May see the maiden stap her wheel, Finds time to cull si'k transient flours As bleum on Galovidean moors; Whether, in numbers smooth and easy, He sing the dirgie of a deasy: Or in a strain mair free an' frisky Resoun' the praise of Highland whisky : Or with a Goldsmith's pencil trace The virtues o' the cottage race: Or, in a frolic wanton teen, Describe the fun of Hallow-e'en : Tho' some few notes be harsh an' hard, Hale be thine heart,-thou wale o' swains, That grace the Caledonian plains: May ilka sort o' bliss thee follow, That suits the vot'ries of Apollo. A merry heart, a murkless head; A conscience pure, an' void o' dread; A weil-thak't hut, an ingle clear; daisy tune clear thatched Butler, tho' in a diff'rent pace, Pursued the same inviting chase : Butler, a bard of matchless wit, Had he in smoother numbers writ. How could he?-In an hour, he'd bring Two hundred verses in a stringThen pause--and, in another hour, He'd bring two hundred verses more. Copious he flow'd, but wanted skill Or patience to restrain his quill: Yet in his motley, muddy stream Full many a pearl is seen to gleam. 'Tis not the number, but the weight Of lines that we should estimate. Crispinus challenges to rhimeAppoint a judge-a place—a time— Give paper, ink—and let us try Who writes most verses? You or I?' The Gods did well, that form'd my mind Of the pacific, gentle kind, And made me of a temp'rature Such boist'rous boasting to endure. Thrice happy Bays! He twice a year Satire, my friend ('twixt me and you), The slave of luxury and lust, The trader, whose insatiate soul Drives him like dust from pole to poleAll these with one accord (you know it) Dread poetry, and damn the poet. 'Shun, shun (they cry) the dangerous man : The charge is heavy-But agree For, sure, you cannot think that those, And who, in ev'ry rapt'rous line, Displays an energy divine; Commands, not courts, our approbation— And hence there are (perhaps you know 'em) From the 'Epistola Macaronica.' All in a word qui se oppressos most heavily credunt It is a curious commentary on the brevity of Geddes's poetic fame that not one of his poems, save the translations from Horace and the things contained in the first volume of the Antiquarian Transactions, is to be found in any public library in Edinburgh. There is a Life of Geddes by Dr Mason Good (1803), a shorter Life in Lives of Scottish Poets (vol. ii. 1822), and one in Dr Robert Chambers's Eminent Scotsmen. Susanna Blamire (1747-94), the Muse of Cumberland,' was, somewhat paradoxically, distinguished for her Scottish songs and poems. She was born of good family in Cumberland, at Cardew Hall near Carlisle, but was brought up by an aunt at Thackwood, endearing herself there to a circle of friends and acquaintance at many a 'merrie neet.' Her elder sister becoming in 1767 the wife of Colonel Graham of Gartmore, Susanna often visited them in Perthshire, where she acquired that taste for Scottish melody and music which prompted her lyrics, The Nabob, And ye shall walk in Silk Attire, The Siller Croun, and others. She knew Allan Ramsay's works, but seems not to have seen anything of Burns's. Besides her Scotch songs, she wrote pieces in the Cumbrian dialect, a number of addresses to friends and occasional verses, and a descriptive poem of some length entitled Stoklewath, or the Cumbrian Village. The Scotch lyrics, much more numerous than the Cumbrian ones, are in a rather artificial Scotch. Some are partly Cumbrian and partly Scotch, and with the Cumbrian words altered (like nobbet in Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee) appear regularly in Scotch collections. Miss Blamire died unmarried at Carlisle in her forty-seventh year, and her name had almost faded from remembrance, when, in 1842, her poetical works were collected by Dr Lonsdale and published in a small volume, with a memoir and notes by Patrick Maxwell. The Nabob. When silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, I sought again my native land Wha kens gin the dear friends I left Or gin I e'er again shall taste The joys I left langsyne? As I drew near my ancient pile Those days that followed me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys A' naething to langsyne! The ivied tower now met my eye, Where minstrels used to blaw; I ran to ilka dear friend's room, I knew where ilk ane used to sit, I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, And wished my groves away. 'Cut, cut,' they cried, those aged elms Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' Na na! our fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne. To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, But sair on ilka weel-kenned face In vain I sought in music's sound Has thrilled through a' my heart. I listened to langsyne. Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns The days he ance has seen. When time has passed and seasons fled, Your hearts will feel like mine; And aye the sang will maist delight What Ails this Heart o' Mine? What ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery ee? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee? When thou art far awa', Thou 'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I hae been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. Auld Robin Forbes (in Cumbrian). And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance, The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, That he offen said—nea pleace was leyke his awn heame! I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle, There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel; When the clock had struck eight, I expected him heame, That age, time, or death can divide thee and me! Hector Macneill (1746-1818), son of an old captain of the 42nd who turned farmer in Stirlingshire, spent some years in the West Indies, in 1780-86 was assistant-secretary on an admiral's flagship, and after two visits to Jamaica settled in Edinburgh on an annuity given him by a friend. He wrote several pamphlets, two novels, and some satirical poems denouncing modern changes; a legendary poem, The Harp (1789), and a descriptive poem, The Carse of Forth; but his name is associated with Scotland's Skaith, or the History o Will and Jean, telling how a husband reduces a happy family to beggary by drinking, and recovers himself after a spell of soldiering and the loss of a leg. But far better known are Macneill's lyrics, several of which- My boy Tammy,' 'I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane,' and 'Come under my plaidie,' for example are still popular Scotch songs; and Mary of Castle-Cary,' in spite of her 'soft rolling ee,' is constantly sung. Mary' is appended, as also a verse of each of the two other songs, and part of Scotland's Skaith. I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me; He's willing to mak me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rocklay o' blue, And a pair o' mittens o' green; The price was a kiss o' my mou', And I paid him the debt yestreen. roquelaure, short cloak Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa'; 'Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses- 'I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree: 'It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing, Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.' Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.' Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling ee; 'Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning; Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie.' 'Away wi' beguiling,' cried the youth, smilingOff went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling ee. fly John Lowe (1750-98), son of the gardener at Kenmure Castle in Galloway, studied for the Presbyterian ministry at Edinburgh. His one popular song, Mary's Dream, was written on the drowning of a ship's-doctor named Miller, who was attached to a daughter of the house in which Lowe was tutor. Lowe afterwards emigrated to America, where he taught a while, then took orders as an Episcopal clergyman, but having made an unhappy marriage, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Fredericksburg in Virginia. Only fragments of his other poems have been printed. Mary's Dream. The moon had climbed the highest hill And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, Her head, to ask who there might be, It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me! 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare ; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!' Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see ; But soft the passing spirit said : 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' Lady Anne Barnard (1750-1825) was the eldest daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres. Her life was divided between Balcarres in East Fife and Edinburgh, till in 1793 she married Andrew Barnard, son of the Bishop of Limerick, and afterwards appointed by Dundas as Colonial Secretary, under Lord Macartney, at the Cape of Good Hope. On his death in 1807 she settled in London. Her Auld Robin Gray, one of the most perfect, tender, and affecting of all our ballads of humble life, was written when she was a girl of twenty-two, published anonymously, and assumed to be an ancient piece. She revealed the secret of its authorship, which till then had been carefully kept, in a letter (8th July 1823) to Sir Walter Scott: Robin Gray, so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcarres, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London. I was melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an English-Scotch melody of which I was passionately fond. Sophy Johnstone, who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarres. She did not object to its having improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different words, and give its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister [Elizabeth], now Lady Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and given her Auld Robin Gray for a lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four was lines, poor thing! Help me to one!' 'Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow immediately lifted by me, and the song completed. At our fireside and amongst our neighbours 'Auld Robin Gray' was always called for. I was pleased in secret with the approbation it met with; but such was my dread of being suspected of writing anything, perceiving the shyness it created in those who could write nothing, that I carefully kept my own secret. With this letter Lady Anne sent two continuations of the ballad, which, like most continuations, are greatly inferior to the original. Scott published them, however, in his Auld Robin Gray: a Ballad (Bannatyne Club, 1825), to which reference may be made, as also to Lord Crawford's Lives of the Lindsays (1849). Lady Anne was brought before the public as an authoress once more during the South African troubles in 1899-1902, when nineteen interesting letters written home by her from the Cape in 1797-1801 were published as South Africa a Century Ago (1901). In these admirable specimens of the eighteenth-century style of letterwriting a shrewd, humorous, and widely experienced gentlewoman gives with entire frankness and frequent flashes of wit a clear and instructive account of the state of South Africa when the British flag was first hoisted over Cape Town,' and by no means omits the difficulties that beset attempts to conciliate the Dutch as much as possible' twenty years before her countryman Pringle recorded his experience of the settler's life. Auld Robin Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, [away; My father cauldna wark-my mother couldna spin- Or why am I spared to cry wae is me? My father urged me sair-my mither didna speak, I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, Robert Fergusson was born, on 5th September 1750, in Cap-and-Feather Close, off the High Street of Edinburgh. His father was a poor clerk, but both father and mother were of gentle Aberdeenshire blood, and a maternal uncle was a landed proprietor and factor in that county; his best biographer, Dr Grosart, assigns him two clerical great-grandfathers. Fergusson was sent to a private school at the age of six, and entered Edinburgh High School in 1758. He spent four years there, and is reputed to have been quick at making up leeway lost by frequent absences due to native delicacy of constitution, and to have been a devourer of books. In 1761 he procured a bursary which provided for 'maintenance and education' at the Grammar School of Dundee and the University of St Andrews, and after spending three years at the School he matriculated at St Andrews in 1765. Student life at St Andrews was not refined. The town swarmed with ale-houses, and the bursars had a too liberal supply of ale in their otherwise not too generous commons. So it is mainly the 'larks' of Fergusson's university career that contemporary gossip has preserved; a college servant described him as ‘a tricky callant, but a fine laddie for a' that;' and careless biographers have stated wrongly that he was expelled for participation in a row.' But he is reputed to have loved and known Virgil and Horace; he read much good English; and he had a close friend in Professor William Wilkie, whom Charles Townshend pronounced the most singular combination of god and brute he had ever met (see page 441). Fergusson had rhymed in the vernacular from a very early period, and one of his extra-academical performances was an elegy on the death of Professor Gregory, which showed that at fifteen he was on equal terms with Ramsay: Now mourn, ye college masters a'! His university studies were broken off by the death of his father. He had intended to qualify for the church, but he left St Andrews in 1768. A visit to the well-to-do uncle in the north, who * Copyright 1902 by J. B. Lippincott Company to the poem entitled "Verses written at the Hermitage of Braid," page 8ɔ6. |