"Nasty, gude-for-naething being! Folk frae every door came lampin, Hame, at length, she turned the gavel, Kickin stools and chairs about. Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak, Sat, like patient Resignation, Trembling by the ingle-cheek. Sighin aften to himsel 'Nane are free frae some vexation, [A Pedlar's Story.] I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat, Ay! thae were days indeed, that gar'd me hope, I kenned my Kate wad grapple at me than. 1 Old shoes. Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift, Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack, Fool that I was! how little did I think Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet, At ance had drapped cauld dead at my feet; Or though I'd heard the last day's dreadful ca', Nae deeper horror owre my heart could fa': I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate, And grat-and sabbing cried, Oh Kate! oh Kate! Frae that day forth I never mair did weel, But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil! My siller vanished, far frae hame I pined, But Kate for ever ran across my mind; In her were a' my hopes-these hopes were vain, And now I'll never see her like again, HECTOR MACNEILL. HECTOR MACNEILL (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but was unsuccessful in most of his business affairs. He cultivated in secret an attachment to the muses, which at length brought him fame, though not wealth. In 1789 he published a legendary poem, The Harp, and in 1795 his moral tale, Scotland's Shaith, or the History o' Will and Jean. The object of this production was to depict the evil effects of intemperance. A happy rural pair are reduced to ruin, descending by gradual steps till the husband is obliged to enlist as a soldier, and the wife to beg with her children through the country. The situation of the little ale-house where Will begins his unlucky potations is finely described. In a howm whose bonny burnie Up the gavel-end thick spreading Joined the burnie's rambling line; That same day set up her sign. Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marvelling sees 'Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,' Painted bright between twa trees. 'Godsake, Tam! here's walth for drinking! Wha can this new-comer be?' 'Hout,' quo' Tam, 'there's drouth in thinkingLet's in, Will, and syne we'll see.' The rustic friends have a jolly meeting, and do not separate till ''tween twa and three' next morning. A weekly club is set up at Maggy Howe's, a newspaper is procured, and poor Will, the hero of the tale, becomes a pot-house politician, and soon goes to ruin. His wife also takes to drinking. Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace? Wha in neebouring town or farm? Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller, Thousands had mair braws and siller, But war ony half sae fair? See them now!-how changed wi' drinking! Davered, doited, daized, and blinking- Wi' ilk face as white's a clout! No a friend their cause to plead ! She wi' weans to beg her bread! Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin', Willie, heedless, tint his gate. Strack the ear wi' thundering thud: Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating; Linties chirped on ilka tree; Frae the west the sun, near setting, Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie. Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny! Save the Muses' Hawthornden! Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will (though hardly fit to gang) Wandered on through scenes inviting, Listening to the mavis' sang. Faint at length, the day fast closing, 'Soldier, rise!-the dews o' e'ening Sleep na here, and catch your death.' * * Silent stept he on, poor fallow! Listening to his guide before, Entering now, in transport mingle 'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till her; Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?' Hae ye marked the dews o' morning Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing, Senseless drap at Willie's feet. (A' their waes now hushed to rest), The simple truth and pathos of descriptions like these appealed to the heart, and soon rendered Macneill's poem universally popular in Scotland. Its moral tendency was also a strong recommendation, and the same causes still operate in procuring readers for the tale, especially in that class best fitted to appreciate its rural beauties and homely pictures, and to receive benefit from the lessons it inculcates. Macneill wrote several Scottish lyrics, but he wanted the true genius for song-writing-the pathos, artlessness, and simple gaiety which should accompany the flow of the music. He published a descriptive poem, entitled The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling; and some prose tales, in which he laments the effect of modern change and improvement. The latter years of the poet were spent in comparative comfort at Edinburgh, where he enjoyed the refined and literary society of the Scottish capital till an advanced age. Mary of Castle-Cary. Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree: It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing, It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary, Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie. Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling- Is it my true love here that I see? O Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to me, The Filial Vow. Why heaves my mother oft the deep-drawn sigh? tear. Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ, The filial piety of Tannahill is strikingly apparent from this effusion, but the inferiority of the lines to any of his Scottish songs shows how little at home he was in English. His mother outlived him thirteen ROBERT TANNAHILL, ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of a superior order, whose songs rival all but the best of Burns's in popularity, was born in Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His education was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native town until his twenty-sixth year, when, with one of his younger brothers, he removed to Lancashire. There he continued two years, when the declining state of his father's health induced him to return. He arrived in time to receive the dying blessing of his parent, and a short time afterwards we find him writing to a friend-'My brother Hugh and I are all that now remain at home, with our old mother, bending under age and frailty; and but seven years back, nine of us used to sit at dinner together.' Hugh married, and the poet was left alone with his widowed mother. On this occasion he adopted a resolution which he has expressed in the following lines: Robert Tannahill. years. Though Tannahill had occasionally composed verses from a very early age, it was not till after this time that he attained to anything beyond mediocrity. Becoming acquainted with Mr R. A. Smith, a musical composer, the poet applied himself sedulously to lyrical composition, aided by the encouragement and the musical taste of his friend. Smith set some of his songs to original and appropriate airs, and in 1807 the poet ventured on the publication of a volume of poems and songs, of which the first impression, consisting of 900 copies, were sold in a few weeks. It is related that in a solitary walk on one occasion, his musings were interrupted by the voice of a country girl in an adjoining field singing by herself a song of his own— We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burnside; and he used to say he was more pleased at this evidence of his popularity, than at any tribute which had ever been paid him. He afterwards contributed some songs to Mr George Thomson's Select Melodies, and exerted himself to procure Irish airs, of which he was very fond. Whilst delighting all classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggravated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to consumption. He had prepared a new edition of his poems for the press, and sent the manuscript to Mr Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that gentleman, in consequence of his having more new works on hand than he could undertake that season. This disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his manuscripts, and sank into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th of May 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but 'suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Search was made in every direction, and by the dawn of the morning, the coat of the poet was discovered lying at the side of the tunnel of a neighbouring brook, pointing out but too surely where his body was to be found.'* Tannahill was a modest and temperate man, devoted to his kindred and friends, and of unblemished purity and correctness of conduct. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind which at length overthrew his reason. The poems of this ill-starred son of genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They have all a commonplace artificial character. His lyrics, on the other hand, are rich and original both in description and sentiment. His diction is copious and luxuriant, particularly in describing natural objects and the peculiar features of the Scottish landscape. His simplicity is natural and unaffected; and though he appears to have possessed a deeper sympathy with nature than with the workings of human feeling, or even the passion of love, he is often tender and pathetic. His 'Gloomy winter's now awa' is a beautiful concentration of tenderness and melody. The Braes o' Balquhither. Let us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Lightly bounding together, I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flowers of the mountain; To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' On the night breeze is swelling, * Memoir prefixed to Tannahill's Works. Glasgow: 1838. So merrily we'll sing, Wi' the light lilting chorus. Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. The Braes o' Gleniffer. Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a bare, and the birds mute and dowie ; They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee; And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ; 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e; For O! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan, The dark days o' winter were summer to me. The Flower o' Dumblane. The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin, To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom! And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Gloomy Winter's now Awa. The mavis sings fu' cheerie O. My young, my artless dearie O. Come, my lassie, let us stray, O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, Blithely spend the gowden day Midst joys that never wearie O. Towering o'er the Newton woods, Lavrocks fan the snaw-white clouds; Siller saughs, wi' downie buds, Adorn the banks sae brierie O. Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feathery brekans fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheerie O. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie O. RICHARD GALL. Contemporary with Tannahill, and possessing a kindred taste in song-writing, was RICHARD GALL (1776-1801), who, whilst employed as a printer in Edinburgh, threw off some Scottish songs that were justly popular. My only jo and dearie Ö,' for pleasing fancy and musical expression, is not unworthy Tannahill. I remember,' says Allan Cunningham, ' when this song was exceedingly popular: its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft schoolgirl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.' My only Jo and Dearie 0. Upon the banks sae briery 0; O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee! The birdie sings upon the thorn Nae care to mak it eerie 0; Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0; I hae a wish I canna tine, And never mair to leave me 0: Then I wad daut thee night and day, Farewell to Ayrshire. [This song of Gall's has been often printed-in consequence of its locality-as the composition of Burns] Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Now a sad and last adieu ! First enthralled this heart o' mine; Ye hae rendered moments dear; Then the stroke, oh! how severe ! How much happier would I be! Scenes that former thoughts renew; JOHN MAYNE. JOHN MAYNE, author of the Siller Gun, Glasgow, and other poems, was a native of Dumfries-born in the year 1761-and died in London in 1836. He was brought up to the printing business, and whilst apprentice in the Dumfries Journal office in 1777, in his sixteenth year, he published the germ of his 'Siller Gun' in a quarto page of twelve stanzas. The subject of the poem is an ancient custom in Dumfries, called Shooting for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small silver tube presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades as a prize to the best marksman. This poem Mr Mayne continued to enlarge and improve up to the time of his death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two years to two cantos; in another year (1780) the poem was published-enlarged to three cantos-in Ruddiman's Magazine; and in 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, who said (in one of his notes to the Lady of the Lake) that it surpassed the efforts of Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns.' In 1836 the 'Siller Gun' was again reprinted with the addition of a fifth canto. Mr Mayne was author of a short poem on Halloween, printed in Ruddiman's Magazine in 1780; and in 1781 he published at Glasgow his fine ballad of Logan Braes, which Burns had seen, and two lines of which he copied into his Logan Water. The 'Siller Gun' is humorous and descriptive, and is happy in both. The author is a shrewd and lively observer, full of glee, and also of gentle and affec tionate recollections of his native town and all its people and pastimes. The ballad of 'Logan Braes' is a simple and beautiful lyric, superior to the more elaborate version of Burns. Though long resident in London (as proprietor of the Star newspaper), Mr Mayne retained his Scottish enthusiasm to the last; and to those who, like ourselves, recollect him in advanced life, stopping in the midst of his duties, as a public journalist, to trace some remembrance |