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come of L.23 a-year, which, however, he could not For when the first upsloping ray was flung, make a great figure with, because he lived in a dear On Anster steeple's swallow-harbouring top, country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and Its bell and all the bells around were rung six children. The author of • Anster Fair' has since Sonorous, jangling, loud, without a stop; been appointed to a more eligible and becoming For, toilingly, each bitter beadle swung, situation-teacher of classical and oriental languages Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy rope, in Dollar Institution, and, more recently, a professor And almost broke his bell-wheel, ushering in in St Mary's college, St Andrews. He has published The morn of Anster Fair with tinkle-tankling din. some other poetical works--a tragedy on the story of Cardinal Beaton, and two poems, the Thane of Fife, And, from our steeple’s pinnacle outspread,

The town's long colours flare and flap on high, and the Dinging Down of the Cathedral. It was said of Sir David Wilkie that he took most of the Whose anchor, blazoned fair in green and red, figures in his pictures from living characters in the

Curls, pliant to each breeze that whistles by; county of Fife, familiar to him in his youth: it is Whilst on the boltsprit, stern, and topmast head more certain that Mr Tennant's poems are all on

Of brig and sloop that in the harbour lie, native subjects in the same district. Indeed, their Streams the red gaudery of flags in air, strict locality has been against their popularity; All to salute and grace the morn of Anster Fair. but • Anster Fair' is the most diversified and richly The description of the heroine is equally passionate humcrous of them all, and besides being an animated,

and imaginative :witty, and agreeable poem, it has the merit of being the first work of the kind in our language. The Her form was as the Morning's blithesome star, Monks and Giants of Mr Frere (published under That, capped with lustrous coronet of beans, the assumed name of Whistlecraft), from which Rides up the dawning orient in her car, Byron avowedly drew his Beppo, did not appear till

New-washed, and doubly fulgent from the stream: somc time after Mr Tennant's poem. Of the higher | The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar, and niore poetical parts of · Anster Fair,' we sub

And on his knees adores her as she gleams; join a specimen :

So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder,

And so the admiring crowds pay homage and appland I wish I had a cottage snug and neat

her. Upon the top of many fountained Ide,

Each little step her trampling palfrey took,
That I might thence, in holy fervour, greet

Shaked her majestic person into grace,
The bright-gowned Morning tripping up her side:
And when the low Sun's glory-buskined feet

And as at times his glossy sides she strook
Walk on the blue wave of the Ægean tide,

Endearingly with whip’s green silken lace, Oh! I would kneel me down, and worship there

(The prancer seemed to court such kind rebuke, The God who garnished out a world so bright and By Jove, the very waving of her arm

Loitering with wilful tardiness of pace), fair!

Had power a brutish lout to un brutify and charm ! The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope

Her face was as the summer cloud, whereon Of heaven canaries in her jewelled shoes,

The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! And throws o’er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown Her golden apron dripping kindly dews;

With flaunting roses, had resigned its praise ; And never, since she first began to hop

For why? Her face with heaven's own roses shone, Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams profuse, Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze; Shone there a dawn so glorious and so gay,

And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, As shines the merry dawn of Anster market-day. That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked beneath

the Pole. Round through the vast circumference of sky

One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, Sare in the east some fleeces bright of dye,

Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling, That stripe the hem of heaven with woolly gold, And on each hair, so harnıless to behold, Whereon are happy angels wont to lie

A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled,

The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold That they may spy the precious light of God,

The tresses in their arms so slim and tangling, Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair Earth And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares, abroad.

And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden hairs The fair Earth laughs through all her boundless range, Her eye was as an honoured palace, where

Heaving her green hills high to greet the beam; A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance; City and village, steeple, cot, and grange,

What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er,
Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf-gold seem;

Got dignity and honour from the glance;
The heaths and upland muirs, and fallows, change Wo to the man on whom she unaware
Their barren brown into a ruddy gleam,

Did the dear witchery of her eye elance !
And, on ten thousand dew-bent leaves and sprays, 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard-
Twinkle ten thousand suns, and fling their petty May Heaven from such a look preserve each tender

bard ! Up from their nests and fields of tender corn

So on she rode in virgin majesty, Full merrily the little skylarks spring,

Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, And on their dew-bedabbled pinions borne,

And with the light and grandeur of her eye Mount to the heaven's blue key-stone flickering ; Shaming the proud sun into dim eclipse ; They turn their plume-soft bosoms to the morn, While round her presence clustering far and nich, And hail the genial light, and cheer’ly sing;

On horseback some, with silver spurs and whips, Echo the gladsome bills and valleys round,

And some afoot with shoes of dazzling buckles, As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell the Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns with horny sound.


His humour and lively characteristic painting are of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany well displayed in the account of the different parties entitled the Harp of Renfrewshire. A taste for anwho, gay and fantastic, flock to the fair, as Chaucer's tiquarian researchpilgrims did to the shrine of Thomas-â-Becket. The following verses describe the men from the

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools supposem north:

divided with the muse the empire of Motherwell's Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland

genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acThe homy-knuckled kilted Highlandman :

quaintance with the early history of our native From where upon the rocky Caithness strand

literature, particularly in the department of tradiBreaks the long wave that at the Pole began,

tionary poetry. The results of this erudition apAnd where Lochfine from her prolific sand

peared in Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern (1827), a Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan,

collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a histoArrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye,

rical introduction, which must be the basis of all Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy thigh.

future investigations into the subject. In the follow

ing year he became editor of a weekly journal in They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks, Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth;

he contributed some of his happiest poetical effuClaymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe, sions. The talent and spirit which he evinced in Are left to rust above the smoky hearth;

his editorial duties, were the means of advancing Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks;

him to the more important office of conducting the Their teeth are set most desperately for mirth; Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung till his death. In 1832 he collected and published Great wallets, crammed with cheese and bannocks his poems in one volume. He also joined with and cold tongue.

Hogg in editing the works of Burns; and he was Nor staid away the Islanders, that lie

collecting materials for a life of Tannahill, when he To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed ;

was suddenly cut off by a fit of apoplexy at the From Jura, Arran, Barra, Uist, and Skye,

early age of thirty-eight. The taste, enthusiasm, Piping they come, unshaved, unbreeched, unhosed; and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him And from that Isle, whose abbey, structured high, very popular among his townsmen and friends. As Within its precincts holds dead kings enclosed,

an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, and Where St Columba oft is seen to waddle

truthful. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or Gowned round with flaming fire upon the spire sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led astraddle.

him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of

the old minstrels.
Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr,
(Sweet Ayr! with crops of ruddy damsels blest,

Jeanie Morrison.
That, shooting up, and waxing fat and fair,
Shine on thy braės, the lilies of the west!)

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
And from Dumfries, and from Kilmarnock (where

Through mony a weary way; Are night-caps made, the cheapest and the best) But never, never can forget Blithely they ride on ass and mule, with sacks

The luve of life's young day! In lieu of saddles placed upon their asses' backs.

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,

May weel be black gin Yule; Close at their heels, bestriding well-trapped nag,

But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Or humbly riding asses' backbone bare,

Where first fond luve grows cule.
Come Glasgow's merchants, each with money-bag,
To purchase Dutch lintseed at Anster Fair

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Sagacious fellows all, who well may brag

The thochts o' bygane years
Of virtuous industry and talents rare;

Still Aling their shadows owre my path,
The accomplished men o' the counting-room confest, And blind my een wi' tears!
And fit to crack a joke or argue with the best.

They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,

And sair and sick J pine, Nor keep their homes the Borderers, that stay

As memory idly sum .cons up
Where purls the Jed, and Esk, and little Liddel,

The blithe blinks u langsyne.
Men that can rarely on the bagpipe play,
And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle;

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, Arowed freebooters, that have many a day

'Twas then we twa did part; Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill; Sweet time !-sad tine!--twa bairns at schule, Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a rogue

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! That blots the eighth command from Moses' decalogue. 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To lear ilk ither lear; And some of them in sloop of tarry side,

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Come from North-Berwick harbour sailing out;

Remembered ever mair.
Others, abhorrent of the sickening tide,
Have ta’en the road by Stirling brig about,

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
And eastward now from long Kirkaldy ride,

When sitting on that bink, Slugging on their slow-gaited asses stout,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, While dangling at their backs are bagpipes hung,

What our wee heads could think.
And dangling hangs a tale on every rhymer's tongue. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,

Wi'ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797-1835) was born in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought O mind ye how we hung our heads, up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the How cheeks brent red wi' shame, age of twenty-one, he was appointed deputy to the Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, sheriff-clerk at that town. He early evinced a love We cleeked thegither hame?

Mournfully! oh, moumfully

This midnight wind doth moan; It stirs some chord of memory

In each dull heavy tone. The voices of the much-loved dead

Seem floating thereupon-. All, all my fond heart cherished

Ere death had made it lone.

Mournfully! oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth swell,
With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,

Hope's passionate farewell
To the dreamy joys of early years,

Ere yet grief's canker feil
On the heart's bloom-ay, well may tears

Start at that parting knell !

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,

My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back

O'schule-time and othee.
Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve!

Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts,

Like simmer blossoms, sprang!
O mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its water croon!
The simmer leaves hung owse our heads,

The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wud

The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wud,

The burn sung to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn,

For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith

Wi' vera gladness grat!
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane

Had ony power to speak !
That was a tiine, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,

Unsyllabled-unsung !
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts

As ye hae been to me?
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,

I've borne a weary lot ;
But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart,

Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,

The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard

The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I dee,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O' bygaue days and me!

Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi. 'Tis not the gray hawk's flight o'er mountain and mere; Tis not the feet hound's course, tracking the deer; 'Tis not the light hoof-print of black steed or gray, Though sweltering it gallop a long summer's day, Which mete forth the lordships I challenge as mine:

Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand

I clutch in my strong hand, That can their broad marches and numbers define.

LAND GIVER! I kiss thee. Dull builders of houses, base tillers of earth, Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth: But the pale fools wax mute when I point with my

sword East, west, north, and south, shouting, “There am I

lord !' Wold and waste, town and tower, hill, valley, and stream,

Trembling, bow to my sway,

In the fierce battle fray, When the star that rules fate is this falchion's red gleam.

MIGHT GIVER ! I kiss thee. I've heard great harps sounding in brave bower and


I've drank the sweet music that bright lips let fall;
I've hunted in greenwood, and heard small birds sing;
But away with this idle and cold jargoning!
The music I love is the shout of the brave,

The yell of the dying,

The scream of the flying, When this arm wields death's sickle, and gamers the grave.

Joy GIVER ! I kiss thee,

The Midnight Wind. Mournfully! oh, mournfully

This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody

Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years—

Of hopes that bloomed to die Of sunny smiles that set in tears,

And Inves that mouldering lie!

Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath known, And wide o'er the mainland thy borrors hare shone. Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand! Thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red

strand, And won him the glory of undying song.

Keen cleaver of gay crests,

Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong!

FAME GIVER! I kiss thee.
In a love more abiding than that the heart knows
For maiden more lovely than summer's first rose,
My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness thou’rt dancing with me,
Brave measures of madness, in some battle field,

Where armour is ringing,

And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shielde DEATH GIVER! I kiss thee.

The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart; We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair ;
And light is the faith of fair woman's heart;

Hame! oh, how we love it, an'a' that are there!
Changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind, Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we draw-
Be the passions that govern weak woman's mind. Come, gi’e me your hand-we are brethren a'.
But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright:

Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith,
When ills wax in number,

An' eeping alang at his back will be death;
Thy love will not slumber;

Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa':
But, starlike, burns fiercer the darker the night.

Come, gi’e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

Thoughts of Heaven.
My kindred have perished by war or by wave;
Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave.

High thoughts!
When the path of our glory is shadowed in death,

They come and go, With me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath;

Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden,

While round me flow
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay;
While harps shall be ringing,

The winds, from woods and fields with gladness

laden :
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in our old fearless day.

When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come
Song GIVER! I kiss thee.

When the ere's beetle sounds its drowsy hum-
When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky,

Watch over all with soft and loving eye-

While the leaves quiver

By the lone river, ROBERT NICOLL (1814-1837) was a young man of

And the quiet heart high promise and amiable dispositions, who culti

From depths doth call vated literature amidst many discouragements. He

And garners allwas a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. After

Earth grows a shadow passing through a series of humble employments,

Forgotten whole, during which he steadily cultivated his mind by

And Heaven lives reading and writing, he assumed the editorship of

In the blessed soul ! the Leeds Times, a weekly paper representing the High thoughts ! extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He wrote as They are with me, one of the three hundred might be supposed to have

When, deep within the bosom of the forest, fought at Thermopylæ, animated by the pure love of Thy morning melody 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 fitteth, died in his twenty-fourth year, deeply regretted by

Where the roe sitteth, the numerous friends whom his talents and virtues

And holiness had drawn around him. Nicoll's poems are short

Seems sleeping there ; occasional pieces and songs the latter much in

While nature's prayer ferior to his serious poems, yet displaying happy

Goes up to heaven rural imagery and fancy.

In purity,

Till all is glory
We are Brethren a'.

And joy to me

High thoughts! A happy bit hame this auld world would be,

They are my own If men, when they're here, could make shift to agree, When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, An' ilk said to his neighbour, in cottage an' ha', And see below me strown Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.'

The huts and homes where humble virtues blog.

som ; I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight,

When I can trace each streamlet through the meadowWhen to 'gree would make a’body cosie an' right,

When I can follow every fitful shadowWhen man meets wi' man, 'tis the best way ava, When I can watch the winds among the corn, To say, 'Gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a’?

And see the waves along the forest borne ; My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,

Where blue-bell and heather And I maun drink water, while you may drink wine;

Are blooming together,

And far doth come But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to shaw:

The Sabbath bell, Sae gi'e me your hand—we are brethren a'.

O'er wood and fell; The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu’ deride ;

I hear the beating Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on your side;

Of nature's heart; Sae would I, an' nought else would I value a straw;

Heaven is before me Then gi'e me your band--we are brethren a'.

God! Thou art! Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man;

High thoughts ! I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can;

They visit us We are ane in our joys, our affections, an'a'

In moments when the soul is dim and darkeneu, Come, gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

They come to bless,

After the vanities to which we hearkened : Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e; When weariness bath come upon the spirit-. An' mine has done for me what mithers can do; (Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)We are ane high an' laigh, an’ we shouldna be twa: Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine, Sae gi'e me your hand-we are brethren a'.

A winged thought, which bids us not repine?

Nor song

away ?

In joy and gladness,

The Exile's Song.
In mirth and sadness,
Come signs and tokens ;

Oh! why left I my hame?
Life's angel brings

Why did I cross the deep?
Upon its wings

Oh! why left I the land
Those bright communings

Where my forefathers sleep?
The soul doth keep-

I sigh for Scotia's shore,
Those thoughts of heaven

And I gaze acrose the sea,
So pure and deep!

But I canna get a blink

O’ my ain countrie! [Death.)

The palm-tree wareth high,

And fair the myrtle springs ; [This poem is supposed to have been the last, or among the last, of Nicoll's compositions.)

And, to the Indian maid,

The bulbul sweetly sings. The dew is on the summer's greenest grass,

But I dinna see the broom Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps ;

Wi' its tassels on the lea, The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,

Nor hear the lintie's sang A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps;

O’my ain countrie! But I, who love them all, shall never be

Oh ! here no Sabbath bell Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea!

Awakes the Sabbath morn, The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine!

of reapers heard Blessed is the brightness of a summer day;

Amang the yellow corn : It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine,

For the tyrant's voice is here, Although among green fields I cannot stray !

And the wail of slaverie; Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you ware,

But the sun of freedom shines Familiar with death, and neighbour to the grave!

In my ain countrie ! These words have shaken mighty human souls

There's a hope for every wo, Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound

And a balm for every pain, E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls

But the first joys o' our heart The ivied remnants of old ruins round.

Come never back again. Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?

There's a track upon the deep,
Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade

And a path across the sea ;
But the weary ne'er return

To their ain countrie!
Are there not aspirations in each heart
After a better, brighter world than this ?

In the Days o' Langsyme.
Longings for beings nobler in each part
Things more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss ?

In the days o’langsyne, when we carles were young.
Who gave us these? What are they?' Soul, in thee An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung;
The bud is budding now for immortality!

When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our ain

yill, Death comes to take me where I long to be ;

An’were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill; One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower; o! the thocht o'thae days gars my auld heart aye fill! Death comes to lead me from mortality, To lands which know not one unhappy hour;

In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free,

Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea ! I have a hope, a faith-from sorrow here I'm led by Death away-why should I start and fear? To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were kind,

An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find If I have loved the forest and the field,

The banner of Scotland float high in the wind ! Can I not love them deeper, better there?

In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang If all that Power hath made, to me doth yield

By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang; Something of good and beauty-something fair

Our lads busked braw, and our lasses looked fine, Freed from the grossness of mortality,

An' the sun on our mountains seemed erer to shine; May I not love them all, and better all enjoy! 0! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne! A change from wo to joy—from earth to heaven, In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale,

Death gives me this—it leads me calmly where Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale; The souls that long ago from mine were riven An’ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,

May meet again! Death answers many a prayer. As it trotted alang through the valley or plain; Bright day, shine on! be glad : days brighter far Shall we e'er hear the music o’streamlets again! Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals In the days o' langsyne there were feasting and glee, are!

Wï' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk ee; (tyne,

And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to ROBERT GILFILLAN.

It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 'twas mine : Though no Scottish poetry besides that of Burns 0! the days o’ langsyne-0! the days o' langsyne. attracts attention out of its native country, there is

The Hills o' Gallorca'. not wanting a band of able and warm-hearted men who continue to cultivate it for their own amuse

[By Thomas Cunningham.) ment and that of their countrymen. Amongst these [Thomas Cunningham was the senior of his brother Allan may be mentioned MESSRS RODGER, BALLANTYNE, by some years, and was a copious author in prose and verse, VEDDER, and GRAY: a high place in the class is due though with an undistinguished name, long before the author to MR ROBERT GILFILLAN, a native of Dunfermline, of the Lives of the British Painters was known. He died in whose Poems and Songs have passed through three 1834. ] editions. The songs of Mr Gilfillan are marked by Amang the birks sae blithe and gay, gentle and kindly feelings, and a smooth flow of I met my Julia hameward gaun; versification, which makes them eminently suitable The linties chautit on the spray, for being expressed in music.

The lammies loupit on the lawn ;

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