humoured, social, happy old man'-who was independent on £20 a-year-and to promote the sale of his volume, he addressed a letter and a poetical epistle in praise of it to the Aberdeen Journal. The epistle is remarkable as Beattie's only attempt in Aberdeenshire Scotch; one verse of it is equal to Burns: O bonny are our greensward hows, Where through the birks the burnie rows, And saft winds rustle, And shepherd lads on sunny knowes Ross died in 1784, at the great age of eighty-six. Woo'd, and Married, and a'. The bride cam' out o' the byre, And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! And have neither blankets nor sheets; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Woo'd, and married, and a', Married, and woo'd, and a'! That was woo'd, and married, and a'? Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: O, haud your tongue my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yade, What deil needs a' this pride? And ye hae ribbons and buskins, * Out spake the bride's brither, Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, For ye're baith proud and saucy, I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life. Mary's Dream. The moon had climbed the highest hill ; Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale, and hollow ee. 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death So, Mary, weep no more for me! Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love for thee: The storm is past, and I at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me! O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!' Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' JOHN LOWE. JOHN LOWE (1750-1798), a student of divinity, son of the gardener at Kenmore in Galloway, was author of the fine pathetic lyric, Mary's Dream, which he wrote on the death of a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, who was attached to a Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was tutor in the family of the lady's father, and was betrothed to her sister. He emigrated to America, however, where he married another female, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Fredericksburgh. Though Lowe wrote numerous other pieces, prompted by poetical feeling and the romantic scenery of his native glen, his ballad alone is worthy of preservation. Balcarres House, Fifeshire; where Auld Robin Gray' About the year 1771, Lady Anne composed the ballad to an ancient air. It instantly became po pular, but the lady kept the secret of its authorship for the long period of fifty years, when, in 1823, she acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, accompanying the disclosure with a full account of the circumstances under which it was written. At the same time Lady Anne sent two continuations to the ballad, which, like all other continuations (Don Quixote, perhaps, excepted), are greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its parts, that no additions could be made without marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady Anne was daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres; she was born 8th December 1750, married in 1793 to Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III,, and died, without issue, on the 8th of May 1825. Auld Robin Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, guage of the heart, ladies have often excelled the lords of the creation,' and in music their triumphs are manifold. The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, sister to Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto. The second song, which appears to be on the same subject, but was in reality occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford of Fernilie, who was afterwards married to Mr Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794. We agree with Mr Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective. The Flowers of the Forest. [By Miss Jane Elliot.] I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, bride; But saving a croun, he had naething else beside: He hadna been awa a week but only twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; his ee, Said, Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry me! My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back; The ship it was a wreck-why didna Jamie dee? My father argued sair: my mother didna speak; Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he, Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee; And why do I live to say, Wae's me? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. MISS JANE ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. The Flowers of the Forest. [By Mrs Cockburn.] I've seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now 'tis fled-fled far away. I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; But now they are withered and weeded away. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. Why this cruel sporting? Two versions of the national ballad, The Flowers of the Forest, continue to divide the favour of all Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? lovers of song, and both are the composition of ladies. In minute observation of domestic life, traits of character and manners, and the softer lan- For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, JOHN SKINNER. Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tullochgorum, the composition of the Rev. JOHN SKINNER (1721-1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good will among men. Mr Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the Rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons! He died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised his wish of 'seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.' Besides Tullochgorum,' and other songs, Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises. Tullochgorum. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, For what's been done before them? To drop their Whigmegmorum. To spend this night with mirth and glee, O, Tullochgorum's my delight; And ony sumph that keeps up spite, And mak' a cheerfu quorum. The reel of Tullochgorum. For half a hundred score o' 'em. Like auld Philosophorum? And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties, a great store o' 'em! But for the discontented fool, And discontent devour him! And nane say, Wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum ! ROBERT CRAWFORD. He ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames. assisted Allan Ramsay in his Tea-Table Miscellany,' and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733. Crawford had genuine poetical fancy and expression. The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people, and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.' The Bush aboon Traquair. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, That day she smiled and made me glad, I thought myself the luckiest lad, I tried to soothe my amorous flame, Yet now she scornful flees the plain, If e'er we meet she shows disdain, The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Tweedside. What beauties does Flora disclose ! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush; The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come let us go forth to the mead; Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feathered folk sing. How does my love pass the long day? Does Mary not tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray While happily she lies asleep? Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To ease the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 'Tis she does the virgins excel; No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces around her do dwell; She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh, tell me at morn where they feed? Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay? Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? SIR GILBERT ELLIOT. SIR GILBERT ELLIOT, author of what Sir Walter Scott calls the beautiful pastoral song,' beginning My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, was father of the first Earl of Minto, and was distinguished as a speaker in parliament. He was in 1763 treasurer of the navy, and afterwards keeper of the signet in Scotland. He died in 1777. Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee says, that Sir Gilbert Elliot, who had been taught the German flute in France, was the first who introduced that instrument into Scotland, about the year 1725. [Amynta.] My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, ROBERT FERGUSSON. ROBERT FERGUSSON was the poet of Scottish citylife, or rather the laureate of Edinburgh. A happy talent of portraying the peculiarities of local man ners, a nice perception of the ludicrous, a vein of original comic humour, and language at once copious and expressive, form his chief merits as a poet. He had not the invention or picturesque fancy of Allan Ramsay, nor the energy and passion of Burns. His mind was a light warm soil, that threw up early its native products, sown by chance or little exertion; but it had not strength and tenacity to nurture any great or valuable production. A few short years, however, comprised his span of literature and of life; and criticism would be ill employed in scrutinising with severity the occasional poems of a youth of twenty-three, written from momentary feelings and impulses, amidst professional drudgery or midnight dissipation. That compositions produced under such circumstances should still exist and be read with pleasure, is sufficient to show that Fergusson must have had the eye and fancy of a true poet. His observation, too, for one so young, is as remarkable as his genius: he was an accurate painter of scenes of real life and traits of Scottish character, and his pictures are valuable for their truth, as well as for their liveliness and humour. If his habits had been different, we might have possessed more agreeable delineations, but none more graphic or faithful. Fergusson was born in Edinburgh on the 17th of October 1751. His father, who was an accountant in the British Linen Company's bank, died early, but the poet received a university education, having obtained a bursary in St Andrews, where he continued from his thirteenth to his seventeenth year. On quitting college, he seems to have been truly unfitted with an aim,' and he was glad to take employment as a copying clerk in a lawyer's office. In this mechanical and irksome duty his days were spent. His evenings were devoted to the tavern, where, over' caller oysters,' with ale or whisky, the choice spirits of Edinburgh used to assemble. Fergusson had dangerous qualifications for such a life. His conversational powers were of a very superior description, and he could adapt them at will to humour, pathos, or sarcasm, as the occasion might require. He was well educated, had a fund of youthful gaiety, and sung Scottish songs with taste and effect. To these qualifications he soon added the reputation of a poet. Ruddiman's 'Weekly Magazine' had been commenced in 1768, and was the chosen receptacle for the floating literature of that period in Scotland, particularly in Edinburgh. During the two last years of his life, Fergusson was a constant contributor to this miscellany, and in 1773 he collected and published his pieces in one volume. Of the success of the publication in a pecuniary point of view, we have no information; but that it was well received by the public, there can be no doubt, from the popularity and fame of its author. His dissipations, however, were always on the increase. His tavern life and boon companions were hastening him on to a premature and painful death. His reason first gave way, and his widowed mother being unable to maintain him at home, he was sent to an asylum for the insane. The religious impressions of his youth returned at times to overwhelm him with dread, but his gentle and affectionate nature was easily soothed by the attentions of his relatives and friends. His recovery was anticipated, but after about two months' confinement, he died in his cell on the 16th of October 1774. His remains were interred in the Canongate churchyard, where they lay unnoticed for twelve years, till Burns erected a simple stone to mark the poet's grave. The heartlessness of convivial friendships is well known: they literally wither and die in a day.' It is related, however, that a youthful companion of Fergusson, named Burnet, having اة gone to the East Indies, and made some money, invited over the poet, sending at the same time a draught for £100 to defray his expenses. This instance of generosity came too late: the poor poet had died before the letter arrived. Fergusson's Tomb. Fergusson may be considered the poetical progenitor of Burns. Meeting with his poems in his youth, the latter strung his lyre anew,' and copied the style and subjects of his youthful prototype. The resemblance, however, was only temporary and incidental. Burns had a manner of his own, and though he sometimes condescended, like Shakspeare, to work after inferior models, all that was rich and valuable in the composition was original and unborrowed. He had an excessive admiration for the writings of Fergusson, and even preferred them to those of Ramsay, an opinion in which few will concur. The forte of Fergusson lay, as we have stated, in his representations of town-life. The King's Birthday, The Sitting of the Session, Leith Races, &c., are all excellent. Still better is his feeling description of the importance of Guid Braid Claith, and his Address to the Tron-Kirk Bell. In these we have a current of humorous observations, poetical fancy, and genuine idiomatic Scottish expression. Farmer's Ingle suggested The Cotter's Saturday Night' of Burns, and it is as faithful in its descriptions, though of a humbler class. Burns added passion, sentiment, and patriotism to the subject: Fergusson's is a mere sketch, an inventory of a farm-house, unless we except the concluding stanza, which speaks to the heart: Peace to the husbandman, and a' his tribe, The Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the glebe, And banks of corn bend down wi' laded ear! May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green; Her yellow hairsts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien, Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freedAnd a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! In one department-lyrical poetry-whence Burns draws so much of his glory-Fergusson does not seem, though a singer, to have made any efforts to excel. In English poetry he utterly failed, and if we consider him in reference to his countrymen, Falconer or Logan (he received the same education as the latter), his inferior rank as a general poet will be apparent. Braid Claith. Ye wha are fain to hae your name But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, He that some ells o' this may fa', When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't! Till his four quarters are bedeckit On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Gangs trigly, faith! Or to the Meadows, or the Park, Would be right laith, In guid braid claith. If ony mettled stirrah green1 His body in a scabbard clean In short, you may be what you please, For though ye had as wise a snout on, Till they could see ye wi' a suit on To the Tron-Kirk Bell. Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing, As e'er was framed to jow or ring! What gar'd them sic in steeple hing, They ken themsel; But weel wat I, they couldna bring Waur sounds frae hell. 1 Desire. |