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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,
Shaked her majestic person into grace,
And as at times his glossy sides she strook
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,
Got dignity and honour from the glance;
Did the dear witchery of her eye elance !
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.
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
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
Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still Aling their shadows owre my path,
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
The blithe blinks u langsyne.
'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.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
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.
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,
Hope's passionate farewell
Ere yet grief's canker feil
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 heart flows like a sea,
O'schule-time and othee.
Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
Like simmer blossoms, sprang!
The deavin' dinsome toun,
And hear its water croon!
The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wud
The throssil whusslit sweet.
The burn sung to the trees,
For hours thegither sat
Wi' vera gladness grat!
Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Had ony power to speak !
When hearts were fresh and young,
Gin I hae been to thee
As ye hae been to me?
Thine ear as it does mine;
Wi' dreamings o’ langsyne?
I've borne a weary lot ;
Ye never were forgot.
Still travels on its way;
The luve o' life's young day.
Since we were sindered young,
The music o' your tongue;
And happy could I dee,
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;
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,
FAME GIVER! I kiss thee.
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 ;
Hame! oh, how we love it, an'a' that are there!
Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us baith,
An' eeping alang at his back will be death;
Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa':
Come, gi’e me your hand—we are brethren a'.
Thoughts of Heaven.
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
The winds, from woods and fields with gladness
When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come
When the ere's beetle sounds its drowsy hum-
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.
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.
Till all is glory
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?
In joy and gladness,
The Exile's Song.
Oh! why left I my hame?
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze acrose the sea,
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,
And a path across the sea ;
To their ain countrie!
In the Days o' Langsyme.
In the days o’langsyne, when we carles were young.
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 ;