But by thy honest turf I'll wait, And weep the ae best fellow's fate Macpherson's Farewell. Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring, and danced it round, Oh, what is death but parting breath? I've dared his face, and in this place Untie these bands from off my hands, I've lived a life of sturt and strife It burns my heart I must depart And not avenged be. ; Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Menie. Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steeped in morning dews. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry plough-boy cheers his team, A dream of ane that never wauks. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Who shall say that fortune grieves him, I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, My Bonny Mary. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, A service to my bonny lassie ; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonny Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are rankèd ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afarIt's leaving thee, my bonny Mary. Mary Morison. 'One of my juvenile works.'-BURNS. 'Of all the productions of Burns, the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines of Mary Morison, &c.'-HAZLITT. O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor : Yestreen when to the trembling string I sat, but neither heard nor saw. O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 193 Now's the day, and now 's the hour; See the front o' battle lour; See approach proud Edward's powerChains and slavery! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! Let us do, or die! A Vision.* As I stood by yon roofless tower, The winds were laid, the air was still, And the distant echoing glens reply. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me; * A favourite walk of Burns, during his residence in Dumfries, was one along the right bank of the river above the town, terminating at the ruins of Lincluden Abbey and Church, which occupy a romantic situation on a piece of rising ground in the angle at the junction of the Cluden Water with the Nith. These ruins include many fine fragments of ancient decorative architecture, and are enshrined in a natural scene of the utmost beauty. Burns, according to his eldest son, often mused amidst the Lincluden ruins. There is one position on a little mount, to the south of the church, where a couple of landscapes of witching loveliness are obtained, set, as it were, in two of the windows of the ancient building. It was probably the 'Calvary' of the ancient church precinct. This the younger Burns remembered to have been a favourite restingplace of the poet. Such is the locality of the grand and thrilling ode, entitled A Vision, in which he hints-for more than a hint could not be ventured upon-his sense of the degradation of the ancient manly spirit of his country under the conservative terrors of the passing era.-CHAMBERS's Burns. That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green! The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined am'rous round the raptured scene; The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every sprayTill soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? My *Burns, in his 'Remarks on Scottish Songs,' written for the Laird of Glenriddel, has described the above parting scene. Highland lassie,' he says, 'was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent the day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days before I could even hear of her illness.' Cromek heightens the interesting picture: The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook; they laved their hands in its limpid stream, and holding a Bible between them pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted, never to meet again.' Subsequent investigation has lessened the romance of this pure love-passage in the poet's life. The 'pretty long tract of attachment,' if we take the expression literally, must have been before Burns's acquaintance with Jean Armour, who soon eclipsed all the other rustic heroines. When Jean and her parents so ruthlessly broke off the connection, Burns turned to Highland Mary; but when Mary embarked for the West Highlands, Jean Armour again obtained the ascendant, and four weeks after the parting with Mary (June 12), we find the poet writing: 'Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her (Jean Armour); and to confess a truth, I do still love her to distraction.' Mary is no more heard of, and is not mentioned by Burns till three years after her decease. Her premature death had recalled her love and her virtues, and embalmed them for ever. The parting scene was exalted and hallowed in his imagination, and kept sacred-not, perhaps, without some feeling of remorse. To Dr Moore, to his Ayrshire friends, and to Clarinda he spoke freely of all his early loves except that of Mary: his vows to her seem never to have been whispered to any ear but her own. The rapid changes illustrate the poet's mobility, or excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions, RICHARD GALL. RICHARD GALL (1776-1800), whilst employed as a printer in Edinburgh, threw off some Scottish songs that became favourites. My Only Jo and Dearie O, for pleasing fancy and musical expression, is not unworthy of Tannahill. I remember,' says Allan Cunningham, 'when this song was exceedingly popular: its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft school-girl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung!' My Only Jo and Dearie 0. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, Oh, sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee! The birdie sings upon the thorn Nae care to mak it eerie O; Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, Our joys fu' sweet and mony O; I hae a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me O; I wish thou wert for ever mine, And never mair to leave me 0: Farewell to Ayrshire. This song of Gall's has often been printed as the composition of Burns, a copy in Burns's handwriting having been found among his papers. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming, Bowers, adieu! where love decoying, First enthralled this heart o' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying, Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine! Friends so dear my bosom ever, Ye hae rendered moments dear; But, alas! when forced to sever, Then the stroke, oh, how severe ! Friends, that parting tear reserve it, Though 'tis doubly dear to me; Could I think I did deserve it, How much happier would I be! Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu ! ALEXANDER WILSON. ALEXANDER WILSON, a distinguished naturalist, was also a good Scottish poet. He was a native of Paisley, and born July 6, 1766. He was brought up to the trade of a weaver, but afterwards preferred that of a pedlar, selling muslin and other wares. In 1789 he added to his other commodities a prospectus of a volume of poems, trusting, as he said, If the pedlar should fail to be favoured with sale, He did not succeed in either character; and after publishing his poems, he returned to the loom. In 1792 he issued anonymously his best poem, Watty and Meg, which was at first attributed to Burns. A foolish personal satire, and a not very wise admiration of the principles of equality disseminated at the time of the French Revolution, drove Wilson to America in the year 1794. There he was once more a weaver and a pedlar, and afterwards a schoolmaster. A love of ornithology gained upon him, and he wandered over America, collecting specimens of birds. In 1808 appeared his first volume of American Ornithology, and he continued collecting and publishing, traversing swamps and forests in quest of rare birds, and undergoing the greatest privations and fatigues, till he had committed an eighth volume to the press. He sank under his severe labours on the 23d of August 1813, and was interred with public honours at Philadelphia. In the Ornithology of Wilson we see the fancy and descriptive powers of the poet. The following extract is part of his account of the bald eagle, and is extremely vivid and striking: The Bald Eagle. The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the fish procured there, as for the numerous carcases of squirrels, deer, bears, and various other animals that, in their attempts to cross the river above the falls, have been dragged into the current, and precipitated down that tremendous gulf, where, among the rocks that bound the rapids below, they furnish a rich repast for the vulture, the raven, and the bald eagle, the subject of the present which also characterised Byron, and which Byron, less reticent, account. He has been long known to naturalists, being has defended: As Burns was one day sitting at his desk by the side of the window, a well-known hawker, Andrew Bishop, went past crying: Watty and Meg, a new ballad, by Robert Burns." The poet looked out and said: That's a lee, Andrew, but I would make your plack a bawbee if it were mine.' This we heard Mrs Burns, the poet's widow, relate. common to both continents, and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold, feeding equally on the produce of the sea and of the land, possessing powers of flight capable of outstripping even the tempests themselves, unawed by anything but man, and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes, and ocean deep below him, he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth. In procuring fish, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring, and tyrannical; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the high dead limb of some gigantic tree that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snow-white gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy tringæ coursing along the sands; trains of ducks streaming over the surface; silent and watchful cranes intent and wading; clamorous crows; and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these, hovers one whose action instantly arrests his whole attention. By his wide curvature of wing, and sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish-hawk, settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and balancing himself with half-opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the eager looks of the eagle are all ardour; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air with screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on the fish-hawk; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencontres the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unencumbered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish: the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods. By way of preface, to invoke the clemency of the reader,' Wilson relates the following exquisite trait of simplicity and nature : In one of my late visits to a friend in the country, I found their youngest son, a fine boy of eight or nine years of age, who usually resides in town for his education, just returning from a ramble through the neighbouring woods and fields, where he had collected a large and very handsome bunch of wild-flowers, of a great many different colours; and, presenting them to his mother, said: 'Look, my dear mamma, what beautiful flowers I have found growing on our place! Why, all the woods are full of them! red, orange, and blue, and 'most every colour. Oh! I can gather you a whole parcel of them, much handsomer than these, all growing in our own woods! Shall I, mamma? Shall I go and bring you more?' The good woman received the bunch of flowers with a smile of affectionate complacency; and, after admiring for some time the beautiful simplicity of nature, gave her willing consent, and the little fellow went off on the wings of ecstacy to execute his delightful commission. The similarity of this little boy's enthusiasm to my own struck me, and the reader will need no explanations of mine to make the application. Should my country receive with the same gracious indulgence the specimens which I here humbly present her; should she express a desire for me to go and bring her more, the highest wishes of my ambition will be gratified; for, in the language of my little friend, our whole woods are full of them, and I can collect hundreds more, much handsomer than these. The ambition of the poet-naturalist was amply gratified. 'Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel ! Drink's your night and day's desire; Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll Fling your whisky i' the fire!' Watty heard her tongue unhallowed, Folk frae every door came lampin', Hame, at length, she turned the gavel, Kickin' stools and chairs about. 'Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round yeHang you, sir, I'll be your death! Little hauds my hands, confound you, But I cleave you to the teeth!' Watty, wha, 'midst this oration, Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak, Sat, like patient Resignation, Trembling by the ingle-cheek. Sad his wee drap brose he sippet— 'Nane are free frae some vexation, 1 Old shoes. HECTOR MACNEILL. HECTOR MACNEILL (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but was unsuccessful in most of his business affairs. In 1789, he published a legendary poem, The Harp, and in 1795, his moral tale, Scotland's Skaith, or the History o' Will and Jean. The object of this production was to depict the evil effects of intemperance. A happy rural pair are reduced to ruin, descending by gradual steps till the husband is obliged to enlist as a soldier, and the wife to beg with her children through the country. The situation of the little ale-house where Will begins his unlucky potations is finely described. In a howm, whose bonny burnie White the wa's, wi' roof new theekit, Down below, a flowery meadow Painted bright between twa trees. 'Godsake, Tam! here's walth for drinking! 'Hout,' quo' Tam, 'there 's drouth in thinking Let's in, Will, and syne we 'll see.' The rustic friends have a jolly meeting, and do not separate till "tween twa and three' next morning. A weekly club is set up at Maggy Howe's, a newspaper is procured, and poor Will, the hero of the tale, becomes a pot-house politician, and soon goes to ruin. His wife also takes to drinking. Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace? Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller, See them now!-how changed wi' drinking! Claise and cash and credit out- Wi' ilk face as white 's a clout! Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin', Hirpling aye towards the north. Willie, heedless, tint his gate. Saft the southland breeze was blawing, Strack the ear wi' thundering thud: Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating; Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie. Save the Muses' Hawthornden! Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will-though hardly fit to gang- Faint at length, the day fast closing, 'Soldier, rise!-the dews o' e'ening Sleep na here, and catch your death.' Silent stept he on, poor fellow! Listening to his guide before, Laigh it was, yet sweet and humble; Melville's towers, sae white and stately, .... Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly Entering now, in transport mingle 'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till her; Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?' |