by the voice of a country girl in an adjoining field singing by herself a song of his own We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burnside; and he used to say he was more pleased at this evidence of his popularity, than at any tribute which had ever been paid him. He afterwards contributed some songs to Mr George Thomson's Select Melodies, and exerted himself to procure Irish airs, of which he was very fond. Whilst delighting all classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggravated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to consumption. He had prepared a new edition of his poems for the press, and sent the manuscript to Mr Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that gentleman, in consequence of his having more new works on hand than he could undertake that season. So merrily we'll sing, Wi' the light lilting chorus. A' the moorlands perfuming; Let us journey together, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. The Braes o' Gleniffer. Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover And now it is winter wi' nature and me. And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ; 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. This disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his manuscripts, and sank into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th of May 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie, was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Search was made in every direction, and by the Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie, dawn of the morning, the coat of the poet was disAnd naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. covered lying at the side of the tunnel of a neigh-The trees are a bare, and the birds mute and dowie; bouring brook, pointing out but too surely where They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they his body was to be found.'* Tannahill was a modest flee; and temperate man, devoted to his kindred and friends, and of unblemished purity and correctness of conduct. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind which at length over-Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mounthrew his reason. The poems of this ill-starred son of genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They have all a commonplace artificial character. His lyrics, on the other hand, are rich and original both in description and sentiment. His diction is copious and luxuriant, particularly in describing natural objects and the peculiar features of the Scottish landscape. His simplicity is natural and unaffected; and though he appears to have possessed a deeper sympathy with nature than with the workings of human feeling, or even the passion of love, he is often tender and pathetic. His 'Gloomy winter's now awa' is a beautiful concentration of tenderness and melody. The Braes o' Balquhither. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Lightly bounding together, I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flowers of the mountain; To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' On the night breeze is swelling, * Memoir prefixed to Tannahill's Works. Glasgow: 1938. tain, And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me. The Flower o' Dumblane. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, Gloomy Winter's now Awa. Gloomy winter's now awa, The mavis sings fu' cheerie O. My young, my artless dearie O. Adorn the banks sae brierie O. Unless wi' thee, my dearie O. RICHARD GALL. Contemporary with Tannahill, and possessing a kindred taste in song-writing, was RICHARD GALL (1776-1801), who, whilst employed as a printer in Edinburgh, threw off some Scottish songs that were justly popular. My only jo and dearie O,' for pleasing fancy and musical expression, is not unworthy Tannahill. I remember,' says Allan Cunningham, when this song was exceedingly popular: its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft schoolgirl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.' My only Jo and Dearie 0. O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee! The birdie sings upon the thorn Nae care to mak it eerie 0; Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0; I hae a wish I canna tine, And never mair to leave me 0: Then I wad daut thee night and day, Farewell to Ayrshire. [This song of Gall's has been often printed-in consequence First enthralled this heart o' mine; Ye hae rendered moments dear; How much happier would I be! Scenes that former thoughts renew; JOHN MAYNE. JOHN MAYNE, author of the Siller Gun, Glasgow, and other poems, was a native of Dumfries-born in the year 1761-and died in London in 1836. He was brought up to the printing business, and whilst apprentice in the Dumfries Journal office in 1777, in his sixteenth year, he published the germ of his Siller Gun' in a quarto page of twelve stanzas. The subject of the poem is an ancient custom in Dumfries, called Shooting for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small silver tube presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades as a prize to the best marksman. This poem Mr Mayne continued to enlarge and improve up to the time of his death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two years to two cantos; in another year (1780) the poem was published-enlarged to three cantos-in Ruddiman's Magazine; and in 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, who said (in one of his notes to the Lady of the Lake) 'that it surpassed the efforts of Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns.' In 1836 the Siller Gun' was again reprinted with the addition of a fifth canto. Mr Mayne was author of a short poem on Halloween, printed in Ruddiman's Magazine in 1780; and in 1781 he published at Glasgow his fine ballad of Logan Braes, which Burns had seen, and two lines of which he copied into his Logan Water. The 'Siller Gun' is humorous and descriptive, and is happy in both. The author is a shrewd and lively observer, full of glee, and also of gentle and affec tionate recollections of his native town and all its people and pastimes. The ballad of Logan Braes' is a simple and beautiful lyric, superior to the more elaborate version of Burns. Though long resident in London (as proprietor of the Star newspaper), Mr Mayne retained his Scottish enthusiasm to the last; and to those who, like ourselves, recollect him in advanced life, stopping in the midst of his duties, as a public journalist, to trace some remembrance of his native Dumfries and the banks of the Nith, or to hum over some rural or pastoral song which he had heard forty or fifty years before, his name, as well as his poetry, recalls the strength and permanency of early feelings and associations. Logan Braes. By Logan streams that rin sae deep, At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, Helen of Kirkconnel. [Helen Irving, a young lady of exquisite beauty and accomplishments, daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of rank and fortune in that neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the sweet banks of the Kirtle, she was murdered by a disappointed and sanguinary rival. This catastrophe took place during the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, and is the subject of three different ballads: the first two are old, the third is the composition of the author of the Siller Gun.' It was first inserted in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1815) by Sir Walter Scott.] I wish I were where Helen lies, For, night and day, on me she cries; Still seems to beckon me! Where Kirtle-waters gently wind, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Though heaven forbids my wrath to swell, For if, where all the graces shine- Ah! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain ? No resting-place for me: I see her spirit in the airI hear the shriek of wild despair, When Murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! Oh! when I'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, To the River Nith. Hail, gentle stream! for ever dear Blithe on thy banks, thou sweetest stream In pairs have dragged them from their den, [Mustering of the Trades to Shoot for the Siller Gun.] The lift was clear, the morn serene, Frae far and near the country lads And mony a beau and belle were there, For lest they'd, sleeping, spoil their hair, The gowks, like bairns before a fair, Wi' hats as black as ony raven, Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl, O' scowling wife! But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel, Be blithe through life! 'Now, gentlemen! now, mind the motion, Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean, Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound, Trudge aff, while Echo's self is drowned SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL. SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL (1775-1822), the eldest son of Johnson's biographer, was author of some amusing songs, which are still very popular. Auld Gudeman, ye're a Drucken Carle, Jenny's Barbee, Jenny Dang the Weaver, &c. display considerable comic humour, and coarse but characteristic painting. The higher qualities of simple rustic grace and elegance he seems never to have attempted. In 1803 Sir Alexander collected his fugitive pieces, and published them under the title of Songs chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. In 1810 he published a Scottish dialogue, in the style of Fergusson, called Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty; a Sketch of Manners, by Simon Gray. This Sketch is greatly overcharged. Sir Alexander was an ardent lover of our early literature, and reprinted several works at his private printing-press at Auchinleck. When politics ran high, he unfortunately wrote some personal satires, for one of which he received a challenge from Mr Stuart of Dunearn. The parties met at Auchtertool, in Fifeshire: conscious of his error, Sir Alexander resolved not to fire at his opponent; but Mr Stuart's shot took effect, and the unfortunate baronet fell. He died from the wound on the following day, the 26th of March 1822. He had been elevated to the baronetey only the year previous. Jenny Dang the Weaver. And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind, He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, Peugh, And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Jenny dang the wearer; Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, Jenny's Bawbee. I met four chaps yon birks amang, Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel, The first, a captain till his trade, Quo' he, 'My goddess, nymph, and queen, But-Jenny's bawbee. A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, Accounts he had through a' the town, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown; A Norland laird neist trotted up, Wi' bawsened naig and siller whup, Cried, There's my beast, lad, haud the grup, What's gowd to me?-I've walth o' lan'; A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs, A Thing cam neist (but life has rubs), A' clatty, squintin' through a glass, She bade the laird gang comb his wig, The fool cried, "Tehee, I kent that I could never fail!' She prined the dish-clout till his tail, And kept her bawbee. Good Night, and Joy be wi ye a'. This song is supposed to proceed from the mouth of an aged chieftain.] Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'; Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart; May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw! In sorrow may ye never part! The mountain-fires now blaze in vain : Or fiercer waved the red claymore? I gave him here a welcome hame. The auld will speak, the young maun hear; I'll see you triumph ere I fa'; My parting breath shall boast you mineGood night, and joy be wi' you a'. [The High Street of Edinburgh.] [From Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty."] Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise, And picked their steps with most uncommon skill; * Yes, mark the street, for youth the great resort, And there, an active band, with frequent boast, |