of his native Dumfries and the banks of the Nith, or to hum over some rural or pastoral song which he had heard forty or fifty years before, his name, as well as his poetry, recalls the strength and permanency of early feelings and associations. Logan Braes. By Logan streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep; Herded sheep and gathered slaes, Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. But wae's my heart, thae days are gane, And I wi' grief may herd alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me; Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane: Frae kirk and fair I come alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, I dauner out and sit alane; Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. Oh! could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, and my ain! Beloved by friends, revered by facs, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes! Helen of Kirkconnel. [Helen Irving, a young lady of exquisite beauty and accomplishments, daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of rank and fortune in that neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the sweet banks of the Kirtle, she was murdered by a disappointed and sanguinary rival. This catastrophe took place during the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, and is the subject of three different ballads: the first two are old, the third is the composition of the author of the Siller Gun.' It was first inserted in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1815) by Sir Walter Scott.] I wish I were where Helen lies, Still seems to beckon me! Where Kirtle-waters gently wind, Took deadly aim at me: On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Though heaven forbids my wrath to swell, Ah! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain ? No resting-place for me: I see her spirit in the airI hear the shriek of wild despair, When Murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! JOHN MAYNE. Oh! when I'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, To the River Nith. Hail, gentle stream! for ever dear Blithe on thy banks, thou sweetest stream In pairs have dragged them from their den, [Mustering of the Trades to Shoot for the Siller Gun.] The lift was clear, the morn serene, Frae far and near the country lads And mony a beau and belle were there, The gowks, like bairns before a fair, Wi' hats as black as ony raven, Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl, O' scowling wife! But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel, Be blithe through life! "Now, gentlemen! now, mind the motion, Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean, Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound, Trudge aff, while Echo's self is drowned SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL. SIR ALEXANDER Boswell (1775-1822), the eldest son of Johnson's biographer, was author of some amusing songs, which are still very popular. Auld Gudeman, ye're a Drucken Carle, Jenny's Bawbee, Jenny Dang the Weaver, &c. display considerable comic humour, and coarse but characteristic painting. The higher qualities of simple rustic grace and elegance he seems never to have attempted. In 1803 Sir Alexander collected his fugitive pieces, and published them under the title of Songs chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. In 1810 he published a Scottish dialogue, in the style of Fergusson, called Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty; a Sketch of Manners, by Simon Gray. This Sketch is greatly overcharged. Sir Alexander was an ardent lover of our early literature, and reprinted several works at his private printing-press at Auchinleck. When politics ran high, he unfortunately wrote some personal satires, for one of which he received a challenge from Mr Stuart of Dunearn. The parties met at Auchtertool, in Fifeshire: conscious of his error, Sir Alexander resolved not to fire at his opponent; but Mr Stuart's shot took effect, and the unfortunate baronet fell. He died from the wound on the following day, the 26th of March 1822. He had been elevated to the baronetcy only the year previous. Jenny Dang the Weaver. And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Jenny dang, &c. Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind, He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, Peugh, And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Jenny's Bawbee. I met four chaps yon birks amang, Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel, The first, a captain till his trade, Quo' he, 'My goddess, nymph, and queen, But-Jenny's bawbee. A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, Accounts he had through a' the town, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown; A Norland laird neist trotted up, What's good to me?-I've walth o' lan'; A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs, A' clatty, squintin' through a glass, She bade the laird gang comb his wig, The fool cried, "Tehee, I kent that I could never fail!' She prined the dish-clout till his tail, And kept her bawbee. Good Night, and Joy be wi' ye a’. [This song is supposed to proceed from the mouth of an aged chieftain.] Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'; Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart; May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw! In sorrow may ye never part! The mountain-fires now blaze in vain : And in your deeds I'll live again! Or fiercer waved the red claymore? I I gave him here a welcome hame. The auld will speak, the young maun hear; Be cantie, but be good and leal; Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear, Anither's aye hae heart to feel. So, ere I set, I'll see you shine, I'll see you triumph ere I fa'; My parting breath shall boast you mineGood night, and joy be wi' you a'. [The High Street of Edinburgh.] [From Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty."] Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise, Whose azure summits mingle with the skies; There, from the earth the labouring porters bear The elements of fire and water high in air; There, as you scale the steps with toilsome tread, The dripping barrel madifies your head; Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel, A rising porter greets you with his creel! Here, in these chambers, ever dull and dark, The lady gay received her gayer spark, Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread, Trembled at opening casements overhead; But when in safety at her porch he trod, He seized the ring, and rasped the twisted rod. No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet, Linked, six a-row, six hours in Princes Street; But, one by one, they panted up the hill, And picked their steps with most uncommon skill; Then, at the Cross, each joined the motley mob'How are ye, Tam? and how's a' wi' ye, Bob?' Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired, And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired. O'er draughts of wine the beau would moan his love; O'er draughts of wine the cit his bargain drove; O'er draughts of wine the writer penned the will; And legal wisdom counselled o'er a gill. Yes, mark the street, for youth the great resort, And there, an active band, with frequent boast, Offspring of Birmingham's creative art, JAMES HOGG. JAMES HOGG, generally known by his poetical name of The Ettrick Shepherd,' was perhaps the most creative and imaginative of the uneducated poets. His fancy had a wide range, picturing in its flights scenes of wild aerial magnificence and beauty. His taste was very defective, though he had done much to repair his early want of instruction. His occupation of a shepherd, among solitary hills and glens, must have been favourable to his poetical enthusiasm. He was not, like Burns, thrown into society when young, and forced to combat with misfortune. His destiny was unvaried, until he had arrived at a period when the bent of his genius was fixed for life. Without society during the day, his evening hours were spent in listening to ancient legends and ballads, of which his mother (like Burns's) was a great reciter. This nursery of imagination he has himself beautifully described : O list the mystic lore sublime Hogg was descended from a family of shepherds, and born, as he alleged (though the point was often disputed) on the 25th January (Burns's birthday), in the year 1772. When a mere child he was put out to service, acting first as a cow-herd, until capable of taking care of a flock of sheep. He had in all about half a year's schooling. When eighteen years of age he entered the service of Mr Laidlaw, Blackhouse. He was then an eager reader of poetry and romances, and he subscribed to a circulating library in Peebles, the miscellaneous contents of which he perused with the utmost avidity. He was a remarkably fine-looking young man, with a profusion of light-brown hair, which he wore coiled up under his hat or blue bonnet, the envy of all the country maidens. An attack of illness, however, brought on by over-exertion on a hot summer day, completely altered his countenance, and changed the very form of his features. His first literary effort was in song-writing, and in 1801 he published a small volume of pieces. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott by his master's son, Mr William Laid. ' law, and assisted in the collection of old ballads for the Border Minstrelsy. He soon imitated the style of these ancient strains with great felicity, and published another volume of songs and poems under the title of The Mountain Bard. He now embarked in sheep-farming, and took a journey to the island of saved as a shepherd, or by his publication, was lost Harris on a speculation of this kind; but all he had in these attempts. He then repaired to Edinburgh, and endeavoured to subsist by his pen. A collection ' of songs, The Forest Minstrel, was his first effort: his second was a periodical called The Spy; but it was not till the publication of the Queen's Wake, in 1813, that the shepherd established his reputation as an author. This 'legendary poem' consists of a collection of tales and ballads supposed to be sung land assembled at a royal wake at Holyrood, in to Mary Queen of Scots by the native bards of Scotorder that the fair queen might prove The wondrous powers of Scottish song. The design was excellent, and the execution so varied and masterly, that Hogg was at once placed among the first of our living poets. The different productions of the native minstrels are strung together by a thread of narrative so gracefully written in many parts, that the reader is surprised equally at the delicacy and the genius of the author. At the conclusion of the poem, Hogg alludes to his illustrious friend Scott, and adverts with some feeling to an advice which Sir Walter had once given him, to abstain from his worship of poetry. The land was charmed to list his lays; Blest be his generous heart for aye! Scott was grieved at this allusion to his friendly counsel, as it was given at a time when no one dreamed of the shepherd possessing the powers that he displayed in the Queen's Wake. Various works now proceeded from his pen-Mador of the Moor, a poem in the Spenserian stanza; The Pilgrims of the Sun, in blank verse; The Hunting of Budlewe, The Poetic Mirror, Queen Hynde, Dramatic Tales, &c. Also several novels, as Winter Evening Tales, The Brownie of Bodsbeck, The Three Perils of Man, The Three Perils of Woman, The Confessions of a Sinner, &c. &c. Hogg's prose is very unequal. He had no skill in arranging incidents or delineating character. He is often coarse and extravagant; yet some of his stories have much of the literal truth and happy minute painting of Defoe. The worldly schemes of the shepherd were seldom successful. Though he had failed as a sheep farmer, he ventured again, and took a large farm, Mount Benger, from the Duke of Buccleuch. Here he also was unsuccessful; and his sole support, for the latter years of his life, was the remuneration afforded by his literary labours. He lived in a cottage which he had built at Altrive, on a piece of moorland (seventy acres) presented to him by the Duchess of Buccleuch. His love of angling and field-sports amounted to a passion, and when he could no longer fish or hunt, he declared his belief that his death was near. In the autumn of 1835 he was attacked with a dropsical complaint; and on the 21st November of that year, after some days of insensibility, he breathed his last as calmly, and with as little pain, as he ever fell asleep in his gray plaid on the hill-side. His death was deeply mourned in the vale of Ettrick, for all rejoiced in his fame; and notwithstanding his personal foibles, the shepherd was generous, kind-hearted, and charitable far beyond his means. In the activity and versatility of his powers, Hogg resembled Allan Ramsay more than he did Burns. Neither of them had the strength of passion or the grasp of intellect peculiar to Burns; but, on the other hand, their style was more discursive, playful, and fanciful. Burns seldom projects himself, as it were, out of his own feelings and situation, whereas both Ramsay and Hogg are happiest when they soar into the world of fancy or the scenes of antiquity. The Ettrick Shepherd abandoned himself entirely to the genius of old romance and legendary story. He loved, like Spenser, to luxuriate in fairy visions, and to picture scenes of supernatural splendour and beauty, where The emerald fields are of dazzling glow, His' Kilmeny' is one of the finest fairy tales that ever was conceived by poet or painter; and passages in the Pilgrims of the Sun' have the same abstract remote beauty and lofty imagination. Burns would have scrupled to commit himself to these aerial phantoms. His visions were more material, and linked to the joys and sorrows of actual existence. Akin to this peculiar feature in Hogg's poetry is the spirit of most of his songs-a wild lyrical flow of fancy, that is sometimes inexpressibly sweet and musical. He wanted art to construct a fable, and taste to give due effect to his imagery and conceptions; but there are few poets who impress us so much with the idea of direct inspiration, and that poetry is indeed an art unteachable and untaught.' Bonny Kilmeny. [From the Queen's Wake."] Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, rung, Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still, And in that waik there is a wene, And in that wene there is a maike That neither hath flesh, blood, nor bane; * * * They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walked in the light of a sunless day; The sky was a dome of crystal bright, The fountain of vision, and fountain of light; The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid, That her youth and beauty never might fade; And they smiled on heaven when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wandered by; And she heard a song, she heard it sung, She kend not where, but sae sweetly it rung, It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn. 'O! blest be the day Kilmeny was born! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light; 74 |