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suit. The lady adopted the counsel, and the success of the experinient was complete. Hamilton wrote a serious poem, entitled 'Contemplation,' and a national one on the Thistle, which is in blank verse:
How oft beneath
Surrounds the sainted cross, with costly row
A sacred mark, their glory and their pride! Professor Richardson of Glasgow—who wrote a critique on Hamilton in the ‘Lounger'-quotes the following as a favourable specimen of bis poetical powers : In everlasting blushes seen,
The speaking glance, the amorous wile, Such Pringle shines, of sprightly mien. The sportful laugh, the winning smile. To her the power of love imparts,
Her soul awakening every grace, Rich gift! the soft successful arts, Is all abroad upon her face; That best the lover's fire provoke,
In bloom of youth still to survive, The lively step, the mirthful joke, All charms are there, and all alive.
Others of his amatory strains are full of quaint conceits and exaggerated expression, without any trace of real passion. His ballad of * The Braes of Yarrow' is by far the finest of his effusions: it has real nature, tenderness, and pastoral simplicity. Having led to the composition of Wordswortli's three beautiful poems, ' Yarrow Unvisited,' * Yarrow Visited,' and · Yarrow Revisited,' it has, moreover, some external importance in the records of British literature. The poet of the lakes has copied some of its lines and images. A complete collated edition of Hamilton's poems and songs, edited by James Pater son, was published in 1850.
The Braes of Yarrow.
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow !
And think vae inair on the Braes of Yarrow.
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow !
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ?
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dool and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow! And why yon melancholious weeds
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ?
What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude ?
What's yonder floats ? O dool and sorrow !
Wash, Q wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dool and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.
Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced big breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lo'e,
And warn from fight? but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm
Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.
In flowery bands thou him didst fetter;
Than me he never lo'ed thee better.
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow.
What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me. My happy sisters, may be, may be proud,
With cruel and ungentle scoffin',
My lover nailed in his coffin.
And strive with threatening words to move me,
How canst thou ever bid me love thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love.
With bridal shee's my body cover,
Let in the expected husband-lover.
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down;
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
And crown my careful head with willow.
O could my warmth to life restore theel
No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale, pale, indeed, o lovely, lovely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
No youth shall ever lie there after.
Return and dry thy useless sorrow:
JOHN SKINNER. Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of 'Tullochgorum,' the composition of the Rev. JouN SKINNER (1721-1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good-will among men. Mr. Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons ! Ile died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised' his wish ot' seeing once more bis children's grandchildren, and peace upon Isracl.' Besides · Tullochgorum,' and other songs, Skinner wrote an · Ecclesiastical History of Scotland,' and some theological treatises.
Tullochgorum. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, Let wardly minds themselves oppress And lay your disputes all aside ; .
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, To drop their Whigmegmorum.
Like auld Philosophorum ? Let Whig and Tory all agree
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, To gpend this night with mirth and glee, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me
And canna rise to shake a fit The reel of Tullochgorum.
At the reel of Tullochgorum ?
0, Tullochgorum 's my delight;
In conscience I abhor him.
And inak a cheerfu' quorum.
The reel of Tullochgorum.
May choicest blessings still attend
And a' that's good watch o'er him !
And dainties, a great store o' 'em!
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
There need nae be sae great a phrase
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
Wi' a' their variorum.
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
But for the discontented fool,
And discontent devour him!
And nane say, Wae's me for 'im !
The reel of Tullochgorum!
ROBERT CRAWFORD. ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of “The Bush aboon Traquair,' and the still finer lyric of Tweedside,' was a cadet of the family of Crawford of Drumsoy. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his Tea-table Miscellany,' and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drovided in coming from France in the year 1733, aged about thirtyeight. Crawford had genuine poetical fancy and expression. "The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, secks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in liomely lovo and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.'
The Bush aboon Traquair. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every s
Yet now she scorpful flees the plain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
The fields we then frequented; Though thus I lavguish and complain, If e'er we meet she shews disdain, Alas! she ne'er believes me.
She looks as ne'er acquainted. My vows and sighs, like silent air,
The bonny bush bloomed fair in May, Unheeded, never move her ;
Its sweets I'll aye remember; At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair, But now her frowns make it decay'Twas there I first did love her.
It fades as in December.
seramics upon Tweed. Vo they nevelily, she lies asli ber to rest,
That day she smiled and made me kind, Ye rural powers, who hear my straine,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
O make her partner in my pains, So sweetly there to find her;
Then let her smiles relieve me:
My passion no more tender;
To louely wilds I'll wander.
Tweedorde. What beauties does Flor disclose
Bow does my love pass the long day? How sweet are her smijes upon Tweed! Does Mary not tend a few sheep! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Do they never carelessly stray
Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Should Tweed's murmurs lull hier to rest, Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Kind nature indulging my bliss, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, To ease the soft pains of my breast,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield. I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. The warblers are heard in the grove, 'Tis she does the virgins excel ;
The Jinnet, the lark, and the thrush; No beauty with her may compare : The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, Love's graces around her do dwell; With music enchant every bush.
She's fairest where thousands are fair. Come, let us go forth to the mead;
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? Let us see how the priinroses spring;
Oh, tell me at moru where they feed ?
LADY GRISELL BAILLIE.