ROBERT TANNAHILL. 1774—1810. ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of superior order, whose songs ival all but Burns' best in popularity, was a native of Paisley. His ducation was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native village until his twenty-sixth year, when he removed to Lancashire. There he remained two years, till the declining state of his father's health induced him, to return home. Whilst delighting all classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggravated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to consumption. He had prepared a new edition of his poems for the press, and sent the MS. to Mr. Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that gentleman, in consequence of his having more new works on hand than he could undertake that season. His disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his MS. and sunk into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th May, 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Search was made in every direction, and by the dawn of the morning the coat of the poet was discovered lying at the side of a neighboring stream, pointing out too surely where his body was to be found. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind, which at last overthrew his reason KEEN blaws the wind o'er the Braes o' Gleniffer, Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,— 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, JESSIE, THE FLOW'R O' DUMBLAKE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny; Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, |