THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube, Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er. "O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover, Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!" All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!

From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?"

"Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!" "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving; No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!" His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sank in her arms—the poor wounded hussar.



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom; Then ceased, and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave— "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save. So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe! thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King."

Then Denmark bless'd our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride, Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!



MEN OF ENGLAND.

Men of England, who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood,

By the foes you 've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured, breaches mounted, Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.

Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreathes of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery, Whence no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

Pageants!—Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes, Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts!

We 're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny; They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights—so will we!



MRS G. G. RICHARDSON.[112]

Caroline Eliza Scott, better known as Mrs G. G. Richardson, the daughter of a gentleman of considerable property in the south of Scotland, was born at Forge, her father's family residence, in the parish of Canonbie, on the 24th of November 1777, and spent her childhood and early youth amidst Border scenes, Border traditions, and Border minstrelsy. It is probable that these influences fostered the poetic temperament, while they fed the imaginative element of her mind, as she very early gave expression to her thoughts and feelings in romance and poetry. Born to a condition of favourable circumstances, and associating with parents themselves educated and intellectual, the young poetess enjoyed advantages of development rarely owned by the sons and daughters of genius. The flow of her mind was allowed to take its natural course; and some of her early anonymous writings are quite as remarkable as any of her acknowledged productions. Her conversational powers were lively and entertaining, but never oppressive. She was ever ready to discern and do homage to the merits of her contemporaries, while she never failed to fan the faintest flame of latent poesy in the aspirations of the timid or unknown. Affectionate and cheerful in her dispositions, she was a loving and dutiful daughter, and shewed the tenderest attachment to a numerous family of brothers and sisters. She was married to her cousin, Gilbert Geddes Richardson, on the 29th of April 1799, at Fort George, Madras; where she was then living with her uncle, General, afterwards Lord Harris; and the connexion proved, in all respects, a suitable and happy one. Her husband, at that time captain of an Indiaman, was one of a number of brothers, natives of the south of Scotland, who all sought their fortunes in India, and one of whom, Lieutenant-Colonel Richardson, became known in literature as an able translator of Sanscrit poetry, and contributor to the "Asiatic Researches." He was lost at sea, with his wife and six children, on their homeward voyage; and this distressing event, accompanied as it was by protracted suspense and anxiety, was long and deeply deplored by his gifted sister-in-law.

Young, beautiful, and doubly attractive from the warmth of her heart, and the fascination of her manners, Mrs Richardson was not only loved and appreciated by her husband, and his family, but greatly admired in a refined circle of Anglo-Indian society; and the few years of her married life were marked by almost uninterrupted felicity. But death struck down the husband and father in the very prime of manhood; and the widow returned with her five children (all of whom survived her), to seek from the scenes and friends of her early days such consolation as they might minister to a grief which only those who have experienced it can measure. She never brought her own peculiar sorrows before the public; but there is a tone of gentle mournfulness pervading many of her poems, that may be traced to this cause; and there are touching allusions to "one of rare endowments," that no one who remembered her husband's character could fail to recognise. Her intense love of nature happily remained unchanged; and the green hills, the flowing river, and the tangled wildwood, could still soothe a soul that, but for its susceptibility to these beneficent charms, might have said in its sadness of everything earthly, "miserable comforters are ye all." Continuing to reside at Forge while her children were young, she devoted herself to the direction of their education, the cultivation of her own pure tastes, and the peaceful enjoyments of a country life; and when she afterwards removed to London, and reappeared in brilliant and distinguished society, she often reverted, with regret, to the bright skies and cottage homes of Canonbie. In 1821, Mrs Richardson again returned to Scotland, and took up her abode at Dumfries, partly from the desire of being near her connexions, and partly for the sake of the beautiful scenery surrounding that pretty county town. In 1828 she published, by subscription, her first volume of miscellaneous poems, which was well received by the public, favourably noticed by the leading journals, and received a circulation even beyond the range of 1700 subscribers. A second edition, in a larger form, soon followed; and, in 1834, after finally settling in her native parish, she published a second volume, dedicated to the Duchess of Buccleuch, and which was also remarkably successful. From this time she employed her talents in the composition of prose; she published "Adonia," a novel, in three volumes; and various tales, essays, and fugitive pieces, forming contributions to popular serials. Her later poems remain in manuscript. She maintained an extensive correspondence with her literary friends, and spent much of her time in reading and study, and in the practice of sincere and unostentatious piety. Her faculties were vigorous and unimpared, until the seizure of her last illness, which quickly terminated in death, on the 9th October 1853, when she had nearly completed her seventy-sixth year. She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her own beloved Canonbie.

[112] The memoir of Mrs G. G. Richardson has been kindly supplied by her accomplished relative, Mrs Macarthur, Hillhead, near Glasgow.



THE FAIRY DANCE.

The fairies are dancing—how nimbly they bound! They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground; Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight, All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.

Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear— 'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,— The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes, And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.

How featly they trip it! how happy are they Who pass all their moments in frolic and play, Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares, And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!

But where have they vanish'd?—a cloud 's o'er the moon, I 'll hie to the spot,—they 'll be seen again soon— I hasten—'tis lighter,—and what do I view?— The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew.

And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth; Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud, Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.



SUMMER MORNING.

How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away, O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,— To have all this silence and lightness my own, And revel with Nature, alone,—all alone!

What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around, In this calm, holy sunshine, and stillness profound! The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care, And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there.

The herbage, the blossoms, the branches, the skies, That shower on the river their beautiful dyes, The far misty mountains, the wide waving fields, What healthful enjoyment surveying them yields!

Yes, this is the hour Nature's lovers partake, The manna that melts when Life's vapours awake; Another, and thoughts will be busy, oh how Unlike the pure vision they 're ranging in now!

Lo! the hare scudding forth, lo! the trout in the stream Gently splashing, are stirring the folds of my dream, The cattle are rising, and hark, the first bird,— And now in full chorus the woodlands are heard.

Oh, who on the summer-clad landscape can gaze, In the orison hour, nor break forth into praise,— Who, through this fair garden contemplative rove, Nor feel that the Author and Ruler is love?

I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here; I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near; The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call Has a tear drop of gratitude ready to fall!



THERE 'S MUSIC IN THE FLOWING TIDE.

There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air, There 's music in the swallow's wing, that skims so lightly there, There 's music in each waving tress of grove, and bower, and tree, To eye and ear 'tis music all where Nature revels free.

There 's discord in the gilded halls where lordly rivals meet, There 's discord where the harpers ring to beauty's glancing feet, There 's discord 'neath the jewell'd robe, the wreath, the plume, the crest, Wherever Fashion waves her wand, there discord rules the breast.

There 's music 'neath the cottage eaves, when, at the close of day, Kind-hearted mirth and social ease the toiling hour repay; Though coarse the fare, though rude the jest, that cheer that lowly board, There loving hearts and honest lips sweet harmony afford!

Oh! who the music of the groves, the music of the heart, Would barter for the city's din, the frigid tones of art? The virtues flourish fresh and fair, where rural waters glide. They shrink and wither, droop and die, where rolls that turbid tide.



AH! FADED IS THAT LOVELY BLOOM.

Written to an Italian Air.

Ah! faded is that lovely bloom, And closed in death that speaking eye, And buried in a green grass tomb, What once breathed life and harmony! Surely the sky is all too dark, And chilly blows the summer air,— And, where 's thy song now, sprightly lark, That used to wake my slumb'ring fair?

Ah! never shalt thou wake her more! And thou, bright sun, shalt ne'er again, On inland mead, or sea-girt shore, Salute the darling of the plain. Maiden! they bade me o'er thy fate Numbers and strains mellifluous swell, They knew the love I bore thee great,— They knew not what I ne'er can tell.

The unstrung heart to others leaves The music of a feebler woe, Her numbers are the sighs she heaves, Her off'ring tears that ever flow. Where could I gather fancies now? They 're with'ring on thy lowly tomb,— My summer was thy cheek and brow, And perish'd is that lovely bloom!



THOMAS BROWN, M.D.

Illustrious as a metaphysician, Dr Thomas Brown is entitled to a place in the poetical literature of his country. He was the youngest son of Samuel Brown, minister of Kirkmabreck, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, and was born in the manse of that parish, on the 9th January 1778. His father dying when he was only a year old, his childhood was superintended solely by his mother, who established her abode in Edinburgh. Evincing an uncommon aptitude for knowledge, he could read and understand the Scriptures ere he had completed his fifth year. At the age of seven he was committed to the charge of a maternal uncle in London, who placed him at the schools of Camberwell and Chiswick, and afterwards at two other classical seminaries, in all of which he exhibited remarkable precocity in learning. On the death of his relative he returned to Edinburgh, and in his fourteenth year entered the University of that city. During a visit to Liverpool, in the summer of 1793, he was introduced to Dr Currie, who, presenting him with a copy of Dugald Stewart's "Elements of Philosophy," was the means of directing his attention to metaphysical inquiries. The following session he became a student in Professor Stewart's class; and differing from a theory advanced in one of the lectures, he modestly read his sentiments on the subject to his venerable preceptor. The philosopher and pupil were henceforth intimate friends.

In his nineteenth year, Brown became a member of the "Academy of Physics," a philosophical association established by the scientific youths of the University, and afterwards known to the world as having given origin to the Edinburgh Review. As a member of this society he formed the intimacy of Brougham, Jeffrey, Leyden, Logan, Sydney Smith, and other literary aspirants. In 1778 he published "Observations on the Zoonomia of Dr Darwin,"—a pamphlet replete with deep philosophical sentiment, and which so attracted the notice of his friends that they used every effort, though unsuccessfully, to secure him the chair of rhetoric in the University during the vacancy which soon afterwards occurred. His professional views were originally directed to the bar, but disgusted with the law after a twelve-month's trial, he entered on a medical course, to qualify himself as physician, and in 1803 received his diploma. His new profession was scarcely more congenial than that which he had abandoned, nor did the prospects of success, on being assumed as a partner by Dr Gregory, reconcile him to his duties. His favourite pursuits were philosophy and poetry; he published in 1804 two volumes of miscellaneous poems which he had chiefly written at college, and he was among the original contributors to the Edinburgh Review, the opening article in the second number, on "Kant's Philosophy," proceeding from his pen. An essay on Hume's "Theory of Causation," which he produced during the struggle attendant on Mr Leslie's appointment to the mathematical chair, established his hitherto growing reputation; and the public in the capital afterwards learned, with more than satisfaction, that he had consented to act as substitute for Professor Dugald Stewart, when increasing infirmities had compelled that distinguished individual to retire from the active business of his chair. In this new sphere he fully realised the expectations of his admirers; he read his own lectures, which, though hastily composed, often during the evenings prior to their delivery, were listened to with an overpowering interest, not only by the regular students, but by many professional persons in the city. Such distinction had its corresponding reward; after assisting in the moral philosophy class for two years, he was in 1810 appointed to the joint professorship.

Successful as a philosopher, Dr Brown was desirous of establishing a reputation as a poet. In 1814 he published anonymously the "Paradise of Coquettes," a poem which was favourably received. "The Wanderer of Norway," a poem, appeared in 1816, and "Agnes" and "Emily," two other distinct volumes of poems, in the two following years. He died at Brompton, near London, on the 2d April 1820, and his remains were conveyed for interment to the churchyard of his native parish. Amidst a flow of ornate and graceful language, the poetry of Dr Brown is disfigured by a morbid sensibility and a philosophy which dims rather than enlightens. He possessed, however, many of the mental concomitants of a great poet; he loved rural retirement and romantic scenery; well appreciated the beautiful both in nature and in art; was conversant with the workings of the human heart and the history of nations; was influenced by generous emotions, and luxuriated in a bold and lofty imagination.[113]

[113] Margaret Brown, one of the three sisters of Dr Brown, published "Lays of Affection." Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. She was a woman of gentle and unobtrusive manners and of pious disposition. Her poems constitute a respectable memorial of her virtues.



CONSOLATION OF ALTERED FORTUNES.

Yes! the shades we must leave which my childhood has haunted, Each charm by endearing remembrance improved; These walks of our love, the sweet bower thou hast planted,— We must leave them to eyes that will view them unmoved.

Oh, weep not, my Fanny! though changed be our dwelling, We bear with us all, in the home of our mind; In virtues will glow that heart, fondly swelling, Affection's best treasure we leave not behind.

I shall labour, but still by thy image attended— Can toil be severe which a smile can repay? How glad shall we meet! every care will be ended; And our evening of bliss will be more than a day.

Content's cheerful beam will our cottage enlighten; New charms the new cares of thy love will inspire; Thy smiles, 'mid the smiles of our offspring, will lighten; I shall see it—and oh, can I feel a desire?



THE FAITHLESS MOURNER.

When thy smile was still clouded in gloom, When the tear was still dim in thine eye, I thought of the virtues, scarce cold in the tomb, And I spoke not of love to thy sigh!

I spoke not of love; yet the breast, Which mark'd thy long anguish,—deplore The sire, whom in sickness, in age, thou hadst bless'd, Though silent, was loving thee more!

How soon wert thou pledged to my arms, Thou hadst vow'd, but I urged not the day; And thine eye grateful turn'd, oh, so sweet were its charms, That it more than atoned the delay.

I fear'd not, too slow of belief— I fear'd not, too proud of thy heart, That another would steal on the hour of thy grief, That thy grief would be soft to his art.

Thou heardst—and how easy allured, Every vow of the past to forsware; The love, which for thee would all pangs have endured, Thou couldst smile, as thou gav'st to despair.

Ah, think not my passion has flown! Why say that my vows now are free? Why say—yes! I feel that my heart is my own; I feel it is breaking for thee.



THE LUTE.

Ah! do not bid me wake the lute, It once was dear to Henry's ear. Now be its voice for ever mute, The voice which Henry ne'er can hear.

Though many a month has pass'd since Spring, His grave's wan turf has bloom'd anew, One whisper of those chords would bring, In all its grief, our last adieu.

The songs he loved—'twere sure profane To careless Pleasure's laughing brow To breathe; and oh! what other strain To Henry's lute could love allow?

Though not a sound thy soul hath caught, To mine it looks, thus softly dead, A sweeter tenderness of thought Than all its living strings have shed.

Then ask me not—the charm was broke; With each loved vision must I part; If gay to every ear it spoke, 'Twould speak no longer to my heart.

Yet once too blest!—the moonlit grot, Where last I gave its tones to swell; Ah! the last tones—thou heardst them not— From other hands than mine they fell.

Still, silent slumbering, let it keep That sacred touch! And oh! as dim To life, would, would that I could sleep, Could sleep, and only dream of him!



WILLIAM CHALMERS.

William Chalmers was born at Paisley in 1779. He carried on the business of a tobacconist and grocer in his native town, and for a period enjoyed considerable prosperity. Unfortunate reverses caused him afterwards to abandon merchandise, and engage in a variety of occupations. At different times he sought employment as a dentist, a drysalter, and a book distributor; he sold small stationery as a travelling merchant, and ultimately became keeper of the refreshment booth at the Paisley railway station. He died at Paisley on the 3d of November 1843. Chalmers wrote respectable verses on a number of subjects, but his muse was especially of a humorous tendency. Possessed of a certain versatility of talent, he published, in 1839, a curious production with the quaint title, "Observations on the Weather in Scotland, shewing what kinds of weather the various winds produce, and what winds are most likely to prevail in each month of the year." His compositions in verse were chiefly contributed to the local periodicals and newspapers.



SING ON.

AIR—"The Pride of the Broomlands."

Sing on, thou little bird, Thy wild notes sae loud, O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree; Aft beneath thy birken bow'r I have met at e'ening hour My young Jamie that 's far o'er the sea.

On yon bonnie heather knowes We pledged our mutual vows, And dear is the spot unto me; Though pleasure I hae nane, While I wander alane, And my Jamie is far o'er the sea.

But why should I mourn, The seasons will return, And verdure again clothe the lea; The flow'rets shall spring, And the saft breeze shall bring, My dear laddie again back to me.

Thou star! give thy light, Guide my lover aright, Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free; Now gold I hae in store, He shall wander no more, No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.



THE LOMOND BRAES.

"O, lassie, wilt thou go To the Lomond wi' me? The wild thyme 's in bloom. And the flower 's on the lea; Wilt thou go my dearest love? I will ever constant prove, I 'll range each hill and grove On the Lomond wi' thee."

"O young men are fickle, Nor trusted to be, And many a native gem Shines fair on the lea: Thou mayst see some lovely flower, Of a more attractive power, And may take her to thy bower On the Lomond wi' thee."

"The hynd shall forsake, On the mountain the doe, The stream of the fountain Shall cease for to flow; Ben-Lomond shall bend His high brow to the sea, Ere I take to my bower Any flower, love, but thee."

She 's taken her mantle, He 's taken his plaid; He coft her a ring, And he made her his bride: They 're far o'er yon hills, To spend their happy days, And range the woody glens 'Mang the Lomond braes.



JOSEPH TRAIN.

A zealous and respectable antiquary and cultivator of historical literature, Joseph Train is likewise worthy of a niche in the temple of Scottish minstrelsy. His ancestors were for several generations land-stewards on the estate of Gilmilnscroft, in the parish of Sorn, and county of Ayr, where he was born on the 6th November 1779. When he was eight years old, his parents removed to Ayr, where, after a short attendance at school, he was apprenticed to a mechanical occupation. His leisure hours were sedulously devoted to reading and mental improvement. In 1799, he was balloted for the Ayrshire Militia; in which he served for three years till the regiment was disbanded on the peace of Amiens. When he was stationed at Inverness, he had commissioned through a bookseller a copy of Currie's edition of the "Works of Burns," then sold at three half-guineas, and this circumstance becoming incidentally known to the Colonel of the regiment, Sir David Hunter Blair, he caused the copy to be elegantly bound and delivered free of expense. Much pleased with his intelligence and attainments, Sir David, on the disembodiment of the regiment, actively sought his preferment; he procured him an agency at Ayr for the important manufacturing house of Finlay and Co., Glasgow, and in 1808, secured him an appointment in the Excise. In 1810, Train was sometime placed on service as a supernumerary in Perthshire; he was in the year following settled as an excise officer at Largs, from which place in 1813 he was transferred to Newton Stewart. The latter location, from the numerous objects of interest which were presented in the surrounding district, was highly suitable for his inclinations and pursuits. Recovering many curious legends, he embodied some of them in metrical tales, which, along with a few lyrical pieces, he published in 1814, in a thin octavo volume,[114] under the title of "Strains of the Mountain Muse." While the sheets were passing through the press, some of them were accidentally seen by Sir Walter Scott, who, warmly approving of the author's tastes, procured his address, and communicated his desire to become a subscriber for the volume.

Gratified by the attention of Sir Walter, Mr Train transmitted for his consideration several curious Galloway traditions, which he had recovered. These Sir Walter politely acknowledged, and begged the favour of his endeavouring to procure for him some account of the present condition of Turnberry Castle, for his poem the "Lord of the Isles," which he was then engaged in composing. Mr Train amply fulfilled the request by visiting the ruined structure situated on the coast of Ayrshire; and he thereafter transmitted to his illustrious correspondent those particulars regarding it, and of the landing of Robert Bruce, and the Hospital founded by that monarch, at King's Case, near Prestwick, which are given by Sir Walter in the notes to the fifth canto of the poem. During a succession of years he regularly transmitted legendary tales and scraps to Sir Walter, which were turned to excellent account by the great novelist. The fruits of his communications appear in the "Chronicles of the Canongate," "Guy Mannering," "Old Mortality," "The Heart of Mid Lothian," "The Fair Maid of Perth," "Peveril of the Peak," "Quintin Durward," "The Surgeon's Daughter," and "Redgauntlet." He likewise supplied those materials on which Sir Walter founded his dramas of the "Doom of Devorgoil," and "Macduff's Cross."

When Sir Walter was engaged, a few years previous to his death, in preparing the Abbotsford or first uniform edition of his works, Mr Train communicated for his use many additional particulars regarding a number of the characters in the Waverley Novels, of which he had originally introduced the prototypes to the distinguished author. His most interesting narrative was an account of the family of Robert Paterson, the original "Old Mortality," which is so remarkable in its nature, that we owe no apology for introducing it. Mr Train received his information from Robert, a son of "Old Mortality," then in his seventy-fifth year, and residing at Dalry, in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright. According to the testimony of this individual, his brother John sailed for America in 1774, where he made a fortune during the American War. He afterwards settled at Baltimore, where he married, and lived in prosperous circumstances. He had a son named Robert, after "Old Mortality," his father, and a daughter named Elizabeth; Robert espoused an American lady, who, surviving him, was married to the Marquis of Wellesley, and Elizabeth became the first wife of Prince Jerome Bonaparte.[115]

On his first connexion with the Excise, Mr Train turned his attention to the most efficient means of checking illicit distillation in the Highlands; and an essay which he prepared, suggesting improved legislation on the subject, was in 1815 laid before the Board of Excise and Customs, and transmitted with their approval to the Lords of the Treasury. His suggestions afterwards became the subject of statutory enactment. At this period, he began a correspondence with Mr George Chalmers, author of the "Caledonia," supplying him with much valuable information for the third volume of that great work. He had shortly before traced the course of an ancient wall known as the "Deil's Dyke," for a distance of eighty miles from the margin of Lochryan, in Wigtonshire, to Hightae, in Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire, and an account of this remarkable structure, together with a narrative of his discovery of Roman remains in Wigtonshire, greatly interested his indefatigable correspondent. In 1820, through the kindly offices of Sir Walter, he was appointed Supervisor. In this position he was employed to officiate at Cupar-Fife and at Kirkintilloch. He was stationed in succession at South Queensferry, Falkirk, Wigton, Dumfries, and Castle-Douglas. From these various districts he procured curious gleanings for Sir Walter, and objects of antiquity for the armory at Abbotsford.

Mr Train contributed to the periodicals both in prose and verse. Many of his compositions were published in the Dumfries Magazine, Bennett's Glasgow Magazine, and the Ayr Courier and Dumfries Courier newspapers. An interesting tale from his pen, entitled "Mysie and the Minister," appeared in the thirtieth number of Chambers' Edinburgh Journal; he contributed the legend of "Sir Ulrick Macwhirter" to Mr Robert Chambers' "Picture of Scotland," and made several gleanings in Galloway for the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," published by the same gentleman. He had long contemplated the publication of a description of Galloway, and he ultimately afforded valuable assistance to the Rev. William Mackenzie in preparing his history of that district. Mr Train likewise rendered useful aid to several clergymen in Galloway, in drawing up the statistical accounts of their parishes,—a service which was suitably acknowledged by the writers.

Having obtained from Sir Walter Scott a copy of Waldron's "Description of the Isle of Man," a very scarce and curious work, Mr Train conceived the idea of writing a history of that island. In the course of his researches, he accidentally discovered a M.S. volume containing one hundred and eight acts of the Manx Legislature, prior to the accession of the Atholl family to that kingdom. Of this acquisition he transmitted a transcript to Sir Walter, along with several Manx traditions, as an appropriate acknowledgment for the donation he had received. In 1845 he published his "History of the Isle of Man," in two large octavo volumes. His last work was a curious and interesting history of a religious sect, well known in the south of Scotland by the name of "The Buchanites." After a period of twenty-eight years' service in the Excise, Mr Train had his name placed on the retired list. He continued to reside at Castle-Douglas, in a cottage pleasantly situated on the banks of Carlingwark Lake. To the close of his career, he experienced pleasure in literary composition. He died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, on the 7th December 1852. His widow, with one son and one daughter, survive. A few months after his death, a pension of fifty pounds on the Civil List was conferred by the Queen on his widow and daughter, "in consequence of his personal services to literature, and the valuable aid derived by the late Sir Walter Scott from his antiquarian and literary researches prosecuted under Sir Walter's direction."

[114] Mr Train published, in 1806, a small volume, entitled "Poetical Reveries."

[115] Sir Walter Scott was convinced of the accuracy of the statement, regarding the extraordinary connexion between the Wellesley and Bonaparte families, and deferred publishing it only to avoid giving offence to his intimate friend, the Duke of Wellington.



MY DOGGIE.

AIR—"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen."

The neighbours a' they wonder how I am sae ta'en wi' Maggie, But ah! they little ken, I trow, How kind she 's to my doggie. Yestreen as we linked o'er the lea, To meet her in the gloamin'; She fondly on my Bawtie cried, Whene'er she saw us comin'.

But was the tyke not e'en as kind, Though fast she beck'd to pat him; He louped up and slaked her cheek, Afore she could win at him. But save us, sirs, when I gaed in, To lean me on the settle, Atween my Bawtie and the cat There rose an awfu' battle.

An' though that Maggie saw him lay His lugs in bawthron's coggie, She wi' the besom lounged poor chit, And syne she clapp'd my doggie. Sae weel do I this kindness feel, Though Mag she isna bonnie, An' though she 's feckly twice my age, I lo'e her best of ony.

May not this simple ditty show, How oft affection catches, And from what silly sources, too, Proceed unseemly matches; An' eke the lover he may see, Albeit his joe seem saucy, If she is kind unto his dog, He 'll win at length the lassie.



BLOOMING JESSIE.

On this unfrequented plain, What can gar thee sigh alane, Bonnie blue-eyed lassie? Is thy mammy dead and gane, Or thy loving Jamie slain? Wed anither, mak nae main, Bonnie, blooming Jessie.

Though I sob and sigh alane, I was never wed to ane, Quo' the blue-eyed lassie. But if loving Jamie's slain, Farewell pleasure, welcome pain, A' the joy wi' him is gane O' poor hapless Jessie.

Ere he cross'd the raging sea, Was he ever true to thee, Bonnie, blooming Jessie? Was he ever frank and free? Swore he constant aye to be? Did he on the roseate lea Ca' thee blooming Jessie?

Ere he cross'd the raging sea, Aft he on the dewy lea, Ca'd me blue-eyed lassie. Weel I mind his words to me, Were, if he abroad should die, His last throb and sigh should be, Bonnie, blooming Jessie.

Far frae hame, and far frae thee, I saw loving Jamie die, Bonnie blue-eyed lassie. Fast a cannon ball did flee, Laid him stretch'd upo' the lea, Soon in death he closed his e'e, Crying, "Blooming Jessie."

Swelling with a smother'd sigh, Rose the snowy bosom high Of the blue-eyed lassie. Fleeter than the streamers fly, When they flit athwart the sky, Went and came the rosy dye On the cheeks of Jessie.

Longer wi' sic grief oppress'd Jamie couldna sae distress'd See the blue-eyed lassie. Fast he clasp'd her to his breast, Told her a' his dangers past, Vow'd that he would wed at last Bonnie, blooming Jessie.



OLD SCOTIA.

I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will, Till the heart that now beats in my bosom is still. My forefathers loved thee, for often they drew Their dirks in defence of thy banners of blue; Though murky thy glens, where the wolf prowl'd of yore, And craggy thy mountains, where cataracts roar, The race of old Albyn, when danger was nigh, For thee stood resolved still to conquer or die.

I love yet to roam where the beacon-light rose, Where echoed thy slogan, or gather'd thy foes, Whilst forth rush'd thy heroic sons to the fight, Opposing the stranger who came in his might. I love through thy time-fretted castles to stray, The mould'ring halls of thy chiefs to survey; To grope through the keep, and the turret explore, Where waved the blue flag when the battle was o'er.

I love yet to roam o'er each field of thy fame, Where valour has gain'd thee a glorious name; I love where the cairn or the cromlach is made, To ponder, for low there the mighty are laid. Were these fall'n heroes to rise from their graves, They might deem us dastards, they might deem us slaves; But let a foe face thee, raise fire on each hill, Thy sons, my dear Scotia, will fight for thee still!



ROBERT JAMIESON.

An intelligent antiquary, an elegant scholar, and a respectable writer of verses, Robert Jamieson was born in Morayshire about the year 1780. At an early age he became classical assistant in the school of Macclesfield in Cheshire. About the year 1800 he proceeded to the shores of the Baltic, to occupy an appointment in the Academy of Riga. Prior to his departure, he had formed the scheme of publishing a collection of ballads recovered from tradition, and on his return to Scotland he resumed his plan with the ardour of an enthusiast. In 1806 he published, in two octavo volumes, "Popular Ballads and Songs, from Tradition, Manuscripts, and Scarce Editions; with Translations of Similar Pieces from the Ancient Danish Language, and a few Originals by the Editor." In the preparation of this work, he acknowledges his obligations to Dr Jamieson, author of the "History of the Culdees," Dr Robert Anderson, editor of the "British Poets," Dr John Leyden, and some others. On the recommendation of Sir Walter Scott he was received into the General Register House, as assistant to the Deputy-Clerk-Register, in the publication of the public records. He held this office till 1836, during a period of thirty years. Subsequently he resided at Newhaven, near Edinburgh, and ultimately in London, where he died on the 24th of September 1844. Familiar with the northern languages, he edited, conjointly with Sir Walter Scott and Henry Weber, a learned work, entitled "Illustrations of Northern Antiquities from the Earlier Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances." Edinburgh, 1814, quarto. In 1818 he published, with some contributions from Scott, a new edition of Burt's "Letters from the North of Scotland."

Mr Jamieson was of the middle size, of muscular form, and of strongly-marked features. As a literary antiquary, he was held in high estimation by the men of learning in the capital. As a poet he composed several songs in early life, which are worthy of a place among the modern minstrelsy of his country.



MY WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

TUNE—"My Wife 's a wanton wee Thing."

My wife 's a winsome wee thing, A bonnie, blythesome wee thing, My dear, my constant wee thing, And evermair sall be; It warms my heart to view her, I canna choose but lo'e her, And oh! weel may I trow her How dearly she lo'es me!

For though her face sae fair be, As nane could ever mair be; And though her wit sae rare be, As seenil do we see; Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me, Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me, Nor baith sae lang retain'd me, But for her love to me.

When wealth and pride disown'd me, A' views were dark around me, And sad and laigh she found me, As friendless worth could be; When ither hope gaed frae me, Her pity kind did stay me, And love for love she ga'e me; And that 's the love for me.

And, till this heart is cald, I That charm of life will hald by; And, though my wife grow auld, my Leal love aye young will be; For she 's my winsome wee thing, My canty, blythesome wee thing, My tender, constant wee thing, And evermair sall be.



GO TO HIM, THEN, IF THOU CAN'ST GO.

Go to him, then, if thou can'st go, Waste not a thought on me; My heart and mind are a' my store, And they were dear to thee. But there is music in his gold (I ne'er sae sweet could sing), That finds a chord in every breast In unison to ring.

The modest virtues dread the spell, The honest loves retire, The purer sympathies of soul Far other charms require. The breathings of my plaintive reed Sink dying in despair, The still small voice of gratitude, Even that is heard nae mair.

But, if thy heart can suffer thee, The powerful call obey, And mount the splendid bed that wealth And pride for thee display. Then gaily bid farewell to a' Love's trembling hopes and fears, While I my lanely pillow here Wash with unceasing tears.

Yet, in the fremmit arms of him That half thy worth ne'er knew, Oh! think na on my lang-tried love, How tender and how true! For sure 'twould break thy gentle heart My breaking heart to see, Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it 's tholed, And yet maun thole for thee.



WALTER WATSON.

Walter Watson was the son of a handloom weaver in the village of Chryston, in the parish of Calder, and county of Lanark, where he was born, on the 29th March 1780. Having a family of other two sons and four daughters, his parents could only afford to send him two years to school; when at the age of eight, he was engaged as a cow-herd. During the winter months he still continued to receive instructions from the village schoolmaster. At the age of eleven his father apprenticed him to a weaver; but he had contracted a love for the fields, and after a few years at the loom he hired himself as a farm-servant. In the hope of improving his circumstances, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed as a sawyer. He now enlisted in the Scots Greys; but after a service of only three years, he was discharged, in June 1802, on the reduction of the army, subsequent to the peace of Amiens. At Chryston he resumed his earliest occupation, and, having married, resolved to employ himself for life at the loom. His spare hours were dedicated to the muse, and his compositions were submitted to criticism at the social meetings of his friends. Encouraged by their approval, he published in 1808 a small volume of poems and songs, which, well received, gained him considerable reputation as a versifier. Some of the songs at once became popular. In 1820 he removed from Chryston, and accepted employment as a sawyer in the villages of Banton and Arnbrae, in Kilsyth; in 1826 he proceeded to Kirkintilloch, where he resumed the labours of the loom; in 1830 he changed his abode to Craigdarroch, in the parish of Calder, from which, in other five years, he removed to Lennoxtown of Campsie, where he and several of his family were employed in an extensive printwork. To Craigdarroch he returned at the end of two years; in other seven years he made a further change to Auchinairn which, in 1849, he left for Duntiblae, in Kirkintilloch. He died at the latter place on the 13th September 1854, in his seventy-fifth year. His remains were interred at Chryston, within a few yards of the house in which he was born. His widow, the "Maggie" of his songs, still survives, with only four of their ten children.

Besides the volume already mentioned, Watson published a small collection of miscellaneous poems in 1823, and a third volume in 1843. A selection of his best pieces was published during the year previous to his death, under the superintendence of several friends in Glasgow, with a biographical preface by Mr Hugh Macdonald. The proceeds of this volume, which was published by subscription, tended to the comfort of the last months of the poet's life. On two different occasions during his advanced years, he received public entertainments, and was presented with substantial tokens of esteem. Of amiable dispositions, modest demeanour, and industrious habits, he was beloved by all to whom he was known. His poems generally abound in genuine Scottish humour, but his reputation will rest upon a few of his songs, which have deservedly obtained a place in the affections of his countrymen.



MY JOCKIE 'S FAR AWA'.

Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers, The woods wi' leaves so green, An' little burds around their bowers In harmony convene; The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree, While saft the zephyrs blaw, But what are a' thae joys to me, When Jockie 's far awa'? When Jockie 's far awa' on sea, When Jockie 's far awa'; But what are a' thae joys to me, When Jockie 's far awa'?

Last May mornin', how sweet to see The little lambkins play, Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me, Did kindly walk this way! On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd, To busk my bosom braw; Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd, But now he 's far awa'. But now, &c.

O gentle peace, return again, Bring Jockie to my arms, Frae dangers on the raging main, An' cruel war's alarms; Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll part While we hae breath to draw; Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart, My Jockie 's far awa'; My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.



MAGGIE AN' ME.

AIR—"The Banks o' the Dee."

The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander Amang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea, An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander, To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea; The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin', As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein', An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin' Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.

The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty, The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree, While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty, As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee. Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant, The future, by thee, is made almost the present; Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant, Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.

Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances, An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e, We needit nae art to engage our young fancies, 'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee. Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither, We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither, An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither, Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.



SIT DOWN, MY CRONIE.[116]

Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack, Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back, Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit, We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet; An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet, We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.

Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale, It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale, We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit, We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet, An' sae will we yet, &c.

Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime, Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time; Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit, We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet, An' sae will we yet, &c.



[116] The last stanza of this song has, on account of its Bacchanalian tendency, been omitted.



BRAES O' BEDLAY.[117]

AIR—"Hills o' Glenorchy."

When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie, My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day; My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sang Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay. How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes, When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes, Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes That screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.

There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie, An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay," Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane, An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay. I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller, Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her, Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her, It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.

We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie, Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray, Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiled By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay. Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story, Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory, Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary, Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.



[117] The braes of Bedlay are in the neighbourhood of Chryston, about seven miles north of Glasgow.



JESSIE.

AIR—"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."

Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie, Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell, Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy, An' luve lilts his tale through the dell? O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie, Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw; The lassies hae doubts about Jessie, Her charms steal their luvers awa'.

I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin', Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean, Your wooers are aften complainin' O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en. I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee, Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast; May luve wi' his blessins abide thee, For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.

I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie, For fear some young laird o' degree May come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy, An' ding a' my prospects agee. There 's naething like gowd to the miser, There 's naething like light to the e'e, But they canna gie me ony pleasure, If Jessie prove faithless to me.

Let us meet on the border, my Jessie, Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye, Though my words may be scant to address ye, My heart will be loupin' wi' joy. If ance I were wedded to Jessie, An' that may be ere it be lang, I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassie That ere was the theme o' a sang.



WILLIAM LAIDLAW.

As the confidential friend, factor, and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, William Laidlaw has a claim to remembrance; the authorship of "Lucy's Flittin'" entitles him to rank among the minstrels of his country. His ancestors on the father's side were, for a course of centuries, substantial farmers in Tweedside, and his father, James Laidlaw, with his wife, Catherine Ballantyne, rented from the Earl of Traquair the pastoral farm of Blackhouse, in Yarrow. William, the eldest of a family of three sons, was born in November 1780. His education was latterly conducted at the Grammar School of Peebles. James Hogg kept sheep on his father's farm, and a strong inclination for ballad-poetry led young Laidlaw to cultivate his society. They became inseparable friends—the Shepherd guiding the fancy of the youth, who, on the other hand, encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.

In the summer of 1801, Laidlaw formed the acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. In quest of materials for the third volume of the "Border Minstrelsy," Scott made an excursion into the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow; he was directed to Blackhouse by Leyden, who had been informed of young Laidlaw's zeal for the ancient ballad. The visit was an eventful one: Scott found in Laidlaw an intelligent friend and his future steward, and through his means formed, on the same day, the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. The ballad of "Auld Maitland," in the third volume of the "Minstrelsy," was furnished by Laidlaw; he recovered it from the recitation of "Will of Phawhope," the maternal uncle of the Shepherd. A correspondence with Scott speedily ripened into friendship; the great poet rapidly passing the epistolary forms of "Sir," and "Dear Sir," into "Dear Mr Laidlaw," and ultimately into "Dear Willie,"—a familiarity of address which he only used as expressive of affection. Struck with his originality and the extent of his acquirements, Scott earnestly recommended him to select a different profession from the simple art of his fathers, especially suggesting the study of medicine. But Laidlaw deemed himself too ripe in years to think of change; he took a farm at Traquair, and subsequently removed to a larger farm at Liberton, near Edinburgh.

The sudden fall in the price of grain at the close of the war, which so severely affected many tenant-farmers, pressed heavily on Laidlaw, and compelled him to abandon his lease. He now accepted the offer of Sir Walter to become steward at Abbotsford, and, accordingly, removed his family in 1817 to Kaeside, a cottage on the estate comfortably fitted up for their reception. Through Scott's recommendation, he was employed to prepare the chronicle of events and publications for the Edinburgh Annual Register; and for a short period he furnished a similar record to Blackwood's Magazine. He did not persevere in literary labours, his time becoming wholly occupied in superintending improvements at Abbotsford. When Sir Walter was in the country, he was privileged with his daily intercourse, and was uniformly invited to meet those literary characters who visited the mansion. When official duties detained Scott in the capital, Laidlaw was his confidential correspondent. Sir Walter early communicated to him the unfortunate event of his commercial embarrassments, in a letter honourable to his heart. After feelingly expressing his apprehension lest his misfortunes should result in depriving his correspondent of the factorship, Sir Walter proceeds in his letter: "You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to observe the most strict privacy, the better to save expense, and also time. I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all that society can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit." Laidlaw was too conscientious to remain at Abbotsford, to be a burden on his illustrious friend; he removed to his native district, and for three years employed himself in a variety of occupations till 1830, when the promise of brighter days to his benefactor warranted his return. Scott had felt his departure severely, characterising it as "a most melancholy blank," and his return was hailed with corresponding joy. He was now chiefly employed as Sir Walter's amanuensis. During his last illness, Laidlaw was constant in his attendance, and his presence was a source of peculiar pleasure to the distinguished sufferer. After the funeral, Sir Walter's eldest son and his lady presented him with a brooch, their marriage gift to their revered father, which he wore at the time of his decease; it was afterwards worn by his affectionate steward to the close of his life. The death of Scott took place on the 21st of September 1832, and shortly thereafter Laidlaw bade adieu to Abbotsford. He was appointed factor on the Ross-shire property of Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth,—a situation which he subsequently exchanged for the factorship of Sir Charles Lockhart Ross of Balnagowan, in the same county. Compelled to resign the latter appointment from impaired health, he ultimately took up his residence with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw, tenant at Contin, near Dingwall, in whose house he expired on the 18th of May 1845, having attained his sixty-fifth year. At an early age he espoused his cousin, Miss Ballantyne, by whom he had a numerous family. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a sequestered spot under the shade of the elevated Tor-Achilty, amidst the most interesting Highland scenery.

A man of superior shrewdness, and well acquainted with literature and rural affairs, Laidlaw was especially devoted to speculations in science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and entomology, and a considerable geologist. He prepared a statistical account of Innerleithen, wrote a geological description of Selkirkshire, and contributed several articles to the "Edinburgh Encyclopedia." In youth, he was an enthusiast in ballad-lore; and he was especially expert in filling up blanks in the compositions of the elder minstrels. His original metrical productions are limited to those which appear in the present work. "Lucy's Flittin'" is his masterpiece; we know not a more exquisitely touching ballad in the language, with the single exception of "Robin Gray." Laidlaw was a devoted friend, and a most intelligent companion; he spoke the provincial vernacular, but his manners were polished and pleasing. He was somewhat under the middle height, but was well formed and slightly athletic, and his fresh-coloured complexion beamed a generous benignity.



LUCY'S FLITTIN'.[118]

AIR—"Paddy O'Rafferty."

'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in', And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't, And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear. For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer; She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in', Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see. Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in, The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin', Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang. She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.

Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither; Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me; Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin', I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see, He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit; The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea, But Lucy likes Jamie;—she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.

[118] This exquisite ballad was contributed by Laidlaw to Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." There are two accounts as to the subject of it, both of which we subjoin, as they were narrated to us during the course of a recent excursion in Tweedside. According to one version, Lucy had been in the service of Mr Laidlaw, sen., at Blackhouse, and had by her beauty attracted the romantic fancy of one of the poet's brothers. In the other account Lucy is described as having served on a farm in "The Glen" of Traquair, and as having been beloved by her master's son, who afterwards deserted her, when she died of a broken heart. The last stanza was added by Hogg, who used to assert that he alone was responsible for the death of poor Lucy. "The Glen" is a beautiful mountain valley opening on the Tweed, near Innerleithen; it formerly belonged to Mr Alexander Allan, but it is now the possession of Charles Tennent, Esq., Glasgow.



HER BONNIE BLACK E'E.

AIR—"Saw ye my Wee Thing."

On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander, The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me; I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws, An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree; I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.

When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November, The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea; Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses, Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me; I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes, When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin', When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see; Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin', Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry, Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be; Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie, An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.

Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never, She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me; An' this is my wish, may I leave it if ever She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.



ALAKE FOR THE LASSIE!

AIR—"Logie o' Buchan."

Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a', That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa'; But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain That lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.

The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fain To see my dear laddie, to see him again; My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thought O' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.

The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e, When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee; I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair, For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.

I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw, I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw; I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see, In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.

He never wad see me in ony ae place, At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face; I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa, He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.

My neebour lads strave to entice me awa'; They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw; But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair, For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.

His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind! He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind; An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me— I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.



METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.



METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.



ALEXANDER MACDONALD.

Alexander Macdonald, who has been termed the Byron of Highland Bards, was born on the farm of Dalilea, in Moidart. His father was a non-juring clergyman of the same name; hence the poet is popularly known as Mac-vaistir-Alaister, or Alexander the parson's son. The precise date of his birth is unknown, but he seems to have been born about the first decade of the last century. He was employed as a catechist by the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, under whose auspices he afterwards published a vocabulary, for the use of Gaelic schools. This work, which was the first of the kind in the language, was published at Edinburgh in 1741. Macdonald was subsequently elected schoolmaster of his native parish of Ardnamurchan, and was ordained an elder in the parish church. But the most eventful part of his life was yet to come. On the tidings of the landing of Prince Charles Edward, he awoke his muse to excite a rising, buckled on his broadsword, and, to complete his duty to his Prince, apostatised to the Catholic religion. In the army of the Prince he bore an officer's commission. At the close of the Rebellion, he at first sought shelter in Borodale and Arisaig; he afterwards proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of teaching children in the Jacobite connexion. The latter course was attended with this advantage; it enabled him by subscription to print a volume of Gaelic poetry, which contains all his best productions. Returning to his native district, he attempted farming without success, and ultimately he became dependent on the liberality of his relations. He died sometime subsequent to the middle of the century.

Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the descriptive, in which his reading made him largely a borrower; the lyrical in which he excelled; the satirical, in which he was personal and licentious; and the Jacobitical, in which he issued forth treason of the most pestilential character. He has disfigured his verses by incessant appeals to the Muses, and repeated references to the heathen mythology; but his melody is in the Gaelic tongue wholly unsurpassed.



THE LION OF MACDONALD.

This composition was suggested by the success of Caberfae, the clan song of the Mackenzies. Macdonald was ambitious of rivaling, or excelling that famous composition, which contained a provoking allusion to a branch of his own clan. In the original, the song is prefaced by a tremendous philippic against the hero of Caberfae. The bard then strikes into the following strain of eulogy on his own tribe, which is still remarkably popular among the Gael.

Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown, Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119] blossoms crown; Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air, And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare. Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious, To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious; How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle, As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle! Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming, O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right assuming! I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming, As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming. The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing, Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in. A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side, And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide? The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith, And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death. Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind? They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind. Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold, And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told; O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour, And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger; And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara, Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow. Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following, Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing. Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them, Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found all eyes though scanning them. They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever. Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying, And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying. Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan, How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran. O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave, Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive; Nor wants their course the speed, the force, —nor wants their gallant stature, This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water, Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell, So fierce they gush—the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well. Clandonuil's[124] root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem, What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them? Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared; Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard? What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd, in that cloud burst of steel, That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel, While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along, And stranger[125] notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among! Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather, So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather; Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true, Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew, Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed, And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on, And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan. O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud, The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd, Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim, Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126] limb. Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127] Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy; The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best, Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste! That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,— Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.

[119] The clan badge is a tuft of heather.

[120] The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.

[121] A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.

[122] Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, Old King Coul; Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.

[123] The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed to animate the combatants, during the period of excitement.

[124] The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are not quite ascertained; as Sleat, Clanronald, Glengarry, Keppoch, and Glencoe.

[125] Lit. Lowland or stranger. Killiecrankie and Sheriff Muir, not to mention Innerlochy and Tippermuir, must have blended the dying shrieks of Lowlanders with the triumphant shouts of the Gael. The image is a fine one.

[126] The armorial emblem was gules.

[127] Prince Charles Edward was expected.



THE BROWN DAIRY-MAIDEN.

Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted the air for his "Banks of the Devon."

My brown dairy, brown dairy, Brown dairy-maiden; Brown dairy-maiden, Bell of the heather!

A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling; Thy glove[128] there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover; When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis, As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over; Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee, And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover. To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing, Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover. My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all, For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy! White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending, And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry; Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in, An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry; At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying, From the tresses[129] they 're playing of the maid of the dairy. My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming, And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming. Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common. Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining, How their lustre is shining in union becoming! My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer, O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding, When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever! The music of milking, with melodies lilting, While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over, Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becoming As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover. My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

[128] Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a great figure in their poetry.

[129] The most frequent of all song-images in Gaelic, is the description of yellow or auburn hair.



THE PRAISE OF MORAG.

This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or Amaryllis ideal of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the "Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best modern composition in their language.

URLAR.

O that I were the shaw in,[130] When Morag was there, Lots to be drawing For the prize of the fair! Mingling in your glee, Merry maidens! We Rolicking would be The flow'rets along; Time would pass away In the oblivion of our play, As we cropp'd the primrose gay, The rock-clefts among; Then in mock we 'd fight, Then we 'd take to flight, Then we 'd lose us quite, Where the cliffs overhung.

Like the dew-drop blue In the mist of morn So thine eye, and thy hue Put the blossom to scorn. All beauties they shower On thy person their dower; Above is the flower, Beneath is the stem; 'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers, 'Tis a star 'mid the streamers, 'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers The foremost of them! Darkens eye-sight at thy ray! As we wonder, still we say Can it be a thing of clay We see in that gem?

Since thy first feature Sparkled before me, Fair! not a creature Was like thy glory.[131]....



[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed.

[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in the poet's eye.



SIUBHAL.

Away with all, away with all, Away with all but Morag, A maid whose grace and mensefulness Still carries all before it. You shall not find her marrow, For beauty without furrow, Though you search the islands thorough From Muile[132] to the Lewis; So modest is each feature, So void of pride her nature, And every inch of stature To perfect grace so true is.[133]

* * * * *

O that drift, like a pillow, We madden to share it; O that white of the lily, 'Tis passion to near it; Every charm in a cluster, The rose adds its lustre— Can it be but such muster Should banish the Spirit!

URLAR.

We would strike the note of joy In the morning, The dawn with its orangery The hill-tops adorning. To bush and fell resorting, While the shades conceal'd our courting, Would not be lack of sporting Or gleeful phrenesie; Like the roebuck and his mate, In their woodland haunts elate The race we would debate Around the tendril tree.

SIUBHAL.

Thou bright star of maidens, A beam without haze, No murkiness saddens, No disk-spot bewrays. The swan-down to feeling, The snow of the gaillin,[134] Thy limbs all excelling, Unite to amaze. The queen, I would name thee, Of maidenly muster; Thy stem is so seemly, So rich is its cluster Of members complete, Adroit at each feat, And thy temper so sweet, Without banning or bluster. My grief has press'd on Since the vision of Morag, As the heavy millstone On the cross-tree that bore it. In vain the world over, Seek her match may the rover; A shaft, thy poor lover, First struck overpowering.

When thy ringlets of gold, With the crooks of their fold, Thy neck-wards were roll'd All weavy and showering. Like stars that are ring'd, Like gems that are string'd Are those locks, while, as wing'd From the sun, blends a ray Of his yellowest beams; And the gold of his gleams Behold how he streams 'Mid those tresses to play. In thy limbs like the canna,[135] Thy cinnamon kiss, Thy bright kirtle, we ken a' New phoenix of bliss. In thy sweetness of tone, All the woman we own, Nor a sneer nor a frown On thy features appear; When the crowd is in motion For Sabbath devotion,[136] As an angel, arose on Their vision, my fair With her meekness of grace, And the flakes of her dress, As they stream, might express Such loveliness there. When endow'd at thy birth We marvel that earth From its mould, should yield worth Of a fashion so rare.

URLAR.

I never dream'd would sink On a peak that mounts world's brink, Of sunlight, such a blink, Morag! as thine. As the charmings of a spell, Working in their cell, So dissolves the heart where dwell Thy graces divine.

SIUBHAL.

Come, counsel me, my comrades, While dizzy fancy lingers, Did ever flute become, lads, The motion of such fingers? Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137] Or see or hear, before her, Such gracefulness, adore her Yet, woes me, how concealing From her I 've wedded, dare I? Still, homeward bound, I tarry, And Jeanie's eye is weary, Her truant unrevealing. The glow of love I feel, Not all the linns of Sheil, Nor Cruachan's snow avail To cool to congealing.[138]....

CRUNLUATH.

My very brain is humming, sirs, As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs, And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs, My passion such a flame is. My very eyes are blinding, sirs, Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs, Nor height nor distance minding, sirs, The crag, as Corrie, tame is....

[132] Mull.

[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.

[134] The gannet, or the stranger-bird, from his foreign derivation and periodic visits to the Islands.

[135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors.

[136] Lit., On the day of devotion.

[137] The mainland, or terra firma, is called Morir by the islanders.



NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.

Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the mask of civility.

Glad tidings for the Highlands! To arms a ringing call— Hammers storming, targets forming, Orb-like as a ball.[139] Withers dismay the pale array, That guards the Hanoverian; Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er, The help is nigh we weary on. From friendly east a breeze shall haste The fruit-freight of our prayer— With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140] A prince to do and dare; Stuart his name, his sire's the same, For his riffled crown appealing, Strong his right in, soon shall Britain Be humbled to the kneeling. Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield, And firearms play defiance; Forwards they fly, and still their cry, Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions. Make ready for your travel, Be sharp-set, and be willing, There will be a dreadful revel, And liquor red be spilling. O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife, Are burning for the slaughter, Would let their volley, like fire to holly, Blaze on the usurping traitor. Full many a soldier arming, Is laggard in his spirit, E'er his blood the flag is warming Of the King that should inherit. He may be loon or coward, That spur scarce touch would nearly— The colours shew, he 's in a glow, Like the stubble of the barley. Onward, gallants! onward speed ye, Flower and bulwark of the Gael; Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy, Rosy-red, and do not quail. Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous, As your princely strain beseems, In your hands, alert for conflict, While the Spanish weapon gleams.— Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143] Humming music to the gale; Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144] Proud the banner staff to bear. A slashing weapon on his thigh, He tends his charge unfearing; Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh, To the gristle nostrils sheering. Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight, The finger white, the clever, he That gives the war-pipe his embrace To raise the storm of bravery. A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring Battle-sounding breeze of her Would stir the spirit of the clans To rake the heart of Lucifer. March ye, without feint and dolour, By the banner of your clan, In your garb of many a colour, Quelling onset to a man. Then, to see you swiftly baring From the sheath the manly glaive, Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing Marrow-showering of the brave! Woe the clattering, weapon-battering Answering to the piobrach's yell! When your racing speeds the chasing, Wide and far the clamours swell. Hard blows whistle from the bristle Of the temples to the thigh, Heavy handed as the land-flood, Who will turn ye, or make fly? Many a man has drunk an ocean Healths to Charlie, to the gorge, Broken many a glass proposing Weal to him and woe to George; But, 'tis feat of greater glory Far, than stoups of wine to trowl, One draught of vengeance deep and gory, Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl! Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all, Join ye to your clans your cheer! Nor heed though wife and child pursue all, Bidding you to fight, forbear. Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty, Gallant in your loyal pride, By your hacking, low as bracken Stretch the foe the turf beside. Our stinging kerne of aspect stern That love the fatal game, That revel rife till drunk with strife, And dye their cheeks with flame, Are strange to fear;—their broadswords shear Their foemen's crested brows, The red-coats feel the barb of steel, And hot its venom glows. The few have won fields, many a one, In grappling conflicts' play; Then let us march, nor let our hearts A start of fear betray. Come gushing forth, the trusty North, Macshimei,[145] loyal Gordon; And prances high their chivalry, And death-dew sits each sword on.