 With just indignation she saw him depart, 
 And perhaps had to fate been reaign'd. 
 
 But Love, not contented with stealing her heart, 
 Unkindly left Sorrow behind. 
 
 Ah ! why, simple girl, did she open the door, 
 To one who could leave her. 
 
 Could leave her, because she was poor. 
 
314 
 
 THE BRAES OP YARROW.* 
 
 " Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream ! 
 
 When first on thee I met my lover ; 
 Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream ! 
 
 When now thy waves his body cover ! 
 For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! 
 
 Thou art to me a stream of sorrow : 
 For never on thy banks shall I 
 
 Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 
 
 " He promis'd me a milk-white steed. 
 To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
 
 ■* The subject of the following lament is thegrief of a young woman for the 
 death of her lover, who was drowned in the Yarrow. She is supposed to he 
 on the hanks of that rivulet, which recal to her memory scenes that had 
 passed there between her and her lover ; and her recollection being thus 
 awakened, every circumstance connected with their interviews is reflected 
 on with delight. Although the poem cannot lay claim to originality of ideas, 
 being founded on the fragment of Willie's drovm'd in Yarr&to, yet the 
 simple, natural, and pathetic style in which it is composed place it on a level 
 with any poem of the same kind in our language. It was written by the 
 Rev, John Logan, late one of the Ministers of South Leith, a man of genius 
 and refined taste. 
 
315 
 
 He promis'd me a little page, 
 To squire me to his father's towers ; 
 
 He promis'd me a wedding-ring, 
 
 The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; 
 
 Now he is wedded to his grave, 
 Alas ! his watery grave in Yarrow. 
 
 "Sweet were his words when last we met ; 
 
 My passion I as freely told him ; 
 Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought 
 
 That I should never more behold him ! 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; 
 
 It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. 
 
 And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. 
 
 ' ' His mother from the window look'd. 
 
 With all the longing of a mother ; 
 His little sister weeping walk'd 
 
 The green-wood path to meet her brother. 
 They sought him east, they sought him west. 
 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 They only saw the cloud of night. 
 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 
 
 " No longer from thy window look. 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid ! 
 Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 
 
316 
 
 No longer seek him east or west, 
 And search no more the forest thorough 
 
 For, wandering in the night so dark. 
 He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow. 
 
 " The tear shall never leave my cheek, 
 
 No other youth shall be my marrow ; 
 I'll seek thy body in the stream, 
 
 And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow." 
 The tear did never leave her cheek, 
 
 No other youth became her marrow ; 
 She found his body in the stream, 
 
 And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 
 
 THE CYPRESS AND THE YEW. 
 
 O I hae twin'd wi' mickle love 
 
 A garland for ye're brow. 
 But wither'd are its sweetest flowers. 
 
 And broken is ye're vow : 
 
317 
 
 Syne I will tak' the cypress wreath, 
 And weave it wi' the yew. 
 
 . The gladsome hours of love are gone, 
 
 I wist na ere they sped, 
 The lily pale has stain'd my cheek. 
 
 Tint is the damask red ; 
 The cypress shall my chaplet be 
 
 To bind around my head. 
 
 O why does love sae sweetly smile, 
 
 And gayest flow'rets strew I 
 O why does love, the fairest flower. 
 
 Still twine about with rue ? 
 The rue was thine — but aye is mine. 
 
 The Cypress and the Yew. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 CARLISLE YETTS.* 
 
 White was the rose in his gay bonnet. 
 
 As he faulded me in his brooched plaidie ; 
 
 "♦This little piece, no less enchanting by the sweetness and simplicity of its 
 style than by the richness of its poeticalbeauties, iseaid to have been written 
 
318 
 
 His hand whilk clasped the truth o' love, 
 
 O it was aye in battle readie I 
 His lang, lang hair, in yellow hanks, 
 
 Wav'd o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie ; 
 But now they wave o'er Carlisle Yetts 
 
 In dripping ringlets clotting bloodie. 
 
 My father's blood's in that flower-tap. 
 My brother's in that hare-bell's blossom, 
 
 This white rose was steeped in my luve's blood, 
 And I'll aye wear it in my bosom. 
 
 by a young woman dui-ing the retiellion of 1745. Whether the individual 
 who is the subject of the piece before us bore any rank in the Highland ar- 
 my is uncertain ; but it would appear, that, on account of his attachment to 
 the cause of Prince Charles, he had fallen a -victim to the sanguinary mea- 
 sures of the times when the blood of the vanquished was considered as the 
 only atonement that could be made. Certain it is that the measures pursued 
 by the English army after their decisive victory at CuUoden were by no 
 means calculated to soothe the irritation and win the affections of a brave 
 and generous people. The Duke of Cumberland, after marching the main 
 body of his army to Port Augustus, sent parties of his men round the High- 
 lands, which, wherever they came, plundered the peaceable inhabitants and 
 drove off their cattle, whilst thousands of families perished either by famine 
 or the sword. Neither old nor young, rich or poor, were exempted from 
 the brutal ferocity of the BngUsh soldiery, who put to death, in cold blood, 
 incredible numbers of a people whom they would, in all probability, have 
 trembled to meet on equal terms on the field. Even the presence of the Com- 
 manderinChiefhadnoeffectin putting astop to the slaughter; for, whilsthis 
 men were engaged in those scenes of horror he was amusing himself and his 
 staff with horse and foot races ! Throughout the whole country the greatest 
 exertions were made to apprehend the followers of Charles, who himself was 
 closely pursued through the Highlands. Of two hundred and nineteen per- 
 sons who were tried, seventy-seven were executed; among whom were se- 
 venteen officers, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered on Kensington Com- 
 mon, near London; nine executed in the same manner at Carlisle, and eleven 
 
319 
 
 Wlien I came first by merry Carlisle, 
 
 Was ne'er a town aae sweetly seeming ; 
 The White Rose flaunted owre the wall, 
 
 The Thistl'd banners far were streaming ! 
 When I came next by merry Carlisle, 
 
 O sad, sad seem'd the town and eerie ! 
 The aidd, auld men came out and wept, 
 
 " O maiden, come ye to seek ye're dearie ? " 
 
 There's ae drap o' blude atween my breasts, 
 And twa in my links o' hair sae yellow ; 
 
 The tane I'll ne'er wash, and the tither ne'er kame, 
 But I'll sit and pray aneath the willow. 
 
 at York. It may not be uninteresting to our readers to state respecting 
 Prince Charles, that, after many sufferings, he escaped into Franco, where 
 he remained some considerable time. Being, however, eventually obliged 
 to quitthatcountry,he retired into Italy, when, becoming disgusted with the 
 ceremonies of the Romish religion, he came over to London, and renounced 
 it in a Chapel in Gray's-Inn Lane under his own name of Charles Stuart. 
 What is somewTiat remarkable, he came over again to London in 1760 to wit- 
 ness the coronation of his present Majesty, after which he returned to Italy, 
 and went to Rome on the death of his father in 1766, when the pope refused 
 to acknowledge him King. Besides, none of the Catholic Courts would lis- 
 ten to his claim, and, in consecLuence, he refused that of Prince of Wales, and 
 assumed the title of Count of Albany. In 1772 he married the Princess 
 Lousia Maximiliana Carolina de Stolberg Guederan, by whom he had no 
 issue. From that period he resided in the neighbourhood of Florence till his 
 death, on the 31st Jan. 1788, (aged 67) when it was found that he had be- 
 queathed his fortune to a natural daughter, the Duchesa of Albany, whom 
 he legitimated by the approbation of the King of France. To his brother, 
 the Cardinal York, he left two thousand ounces of silver. The Cardinal died 
 a few years ago, being the last of the male line of an illustrious but unfor- 
 tunate house. 
 
320 
 
 Wae, wae upon that cruel heart, 
 
 Wae, wae upon that hand sae bloodie, 
 
 Whilk feasts on our richest Scottish blude, 
 And maka sae mony a dolefu' widow. 
 
 THE MURNYNG MAYDEN. 
 
 May heaven holpe the Mayde, 
 Whome false love hathe betraydde, 
 
 Sith the worlde has ne pitye but scome 
 For the mayden who may, 
 Have wandredde astraye, 
 
 And with love, griefe and wodenesse* is tome. 
 
 In the goode grene woodde, 
 A whyte thome tree stoodde, 
 
 And scentedde the duske valley arounde. 
 And there was a river, 
 Thilk murmuredde ever. 
 
 With right pleasaunt and silverye sounde. 
 
 * Madness. 
 
321 
 
 What inwitte* could have thoughts, 
 That the plesaunce is yboughte, 
 
 Of a momente, with yeres of sorrowe. 
 Or, that the softe delyghte, 
 Of one dewye twilyghte, 
 
 Sholde breste t into stormes on the morrowe. 
 
 The brighte violette grewe, 
 And the red rose threwe, 
 
 Its riche fragraunce whilome on the aife; 
 The nightingale's clere songe, 
 Through the wide forreste yronge; 
 
 All the sprite of swete love regneddej there. 
 
 Butte mie false love has fledde; 
 All mie Tirighte hopes are dedde; 
 
 Crasedde § hearte and fame forlore || be to mee ; 
 Yjapedde,ir what conne I doe, 
 Butte where thilke whyte thorne grewe, 
 
 To digge my colde grave — thenne, to die. 
 
 ■ Understanding. t Burst. J Reigned. § Broken. 
 
 I Utterly lost. U Deceived. 
 
322 
 
 MARY. 
 
 AIR. — " Black -eyed Susan.'' 
 
 The sun was wearing down the lift, 
 
 The gloamin' vapours fa'ing chill, 
 
 The clouds did owre the carry shift, 
 
 And lowne the breeze was on the hill. 
 
 When pensive, Mary, down by Cartha stray'd, 
 
 Lamenting Willie 'neath the gowan laid. 
 
 In this retired rural scene, 
 
 Far frae the paths o' toil and care, 
 How happy I wi' him hae been, 
 
 And tasted bliss, I'll taste nae mair. 
 The present moments by unnoted flew. 
 While mair endearing every meeting grew. 
 
 The sUler firs that overhang 
 Yon fairy cove below the brae, 
 
 Aft echoed to my Willie's sang 
 Saft as the blackbird's e'ening lay ; 
 
323 
 
 Now echo sleeps within the gloomy grot, 
 
 Save when some warbler tunes his mellow note. 
 
 Wi' Willie I hae waunnert here 
 
 When light was faded frae the sky ; 
 An' kentna what it was to fear, 
 
 When a' that held my heart was nigh ; 
 E'en sable darkness has peculiar charms 
 When lovers fondly sigh in ithers arms. 
 
 ! when in secret I review 
 Joys memory shall never tine, 
 
 1 feel in nameless pangs anew 
 That wretchedness for life is mine. 
 
 O ! I could every human ill sustain. 
 But wanting Willie, comfort I disdain. 
 
 To me the vernal tints of spring 
 
 Can naught of happiness impart ! 
 I joyless hear the linnets sing, 
 For hope is banish'd frae my heart ; 
 Whispers a warning voice in my decay. 
 Come, join thy Willie, virgin, come away. 
 
324 
 
 WARILY, STEADILY. 
 
 The storm sweeps wildly through the sky, 
 And loud the angry waters roar, 
 
 Our bark hath liv'd in tempest high, 
 But such as this ne'er brav'd before ; 
 
 Then warily, steadily, helmsman, steer. 
 
 And we yet the headland cape may clear. 
 
 Round the lightning wings its flight. 
 O'er our heads the thunders roll, 
 
 But in the storm as in the fight, 
 
 No fear should shake the seaman's soul 
 
 Then warily, steadily, helmsman, steer, 
 
 And we yet the headland cape may clear. 
 
 The storm is o'er, the sky serene. 
 The destin'd port is now in view, 
 
 Yet many a danger lurks unseen, 
 Let each, then, to his post be true ; 
 
 O warily, steadily, helmsman, steer. 
 
 And soon our bark will the offing clear. 
 
325 
 
 'Tis done — at length we safely moor, 
 And transport fills each seaman's breast, 
 
 To tread again the wish'd-for shore, 
 And be by dearest friends oaresa'd ; 
 
 Yet warily, steadUy, sailor, steer, 
 
 There are dangers still on shore to fear. 
 
 con. 
 MARY CAMPBELL, t 
 
 AIR. — " Days o' langaync' 
 
 The primrose may blaw in the dawn o* the spring, 
 
 In the grey dewy e'ening the mavis may sing, 
 
 The white-breasted gowan may deck the green shaw, 
 
 And the red rose o' summer perfuming may blaw, 
 
 But the sad sighing echoes a' join me to tell, 
 
 That these sweets canna bring me my Mary Campbell. 
 
 t This song was composed on learning that Mary Campbell was the name 
 of Bums' "Highland Mary," and although that immortal author has him- 
 self pourtrayed in characters the most touching, his grief for the loss of his 
 Mary, in the pathetic songs of The Highland lassie, 0; Mary in Hea- 
 ven, and others, so as to supersede the necessity of any other commemora- 
 tive composition on the subject, yet it must be allowed that the present effu- 
 sion is not altogether superfluous nor xmimpressive, "My Highland lassie 
 (says the Ayrshire Bard) was a warm-hearted, charming young creature 
 as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the 
 
326 
 
 I hae seen tlie grey linnet aft robb'd o' its young, 
 
 Heard the sweet, melting love-notes drap saft frae its tongue; 
 
 And the stray'd lambies bleating on bank and on brae, 
 
 But never till now was my poor heart so wae ; 
 
 Though the wild warbling music sounds' sweet through the 
 
 deU, 
 Still I sigh in deep woe for my Mary Campbell. 
 
 I linger a' lanely by Ayr's winding stream, 
 Where my dear " Highland Mary " adorn'dthe sweet scene, 
 Where the white mantl'd hawthorn has shelter'd my maid, 
 And the wild roving echo play'd saft through the glade. 
 But these rural endearments increase sorrow's knell, 
 And mind me anew of my Mary Campbell. 
 
 Her e'e was mair bright than yon star in the-sky. 
 Health bloom'd on her cheek with the wild roses' dye. 
 Her saft bosom rose like a pure wreath of snaw. 
 But the heart it conceal'd was the dearest of a'. 
 Ah ! pale, weeping sorrow has rung the death-knell, 
 And fobb'd me of joy and my Mary Campbell. 
 
 most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met, by appointment, on the second 
 Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent 
 the day in taking a farewell, before she should embark for the West High- 
 lands to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change in life." 
 This adieu was performed with all those simple and striking ceremonials 
 which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions and to in- 
 spire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook; they 
 laved their hands in its limpid stream, and holding a bible betweauUiem, 
 pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other, t "At the close of Au- 
 tumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had 
 scarce landed, when she was seized with a malignant fever, whichhurried my 
 dear girl to the grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her illness." 
 
 J Cromek. - 
 
327 
 
 com. 
 
 IN VAIN THOU CALL'ST. 
 
 In vain thou call'st for a mirthful smile, 
 
 Moma, to glance o'er my cheek of woe, 
 When the scorn that sits in thine eye the while, 
 
 Bids the dew of my sorrows flow. 
 Oh ! fly with me swift o'er moss and brake ; 
 
 Oh! fly from this lonely woodland glade ; 
 My charger shaU speed for thy lov'd sake. 
 
 And glisten for theB'shall my temper'd blade. 
 
 If e'er my soul, in a playful hour, 
 
 Seem'd as entranc'd by another's wile. 
 And hung with bliss on the magic power, 
 
 That ever lurks in a ruby smile; 
 Then if my frame with feeling treinbl'd, 
 
 And wav'ring breath my bosom drew, 
 'Twas that the smile on her cheek resembl'd 
 
 The softest smile I've ador'd in you. 
 
328 
 
 INVITATION. 
 
 Thou must not linger, lovely one, 
 Within thy bower, but come awax; 
 
 The scowl of winter past and gone. 
 Now April sheds her mildest ray. 
 
 The Uly, bending on its stem. 
 
 Waves graceful o'er the silver stream; 
 Bedeck'd with many a bonny gem, 
 
 The fields glance in the morning beam. 
 
 Nursed by the genial sun and breeze, 
 And water'd by the kindly shower. 
 
 The blossom swells upon the trees. 
 
 The briar and broom put forth their flower. 
 
 Now frisk the lambs along the lea, 
 Or peaceful brouse the tender blade; 
 
 The nimble hares, in amorous glee, 
 
 Are sporting down the hawthorn glade. 
 
329 
 
 The mingling concert of the grove, 
 Awakes to haU the vernal reign ; 
 
 Each warbling voice, attun'd to love, 
 Blends in one soft harmonious strain. 
 
 We'U bend our steps to yonder hill, 
 Bespangl'd with the early dew; 
 
 Or stray where flows the murm'ring rUl, 
 And aU our youthful vows renew. 
 
 Thou must not linger, lovely one, 
 Within thy bower, but come away; 
 
 The scowl of winter past and gone, 
 Now April sheds his mildest ray. 
 
 ccv. 
 
 DRIED BE THAT TEAR.* 
 
 Dried be that tear, my gentlest love! 
 Be hush'd that struggling sigh, 
 
 • Tlie author of this poetical effusion was H. B. Sheridan, Esq.;— Hazlitt, in 
 his critique on that eminent man, says, he has justly heen called "a star of 
 the first magnitude," and indeed among the comic writers of thelast century 
 
 A3 
 
330 
 
 Nor season's day, nor fate shall prove, 
 
 More fix'd, more true than 1 2 
 Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear; 
 Cease, boding doubt, cease, anxious fear. 
 
 Dost ask how long my vows shall stay. 
 When all that's new is past ? 
 
 How long, my Delia! can I say, 
 How long my life will last 1 
 
 Dried be that tear, be hush'd that sigh. 
 
 At least I'll love thee till I die. 
 
 And does that thought affect thee too, 
 The thought of Silvio's death; 
 
 That he, who only breathes for you. 
 Must yield that faithful breath? 
 
 Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear. 
 
 Nor let us lose our heaven while here. 
 
 he shines, "like Hesperus amongthe lesser lights." He has left four excellent 
 dramas behind him, all different, or of different kinds, and all excellent in their 
 way, viz., "The School for Scandal," "The Rivals," "The Duenna," "The 
 Critic." His songs are not to be equalled: they have a joyous spirit of intoxica- 
 tion in them, and a spirit of the most melting tenderness. Sheridan was not 
 only a dramatic writer, but a first rate parliamentary speaker. His char- 
 acteristics as an orator were, manly, unperverted good sense, and keen 
 irony. Wit, which has been thought a two-edged weapon, was by him 
 always employed by the same side of the question — T think, on the right 
 one. His set and more laboured speeches were proportionably abortive 
 and unimpressive; but no one was equal to him in replying on the spur of 
 the moment to pompous absurdity, and unravelling the web of flimsy 
 sophistry. He was the last accomplished debater of the House of Commons: 
 an ornament of private and pubhc Ufe: universally beloved; a wit and a 
 patriot, to boot; a poet and an honest man," Bom 1751. Died_1816. 
 
331 
 
 THE TWIN ROSES. 
 
 The night-dew fell on a lovely rose, 
 Fresh op'ning to the view, 
 
 That soft reclip'd upon its twin 
 Of rich and damask hue. « 
 
 Fann'd by the breeze, they gently form'd, 
 
 And seem'd to live as one ; 
 And smil'd, sweet as the pearly drops 
 
 That in the sunbeam shone. 
 
 Secure amidst the sheltering bower. 
 They twin'd with artless tie ; 
 
 But sever'd by the mom's rude blast, 
 One drooped and sank to die. 
 
 The rose upon its slender stem, 
 
 As if with sorrow press'd, 
 Wav'd o'er its twin-bud lowly laid, 
 
 No more by smiles caress'd. 
 
332 
 
 Maria mark'd the lovely gem, 
 Fresh glittering in the ray ; 
 
 The tear-drop dew'd its kindred flower, 
 That withering died away. 
 
 'Twas thus love twin'd around that heart. 
 False Edward's smUes had won ; 
 
 Hope fled, and like the lovely rose 
 She drooped to die alone. 
 
 CCVII. 
 
 HOWL ON, YE WILD WINDS. 
 
 AIR. — ''My lodging is on the cold gi'ound." 
 
 Howl on, ye wild winds, o'er his haUow'd grave, 
 
 Thy music is sweet to the ear ; 
 And lovely thy mountains, though mantl'd in snow, 
 
 As the fragrant smile of the year. 
 
 * These lines were composed for, and sung at the celebration of the birth 
 of Bums, held at Paisley, on the 29th of January 1819. 
 
333 
 
 Yes, Winter, though icicles hang on thy brow. 
 And Nature disconsolate mourns, 
 
 Yet Scotia will ever exult in thy reign. 
 For she owes thee the birth of a Burns. 
 
 When your bellowing tempests, incessant and deep, 
 
 Terrificly howl through the sky, 
 Do you visit a spot where his fame is unknown, 
 
 A spot where 'twill wither or die ? 
 
 Yes, yes, the bright fame of the bard will decay, — 
 
 For Nature itself will expire ; 
 But the last lover's song, o'er the wreck of mankind, 
 
 Will echo his heavenly lyre. 
 
 HAVE YOU NOT SEEN THE TIMID TEAR. 
 
 Have yon not seen the timid tear, 
 Steal gently from mine eye l 
 
 Have you not mark'd the flush of fear. 
 Or caught the murmur'd sigh '! 
 
334 
 
 And can yon think my love is chUl, 
 
 Nor fix'd on you alone 1 
 And can you rend, by doubting still, 
 
 A heart so much your own ? 
 
 To you my soul's affections move. 
 Devoutly warm and true ; 
 
 My life has been a task of love, 
 One long, long thought of you. 
 
 If all your tender faith is o'er, 
 If still my heart you'U try, 
 
 Alas ! I know but one proof more : 
 I'll bless your name and die ! 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY'S ADIEU. 
 
 The boatswain's shrill whistle pip'd all hands ahoy, 
 The word to weigh anchor was given. 
 
 When pale tum'd the cheek of the poor Sailor Boy, 
 His eyes were uplifted to heaven. 
 
335 
 
 And was it dismay that affected his breast, 
 Or dread of the deep that pervaded his feelings 1 
 
 Oh! no, 'twas a passion more keenly express'd, 
 
 'Twas the throb of affection, 'twas Nature's appealings. 
 
 To home and to kindred he'd bidden farewell, 
 
 He strove his sensations to smother. 
 But mem'ry had bound round his bosom her spell. 
 
 And he mus'd on the words of his mother: — 
 " My hope is thy conduct, thy father is dead, 
 
 ' ' Be true to thy king, and ne'er shrink from thy duty, 
 " The furrows of age on my temples are spread, 
 
 " Thy sister has nought but her virtue and beauty." 
 
 The Sailor Boy's cheek was bedew'd with a tear, 
 
 His messmates beheld his emotion, 
 With hearty huzzas his young bosom they cheer. 
 
 It swell'd with a loyal devotion : 
 Aloft up the shrouds to his duty he flew, 
 
 His heart glow'd with courage, all obstacles braving. 
 From his neck his dear sister's last token he drew, 
 
 The pledge of her love from the top-gallant waving. 
 
336 
 
 TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.f 
 
 AIR.—" Gently touch the warbling lyre." 
 
 Take, oh, take those lips away. 
 That so sweetly were forsworn; 
 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 Lights that do mislead the morn; 
 
 But my kisses bring again, 
 
 Seals of love, but seal'd in vain! 
 
 Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow 
 Which thy frozen bosom bears, 
 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow. 
 Are of those that April wears: 
 
 But first set my poor heart free, 
 
 Bound in those icy chains by thee! 
 
 * These elegant stanzas, so justly admired for their extreme sweetness, 
 have heen generally ascribed to Fletcher, in whose tragedy of " Rollo, Duke of 
 Normandy," they are to be found ; but as the first of them had appeared a 
 considerable time before in Shakespeare's " Measure for Measure,'' and as all 
 the songs introduced into that author's plays seem to have been his own 
 composition, Mr. Malone, in his improved edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, 
 has (we think with justice), inserted them as his. 
 
337 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.* 
 
 " They made her a grave too cold and damp, 
 
 '* For a soul so warm and true; 
 * ' And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 " Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 
 
 " She paddles her white canoe. 
 
 * This afEectiug little piece is from the pen of Mr. Thomas Moore, and is 
 founded, he tells us, on a story current in Korfolk, in America, of a young 
 man who lost his reason upon ttie death of a girl whom he loved, and who, 
 suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As 
 he had frequently said in his ravings that the girl was not dead, but 
 gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed that he had w^uidered into that 
 dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its 
 dreadful morasses. The great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant 
 from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long), is 
 called Dm mm end's Pond, 
 
 Amid the singular constellation of genius that at present illuminates our 
 poetical horizon the star of Moore shines with no weakly lustre. This 
 eminent individual, the only son of Mr. Garret Moore, formerly a raspectable 
 merchant in Dublin, and who still resides there, was bom May 28th, 1779. 
 While attending the Grammar School of that city he evinced such precocity 
 of talent as determined his father to give him the advantages of a superior 
 education, and, at the age of fourteen, he was entered a student in Trinity 
 College. 
 
 b3 
 
53S 
 
 ' And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 
 
 " And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
 * Long and loving our life shall be, 
 ' And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 
 " When the footstep of death is near ! " 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 
 
 His path was rugged and sore, 
 Through tangl'd juniper, beds of reeds, 
 Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, 
 
 And man never trode before ! 
 
 Mr. Moore, during his stay at the Uiiiveraity, was no less distinguished for 
 an enthusiastic attachment to the liberty and independence of his country 
 than for the splendour of his classical acquirements and the sociability of his 
 disposition. In November, l'r99, he became a member of the Hon. Society of 
 the Middle Temple ; and the following year, before he had completed the 
 twentieth year of his age, published his English translation of The Odes of 
 Anaci'eon, with notes. Into this version, though it is not entirely free from 
 faults, Mr. Moore has succeeded in transfusing a greater portion of the spirit 
 of the joyous old Tean than ajiy other translator who has hitherto made the 
 attempt. 
 
 On his arrival in London the fame of his abilities made his friendship be 
 courted by the most distinguished literary characters, while the brilliancy of 
 his conversation, and the unassuming modesty of his manners, recommended 
 him to the fashionable Mid polished circles of high life. Assuming the 
 fictitious name of Little, he, in 1801, published a volume of original poems, 
 chiefly amatory. These, though exhibiting great merit in their composition, 
 are, many of them, too warm in their colouring, and are apt to be 
 pernicious in their moral tendency. The pen of Mr. Jeffrey, however, 
 bestowed on them the castigation they deserved ; and from the pure, nay, 
 even pious strain of feeling that pervades some of his recent productions, we 
 have reason to believe that the rebuke was not given in vain. In the 
 autumn of 1803, Mr. Moore, having obtained an appointment from the 
 Admiralty, embarked for Bermuda, but not finding the situation congenial 
 
339 
 
 And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 
 
 If slumber his eyelids knew, 
 He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep 
 Its venomous tear, and nightly steep 
 
 The flesh with blistering dew ! 
 
 And near him the she- wolf stirr'd the brake, 
 And the copper-snake breath'd in his ear. 
 Till he starting, cried, from his dream awake, 
 ' ' Oh ! when shall I see the dusky lake, 
 " And the white canoe of my dear V 
 
 He saw the lake, and a meteor bright 
 
 Quick over its surface play'd — 
 " Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" 
 And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, 
 
 The name of the death-cold maid ! 
 
 to his habits and temper of mind, he resigned it, and, after making a tour 
 through part of the United States, and remaining there about a twelvemonth, 
 returned again to England. The following year he printed his remarks on 
 the manners and society of America, in a work entitled Odes and Epistles. 
 
 Since that time he has been once in Pai-is, and several times in Dublin, his 
 natal city, at which last place the most flattering honours were paid to hia 
 genius, particularly by a splendid entertainment given on the occasion of his 
 late visit, where were assembled the most distinguished literary and political 
 characters of the metropolis, with the Earl of Charlemont in the chair. He 
 has also lately favoured the world with several productioiis of high desert- 
 The most prominent of these is Lalla Roohh, a poem not unworthy to rank 
 among the most celebrated performances of the present day, and for the 
 copyright of which, we are assured, the author received no less a sum than 
 three thousand guineas. 
 
 Happy in the society of an amiable and accomplished lady, whom he mar- 
 
340 
 
 Till he hollow'd a boat of the birken bark, 
 Which carried him off from the shore; 
 
 Far he foUow'd the meteor spark, 
 
 The wind was high, and the clouds were dark. 
 And the boat returned no more. 
 
 But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, 
 
 This lover and maid so true. 
 Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, 
 To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp. 
 And paddle their white canoe! 
 
 THE VINE DRESSERS. 
 
 When mom thro' rising vapour gleams, 
 When eagles take their flight. 
 
 When muleteers lead forth their teams, 
 And pilgrims climb the height; 
 
 With thee I'll to the fields repair. 
 
 With thee the vintage toils I'll share. 
 For toil wiU then seem light. 
 
 ried some years ago, Mr. Moore now passes the most of his time in retire- 
 ment, near Bow-wood, Wiltshire, devoting himself to those elegant and 
 pleasing pursuits for which his mind seems to be bo remarkahly fitted. 
 
341 
 
 When burning noon begins to fade, 
 When dressers leave the vine, 
 
 And court the myrtle's fragrant shade. 
 Or dance beneath the pine; 
 
 With thee I'll lead the merry ring, 
 
 With thee the canzonet I'll sing, 
 Till dewy eve decline. 
 
 And when our train shall homeward hie 
 
 With pipe and tamborine, 
 As Luna mounts the eastern sky, 
 
 The tow 'ring Alps between. 
 To thee I'U sigh a soft farewell. 
 Till flocks shall ring their matin bell 
 
 Along the spangl'd green. 
 
 THE PUNCH BOWL. 
 
 once I felt love, but I feel it no more, 
 
 And I languish'd and pin'd for a prim prudish maid ! 
 But ere long I perceiv'd the beat cure of love's sore. 
 
 Was the flowing punch bowl — so a fig for the jade. 
 
342 
 
 Every joy of our life here is fleeting and vain, 
 Like the mist of the mountain, when grasp'd at, they fly, 
 
 Then wisely we'll drown all our sorrow and pain, 
 In this deep bowl of bUss, ere its fountains run dry. 
 
 Draw near then, my friends, and drink deep of the tide. 
 That brightens the eye and expands all the soul ; 
 
 We care not for beauty, for grandeur nor pride. 
 
 We axe greater than princes, when crown'd with this bowl. 
 
 While one spark of existence within us remains. 
 We'll steadily stand by this source of delight; 
 
 Thou promoter of mirth, thou sweet soother of pains. 
 Be our comfort by day, and our darling at night. 
 
 CCXIV. 
 
 THE QUEEN'S BOWER. 
 
 Our Lady sat in our good Lord's hall. 
 
 But there was in the purple sky 
 
 A broader and brighter canopy 
 Than Baron's roof or royal pall; 
 
 * Queen Elizabeth's favourite seat in the gardens of Combe Abbey bore 
 tliis appellation. 
 
343 
 
 And the light that linger'd in the west 
 Wm like a love-lorn maiden's eye, 
 
 When blushes tell her soul's unrest, 
 And the glow of her hope begins to die, 
 
 Then our Lady went to her bower to view 
 
 The flowers that around her terrace grew. 
 
 Our Lady shone in her diadem ; 
 Her lap was rich with a hundred fold 
 Of woven pearls and cloth of gold, 
 
 That earth was proud to kiss its hem ; 
 
 And a web of diamonds was her vest, 
 That seem'd as if a summer shower, 
 Taught by a cunning wizard's power, 
 
 Had gather'd to sparkle on her breast '; 
 
 But among the flowers in her proud array 
 
 The dead leaf of November lay. 
 
 Oiu- Lady tum'd her velvet steed 
 
 To see whence the smoke of the cottage rose. 
 Where the wild bee hums and the woodbine grows, 
 
 And the lambs among the violets feed. 
 
 There palsied age lean'd on his crutch, 
 
 Her kind and loving hand to touch ; 
 
 And while she smil'd on his lowly cell. 
 
 The dead leaf from her garland fell. 
 
 The pomp of our Lady's day went past, 
 Her grave was shut, and all were gone. 
 
 But that dead leaf rose upon the blast. 
 And retted on her funeral stone ; 
 
344 
 
 And it had gather'd the richest seed 
 Of every violet in the mead, 
 Where once unseen our Lady stoop'd, 
 To lift the aged head that droop'd, 
 And above her holy grave they spread, 
 While angels their sweet dew minist'red, 
 TiU she had a tomb of flowers that hid 
 The pride of the proudest pyramid, 
 And a garland every spring shall rise 
 Where the dead leaf of November lies. 
 
 FAIR ELLEN OF LORN. 
 
 O \ heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale. 
 Where a band cometh slowly, with weeping and wail ? 
 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear, 
 And her site and her people are oall'd to her bier. 
 
 Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud ; 
 Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud ; 
 Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; 
 They march'd all in silence — they look'd to the ground. 
 
345 
 
 In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor 
 To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar, 
 Now here let ns place the grey stone of her cairn ; 
 " Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern. 
 
 " And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse, 
 
 " Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?" 
 
 So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made, 
 
 But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display 'd. 
 
 " I dream 'd of my lady, I dream'd of her shroud," 
 Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; 
 ' ' And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem : 
 " Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream !" 
 
 Oh ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, 
 When the shroud was unclos'd, and no body was seen ; 
 Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn — 
 'Twas the youth that had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn — 
 
 " I dream'd of my lady, I dream'd of her grief, 
 " I dream'd that her lord was a barbarous chief ; 
 " On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem. ; 
 " Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream !" 
 
 In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground. 
 And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found 
 From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, 
 Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn > 
 C 3 
 
346 
 
 CCXVI. 
 
 THE OLD SHEPHERD'S DOO. 
 
 The old shepherd's dog, like his master, was grey, 
 His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue ; 
 
 Yet, where'er Corin went, he was followed by Tray : 
 Thus happy through life did they hobble along. 
 
 * " I do not love a cat/' says the author of this piece, " his disposition is 
 mean and suspicious. A friendship, of years is cancelled in a moment by an 
 accidental tread on his tail or foot. He instantly spits, raises his rump, twirls 
 his tail of malignity, and shuns you: turning hack, as he goes off, a staring 
 vindictive face, full of horrid oaths and unforgiveness; seeming to say 
 ' Perdition catch you ! I hate you for ever.' But the Dog is my delight : 
 tread on his tail or foot, he expresses for a moment the tmeasiness of his 
 feeling; but in a moment again the complaint is ended. He runs around 
 you; jumps up against you; seems to declare his sorrow for complaining, as 
 it was not intentionally done; nay, even to make himself the aggressor; and 
 begs, by whinings and lickings, that master will think of it no more." Dogs 
 are, in general, endued with wonderful sagacity ; indeed, no animal 
 has hitherto been found so entirely adapted to our use, and even to our 
 protection; his diligence, his ardour, and his obedience are inexhaustible, 
 and, unlike any other animal, he seems to remember only the benefits he 
 receives. Such a one as this appears to have been our dog Tray. He had 
 endeared himself to Corin, his master, by every action of his life, and 
 which had insensibly knit their hearts together — they seemed to live only for 
 ■each other, nor in the end could death part them. " Bury me, neighbours, 
 beside my old friend," were the dying injunctions of the poor old shepherd — 
 They indeed were friends. 
 
347 
 
 When fatigued, on the grass the old shepherd would lie, 
 For a nap in the sun ; 'midst his slumbers so sweet, 
 
 His faithful companion crawl'd constantly nigh, 
 Placed his head on his lap, or lay down at his feet. 
 
 When winter was heard on the hill and the plain, 
 And torrents descended, and cold was the wind; 
 
 If Corin went forth 'mid the tempest and rain, 
 Tray scorn'd to be left in the chimney behind. 
 
 At length in the straw Tray made his last bed. 
 For vain against death, is the stoutest endeavour; 
 
 To lick Corin's hand he reax'd up his weak head. 
 
 Then fell back, clos'd his eyes, and, ah ! clos'dthem forever. 
 
 Not long after Tray did the shepherd remain, 
 
 Who oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would bend ; 
 
 And, when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain, 
 " Oh ! bury me, neighbours, beside my old friend." 
 
 COXVII. 
 
 THE LOVELY ELLEN WAS LAID IN HER 
 SHROUD. 
 
 The lovely EUen was laid in her shroud, ' 
 The tapers were round her burning; 
 
 And the nuns all sung an holy hymn, 
 Clad in their weeds of mourning. 
 
348 
 
 They watch'd her the live-long day and night, 
 Till their eyes were dimm'd with weeping! 
 
 She could not wake from her trance of death, 
 But lay like a sweet babe sleeping. 
 
 And beauty still aeem'd to play on her cheek, 
 Though death's cold finger touch'd it, 
 
 And the rose, as it wither'd, yet sweetly smil'd 
 Beneath the hand that crushed it. 
 
 Vespers were said, and the hours pass'd on. 
 And long they were and weary. 
 
 But deep and sad came the matin bell ; 
 The hall was dark and dreary. 
 
 And many a holy prayer was said. 
 As in their arms they bore her, 
 
 They laid her beneath the alder's shade. 
 And spread the green turf o'er her. 
 
 They pull'd the fairest flow'rs of the year. 
 And round her head they strew'd them. 
 
 And long it was ere they wither'd away, 
 For the tears of heaven bedew'd them ! 
 
3-19 
 
 CCXVIU. 
 
 THE POOR SWEEP. 
 
 FOUNDED ON PACT. 
 
 'Twas a keen frosty mom, and the snow heavy falling, 
 When a child of misfortune was thus sadly calling, 
 " Sweep ! sweep ! I am cold, and the snow's very deep ; 
 O pray, take compassion on poor Uttle sweep ! " 
 
 The tears down his cheeks in large drops were fast rolling, 
 Urmotic'd, unpitied, by those by him strolling, 
 Who frequently wam'd him at distance to keep, 
 While he cried, " Take compassion on poor little sweep !" 
 
 In vain he implor'd passing strangers for pity ; 
 
 This smU'd at his plaints, and that banter'd his ditty ; 
 
 Humanity's offspring, as yet lay asleep. 
 
 Nor heard the sad wailings of poor little sweep. 
 
 At the step of a door, half frozen and dejected, 
 He sat down and griev'd, to be shunn'd and neglected, 
 When a kind-hearted damsel by chance saw him weep, 
 And resolv'd to befriend the distressed little sweep ! 
 
350 
 
 Unmindful of sneers, to a neighbour's she led him, 
 Warm'd his limbs by the fire and tenderly fed him ; 
 And, oh ! what delight did this fair maiden reap, 
 When she found a lost brother in poor little sweep. 
 
 In rapture she gaz'd on each black sooty feature. 
 And hugg'd to her bosom the foul-smelling creature ! 
 Who, sav'd by a sister, no longer need creep 
 Through lanes, courts, and alleys, a poor little sweep. 
 
 STEEE, HITHER STEER, YOUR WINGED PINE8.* 
 
 Syren's Song. 
 
 Steer, hither steer, your winged pines, 
 
 All beaten mariners ! 
 Here lie love's undiscover'd mines, 
 
 A prey to passengers ; 
 
 *■ " William Browne, the author of this song, seems to have been bom 
 .about 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, where he was instructed in gramma- 
 tical learning. Having passed solne time at Exeter College, Oxford, he 
 quitted the University without a degree, entered into the society of the 
 
351 
 
 Perfumes far sweeter than the best 
 Which make the Phoenix' urn and nest. 
 
 Fear not your ships 
 Nor any to oppose you, save our lips ; 
 
 But come on shore, 
 Where no joy dies, till love hath gotten more. 
 
 For, swelling waves, our panting breasts. 
 
 Where never storms arise. 
 Exchange, and be awhile our guests, 
 
 For stars gaze on our eyes ; 
 The compass, love shall hourly sing, 
 And, as he goes about the ring, 
 
 We will not miss 
 To tell each point he nameth with a kias ; 
 
 Then come on shore, 
 Where no joy dies, till love have gotten more. 
 
 Middle Temple, and published, in 1613, the first part Jof his Britannia' a 
 Pastorals, folio. In 1614 was published his ShepJierd's Fi^te, 8vo, (coix- 
 taining also the pirated edition of Wither, 1620,) and in,"1616, the second part 
 of the Pastorals. Both parts were reprinted in 1625, 8vo. In 1624, he re- 
 turned to Exeter College and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards 
 Earl of Caernarvon. During his stay he was created A.M., being styled in 
 the public register, " Vir omni humana literatura et bonarum artium cogni- 
 tione instructus." He then went into the family of the Earl of Pembroke 
 obtained wealth, and purchased an estate, and is supposed to have died in 
 1645. See Wood (Ath. Ox. I. 491) who says " that as he had a little body, 
 so a great mind." We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his 
 Shepherd's Pipe a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceives his 
 works "to have been well known to Milton," and refers to Britannia's 
 Piigtorals for the same assemblage of circumstances in the morning land- 
 scape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton, 
 in a passage of L' Allegro, which has been supposed to serve as a repository 
 -of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets. 
 
332 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR THE FALLEN BRAVE. 
 
 AIR.—" Soots wha hae wl' Wallace bled." ' 
 
 Weep not for the fallen brave, 
 Mourn not those lyho died to save ; 
 Hallow'd is the bloody grave 
 
 Where a Patriot lies. 
 His the loveliest wreath that fame 
 Ere shall twine for mortal.name ; 
 His the tale that long shall claim 
 
 Beauty's softest sighs. 
 
 Who that boasts a Briton's pride, 
 
 Who to heroes 'So allied, 
 
 Would not woo the death they died, 
 
 Orown'd by victory ? 
 Who that is a freeman's son 
 Would not do as they have done ; 
 Win with death, as they have ' won, 
 Europe's liberty. 
 
353 
 
 Waterloo ! that morning field 
 GUtter'd gay with spear and shield, 
 Barbed steed, and warrior steel'd, 
 
 Gallia's chivalry ; 
 But night saw a sterner scene, 
 Blood was gushing on thy green, 
 Groans were heard where shouts had been, 
 
 Joy and revelry. 
 
 Waterloo ! thy field shall well 
 Mark where Britons fought and fell; 
 How they fought let f oemen tell, 
 
 They that shrunk to see. 
 But they bled in freedom's cause, 
 Fought and fell for Europe's laws; 
 Nobly eam'd the world's applause — 
 
 Bless their memory! 
 
 ccxxi. 
 
 WHEN FIRST UPON YOUR TENDER CHEEK* 
 
 When first upon your tender cheek 
 I saw the mom of beauty break, 
 With mild and cheering beam, 
 
 *The composition of Miss Aiken, now Mrs. Barbauld, the distinguished 
 sLster of Dr. Aiken, who, hy condescending, amidst more splendid efforts 
 
 d3 
 
354 
 
 I bow'd before your infant shrine, 
 The earliest sighs you had were mine, 
 And you my darling theme. 
 
 I saw you in that opening mom, 
 For beauty's boundless empire born, 
 
 And first confess'd your sway; 
 And ere your thoughts, devoid of art, 
 Could learn the value of a heart, 
 
 I gave my heart away. 
 
 I watoh'd the dawn of every grace, 
 And gaz'd upon that angel face, 
 
 While yet 'twas safe to gaze; 
 And fondly bless'd each rising charm. 
 Nor thought that innocence could harm 
 
 The peace of future days. 
 
 But now, despotic o'er the plains, 
 The awful noon of beauty reigns, 
 
 And kneeling crowds adore; 
 These charms arise too fiercely bright. 
 Danger and death attend the sight. 
 
 And I must hope no more. 
 
 of intellect, to write Hyirms m Prose for Childrerit has ensured to herself the 
 respect and gratitude of every filial and parental heart. 
 
355 
 
 Thus, to the rising god of day, 
 Their eariy vows the Persians pay, 
 
 And bless the spreading fire, 
 Whose glowing chariot, mounting, soon. 
 Pours on their heads the burning noon, 
 
 They sicken and expire. 
 
 OH, ONCE THERE WERE MINUTES. 
 
 Oh ! once there were minutes when light my heart beat. 
 Traversing the wild and the woodland retreat; 
 But there was a wild and a woodland, I ween. 
 Whose bowers were to me ever lovely and green, 
 WTiere fancy, enamour'd, exultingly wove. 
 And twin'd the fair garland to Rosa and Love. 
 
 The gay hours of summer, pass'd lightly along. 
 The beam of the morning gave hfe to the song; 
 At eve, 'mid the choristers, lightly I trode. 
 Nor broke their repose, nor disturb'd their abode; 
 Fond fancy, enamour'd, exultingly wove. 
 And twin'd the fair garland to Rosa and Love. 
 
356 
 
 'Twaa the bliss of Elysium each morning to trace, 
 In the sweet opening rose-bud, the smUe of her face. 
 While the drop that reclin'd its soft bosom upon. 
 Was the beam of her eye, through its lashes that shone; 
 Then, fancy, enamour'd, exultingly wove. 
 And twin'd the fair garland to Rosa and Love. 
 
 Hose moments of rapture no longer are mine, 
 The gem that I liv'd for has dropp'd in its prime. 
 The wild and the woodland's bright visions are gone. 
 And the rose-bud, unheeded, now blossoms alone; 
 But the garland that fancy exultingly wove, 
 Shall blossom for ever to Rosa and Love. 
 
 CCXXIII. 
 
 HAPPY THE WORLD IN THAT BLEST AGE. 
 
 llappy the world ia that blest age. 
 
 When beauty was not bought nor sold. 
 
 When the fair mind was uninflam'd 
 With the mean thirst of baneful gold. 
 
357 
 
 Then the kind shepherd, when he sigh'd, 
 The swain, whose dog was all his wealth, 
 
 Was not by cruel parents f orc'd 
 
 To breathe the am'rous vow by stealth. 
 
 Now, the first question fathers ask, 
 When for their girls fond lovers sue, 
 
 Is — ^What's the settlement you'll make ? 
 You're poor ! — he fliugs the door at you. 
 
 SOMEBODY.* 
 
 My heart is sair, I dare na teU, 
 
 My heart is sair for somebody ; 
 I could wake a winter night 
 For the sake o' somebody. 
 
 Oh hon ! for somebody ! 
 
 Oh hey ! for somebody ! 
 I could range the world around 
 For the sake o' somebody. 
 
 • We extract tMs set of the following popular song from » small collec- 
 tion which waa noticed in page 311, as helng published by Mr. R. A. Smith 
 for the use of his pupils. In that selection it is mentioned that "The first 
 and fourth stanzas of this song are from the pen of Bums, the others were 
 never before printed." Whether these additional stanzas are the production 
 
358 
 
 How aft I've wander'd by the bum, 
 At gloamin' hour, wi' somebody ; 
 And listen'd to the tale o' love, 
 Sae sweetly told by somebody ; 
 Oh hon ! for somebody ! 
 
 Oh hey ! for somebody ! 
 Wing'd wi' joy the moments flew, 
 Sae blest was I wi' somebody. 
 
 But now the tear-drap dims my e'e. 
 
 Whene'er I think o' somebody ; 
 For weel I lo'e the bonny lad 
 That's far awa ; — my somebody. 
 Oh hon ! for somebody ! 
 
 Oh hey ! for somebody ! 
 While I live I'U ne'er forget 
 The parting look o' somebody. 
 
 Ye powers that smUe on virtuous love, 
 
 O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
 Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
 And send me safe my somebody. 
 Oh hon ! for somebody ! 
 
 Oh hey ! for somebody ! 
 I wad do — what wad I not ? 
 For the sake o' somebody ! 
 
 of Mr. Smith himself, or of any of his poetical friends, we have no right to 
 conjecture, hut we think them more happily introduced than additional 
 Teraes to songs usually are, and that they are worthy of a place in the first 
 collections of the present day. 
 
359 
 
 coxxv. 
 
 so 'TIS WITH LOVE. 
 
 Its filmy wing, of azure hue, 
 
 Lightly the fluttering insect plies. 
 
 Breathless the youthful train pursue, 
 But onward still the wanderer flies; 
 
 If one at length the prize obtain, 
 
 He thinks it fairer for his pain; — 
 So 'tis with love. 
 
 What sweetens the poor peasant's sleep? 
 
 What makes the warrior's laurel dear? 
 Why joy the heroes of the deep 
 
 When first their native cliffs appear ? 
 Oh! 'tis the thought of dangers o'er, 
 Gives present bliss to charm the more ! — 
 So 'tis with love. 
 
360 
 
 ccxxvi. 
 
 THE ZEPHYR. 
 
 Zephyr, whither art thou straying? 
 
 Tell me where; 
 With prankish girls in gardens playing, 
 
 False as fair, 
 A butterfly's light back bestriding, 
 Queen-bees to honeysuckles guiding. 
 Or on a swinging hare-bell riding. 
 
 Free from care. 
 
 Before Aurora's car you amble, 
 
 High in air. 
 At noon, when Neptune's sea-nymphs gambol, 
 
 Braid their hair; 
 When on the tumbling billows rolling, 
 Or on the smooth sands idly strolling. 
 Or in cool grottos they lie lolling. 
 
 You sport there. 
 
361 
 
 To chase the moon-beams up the mountains, 
 
 You prepare, 
 Or dance with elves on brinks of fountains, 
 
 Mirth to share, 
 Now seen with love-lorn lilies weeping, 
 Now with a blushing rose-bud sleeping, 
 While fairies, from their windows peeping. 
 
 Cry, Oh rare ! 
 
 DUNOIS THE BRAVE !* 
 
 It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, 
 
 But first he made his orisons before St. Mary's shrine ; 
 
 "And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," was stDl the sol- 
 dier's prayer, 
 
 ' ' That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest 
 fair." 
 
 * This is extracted from Paul's Letters to his Kiiufolk; the following is the 
 note which precedes it :— " A relique of gi-cater moral interest was given me 
 
 E 3 
 
362 
 
 Hia oath of honour on the shrine he grav'd it with his sword, 
 And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord ; 
 Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fiUed the air — 
 "Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest f air. " 
 
 They owed the conquest to his arm, and this his liege lord 
 
 said, 
 ' ' The heart that has for honour beat by bUss must be repaid — 
 My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, 
 For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair." 
 
 And then they bound the holy knot before St. Mary's shrine, 
 That makes a Paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine. 
 And every Lord and Lady bright that were in chapel there, 
 Cried, "Honour'd be the bravest knight — beloved the fairest 
 fair." 
 
 by a lady whose father had found it upon the field of battle, (Waterloo). It 
 is a manuscript collection of French songs, bearing stains of clay and blood, 
 which probably indicate the fate of the proprietor. One or two of these 
 romances I have thought pretty, and have since had an opportunity of hav- 
 ing them translated into English by meeting at Paris with one of our Scot- 
 tish men of rhyme." 
 
 We have only to add, that this song or ballad is very popular in France, and 
 was written by one of Buonaparte's sisters, Fanny de Beauhamois, Ex- 
 Queen of Holland. 
 
363 
 
 O BEAUTY, PEERLESS IS THY GLOW. 
 
 O beauty, peerless is thy glow. 
 
 Resistless beams thy streaming eye. 
 
 When the soft tears of pity flow, 
 For heroes who in battle die. 
 
 Wlio would not die the warrior's death, 
 
 When beauty weaves the cypress wreath ! 
 
 Nor cheerless shall the widow sigh, 
 The soldier's oflfspring friendless roam ; 
 
 The tear enthron'd in beauty's eye. 
 Are stars to guide the wand'rers home. 
 
 Who would not die the warrior's death. 
 
 When beauty weaves the cypress wreath. 
 
364 
 
 COXXIX. 
 
 O WHEN AGAIN SHALL MY EYES ROYE.* 
 
 O when again shall my eyes rove, 
 O'er ail the objects of my love 1 
 Our cottages, our crystal rills, 
 Our hamlets and our native hills. 
 O when again shall my eyes rove, 
 O'er all the objects of my love 1 
 
 The flower, the beauty of our dell, 
 
 The lovely, gentle Isabelle ; 
 
 In the elm's shade, when shall I bound 
 
 To the sweet pipe's enchanting sound. 
 
 When, when again shall wander sight 
 
 On all the objects of delight. 
 My father and my mother, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 
 My flocks and lambs that bleat. 
 
 My shepherdess so sweet. 
 
 when again, &c. 
 
 "* These simple stanzas are a translation of the poetry sunpf by the Swiss to 
 the celebrated Rans de Vatch. Rousseau says the air impressed them with 
 so violent a desire to return home to their own country that it was forbid- 
 den to be played in the Swiss regiments in the French service on pain of 
 death. 
 
365 
 
 O, WHEN SHALL I VISIT THE LAND OF MY 
 BIRTH, t 
 
 O, when shall I visit the land of my birth, 
 The loveliest land on the face of the earth ? 
 When shall I those scenes of affection explore, 
 Our forests, our fountains, 
 Our hamlets, our mountains. 
 With the pride of our valleys, the maid I adore ? 
 O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead. 
 In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed 1 
 
 When shall I return to that lowly retreat, 
 Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet, — 
 The lambs and the heifers that follow my call, 
 My father, my mother. 
 My sister, my brother. 
 And dear Isabella, the joy of them all ? 
 O, when shall I visit the land of my birth? 
 'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth ! 
 
 t This ia another translation of the preceding celebrated song by Mr. Mont- 
 gomery, author of Tlie Wanderer in Switzerland, &c. 
 
366 
 
 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 
 
 Oft in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond mem'ry brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 The smiles, the tears 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 
 The words of love then spoken, 
 The eyes that shone, 
 Now dimm'd and gone, 
 
 The cheerful vow now broken. 
 Thus in the stilly night 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad mem'ry brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so linked together, 
 I've seen around me fall, 
 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 
3G7 
 
 I feel like one 
 Who treads alone 
 
 Some banquet hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled, 
 Whose garlands dead. 
 
 And all but me departed. 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad mem'ry brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 THOUGH YON FAREWEEL MAY BE THE LAST., 
 
 AIE. — " Thou'rt gane awa'." 
 
 Though yon fareweel may be the last, 
 
 When I took leave o' thee, Katy ; 
 I'll mind you when lang years hae past — 
 
 Will you remember me, Katy ? 
 When toss'd upon the raging main, 
 
 As loud the wild storms blow, Katy ; 
 O ■! wha will cheer the trying scene 
 
 When thou art far awa', Katy ? 
 
368 
 
 I wish we twa had never met, 
 
 My heart had ne'er been sair, Katy ; 
 I ne'er will that sad thought forget, 
 
 " We'U maybe meet nae mair, Katy." 
 My widow'd heart is lanely now, 
 
 Tho' ance frae sorrow free, Katy, 
 But it wiU keep its warmest vow, 
 
 Ne'er to love ane but thee, Katy. 
 
 ! ance I form'd the fond, fond thought, 
 
 That we wad live in bliss, Katy, 
 And meet the joy we sweetly sought. 
 
 And no a fate like this, Katy. 
 We then had pass'd our hours wi' glee, 
 
 Nae sorrow dar'd attend, Katy ; 
 Thou'd been my life — my a' to me, 
 
 My sweetheart and my friend, Katy. 
 
 When stretched upon a friendless bed, 
 
 Pain writhes this frame o' mine, Katy, 
 I'll sigh — I canna lay my head 
 
 On ony breast but thine, Katy. 
 I'll suffer sairly Love's keen powers, 
 
 And mourn the joy that's gane, Katy ; 
 For nane can cheer my lanely hours. 
 
 But you, and you alane, Katy. 
 
 I've travers'd many a distant clime ; 
 
 And happy did I feel, Katy ; 
 But, oh ! it is a trying time. 
 
 When lovers bid fareweel, Katy. 
 
369 
 
 But aye this hope will warm my heart, 
 That you will aye be true, Katy ; 
 
 We'll may be meet nae mair to part — • 
 But 'tis a lang adieu, Katy. 
 
 THIS BOTTLE'S THE SUN OF OUR TABLE. 
 
 This bottle's the sun of our table, 
 His beams are rosy wine ; 
 
 We — planets, that are not able 
 Without his help to shine. 
 
 Let mirth and glee abound, 
 You'll soon grow bright 
 With borrow'd light. 
 
 And shine as he goes round. 
 
 r3 
 
370 
 
 THE SONG THAT LIGHTENS THE LANGUID 
 WAY. 
 
 The celebrated Boat Glee, 
 
 The song that lighten* the languid way, 
 When brows are glowing, 
 And faint with rowing, 
 Is like the spell of hope's airy lay, 
 To whose sound through Ufe we stray. 
 The beams that flash on the oar awhile, 
 
 As we row along through waves so clear, 
 Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile 
 That shines on sorrow's tear. 
 
 Nothing is lost on him who sees 
 
 With an eye that feeling gave ; — 
 For him there's a story in every breeze. 
 
 And a picture in every wave. 
 Then sing, to lighten the languid way ;— 
 When brows are glowing, 
 And faint with rowing, 
 'Tis like the spell of hope's airy lay, 
 To whose sound through life we stray. 
 
371 
 
 ccxxxv. 
 
 I WHISPER'D HER MY LAST ADIEU, f 
 
 I whisper'd her my last adieu, 
 I gave a mournful kiss; 
 
 Cold showers of sorrow bath'd her eyes, 
 And her poor heart was torn with sighs; 
 Yet — strange to tell — 'twas then I knew 
 Most perfect bliss. — 
 
 t "Luis De Camoens, the author of this and the following effusion, was 
 bom at Lisbon about the year 1524. His misfortunes began with his birth, 
 for he never saw the smUe of a father, Simon Vaz De Camoens having 
 perished by shipwreck in the very year which gave birth to his son. Not- 
 withstanding the diminution of wealth which the family sustained in con- 
 sequence of this event, the youthful Camoens was sent to the University of 
 Coimbra, and maintained there by the provident care of his surviving parent. 
 
 " Having received an education suited to his birth, he returned to Lisbon. 
 Here he had not remained long till he beheld Dona Caterina de Ataide, one 
 of the Queen's ladies, and the object of his purest and earhest attachment, 
 and on whom he composed the greater part of his minor productions. From 
 the peculiar situation in which she was placed, it was some time before he 
 could enjoy an opportunity of declaring his affection. The restraint he was 
 under at length became intolerable, and having been detected in a violation 
 of the royal precincts, was, in consequence, banished from the Court. But love 
 prepared consolation for its votary where least he expected it. On the 
 morning of his departure bis mistress, throwing aside the delicacy of her 
 sex, confessed her long concealed affection. The sighs of grief wei^ soon lost 
 in those of mutual delight, and the hour of parting was perhaps the sweetest 
 
372 
 
 For love at other times suppressed, 
 Was all betrayed at this — 
 
 I saw him weeping in her eyes, 
 I heard him breathe amongst her sighs, 
 And every sob which shook her breast 
 Thrill'd mine with bliss. 
 
 of our poet's existence, Tlius comforted, lie removed to Santarem, tlie scene 
 of his banishment, but speedily and secretly returned, again tasted of happi- 
 ness, was a second time detected, and a second time driven into exile. To 
 such a spirit as Camoens the inactivity of this situation must have been 
 insupportable. It was not long, however, till he received intelligence of au 
 expedition fitting out against the Moors in Africa. He accordingly sought 
 and obtained permission to accompany it. Here, whilst bravely fighting 
 under the command of a near relation, he was deprived of his right eye by 
 some splinters from the deck of the vessel in which he was stationed. Many 
 of Ms most pathetic compositions were written during this campaign, and 
 the toils of a martial life were sweetened by the recollection of her for whom 
 they were endured. 
 
 * ' His heroic conduct in many engagements at length purchased his recal to 
 court. He hastened home, fraught with the most tender anticipations, and 
 found (what must have been his feelings ?) that his mistress was no more ! 
 
 *' There can scarcely be conceived a more interesting theme for the visions 
 of romance than the death of this young and amiable being. She loved, and 
 was beloved, yet unfortunate in her attachment. She was torn from the world 
 at the early age of twenty; but her lot was enviable compared to that of her 
 lover. The measure of Ms sorrow was yet imperfect. He had still to en- 
 counter the cruel neglect of that nation whose glory his valour had contri- 
 buted to maintain. The claims of mere merit are too often disregarded, but 
 those wMch are founded on the gratitude of coxzrts are hopeless indeed ! 
 Years were passed by Camoens in unsuccessful application for the reward 
 wMch Ms services demanded, and in suing for his rights at the feet of men 
 whom he could not but despise. This was a degradation wMch Ms high 
 spirit knew not how to endure, and he accordingly bade adieu to Portugal, 
 to seek, under the burning suns of India, that independence wMch his own 
 country denied. 
 
373 
 
 The sight which keen affection clears, 
 How can it judge amiss? 
 
 To me it pictured hope, and taught 
 My spirit this consoling thought, 
 That Love's sun, though it rise in tears, 
 May set in bliss! 
 
 " On his arrival in India we find that Camoens contributed, in no small 
 degree, to the success of an expedition against the Pimenta Isles, carried on 
 by the King of Cochin, and his aUies the Portuguese. In the following year 
 (1555) Manuel de Vasconcelos conducted an armament to the Red Sea. Our 
 poet accompanied him, and, with the intrepid curiosity of genius, explored 
 the wild regions of Africa by which Mount Felix is surrounded. Here his 
 mind was stored with sketches of scenery, which afterwards formed some of 
 the most finished pictures in his Luciad, and in other compositions, to the 
 former of which, on returning to Goa, he devoted his whole attention. 
 
 " After an absence of sixteen years, Camoens was compelled to return to 
 Portugal, poor and friendless as when he departed. His immortal Luciad 
 was now ready for publication, which, however, was delayed in consequence 
 of the violence with which the plague then raged throughout Lisbon. At 
 length, in the summer of 1572, it was printed, and received with all the 
 honour due to such a glorious achievement of genius. 
 
 " Whether it recompensed him according to his labour we are not informed. 
 However, it is asserted that King Sebastian, to whom it was inscribed, 
 rewarded him with a pension of 375 reis. Admitting the truth of this very 
 doubtful story, our poet could not have remained in long possession of the 
 royal bounty. Sebastian was speedily hurled from a tottering throne, and 
 liberality was a stranger to the soul of his successor. To his eyes the cowl of 
 monkhood seemed a more graceful ornament than the noblest laurels of the 
 musQ. Such was the spirit that patronised De Sa* and suffered the author 
 of The Zuciad to starve. 
 
 " The latter years of Camoens present a mournful picture, not merely of in- 
 dividual calamity, but of national ingratitude. He, whose best years had been 
 
 * Francisco de Sa was an author much in favour with Cardinal Henry. His 
 muse was of a theological turn. He lorote orthodox sonnets to St. John, and 
 plovs little epigrams on Ado,m and Eve, d-c. 
 
374 
 
 CCXXXVI. 
 
 O WEEP NOT THUS. 
 
 weep not thus — we both shall know 
 
 Ere long a happier doom; 
 There is a place of rest below, 
 Wliere thou and T shall surely go, 
 And sweetly sleep, releas'd from woe, 
 Within the tomb. 
 
 devoted to the service of his country, he who had taught her hteraryfame to 
 
 rivfil the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seonicd bom to revive the 
 
 remembrance of ancient gentility and Lucian heroism, was compelled to 
 
 wander through the streets a wretched dependent on casual contribution. 
 
 One friend alone remained to smooth his downward path, and guide his 
 
 steps to the grave with gentleness and consolation. It was Antonio, his 
 
 slave, a native of Java, who had accompanied Camoens to Europe after 
 
 having rescued him from the waves when shipwrecked at the mouth of the 
 
 Mecon. This faitliful attendant was wont to seek alms throughout Lisbon, 
 
 and at night shared the produce of the day with his poor and broken-hearted 
 
 master. .Blessed, for ever blessed, be the memory of this amiable Indian. 
 
 But his friendship was employed in vain; Camoens sunk beneath the pressure 
 
 of penury, and died in an alms-house early in the year 1579. Over his grave 
 
 is placed the following simple and comprehensive inscription : — 
 
 Here lies Luis de Camoens : 
 
 He excelled all the Poets of 'his age, 
 
 He lived poor and miserable, 
 
 And he died so. 
 
 M.DLXXIX. 
 
 " The character of Camoens may be inferred from his writings. An open 
 
 and undisguised contempt for everything base and sordid, whatever were 
 
 the rank or power of its possessor, formed one of its principal features. This 
 
 honourable audacity of soul was the chief means of injuring the worldly 
 
 interest of our poet. Those who condemn it must be ignorant that the 
 
 exercise of this feeling, to an independent and upright character, though 
 
 poor, produces a more enviable delight than any which fortune can bestow; 
 
 —The poor are not always poor ! 
 
375 
 
 My cradle was the couch of Care, 
 
 And Sorrow rock'd me in it ; 
 Fate seem'd her saddest robe to wear 
 On the first day that saw me there, 
 And darkly shadow'd with despair 
 
 My earliest minute. 
 
 E'en then the griefs I now possess, 
 
 As natal boons were given ; 
 And the fair form of Happiness, 
 Which hover'd round, intent to bless, 
 Scar'd by the phantom of distress, 
 
 Flew back to heaven ! 
 
 For I was made in Joy's despite. 
 And meant for Misery's slave ; 
 And all my hours of brief delight 
 Fled, like the speedy winds of night, 
 Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight 
 Across mj grave ! 
 
 The genius of Camoens was almost universal. Like the great father of 
 English poetry, there is scarcely any species of writing, from the epigram to 
 the epic, which he has not attempted, and, like him, has succeeded in all. 
 To offer any remarks on his principal performance, TlieZuciad, our limits for- 
 bid ; of his minor productions, the general characteristic is ease, not the studied 
 carelessness of modem refinement, but the graceful and charming simplicity 
 of a Grecian muse. He was the first who wrote with elegance in his native 
 tongue. The language of Rome, and even of Greece, had been refined by 
 antecedent authors before the appearance of Virgil, or of Homer, but Camo- 
 ens was at once the polisher, and, in some degree, the creator of his own. 
 How deplorable must have been its state, when it naturalised two thousand 
 new words on the authority of a single man I 
 
376 
 
 JESSIE, THE FLOWER 0' DUNBLANE. 
 
 The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, 
 
 And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, 
 While lonely I stray, in the calm summer gloamin', 
 
 To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 
 How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft f aulding blossom ! 
 
 And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green ; 
 Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, 
 
 Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 
 
 She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny ; 
 
 For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; 
 And far be the villain, divested o' feeling, 
 
 Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dunblane. 
 Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; 
 
 Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, 
 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 
 
 How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie ! 
 
 The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain ; 
 I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie. 
 
 Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 
 
377 
 
 Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, 
 Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain : 
 
 And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, 
 If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 
 
 CCXXXVIII. 
 
 TELL ME WHERE'S THE VIOLET FLED. 
 
 Tell me where's the violet fled, 
 
 Late so gaily blowing ; 
 Springing 'neath fair Flora's tread, 
 
 Choicest sweets bestowing. 
 
 Swain, the vernal scene is o'er, 
 And the violet blooms no more ! 
 
 1 From The German Songster, or a collection of favourite airs, witli their 
 original lausio, done into English by the translator of The German Brato, 
 —Berlin, 1798, 
 
 g3 
 
378 
 
 Say, where hides the blushing rose, 
 Pride of fragrant morning ; 
 
 Garland meet for beauty's brows, 
 Hill and dale adorning 1 
 
 Gentle maid, the summer's fled, 
 And the hapless rose is dead ! 
 
 Bear me, then, to yonder rill, 
 Late so freely flowing, 
 
 Watering many a daffodil. 
 On its margin glowing. 
 
 Sun and wind exhaust its store ; 
 Yonder rivulet glides no more ! 
 
 Lead me to the bow'ry shade. 
 Late with roses flaunting, 
 
 Loved resort of youth and maid, 
 Am'rous ditties ohaunting. 
 
 Hail and storm with fury shower. 
 Leafless mourns the rifled bower ! 
 
 Say, where bides the village maid, 
 
 Late yon cot adorning. 
 Oft I've met her in the glade. 
 
 Fair and fresh as morning. 
 
 Swain, how short is beauty's bloom ! 
 Seek her in her grassy tomb ! 
 
379 
 
 Whither roves the tuneful swain, 
 Who, of rural pleasures, 
 
 Rose and violet, rill and plain, 
 Sung in deftest measures ? 
 
 Maiden, swift life's vision flies, 
 Death has closed the poet's eyes ! 
 
 TURN FROM ME THOSE STARS OF LIGHT. 
 
 O turn from me those stars of hght. 
 
 That peer beneath thy brow ; 
 O veil from my bewilder'd sight, 
 
 Those wreaths of dazzling snow ; 
 O speak not with that melting tongue — 
 
 Cease that song of gladness — 
 Now, through my heart the peal hath rung, 
 
 Of never-dying sadness. 
 
 Enchantress hold — nor wound the heart 
 That loves, yet dare not tell ; 
 
 O break not in that breast a dart, 
 Which loves thee all too well. 
 
 * Extempore lines on hearing a lady Bing. 
 
380 
 
 Sing on — sing on — I joy to hear 
 These sounds that knell my ruin ; 
 
 Oh yet to me thou shalt be dear, 
 Fair cause of my undoing. 
 
 WOULD'ST THOU KNOW WHAT MAKES LIFE'S 
 CUP GO CHEERILY ROUND.* 
 
 Would'stthou know what makes life's cup go cheerily round 1 
 Would'st thou know what makes sorrow a stranger to me? 
 
 'Tis the hope that on earth there's love still to be found ; 
 'Tis the hope that ere long I shall find it in thee. 
 
 *This Bong we reoeived from a gentleman in Edinburgh, accompanied 
 witli the following note : — " I beg leave to send you the enclosed. It is well 
 known to be from the pen of the celebrated Thomas Moore, Esq., and has 
 been procured from one of his intimate friends. Although that elegant 
 author has not yet given it a place among any of his works, it is thought to be 
 too characteristic of his genius not to be worthy of preservation in a surer re- 
 cord than the memories of a few of his admirers. — ^16th April, 1819. 
 
381 
 
 When the soft fitful slumber of pleasure is broken 
 By the notes which misfortune lets fall on the ear ; 
 
 And the heart, in dismay, looks around for a token, 
 That aught to relieve it from sadness is near. 
 
 To that hope swift it flies with a kindling emotion, 
 And soon o'er the bosom a stillness is shed. 
 
 As calm as the moonbeam that rests on the ocean. 
 When the winds of the hills to their caverns have iled. 
 
 O then let that brow, round which beauty is playing, 
 A frown at this pleasing enchantment ne'er cast, 
 
 If a false fleeting phantom my trust is betraying, 
 Ne'er rouse me to fear — let me hope to the last ! 
 
 WHEN TIME, WHO STEALS OUR YEAES 
 AWAY. 
 
 When Time, who steals our years away, 
 Shall steal our pleasures too, 
 
 The mem'ry of the past will stay, 
 And half our joys renew. 
 
382 
 
 Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower 
 
 Shall feel the wintry air, 
 Remembrance will recall the hour, 
 When thou alone wert fair. 
 
 Then talk no more of future gloom ; 
 
 Our joys shall always last ; 
 For hope will brighten days to come. 
 And mem'ry gUd the past ! 
 
 Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, 
 
 I drink to love and thee : 
 Thou never canst decay in soul, 
 Thou'lt still be young for me. 
 And as my lips the tear-drops chase. 
 
 Which on thy cheek they find. 
 So hope shall steal away the trace 
 Which sorrow leaves behind ? 
 
 Then fill the bowl, — away with gloom ! 
 
 Our joys shall always last, 
 For hope wUl brighten days to come. 
 And mem'ry gild the past ! 
 
 But mark, at thought of future years. 
 
 When love shall lose its soul. 
 My Chloe drops her timid tears. 
 
 They mingle with the bowl. 
 How like this bowl of wine, my fair. 
 
 Our loving life shall fleet. 
 Though tears may sometimes mingle there, 
 
 The draught will still be sweet ! 
 
383 
 
 Then fill the bowl— away with gloom ! 
 
 Our joys shall always last, 
 For hope will brighten days to come, 
 
 And memory gild the past ! 
 
 GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'. 
 
 Gloomy winter's now awa', 
 Saft the westlan' breezes blaw, 
 'Mang the birks of Stanley shaw 
 
 The mavis sings in' cheery, O; 
 Sweet the crawflower's early bell 
 Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell. 
 Blooming Kke thy bonny sel', 
 
 My young, my artless dearie, O. 
 Come, my lassie, let us stray 
 O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae. 
 Blithely spend the gowden day, 
 
 'Midst joys that never weary, 0. 
 
384 
 
 Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods, 
 Lav'rocka fan the snaw-white clouds, 
 Siller saughs, wi' downy buds, 
 
 Adorn the banks sae briery, O ; 
 Round the sylvan fairy nooks, 
 Feath'red breckans fringe the rocks, 
 'Neath the brae the bumie jouks, 
 
 And ilka thing is cheery, 0; 
 Trees may bud, and birds may sing, 
 Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, 
 Joy to me they canna' bring. 
 
 Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O. 
 
 FAINTLY AS TOLLS THE EVENING CHIME.* 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
 Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time; 
 Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
 We'U sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
 Eow, brothers, row, the stream runs fast. 
 The Bapids are near, and the day-light's past! 
 
 * This Canadian boat-song was written by Thomas Moore, Esq., to an air 
 sung by the boatmen in descending the river St. Lawrence, from Kingston 
 
385 
 
 Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
 There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ! 
 But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
 Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
 The Rapids are near, and the day-light's past 
 
 Utawas tide ! this trembling moon 
 Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
 Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, 
 Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. 
 Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
 The Rapids are near, and the day-light's past ! 
 
 to Montreal (a distance of about one hundred miles) — "I rememlDer," says 
 this eminent poet, "when we have entered at sun-set upon one of these 
 beautiful lakes, into which this magnificent river, so grandly and unexpec- 
 tedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasiu*e which the finest 
 compositions of the first masters have never given me; and now, there is not 
 a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the 
 St. Lawrence— the flight of our boat down the rapids, and all those new and 
 fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive during the whole of this 
 interesting voyage." 
 
 The rapids alluded to in this song are occasioned by the river being con- 
 fined in comparatively narrow, shallow, rocky channels ; through these it 
 rushes with great force and noise, and is agitated like the ocean in a storm. 
 For nearly an himdred miles above Montreal the river is interrupted in its 
 course by these rapids, which, for grandeur of appearance, many people pre- 
 fer to the celebrated FaUs of Niagara. They are from half-a-mile to nine 
 miles long each, and require regular pilots; indeed, from the many false 
 channels into these rapids, this precaution is absolutely necessary. 
 
 h3 
 
380 
 
 OCXLTV. 
 
 THE BLUE-BIRD.t 
 
 When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, . 
 
 Green meadows and brown-furrow'd fields re-appearing, 
 The fishermen hauling thfeir shad to the shore. 
 
 And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering, 
 When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing ; 
 
 When red grow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing, 
 O then comes the Blue-bird, the herald of spring ! 
 
 And hails with his warblings the charms of the season. 
 
 Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring; 
 
 Then warm glows the sunshine, and fijie is the weather; 
 The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring. 
 
 And spicewood and sassafras budding together ; 
 O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair! 
 
 Your walks border up ; sow and plant at your leisure ; 
 The Blue-bird wUl chaunt from his box such an air 
 
 That all your hard toUs will seem truly a pleasure. 
 
 t We extract these beautiful lines, descriptive of the American Blue-Bird, 
 from the splendid work entitled American Ornithology, by our townsman, 
 Alexander Wilson, author of Watty and Meg, he. It has been remarked 
 in a work of high respectability, that, "the poetical description of the Blue- 
 bird presents a very animated and pleasing picture of American scenery and 
 seasons, while the slight tincture of Scottish expression which occasionally 
 appeai-s, adds to the naivete of the diction." 
 
387 
 
 He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, 
 
 The red flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms ; 
 He snaps up destroyers wherever they be, 
 
 And seizes the caitifis that lurk in their bosoms ; 
 He drags the vile grub from the com it devours. 
 
 The worms from their webs, where they riot and welter; 
 His song and his services freely are ours, 
 
 And all that he asks is in summer a shelter. 
 
 The ploughman is pleased when he gleans in his train, 
 
 Now searching the furrows, — now mounting to cheer him; 
 The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain, 
 
 And leans on his spade to survey and to hear him; 
 The slow ling'ring school-boys forget they'll be chid, 
 
 WhUe gazing intent as he warbles before 'em. 
 In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red, 
 
 That each little loiterer seems to adore him. 
 
 When all the gay scenes of the summer axe o'er, 
 
 And autumn slow enters, so silent and sallow. 
 And millions of warblers, that charm'd us before, 
 
 Have fled in the train of the sun-seeking swallow. 
 The Blue-bird, forsaken, yet true to his home. 
 
 Still Ungers, and looks for a milder to-morrow, 
 TUl forc'd by the horrors of winter to roam. 
 
 He sings his adieu in a long note of sorrow. 
 
 While spring's lovely season, serene, dewy, warm. 
 The green face of earth, and the pure blue of heaven, 
 
388 
 
 Or love's native music have influence to charm, 
 Or sympathy's glow to our feelings are given, 
 
 Still dear to each bosom the Blue-bird shall be ; 
 His voice, like the thrillings of hope, is a treasure; 
 
 For through bleakest storms, if a calm he but see. 
 He comes to remind us of sunshine and pleasure ! 
 
 ROUND LOVE'S ELYSIAN BOWERS * 
 
 Round Love's Elysian bowers 
 
 The softest prospects rise ; 
 There bloom the sweetest flowers, 
 
 There shine the purest skies; 
 And joy and rapture gild awhile 
 The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile. 
 
 * The writer of this song, James Montgomery, one of our most esteemed 
 living poets, was bom at Irvine, Ayrshire, in the year 1771, but was not fated 
 for any length of time to inhale the same air as his countryman, Robert 
 Bums, having been placed, when only five years of age, by his father, who 
 was a Moravian Missionary, in a seminary of his own persuasion, at Fulnick 
 in ■Yorkshire. The young poet, being here secluded from all intercourse with 
 , the world, though naturally active in his disposition, assumed an air of 
 thoughtfulness and melancholy, read with avidity all the poetry which came 
 
389 
 
 B/Ound Love's deserted bowers 
 
 Tremendous rocks arise ; 
 Cold mildews blight the flowers, 
 
 Tornadoes rend the skies : 
 And Pleasure's waning moon goes down 
 Amid the night of Beauty's frown. 
 
 Then, youth, thou fond believer, 
 
 The wily tyrant shun ; 
 Who trusts the dear deceiver, 
 
 "Will surely be undone ! 
 When Beauty triumphs, ah ! beware ! 
 Her smile is hope — her frown despair ! 
 
 within his reach, and brooding with fondness over the reveries they engen- 
 dered, filled a small volume with hifi own compositions before he was ten 
 yeara of age. The Moravians intended him for the ministry, but, from his 
 wayward and poetical fancies, they found it impracticable, and were conse- 
 quently obl^ed to relinquish their long cherished hopes of seeing him a mi- 
 nister ; however, not abandoning altogether their parental duties, they en- 
 gaged y|^Tf\ to a shopkeeper in Wakefield. His restless ambition soon gave 
 him a dislike for this employment, and after being fifteen months with one 
 master, and one year with another, he, in 1787, and when only sixteen years of 
 age, set off for London, in hopes of realising, by the efforts of his pen, his 
 long cherished dreams of wealth and fame ; very soon, however, like many 
 others in similar circumstances, he was disappointed, and in a short time 
 left London for SheflB.eld. Here he engaged with Mr. Gale, the editor of the 
 Sheffield RegisUfi', to assist him in conducting that paper, but Mr. Gale, in 
 1794, being obliged to leave England to avoid a political prosecution, Mr. 
 Montgomery has carried on the paper since that time, under the name of 
 the Iris. Independently of the laborious and constant attention which this 
 situation requires, he has found leisure to compose The World before the 
 Flood — The West Indies — The Wanderer of Sioitzerland — 6j*cenZa?id— poems of 
 great excellence, besides a number of smaller productions. 
 
390 
 
 CCXLVI. 
 
 AWAY— TO THE MOUNTAIN— AWAY ! 
 
 The warrior came down from his tent on the hill, 
 
 To woo in the vale of Cashmere : 
 " Ah ! nay," — cried the maid, with forebodings of ill, 
 
 And she shrank from love's proffer in fear. 
 But the young mountaineer would not so be denied, 
 
 He scoff'd at her tremulous "Nay ;" 
 And clasping the maid — spurr'd his courser — and cried, 
 
 "Away — to the mountain — away !" 
 
 Her home on the moimtain'was stormy and wild. 
 
 Unlike the hush'd bowers of Cashmere, 
 Yet the fair, when she gazed on her wedded one, smiled. 
 
 And love planted paradise there ; 
 Past wrongs, if recall'd, were but named as a jest. 
 
 From a cloud e'en as dawneth the day — 
 And the warrior's wild words by remembrance were blest, 
 
 "Away — to the mountain — away !" 
 
391 
 
 THE BRAES OF BALQUHITHER. 
 
 AIE. — "The thi'ee carls o' Buchanau." 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go, 
 
 To the braes o' Balquhither 
 Where the blae-berries grow 
 
 'Mang the bonny Highland heather ; 
 Where the deer and the rae, 
 
 Lightly bounding together, 
 Sport the lang simmer day 
 
 On the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 I will twine thee a bow'r. 
 
 By the clear siller fountain. 
 And I'U cover it o'er 
 
 Wi' the flowers o' the mountain ; 
 I wiU range through the wilds. 
 
 And the deep glens sae dreary. 
 And return wi' their spoils 
 
 To the bower o' my deary. 
 
392 
 
 When the rude wintry win' 
 
 Idly raves round our dwelling, 
 And the roar of the linn 
 
 On the night-breeze is swelling, 
 So merrily we'll sing, 
 
 As the storm rattles o'er us, 
 'TUl the dear shieling ring 
 
 Wi' the light lilting chorus. 
 
 Now the simmer is in prime, 
 
 Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 
 And the wild mountain thyme 
 
 A' the moorlands perfuming ; 
 To our dear native scenes 
 
 Let us journey together, 
 Where glad Innocence reigns 
 
 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 OOXLVIII. 
 
 HAVE YE SAILED ON THE BREAST OF THE 
 DEEP.I 
 
 Have you sailed on the breast of the deep. 
 When the winds had all silenced their breath, 
 
 J Composed on sailing past Capo Trafalgar in the night. 
 
393 
 
 And the waters were hush'd in as holy a sleep, 
 And as calm as the slumber of death; 
 
 When the yellow moon beaming on high 
 Shone tranquilly bright on the wave, 
 
 And career'd through the vast and impalpable sky, 
 TUl she found in the ocean a grave; 
 
 And dying away by degrees on the sight, 
 
 The waters were clad in the mantle of night. 
 
 'Twould impart a delight to thy soul. 
 
 As I felt it imparted to mine, 
 And the draught of affliction that blacken'd my bowl 
 
 Grew bright as the silvery brine ; 
 I carelessly lay on the deck, 
 
 And listen'd in silence to catch 
 The wonderful stories of battle or wreck. 
 
 That were told by the men of the watch — 
 Sad stories of demons most deadly that be, 
 And of mermaids that rose from the depths of the sea. 
 
 Strange visions my fancy had fill'd, 
 
 I was wet with the dews of the night ; 
 And I thought that the moon still continued to gild 
 
 The wave with a silvery light. 
 I sunk by degrees into sleep, 
 
 I thought of my friends who were far, 
 When a form seem'd to gMe o'er the face of the deep, 
 
 As bright as the evening star : 
 Ne'er rose there a spirit more lovely and fair. 
 Yet I trembled to think that a spirit was there. 
 i3 
 
394 
 
 Emerald green was her hair, 
 
 Braided with gems of the sea, 
 Her arm, like a meteor, she wav'd in the air, 
 
 And I knew that she beckon'd on me ; 
 She lovingly glanc'd with her eyes — 
 
 How ineffably bright was their blaze ! 
 I shrunk, and I trembled, with fear and surprise, 
 
 Yet still I continued to gaze ; 
 But enohantingly sweet was the smile of her lip, 
 And I followed the vision and sprang from the ship. 
 
 'Mid the waves of the ocean I fell, 
 
 The dolphins were sporting around, 
 And many a triton was tuning the shell. 
 
 And ecstatic and wild was the sound ; 
 There were thousands of fathoms above, 
 
 And thousands of fathoms below. 
 And we sunk to the caves where the sea-lions rove. 
 
 And the topaz and emerald glow ; 
 Where the diamond and sapphire eternally shed 
 Their lustre around on the bones of the dead. 
 
 And well might their lustre be bright, 
 
 For they shone on the limbs of the brave, 
 Of those who had fought in the terrible fight. 
 
 And were buried at last in the wave ; 
 In grottoes of coral they slept. 
 
 On white beds of pearl around. 
 And near them for ever the water-snake crept, 
 
 And the sea-lion guarded the ground ; 
 
395 
 
 While the dirge of the heroes by spirits was rung, 
 And solemn and wild were the strains that they sung. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Sweet is the slumber the mariners sleep, 
 Their bones are laid in the oaves of the deep, 
 Far over their heads the tempests sweep, 
 
 That ne'er shall wake them more : 
 They died when rav'd the bloody fight. 
 
 And loud was the cannon's roar ; 
 Their death was dark, their glory bright, 
 
 And they sunk to rise no more. 
 
 They sunk to rise no more. 
 
 But the loud wind pass'd 
 When they breathed their last, 
 
 And it carried their dying sigh : 
 In a winding-sheet. 
 With a shot at their feet, 
 In coral caves they Ue, 
 In coral caves they lie. 
 Or where the syren of the rocks. 
 Lovely waves their sea-green locks. 
 Where the deadly breakers foam, 
 Found they an eternal home ! 
 
396 
 
 Horrid and long were the struggles of death, 
 Black was the night when they yielded their breath, 
 But not on the ocean, all buoyant and bloated, 
 The sport of the waters, their white bodies floated. 
 For they were borne to coral caves, 
 Distant far beneath the waves. 
 And there on beds of pearl they sleep, 
 And far o'er their heads the tempests sweep. 
 That ne'er shall wake them more, 
 That ne'er shall wake them more. 
 
 CCXLIX. 
 
 'TIS SWEET, WHEN IN THE GLOWING WEST. 
 
 'Tis sweet, when in the glowing west 
 
 The sun's bright wheels their course are leaving, 
 Upon the azure ocean's breast, 
 
 To watch the dark wave slowly heaving. 
 
 * This beautiful Canzonette is the composition of the late John BowUer, 
 jun., Esq. 
 
397 
 
 And oh ! at glimpse of early mom, 
 
 When early monks their beads are telling, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn, 
 From glen to mountain wildly swelling. 
 
 And it is sweet, at mid-day hour, 
 Beneath the forest oak reclining, 
 
 To hear the driving tempests pour, 
 Each sense to fairy dreams resigning. 
 
 'Tis sweet, where nodding rocks around 
 The night-shade dark is wildly wreathing, 
 
 To listen to some solemn sound, 
 
 From harp or lyre divinely breathing. 
 
 And sweeter yet the genuine glow 
 
 Of youthful friendship's high devotion. 
 
 Responsive to the voice of woe, 
 When heaves the heart with strong emotion. 
 
 And youth is sweet with many a joy, 
 That frolic by in artless measure ; 
 
 And age is sweet, with less alloy, 
 
 In tranquil thought and silent pleasure. 
 
 For He who gave the life we share. 
 With every charm His gift adorning. 
 
 Bade Eve her pearly dew-drops wear. 
 And dress'd in smiles the blush of morning. 
 
398 
 
 COL. 
 
 THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. 
 
 Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, 
 
 The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw, 
 How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover 
 
 Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw ! 
 The wild flow'rs o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, 
 
 The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ; 
 But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, 
 
 And now it is winter wi' nature and me. 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery, 
 
 Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw ; 
 Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, 
 
 And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. 
 The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie. 
 
 They shake the cauld drift frae their' wings as they flee. 
 And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 
 
 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. 
 
 Yon cauld sleety cloud skiflfs along the bleak mountain. 
 And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, 
 
 While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain. 
 That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. 
 
399 
 
 'Tis no ita loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 
 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e, 
 
 For, ! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan, 
 The dark days o' winter were siumner to me ! 
 
 EMBLEM OF ENGLAND'S ANCIENT FAITH.* 
 
 Emblem of England's ancient faith, 
 FuU proudly may thy branches wave, 
 
 Where loyalty lies low in death. 
 And valour fills a nameless grave. 
 
 And thou, brave tenant of the tomb ! 
 
 Repine not if our clime deny. 
 Above thine honour'd sod to bloom 
 
 The flow'rets of a milder sky. 
 
 These owe their birth to genial May ; 
 
 Beneath a fiercer sun they pine, 
 Before the winter storm decay, — 
 
 And can their worth be type of thine. 
 
 * These beautiful and higlily expressive lines are extracted from tlio much 
 admired work entitled Wo.verleT/. Tliey arc inscribed to an Oak-tree in 
 
400 
 
 No ! for, 'mid storms of fate opposing, 
 Still higher swell'd each dauntless heart, 
 
 And while despair the scene was closing, 
 Commenced thy brief but glorious part. 
 
 'Twas then thou sought on Albyn's hUl, 
 (When England's sons the strife resign'd) 
 
 A rugged race resisting stUl, 
 And unsubdued though unrefined. 
 
 Thy death's-hour heard no kindred wail. 
 No holy knell thy requiem rung; 
 
 Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, 
 Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. 
 
 Yet who, in fortune's summer-shine, 
 To waste life's longest term away. 
 
 Would change that glorious dawn of thine. 
 Though darken'd ere its moontide day 1 
 
 the church-yard of in the Highlands, said to mark the grave of Captain 
 
 Wogan, who was killed in 1649. The following note concerning this person 
 we also extract from the same work : — " The letter from the Chief, con- 
 taining Flora's lines on the fate of Captain Wogan, whose enterprising cha- 
 racter is so well drawn by Clarendon. He had originally engaged in the 
 service of the Parliament, hut had abjured that party upon the execution of 
 Charles I., and upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the Earl 
 of Glencaim and General Middleton in the Highlands of Scotland, took 
 leave of Charles II., who was then at Paris, passed into England, assembled 
 a body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of London, traversed the kingdom, 
 which had been so long under domination of the Usurper, by marches 
 conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit, that he safely united his 
 handful of horsemen with the body of Highlanders then in arms. After 
 
401 
 
 Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs 
 Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom ! 
 
 Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, 
 And Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. 
 
 KNOW'ST-THOU THE LAND. 
 
 Know'st thou the land where stately laurels bloom, 
 Where orange groves exhale their rich perfume ; 
 Soft breezes float along the lucid sky. 
 And all is peace, and joy, and harmony ? 
 
 Know'st thou that land ? 
 
 O thither flee, 
 And dwell for ever there, my friend, with me. 
 
 several months of desultory warfare, in which Wogan's skill and courage 
 gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be wounded in 
 a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within reach, he tei> 
 minated his short but glorious career." 
 
 k3 
 
402 
 
 Know'st thou the hills, whose towering heads of snow 
 Frown o'er the fairy land that smiles below : 
 Now wrapt in clouds the gaze of mortals shun, 
 Now freeze and glisten in the summer strn ? 
 
 Know'st thou those hiUs ? 
 
 Be our retreat 
 The fertile Eden blooming at their feet. 
 
 Know'st thou the clime whose sons have souls of fire 
 To feel and prize the raptures of the lyre ; 
 To whom those finer sympathies belong 
 Which thrill and tremble at the voice of song ( 
 
 Know'st thou that clime 1 
 
 Come, thither flee, 
 
 That is the fittest home for you and me. 
 Here hate and slander fan the coals of strife. 
 Cast foul aspersions on the fairest life ; 
 Spy out each speck that clouds a brother's fame, 
 Shout o'er his faults, and feast upon his shame ! 
 
 Spurn the vile herd ! 
 
 Indignant fly 
 To some more courteous land, and milder sky. 
 
403 
 
 THE SMILING PLAINS.* 
 
 The smiling plains j profusely gay, 
 Are dress'd 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 ! 
 
 * " These elegant stanzas were wi-itten by poor Falconer, the author of The 
 Shipwreck, of whom Buma writes to Mrs. Dunlop In the following ex- 
 quisite strain of tenderness :—" Falconer, the unfortunate author of The 
 Shipzareck, that glorious poem, is no more. After weathering that dreadful 
 catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many 
 hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I 
 forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth ; but he was 
 the son of obscurity and misfortune. He was one of those daring adventur- 
 ous spirits which old Caledonia, beyond any other nation, is remarkable for 
 producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over 
 the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter 
 wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scots 
 
404 
 
 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 in my bleeding heart 
 The sovereign balm of love impart ; 
 Thy presence lasting joy shall bring, 
 And give the year eternal spring. 
 
 tiallad which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to tlie 
 heart : — 
 
 Little did my mother think. 
 
 That day she cradled me. 
 What land I was to travel in. 
 
 Or what death I should die I" 
 
 In addition to these remarks, it will be -proper to add that William Fal- 
 coner was bom in Edinburgh about the year 1730, where his father was a 
 barber. William at an early age went on board a Leith merchantman, in 
 which he served an. apprenticeship. In 1769 we find him purser of the 
 Aurora frigate.. This vessel saUed for India the same year, and was never 
 more heard of. Various reports have arisen respecting the fate of the Aurora, 
 which was last heard of at the Cape of Good Hope, in December 1769 ; hut the 
 prevalent opinion is that she took fire at sea in the night time- and blew 
 up. In his person Falconer was of the middle size, sparely made, and with 
 a dark weather-beaten countenance marked by the sm.all-pox. No remains 
 of the family are now known to exist in Bdinbiurgh. A sister, who was sup- 
 posed to be the last surviving, died within these few years in a workhouse 
 there."— Edin. ed. of The Shipwreck, 1807. 
 
405 
 
 CCLIV. 
 
 ON THE STAB, OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR." 
 
 Star of the brave ! — ^whose beam hath shed 
 
 Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
 
 Thou radiant and ador'd deceit ! 
 
 Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 
 
 Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 
 
 Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth 1 
 
 Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays, 
 Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 
 The music of thy martial sphere 
 Was fame on high and honour here ; 
 And thy light broke on human eyes, 
 Like a volcano from the skies. 
 
 Like lava roU'd thy stream of blood, 
 And swept down empires with its flood ; 
 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base. 
 As thou did'st lighten through all space ; 
 And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 
 And set while thou wert dwelling there. 
 
406 
 
 Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
 
 A. rainbow of the loveliest hue, 
 
 Of three bright colours,t each divine, 
 
 And fit tor that celestial sign ; 
 
 For Freedom's hand had blended them, 
 
 Like tints in an imtaortal gem. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
 One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
 One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
 Had rob'd in radiance of its light : 
 The three so mingled did beseem, 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 
 Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale. 
 And darkness must again prevail ! 
 But, oh, thou Rainbow of the free ! 
 Our tears and blood must flow for thee ! 
 When thy bright promise fades away, 
 Our life is but a load of clay. 
 
 And Freedom hallows with her tread 
 The silent cities of the dead ; 
 For beautiful in death are they 
 Who proudly fall in her array ; 
 And soon, oh goddess, may we be 
 For evermore with them or thee ! 
 
 t The tri-colour. 
 
407 
 
 SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN, MY 
 
 LASSIE.t 
 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven ; 
 
 Yere owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, 
 For dwalling out o' heaven! 
 
 t This beautiful specimen of the Caledonian Lyre was copied from the re- 
 citation of a young country girl, and was thought to have been composed 
 about the time of the Reformation on a daughter of the Laird Maxwell of Cow- 
 hill, on the banks of the Nith, who was much celebrated for her beauty and men- 
 tal acquirements, and was called by the peasantry the Lily of Nithsdale. She 
 died at the age of nineteen. The girl observed that it was a great favourite 
 of her mother's, but seldom sung, as its open familiarity with God made it 
 too daring for Presbyterian strictness. They no doubt pass the bounds of simple 
 and natural pathetic, nevertheless they strongly express the mingled feehngs 
 of grief and devotion which foUow the loss of some beloved object. There 
 are degrees of affliction corresponding with those of our attachment and re- 
 ^rd, and surely the most tender of attachment must be deplored by afflic- 
 tion the most poignant. This may account for, and excuse those expressions 
 in this song which border on extravagance; but it must be confessed that the 
 first stanza, with every allowance, is reprehensible from its open and daring 
 confidence in the Deity. The rest are written in a strain of solemn and feel- 
 ing eloquence, which must find an echo in every bosom. The effusion is 
 somewhat too serious for a song; it has all the holiness of a psalm, and would 
 suffer profanation by being set to a common time.— Cromek. 
 
408 
 
 O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie, 
 
 O what'll she do in heaven ? 
 She'U mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, 
 
 And make them mair meet for heaven. 
 
 She was dearly beloved by a', my lassie, 
 
 She was dearly beloved by a' ; 
 But an angej fell in love wi' her, 
 ^ And took her frae us a'. 
 
 Lowly there thou lies, my lassie. 
 
 Lowly there thou lies: 
 A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, 
 
 Nor frae it will arise! 
 
 ru' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, 
 Fu' soon I'U follow thee ; 
 
 Thou left me nought to covet ahin', 
 But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 
 
 I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
 I look'd on thy death-cold face ; 
 
 Thou seem'd a Uly new cut i' the bud. 
 And fading in its place. 
 
 I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
 I look'd on thy death-shut eye ; 
 
 And a lovelier light in the brow of heaven, 
 Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. 
 
409 
 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
 
 But gane was the holie breath o' heaven, 
 To sing the evening psalm. 
 
 There's naught but dust now mine, lassie. 
 There's naught but dust now mine; 
 
 My saul's wi' thee i' the caula grave, 
 And why should I stay behin' ! 
 
 ISABELLE. 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 Isabelle ! Isabelle ! hark to my soft lute. 
 
 As mournful it melteth o'er 
 The sorrows of one whose lips are mute, 
 
 And whose heart shall beat no more. 
 List to its wailings and plaints, my love, 
 Sad as the accents of saints, my love, 
 
 When the sins of men they deplore. 
 l3 
 
410 
 
 Awake from your slumbers, my Isabelle, 
 
 Oh ! list to its murmurings, 
 They breathe not to blame thee — they sigh but to tell 
 
 The anguish that moves their strings. 
 Lo, the moon seems to weep on her way, my love. 
 And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love, 
 
 " No hope with the morrow springs." 
 
 Hark ! on the breeze booms the heavy sound 
 Of the neighbouring convent's bell, 
 
 And its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round, 
 Shall enclose thee, my Isabelle : 
 
 And thou shalt be torn from my arms, my love. 
 
 And buried in all thy charms, my love. 
 Where these midnight requiems swell. 
 
 I see thee before the high altar kneel, 
 And the crucifix trembling embrace. 
 
 And the sable veil o'er the brightness steal 
 Of thy lovely and holy face ; 
 
 And thou shalt fade in thy bloom, my love, 
 
 Wlaile I shall wend to the tomb, my love, 
 Where hearts no woe can feel. 
 
 We grew and we lov'd, in youth's sunny day, 
 
 Like twin iiowers in a dewy vale. 
 But the pilgrim's rude hand pluck'd one bud away, 
 
 And the other was strown by the gale. 
 Our hearts, upon earth, were as one, my love. 
 And now when thine is gone, my love, 
 
 Mine also its doom shall hail. 
 
411 
 
 DESPAIRING MARY. 
 
 Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow ? 
 
 See, a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw ; 
 Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura, 
 
 Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw. 
 " How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure, 
 
 Summer may smile, but delight I hae nane ; 
 Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure, 
 
 Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane. 
 
 " This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token. 
 
 Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake ! 
 I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, 
 
 Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break. 
 Sighing for him I lie down in the e'ening, 
 
 Sighing for him I awake in the morn ; 
 Spent are my days a' in secret repining. 
 
 Peace to this bosom can never return. 
 
 " Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement, 
 Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam, 
 
 Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment, 
 But fled are these joys like a fleet passing dream. 
 
412 
 
 Cruel Remembrance, ah ! why wilt thou wreck me, 
 Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown ! 
 
 Oruel Remembrance, in pity forsake me. 
 
 Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown !" 
 
 WILL HE NO COME BACK AGAIN ?* 
 
 Will he 110 come 6acfc ogam, 
 Will he no come hack agavn, 
 Hey, Charlie's now ama', 
 And will he no come bach again ? 
 
 Mony a traitor 'mang the hills. 
 Sought to draw — sought to draw, 
 
 Mony a traitor 'mang the hills. 
 Sought to draw his life awa'. 
 
 * These Jacobite verses were handed us by a gentleman who has shown 
 much interest in the prosperity of this publication, and who signs himself 
 R. M., Glasgow. " I recovered them," says he, " from the recitation of an old 
 woman from Galloway. I do not know that they ever appeared in print. 
 She says, the song wa« current in her part of the country about forty years 
 ago, but for the last fifteen or twenty years she has scarcely ever heard it 
 sung. This is all the information I can acquire respecting the piece. The 
 verses are natural and simple," &c. 1819. 
 
413. 
 
 The hilla he trode were a' his ain, 
 And the bonnie birken tree : 
 
 The vera knowes in ilka plain, 
 Belong to youthfu' Charlie. 
 
 Ilka mavis tries to sing 
 
 To the e'ening sinking down ; 
 He maun only be our king, 
 
 Charlie's fit to wear a crown. 
 
 Mony a gallant sodger fought, 
 Mony a gallant knight did fa', 
 
 Mony a battle sair was wrought, 
 A' for Charlie's crown and law. 
 
 Sweet the blackbird's voice is heard, 
 
 Singing saft on ilka tree: 
 But sin' Charlie's now awa', 
 
 Pleasure nane it gies to me. 
 
 ye cruel, cruel men 
 
 That pursued him in your hate ; 
 
 1 can mark your dying day, — 
 Sad and dreary is your fate. 
 
414 
 
 CCLIX. 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Come, live with me, and be my love. 
 And we wiU all the pleasures prove 
 That hiUs and valleys, dale and field, 
 And all the craggy mountains yield. 
 
 There will we sit upon the rocks, 
 And see the shepherds feed their flocks. 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls, 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 Therfe will I make thee beds of roses. 
 With a thousand fragrant posies, 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Slippers lined choicely for the cold, 
 With buckles of the purest gold ; 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy-buds ; 
 With coral clasps and amber studs : 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
415 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May morning ; 
 If these delights thy mind may move, 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY.* 
 
 If that the world and love were young, 
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 * The first of these two beautiful Madrigals was written by Cliristopher 
 Marlowe, the second by Sir Walter Raleigh, although both have sometimes 
 been ascribed to the pen of Shakespeare. In The Merry Wives of Windsoi% 
 Act 3d, Scene 1st, The Passicmate Shepherd is quoted, but Shakespeare 
 frequently made his characters sing or recite scraps of ballads, ifec, that were 
 popular at the time. Of course, he never claimed any of the pieces so intro- 
 duced as his own. It is also well known that this subhme Genius was, of all 
 men, the most indifferent as to his poetical fame, and that he suffered his 
 plays to be printed without giving himself the smallest concern about them. 
 Hence, it is supposed, many interpolations were foisted in by the players, 
 and many words altered, through the ignorance or inadvertency of printers, 
 which have given rise to so many different readings, and caused such differ- 
 ence of opinion amongst his critics and commentators. 
 
416 
 
 But Time drives flocks from field to fold, 
 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb ; 
 And all complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields : 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 In The Passionate Pilgrvnie and Sonnets to sundry notes of Musicke, by 
 William Shakespeare, London, printed for W. Jaggard, 1599," four stanzas of 
 Tlie Passionate Sliepherd also occur, with the first of the Beply ; but these 
 might have been inserted without Shakespeare's knowing anything of the 
 matter, and this circumstance, of its being printed with his name, and during 
 his lifetime, though it might be considered as conclusive in the case of others, 
 cannot be held so in his. Besides this, in the old Poetical Miscellany, 
 styled England's Helicon, we find the first printed with the name of Marlowe 
 subjoined to it, and the second signed " Ignoto," a signature well known to 
 "be that which Raleigh frequently made use of when a young man. Mr. 
 Malone, in his excellent edition of Shakespeare's works, rejects them as not 
 belonging to his author. We shall close our observations on this head by 
 citing a passage from Isaac Walton corroborative of them. In his Compleat 
 Angler, both the Pastorals are inserted under the character " of that smooth 
 song which was made by Kit Marlowe, now at least fifty years ago, and an 
 answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. 
 Old-fashioned poetry, but chiefly good— much better than the strong lines 
 now in fashion in this critical age." 
 
 Marlowe was a man of great genius, and, with the exception of Shakespeare, 
 his contemporary, was certainly the first dramatic writer of his time. The 
 circumstances attending his death were melancholy. Like many of the 
 genus irritahile, he was addicted to dissipation, and the victim of his own 
 headlong passions. In 1593 he was kiUed in a brothel by an ill-looking fel- 
 low, his rival in the affections of some 'doxy. Marlowe, in a paroxysm of 
 jealousy and revenge, had attempted to stab him, but the fellow, seizing his 
 hand, forced him to plunge the dagger into his own head. 
 
 Regarding the persecution, suflEerings, and ultimate fate of the brave, 
 learned, and unfortunate Sir Walter Raleigh, it is unnecessary to speak. 
 With these the general reader must already be familiar, 
 
417 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of rosea, 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
 Soon break, soon withei^ soon forgotten, 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds. 
 Thy coral clasps, and amber studs ; 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, and love still breed, 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
 Then those delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 MAIDEN ! WRAP THY MANTLE ROUND THEE. 
 
 Maiden ! wrap thy mantle round thee. 
 Cold the rain beats on thy breast ; 
 
 Why should horror's voice astound thee, 
 Death can bid the wretched rest. 
 M 3 
 
418 
 
 All under the tree, 
 Thy bed may be, 
 And thou may'st slumber peacefully. 
 
 Maiden ! once gay pleasures knew thee, 
 
 Now thy cheeks are pale and deep. 
 Love has been a felon to thee; 
 Yet, poor maiden, do not weep : 
 There's rest for thee, 
 All under the tree, 
 Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 
 
 CCLXII. 
 
 THE ERLE-KING.* 
 
 O ! who rides by night through the woodlands so wild? 
 It is the fond father, embracing his child, 
 And close the boy nestles within his lov'd arm. 
 From the blast of the tempest to keep himself warm. 
 
 * It ia necessary the reader should be informed that in the legends of 
 Danish superstition, certain mischievious spirits are supposed to preside over 
 the different elements, and to amuse themselves with inilicting calamities on 
 
419 
 
 " O father ! O father ! see yonder ! " he aays, 
 ' My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze ? ' 
 " O 'tis the Erie-King, with his staflF and shroud," 
 ' No, my love, it is but a, dark wreath of the cloud. 
 
 TJie Phantom speaks. 
 
 " wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest child ? 
 By many gay sports shall thy hours be beguU'd ; 
 My mother keeps for thee many a fair toy. 
 And many a fair flower shall she pluck for my boy ! ' 
 
 " O father ! O father ! and did you not hear 
 
 The Erie-King whisper so close in my ear 1 " 
 
 ' Be still, my lov'd darUng ; my child, be at ease. 
 
 It was but the wild blast, as it howl'd through the trees. 
 
 The Phantom. 
 
 " O wUt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy ? 
 My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy, 
 She shall bear thee so lightly through wet and through wild. 
 And hug thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child ! " 
 
 man. — One of these is termed the Water-King, another the Fire-King, and 
 a third the Cloud-King. The hero of this piece is the Brie or Oak-King— 
 a fiend who is supposed to dwell in the recesses of the forest, and thence to 
 issue forth upon the henighted traveller to lure him to his destruction. 
 
420 
 
 " father ! O father ! and saw you not plain 
 
 The Erie-King's pale daughter glide past through the rain?" 
 
 ' O no, my heart's treasure ; I knew it f uU soon, 
 
 It was the grey willow that danced to the moon.' 
 
 The Phantom. 
 
 "Come with me, come with me, no longer delay, 
 Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away." 
 " O father ! O father ! now, now keep your hold. 
 The Erie-King has seized me, — his grasp is so cold." 
 
 Sore trembled the father, he spurr'd through the wild, 
 Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child ; 
 He reaches his dwelling, in doubt and in dread. 
 But clasped to his bosom, the infant is dead. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH.f 
 
 When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound 
 
 Among a band of Brothers, 
 The cup of joy goes gaily round. 
 
 Each shares the Miss of others : 
 
 t Composed for a Society whose motto was " Friendship, Love, and Truth.' 
 
421 
 
 Sweet roses grace the thorny way. 
 
 Along this vale of sorrow : 
 The flowers that shed their leaves to-day, 
 
 Shall bloom again to-morrow : 
 How grand in age, how fair in youth, 
 Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth ! 
 
 On halcyon wings our moments pass, 
 
 Life's cruel cares beguiling : 
 Old Time lays down his scythe and glass, 
 
 In gay good humour smiling : 
 With ermine beard and forelock grey, 
 
 His reverend front adorning. 
 He looks like winter turned to May, 
 
 Night softened into morning ! 
 How grand in age, how fair in youth, 
 Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth ! 
 
 From these delightful fountains flow 
 
 Ambrosial riUs of pleasure : 
 Can man desire, can heaven bestow, 
 
 A more resplendent treasure 2 
 Adorned with gems so richly bright, 
 
 We'U form a constellation. 
 Where every star, with modest light, 
 
 Shall gild his proper station : 
 How grand in age, how fair in youth, 
 Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth ! 
 
422 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 
 STAY, GLOEIOUS PAGEANT, STAY ! 
 
 SCENA.— Alfred in the Neat-herd's Cot, 
 
 TiJiie, Midnight; — Starting fivm a disturbed slumber. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Stay, glorious pageant, stay ! it flies ! it fades ! 
 
 'Tis darkness all 
 
 Poor ruslien mat, art thou my regal chair ? 
 Imperial robe, ah ! changed to herdsman's weeds ; 
 Of all his heritage not so much earth 
 As build's a grave, remains to fallen Alfred. 
 Oh England ! Mother dear — the Danish sword 
 Hath pierced thy heart. Thou bleed'st to death. 
 
 CANZONET. 
 
 Oh England ! my mother, thy zone thou entwinest, 
 Thy robe flows disheveU'd — thy locks fall unbound 
 
 On liberty's lap — thy pale head thou reclinest, 
 And sadly, yet smilingly, points to thy wound. 
 
 Come away, is thy song, come away to thy grave, 
 
 In death there's a country left free for the brave. 
 
423 
 
 (Th^ blast of a trumpet is lieard, followed by a March.) 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 What uproar frights the silent watchful star ? 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the slaught'ring march of the impious Danes, 
 
 Great God of battles, be thou my guide — 
 
 Come away, is thy song, come away to thy grave, 
 In death there's a country left free for the brave. 
 
 MARTIAL AIR. 
 
 Bear my standard to the war, 
 Blow my clarion wide and far, 
 Where the bossy target rings. 
 Where the flighty arrow sings. 
 Where the sword and faulchion flash, 
 Where the helm and buckler crash — 
 And the ravens scream in air 
 Watching man his feast prepare — 
 There be Alfred's standard found, 
 There be heard his clarion's sound. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Great God of battles, bless my single arm. 
 Be thou my guide — ^my watchword, Liberty, t 
 
 t We are informed by the gentleman wlio favoured us with this beautiful 
 piece of poetry that it was written by W. Dimond, Esq., and sung by the 
 celebrated Mr. Braham at the Edinburgh Musical Festival, 1816, to music 
 composed expressly for him by Eauzzine. 
 
424 
 
 CCLXV. 
 
 ADOWN THE GREEN DELL. 
 
 Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's remains, 
 
 All under the wlIIow he lies ; 
 There, by the pale moonlight, Maria complains, 
 
 And sad to the night-breeze she sighs. — 
 
 '* Oh ! it is not the dew-drop adorns the wild rose, 
 On the briar-bound grave of my dear ; * 
 
 I could not but weep, while I pray'd his repose, — 
 And the bright trembling drop is — a tear." 
 
 * " We were mudi pleased," says a pedefltrian tourist, "with the neat ap- 
 pearance of the churchyards belonging to some of the more remote villages 
 in the south of England. The graves were firmly laced with a kind of 
 basket-work of briars, bram-bles, &c., many of these had taken root, and, 
 being kept in order, cast even a cheerful look over the silent mansions of the 
 dead, and evinced, on the part of the survivors, an affectionate regard for the 
 memory of departed relatives, which, in too many instances, we find cease 
 the moment they are consigned to the ' dark and narrow house.'" 
 
 The Ingenious, but unfortunate, Chatterton, who suffered nothing to 
 escape his penetrating eye, has noticed this custom in the Minstrel's Song in 
 his tragical interlude, Slla. 
 
 " Wythe mie honds ITle dente the brieres, 
 " Bounde his hallie corse to gre." 
 
 See page 233 of this work. 
 
425 
 
 WE'LL MEET BESIDE THE DUSKY GLEN, ON 
 YON BURN SroE. 
 
 We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, 
 Where the bushes form a cozie den, on yon bum side ; 
 
 Though the broomy knowes be green, 
 
 Yet there we may be seen ; 
 But we'll meet— we'U meet, at e'en, down by yon burn side. 
 
 I'U lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side, 
 Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon bum side ; 
 There the busy prying eye, 
 Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy, 
 While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon bum side. 
 
 Awa', ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon bum side. 
 Those fairy-scenes are no for you, by yon bum side ; 
 There fancy smooths her theme, 
 By the sweetly murm'ring stream, 
 And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side. 
 N 3 
 
426 
 
 Now the planting taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn aide, 
 And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud, o'er yon burn side ; 
 
 Far frae the noisy scene, 
 
 I'll through the fields alane, 
 There we'll meet — my ain dear Jean ! — down by yon bum side. 
 
 ELLEN BHOYOCHD (OR THE BEAUTIFUL).* 
 
 Row weal, my boatie, row weel. 
 
 Row weel, my merry men a', 
 For there's dool and there's wae in Grlenfiorioh's bowers, 
 
 And there's grief in my father's ha'. 
 
 And the skiflF it dancit licht on the merry wee waves, 
 
 And it flew owre the water sae blue, 
 And the wind it blew licht, and the moon it shone bricht— 
 
 But the boatie ne'er reached Allandhu. 
 
 * For an account of the traditional tale on which this beautiful little imi- 
 tation of the old ballad la founded we refer to the 3d No. of Thii Wanderer, 
 Glasgow, 1818, 8to. It is the production of Mr. A. M'C, whom we are proud 
 to recognise as a native of Renfrewshire, and from the specimen before us to 
 hail as a poet of no mean promise. 
 
427 
 
 Ohon ! for fair Ellen, ohon ! 
 
 Ohon ! for the pride of Strathcoe — 
 In the deep, deep sea, in the salt, salt bree. 
 
 Lord Reoch, thy EUen lies low. 
 
 GUDE WALLAS.* 
 
 As coreckit and revysit be ane Scotismaii. 
 
 O for my awin Roy, quod gude Wallas, 
 The richteoua Roy of fair Scotland, 
 
 Atween me and my Soveranis blude, 
 T trow thair be som ill seid sawn. 
 
 * This goodly ballad, that records one of the many adventures of Wallace, 
 is probably founded on a similar incident rehearsed by Henry in the fifth book 
 of his metrical life of the hero : 
 
 — ^Wallace said myself will pass in feyr 
 And ane with me off herbre for to speyr ; 
 Follow on dreich, gyS. yat we mystir ocht. 
 Edward LitUl, with his mystir forth socht 
 Till ane Oystry, and with ane woman met, 
 Scho tald to yaim yat Sothroune y ar was set, &c. 
 
428 
 
 Wallas out owr yon burn he lap, 
 
 And he hea Kchtit law down on yoh plain ; 
 And he wes awar o ane gaie ladie, 
 
 As scho wes at the well waschin. 
 
 " Quhat tydandisj quhat tydandis, fan- ladie," he sayis, 
 " Quhat tydandis, hastow to tell untill me ? 
 
 '' Quhat tydandis, quhat tydandis, fair ladie," he sayis, 
 " Quhat tydandis, hastow in the south countrie ? 
 
 Considerable discrepancies, however, exist between the two accounts, a cir- 
 cumstance which may easily be accounted for from the love the lower orders 
 have of the marvellous. It was first printed, we beEeve, in Johnstone's 
 Scots Musical Museum, and after that republished by the late ingenious Mr. 
 John Findlay, of Glasgow, in his Scottish, Historical, avtd Romantic Ballads. 
 "From an old MS. copy of it, in the possession of a friend, we have been able 
 to give what we humbly consider rather a better text, besides restoring it to 
 its original orthography, which, to our antiquarian readers, must be a matter 
 of some consequence. The generahty of editors very often fall into one or 
 other, or both of these p^HToe errors, when editing the poetical remains of 
 former ages — namely, that of corrupting the text by their own interpolations, 
 and that of modernising the ancient spelling, imder the pretext of obUging 
 their readers, who, for the most part, we dare say, would rather thank them 
 to let it alone. 
 
 K"o apology, we imagine, is necessary to the public for occupying their atten- 
 tion with these effusions in honour of Wallace. Everything connected 
 with Tn'm is dear to the hearts of Scotsmen— all his well-known haunts are 
 visited with a superstitious awe and veneration— his name is the thrilling 
 watchword of patriotism, liberty, and independence. The finest trait in our 
 national character will be lost when his praises are no longer sung with 
 rapture, and his achievements no longer remembered with interest. Would 
 to God this event may never happen. 
 
429 
 
 "Laigh down in yon wee hostleir houa 
 Thair bin fyftein Inglismen I lede. 
 
 And thai are seikin for gude Wallas, 
 Ittis him to tak and him to heid." 
 
 " Thair is nocht in my purs," quod gude Wallas, 
 Thair is nocht ava, not ane bare pennie, 
 
 Zit in suth I sail gae to yon wee hostleir hous, 
 Thir fyftein Inglismen to see." 
 
 And quhan he cam to yon wee hostleir hous. 
 
 He bade Benedicite be thair; 
 "And quhat lerges to ane puir eild wicht, 
 
 Haif ye in charitie to spair ? 
 
 " Quhare wes ye bom, auld crukit carl, 
 Quhare wes ye bom, in quhat countrie ? " 
 
 " I am a trew Scot baith bom and bred, 
 And ane auld crukit carl siclyk as you see.'' 
 
 " I wuld gie fyftein merkis to onie crukit carl. 
 
 To onie crukit carl siclyk as ye, 
 Gif ye wuld bring me the gude Wallas, 
 
 God wot he's the man I wuld yerie fain see." 
 
 He strak they brym Captane alangis the chafftis blade. 
 
 That nevir ane bit o meal he ate mair. 
 And he stickit the lave at the buird quhare thai sat, 
 
 And he left them aw lyin spreitless thair. 
 
430 
 
 "Get up, gude-wyfF, get up," quod he, 
 " And get som deil denner to me in haste. 
 
 For it will sune be three lang lang dayis, 
 Syn I ae bit o meit did taste." 
 
 The denner wes nae weil readie, 
 
 Nor wes it on the tabUl set, 
 Quhyll uther fyftein Inglismen 
 
 Wer lichtit aw down fomentis the yett, 
 
 " Cum out, cum out, now, gude WaUas, 
 This is the day that thow maun die." 
 
 "I Uppen nooht sae litill to God," he sayis, 
 "Biit dovibt tho I be but ill worthie." 
 
 The gude-wyff scho had ane auld gude-man, 
 Be gude Wallas he sikarlie stude, 
 
 Quhyll ten o thir fyftein Inglismen 
 
 Befoir the dure lay steipit in thair blude. 
 
 The uthir fyff to the grene-wud ran, 
 
 And he hangit them ilk ane on the bowis roun, 
 And on the neist morn, wi his mirrie men aw. 
 
 He sat at dyn in Lochmaben toim, 
 
431 
 
 THE GALLANT TROUBADOUR. 
 
 Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 
 A Troubadour that hated sorrow, 
 Beneath his lady's window came. 
 
 And thus he sang his last good-morrow : 
 " My arm it is my country's right, 
 
 My heart is in my true love's bower ; 
 Gaily for love and fame to fight. 
 Befits the gallant Troubadour." 
 
 And whUe he march'd with hehn on head, 
 
 And harp in hand, the descant rung, 
 As faithful to his favourite maid. 
 The minstrel-burthen stiE he sung : 
 " My arm it is my country's right, 
 My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
 Resolved for love and fame to fight, 
 I come, a gallant Troubadour." 
 
 Even when the battle-roar was deep, 
 With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 
 
 Mid splintering lance, and falchion sweep. 
 And still was heard his warrior-lay ; 
 
432 
 
 " My life it is my country's light, 
 My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
 
 For love to die, for fame to fight, 
 Becomes the gallant Troubadour 
 
 Alas ! upon the bloody field. 
 
 He fell beneath the f oeman's glaive. 
 But stiU, reclining on his shield, 
 Expiring sung the exulting stave : 
 " My life it is my country's right, 
 My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
 For love and fame to fall in fight, 
 Becomes the gallant Troubadour 1" 
 
 WILT THOU NOT WAKEN, BRIDE OP MAY. 
 
 A BRIDAL SERENADE. 
 
 By a modem Welsh Harper. 
 
 Wilt thou not waken. Bride of May, 
 
 While flowers are fresh and the sweet bells chime 1 
 Listen and learn from my roundelay. 
 How all Life's pilot-boats sail'd one day — 
 A match with Time. 
 
433 
 
 Love sat on a lotus-leaf afloat, 
 And saw old Time in his loaded boat ; 
 Slowly he cross'd Life's narrow tide, 
 While Loye sat clapping his wings, and cried, 
 " Who will pass Time r 
 
 Patience came first, but soon was gone 
 With helm and sail to help Time on ; 
 Care and Grief could not lend an oar, 
 And Prudence said (while he stay'd on shore), 
 " I wait for Time !" 
 
 Hope fill'd with flowers her cork-tree bark. 
 And lighted its helm with a glow-worm spark ; 
 Then Love, when he saw her bark fly fast, 
 Said — " Lingering Time will soon be past ! 
 Hope out-speeds Time !" 
 
 Wit went nearest old Time to pass. 
 With his diamond oar and his boat of glass ; 
 A feathery dart from his store he drew. 
 And shouted, while far and swift it flew — 
 " O Mirth kUls Time !" 
 
 But Time sent the feathery arrows back, 
 Hope's boat of amaranths miss'd its track. 
 Then Love bade his butterfly pilots move, 
 And laughing said, " They shall see how Love 
 Can conquer Time." 
 o 3 
 
434 
 
 His gossamer sails he spread with speed, 
 But Time has wings when Time has need ; 
 Swiftly he cross'd Life's sparkHng tide, 
 And only Memory stay'd to chide 
 Unpitying Time ! 
 
 Waken and listen then, Bride of May ! 
 
 Listen and heed thy minstrel's rhyme- 
 Still for thee some bright hours stay, 
 For it was a hand like thine, they say, 
 Gave wings to Time. 
 
 THE SOLDIER IN EGYPT.* 
 
 From my slumber I woke at the dead hour of night. 
 
 And down to the ocean I sped ; 
 The moon on the billows was trembling and bright 
 
 As it rose o'er the Pyramid's head. 
 
 '^ John Findlay, the author of this piece, was bom at Glasgow in 17S2. 
 His parents were in a humble condition of life, but of a most respectable 
 character, and they gave their son all the advantages of a good education. 
 From the academy of Mr. Hall of that city he was sent, at the age of four- 
 teen, to the University. He there soon distinguished himself above most oi 
 his contemporaries, and became an excellent Greek and Latin scholar. In 
 the philosophy class he was distinguished for the excellence ofhis prose com- 
 
435 
 
 Its beams lent a magic far dearer than sleep, 
 As I trode my lone course on the sand ; 
 
 And dear was the blast as it blew o'er the deep, 
 For it came from my native land. 
 
 The battle had ceased with the sweet setting sun, 
 But I heard its dread tumults again ; 
 
 I paused — it was nought but the answering gun 
 Of the watchman afar on the plain. 
 
 positions ; and during his academical career he wrote various short poemw, 
 chiefly on classical subjects, remarkable for ease, elegance, and spirit. While 
 yet a student, living within the walls of the college, he published, in 1802, a 
 volume entitled Wallace, or the Vale of JBllei'slie, with other poems. These 
 were composed when he was about nineteen years of age, and are generally 
 esteemed. Wallace may be called his principal performance. It is doubtless 
 an imperfect composition ; but it displays a wonderful power of versification, 
 and contains many splendid descriptions of external nature. It was shortly 
 afterwards republished with considerable additions. Soon after he published 
 an edition of The Grave, with many admirable notes ; wrote a learned and in- 
 genious life of Cervantes, and edited an edition of Smith's Wealth of Nations, 
 a task that might have been supposed out of his province, but which he 
 executed with considerable ability, displaying an intimate acquaintance with 
 the principles of political economy, and with the works of all the most 
 eminent French writers on that science. The prospect of a situation in one 
 of the pubUe oflaces led him to London in 1807, where he wrote many learned 
 articles, particularly on antiquarian subjects, for different periodical publica- 
 tions, and busily employed himself in the study of Old English Literature, in 
 which he was excelled by few, and in which he ever afterwards delighted. 
 Being disappointed in hi s hope of a permanent establishment, he returned in 
 1808 to Glasgow, and in that year published <* collection of Historical arid 
 RoTiiantic Ballads, in two volumes. The notes with which they are illustrated 
 are interesting and valuable. In these volumes are to be found two ballads 
 of Findlay's own composition, written in imitation of Songs of tJie Olden Time, 
 which have been pronounced by very able critics to be in their kind almost 
 perfect. 
 
 At the close of the year 1810, his hopes of a permanent situation in London 
 
436 
 
 I thought of the woe and the carnage again — 
 
 I look'd o'er the wave's distant foam; 
 And the tear that had started at sight of the slain, 
 
 I shed for the friends of my home. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant it is, on a far foreign shore, 
 
 To think on the days that are past — 
 It wakes the duU spirit that slumber'd before, 
 
 Like the rain 'mid the burning waste. 
 
 Was it hope or illusion my bosom that warmed, 
 When I thought on the birch of the grove ; 
 
 Like a wretch half bewildered with magic that charmed, 
 I heard the sweet voice of my love. 
 
 To the spot, O for ever be fetter'd my sight — 
 With the sound ever charmed let me be, 
 
 Even this corse cover'd strand is a couch of delight, 
 When such visions my fancy can see. 
 
 were again revived, and he left Glasgow with a view of consulting two of his 
 friends then resident in England. He had, however, only proceeded. to 
 Moffat, when he was struck with a kind of apopletic seizure, which in a short 
 time terminated, in the very prime of life, the existence of a man who, 
 possessing unquestionable ahility, promised fair to be an ornament to 
 literature and society in gener^. 
 
437 
 
 CCLXXII. 
 
 THE FISH-HAWK, OR OSPREY* 
 
 Soon as the sun, great ruler of the year ! 
 Bends to our northern climes his bright career, 
 And from the caves of ocean calls from sleep 
 The finny shoals and myriads of the deep. 
 When freezing tempests back to Greenland ride, 
 And day and night the equal hours divide : 
 True to the season, o'er the sea-beat shore. 
 The sailing Osprey high is seen to soar 
 With broad unmoving wing ; and, circling slow, 
 Marks each loose straggler in the deep below : 
 Sweeps down like lightning ! plunges with a roar ! t 
 And bears the struggling victim to the shore. 
 
 * This is another poetical extract from Wilson's (h-nithology, illustrative of 
 the Fish-hawk or Osprey, whose regular arrival at the vernal equinox — ^the 
 busy season when fishing commences— procures it many a benediction from 
 the fishermen. 
 
 + " The Italians are said to compare its descent upon the water to a piece 
 of lead faJUng upon that element, and distinguish it by the name of Aqnila 
 Plumbimt, or the Leaden Eagle." 
 
438 
 
 The long-housed fisherman beholds with joy, 
 The well known signals of his rough employ ; 
 And, as he bears his nets and oars along, 
 Thus hails the welcome season with a song. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S HYMN. 
 
 The Osprey saUs above the sound ; 
 
 The geese are gone — the gulls are flying ; 
 The herring shoals swarm thick around. 
 
 The nets are launch'd — the boats are plying ; 
 Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep. 
 
 Raise high the song, and cheerly wish her, 
 StUl as the bending net we sweep, 
 
 " God bless the Fish-Hawk and the Fisher !" 
 
 She brings us fish — she brings us spring, 
 
 Good times, fair weather, warmth and plenty. 
 Fine store of shad, trout, herrwig, ling. 
 Sheep-head, and drum, and oldr-wives dainty. 
 Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep. 
 Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her, 
 Still as the bending net we sweep, 
 
 " God bless the Fish-Hawk, and the Fisher !" 
 
 She rears her young on yonder tree, 
 She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em ; ■ 
 
 Like us, for fish, she sails to sea, 
 Arid, plunging, shews us where to find 'em. 
 
439 
 
 Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep, 
 Ply every oar and cheerly wish her, 
 
 While the slow-bending net we sweep, 
 
 " God bless the Fish-Hawk, and the Fisher !" 
 
 THE LASS O' ARRAITTEENIE. 
 
 Far lone, amang the Highland hUls, 
 
 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur. 
 By rocky dens, and woody glens. 
 
 With weary steps I wander. 
 The langsome way, the darksome day. 
 
 The mountain mist sae rainy, 
 Are nought to me, when gauii to thee. 
 
 Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. 
 
 Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe, 
 
 Just op'ning fresh and bonny. 
 Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, 
 
 And's scarcely seen by ony : 
 Sae, sweet amidst her native hills, 
 
 Obscurely blooms my Jeany, 
 Mair fair and gay than rosy May, 
 
 The flower o' Arranteenie. 
 
440 
 
 Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, 
 
 I view the distant ocean, 
 There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, 
 
 Ambition courts promotion — 
 Let Fortune pour her golden store, 
 
 Her laurel'd favours many, 
 Give me but this, my soul's first wish. 
 
 The lass o' Arranteenie. 
 
 CCLXXIV. 
 
 GO ROUND, MY WHEEL, GO ROUND* 
 
 Go round, my wheel, go round 
 With ceaseless thrumming sound. 
 
 And spin a thread as long and fine. 
 As is the Gossamer's silky twine, 
 To form the veil that now must cover. 
 This heart that beats but for its lover. 
 
 * This is the composition of Gottfr. Aug. Burder, a German poet of consi" 
 derable talent, much and deservedly esteemed in his own country, and from 
 what we have seen of his compositions we hesitate not to say that they need 
 only to be faithfully translated to be generally read. In the Ediv^mrgh 
 Magazine for 1818 will be found several translations of this eminent poet, and 
 from which we ex.tract the present Spinning Sottg^ not from the idea that 
 it is the best, but the most suitable for our publication. In the same volume, 
 
4-11 
 
 Go round, my wheel, go round 
 With ceaseless thrumming sound, 
 
 And spin a 'k^'chief fine and rare, 
 To deck my bosom at the fair, 
 Where soon the bright-hair'd youth I'll see. 
 Whose heart of love is gold to me. 
 
 Go round, my wheel, go round 
 With ceaseless thrumming sound, 
 
 Like the veU thou spinn'st to me. 
 Must my spotless bosom be. 
 As free from stain, as softly fine. 
 As is thy loveliest, purest twine. 
 
 the translator has the following critical comparison between Burder and our 
 favourite Bard, Robert Bums. " Burder has, in many respects, a manifest 
 resemblance to our own Bums, although the most superficial reader will 
 perceive that these two popular poets have many sufficiently distinct points 
 of dissimilitude, and that perhaps two better instances could not be selected 
 than those offered by these kindred spirits of the discriminating traits of 
 Scotch and German genius. Tet Burder, like Bums, delighted to sing of love 
 as it is known to those whose feelings have not been corrupted either by 
 vicious indulgence or by much commerce with the world — of that pure, and 
 ardent, and entrancing love which glows in the breasts of healthy peasants, 
 and which, to those who are under its influence, give a character and 
 Interest to everything in life, of which cooler minds have not the slightest 
 idea. Burder, too, like Bums, could well depict those feelings, somewhat 
 akin to love, by which the breasts of youthful and enthusiastic men are 
 agitated, when they give full play in some hour of conviviality and joy, to 
 all the social propensities of their nature. There is another point of 
 resemblance between these celebrated poets, and that is the unfeigned 
 rapture with which both of them can depict an act of generosity, and the 
 power which they possess over those moral sensibilities of our nature, from 
 whose operation all high active virtue must proceed. Bums, indeed, has 
 not painted anything of this kind in a regular tale ; but all those who are 
 acauainted with his works are aware by what powerful touches of indigna- 
 
 p 3 
 
442 
 
 Go round, my wheel, go round 
 With ceaseless thrumming sound, 
 He for whom the badge I twine, 
 Of a 'kerchief pure and fine, 
 Loves a heart in virtue drest. 
 Better than the gaudiest breast. 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S LAY OF DEATH ; 
 
 I'ARBWBLL TO HIS HARP. 
 
 O Harp ! that cheer'd my trembling limbs. 
 O'er many a pathless, rugged wild ; 
 O Muse ! that erst so fondly smil'd 
 On fancy's lov'd poetic child, 
 
 tion or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or our admira- 
 tion, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or jy^aiseworthy on 
 such charactei-a or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances 
 of these qualities, too, like our German author, are commonly selected from 
 humble hie; and there is no reader of poetry in this country whose heart has 
 not beat witii a liveher pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, 
 when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole of the song, 
 
 " Is there for honest poverty," 
 
 and in many other productions of this powerful author. I have only to re- 
 gret that I have not been able to give them, in my poor version, the 
 thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the 
 immortal verse of the original author." 
 
443 
 
 Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims 
 The eye that never wept before ; 
 Our mortal pilgrimage is o'er, 
 And now we part to meet no more ! 
 
 Our lay of joy is past and gone, 
 That once in vaulted halls we sung ; 
 Alas ! our final peal hath rung 
 Of mirth, high dames and lords among : 
 
 And now we gaze with sadness on 
 The narrow home where song must end ; 
 There no merry lays ascend 
 Where my feeble footsteps wend. 
 
 Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, 
 I'll hang thy wires of witching tone ; 
 The passing breeze will cause them moan, 
 And swell my requiem when I'm gone. 
 
 The traveller faint will list'ning stare. 
 And marvel whence thy sounds proceed. 
 The fairy king in buxom weed. 
 Will leave his dance to hear thy rede. 
 
 But chief of aU, the love-lorn maid, 
 When dusky twilight clouds the sky, 
 Eluding watchful guardian's eye 
 Towards this sacred spot will hie. 
 
 Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade 
 She'U muse, and count each straggling ray 
 The moon sheds on its lovely way. 
 Along thy frame of silvery grey. 
 
444 
 
 She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale, 
 Rise sweetly in thy midnight song, 
 Now, rapid roll, fuU ton'd, and strong. 
 Now, low and dying, weep along. 
 
 Oh ! she will hear thee oft bewail 
 The fate of lovers true, and tell, 
 How many an evil tide befell 
 Maids, who have lov'd but aU too well. 
 
 The steel-clad knight as home he wends, 
 From battle toils, and sieges dire, 
 Will pause, and check his courser's fire, 
 And under thy old oak retire : 
 
 For, lo ! thy song of triumph blends 
 Its warlike notes with rustling breeze ; 
 And falling, rising, through the trees, 
 Mimes his old hall's festivities. 
 
 O Harp ! be still a little whUe, 
 Nor wake thy dirge of melting numbers. 
 Stay till thy master calmly slumbers. 
 Where no bale his bliss encumbers. 
 
 Now, take with thee his last faint smile, 
 And benison, in death's arms given, 
 Oh now begin thy mournful steven. 
 And waft my soul on it to heaven ! 
 
 dr5# I^ 
 
INDEX. 
 
 A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal, 
 Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's 
 
 remains, , ... note 
 
 Again rejoicing nature sees, 
 _ Again the happy day returns, note 
 
 Ah ! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell. 
 All in the merry "Whitsuntide, 
 
 All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream, 
 Amid Loch-Catrine's scenery wild, 
 A moment pause, ye British fair, , . note 
 
 And art thou gone, for ever gone, . 
 And can thy bosom bear the thought, 
 And has she then fail'd in her truth, . note 
 
 As I came in by our gate end, 
 
 At the dose of the day in the sacred Aisle, 
 
 Auld Marget, In the fauid she sits, . . note 
 
 Auld Bob, the laird o' muckle land. 
 
 Away ! let nought to love displeasing, Twte 
 
 Slia-nf, 
 
 JBui-iu, 
 Tannahill, 
 
 424 
 
 237 
 
 184 
 
 270 
 
 JoannaBaillie, 157 
 
 J.B., 
 
 John Sim, 
 J. Goldie, . 
 
 Burns, 
 Camoens, . 
 Anderson, 
 
 306 
 307 
 102 
 199 
 292 
 267 
 174 
 201 
 129 
 165 
 
 Beyond Busaco's mountains dun, . . twie 
 
 Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed 
 
 grave, . . iiote 
 
 Blythely I hae screwecf my pipes, 
 By the side of a mountain, o'ershadowed with trees-, 
 
 Can a crown give content, . . • note 
 
 Claudine lived contented, and peace was her lot, . 
 
 Columbia ! Columbia ! to glory arise, . note 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 
 Come o'er the sea, . • - 
 
 Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar, . . note 
 
 Hogg, 
 
 W. M'Larm, 
 
 832 
 
 Hogg, 
 
 136 
 
 
 BOO 
 
 
 218 
 
 T. Dibdin, 
 
 313 
 
 Dr. Dwight, 
 
 113 
 
 C. Marlowe, 
 
 414 
 
 Mom-e, 
 
 103 
 
446 
 
 Dear is iny little native vale, 
 
 Deep in love^ yes 'tis love ! 
 
 Dried be that tear, my gentlest love ! 
 
 Rogers, . 10 
 
 Lady Morgan, 247 
 
 note Sheridan, . 329 
 
 Emblem, of England's ancient faith. 
 
 \note From " Wave)'lej/,"S99 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime, . note 
 
 Fair dream of my slumber, aad thoughts of my waking, 
 Far lone amang the highland hills, 
 Farev^^ell ! if ever fondest prayer, 
 
 Farewell, oh sweet hope I I have wept thee in sadness. 
 For many a wistful hour to pity dear, note 
 
 From his booth on the hill, the sad shepherd retires. 
 From my slumber I woke at the dead hour of 
 
 night, note 
 
 Mom-e, 
 W. Reader, 
 Tannahill, 
 
 M.A.R., 
 
 384 
 55 
 
 142 
 
 Robt. Glassford, 175 
 
 /. Fmdlay, 434 
 
 Gie me a lass wi' a lump o' land. 
 Gloomy vrinter's now awa', 
 Glowing with love, on fire for fame. 
 Go, lovely rose ! ... 
 
 Go round, my wheel, go round. 
 
 Ramsay, 23 
 
 Tannahill, 383 
 
 . Frmn " Paul's Zettei'S," 431 
 
 note B. Waller, 282 
 
 note Cfott.Aug. Su/rder, 440 
 
 Happy the world in that blest age. 
 
 Have you not seen the timid tear, . 
 
 Have you sailed on the breast of the deep, 
 
 Here, beneath, this willow sleepeth. 
 
 Her hair was like the Cromla mist. 
 
 Her kiss was soft and sweet, 
 
 Here's to them that's awa, . nott 
 
 Here's to thy health, my bonny lass, 
 
 How ardently my bosom glows. 
 
 How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine. 
 
 How green the fields, the flowers how fair, . noU 
 
 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom. 
 
 
 S66 
 
 MoarCy 
 
 833 
 
 Blackwood's Mag. 
 
 ,892 
 
 Mrs Opie, . 
 
 184 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 22 
 
 JaTMS Tool, 
 
 84 
 
 Bums, 
 
 265 
 
 Bums, 
 
 68 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 56 
 
 
 280 
 
 Fatie Bii^ie, 
 
 289 
 
 J. B., 
 
 13 
 
 I come in the mom, I come in the hour, note V., . 59 
 
 I found the warrior on the plain, . . . 227 
 
 If that the world and love were young, . note Sir W. Raleigh, 415 
 
 I have known what it was to be happy and gay, . James Tool, 109 
 
 In Buttermere's woods and wilds among, . note R. Allan, 32 
 
 In summer when nature her mantle displays, John Sim, 8 
 
 In summer when the hay was mawn, Bums, 63 
 
447 
 
 In vain thou call'st for a mirthful smile, 
 
 Isabelle ! Isabelle I hark to my aoft lute, 
 
 I saw from the heach when the morning wjis shining, 
 
 I saw thee weep — the big bright tear, 
 
 I saw thy form in youthful prime, 
 
 Is there a man whose breast ne'er glow'd, 
 
 Its filmy wing of azure hue, , 
 
 It was Dunois, the young and biuve, was bound 
 
 for Palestine, . note Fa m 
 
 I've no sheep on the mountains, nor boat on the lake, 
 I whispered her my last adieu, note 
 
 W. Rmtki; 
 
 327 
 
 
 409 
 
 Moore, 
 
 65 
 
 Byron, 
 
 75 
 
 Moore, 
 
 61 
 
 
 171 
 
 
 369 
 
 / de BeauJiai-nois, 361 
 Joanna Baillie, 69 
 Camoens, 371 
 
 Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around, Mrs. Opie, , 273 
 
 Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, . TannahiU, . 398 
 
 Kenmure's on an' awa, WiUie, . . n^te . 194 
 
 Know'st thou the land where stately laurels bloom, . W.S.S., 401 
 
 Let every valiant son of Gaul, 
 
 T „4- T,i~l, "D 1 ai i4-_ J. 
 
 Let high Benledi rear its tap, 
 ^ Let us go, lassie, go, . , . 
 
 Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnxe lassie, O, 
 Light springs the pang, light passes by. 
 Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending, 
 Lovfe under Friendship's vesture white. 
 Love will not bloom where envy breathes, 
 
 note Marquis de Paulmy, 248 
 
 lannahlll. 
 
 391 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 144 
 
 Pulci, 
 
 245 
 
 J.B., 
 
 25 
 
 Rogers, 
 
 15 
 
 
 284 
 
 Maiden, wrap thy mantle round thee. 
 
 Maid of the cold suspicious heart, 
 
 Mark'd you her eye of heavenly blue, 
 
 Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow. 
 
 May heaven holpe the Mayde, 
 
 Merrily every bosom boundeth, note 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill, 
 
 Money maks us bonny, . . . . 
 
 My bonny black meer's dead. 
 
 My cruel love to danger go, , . : . 
 
 My father and mother now lie with the dead. 
 
 My friend is the man I would copy through Hfe, 
 
 My dying sire, in battle slain, 
 
 My BCarry was a gallant gay, . no(e 
 
 My heart is sair, I darena tell, . . note 
 
 My love can boast a sweeter flower, 
 
 My soul is dark— Oh ! quickly string, 
 
 H. K. White, 
 
 417 
 
 Mrs. Opie, . 
 
 48 
 
 Slwridan, 
 
 266 
 
 Tannahill, . 
 
 411 
 
 
 320 
 
 Mom-e, 
 
 119 
 
 Rog&'s, 
 
 16 
 
 Anderson, 
 
 223 
 
 Anderson, 
 
 88 
 
 
 242 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 141 
 
 
 211 
 
 
 176 
 
 Sui-ns, 
 
 112 
 
 Bums, 
 
 357 
 
 Byron, 
 
44S 
 
 Nac mair we'll meet again, my love, by yon bum side. 
 
 No glory I covet, no riches I want, 
 
 No, Mary, we can meet nae mair, 
 
 Not a drum was beard, nor a fxmeral note, . 
 
 Now closed for aye thy coal-black een. 
 
 Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er. 
 
 Now spring baa clad the grove in green. 
 
 Now the i-uddy sun is setting, 
 
 Now winter is gane and the clouds flee 
 
 ide, 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 78 
 
 note 
 
 
 sua 
 
 note 
 
 
 169 
 
 note 
 
 Hail!/, 
 
 3 
 
 
 St. Anderson, 
 
 216 
 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 91 
 
 
 Bums, 
 
 76 
 
 , 
 
 J S., 
 
 90 
 
 away, 
 
 note Hamilton and TannafUll, 3U 
 
 O beauty, peerless is thy glow, 
 
 O cease, ye howling winds, to blow, 
 
 O check, m.y love, the falling tear, 
 
 O cherub, Content, at tliy moss-covered shrine, . 
 
 O fare ye weel, fair Cartha's side, 
 
 O for my awin Roy, quod gude Wallas, note 
 
 Oft in the stilly night, 
 
 O Harp ! that cheered my trembling limbs, 
 
 Oh 1 bright rose the sun on the beautiful ocean, 
 
 O heard you the Mermaid of the sea, 
 
 O ! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, 
 
 Oh ! holy be the sod, .... note 
 
 Oh ! I hae lost my silken snood, 
 
 Oh, once there were minutes when light my heart beat, 
 
 Oh ! that the chemist's magic art, . . note 
 
 Oh ! weep not, sweet maid, though the bright 
 tear of beauty, , 
 
 ! if you hae a heart to spare, 
 O I hae twin'd wi' meikle love, 
 - O laddie, can you leave me, 
 O, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
 O meikle thinks my love of my beauty, 
 On Albyn's mist-clad Mils of grey, . 'note 
 
 On blythsome mead at mom to stray, 
 O once I felt love, but I feel it no more. 
 Once in the flight of ages past. 
 Once more, enchanting girl, adieu, 
 On the dark forest side an old minstrel sat playing, 
 O poortith cauld, and restless love, 
 O sleep not, Mosca, but wait for thy love, 
 O slumber, my darling, thy sire is a knight, 
 
 /. s., 
 
 . 3ba 
 47 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 . 246 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 80 
 
 John Shu, 
 
 42 
 
 
 427 
 
 Moore, 
 
 . 366 
 
 
 442 
 
 
 . 181 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 310 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 . 344 
 
 
 285 
 
 
 7 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 365 
 
 Rogers, 
 
 18 
 
 Mary, 
 
 257 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 162 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 316 
 
 Tannahill, 
 
 261 
 
 Scott, 
 
 204 
 
 Bwms, 
 
 97 
 
 C.U.T.M., 
 
 243 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 226 
 
 
 341 
 
 J. Montgomei 
 
 X-221 
 
 Rogers, 
 
 17 
 
 J.B., 
 
 85 
 
 Bums, 
 
 116 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 64 
 
 Terry, 
 
 2 
 
449 
 
 O stop nft, bonnle bird, that strain, 
 
 O sweet Is the calm dewy evening, 
 
 O ! synge untoe mie roundelaie. 
 
 thou hast seen the lily fair, 
 
 O Tibhy I hae seen the day, 
 
 turn from me those stars of light, 
 
 Our father's brow was cold, his eye, 
 
 Our liody sat In our good Lord's hall, 
 
 Our Youth will fade as fades the flower, 
 
 Ovir Castell and Towre, ovir Citie and Toune, 
 
 we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O, 
 
 O weep not thus, — we both shall know, 
 
 O, wha's at my chamber door, 
 
 O, when again shall my eyes rove, 
 
 O, when shall I visit the land of my bii-th, 
 
 O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, 
 
 O white foaming Rhaider, by thy roaring fall, 
 
 O ! who rides by night through the woodlands 
 
 so wild, 
 O 'WilUe, wee! I mind, I lent you my hand, . 
 
 
 L., 
 
 110 
 
 note 
 
 Chatterton, . 
 
 229 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 215 
 
 
 Bums, 
 
 45 
 3?9 
 
 note 
 
 
 73 
 
 note 
 
 V: ■ 
 
 342 
 
 note 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 180 
 
 note 
 
 
 304 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 66 
 
 
 Camoens, 
 
 374 
 197 
 
 note 
 
 
 364 
 
 note 
 
 J. Mtmtgoniei', 
 
 yS65 
 
 
 Bums, 
 
 142 
 
 
 Mrs. Grant, 
 
 213 
 
 note 
 
 
 418 
 146 
 
 Peace, peace, to the shades of those heroes 
 
 who bled. 
 Prove false to thee, my love ? ah ! no. 
 
 note J. Carnegie, 
 John Sim, 
 
 271 
 52 
 
 Best, lovely babe, on mother's knee, 
 
 Robeyns Jok come to wow our Jynny. 
 
 Robin is my only jo. 
 
 Rise, my love, ray Celia, rise. 
 
 Rose of tiTiia enchanted vale, 
 
 Round Love's Elysian bowers. 
 
 Row weel, my boatie, row weel, 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 note 
 note 
 
 96 
 . 98 
 
 92 
 John Wilson, 189 
 W. Reade>', 296 
 /. Montgomei'y 388 
 A. M'C, . 426 
 
 Saw ye Johnnie commin', quo' she. 
 
 See in pride of summer growing, 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 
 
 She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 
 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 
 
 Silent and sad the minstrel sat. 
 
 Sleep on and dream of heaven awhile, 
 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 
 Son of the mighty and the free, 
 
 Soon as the sun, great ruler of the year, 
 
 q3 
 
 219 
 
 note 
 
 Haily, 
 
 177 
 
 
 Moore,. 
 
 138 
 
 
 Bums, 
 
 108 
 
 note 
 
 
 407 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 41 
 
 
 Rogers, 
 
 115 
 
 
 Scott, 
 
 268 
 
 note 
 
 
 36 
 
 note 
 
 Alex. Wilson, 
 
 437 
 
450 
 
 Spirits of love, who wander on. 
 
 Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed, 
 
 Stay, glorious pageant, stay ! it flies ! it fades ! 
 
 Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake. 
 
 Steer, hither steer, your winged pines. 
 
 Subdued by misfortunes, imd bowed down with 
 
 pain. 
 Summer cornea, and in her train. 
 Sweet lady, look not thus again , 
 Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June, 
 Sweet was yon note to fancy's ear. 
 
 S. Allan, 
 
 234 
 
 Byron, 
 
 405 
 
 W. Dimond, 
 
 422 
 
 Mrs. Opie, . 
 
 S) 
 
 note Browne, 
 
 360 
 
 . Auttiorof" Home," 
 
 198 
 
 note John Sim, . 
 
 139 
 
 Moore, 
 
 183 
 
 J. Goldie, . 
 
 262 
 
 Take, oh, take those lips away. 
 
 That life's a faught there is nae doubt. 
 
 Tell me where's the violet fled. 
 
 The beU had toll'd the midnight hour, 
 
 The boatswain's shrill whistle pip'd all hands ahoy. 
 
 Hie cauld blasts o' vrinter blaw chill o'er the plain. 
 
 The gale is high, the bark is light. 
 
 The gloamin' f rae the welkin high. 
 
 The health I once so much enjoyed. 
 
 The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left, 
 
 They lighted a taper at the dead hour of night, 
 
 The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks, 
 
 The lovely Ellen was laid in her shroud, 
 
 The midges dance aboon the bum. 
 
 The night-dew fell on a lovely rose, 
 
 The old shepherd's dog, like his master, was 
 
 grey. 
 The pearl of the fountain. 
 The primrose may blaw in the dawn o' the 
 
 spring. 
 There is an hour of peaceful rest. 
 There is, when day's last shadows fly, 
 There's kames o' hinny 'tween my luve's lips. 
 There's none to soothe my soul to rest, 
 The rose that blooms on yonder brier. 
 The russet suit of camel's hair. 
 The smiling plains, profusely gay. 
 The smoke from yon cottage no longer is rising, 
 The song that lightens the languid way. 
 The storm sweeps wildly through the sky, 
 
 note 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 339 
 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 259 
 
 note 
 
 
 377 
 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 38 
 
 
 G. Lewis, 
 
 334 
 165 
 
 
 J. B., 
 
 1 
 
 
 Bogg, 
 
 148 
 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 190 
 
 
 Byron, 
 
 62 
 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 290 
 
 note 
 
 
 286 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 347 
 
 note 
 
 Tannahill, 
 
 53 
 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 331 
 
 note 
 
 Br. Wolcott, 
 
 346 
 
 
 J. Munro, . 
 
 207 
 
 note 
 
 J. Primgle, . 
 
 325 
 
 note 
 
 
 153 
 
 
 C. M. T., . 
 
 285 
 
 note 
 
 
 169 
 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 164 
 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 168 
 
 note 
 
 
 49 
 
 note 
 
 Falconer, . 
 
 403 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 147 
 370 
 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 324 
 
451 
 
 Tlie sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, 
 
 The sun was wearing down the lift. 
 
 The wandering exile, doom'd to roam. 
 
 The warrior came down from his tent on the hill. 
 
 The weary pund o' tow. 
 
 They made her a grave too cold and damp, 
 
 The young May-moon is beaming, love. 
 
 This bottle's the sun of our table. 
 
 This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes. 
 
 This pledge of affection, dear Ellen, receive, 
 
 Though the winter of age wreathes her snow 
 
 on his head, 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle. 
 Thou dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see, 
 Though yon fareweel may be my last. 
 Thou must not linger, lovely one, 
 Thou'rt gane awa', thou'rt gane awa*, 
 Thy braes are bonny, "Yarrow stream, . 
 Thy woods and glades, sweet Arthurlie, 
 'Tis said that men are false and fickle, 
 Tis no very lang sinsyne, 
 *Tis sweet, when in the glowing west, 
 'Tis thy will, and I must leave thee. 
 To England's towers of Oak, farewell. 
 To thee, loVd Dee, thy gladsome vales, 
 To yon fause stream, that near the sea, 
 'Twas a keen frosty mom, and the snow heavy falling, 
 'Twas in a lonely cottage dwelling, 
 'Twas in the evening of a wintry day, 
 
 
 Tannahill, . 
 
 376 
 322 
 268 
 390 
 21 
 
 Tiote 
 
 Mooi-e, 
 
 337 
 
 
 Mooi-e, 
 
 272 
 
 
 Sheridan, . 
 
 869 
 
 
 Moore, 
 
 263 
 
 
 E. A. Smith, 
 
 74 
 
 note 
 
 W. M'Larm, 
 
 106 
 
 
 Byron, 
 
 6 
 
 note 
 
 Tannahill, . 
 
 302 
 367 
 
 
 J. Munro, . 
 
 328 
 
 note 
 
 
 86 
 
 note Rev. John Logan 
 
 1,314 
 
 note 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 192 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 133 
 71 
 
 
 J. Bowllsr, 
 
 396 
 
 note 
 
 Mrs. Opie, . 
 
 26 
 191 
 170 
 208 
 
 '" 
 
 Upton, 
 
 349 
 167 
 178 
 
 Vale of the cross, the shepherds tell, 
 
 note Roscoe, 
 
 Weep no more by shading tree, . R. Allan, 104 
 
 Weep not for the fallen brave, . . . 352 
 
 Well meet beside the dusky glen, by yon buni side, Tannahill, . . 425 
 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel, . Byron^ 150 
 
 What though 'tis true I've talk'd of love, . . 203 
 
 Whene'er ye come to woo me, Tam Ayiderson, 130 
 
 When first I came to be a man, . Rev. J, SHnnet' 29 
 
 When first upon your tender cheek, note Miss Aitkm, 353 
 
 When friendship, love, and truth abound, note Montgoimry, 420 
 
452 
 
 When hope lay hush'd in silent night. 
 When I beheld thy blue eye Bhine, 
 When life from this bosom for ever is fled, 
 When mom through rising vapour gleams, 
 When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height. 
 When time who steals our years away. 
 When winds the mountain oak assail. 
 When winter's cold tempests and snows are 
 
 no more. 
 Where art thou ? on the moon-beams ? oh ! 
 
 no, no. 
 Where dost thou bide, bless'd soul of my love, 
 Where is my Owen, where is my true love ? 
 Where the chilling north wind howlb. 
 Wherever I wander, be't foul or be't fair, 
 While some seek the mountain, and some 
 
 seek the valley, .... 
 
 White was the rose in his gay bonnet. 
 Why so sad is my heart, tiius to leave thee alane. 
 Will he no come back again. 
 Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, 
 Would'st thou know what makes life's cup 
 
 go cheerily round. 
 
 .note . . .122 
 
 228 
 John Si7n, 158 
 340 
 R. Allan, . 172 
 Moore, . 381 
 
 Beattie, . 225 
 
 note Alex. Wilson, 386 
 
 note Mrs. Costello, 293 
 
 
 Mrs. Opie, 
 
 . 79 
 
 
 Mrs. Opie, 
 
 . 118 
 
 note 
 
 
 . 186 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 . 255 
 
 
 J. M., 
 
 94 
 
 'tiote 
 
 
 . 317 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 . 121 
 
 note 
 
 
 412 
 
 
 r., . 
 
 . 432 
 
 ■note 
 
 Moore, 
 
 , 380 
 
 Yes, dearest maid, I love thee still, 
 
 Tes, I will go with thee, my love, . tu 
 
 Ton waxidering rill that marks the hill. 
 
 Young Connel was gallant, young Ellen was fair. 
 
 You remember, Ellen, our hamlet's pride. 
 
 James Tool, 279 
 Ladp Charlotte Campbell, 253 
 
 Mooi'e, 
 
 58 
 152 
 
 Zephyr, whither art thou straying ? 
 
INDEX 
 
 To Songs and other Poetical Pieces, never before Published. 
 
 Amid Loch-Catrine's scenery wild. 
 And art thou gone, for ever gone. 
 And can thy bosom "bear the thought, 
 Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed 
 
 grave, . . note 
 
 From^his booth on the hiU, the sad shepherd retires. 
 Her hair was like the Cromla mist. 
 Her kiss was soft and sweet. 
 How ardently my bosom glows. 
 
 How stiU is the night and how death-Hke the gloom, . 
 I have known what it was to be happy and gay, 
 In Buttermere's woods and wilds among, note 
 
 In summer when nature her mantle displays, 
 Isabelle ! Isabelle I hark to my soft lute. 
 Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O, 
 Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending. 
 May heaven holpe the mayde. 
 My father and mother now lie with the dead, 
 Nae m a ir we'll meet again, my love, by yon hum side. 
 No, Mary, we can meet nae nmir, . note 
 
 Now clos'd for aye thy coal-black een. 
 Now, Mary, now the struggle's o'er. 
 Now the ruddy sim is setting, 
 O cease, ye howling winds, to blow, 
 O check, my love, the falling tear, 
 O fare ye weel, fair Cartha's side, 
 O Harp ! that cheered my trembling limbs, 
 O heard you the Mermaid of the sea, 
 Oh ! holy be the sod, . . . note 
 
 Ob, once there were minutes when light my heart beat, . 
 O ! if you hae a heart to spare, 
 O I hae twin'd wi' meikle love. 
 On blythsome mead at mom to stray, 
 O once I felt love, but I feel it no more. 
 On the dark forest side, an old minstrel sat i-layuig, 
 O sleep not, Mosca, but wait for thy love, 
 O thou hast seen the lily fair. 
 
 /. B., 
 
 806 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 102 
 
 J. Goldie, . 
 
 199 
 
 W. WLaren, 
 
 882 
 
 lobt. Glassford 
 
 , 175 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 22 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 34 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 66 
 
 J.D., 
 
 18 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 109 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 82 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 8 
 
 
 409 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 144 
 
 /. B., 
 
 25 
 
 
 320 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 141 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 78 
 
 
 169 
 
 R. Anderson, 
 
 216 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 91 
 
 J. B., 
 
 90 
 
 JB., 
 
 47 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 246 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 42 
 
 
 442 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 310 
 
 
 235 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 365 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 162 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 816 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 226 
 
 
 341 
 
 JB., 
 
 85 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 64 
 
 John Silfi, 
 
 215 
 
454 
 
 O turn from me those stars of lights 
 Youth will fade as fades the flower, 
 Ovir Castell and Towre, o'vir Citie and Toune, 
 O we aft hae met at e'en, bonny Peggy, O, . 
 Peace, peace to the shades of those heroes 
 
 ■who bled, . . . . . 
 
 Prove false to thee, my love ? ah ! no, 
 Rest, lovely babe, on mother'tj knee. 
 See in pride of summer growing. 
 Silent and sad the minstrel sat, 
 Spirits of love that wander on. 
 Summer comes, and in her train. 
 Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June, 
 Sweet was yon note to fancy's ear. 
 That Ufe'a a faught there is nae doubt, 
 The bell had toU'd the midnight hoiur, 
 The gale is high, the bark is light. 
 The health I once so much enjoy'd. 
 The lovely Ellen was laid in her shroud. 
 The night-dew fell on a lovely rose, 
 The pearl of the fountain, 
 The primrose may blaw in the dawn o' the 
 
 spring, . . 
 
 There's none to soothe my soul to rest, 
 
 The rose that blooms on yonder brier. 
 
 The smoke from yon cottage no longer is rising, 
 
 The storm sweeps wildly through the sky 
 
 The sun was wearing down the Hft, 
 
 This pledge of affection, dear Ellen, receive. 
 
 Though the winter of age wreathes her snow 
 
 on his head. 
 Thou must not Hnger, lovely one, 
 Thy woods and glades, sweet Arthurlie, 
 'Tis said that men are false and flckle. 
 Weep no more by shading tree. 
 When life from this bosom for ever is fled. 
 When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height. 
 Wherever I wander, be't foul or be't fair. 
 Why so sad is my heart, thus to leave thee alane. 
 Will he no come back again. 
 Yes, dearest maid, I love thee still. 
 
 
 . 
 
 379 
 
 note 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 180 
 
 note 
 
 
 304 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 66 
 
 note 
 
 J. Carnegie, 
 
 271 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 62 
 
 
 John Si/ni, 
 
 96 
 
 note 
 
 Saily, . 
 
 177 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 41 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 234 
 
 ■note 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 139 
 
 
 J. aoldie. 
 
 262 
 28 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 269 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 8 
 
 
 J.B., 
 
 1 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 190 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 347 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 331 
 
 
 J. Munro, 
 
 207 
 
 note 
 
 J. rHngle, 
 
 325 
 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 164 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 168 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 147 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 324 
 
 R.A. 
 
 74 
 
 note 
 
 W. M-larm, 
 
 106 
 
 
 J. Munro, . 
 
 328 
 
 note 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 192 
 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 133 
 
 
 R. Allan, . 
 
 104 
 
 
 John Sim, . 
 
 158 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 172 
 
 
 R. Allan, 
 
 256 
 
 
 John Sim, 
 
 121 
 
 note 
 
 
 412 
 
 note 
 
 James Tool, 
 
 279 
 
LIST OP SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
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No. of 
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VI. 
 
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 Newcastle Literary and Philosophical Society, per Mr. Wm. 
 Lyall, Librarian, 
 
 No. of 
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Vll. 
 
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 No. of 
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 Wm. Caldwell Smith, Surgeon, Indian Army, ■ • 
 
 William Smith, 109 High Street, 
 
 James F. Snodgrass, Glencart, Milliken Park, • ■ 
 
 Henry King Spark, Greenbank, Darlington, . . 
 
 Alexander Speirs, Castlehead, 
 
 John Speirs, 15 Wellmeadow, 
 
 Thomas Speir, of Bumbrae, Johnstone, 
 
 William Speirs, 13 Wellmeadow, 
 
 James Staj-k, Locherbank, Kilbarchan, 
 
 Henry Stewart, 19 Wallace street, •• 
 
 Alex. B. Stewart, 5 Buchanan street, Glasgow, 
 
 John Stewart, 4 Bogle street, Greenock, 
 
 John M, Stewart, GreenhiU House, • • 
 
 James Stewart, 12 Caledonia street, 
 
 James Stevenson, Auchenames, 
 
 John Stevenson, Wardend, 
 
 Thomas Stevenson, 8 Gauze street, • 
 
 William Stevenson, 4 Berkeley Terrace, Glasgow, 
 
 John Stevenson, 36 Causeyside, 
 
 Captain Stirling, R.N., Glentyan, Kilbarchan, 
 
 J. Tannahill, City Bank, Greenock, 
 
 Wm. Taylor, Howwood, •• 
 
 David Taylor, M.D., St. James place, 
 
 Rev. John H. Thomson, Eaglesham, 
 
 John Thomson, High Street, 
 
 John Thomson, 12 Witch Road, KUmamock, 
 
 Jonathan Thomson, 3 St. John's Terrace, Hillhead, 
 
 Dr Tracey, surgeon-dentist, 3 West Campbell street, Glasgow, 
 
 R. Tullis & Coy., 7 George street, Edinburgh, 
 
 John Walker, 92 High street, 
 
 John Walker, jun. , Gateside, 
 
 James Wallace, 22 Dundas street, Glasgow, 
 
 James R. Watson, 22 West Nile street, Glasgow, 
 
 Wm. Waters, 57 Cansd street, 
 
 B. Wallace, 13 South Croft, 
 
vm- 
 
 James Weir, 53 High street, Renfrew, 
 
 George White, 3 Moss street, 
 
 John Whiteford, 37 WeUmeadow street, 
 
 Joseph Whitehead, 44 Broomlands, 
 
 W. Williams, 18 Old Sneddon street, 
 
 Adam Wilson, 13 George street, 
 
 William Wilson, 102 Camiing street, Liverpool, 
 
 John Wilson, Stanley place, 
 
 George Williamson, Locherbank, Kilbarchan, 
 
 James J. Williamison, Do., do., 
 
 W. Williamson, 13 Leadenhall street, London, 
 
 Robert Wilson, Forehouse, Kilbarchan, 
 
 Wm.' Wilson, 42 Glassford street, Glasgow, 
 
 John Wood, 90 High street, 
 
 James Wood, 48 Oakshaw street, 
 
 Wm. Wotherspoon, Maxwellton house, 
 
 Robert Wotherspoon, 7 East Lane, 
 
 Daniel Wright, Croft, Renfrew, 
 
 John Wright, 98 Causeyside, 
 
 Dr Wylie, Moselle Villa, Largs, 
 
 George Wylie, Maxwell street, 
 
 Robert Wylie, New Cross, Lochwinnoch, 
 
 Wm. Wylie, 2 Broomlands, 
 
 No. of 
 Copies. 
 
 David Young, writer. Paisley, 
 John Young, 2 St. James street, 
 John Young, 93 High street.