His humour and lively characteristic painting are well displayed in the account of the different parties who, gay and fantastic, flock to the fair, as Chaucer's pilgrims did to the shrine of Thomas-â-Becket. The following verses describe the men from the north: Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland The horny-knuckled kilted Highlandman: From where upon the rocky Caithness strand Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began, And where Lochfine from her prolific sand Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan, Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye, Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy thigh. They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks, Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth; Claymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe, Are left to rust above the smoky hearth; Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks; Their teeth are set most desperately for mirth; And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung Great wallets, crammed with cheese and bannocks and cold tongue. Nor staid away the Islanders, that lie To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed; From Jura, Arran, Barra, Uist, and Skye, Piping they come, unshaved, unbreeched, unhosed; And from that Isle, whose abbey, structured high, Within its precincts holds dead kings enclosed, Where St Columba oft is seen to waddle Gowned round with flaming fire upon the spire astraddle. Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr, (Sweet Ayr! with crops of ruddy damsels blest, That, shooting up, and waxing fat and fair, Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west!) Of virtuous industry and talents rare; The accomplished men o' the counting-room confest, And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle; Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill; Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a rogue That blots the eighth command from Moses' decalogue. And some of them in sloop of tarry side, Come from North-Berwick harbour sailing out; Others, abhorrent of the sickening tide, Have ta'en the road by Stirling brig about, And eastward now from long Kirkaldy ride, Slugging on their slow-gaited asses stout, While dangling at their backs are bagpipes hung, And dangling hangs a tale on every rhymer's tongue. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797-1835) was born in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the age of twenty-one, he was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk at that town. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany entitled the Harp of Renfrewshire. A taste for antiquarian research Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools supposedivided with the muse the empire of Motherwell's genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early history of our native literature, particularly in the department of traditionary poetry. The results of this erudition appeared in Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a historical introduction, which must be the basis of all future investigations into the subject. In the following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his happiest poetical effusions. The talent and spirit which he evinced in his editorial duties, were the means of advancing him to the more important office of conducting the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He also joined with Hogg in editing the works of Burns; and he was collecting materials for a life of Tannahill, when he was suddenly cut off by a fit of apoplexy at the early age of thirty-eight. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. As an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, and truthful. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrels. Jeanie Morrison. I've wandered east, I've wandered west, But never, never can forget The luve of life's young day! O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. "Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time!-sad time!-twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To lear ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, My lesson was in thee. O mind ye how we hung our heads, And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes The broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, O mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, And hear its water croon ? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wud, And on the knowe abune the burn, Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, When hearts were fresh and young, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, But in my wanderings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed The Midnight Wind. Mournfully! oh, mournfully Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath known, And won him the glory of undying song. In a love more abiding than that the heart knows The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart; Thy love will not slumber; My kindred have perished by war or by wave; The deeds we have done in our old fearless day. ROBERT NICOLL. We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair; High thoughts! They come and go, Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden, While round me flow The winds, from woods and fields with gladness When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come- High thoughts! And the quiet heart In the blessed soul! They are with me, ROBERT NICOLL (1814-1837) was a young man of high promise and amiable dispositions, who cultivated literature amidst many discouragements. He was a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. After passing through a series of humble employments, during which he steadily cultivated his mind by reading and writing, he assumed the editorship of the Leeds Times, a weekly paper representing the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He wrote as one of the three hundred might be supposed to have fought at Thermopyla, animated by the pure love of his species, and zeal for what he thought their in- Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest. terests; but, amidst a struggle which scarcely ad- When the young sunbeams glance among the treesmitted of a moment for reflection on his own posi- When on the ear comes the soft song of beestion, the springs of a naturally weak constitution When every branch has its own favourite bird were rapidly giving way, and symptoms of con- And songs of summer, from each thicket heard!sumption became gradually apparent. The poet Where the owl flitteth, Where the roe sitteth, And holiness died in his twenty-fourth year, deeply regretted by the numerous friends whom his talents and virtues had drawn around him. Nicoll's poems are short occasional pieces and songs-the latter much inferior to his serious poems, yet displaying happy rural imagery and fancy. We are Brethren a'. A happy bit hame this auld world would be, My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine, The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride; Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ; Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e; When, deep within the bosom of the forest, Thy morning melody High thoughts! Seems sleeping there; And joy to me! In moments when the soul is dim and darkened; After the vanities to which we hearkened: In joy and gladness, [Death.] [This poem is supposed to have been the last, or among the last, of Nicoll's compositions.] The dew is on the summer's greenest grass, Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps; The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass, A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps; But I, who love them all, shall never be Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea! The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine!Blessed is the brightness of a summer day; It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine, Although among green fields I cannot stray! Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you wave, Familiar with death, and neighbour to the grave! These words have shaken mighty human soulsLike a sepulchre's echo drear they soundE'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls The ivied remnants of old ruins round. Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay? Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away? Are there not aspirations in each heart After a better, brighter world than this? Longings for beings nobler in each part Things more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss? Who gave us these? What are they? Soul, in thee The bud is budding now for immortality! Death comes to take me where I long to be; One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower; Death comes to lead me from mortality, To lands which know not one unhappy hour; I have a hope, a faith-from sorrow here The Exile's Song. Oh! why left I my hame! O' my ain countrie! Awakes the Sabbath morn, Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every wo, And a balm for every pain, But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie! In the Days o' Langsyne. In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young, An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill; I'm led by Death away-why should I start and fear? An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find If I have loved the forest and the field, Can I not love them deeper, better there? If all that Power hath made, to me doth yield May meet again! Death answers many a prayer. are! ROBERT GILFILLAN. Though no Scottish poetry besides that of Burns attracts attention out of its native country, there is not wanting a band of able and warm-hearted men who continue to cultivate it for their own amusement and that of their countrymen. Amongst these may be mentioned MESSRS RODGER, BALLANTYNE, VEDDER, and GRAY: a high place in the class is due to MR ROBERT GILFILLAN, a native of Dunfermline, whose Poems and Songs have passed through three editions. The songs of Mr Gilfillan are marked by gentle and kindly feelings, and a smooth flow of versification, which makes them eminently suitable for being expressed in music. The banner of Scotland float high in the wind! The Hills o' Gallowa'. [By Thomas Cunningham.] [Thomas Cunningham was the senior of his brother Allan by some years, and was a copious author in prose and verse, though with an undistinguished name, long before the author of the Lives of the British Painters was known. He died in 1834.] Amang the birks sae blithe and gay, On ilka howm the sward was mawn, And fragrance winged alang the lea, And saftly slade the hours awa', The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer. Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba', And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, That owre the muir meandering rows; Or, tint amang the scroggy knowes, My birkin pipe I'll sweetly blaw, And sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills and dales o' Gallowa'. And when auld Scotland's heathy hills, Her rural nymphs and joyous swains, Her flowery wilds and wimpling rills, Awake nae mair my canty strains; Whare friendship dwells and freedom reigns, Whare heather blooms and muircocks craw, O! dig my grave, and hide my banes Amang the hills o' Gallowa'. Lucy's Flittin'. [By William Laidlaw.] [William Laidlaw is son of the Ettrick Shepherd's master at Blackhouse. All who have read Lockhart's Life of Scott, know how closely Mr Laidlaw was connected with the illustrious baronet of Abbotsford. He was his companion in some of his early wanderings, his friend and land-steward in advanced years, his amanuensis in the composition of some of his novels, and he was one of the few who watched over his last sad and painful moments. Lucy's Flittin' is deservedly popular for its unaffected tenderness and simplicity. In printing the song, Hogg added the last four lines to complete the story."] 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in, She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see; 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' quo' Jamie, and ran in ; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. 'Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ! If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon, The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit; The Brownie of Blednoch. [By William Nicholson.] Wi' a dreary, dreary hum. His face did glow like the glow o' the west, I trow the bauldest stood aback, Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did crack, O! had ye seen the bairns' fright, As they stared at this wild and unyirthly wight; The black dog growling cowered his tail, At the sight o' Aiken-drum. His matted head on his breast did rest, Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen On his wauchie arms three claws did meet, But he drew a score, himsel' did sain, But the canny auld wife cam till her breath, But it feared na Aiken-drum. 'His presence protect us!' quoth the auld gudeman; 'What wad ye, whare won ye, by sea or by lan'? I conjure ye-speak-by the beuk in my han'!' What a grane ga'e Aiken-drum! 'I lived in a lan' where we saw nae sky, I dwalt in a spot where a burn rins na by; |