An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie, An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie, Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me, Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie.

"But were they a' true that were far awa? Oh! were they a' true that were far awa'? They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha', And forgot auld frien's that were far awa.

"Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye 've been, Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green; Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha', And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'."

"I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green, I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean, Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa', And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'."

* * * * *

The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard; The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard; A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill, And the bloom 's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.

[56] The present is an amended version of an old song, entitled "The Bonnie Brier Bush," altered and added to by Burns for the "Musical Museum."



JOHN TOD.

He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod, He 's a terrible man, John Tod; He scolds in the house, He scolds at the door, He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod, He scolds on the vera hie road.

The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The weans a' fear John Tod; When he 's passing by, The mithers will cry,— Here 's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod, Here 's an ill wean, John Tod.

The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The callants a' fear John Tod; If they steal but a neep, The callant he 'll whip, And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod, It 's unco weel done o' John Tod.

An' saw ye nae wee John Tod, John Tod? Oh, saw ye nae wee John Tod? His bannet was blue, His shoon maistly new, An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod, Oh, weel does he keep the kirk road.

How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod? How is he wendin', John Tod? He 's scourin' the land, Wi' his rung in his hand, An' the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod, An' the French wadna frighten John Tod.

Ye 're sun-brunt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod Ye 're tantit and tatter'd, John Tod; Wi' your auld strippit coul, Ye look maist like a fule, But there 's nouse i' the lining,[57] John Tod, John Tod, But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod.

He 's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod, He 's weel respeckit, John Tod; He 's a terrible man, But we 'd a' gae wrang If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod, If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod.

[57] A familiar Scottish phrase for good sense.



WILL YE NO COME BACK AGAIN?

Bonnie Charlie 's now awa', Safely ower the friendly main; Mony a heart will break in twa Should he ne'er come back again. Will ye no come back again? Will ye no come back again? Better lo'ed ye canna be— Will ye no come back again?

Ye trusted in your Hieland men, They trusted you, dear Charlie! They kent your hiding in the glen, Death or exile braving. Will ye no, &c.

English bribes were a' in vain, Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be; Siller canna buy the heart That beats aye for thine and thee. Will ye no, &c.

We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray; Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e, Oh, there is none that wad betray! Will ye no, &c.

Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang, Lilting wildly up the glen; But aye to me he sings ae sang, Will ye no come back again? Will ye no, &c.



JAMIE THE LAIRD.

AIR—"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."

Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink, Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak him think; Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw, An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava. Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e, In body or mind, nae fau't can she see; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang. An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow, An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee, His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee; He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he, A dafter-like body I never did see. An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein', When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein'; Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation, I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation. An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.

An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun, An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun. Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say, "I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae, Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie, Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie." I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury— I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury. For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.

Freen's! gi'e your advice!—I 'll follow your counsel— Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council, Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say, For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae. The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin', For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin'; The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin', For I 'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'. For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow, For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow; "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.



SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND.

AIR—"Happy Land."

Songs of my native land, To me how dear! Songs of my infancy, Sweet to mine ear! Entwined with my youthful days, Wi' the bonny banks and braes, Where the winding burnie strays, Murmuring near.

Strains of my native land, That thrill the soul, Pouring the magic of Your soft control! Often has your minstrelsy Soothed the pang of misery, Winging rapid thoughts away To realms on high.

Weary pilgrims there have rest, Their wand'rings o'er; There the slave, no more oppress'd, Hails Freedom's shore. Sin shall then no more deface, Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease, Ending in eternal peace, And songs of joy!

There, when the seraphs sing, In cloudless day; There, where the higher praise The ransom'd pay. Soft strains of the happy land, Chanted by the heavenly band, Who can fully understand How sweet ye be!



CASTELL GLOOM.[58]

Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone, The green grass o'er thee growin'; On hill of Care thou art alone, The Sorrow round thee flowin'. Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's Nae banners now are streamin', The houlet flits amang thy ha's, And wild birds there are screamin'. Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime, Frae civil war that flows; Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, And mourn the great Montrose.

Here ladies bright were aften seen, Here valiant warriors trod; And here great Knox has aften been, Wha fear'd nought but his God! But a' are gane! the guid, the great, And naething now remains, But ruin sittin' on thy wa's, And crumblin' down the stanes. Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow, Though sleepin' was the sun; But mornin's light did sadly show, What ragin' flames had done. Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud, That hung o'er thy wild wood! Thou wert like beauty in a shroud, And all was solitude. Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

[58] Castle Gloom, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burnt by the Marquis of Montrose—an enterprise to which he was excited by the Ogilvies, who thus sought revenge for the destruction, by the Marquis of Argyll, of the "bonnie house of Airlie." The castle is situated on a promontory of the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannanshire, and has long been in the ruinous condition described in the song. Two hill rivulets, designated Sorrow and Care, proceed on either side of the castle promontory. John Knox, the Reformer, for some time resided in Castle Gloom, with Archibald, fourth Earl of Argyll, and here preached the Reformed doctrines.



BONNIE GASCON HA'.

Lane, on the winding Earn there stands An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld, Biggit by lang forgotten hands, Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.

Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd And rived thy gray disjaskit wa', But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!

Oh, may a muse unkent to fame For this dim greesome relic sue, It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name, The truest Scotland ever knew.

Just leave in peace each mossy stane Tellin' o' nations' rivalry, An' for succeeding ages hain Remains o' Scottish chivalry.

* * * * *

What though no monument to thee Is biggit by thy country's hand; Engraved are thy immortal deeds On every heart o' this braid land.

Rude Time may monuments ding doun, An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay; Enduring, deathless, noble chief, Thy name can never pass away!

Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,— Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee; In every cave, wood, hill, and glen, "WALLACE" remember'd aye shall be.



THE AULD HOUSE.

Oh, the auld house, the auld house! What though the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu' o' glee! The wild-rose and the jesamine Still hang upon the wa'; How mony cherish'd memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird! Sae canty, kind, and crouse; How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house! And the leddy too, sae genty, There shelter'd Scotland's heir, And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair.

The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The blue bells sweetly blaw, The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. The auld house, the auld house, Deserted though ye be, There ne'er can be a new house, Will seem sae fair to me.

Still flourishing the auld pear tree The bairnies liked to see, And oh, how aften did they speir When ripe they a' wad be! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin' here and there, The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet To think we 'll hear nae mair.

For they are a' wide scatter'd now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas! to her lang hame; Not here we 'll meet again. The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird, Wi' flowers o' every hue, Shelter'd by the holly's shade, An' the dark sombre yew.

The setting sun, the setting sun, How glorious it gaed down; The cloudy splendour raised our hearts To cloudless skies aboon! The auld dial, the auld dial, It tauld how time did pass; The wintry winds hae dung it down,— Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.



THE HUNDRED PIPERS.[59]

AIR—"Hundred Pipers."

Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw, Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. It is ower the border, awa', awa', It is ower the border, awa', awa', Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha', Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.

Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw, Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a', Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear, An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear. Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen? Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men? Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae, An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away. Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.

Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'? Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw? Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a', Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. His bannet and feather, he 's waving high, His prancin' steed maist seems to fly; The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair, While the pipers blaw up an unco flare! Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.

The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep, But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep; Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground, An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound. Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a', Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw, Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa', Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.

[59] "Charles Edward entered Carlisle preceded by a hundred pipers. Two thousand Highlanders crossed the Esk, at Longtown; the tide being swollen, nothing was seen of them but their heads and shoulders; they stemmed the force of the stream, and lost not a man in the passage: when landed, the pipers struck up, and they danced reels until they were dry again."—Authentic Account of Occupation of Carlisle, by George G. Monsey.



THE WOMEN ARE A' GANE WUD.[60]

The women are a' gane wud, Oh, that he had biden awa'! He 's turn'd their heads, the lad, And ruin will bring on us a'. George was a peaceable man, My wife she did doucely behave; But now dae a' that I can, She 's just as wild as the lave.

My wife she wears the cockade, Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae, She has a true friend in her maid, And they ne'er mind a word that I say. The wild Hieland lads as they pass, The yetts wide open do flee; They eat the very house bare, And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.

I 've lived a' my days in the Strath Now Tories infest me at hame, And tho' I tak nae side at a', Baith sides will gae me the blame. The senseless creturs ne'er think What ill the lad wad bring back; The Pope we 'd hae, and the d—l, And a' the rest o' his pack.

[60] These verses are printed from a MS. in possession of one of Lady Nairn's friends, and are, the Editor believes, for the first time published.



JEANIE DEANS.[61]

St Leonard's hill was lightsome land, Where gowan'd grass was growin', For man and beast were food and rest, And milk and honey flowin'. A father's blessing follow'd close, Where'er her foot was treading, And Jeanie's humble, hamely joys On every side were spreading wide, On every side were spreading.

The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat, St Anthon's well aye springin'; The lammies playing at her feet, The birdies round her singin'. The solemn haunts o' Holyrood, Wi' bats and hoolits eerie, The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury, The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62] The lowly wells o' Weary.

But evil days and evil men, Came ower their sunny dwellin', Like thunder-storms on sunny skies, Or wastefu' waters swellin'. What aince was sweet is bitter now, The sun of joy is setting; In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee, The briny tear is wetting fast, The briny tear is wetting.

Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent, In faithful supplication; Her earthly stay 's Macallummore, The guardian o' the nation. A hero's heart—a sister's love— A martyr's truth unbending; They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid— And she is gane, her leefu' lane, To Lunnon toun she 's wending!

[61] The romantic scenery depicted in this song is in the immediate vicinity of the Queen's Drive, Edinburgh.

[62] The wells of Weary are situated near the Windyknowe, beneath Salisbury Crags.



THE HEIRESS.[63]

GAELIC AIR—"Mo Leannan Falnich."

I 'll no be had for naething, I 'll no be had for naething, I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing, So ye needna follow me. Oh, the change is most surprising, Last year I was plain Betty Brown, Now to me they 're a' aspiring,— The fair Elizabeth I am grown!

What siller does is most amazing, Nane o' them e'er look'd at me, Now my charms they a' are praising, For my sake they 're like to dee. The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor, Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree; Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention— Oh, surely this is no me! But I 'll no, &c.

The yett is now for ever ringing, Showers o' valentines aye bringing, Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts, Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts. The siller, O the weary siller! Aft in toil and trouble sought, But better far it should be sae, Than that true hearts should e'er be bought. Sae I 'll no, &c.

But there is ane, when I had naething, A' his heart he gi'ed to me; And sair he toil'd for a wee thing, To bring me when he cam frae sea. If ever I should marry ony, He will be the lad for me; For he was baith gude and bonny, And he thought the same o' me. Sae I 'll no, &c.

[63] This song is printed from an improved version of the original, by a literary friend of the author.



THE MITHERLESS LAMMIE.

The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie, We tentit it kindly by night and by day, The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't, Its food was the gowan—its music was "mai."

Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better, But it would gae witless the world to see; The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not, Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.

Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it, Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly; He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie, And left its kind hame the wide world to try.

We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in', Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree, Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin'; 'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.



THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES.[64]

Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains, To tell o' hame-made sorrow, And if they cheat you o' your tears, They 'll dry upon the morrow. Oh, some will sing their airy dreams, In verity they're sportin', My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes, But wakin' true misfortune.

Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a', For loyalty attainted, A nameless bardie 's wae to see Your sorrows unlamented; For if your fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, Ye 're down the day that might hae been At the top o' honour's tree a'.

For old hereditary right, For conscience' sake they stoutly stood; And for the crown their valiant sons Themselves have shed their injured blood; And if their fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, They 're down the day that might hae been At the top o' honour's tree a'.

[64] This song having become known to George IV., it is said to have induced his Majesty to award the royal sanction for the restitution of the title of Baron to Lady Nairn's husband.—(See Memoir.)



TRUE LOVE IS WATERED AYE WI' TEARS.[65]

True love is water'd aye wi' tears, It grows 'neath stormy skies, It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fears An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs. Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound, Oh! wha the heart can buy? The titled glare, the warldling's care, Even absence 'twill defy, Even absence 'twill defy.

And time, that kills a' ither things, His withering touch 'twill brave, 'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief, 'Twill live beyond the grave! 'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep, In true heart's memorie— Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair, Sae bricht, sae young, could dee, Sae young could dee.

Unfeeling hands may touch the chord Where buried griefs do lie— How many silent agonies May that rude touch untie! But, oh! I love that plaintive lay— That dear auld melodie! For, oh, 'tis sweet!—yet I maun greet, For it was sung by thee, Sung by thee!

They may forget wha lichtly love, Or feel but beauty's chain; But they wha loved a heavenly mind Can never love again! A' my dreams o' warld's guid Aye were turn'd wi' thee, But I leant on a broken reed Which soon was ta'en frae me, Ta'en frae me.

'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna ken What we may live to see, 'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veil O'er sad futurity! Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven, Wha feel the warld is vain, Oh, fix your broken earthly ties Where they ne'er will break again, Break again!

[65] Here first printed.



AH, LITTLE DID MY MOTHER THINK.[66]

Ah, little did my mother think When to me she sung, What a heartbreak I would be, Her young and dautit son.

And oh! how fond she was o' me In plaid and bonnet braw, When I bade farewell to the north countrie, And marching gaed awa!

Ah! little did my mother think A banish'd man I 'd be, Sent frae a' my kith and kin, Them never mair to see.

Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drap Aft ye did gi'e to me, That has brought a' this misery Baith to you and me.

[66] These verses are here first printed.



WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?[67]

AIR—"Ailen Aroon."

Would you be young again? So would not I— One tear to memory given, Onward I 'd hie. Life's dark flood forded o'er, All but at rest on shore, Say, would you plunge once more, With home so nigh?

If you might, would you now Retrace your way? Wander through stormy wilds, Faint and astray? Night's gloomy watches fled, Morning all beaming red, Hope's smiles around us shed, Heavenward—away.

Where, then, are those dear ones, Our joy and delight? Dear and more dear though now Hidden from sight. Where they rejoice to be, There is the land for me; Fly, time, fly speedily; Come, life and light.

[67] This song was composed in 1842, when the author had attained her seventy-sixth year. The four lays following, breathing the same devotional spirit, appear to have been written about the same period of the author's life. The present song is printed from the original MS.



REST IS NOT HERE.

What 's this vain world to me? Rest is not here; False are the smiles I see, The mirth I hear. Where is youth's joyful glee? Where all once dear to me? Gone, as the shadows flee— Rest is not here.

Why did the morning shine Blythely and fair? Why did those tints so fine Vanish in air? Does not the vision say, Faint, lingering heart, away, Why in this desert stay— Dark land of care!

Where souls angelic soar, Thither repair; Let this vain world no more Lull and ensnare. That heaven I love so well Still in my heart shall dwell; All things around me tell Rest is found there.



HERE'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE.

AIR—"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel."

Here 's to them, to them that are gane; Here 's to them, to them that are gane; Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear, That will never be here again—no, never. But where are they now that are gane? Oh, where are the faithful and true? They 're gane to the light that fears not the night, An' their day of rejoicing shall end—no, never.

Here 's to them, to them that were here; Here 's to them, to them that were here; Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by, But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last—for ever. Oh, bright was their morning sun! Oh, bright was their morning sun! Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down; But the storm and the cloud are now past—for ever.

Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad; Oh, how sad the last parting tear! But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek Can bedim the bright vision again—no, never. Then, speed to the wings of old Time, That waft us where pilgrims would be; To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest, Where the full tide of glory shall flow—for ever.



FAREWEEL, O FAREWEEL!

GAELIC AIR.

Fareweel, O fareweel! My heart it is sair; Fareweel, O fareweel! I 'll see him nae mair.

Lang, lang was he mine, Lang, lang—but nae mair; I mauna repine, But my heart it is sair.

His staff 's at the wa', Toom, toom is his chair! His bannet, an' a'! An' I maun be here!

But oh! he 's at rest, Why sud I complain? Gin my soul be blest, I 'll meet him again.

Oh, to meet him again, Where hearts ne'er were sair! Oh, to meet him again, To part never mair!



THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.[68]

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But weep not for him who is gone to his rest, Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest. The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie— Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow, Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord, Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But give to the living thy passion of tears Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears, Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost, By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd. Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more, Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er; Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord, And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.

[68] These stanzas are printed for the first time. The MS. is not in Lady Nairn's handwriting, but there is every reason to assign to her the authorship.



JAMES NICOL.

James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769. Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued study with unflinching assiduity and success. On completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of Innerleithen; and on the death of the incumbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses to the Edinburgh Magazine; and he afterwards published a collection of "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo. This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of that immortal bard.

At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement. He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS., in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed a number of articles to the Edinburgh Encyclopaedia, among which are "Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.

Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November 1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.



BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.

Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur, Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree; 'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer, The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e. For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander, Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!

Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish? Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair? When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!— That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair? Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream, Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme, Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin', Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.



BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN' STREAM.

By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam, Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e; Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour, When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.

The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made, When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie; An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray, An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.

Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales, An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree; Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice, For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!

When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang, An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e, My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear? But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.

Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power, To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee! Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home, The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.

But if—for much I fear—that day will ne'er appear, Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree; For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again, Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.



HALUCKIT MEG.

Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre, Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang; Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire, While loud as a lavrock she sang. Her Geordie had promised to marry, An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair, Not dreamin' the job could miscarry, Already seem'd mistress an' mair.

"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me, An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg, An' say they expect soon to hear me, I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg. An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter, An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca' An auld doited hav'rel,—nae matter, He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.

"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle, That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he 's crazie, His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa'; Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy, For fient a hair has he ava'.

"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie, An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist, An' if siller comes at my wordie, His beauty I never will miss 't. Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder, Think love-raptures ever will burn? But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder, Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures, A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear, He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser, He likes his saul less than his gear. But though I now flatter his failin', An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare, Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin', His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot, A flunkie ahint me in green; While Geordie cried out he was harriet, An' the saut tear was blindin' his een. But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye, I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn; Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie; Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin', Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks; An' whan a' his failin's she brang in, His strang hazel pikestaff he taks, Designin' to rax her a lounder, He chanced on the lather to shift, An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder, Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!



MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.

My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter? My heart it gangs pittypat—winna lie still; I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better, Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill! My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin', I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak; I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin', Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.

Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of, And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try— Though it 's a' true they tell ye—yet never sae far off I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why. When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't, And never grew weary the lang simmer day; The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit, And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie, 'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou'; Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye— My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how. When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on; And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be! There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee.



JAMES MONTGOMERY.

James Montgomery, the spiritual character of whose writings has gained him the honourable designation of the Christian Poet, was born at Irvine, in the county of Ayr, on the 4th of November 1771. His father, John Montgomery, was a missionary of the Moravian Brethren, and in this capacity came to Irvine from Ireland, only a few days before the birth of James, his eldest son. In his fourth year he returned to Ireland with his parents, and received the rudiments of his education from the village schoolmaster of Grace Hill, a settlement of the Moravian Brethren in the county of Antrim. In October 1777, in his seventh year, he was placed by his father in the seminary of the Moravian settlement of Fulneck, near Leeds; and on the departure of his parents to the West Indies, in 1783, he was committed to the care of the Brethren, with the view of his being trained for their Church. He was not destined to see his parents again. His mother died at Barbadoes, in November 1790, and his father after an interval of eight months.

In consequence of his indolent habits, which were incorrigible, young Montgomery was removed from the seminary at Fulneck, and placed in the shop of a baker at Mirfield, in the vicinity. He was then in his sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidence of a refined taste, both in poetry and music, though careless of the ordinary routine of scholastic instruction, his new occupation was altogether uncongenial to his feelings. He, however, remained about eighteen months in the baker's service, but at length made a hasty escape from Mirfield, with only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, and seemingly without any scheme except that of relieving himself from an irksome employment. But an accidental circumstance speedily enabled him to obtain an engagement with a shopkeeper in Wath, now a station on the railway between London and Leeds; and in procuring this employment, he was indebted to the recommendation of his former master, whose service he had unceremoniously quitted. But this new situation had few advantages over the old, and he relinquished it in about a year to try his fortune in the metropolis. He had previously sent a manuscript volume of poetry to Harrison, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, who, while declining to publish it, commended the author's talents, and so far promoted his views as now to receive him into his establishment. But Montgomery's aspirations had no reference to serving behind a counter; he only accepted a place in the bookseller's establishment that he might have an opportunity of leisurely feeling his way as an author. His literary efforts, however, still proved fruitless. He composed essays and tales, and wrote a romance in the manner of Fielding, but none of his productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he quitted London in eight months, and returned to the shop of his former employer at Wath. After the interval of another year, he proceeded to Sheffield, to occupy a situation under Mr Joseph Gales, a bookseller, and the proprietor of the Register newspaper.

Montgomery was now in his twenty-first year, and fortune at length began, though with many lowering intervals, to smile upon his youthful aspirations. Though he occupied a subordinate post in Mr Gales' establishment, his literary services were accepted for the Register, in which he published many of his earlier compositions, both in prose and verse. This journal had advocated sentiments of an ultra-liberal order, and commanding a wide circulation and a powerful influence among the operatives in Sheffield, had been narrowly inspected by the authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of sympathising in the transactions of the French revolutionists; he was prosecuted for sedition, and deemed himself only safe from compulsory exile by a voluntary exit to America. This event took place about two years after Montgomery's first connexion with Sheffield, and he had now reverted to his former condition of abject dependence unless for a fortunate occurrence. This was no less than his being appointed joint-proprietor and editor of the newspaper by a wealthy individual, who, noticing the abilities of the young shopman, purchased the copyright with the view of placing the management entirely in his hands.

The first number of the newspaper under the poet's care, the name being changed to that of The Sheffield Iris, appeared in July 1794; and though the principles of the journal were moderate and conciliatory in comparison with the democratic sentiments espoused by the former publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new conductor. He did not escape their vigilance; for the simple offence of printing for a ballad-vender some verses of a song celebrating the fall of the Bastile, he was libelled as "a wicked, malicious, seditious, and evil-disposed person;" and being tried before the Doncaster Quarter Sessions, in January 1795, was sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the Castle of York. He was condemned to a second imprisonment of six months in the autumn of the same year, for inserting in his paper an account of a riot in the place, in which he was considered to have cast aspersions on a colonel of volunteers. The calm mind of the poet did not sink under these persecutions, and some of his best lyrics were composed during the period of his latter confinement. During his first detention he wrote a series of interesting essays for his newspaper. His "Prison Amusements," a series of beautiful pieces, appeared in 1797. In 1805, he published his poem, "The Ocean;" in 1806, "The Wanderer in Switzerland;" in 1808, "The West Indies;" and in 1812, "The World before the Flood." In 1819 he published "Greenland, a Poem, in Five Cantos;" and in 1825 appeared "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." Of all those productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious criticism in the Edinburgh Review, at once procured an honourable place for the author among his contemporaries. He became sole proprietor of the Iris in one year after his being connected with it, and he continued to conduct this paper till September 1825, when he retired from public duty. He subsequently contributed articles for different periodicals; but he chiefly devoted himself to the moral and religious improvement of his fellow-townsmen. A pension of L150 on the civil list was conferred upon him as an acknowledgment of his services in behalf of literature and of philanthropy; a well-merited public boon which for many years he was spared to enjoy. He died at his residence, The Mount, Sheffield, on the 30th of April 1854, in the eighty-second year of his age. He bequeathed handsome legacies to various public charities. His Poetical Works, in a collected form, were published in 1850 by the Messrs Longman, in one octavo volume; and in 1853 he gave to the world his last work, being "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Copious memoirs of his life are now in the course of publication.

As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his versification, and for the fervent piety pervading all his compositions. As a man, he was gentle and conciliatory, and was remarkable as a generous promoter of benevolent institutions. The general tendency of his poems was thus indicated by himself, in the course of an address which he made at a public dinner, given him at Sheffield, in November 1825, immediately after the toast of his health being proposed by the chairman, Lord Viscount Milton, now Earl Fitzwilliam:—

"I sang of war—but it was the war of freedom, in which death was preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;' extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang of love—the love of country, the love of my own country; for,

'Next to heaven above, Land of my fathers! thee I love; And, rail thy slanderers as they will, With all thy faults I love thee still.'

I sang, likewise, the love of home—its charities, endearments and relationships—all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, who is love. Nor did I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language is spoken—from America, the East and West Indies, from New Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves—I have received testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers, hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch—the voice of posterity."



"FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH."

When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound Among a band of brothers, The cup of joy goes gaily round, Each shares the bliss of others. Sweet roses grace the thorny way Along this vale of sorrow; The flowers that shed their leaves to-day Shall bloom again to-morrow. How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

On halcyon wings our moments pass, Life's cruel cares beguiling; Old Time lays down his scythe and glass, In gay good-humour smiling: With ermine beard and forelock gray, His reverend part adorning, He looks like Winter turn'd to May, Night soften'd into Morning. How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

From these delightful fountains flow Ambrosial rills of pleasure; Can man desire, can Heaven bestow, A more resplendent treasure? Adorn'd with gems so richly bright, Will form a constellation, Where every star, with modest light, Shall gild its proper station. How grand in age, how fair in youth, Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"



THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth— The loveliest land on the face of the earth? When shall I those scenes of affection explore, Our forests, our fountains, Our hamlets, our mountains, With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore? Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?

When shall I return to that lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,— The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call, My father, my mother, My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all? Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?— 'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.



GERMAN WAR-SONG.[69]

Heaven speed the righteous sword, And freedom be the word; Come, brethren, hand in hand, Fight for your fatherland.

Germania from afar Invokes her sons to war; Awake! put forth your powers, And victory must be ours.

On to the combat, on! Go where your sires have gone; Their might unspent remains, Their pulse is in our veins.

On to the battle, on! Rest will be sweet anon; The slave may yield, may fly,— We conquer, or we die!

O Liberty! thy form Shines through the battle-storm. Away with fear, away! Let justice win the day.

[69] The simple and sublime original of these stanzas, with the fine air by Huemmel, became the national song of Germany, and was sung by the soldiers especially, during the latter campaigns of the war, when Buonaparte was twice dethroned, and Europe finally delivered from French predominance.



VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

Night turns to day:— When sullen darkness lowers, And heaven and earth are hid from sight, Cheer up, cheer up; Ere long the opening flowers, With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.

Storms die in calms:— When over land and ocean Roll the loud chariots of the wind, Cheer up, cheer up; The voice of wild commotion, Proclaims tranquillity behind.

Winter wakes spring:— When icy blasts are blowing O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees, Cheer up, cheer up; All beautiful and glowing, May floats in fragrance on the breeze.

War ends in peace:— Though dread artillery rattle, And ghostly corses load the ground, Cheer up, cheer up; Where groan'd the field of battle, The song, the dance, the feast, go round.

Toil brings repose:— With noontide fervours beating, When droop thy temples o'er thy breast, Cheer up, cheer up; Gray twilight, cool and fleeting, Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

Death springs to life:— Though brief and sad thy story, Thy years all spent in care and gloom, Look up, look up; Eternity and glory Dawn through the portals of the tomb.



VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST, WHICH VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.

Welcome, pretty little stranger! Welcome to my lone retreat! Here, secure from every danger, Hop about, and chirp, and eat: Robin! how I envy thee, Happy child of Liberty!

Now, though tyrant Winter, howling, Shakes the world with tempests round, Heaven above with vapours scowling, Frost imprisons all the ground: Robin! what are these to thee? Thou art bless'd with liberty.

Though yon fair majestic river[70] Mourns in solid icy chains, Though yon flocks and cattle shiver On the desolated plains: Robin! thou art gay and free, Happy in thy liberty.

Hunger never shall disturb thee, While my rates one crumb afford; Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee; Come and share my humble board: Robin! come and live with me— Live, yet still at liberty.

Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes, Steal upon the blooming year; Then, amid the enamour'd bushes, Thy sweet song shall warble clear: Then shall I, too, join with thee— Swell the hymn of Liberty.

Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin, In this iron-hearted age, Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin, And confine thee in a cage, Then, poor prisoner! think of me— Think, and sigh for liberty.

[70] The Ouse.



SLAVERY THAT WAS.

Ages, ages have departed, Since the first dark vessel bore Afric's children, broken-hearted, To the Caribbean shore; She, like Rachel, Weeping, for they were no more.

Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd, In the fight and on the deep; Millions, millions more have water'd, With such tears as captives weep, Fields of travail, Where their bones till doomsday sleep.

Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading, Rent her garments, smote her breast, Till a voice from Heaven proceeding, Gladden'd all the gloomy west,— "Come, ye weary, Come, and I will give you rest!"

Tidings, tidings of salvation! Britons rose with one accord, Purged the plague-spot from our nation, Negroes to their rights restored; Slaves no longer, Freemen,—freemen of the Lord.



ANDREW SCOTT.

Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication—a counsel which induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in 1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work, entitled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe.

The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills, the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however, experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence, extended towards him countenance and assistance.

Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle, or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the office of schoolmaster of that parish.

The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing: his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden, and has been pronounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was modest and unassuming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable specimens of his muse.[71]

[71] We have to acknowledge our obligations for several particulars of this sketch to Mr Robert Bower, Melrose, the author of a volume of "Ballads and Lyrics," published at Edinburgh in 1853.



RURAL CONTENT; OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.

AIR—"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."

I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land, And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't, And I hae servants at my command, And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't. My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door, And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r, To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.

Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share, It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't; I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair, And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies, I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please, Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas, And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.

My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill, And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't, And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill, Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't; And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days, My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes, And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze, While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride, But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't, How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride, Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't. In blue worset boots that my auld mither span, I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan, And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.

Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae— My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?— In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae, I dink me to try the ridin' o't. Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear, And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear, And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear, I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.

Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird, My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't; My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard, And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't. Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet, Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.

And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw, Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't, And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha', Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't. My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me, The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be, Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee, And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.

And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing, My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't; He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring, And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't. And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw, The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw, Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa, Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.

And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn, My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn, And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't, On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply, And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye, Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy, Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.

Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks, Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't, Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks, Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't: For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent, The seasons row round us in rural content; We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent, And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.



SYMON AND JANET.

AIR—"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Whare muircocks and plivers are rife, For mony lang towmond thegither, There lived an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation, The twasome they seldom were mute; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin', To lock in the door was her care; She seein' our signals a-blazin', Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.

"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit! Gae look man, and slip on your shoon; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"

"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa', "Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin'," Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.

"Our youngest son 's in the militia, Our eldest grandson 's volunteer: O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks shall appear."

His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun; His bullets he put in the other, That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!" And teughly she hang by his tails.

"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares, For now to be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."

Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot! Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead; This aught days I tentit a pyot Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.

"And yesterday, workin' my stockin', And you wi' the sheep on the hill, A muckle black corbie sat croakin'; I kend it foreboded some ill."

"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty, For ere the next sun may gae down, Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown?"

"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee, I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead, And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."

Syne aff in a fury he stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun; At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled, Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.

There footmen and yeomen paradin', To scour aff in dirdum were seen, Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin' The briny saut tears frae their een.

Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon, And to the commander he gaes; Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man, And help ye to lounder our faes.

"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire, Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash, And, fegs, if my gun winna fire, I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."

"Well spoken, my hearty old hero," The captain did smiling reply, But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow, Till daylight should glent in the sky.

Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething; Sae Symon, and Janet his dame, Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed bannin' the French again hame.



COQUET WATER.

AIR—"Braw Lads of Gala Water."

Whan winter winds forget to blaw, An' vernal suns revive pale nature, A shepherd lad by chance I saw, Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.

Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays, His Mary's charms an' matchless feature, While echoes answer'd frae the braes, That skirt the banks of Coquet water.

"Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine," Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her; An' deem mysel' as happy syne, As landit laird on Coquet water.

"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam, In foreign lands their fortune fritter; But love's pure joys be mine at home, Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.

"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I, Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better; Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy, Tending my flocks by Coquet water.

"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream, For on thy banks aft hae I met her; Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam, That busk the banks of Coquet water."



THE YOUNG MAID'S WISH FOR PEACE.

AIR—"Far frae Hame," &c.

Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease, An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace; Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea, Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.

My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main, An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain; But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me, That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.

When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break, An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake; Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be, An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.

Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore, Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar; In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee, Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.

Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war, An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar: But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity, First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.

An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry! On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie, Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea, Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.

Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done! An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won; On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily, An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.

But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land, When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be, An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.



THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW.

There was a musician wha play'd a good stick, He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle, An' in his profession he had right good luck At bridals his elbow to diddle.

But ah! the poor fiddler soon chanced to die, As a' men to dust must return; An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e, That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.

Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat, Lamenting the day that she saw, An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat, That silent now hang on the wa'.

Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek, Sae newly weel washen wi' tears, As in came a younker some comfort to speak, Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.

"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms, Consent but to marry me now, I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms, An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."

The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said, "Dear sir, to dissemble I hate, If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed, Folks needna contend against fate."

He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung, An' put a' the thairms in tune, The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung, For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.

Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay, For death still the dearest maun sever; For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay, An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.



LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF.

He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest, Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest: We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver, Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.

Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray, Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory; And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara, His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.

When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed, Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded, Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest, Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.

Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding, Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding, Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,— Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.

Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted— The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed— Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever, Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.

Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining, I sigh, for thy exit is near; Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining, Who now presses hard on thy rear.

The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning, Droop sick as they nod on the lea; The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morning Shrill warbles his song from the tree.

Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow, No warbler to lend her a lay, No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow, As wont for to welcome the day.

Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley, Each landscape how pensive its mien! They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily, And losing their liv'ry of green.

O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions, To where purer streamlets still flow, Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions, Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.



SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

Sir Walter Scott, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771. His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his mother's side his progenitors were likewise highly respectable: his maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of the uncommon attribute of genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When scarcely two years old he was seized with an illness which deprived him of the proper use of his right limb, a loss which continued during his life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside with his paternal grandfather, Robert Scott, who rented the farm of Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, in Roxburghshire. Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant; but he had afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness, he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve months, without experiencing benefit from the mineral waters. During the three following years he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border legends, chiefly derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a person of a romantic inclination and sprightly intelligence. At this period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in Ramsay's "Evergreen," were his favourite studies; and he took delight in reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages, or verses, to his mother, who sought every incentive to stimulate his native propensity. In 1778 he was sent to the High School, where he possessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able scholar, and Dr Adam, the distinguished rector. His progress in scholarship was not equal to his talents; he was already a devotee to romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend to some quiet spot in the country, to relate or to listen to a fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the prescribed tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, the love of miscellaneous literature, especially the works of the great masters of fiction, amounted to a passion; and as his memory was singularly tenacious, he accumulated a great extent and variety of miscellaneous information.

On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to reside with some relations at Kelso; and in this interesting locality his growing attachment to the national minstrelsy and legendary lore received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh he entered the University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in October 1793. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the High School, insomuch that Mr Dalziel, the professor of Greek, was induced to give public expression as to his hopeless incapacity. The professor fortunately survived to make ample compensation for the rashness of his prediction.

The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were entirely directed to a military life; but his continued lameness interposed an insuperable difficulty, and was a source of deep mortification. He was at length induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities, entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his aspirations, he was chiefly reconciled by the consideration that his fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books.

Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the second year of his apprenticeship. While precluded from active duty, being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by speaking, he was still allowed to read; a privilege which accelerated his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he was recommended exercise on horseback; and in obeying the instructions of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself generally familiar with localities and scenes famous in Scottish story. On the restoration of his health, he at length became seriously engaged in the study of law for several continuous years, and, after the requisite examinations, was admitted as an advocate, on the 10th of July 1792, when on the point of attaining his twenty-first year.

In his twelfth year, Scott had composed some verses for his preceptor and early friend Dr Adam, which afforded promise of his future excellence. But he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in prose wore a stiff formality. On being called to the bar, he at first carefully refrained, according to his own statement, from claiming the honour of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose that his habits were unsuitable to a due attention to the duties of his profession. He was relieved of dependence on professional employment by espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman, possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaintance he had formed at Gilsland, a watering-place in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of L300 a year. While he continued in his father's office he had made himself familiar with the French and Italian languages, and had read many of their more celebrated authors, especially the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after he came to the bar, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis, whose friendship he had recently acquired. In 1796 he made his first adventure as an author by publishing translations of "Lenore," and "The Wild Huntsman" of Buerger. The attempt proved unsuccessful; but, undismayed, he again essayed his skill in translation by publishing, in 1799, an English version of Goethe's "Goetz of Berlichingen." His success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.

Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of the Scottish borders, which had only been preserved by the recitations of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The independence of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, a wild pastoral district on the Scottish border, anciently peopled by the noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions; and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information, partly communicated to him by intelligent correspondents, he gave to the world, in 1802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume, consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and others. These volumes issued from the printing-press of his early friend and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards so justly celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of "Sir Tristrem;" and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the Rhymer. He published in 1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of L600.

The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. In the year following that which produced the "Lay," he received his appointment as a principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards brought him L1200 a-year. To literary occupation he now resolved to dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced "Marmion," his second great poem, which brought him L1000 from the publisher, and at once established his fame. During the same year he completed the heavy task of editing the works of Dryden, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he edited the state papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a contributor to the Edinburgh Annual Register, conducted by Southey. "The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his poetical works, appeared in 1810; "Don Roderick," in 1811; "Rokeby," in 1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless," and "The Bridal of Triermain," appeared subsequently, without the author's name.

As a poet, Scott had now attained a celebrity unrivalled among his contemporaries, and it was in the apprehension of compromising his reputation, that, in attempting a new species of composition, he was extremely anxious to conceal the name of the author. The novel of "Waverley," which appeared in 1814, did not, however, suffer from its being anonymous; for, although the sale was somewhat heavy at first, the work soon afterwards reached the extraordinary circulation of twelve thousand copies. Contrary to reasonable expectation, however, the author of "Waverley" did not avow himself, and, numerous as was the catalogue of prose fictions which, for more than twenty years, proceeded from his pen, he continued as desirous of retaining his secret as were his female contemporaries, Lady Nairn and Lady Anne Barnard, to cast a veil over their poetical character. The rapidity with which the "Great Unknown" produced works of fiction, was one of the marvels of the age; and many attempts were made to withdraw the curtain which concealed the mysterious author. Successive years produced at least one, and often two, novels of a class infinitely superior to the romances of the past age, all having reference to the manners and habits of the most interesting and chivalrous periods of Scottish or British history, which, in these works, were depicted with a power and vivacity unattained by the most graphic national historians. Subsequently to the publication of "Guy Mannering" and "The Antiquary," in 1815 and 1816, and as an expedient to sustain the public interest, Scott commenced a new series of novels, under the title of "Tales of my Landlord," these being professedly written by a different author; but this resort was abandoned as altogether unnecessary for the contemplated object. Each successive romance by the author of "Waverley" awakened renewed ardour and enthusiasm among the public, and commanded a circulation commensurate with the bounds in which the language was understood. Many of them were translated into the various European languages. In the year 1814 he had published an edition of the works of Swift, in nineteen volumes octavo.

For some years after his marriage, Scott had occupied a cottage in the romantic vicinity of Lasswade, near Edinburgh; but in 1804 he removed to Ashestiel, an old mansion, beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed, seven miles above Selkirk, where, for several years, he continued to reside during the vacation of the Court. The ruling desire of his life was, that by the proceeds of his intellectual labour he might acquire an ample demesne, with a suitable mansion of his own, and thus in some measure realise in his own person, and in those of his representatives, somewhat of the territorial importance of those olden barons, whose wassails and whose feuds he had experienced delight in celebrating. To attain such distinction as a Scottish laird, or landholder, he was prepared to incur many sacrifices; nor was this desire exceeded by regard for literary reputation. It was unquestionably with a view towards the attainment of his darling object, that he taxed so severely those faculties with which nature had so liberally endowed him, and exhibited a prolificness of authorship, such as has rarely been evinced in the annals of literary history. In 1811 he purchased, on the south bank of the Tweed, near Melrose, the first portion of that estate which, under the name of Abbotsford, has become indelibly associated with his history. The soil was then a barren waste, but by extensive improvements the place speedily assumed the aspect of amenity and beauty. The mansion, a curious amalgamation, in questionable taste, of every species of architecture, was partly built in 1811, and gradually extended with the increasing emoluments of the owner. By successive purchases of adjacent lands, the Abbotsford property became likewise augmented, till the rental amounted to about L700 a-year—a return sufficiently limited for an expenditure of upwards of L50,000 on this favourite spot.

At Abbotsford the poet maintained the character of a wealthy country gentleman. He was visited by distinguished persons from the sister kingdom, from the Continent, and from America, all of whom he entertained in a style of sumptuous elegance. Nor did his constant social intercourse with his visitors and friends interfere with the regular prosecution of his literary labours: he rose at six, and engaged in study and composition till eleven o'clock. During the period of his residence in the country, he devoted the remainder of the day to his favourite exercise on horseback, the superintendence of improvements on his property, and the entertainment of his guests. In March 1820, George IV., to whom he was personally known, and who was a warm admirer of his genius, granted to him the honour of a baronetcy, being the first which was conferred by his Majesty after his accession. Prior to this period, besides the works already enumerated, he had given to the world his romances of "The Black Dwarf," "Old Mortality," "Rob Roy," "The Heart of Midlothian," "The Bride of Lammermoor," "A Legend of Montrose," and "Ivanhoe." The attainment of the baronetcy appears to have stimulated him to still greater exertion. In 1820 he produced, besides "Ivanhoe," which appeared in the early part of that year, "The Monastery" and "The Abbot;" and in the beginning of 1821, the romance of "Kenilworth," being twelve volumes published within the same number of months. "The Pirate" and "The Fortunes of Nigel" appeared in 1822; "Peveril of the Peak" and "Quentin Durward," in 1823; "St Ronan's Well" and "Redgauntlet," in 1824; and "The Tales of the Crusaders," in 1825.

During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter undertook the congenial duty of acting as Master of Ceremonies, which he did to the entire satisfaction of his sovereign and of the nation. But while prosperity seemed to smile with increasing brilliancy, adversity was hovering near. In 1826, Archibald Constable and Company, the famous publishers of his works, became insolvent, involving in their bankruptcy the printing firm of the Messrs Ballantyne, of which Sir Walter was a partner. The liabilities amounted to the vast sum of L102,000, for which Sir Walter was individually responsible. To a mind less balanced by native intrepidity and fortified by principle, the apparent wreck of his worldly hopes would have produced irretrievable despondency; but Scott bore his misfortune with magnanimity and manly resignation. He had been largely indebted to both the establishments which had unfortunately involved him in their fall, in the elegant production of his works, as well as in respect of pecuniary accommodation; and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal obligation, fully to discharge the debt. He declined to accept an offer of the creditors to be satisfied with a composition; and claiming only to be allowed time, applied himself with indomitable energy to his arduous undertaking, at the age of fifty-five, in the full determination, if his life was spared, of cancelling every farthing of his obligations. At the crisis of his embarrassments he was engaged in the composition of "Woodstock," which shortly afterwards appeared. The "Life of Napoleon," which had for a considerable time occupied his attention, was published in 1827, in nine vols. octavo. In the course of its preparation he had visited both London and Paris in search of materials. In the same year he produced "Chronicles of the Canongate," first series; and in the year following, the second series of those charming tales, and the first portion of his juvenile history of Scotland, under the title of "Tales of a Grandfather." A second portion of these tales appeared in 1829, and the third and concluding series in 1830, when he also contributed a graver History of Scotland in two volumes to Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia. In 1829 likewise appeared "Anne of Geierstein," a romance, and in 1830 the "Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft." In 1831 he produced a series of "Tales on French History," uniform with the "Tales of a Grandfather," and his novels, "Count Robert of Paris," and "Castle Dangerous," as a fourth series of "Tales of My Landlord." Other productions of inferior mark appeared from his pen; he contributed to the Edinburgh Review, during the first year of its career; wrote the articles, "Chivalry," "Romance," and "Drama," for the sixth edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica; and during his latter years contributed somewhat copiously to the Quarterly Review.

At a public dinner in Edinburgh, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund, on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter made his first avowal as to the authorship of the Waverley Novels,—an announcement which scarcely took the public by surprise. The physical energies of the illustrious author were now suffering a rapid decline; and in his increasing infirmities, and liability to sudden and severe attacks of pain, and even of unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the praiseworthy effort to pay his debts, he was sacrificing his health and shortening his life. Those apprehensions proved not without foundation. In the autumn of 1831, his health became so lamentably broken, that his medical advisers recommended a residence in Italy, and entire cessation from mental occupation, as the only means of invigorating a constitution so seriously dilapidated. But the counsel came too late; the patient proceeded to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, but experiencing no benefit from the change, he was rapidly conveyed homewards in the following summer, in obedience to his express wish, that he might have the satisfaction of closing his eyes at Abbotsford. The wish was gratified: he arrived at Abbotsford on the 11th of July 1832, and survived till the 21st of the ensuing September. According to his own request, his remains were interred in an aisle in Dryburgh Abbey, which had belonged to one of his ancestors, and had been granted to him by the late Earl of Buchan. A heavy block of marble rests upon the grave, in juxtaposition with another which has been laid on that of his affectionate partner in life, who died in May 1826. The aisle is protected by a heavy iron railing.

In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet; but his personal appearance, which had otherwise been commanding, was considerably marred by the lameness of his right limb, which caused him to walk with an awkward effort, and ultimately with much difficulty. His countenance, so correctly represented in his numerous portraits and busts, was remarkable for depth of forehead; his features were somewhat heavy, and his eyes, covered with thick eyelashes, were dull, unless animated by congenial conversation. He was of a fair complexion; and his hair, originally sandy, became gray from a severe illness which he suffered in his 48th year. His general conversation consisted in the detail of chivalric adventures and anecdotes of the olden times. His memory was so retentive that whatever he had studied indelibly maintained a place in his recollection. In fertility of imagination he surpassed all his contemporaries. As a poet, if he has not the graceful elegance of Campbell, and the fervid energy of Byron, he excels the latter in purity of sentiment, and the former in vigour of conception. His style was well adapted for the composition of lyric poetry; but as he had no ear for music, his song compositions are not numerous. Several of these, however, have been set to music, and maintain their popularity.[72] But Scott's reputation as a poet is inferior to his reputation as a novelist; and while even his best poems may cease to be generally read, the author of the Waverley Novels will only be forgotten with the disuse of the language. A cabinet edition of these novels, with the author's last notes, and illustrated with elegant engravings, appeared in forty-eight volumes a short period before his decease; several other complete editions have since been published by the late Mr Robert Cadell, and by the present proprietors of the copyright, the Messrs Black of Edinburgh.

As a man of amiable dispositions and incorruptible integrity, Sir Walter Scott shone conspicuous among his contemporaries, the latter quality being eminently exhibited in his resolution to pay the whole of his heavy pecuniary liabilities. To this effort he fell a martyr; yet it was a source of consolation to his survivors, that, by his own extraordinary exertions, the policy of life insurance payable at his death, and the sum of L30,000 paid by Mr Cadell for the copyright of his works, the whole amount of the debt was discharged. It is, however painfully, to be remarked, that the object of his earlier ambition, in raising a family, has not been realised. His children, consisting of two sons and two daughters, though not constitutionally delicate, have all departed from the scene, and the only representative of his house is the surviving child of his eldest daughter, who was married to Mr John Gibson Lockhart, the late editor of the Quarterly Review, and his literary executor. This sole descendant, a grand-daughter, is the wife of Mr Hope, Q.C., who has lately added to his patronymic the name of Scott, and made Abbotsford his summer residence. The memory of the illustrious Minstrel has received every honour from his countrymen; monuments have been raised to him in the principal towns—that in the capital, a rich Gothic cross, being one of the noblest decorations of his native city. Abbotsford has become the resort of the tourist and of the traveller from every land, who contemplate with interest and devotion a scene hallowed by the loftiest genius.

"The grass is trodden by the feet Of thousands, from a thousand lands— The prince, the peasant, tottering age, And rosy schoolboy bands; All crowd to fairy Abbotsford, And lingering gaze, and gaze the more; Hang o'er the chair in which he sat, The latest dress he wore."[73]

[72] We regret that, owing to the provision of the copyright act, we are unable, in this work, to present four of Sir Walter Scott's most popular songs, "The Blue Bonnets over the Border," "Jock o' Hazeldean," "M'Gregor's Gathering," and "Carle, now the King's come." These songs must, however, be abundantly familiar to the majority of readers.

[73] From "The Grave of Sir Walter Scott," a poem by Thomas C. Latto (see "The Minister's Kail-yard, and other Poems." Edinburgh, 1845, 12mo). To explain an allusion in the last line of the above stanza, it should be noticed, that the last dress of the poet is exhibited to visitors at Abbotsford, carefully preserved in a glass case.