Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

He soon established for himself the reputation of being both a humorist and a poet by his poem of "John o' Arnha'," the first sketch of which appeared in the columns of the Montrose

and meagre compared with its finished form. It was afterwards extended to four times its original length, and made much richer and fuller.

were the days of simple homely pleasures and rural festivities, when the more serious business of life was enlivened at stated periods by the merrymakings of Hallowe'en, Hogmanay, Yule, Pasch Saturday, and carlin play at harvest-Review in 1815. In this shape the poem is bare home, and George's nature seems to have been considerably influenced by the frolic and simplicity of these rustic rites. When he was about thirteen years of age his father obtained a situation in the excise, and this led the family to remove to Montrose, a distance of about five miles. It was probably with some sorrow that the children left their pretty country home, and it is said that George walked all the distance to their new abode with a tame "kae" (jackdaw) on his shoulder.

Some time after the family settled at Montrose George was sent to learn a trade, but he continued at it a very short time. He managed to procure a situation as clerk in an office in Aberdeen. His employer died six weeks later, however, and left to his clerk a legacy of £50. This was quite a little capital to the young man. He returned to Montrose, and entered the office of the procurator-fiscal of the place. After passing a year or two in Edinburgh he commenced business for himself in Montrose as a writer. In this capacity he succeeded well, and attracted many friends by the kindliness of his manner, the accuracy of his official habits, and his conversational gifts.

Six years later the tragic interest of Beattie's life begins, but we cannot more than briefly outline the story. After successfully wooing a certain lady, she inherits a large fortune, and, abandoning the humble poet for a more aristocratic suitor, who is suddenly smitten with her solid charms, the sensitive Beattie is so overwhelmed with grief and despair that he provides himself with a pistol, walks out to a favourite resort known as the Auld Kirkyard, and is found the following day lying dead by the side of his sister's grave. Since the time of his death (September 29, 1823) his poetical writings have passed through several editions. The latest collection is accompanied by an interesting memoir of the poet from the pen of A. S. MtCyrus, M.A.; also memoranda from manuscripts left by Beattie. His principal poem, "John o' Arnha'," is full of wild rollicking fun and humour, and has been well called an amplified and localized "Tam o' Shanter." Mingled with its grotesque imagery there is a vein of deep pathos.

JOHN O' ARNHA'.
(EXTRACT.)

It was in May, ae bonny morn,
When dewie draps refresh'd the corn,
And tipt ilk stem wi' crystal bead,
That glissent o'er the spangelt mead
Like gleam o' swords in fairy wars,
As thick and clear as heaven's stars;
While Phoebus shot his gowden rays
Asklent the lawn-a dazzling blaze;
The wind but gently kissed the trees,
To waft their balm upon the breeze;
The bee commenced her eident tour,
Culling sweets frae ilka flower;

The whins in yellow bloom were clad,
And ilka bush a bridal bed;
A' nature smil'd serene and fair;
The la'rocks chantit i' the air;

The lammies frisket o'er the lea-
Wi' music rang ilk bush and tree.

Now "sighs and vows," and kisses sweet—
The sound of lightly-tripping feet-
Love's tender tale-the sweet return-
The plaints of some still doomed to mourn;
The rustic jest and merry tale
Came floating on the balmy gale;
For smiling, on the road were seen
Baith lads and lasses, trig and clean,
Linkin' blythely pair and pair,

To grace Montrose's annual fair!-
Montrose, "wham ne'er a town surpasses"
For Growling Guild and ruling Asses!
For pedants, with each apt specific

To render barren brains prolific; For poetasters, who conspire To rob Apollo of his lyre, Although they never laid a leg Athort his godship's trusty naig; For preachers, writers, and physicians— Parasites and politicians:

And all accomplished, grave, and wise, Or sae appear in their own eyes! To wit and lair, too, make pretence, E'en sometimes "" deviate into sense!" A path right kittle, steep, and latent, And only to a few made patent. So, lest it might offend the sentry, I winna seek to force an entry, But leav't to bards inspir'd and holy, And tread the open field of folly; For certes, as the world goes, Nonsense in rhyme's as free's in prose; And are we not distinctly told By Hudibras, in days of old,

[ocr errors]

That Those who write in rhyme still make
The one verse for the other's sake;
And one for sense and one for rhyme
Is quite sufficient at a time."

As for your critics, ruin seize them,
I ken I canna sing to please them;
A reason guid-I dinna try-
They're but a despicable fry,
That vend their venom and their ink,
Their praise and paper eke for clink.
Thae judges partial, self-elekit,
Why should their sentence be respeckit;
Why should the silly squeamish fools
Think fouk will mind their measur'd rules;
They spill not ink for fame or glory,
Nor paper blacken con amore;
Tis Mammon aye their pens inspire,
They praise or damn alike for hire:
An', chapman-like, their critic treasure
Is bought and sold again by measure;
Some barrister new ta'en degrees
(Whase purse is lank for lack o' fees),
Or churchman just come frae the college,
Wi'skull weel cramm'd wi' classic knowledge,
Draw pen to laud some weary bard,
Or deal damnation by the yard.
But first they toss them up a maik,
To learn what course they ought to take;
If "tails," the critics quickly damn him,
If "heads," wi' fousome flattery cram him.
In either case they're paid their wages,
Just by the number o' their pages.

How soon are mortals led astray-
Already I am off my way;
I've left my bonny tale, to fesh in

A wicked scandalous digression;

By bards of yore who sang of gods,
Clep'd underplots and episodes:
But, "Muse, be kind, an' dinna fash us
To flee awa' ayont Parnassus,"

Or fill our brains wi' lies and fiction,
Else fouk will scunner at your diction.

I sing not of an ancient knight, Wi' polish'd lance and armour bright; Nor, as we say, wi' book bedeck it In iron cap and jinglin' jecket, High mounted on a champion steed, Enough to fley puir fouk to deidOr modern Dux, wi' noddin' crest, An' starnies glancin' on his breastOr garter wappin' round his knee To celebrate his chivalry;Heroes fit for southern bardies!

Mine walks a-foot and wields his gardies;
Or, at the warst, his aiken rung,
Wi' which he never yet was dung,
Unless by more than mortal foe-
By demons frae the shades below-
As will be seen in proper time,
Provided I can muster rhyme.

The valiant hero of my story
Now rang'd the fair in all his glory,
A winsome strapper trim and fettle,
Courting strife, to show his mettle,
An' gain him favours wi' the fair-
For dastard coofs they dinna care.
Your snools in love, and cowards in war,
Frae maiden grace are banished far;
An' John had stak'd his life, I ween,
For favour frae a lassie's een;

Stark love his noble heart had fir'd-
To deeds o' pith his soul aspir'd;
Tho' these, in distant climes, he'd shown,
'Twas meet to act them in his own.

Now thrice he wav'd his hat in airThrice dar'd the bravest i' the fair. The Horner also wav'd his bonnet, But wish'd belyve he hadna dune it; For scarcely could ye counted sax, Before a double round o' whacks Were shower'd upon his banes like hail, Right, left, and centre, crack pell-mellSair to bide, and terrible to tell. The hardest head could ne'er resist The fury of his pond'rous fist; He hit him on the ribs sic dirds, They raird and roove like rotten girds; His carcass, too, for a' the warl', Was like a butt or porter barrel. Now John gaed round him like a cooper,

An' showed himsel' a smart tub hooper;
Wi' mony a snell an' vengefu' paik,
He gar'd his sides an' midriff ake;
Upon his head-piece neist he hammert,
Until the Horner reel'd and stammert;
He cried out, " Mercy! plague upon it!"
Up gaed his heels-aff flew his bonnet,
An' raise to sic a fearfu' height,
It soon was lost to mortal sight:
Some said, that witnessed the transaction,
'Twas cleckit by the moon's attraction,
Or nabbit by the fairy legions,

To whirl them through the airy regions.

THE DREAM.

Was solemn and low, and they spoke the language
Of the "days of other years." In seeming
Woe, they spoke of events long gone by; and
Marvelled at the changes that had taken
Place since they left this mortal scene, to sleep
Within the dark and narrow house. Voices
Issued from the mould, where no forms were seen;
These were still more hollow and sepulchral;
They were as the sound of the cold, bleak wind,
In the dark and danky vaults of death, when
It moans low and mournful, through the crannies
Of their massive doors, shattered by the hand
Of time-a serenade for owls most meet,
And such the raven loves, and hoarsely croaks
His hollow response from the blasted yew.
Often have I heard, when but a stripling,
"Twas meet to speak a troubled ghost, to give
It peace to sleep within the silent grave.
With clammy brow, and joints palsied with fear,
I said, in broken accents, "What means this
Awful congress, this wild and wan array

Last night I dreamed a dream of horror. Me- Of shadowy shapes, gliding here, and moaning thought

That, at the hour of midnight, the bell tolled,
With slow and solemn peal; and straight, beneath
The pale cold moon, a thousand spectres moved,
In "dread array," along "the church-way path,"
All swathed in winding-sheets as white as snow-
A ghastly crew! Methought I saw the graves
Yawn and yield up their charge; and I heard the
Coffins crack, and the deadal drapery
Rustle against their hollow sides, like the
Wing of the renovated chrysoly,

As they flutter against the ruins of
Their winter dormitory, when the voice

Of spring awakes them from their drowsy couch,
To float aloft upon the buxom air.

At the silent, solemn hour of midnight?
Have the crying sins, and unwhipt crimes
Of mortals, in these latter days, reached you
Ev'n in the grave, where silence ever reigns,
At least as we believe? Or complain ye
Of holy rites unpaid,-or of the crowd
Whose careless steps those sacred haunts pro-
fane."

Straight a fleshless hand, cold as ice, was pressed
Upon my lips; and the spectres vanished
Like dew before the morning sun: and as
They faded on my sight a sound was heard
Like the peal of many organs, solemn,
Loud, and sonorous; or like the awful
Voice of thunder in the sky,- --or mighty

Although the round full moon shone bright Tempest, roaring in a boundless forest,

and clear,

Yet did none of these awful phantoms cast
Their shadows on the wan and silent earth,
Nor was the passing breeze interrupted
By their presence.

earth,

Uprooting trees, razing habitations,
And sweeping the earth with desolation;
Or like the voice of millions, raised in song;
Or the dark ocean, howling in its wrath;

Some skimmed along the | Or, rather, like all these together, in

And others sailed aloft on the thin air;
And I observed, when they came between me
And the moon, they interrupted not her
Pale rays; for I saw her majestic orb
Distinct, round, and clear, through their indistinct
And airy forms; and although they moved
Betwixt me and the tomb-stones, yet I read
Their sculpture (deeply shaded by the bright
And piercing beams of the moon) as distinctly
As if nought, dead or living, interposed
Between my eyes and the cold monuments.
The bell ceased to toll; and when the last peal
Died away on the ear, these awful forms
Congregated in various groups, and seemed
To hold converse. The sound of their voices

One wild concert joined. Now the mighty coil
Died gradually away, till it resembled
The last murmur of the blast on the hill;
Of storms, when it lulls itself to rest; and
The echo of its wrath is faintly heard
In the valley; or the last sigh of the

Eolian harp, when the breeze, that erewhile
Kissed its trembling strings, is spent and breath-
less!

The next whisper was still lower; and the last
Was so faint and feeble that nothing seemed
To live between it and silence itself.
The awful stillness was more appalling
Than its dread precursor; and I awoke
In terror! But I never shall forget
What I heard and saw in that horrid dream.

JOHN DONALD CARRICK.

BORN 1787-DIED 1837.

JOHN DONALD CARRICK, a meritorious but | unsuccessful literary man, and the author of numerous songs and poems chiefly of a humorous character, was born at Glasgow, April, 1787. His parents, being in humble circumstances, could only afford their son an ordinary education; and at an early age he was placed in the office of an architect in his native city. In his twentieth year, unknown to his parents, he left Glasgow, and travelled to London on foot, there to seek his fortune.

On his arrival

velling agent in the West Highlands. Afterwards he became assistant editor of the Scots Times, a newspaper then published in Glasgow. To the first volume of Whistle-Binkie Mr. Carrick contributed the subjoined and many other songs, which he used to sing with inimitable effect. In 1833 he went to Perth as editor of the Advertiser, and the year following accepted the editorship of the Kilmarnock Journal. In 1835 he returned to Glasgow,

he offered his services in various places in vain, first edition of the Laird of Logan, an unbut at last found employment with a fellow rivalled collection of Scottish anecdote and countryman who took compassion on the friend- facetiæ, to which he was the principal contriFor some time he was employed by butor. Mr. Carrick died August 17, 1837,

owing to ill health, and superintended the

less lad.

a house in the pottery business, and in 1811 and was interred in the burying-ground of the he returned to Glasgow, and opened a large | High Church of his native city. His biograchina and stoneware establishment, in which pher says:-"We may observe generally, that trade he continued for fourteen years. In 1825, being deeply read in old Scottish literature,

as a descriptive painter of the comic and ludicrous aspects of man and society, and as equally

he began the preparation of a "Life of Sir skilful in the analysis of human character, William Wallace," which was written for Con- combined with a rare and never-failing humour, Stable's Miscellany. The same year he gave up his own business, and was for some time

employed by
a Glasgow house as their tra-

a pungent but not malicious irony, and great ease and perspicuity of expression, few writers have surpassed John Donald Carrick."

THE MUIRLAN' COTTARS.

"The snaw flees thicker o'er the muir, and
The his plaid to screen
heavier grows the lift;
him frae the drift;

I fear this night will tell a tale among our

foldless sheep,

"That time I often think upon, and make it aye my care,

On nichts like this, to snod up a' the beds we hae to spare;

In case some drift-driven strangers come forfoughten to our beild,

That will mak many a farmer sigh-God grant | An' welcome, welcome they shall be to what

nae widows weep!

"I'm blythe, guidman, to see you there, wi'

elshin an' wi' lingle

the house can yield.

"'Twas God that saved you on that nicht, when a' was black despair,

Sae ey dent at your cobbling wark beside the An' gratitude is due to him for makin' you It brings to mind that fearfu' nicht, i' the spring Then let us show our grateful sense of the

cosie ingle;

that's now awa',

his care;

kindness he bestowed,

When you was carried thowlass hame, frae An' cheer the poor wayfaring man that wanders

[blocks in formation]

"There's cauld and drift without, guidman, | Thus aft it comes the gracious deeds which we might drive a body blin', to others show

But, Praise be blessed for a' that's guid, there's Return again to our own hearts with joyous meat and drink within;

[blocks in formation]

"Yes, Mirran, yes, 'twas God himself that helped us in our strait,

An' gratitude is due to him-his kindness it was great;

An' much I thank thee thus to mak' the

stranger's state thy care,

overflow.

THE SONG OF THE SLAVE.

O England! dear home of the lovely and true,
Loved home of the brave and the free,
Though distant-though wayward-the path I

pursue,

My thoughts shall ne'er wander from thee.
Deep, in my heart's core,

Rests the print of thy shore,
From a die whose impression fades never,
And the motto impressed

By this die on my breast

Is "England, dear England, for ever,"
May blessings rest on thee for ever!

As Queen, she sits throned with her sceptre of light

Aloft on the white-crested wave,

An' bless thy tender heart, for sure the grace While billows surround her, as guards of her right of God is there."

Nor prince nor beggar was decreed their kindness to partake;

The hours sped on their stealthy pace as silent as the flake,

Till on the startled ear there came a feeble

cry of woe,

To an island where breathes not a slave.
And her sceptre of light

Shall, through regions of night,

Shed a radiance like darts from day's quiver,
Till the unfetter'd slaves,

To the queen of the waves,
Shout "Freedom and England for ever,"
May blessings rest on thee for ever!

As if of some benighted one fast sinking in the How often hath fame, with his trumpet's loud

snow.

blast,

Praised the crimes of mock heroes in war,

But help was near-an' soon a youth, in hod- Whose joy was to revel o'er nations laid waste, den gray attire,

Benumbed with cold, extended, lay before the

cottars' fire;

[blocks in formation]

And drag the fallen foe to their car!

But a new law from heaven,
Hath by England been given

To fame and from which she'll ne'er sever

[blocks in formation]
« VorigeDoorgaan »