HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL was born at Sorbie, in the Vale of Ewes, Dumfriesshire, Sept. 23, 1798. His father was a shepherd, and a man of strong though uneducated mind. Young Henry herded the cows in summer, and went to school during the winter months. At first a careless scholar, he afterwards became a diligent one, and while "out-bye herding" was either studying nature or a book, or composing verses. The lines of an epistle written by him subsequently will convey some idea of his habits at this period:

"My early years were pass'd far on
The hills of Ettrick wild and lone;
Through summer sheen and winter shade
Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd.
In bold enthusiastic glee

I sung rude strains of minstrelsy,
Which mingling with died o'er the dale,
Unheeded as the plover's wail.
Oft where the waving rushes shed
A shelter frail around my head,
Weening, though not through hopes of fame,
To fix on these more lasting claim,
I'd there secure in rustic scroll
The wayward fancies of the soul.
Even where yon lofty rocks arise,
Hoar as the clouds in wintry skies,
Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath
The colder cone of drifted wreath,
I noted them afar from ken,
Till ink would freeze upon the pen;
So deep the spell which bound the heart
Unto the bard's undying art-

So rapt the charm that still beguiled
The minstrel of the mountains wild."

After herding for two years at Deloraine he removed to Todrig to follow the same occupapation. Here he met a congenial spirit in William Knox, the cultured author of "The Lonely Hearth," and their friendship continued ever afterwards. "While here," he says, "my whole leisure time was employed in writing. I composed while walking and looking the hill. I also wrote down among the wilds. I yet remember, as a dream of poetry itself, how blessedly bright and beautiful exceedingly were these wilds themselves early in summer mornings, or when the white mists filled up the glens below, and left the summits of the mountains near and far away as sight could travel, green, calm, and serene as an eternity."

While at Todrig Riddell's style of thought and experience-doubtless through contact with William Knox-underwent a great change. He abandoned frivolous compositions, and applied himself to sacred themes. "My reading," he says, "was extended, and having begun to appreciate more correctly what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a regular education (to fit himself for the Christian ministry). The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had hitherto bridled my ambition, but having herded as a regular shepherd nearly three years, during which I had no occasion

It

was in this year that the severest trial that had yet crossed my path had to be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the same time the event, instead of subduing my secret aim, rather strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects added something considerable to my own gainings. I bade farewell to the crook and plaid."

He went to school at Biggar, where he found a kind schoolmaster, who taught him much beside Latin and Greek. Here he studied earnestly, and cultivated a circle of intellectual acquaintances, and in due time entered as a student at the University of Edinburgh, where he attracted the attention of Professor Dunbar by a translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. He also won for himself the affectionate regard of Professor Wilson, whose house was always open to him, with all the companionship of genius which graced its hospitable roof-tree.

When his university course was completed, his last session having been spent at St. Andrews, Mr. Riddell went to reside at Ramsay Cleughburn with his brother, and shortly after became the minister of Teviothead. He then married the excellent lady whose affectionate counsel and companionship were a solace and stay to him in his chequered life. There was no manse at Teviothead when he received the charge. He therefore occupied the farmhouse of Flex, nine miles distant; and as his income of £52 a year could not enable him to keep a conveyance, he had to walk eighteen miles every Sabbath, and whenever he went to visit his hearers. The Duke of Buccleuch built a cottage for the minister, and it was while it was in progress that, returning home from preaching one Sabbath afternoon, wet and weary, Mrs. Riddell, looking forward with pleasant anticipation of getting the new home, exclaimed, while he was changing his wet clothes, "Ah! Henry, I wish we were hame to our ain folk!" This was the inspiration to which we are indebted for his most exquisite lyric-a strain which cannot die.

Mr. Riddell ministered faithfully to the people of Teviothead for nearly nine years. His genius and worth had been recognized and appreciated, and everything seemed to

1841 a serious attack of nervous disease came upon him, not to pass away for years; and when he did recover, it was deemed prudent that he should not return to the labours of the pastorate. The Duke of Buccleuch generously permitted him to occupy the manse cottage during his lifetime, and also granted him a small annuity and a piece of ground beside his dwelling. This was enough for his simple wants and for the education of his three boys, one of whom died full of poetic promise when budding into manhood. During the remaining years of his life the poet resided in this spot by the banks of the Teviot, reclaiming and beautifying his land, and cherishing his poetic tastes. He had intended to be present at the meeting of the Border Counties Association, held at Hawick, July 28, and his name was associated with the toast of the "literature of the Borders;" but on that day he was seized with a mortal illness, and died on July 30, 1870, aged seventy-two. On August 2, surrounded by a great concourse of friends from far and near, all that was mortal of the Bard of Teviotdale was laid in its last resting-place, in that

"churchyard that lonely is lying

Amid the deep greenwood by Teviot's wild strand." The poet's loving and faithful wife died May 29, 1875, and now rests by his side.

Riddell wrote much, and much that he wrote became extremely popular. When a student of theology he composed many of his best songs for the Irish Minstrel and Select Melodies of R. A. Smith, and for the Original National Melodies of Peter M'Leod. His Songs of the Ark, with other Poems, appeared in 1831, followed in 1844 by a prose work entitled The Christian Politician, or the Right Way of Thinking. Three years later he published a third volume, Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces; and in 1855 he prepared for publication, by request of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a translation of the Gospel of St. Matthew into Lowland Scotch, followed in 1857 by a similar translation of the Psalms. Mr. Riddell also wrote a valuable series of papers on "Store-Farming in the South of Scotland," and a number of prose tales similar to those in Wilson's Tales of the Border. His last composition was a poem written for a

meeting of the Border Association, held at Hawick two days before his death. In 1871 two volumes of Riddell's poetical works, accompanied by a portrait, and a well-written memoir from the pen of his friend James Brydon, M.D., were published in Glasgow.

In a letter accompanying a song written for Mrs. Mary Wilson Gibbs in 1867, the venerable poet remarks, "In addressing a song to you I wish that it had turned out somewhat more worth while than now appears to be the case. At all events I might have adopted a more harmonious measure, and thereby have given myself at least a chance of wording more harmonious verses: and I could now wish that I had done so, regardless of the air: but I was ambitious of putting the air in your possession, it having been composed by the Ettrick Shepherd. I am no daub-or rather a great daub in the literal sense of the term-at copying music, and in attempting to give you a copy I am uncertain whether I have given you altogether a correct one; but I hope you will make it out in some way. Of the song which I originally wrote to it Hogg was wonderfully fond, and I had always to sing it to him when I dare say it is much better as a song than that which I send you: I was not then so hoary-headed, and could write with more freedom and vigour. Yet it is not greatly unlike the verses with which I trouble you,

we met.

and that you may judge for yourself I will also herewith copy it, more especially as it also related to one who could by her exquisite singing cast a spell of enchantment over the human heart.

66

Mrs. Oliver informed me when you intended to leave old Scotland: I therefore made up my mind to write out these things to-day. They are of little consequence I readily confess, but from the respect which I entertained for your father, together with that which I entertain for yourself, I felt anxious to do something that might if possible prevent you from utterly forgetting that we had met. I shall hope that you will soon return to the 'gay green braes of Teviotdale,' and cheer our hearts as in days gone by."

A brother of the late bard, known as Borthwick Riddell, a dark, stalwart, and independent-looking man, who was, both in regard to musical talent and personal appearance, an impersonation of the spirit of ancient Border minstrelsy--a worthy representative of Allister M'Allister, Habbie Simpson, and Rab the Ranter-was in his day and generation the most celebrated piper on the Border. As the writer listened to his soul-stirring strains near Canobie Lee, he appeared to be just such a minstrel as we can imagine strode forth before the Bruce, the Bold Buccleuch, or the Black Douglas of bygone days.

crook and plaid;

only felt by few;

For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,

Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;

For he's aye true to his lassie-he's aye true to his lassie,

Who wears the crook and plaid.

At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,

While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;

And he's aye true, &c.

not weel be stay'd,

bell like my cheek;

WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD
WOODS WAVE.

Would that I were where wild woods wave,
Aboon the beds where sleep the brave;
And where the streams o' Scotia lave

Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

Where freedom reigns and friendship dwells,
Bright as the sun upon the fells,
When autumn brings the heather-bells
In all their native splendour.
The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,
The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,
And heart with dauntless heart combines
For ever to defend her.

Then would I were, &c.

There roam the kind, and live the leal,
By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;

And she for whom the heart must feel
A kindness still mair tender.
Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,
The wild flowers bloom by glen and shaw;
But she is fairer than them a',
Wherever she may wander.

Then would I were, &c.

Still, far or near, by wild or wood,
I'll love the generous, wise, and good;
But she shall share the dearest mood
That Heaven to life may render.
What boots it then thus on to stir,
And still from love's enjoyment err,
When I to Scotland and to her

Must all this heart surrender.
Then would I were, &c.

SCOTLAND YET.1

Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,Gae, bring it free and fast,

For I maun sing another sang

Ere a' my glee be past;

And trow ye as I sing, my lads,

The burden o't shall be

Her fountains sing o' freedom still

As they dance down the dells; And weel I lo'e the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's dales and Scotland's vales, And Scotland's hills for me-I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

The thistle wags upon the fields
Where Wallace bore his blade,
That gave her foeman's dearest bluid
To dye her auld gray plaid;

And looking to the lift, my lads,

He sang this doughty glee

Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me-
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,

Where freedom's voice ne'er rang; Gie me the hills where Ossian lies, And Coila's minstrel sang;

For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,

That ken na to be free;

Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me—

I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
Wi' a' the honours three.

THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest,

And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast,

I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen,

And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane,