And will I see his face again? If Colin's weel, and weel content, For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. THOMAS CHATTERTON.-1752-70. [Strictly speaking, no poetry by this author has attained the designation of favourite on its own merits; but his unparalleled early genius for poetry and his untimely fate give him a claim to rank in the position his career attained in public estimation and sympathy. He died by his own hand in his eighteenth year, leaving behind him evidences of talent that have never been surpassed at such an age. Malone, one of his critics, says of him, that "he is the greatest genius that England has produced since the time of Shakespeare." The second poem given affords an extraordinary indication of the variations of his temperament, and gives rise to a deep regret that their unfortunate author failed to retain the full exercise of his religious impressions. It has been well and touchingly remarked of his memory that posterity may be excused if, forgetting his faults in contemplation of his neglected state and sorrowful youth, it dwells only on his genius.] SING unto my roundelay; O drop the briny tear with me; Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O, he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See, the white moon shines on high; Gone to his death-bed, THE RESIGNATION. GOD! whose thunder shakes the sky, To Thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. The mystic mazes of Thy will, O teach me, in the trying hour When anguish swells the dewy tear- If in this bosom aught but Thee, And Mercy look the cause away. Then why, my soul, dost thou complainWhy drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain; For God created all to bless. But ah! my breast is human still; My languid vitals' feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare. But yet, with fortitude resigned, I'll thank the inflictor of the blowForbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow. The gloomy mantle of the night, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. BY ROBERT BURNS.—1759-96. [ROBERT BURNS, the son of a farmer, was born in the parish of Alloway, near Ayr, on the 25th of January, 1759. His father, a man of sterling worth and intelligence, gave him a sound education. The first edition of Robert Burns' poems was published at Kilmarnock, in 1786. Various circumstances caused him to think of trying his fortune in the West Indies, and he was on the point of sailing for Jamaica when he was induced to go to Edinburgh. There he was received with unexampled popularity, and a second edition of his poems realized upwards of 900/. With a portion of this, Burns took the farm of Ellisland on the Nith, Dumfriesshire, married his "bonny Jean," and commenced his new occupation on Whitsunday, 1788. He had obtained an appointment as an exciseman, and the duties of his office, together with his careless and convivial habits, so interfered with the management of his farm, that in three years he was glad to abandon it. In 1791, he removed to the town of Dumfries, subsisting entirely on his salary as exciseman, which yielded him about 70%. a year. He died at Dumfries on the 21st of July, 1796, aged thirty-seven years and six months. His poems are too well known and appreciated to require any enumeration; they circulate throughout all lands, and in every shape, and have not yet gathered all their fame."] MY Y loved, my honour'd, much-respected friend! With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The blackening trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, Does a' his weary carkin' cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their masters' and their mistresses' command They never sought in vain that sought the LORD aright." |