"I always read your 'Noctes,' and have had many a hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern Africa; for though I detest Blackwood's politics, and regret to see often such fine talents so sadly misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never permitted my own political predilections, far less any reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and beautifies so many delightful articles in that magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very truly,

"Tho. Pringle."

A similar request for contributions was made the year following by William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of the Society of Friends.

"Nottingham, 12th mo., 20th, 1828.

"Respected Friend,—Herewith I forward, for thy acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony of the high estimation in which we have long held thy writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance prevented us.

"I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons, and the beautiful in scenery,—of all that is pleasant in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a little time, both a pleasant and original volume, and one which may do its mite towards strengthening and diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so desirable in a great commercial country like this, where our manufacturing population are daily spreading over its face, and cut off themselves from the animating and heart-preserving influence of nature,—are also swallowing up our forests and heaths, those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may wander, without being continually offended and obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of anything characteristic of the seasons, in mountainous scenery especially, I shall regard them as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether any particular customs or festivities are kept up in the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time, as were wont of old all over England; and where is there a man who could solve such a problem like thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my request; but as my object is to promote the love of nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists; being more desirous to give to others that ardent attachment to the beauties of the country that has clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which all our real poets are so distinguished, than to realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me about your country life, or the impression which the scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary requests me to present to thee her respectful regards; and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect, thy friend,

"W. Howitt."

In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of "Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter, intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his contendings with adversity:—

"Devongrove, 27th June 1829.

"My dear Friend James Hogg,—I have never seen, spoken, whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath. How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down from one degree of poetical extenuation to another, till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and compare you as you are now with what you were in your 'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you indeed, at times, in the Literary Journal; I see you in Blackwood, fighting, and reaping a harvest of beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you in the looking-glass of my own facetious and song-recalling memory—but I should wish to see you in the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your own person, standing before me in my own house, at my own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Shakspeare cellars[42]—but you may rest yourself under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space, and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me, will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.

"To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take a trip up this way some time during the summer. I understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again to see your fist at least, though the Fates should forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be, ever most sincerely yours,

"Wm. Tennant."

The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns, published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his songs, which received a wide circulation. On account of some unfortunate difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication of his whole works. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his fame; he was courted with avidity by all the literary circles, and feted at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of letters, was given him in Freemasons' Hall, on the anniversary of the birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its present owner, Mr Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a publisher for his works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising bookseller in Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of March 1832, under the designation of the "Altrive Tales." By the unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that the unfortunate Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from a three months' residence in London.

Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour; and, though his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and morals, under the title of "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number of Blackwood's Magazine for 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated "Noctes," which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subject we are privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by Professor Wilson:—

"30th April.

"My dear Mr Hogg,—After frequent reflection on the estrangement that has so long subsisted between those who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced that I ought to put an end to it on my own responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you or Mr Blackwood, I have written a 'Noctes,' in which my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I have done right. I intend to write six within the year; and it is just, and no more than just, that you should receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for No. I. of the new series.

"If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your opinions and sentiments on all things, angling, shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic style, it will be easy for you to add L50 per annum to the L50 which you will receive for your 'Noctes.' I hope you will do so.

"I have taken upon myself a responsibility which nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it; and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent anything happening that can be disagreeable to your feelings.—With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,

"John Wilson."

During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles, the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could exclaim that surely he had found it at last!

The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety, as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London, a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and, though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman. He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks, he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill." The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.

The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the district. Of his literary friends—owing to the remoteness of the locality—Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen appeared in the Athenaeum of the 12th of December:—

"When first descending from the moorlands, I saw the stream of Yarrow glide, Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

"When last along its banks I wander'd, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathway, My steps the Border Minstrel led.

"The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; And death, upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.

* * * * *

"No more of old romantic sorrows, For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid, With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"

Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory has been erected by his widow. "When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Riddell, "pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land, many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. And a verse of one of the songs of his early days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified, when he says—

'Flow, my Ettrick! it was thee Into my life that first did drop me; Thee I 'll sing, and when I dee, Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me. Pausing swains will say, and weep, Here our Shepherd lies asleep.'"

As formerly described, Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking and well-formed. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features. His countenance[43] presented the peculiarity of a straight cheekbone; his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with gray. He was rather above the middle height, and was well-built; his chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well-rounded. He disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its ways; in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language, from the honesty of the narrator; never before did man of letters so minutely reveal the history of his foibles and failings. He was entirely unselfish and thoroughly benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way. Towards his aged parents his filial affection was of the most devoted kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man of letters in the land.[44] Fond of conviviality, he loved the intercourse of congenial minds; the voice of friendship was always more precious to him than the claims of business. He was somewhat expert in conversation; he talked Scotch on account of long habit, and because it was familiar to him. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the enthusiasm with which he sung amply compensated for the somewhat discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education; and he built a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit of the children of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he was in the present a devoted loyalist, and strongly maintained that the stability of the state was bound up in the support of the monarchy; he had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit, he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language of fervency and faith. From the strict rules of morality he may have sometimes deviated, but it would be the worst exercise of uncharitableness to doubt of his repentance.

It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the envenomed shafts of calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of the principles of his life. He has been broadly accused[45] of doing an injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was one of his best benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact? Hogg strained his utmost effort to do honour to the dust of his illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume, and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy:—"He had a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a just judge, and a punctual correspondent.... Such is the man we have lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an extraordinary man,—the greatest man in the world."[46] Was ever more panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of such achievements?

Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in the region of the imagination he stands supreme. A child of the forest, nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor Wilson,[47] "he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faery: the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius. His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer, or more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another ballad in "The Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the Sun." His ballads, generally in his peculiar vein of the romantic and supernatural, are all indicative of power; his songs are exquisitely sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Scottish song had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high; many of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are too frequently disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers and admirers while a love for rural habits, and the amusing arts of pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.

Of the Shepherd it has been recorded by one[48] who knew him well, that at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who had ever attained his age; he was possessed of a buoyancy which misfortune might temporarily depress, but could not subdue. To the close of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and field exercises of his youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running, been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he was famous alike on the moor and by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills; and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable man that ever wore the maud of a Shepherd."[49]

Hogg left some MSS. which are still unpublished,—the journals of his Highland tours being in the possession of Mr Peter Cunningham of London. Since his death, a uniform edition of many of his best works, illustrated with engravings from sketches by Mr D. O. Hill, has been published, with the concurrence of the family, by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow, in eleven volumes duodecimo. A Memoir, undertaken for that edition by the late Professor Wilson, was indefinitely postponed. A pension on the Civil List of L50 was conferred by the Queen on Mrs Hogg, the poet's widow, in October 1853; and since her husband's death, she has received an annuity of L40 from the Duke of Buccleuch. Of a family of five, one son and three daughters survive, some of whom are comfortably settled in life.

[28] The Shepherd entertained the belief that he was born on the 25th of January 1772.

[29] Mr Macturk is well remembered in Dumfriesshire as a person of remarkable shrewdness and unbounded generosity.

[30] Mr Gray was the author of "Cona, or the Vale of Clywyd," "A Sabbath among the Mountains," and other poems.

[31] The ballad of "Gilmanscleuch" appeared in "The Mountain Bard." See "The Ettrick Shepherd's Poems," vol. ii., p. 203. Blackie and Son.

[32] "The Poetic Mirror," for which the Shepherd had begun to collect contributions.

[33] Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth's "Excursion" in the Edinburgh Review for November 1814, and certainly had never used more declamatory language against any poem.

[34] In a letter to Mr Grosvenor C. Bedford, dated Keswick, December 22, 1814, Southey thus writes:—"Had you not better wait for Jeffrey's attack upon 'Roderick.' I have a most curious letter upon this subject from Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a worthy fellow, and a man of very extraordinary powers. Living in Edinburgh, he thinks Jeffrey the greatest man in the world—an intellectual Bonaparte, whom nobody and nothing can resist. But Hogg, notwithstanding this, has fallen in liking with me, and is a great admirer of 'Roderick.' And this letter is to request that I will not do anything to nettle Jeffrey while he is deliberating concerning 'Roderick,' for he seems favourably disposed towards me! Morbleu! it is a rich letter! Hogg requested that he himself might review it, and gives me an extract from Jeffrey's answer, refusing him. 'I have, as well as you, a great respect for Southey,' he says, 'but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth.' But he shall be happy to talk to Hogg upon this and other kindred subjects, and he should be very glad to give me a lavish allowance of praise, if I would afford him occasion, &c.; but he must do what he thinks his duty, &c.! I laugh to think of the effect my reply will produce upon Hogg. How it will make every bristle to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine!"—Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, edited by his Son, vol. iv., p. 93. London: 6 vols. 8vo.

[35] The first edition of "Roderick" was in quarto,—a shape which the Shepherd deemed unsuitable for poetry.

[36] Murray of Abermarle Street, the famous publisher.

[37] Hogg evinced his strong displeasure with Sir Walter for his refusal, by writing him a declamatory letter, and withdrawing from his society for several months. The kind inquiries which his old benefactor had made regarding him during a severe illness, afterwards led to a complete reconciliation,—the Shepherd apologising by letter for his former rashness, and his illustrious friend telling him "to think no more of the business, and come to breakfast next morning."

[38] See Hogg's autobiography, prefixed to the fifth volume of Blackie's edition of his poems, p. 107.

[39] See the Works of Professor Wilson, edited by his Son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, vol. i., p. xvi. Edinburgh: 1855. 8vo.

[40] When the Shepherd was tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-slack, on the great hill of Queensberry, in Nithsdale, he was visited by Allan Cunningham, then a lad of eighteen, who came to see him, moved with admiration for his genius.—(See Memoir of Allan Cunningham, postea). [Transcriber's Note: This Memoir appears in Volume III.]

[41] Thomas Mouncey Cunningham. See postea.

[42] The Shakspeare Club of Alloa, which is here referred to, took its origin early in the century—being composed of admirers of the illustrious dramatist, and lovers of general literature in that place. The anniversary meeting was usually held on the 23d of April, generally supposed to be the birth-day of the poet. The Shepherd was laureate of the club, and was present at many of the meetings. On these occasions he shared the hospitality of Mr Alexander Bald, now of Craigward Cottage—"the Father of the Club," and one of his own attached literary friends. Mr Bald formed the Shepherd's acquaintance in 1803, when on a visit to his friend Grieve, at Cacrabank. This venerable gentleman is in possession of the original M.S. of the "Ode to the Genius of Shakspeare," which Hogg wrote for the Alloa Club in 1815. In a letter, addressed to Mr Bald, accompanying that composition, he wrote as follows: "Edin., April 23d, 1815.—Let the bust of Shakspeare be crowned with laurel on Thursday, for I expect it will be a memorable day for the club, as well as in the annals of literature,—for I yesterday got the promise of being accompanied by both Wilson, and Campbell, the bard of Hope. I must, however, remind you that it was very late, and over a bottle, when I extracted this promise—they both appeared, however, to swallow the proposal with great avidity, save that the latter, in conversing about our means of conveyance, took a mortal disgust at the word steam, as being a very improper agent in the wanderings of poets. I have not seen either of them to-day, and it is likely that they will be in very different spirits, yet I think it not improbable that one or both of them may be induced to come." The club did not on this occasion enjoy the society of any of the three poets.

[43] Hogg used to say that his face was "out of all rule of drawing," as an apology for artists, who so generally failed in transferring a correct representation of him to canvas. There were at least four oil-paintings of the poet: the first executed by Nicholson in 1817, for Mr Grieve; the second by Sir John Watson Gordon for Mr Blackwood; the third by a London artist for Allan Cunningham; and the fourth by Mr James Scott of Edinburgh, for the poet himself. The last is universally admitted to be the most striking likeness, and, with the permission of Mrs Hogg, it has been very successfully lithographed for the present volume.

[44] See "Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs Grant of Laggan." 1844.

[45] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

[46] "The Domestic Memoirs and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, by James Hogg," p. 118. Glasgow, 1834. 16mo.

[47] Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iv., p. 521.

[48] Mr H. S. Riddell.

[49] Mr J. G. Lockhart.



DONALD MACDONALD.

AIR—"Woo'd, and married, and a'."

My name it is Donald Macdonald, I leeve in the Highlands sae grand; I hae follow'd our banner, and will do, Wherever my master[50] has land. When rankit amang the blue bonnets, Nae danger can fear me ava; I ken that my brethren around me Are either to conquer or fa': Brogues an' brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a'; An' is nae her very weel aff, Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?

What though we befriendit young Charlie?— To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he cam to us but barely, An' reckon'd our mountains his hame. 'Twas true that our reason forbade us, But tenderness carried the day; Had Geordie come friendless amang us, Wi' him we had a' gane away. Sword an' buckler an' a', Buckler an' sword an' a'; Now for George we 'll encounter the devil, Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!

An' O, I wad eagerly press him The keys o' the East to retain; For should he gie up the possession, We 'll soon hae to force them again, Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour, Though it were my finishing blow, He aye may depend on Macdonald, Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row: Knees an' elbows an' a', Elbows an' knees an' a'; Depend upon Donald Macdonald, His knees an' elbows an' a'.

Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William, Auld Europe nae langer should grane; I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane; Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny We 'd rattle him off frae our shore, Or lull him asleep in a cairny, An' sing him—"Lochaber no more!" Stanes an' bullets an a', Bullets an' stanes an' a'; We 'll finish the Corsican callan Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.

For the Gordon is good in a hurry, An' Campbell is steel to the bane, An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray, An' Cameron will hurkle to nane; The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal, An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay; An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald, Shall ne'er be the last in the fray! Brogues and brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a'; An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt an' the feather an' a'.

[50] This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his lawful prince. The word "maker," which appears in former editions of the song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd never had the confidence to alter it.



FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL.[51]

Far over yon hills of the heather sae green, An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea, The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e. She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, Away on the wave, like a bird of the main; An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again! Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal, He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald, Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim; The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore, The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea, But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore, Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he: The conflict is past, and our name is no more— There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!

The target is torn from the arm of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue, Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true? Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good! The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!

[51] Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow, junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was so agreeably astonished—I could hardly believe my senses that I had made so good a song without knowing it.—Hogg.



BONNY PRINCE CHARLIE.

Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry, Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?

I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald; But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry! Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald— For these are the men that will die for their Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! &c.

I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them, Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie; Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them, These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! &c.

Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore! Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely! Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore, Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee? Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?



THE SKYLARK.[52]

Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Bless'd is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and mountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— O to abide in the desert with thee!

[52] For the fine original air, see Purdie's "Border Garland."—Hogg.



CALEDONIA.[53]

Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock, Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind— Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak, Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind: Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens, Though bleak thy dun islands appear, Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans, That roam on these mountains so drear!

A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home, Could never thy ardour restrain; The marshall'd array of imperial Rome Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain! Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth, Of genius unshackled and free, The Muses have left all the vales of the south, My loved Caledonia, for thee!

Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps, Where loveliness slumbers at even, While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps, A calm little motionless heaven! Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill, Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave— Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still, And the land of my forefathers' grave!

[53] An appropriate air has just been composed for this song by Mr Walter Burns of Cupar-Fife, which has been arranged with symphonies and accompaniments for the pianoforte by Mr Edward Salter, of St Andrews.



O, JEANIE, THERE 'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE!

AIR—"Over the Border."

O, my lassie, our joy to complete again, Meet me again i' the gloamin', my dearie; Low down in the dell let us meet again— O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye! Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry, Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary; Love be thy sure defence, Beauty and innocence— O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

Sweetly blaw the haw an' the rowan tree, Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery; Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be— O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye! List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary, List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye, Then come with fairy haste, Light foot, an' beating breast— O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

Far, far will the bogle and brownie be, Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it; Kind love is the tie of our unity, A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it. 'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery, Love gars a' Nature look bonny that 's near ye; That makes the rose sae sweet, Cowslip an' violet— O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!



WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.[54]

AIR—"Shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't."

Come all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen, I 'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye comes hame.

'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbour of the great— 'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.

There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough, O, a happy bird is he; Where he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme, And he 'll woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.

When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonny lucken gowan Has fauldit up her e'e, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Doops down, an' thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.

See yonder pawkie shepherd, That lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld, An' his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.

When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, An' the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O there 's a joy sae dear That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame! When the kye comes hame, &c.

Then since all Nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha would prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy? Or wha would choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes home, 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye comes hame!

[54] In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way, "When the kye come hame," when a tailor, scratching his head, said, "It was a terrible affectit way that!" I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.—Hogg.



THE WOMEN FOLK.[55]

O sarely may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They hae plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flatter'd me at will, But aye, for a' their witchery, The pawky things I lo'e them still. O, the women folk! O, the women folk! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!

I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I 've studied them wi' a' my skill, I 've lo'ed them better than mysel, I 've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He 'll end at last where he began. O, the woman folk, &c.

That they hae gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree; An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud, An' e'en sae pauky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the clud— But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair! O, the woman folk, &c.

Even but this night, nae farther gane, The date is neither lost nor lang, I tak ye witness ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they 've carried right or wrang, Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava. O, the woman folk! O, the woman folk! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!

[55] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humorous song when forced by ladies to sing against my will, which too frequently happens; and notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again.—For the air, see the "Border Garland."—Hogg.



M'LEAN'S WELCOME.[56]

Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean; And though you be weary, We 'll make your heart cheery, And welcome our Charlie, And his loyal train. We 'll bring down the track deer, We 'll bring down the black steer, The lamb from the braken, And doe from the glen, The salt sea we 'll harry, And bring to our Charlie The cream from the bothy And curd from the penn.

Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; Come o'er the sea, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean; And you shall drink freely The dews of Glen-sheerly, That stream in the starlight When kings do not ken; And deep be your meed Of the wine that is red, To drink to your sire, And his friend The M'Lean.

Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean; If aught will invite you Or more will delight you 'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen, All ranged on the heather, With bonnet and feather, Strong arms and broad claymores, Three hundred and ten!

[56] I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in Glen-Lyon, from a scrap of prose said to be the translation, verbatim, of a Gaelic song, and to a Gaelic air, sung by one of the sweetest singers and most accomplished and angelic beings of the human race. But, alas! earthly happiness is not always the lot of those who, in our erring estimation, most deserve it. She is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to her memory. The air is arranged by Smith.—See the "Scottish Minstrel."—Hogg.



CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.[57]

'Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie cam' to our town, The young Chevalier. An' Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier.

As Charlie he came up the gate, His face shone like the day; I grat to see the lad come back That had been lang away. An' Charlie is my darling, &c.

Then ilka bonny lassie sang, As to the door she ran, Our King shall hae his ain again, An' Charlie is the man: For Charlie he 's my darling, &c.

Out ow'r yon moory mountain, An' down the craggy glen, Of naething else our lasses sing, But Charlie an' his men. An' Charlie he 's my darling, &c.

Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, An' glow without a stain; Our Highland swords are metal keen, An' Charlie he 's our ain. An' Charlie he 's my darling, My darling, my darling; Charlie he 's my darling, The young Chevalier.

[57] Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published in the "Jacobite Relics."—Hogg.



LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.

AIR—"Paddy's Wedding."

I lately lived in quiet ease, An' never wish'd to marry, O! But when I saw my Peggy's face, I felt a sad quandary, O! Though wild as ony Athol deer, She has trepann'd me fairly, O! Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear Torment me late an' early, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a poor body Gang about his business!

To tell my feats this single week, Would mak' a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart outow'r a dike, My horses in a miry, O! I wear my stockings white an' blue, My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O! I drill the land that I should plough, An' plough the drills entirely, O! O, love, love, love! &c.

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rose to theek the stable, O! I keust my coat an' plied away As fast as I was able, O! I wrought that morning out an' out, As I 'd been redding fire, O! When I had done an' look'd about, Gude faith, it was the byre, O! O, love, love, love! &c.

Her wily glance I 'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried wi' sport to drive 't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't. O, love, love, love! &c.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O! I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O! For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, O! I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I 'll dee for Peggy, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a poor body Gang about his business!



O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.[58]

O, weel befa' the maiden gay, In cottage, bught, or penn, An' weel befa' the bonny May That wons in yonder glen; Wha loes the modest truth sae weel, Wha 's aye kind, an' aye sae leal, An' pure as blooming asphodel Amang sae mony men. O, weel befa' the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float Along the gloaming lea; 'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note Come pealing frae the tree; To see the lambkins lightsome race— The speckled kid in wanton chase— The young deer cower in lonely place, Deep in her flowing den; But sweeter far the bonny face That smiles in yonder glen!

O, had it no' been for the blush O' maiden's virgin flame, Dear beauty never had been known, An' never had a name; But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame Was modell'd by an angel's frame, The power o' beauty reigns supreme O'er a' the sons o' men; But deadliest far the sacred flame Burns in a lonely glen!

There 's beauty in the violet's vest— There 's hinney in the haw— There 's dew within the rose's breast, The sweetest o' them a'. The sun will rise an' set again, An' lace wi' burning goud the main— The rainbow bend outow'r the plain, Sae lovely to the ken; But lovelier far the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen!

[58] This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day—a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, "Gude faith, it 's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.—Hogg.



THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.

AIR—"The Blue Bells of Scotland."

What are the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel— The lovely flowers of Scotland, All others that excel? The thistle's purple bonnet, And bonny heather-bell, O, they 're the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel!

Though England eyes her roses With pride she 'll ne'er forego, The rose has oft been trodden By foot of haughty foe; But the thistle in her bonnet blue, Still nods outow'r the fell, And dares the proudest foeman To tread the heather-bell.

For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland, Alack and well-a-day! For ilka hand is free to pu' An' steal the gem away. But the thistle in her bonnet blue Still bobs aboon them a'; At her the bravest darena blink, Or gie his mou' a thraw.

Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we 'll be. A foe had better brave the deil, Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather-bell.



LASS, AN' YE LO'E ME, TELL ME NOW.[59]

"Afore the muircock begin to craw, Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, The bonniest thing that ever ye saw, For I canna come every night to woo." "The gouden broom is bonny to see, An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw, The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea, But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'."

"Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat, Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now; It 's no the thing that I would be at, An' I canna come every night to woo! The lamb is bonny upon the brae, The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe, The bird is bonny upon the tree— But which is the dearest of a' to you?"

"The thing that I lo'e best of a', Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now; The dearest thing that ever I saw, Though I canna come every night to woo, Is the kindly smile that beams on me, Whenever a gentle hand I press, And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess."

"Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see, What I lo'e best I 'll tell you now, The compliment that ye sought frae me, Though ye canna come every night to woo; Yet I would rather hae frae you A kindly look, an' a word witha', Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu', Than a' the lads that ever I saw."

"Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine, Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now, Our hearts an' fortunes we 'll entwine, An' I 'll aye come every night to woo; For O, I canna descrive to thee The feeling o' love's and nature's law, How dear this world appears to me Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!"

[59] This song was suggested to the Shepherd by the words adapted to the formerly popular air, "Lass, gin ye lo'e me"—beginning, "I hae laid a herring in saut."



PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS!

Here we go upon the tide, Pull away, jolly boys! With heaven for our guide, Pull away! Here 's a weather-beaten tar, Britain's glory still his star, He has borne her thunders far, Pull away, jolly boys! To your gallant men-of-war, Pull away!

We 've with Nelson plough'd the main, Pull away, jolly boys! Now his signal flies again, Pull away! Brave hearts, then let us go To drub the haughty foe, Who once again shall know, Pull away, gallant boys! That our backs we never shew, Pull away!

We have fought and we have sped, Pull away, gallant boys! Where the rolling wave was red, Pull away! We 've stood many a mighty shock, Like the thunder-stricken oak, We 've been bent, but never broke, Pull away, gallant boys! We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke, Pull away!

Here we go upon the deep, Pull away, gallant boys! O'er the ocean let us sweep, Pull away! Round the earth our glory rings, At the thought my bosom springs, That whene'er our pennant swings, Pull away, gallant boys! Of the ocean we 're the kings, Pull away!



O, SAW YE THIS SWEET BONNY LASSIE O' MINE?

O, saw ye this sweet bonny lassie o' mine, Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine; Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e? Sure naebody e'er was so happy as me!

It 's no that she dances sae light on the green, It 's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien; But O, it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e, That makes me as happy as happy can be.

To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees; To breathe out the soul of a saft melting kiss— On earth here there 's naething is equal to this!

I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy; I have felt every joy that illumines the breast, When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd:

But O, there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm In life's early day, when the bosom is warm; When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss— On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this!



THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN.

Hersell pe auchty years and twa, Te twenty-tird o' May, man; She twell amang te Heelan hills, Ayont the reefer Spey, man. Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir, She first peheld te licht, man; Tey shot my father in tat stoure— A plaguit, vexin' spite, man.

I 've feucht in Scotland here at hame, In France and Shermanie, man; And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons, Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man. But wae licht on te nasty cun, Tat ever she pe porn, man; Phile koot klymore te tristle caird, Her leaves pe never torn, man.

Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot, Phane'er it cam my turn, man; Put a' te force tat I could gie, Te powter wadna purn, man. A filty loon cam wi' his cun, Resolvt to to me harm, man; And wi' te tirk upon her nose, Ke me a pluddy arm, man.

I flang my cun wi' a' my micht, And felt his nepour teit, man; Tan drew my swort, and at a straik Hewt aff te haf o 's heit, man. Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks; My oons pe nae tiscrace, man; Ter no pe yin pehint my back, Ter a pefore my face, man.



AH, PEGGIE, SINCE THOU 'RT GANE AWAY![60]

Ah, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away, An' left me here to languish, I canna fend anither day In sic regretfu' anguish. My mind 's the aspen i' the vale, In ceaseless waving motion; 'Tis like a ship without a sail, On life's unstable ocean.

I downa bide to see the moon Blink owre the glen sae clearly; Aince on a bonnie face she shone— A face that I lo'ed dearly! An' when beside yon water clear, At e'en I 'm lanely roaming, I sigh an' think, if ane was here, How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!

When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile, Thy words sae free an' kindly, Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile, The unbidden tear will blind me. The rose's deepest blushing hue Thy cheek could eithly borrow, But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou' Was worth a year o' sorrow.

Oh! in the slippery paths of love, Let prudence aye direct thee; Let virtue every step approve, An' virtue will respect thee. To ilka pleasure, ilka pang, Alak! I am nae stranger; An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang Is best aware o' danger.

May still thy heart be kind an' true, A' ither maids excelling; May heaven distil its purest dew Around thy rural dwelling. May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing Around thee late an' early; An' oft to thy remembrance bring The lad that loo'd thee dearly.

[60] This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who in nine years afterwards became the poet's wife.



GANG TO THE BRAKENS WI' ME.

I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather, An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame, Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither, Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime, Love beckons in every sweet motion, Commanding due homage to gie; But the shrine o' my dearest devotion Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.

I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie To gang to the brakens wi' me; But though neither lordly nor saucy, Her answer was—"Laith wad I be! I neither hae father nor mither, Sage counsel or caution to gie; An' prudence has whisper'd me never To gang to the brakens wi' thee."

"Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me, An' try your ain love to beguile? For ye are the richest young lady That ever gaid o'er the kirk-stile. Your smile that is blither than ony, The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree, An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny, Are five hunder thousand to me!"

She turn'd her around an' said, smiling, While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear, "You 're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing, For, O, you have valued it dear: Gae make out the lease, do not linger, Let the parson indorse the decree; An' then, for a wave of your finger, I 'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"

There 's joy in the bright blooming feature, When love lurks in every young line; There 's joy in the beauties of nature, There 's joy in the dance and the wine: But there 's a delight will ne'er perish, 'Mang pleasures all fleeting and vain, And that is to love and to cherish The fond little heart that's our ain!



LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON.

Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale, Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on, The Armstrongs are flying, Their widows are crying, The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone; Lock the door, Lariston,—high on the weather gleam, See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky, Yeoman and carbineer, Billman and halberdier; Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.

Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar, Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey, Hedley and Howard there, Wandale and Windermere,— Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay. Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston? Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye? Thou bold Border ranger Beware of thy danger— Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.

Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace; "Ah, welcome, brave foemen, On earth there are no men More gallant to meet in the foray or chase! Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here, Little know you of our moss-troopers' might, Lindhope and Sorby true, Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!

"I 've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array; Come, all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray." Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold; Many a bold martial eye Mirror'd that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold!

Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout, Lances and halberts in splinters were borne; Halberd and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere, Howard—ah! woe to thy hopes of the day! Hear the wide welkin rend, While the Scots' shouts ascend, "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"



I HAE NAEBODY NOW.

I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow, An' joy in her deep blue e'en; Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile, An' the dance o' the lightsome fay, An' the wee bit tale o' news the while That had happen'd when I was away.

I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now To clasp to my bosom at even, O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow, An' pray for a blessing from heaven. An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face In the morning, that met my eye, Where are they now, where are they now? In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.

There 's naebody kens, there 's naebody kens, An' O may they never prove, That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love— To see a flower in its vernal hour By slow degrees decay, Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death, Breathe its sweet soul away.

O, dinna break, my poor auld heart! Nor at thy loss repine, For the unseen hand that threw the dart Was sent frae her Father and thine; Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn, Even till my latest day; For though my darling can never return, I can follow the sooner away.



THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

The moon was a-waning, The tempest was over; Fair was the maiden, And fond was the lover; But the snow was so deep, That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep, In the moorland so dreary.

Soft was the bed She had made for her lover, White were the sheets And embroider'd the cover; But his sheets are more white, And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps Where the hill foxes wander.

Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window; But long may you wait Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies, With a wreath on his bosom!

How painful the task, The sad tidings to tell you!— An orphan you were Ere this misery befell you; And far in yon wild, Where the dead-tapers hover, So cold, cold and wan Lies the corpse of your lover!



GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.

The year is wearing to the wane, An' day is fading west awa', Loud raves the torrent an' the rain, And dark the cloud comes down the shaw; But let the tempest tout an' blaw Upon his loudest winter horn, Good night, and joy be wi' you a', We 'll maybe meet again the morn!

O, we hae wander'd far and wide O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell, An' mony a simple flower we 've cull'd, An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell! We 've ranged the dingle an' the dell, The hamlet an' the baron's ha', Now let us take a kind farewell,— Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

Though I was wayward, you were kind, And sorrow'd when I went astray; For O, my strains were often wild, As winds upon a winter day. If e'er I led you from the way, Forgie your Minstrel aince for a'; A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,— Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!



JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D.

James Muirhead was born in 1742, in the parish of Buittle, and stewartry of Kirkcudbright. His father was owner of the estate of Logan, and representative of the family of Muirhead, who, for several centuries, were considerable landed proprietors in Galloway. He was educated at the Grammar School of Dumfries, and in the University of Edinburgh. Abandoning the legal profession, which he had originally chosen, he afterwards prosecuted theological study, and became, in 1769, a licentiate of the Established Church. After a probation of three years, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of Urr, a country parish in the stewartry. In 1794 he received the degree of D.D. from the University of Edinburgh. Warmly attached to his flock, he ministered at Urr till his death, which took place on the 16th of May 1806.

Dr Muirhead was a person of warm affections and remarkable humour; his scholarship was extensive and varied, and he maintained a correspondence with many of his literary contemporaries. As an author, he is not known to have written aught save the popular ballad of "Bess, the Gawkie,"—a production which has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham "a song of original merit, lively without extravagance, and gay without grossness,—the simplicity elegant, and the naivete scarcely rivalled."[61]

[61] We have frequently had occasion to remark the ignorance of modern editors regarding the authorship of the most popular songs. Every collector of Scottish song has inserted "Bess, the Gawkie;" but scarcely one of them has correctly stated the authorship. The song has been generally ascribed to an anonymous "Rev. Mr Morehead;" by some to the "Rev. Robert Morehead;" and Allan Cunningham, who states that his father was acquainted with the real author, has described him as the "Rev. William Morehead!"



BESS, THE GAWKIE.

TUNE—"Bess, the Gawkie."

Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport a while wi' Jamie? Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.

For hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see young Jamie pass, Wi' mickle blytheness in his face, Out ower the muir to Maggie. I wat he gae her mony a kiss, And Maggie took them nae amiss; 'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this, That Bess was but a gawkie.

For when a civil kiss I seek, She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, And for an hour she 'll hardly speak; Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie? But sure my Maggie has mair sense, She 'll gie a score without offence; Now gie me ane into the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en, But I will never stand for ane Or twa when we do meet again; So ne'er think me a gawkie. Ah, na, lass, that canna be; Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me, Or ony thy sweet face that see, E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak, For yonder Jamie does us meet; Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, I trow he likes the gawkie. O, dear Bess! I hardly knew, When I cam' by, your gown sae new; I think you 've got it wet wi' dew! Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!

It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, And I 'll get gowns when it is gane; Sae ye may gang the gate ye came, And tell it to your dawtie. The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek; He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet, If I should gang anither gate, I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew, And left poor Jamie sair to rue That ever Maggie's face he knew, Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. As they gaed ower the muir, they sang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.



MRS AGNES LYON.

A female contemporary of the Baroness Nairn, of kindred tastes, and of equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay L'Amy, of Dunkenny, in Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the year 1762. She was reputed for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for her hand; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon, minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January 1786. Of a highly cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early improved a taste for versifying, and acquired the habit of readily clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother of ten children; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous; in pathetic pieces she is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear, she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular request, the words to his popular tune "Farewell to Whisky,"—the only lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes.

Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, having survived her husband about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS. to the widow of one of her sons, to whom she was devotedly attached, accompanied by a request, inscribed in rhyme at the beginning of the first volume, that the compositions might not be printed, unless in the event of a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus described:—

"Written off-hand, as one may say, Perhaps upon a rainy day, Perhaps while at the cradle rocking. Instead of knitting at a stocking, She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink, And easily the verses clink. Perhaps a headache at a time Would make her on her bed recline, And rather than be merely idle, She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle. She neither wanted lamp nor oil, Nor found composing any toil; As for correction's iron wand, She never took it in her hand; And can, with conscience clear, declare, She ne'er neglected house affair, Nor put her little babes aside, To take on Pegasus a ride. Rather let pens and paper flame, Than any mother have the shame (Except at any orra time) To spend her hours in making rhyme."

In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation; and a retentive memory enabled her to render available the fruits of extensive reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth, and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety.



NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY.[62]

TUNE—"Farewell to Whisky."

You 've surely heard of famous Neil, The man who play'd the fiddle weel; He was a heartsome merry chiel', And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O! For e'er since he wore the tartan hose He dearly liket Athole brose![63] And grieved he was, you may suppose, To bid "farewell to whisky," O!

Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld, And whiles my hame is unco cauld; I think it makes me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland whisky, O! But a' the doctors do agree That whisky 's no the drink for me; I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee, By parting me and whisky, O!

But I should mind on "auld lang syne," How Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind— Forbid—like Highland whisky, O! Whilst I can get good wine and ale, And find my heart, and fingers hale, I 'll be content, though legs should fail, And though forbidden whisky, O!

I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand, And screw its strings whilst they can stand, And mak' a lamentation grand For guid auld Highland whisky, O! Oh! all ye powers of music, come, For deed I think I 'm mighty glum, My fiddle-strings will hardly bum, To say, "farewell to whisky," O!

[62] In the Author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to this song:—"Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words following were composed, at his particular desire, to a lamentation he had just made." Mrs Lyon became acquainted with Gow when she was a young lady, attending the concerts in Dundee, at which the services of the great violinist were regularly required. The song is very inaccurately printed in some of the collections.

[63] A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky.



SEE THE WINTER CLOUDS AROUND.[64]

See the winter clouds around; See the leaves lie on the ground; Pretty little Robin comes, Seeking for his daily crumbs!

In the window near the tree, Little Robin you may see; There his slender board is fix'd, There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.

View his taper limbs, how neat! And his eyes like beads of jet; See his pretty feathers shine! Little Robin haste and dine.

When sweet Robin leaves the space, Other birds will fill his place; See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing! See the Sparrow's sombre wing!

Great and grand disputes arise, For the crumbs of largest size, Which the bravest and the best Bear triumphant to their nest.

What a pleasure thus to feed Hungry mouths in time of need! For whether it be men or birds, Crumbs are better far than words.

[64] These simple stanzas, conveying such an excellent morale at the close, were written, almost without premeditation, for the amusement and instruction of a little girl, the author's grandchild, who had been on a visit at the manse of Glammis. The allusion to the board in the second verse refers to a little piece of timber which the amiable lady of the house had affixed on the outside of one of the windows, for holding a few crumbs which she daily spread on it for Robin, who regularly came to enjoy the bounty of his benefactress. This lyric, and those following, are printed for the first time.



WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.[65]

TUNE—"Merry in the Hall."

Within the towers of ancient Glammis Some merry men did dine, And their host took care they should richly fare In friendship, wit, and wine. But they sat too late, and mistook the gate, (For wine mounts to the brain); O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all; O, we hope they 'll be back again; We hope they 'll be back again!

Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door, To find the proper way, But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch, And on the steps it lay. So his wife took care of this nice affair, And she wiped it free from stain; For the knight was gone, nor the owner known, So he ne'er got the switch again; So he ne'er got the switch again.

This wondrous little whip[66] remains Within the lady's sight, (She crambo makes, with some mistakes, But hopes for further light). So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart, These thirty years her ain; Till the knight appear, it must just lie here, He will ne'er get his switch again; He will ne'er get his switch again!



[65] This lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April 1821, celebrates an amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the Castle of Glammis, in 1793. Sir Walter was hospitably entertained in the Castle, by Mr Peter Proctor, the factor, in the absence of the noble owner, the Earl of Strathmore, who did not reside in the family mansion; and the conjecture may be hazarded, that he dropt his whip at the manse door on the same evening that he drank an English pint of wine from the lion beaker of Glammis, the prototype of the silver bear of Tully-Veolan, "the poculum potatorium of the valiant baron."—(See Note to Waverley, and Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott).

[66] The whip is now in the custody of Mr George Lyon, of Stirling, the author's son.



MY SON GEORGE'S DEPARTURE.[67]

TUNE—"Peggy Brown."

The parting kiss, the soft embrace, I feel them at my heart! 'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms, But agony to part. But let us tranquillise our minds, And hope the time may be, When I shall see that face again, So loved, so dear to me!

Five tedious years have roll'd along, And griefs have had their sway, Though many comforts fill'd my cup, Yet thou wert far away. On pleasant days, when friends are met, Our sports are scarce begun, When I shall sigh, because I miss My George, my eldest son!

I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven, I 've seen thee well and gay, I 've heard the music of thy voice, I 've heard thee sweetly play. O try and cheer us with your strains Ere many twelvemonths be, And let us hear that voice again, So loved, so dear to me!



[67] This lay of affection is dated September 1820, when the author received a visit from her eldest son, who was then settled as a merchant in London. Mr George Lyon, the subject of the song, and the only surviving member of the family, is now resident at Snowdoun House, Stirling.



ROBERT LOCHORE.

Robert Lochore was descended from a branch of a Norman family of that name, long established in the neighbourhood of Biggar, and of which the representative was the House of Lochore de Lochore in Fifeshire. He was born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762, and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow. He early commenced business in the city on his own account. In carrying on public improvements he ever evinced a deep interest, and he frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the "Annuity Society,"—an institution attended with numerous benefits to the citizens of Glasgow.

Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with facility, many of his letters to his intimate friends being composed in rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth, contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died in Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long life; and, latterly, found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of his family, his recollections of the past. He was universally beloved as a faithful friend, and was deeply imbued with a sense of religion.



NOW, JENNY LASS.

TUNE—"Garryowen."

Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird, My daddy 's dead, an' a' that; He 's snugly laid aneath the yird, And I 'm his heir, an' a' that; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that; His gear an' land 's at my command, And muckle mair than a' that.

He left me wi' his deein' breath, A dwallin' house, an' a' that; A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith— A big peat-stack, an' a' that. A mare, a foal, an' a' that; A mare, a foal, an' a' that; Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby, An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.

A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas, An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that— Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees, An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that; Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'— A grecie, too, an' a' that.

I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days, For Sundays, too, an' a' that; I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands, And siller, gowd, an' a' that. What think ye, lass, o' a' that? What think ye, lass, o' a' that? What want I noo, my dainty doo, But just a wife to a' that.

Now, Jenny dear, my errand here Is to seek ye to a' that; My heart 's a' loupin', while I speer Gin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that. Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof, Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.

Syne Jenny laid her neive in his— Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that; An' he gied her a hearty kiss, An' dauted her, an' a' that. They set a day, an' a' that; They set a day, an' a' that; Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame, An' haud a rant, an' a' that.



MARRIAGE, AND THE CARE O'T.

TUNE—"Whistle o'er the lave o't."

Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year, An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't; Will ye be my half-marrow sweet? Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't, An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't! A single life 's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't.

Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die, For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel, for ever!—aff I hie;— Sae took his leave without a sigh: Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try The married life, an' care o't.

Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' gae her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage, an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek In marriage, wi' the care o't.



MARY'S TWA LOVERS.

TUNE—"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."

Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care, Your counsels guid ha'e blest me; Now in a kittle case ance mair Wi' your advice assist me: Twa lovers frequent on me wait, An' baith I frankly speak wi'; Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.

There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig, A widower fresh and canty, Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig, He 's rich, and rowes in plenty. Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh, A lad deserves regardin'; He 's clever, decent, sober too, But he 's no worth ae fardin'.

Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see, But 's cash will answer a' things; To be a lady pleases me, And buskit be wi' braw things. Tam I esteem, like him there 's few, His gait and looks entice me; But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you, And fix as ye advise me.

Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke, An' thus repliet to Mary: Unequal matches in a yoke Draw thrawart and camstrarie. Since gentle James ye dinna like, Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion; Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike, Grup to him wi' affection.



THE FORLORN SHEPHERD.[68]

TUNE—"Banks of the Dee."

Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin', For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree, If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin', Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me. Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,— My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee, When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary, While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.

She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow, The day too was set, when our bridal should be; How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow, She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me. For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches, An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee, Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess, Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.

Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie, An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree, Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary, Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me. Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander, 'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee. Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder, To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.

[68] This song is here printed for the first time.



JOHN ROBERTSON.

John Robertson, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life.



THE TOOM MEAL POCK.

Preserve us a'! what shall we do, Thir dark, unhallow'd times; We 're surely dreeing penance now, For some most awfu' crimes. Sedition daurna now appear, In reality or joke; For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, O' a hinging, toom meal pock, And sing, Oh waes me!

When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, For sport and pastime free; I seem'd like ane in paradise, The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they all appear'd, Weel pouther'd were their locks; 'Twas easy dune, when at their hame, Wi' the shaking o' their pocks. And sing, Oh waes me!

How happy pass'd 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, When in the neuk I smiling saw A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock. And sing, Oh waes me!

Speak no ae word about reform, Nor petition Parliament; A wiser scheme I 'll now propose, I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent: Send up a chiel or twa like me, As a sample o' the flock, Whose 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!

Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare, Before yon hills o' beef; Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief. Tell them ye are the vera best, Waled frae the fattest flock; Then raise your arms, and oh! display A hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!



ALEXANDER BALFOUR.

Alexander Balfour, a poet, novelist and miscellaneous writer, was born on the 1st March 1767, at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances; and being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family, from whom he received such a religious training as exercised a highly beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the loom, and returned home to teach a school in his native parish. During the intervals of leisure, he wrote articles for the provincial miscellanies, the British Chronicle newspaper, and The Bee, published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a sail-cloth manufacturer in Arbroath; and, on the death of his employer, soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained prosperity; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his literary studies, and maintaining a correspondence with several men of letters in the capital. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814, to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected with his own firm. This step was lamentably unfortunate; the house, in which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the general commercial disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Reduced to a condition of dependance, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a manufacturing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes, which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear, shortly after his removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career was that of a man of letters. During the interval which elapsed between his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under the title of "Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes; and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication was "The Farmer's Three Daughters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820, he published "Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo; which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled, "The Smuggler's Cave; or, The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To the Scots Magazine he had long been a contributor; and, on the establishment of Constable's Edinburgh Magazine in its stead, his assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His articles, contributed to this periodical during the nine years of its existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes: they are on every variety of theme, but especially the manners of Scottish rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous contributions in verse, a series entitled, "Characters omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825; and this production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the English poet.

In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of one hundred pounds was conferred on Mr Balfour by the premier, Mr Canning, in consideration of his genius. His last novel, "Highland Mary," in four volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after an illness of about two weeks' duration, on the 12th September 1829, in the sixty-third year of his age.

Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which, in more prosperous circumstances, he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine pathos.



THE BONNY LASS O' LEVEN WATER.

Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea, An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather, Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee Are not sae dear as Leven Water: When Nature form'd our favourite isle, An' a' her sweets began to scatter, She look'd with fond approving smile, Alang the banks o' Leven Water.

On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray, 'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin'; Or through the woodlands green to stray, In ilka buss the mavis singin': But sweeter than the woodlands green, Or primrose painted fair by Nature, Is she wha smiles, a rural queen, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

The sunbeam in the siller dew, That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom, Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue; An' purer is her spotless bosom. Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast; There 's love an' truth in ilka feature; For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree, Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy; An' sair the carle wad scowl on me, For speakin' to his dawtit lassie: But were I laird o' Leven's glen, An' she a humble shepherd's daughter, I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!



SLIGHTED LOVE.

The rosebud blushing to the morn, The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn, When on thy gentle bosom worn, Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary! How blest was I, a little while, To deem that bosom free frae guile; When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile; Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!

Though gear was scant, an' friends were few, My heart was leal, my love was true; I blest your e'en of heavenly blue, That glanced sae saft on me, Mary! But wealth has won your heart frae me; Yet I maun ever think of thee; May a' the bliss that gowd can gie, For ever wait on thee, Mary!

For me, nae mair on earth I crave, But that yon drooping willow wave Its branches o'er my early grave, Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary! An' when that hallow'd spot you tread, Where wild-flowers bloom above my head, O look not on my grassy bed, Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!