The heaths and upland muirs, and fallows, change Up from their nests and fields of tender corn Mount to the heaven's blue keystone flickering; As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell the sound. For when the first upsloping ray was flung On Anster steeple's swallow-harbouring top, Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy rope, The town's long colours flare and flap on high, All to salute and grace the morn of Anster Fair. The description of the heroine is passionate and imaginative. Description of Maggie Lauder. Her form was as the Morning's blithesome star, And on his knees adores her as she gleams; And so the admiring crowds pay homage and applaud her. Each little step her trampling palfrey took, Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm! The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold The tresses in their arms so slim and tangling, And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares, And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden hairs. Her eye was as an honoured palace, where A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance; What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, Got dignity and honour from the glance; Woe to the man on whom she unaware Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regardMay Heaven from such a look preserve each tender bard! His humour and lively characteristic painting are well displayed in the account of the different parties who, gay and fantastic, flock to the fair, as Chaucer's pilgrims did to the shrine of Thomas à Becket. Parties travelling to the Fair. Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan, Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye, Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy thigh. They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks, Nor staid away the Islanders, that lie To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed; From Jura, Arran, Barra, Uist, and Skye, Piping they come, unshaved, unbreeched, unhosed; Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr- Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west !- Of virtuous industry and talents rare; The accomplished men o' the counting-room confessed, And fit to crack a joke or argue with the best. Nor keep their homes the Borderers, that stay Where purls the Jed, and Esk, and little Liddel, Men that can rarely on the bagpipe play, And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle; Avowed freebooters, that have many a day Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill; And some of them in sloop of tarry side, Have ta'en the road by Stirling brig about, ROBERT GILFILLAN. ROBERT GILFILLAN (1798-1850) was a native of Dunfermline. He was long clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith, and afterwards collector of poorrates in the same town. His Poems and Songs have passed through three editions. The songs of Mr Gilfillan are marked by gentle and kindly feelings and a smooth flow of versification, which makes them eminently suitable for being set to music. The Exile's Song. Oh, why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh, why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings; Oh, here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain, But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie! In the Days o' Langsyne. In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young, An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill; Oh, the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill! In the days o' langsyne we were happy an' free, In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted an' sang In the days o' langsyne there were feasting an' glee, Wi' pride in ilk heart, an' joy in ilk ee; An' the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to tyne, It was your stoup the nicht, an' the morn it was mine: Oh, the days o' langsyne !—Oh, the days o' langsyne! The Hills & Gallowa'.-By THOMAS MOUNCEY Thomas Cunningham was the senior of his brother Allan by some years, and was a copious author in prose and verse, though with an undistinguished name, long before the author of the Lives of British Painters was known. He died in 1834, aged sixtyeight. Amang the birks sae blithe and gay, The lammies loupit on the lawn ; On ilka howm the sward was mawn, And fragrance winged alang the lea, And saftly slade the hours awa', It isna owsen, sheep, and kye, The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer. Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba', Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill, And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, That ower the muir meandering rows; My birkin pipe I'll sweetly blaw, And when auld Scotland's heathy hills, Lucy's Flittin'.-By WILLIAM LAIDLAW. William Laidlaw was son of the Ettrick Shepherd's master at Blackhouse. All who have read Lockhart's Life of Scott, know how closely Mr Laidlaw was connected with the illustrious baronet of Abbotsford. He was his companion in some of his early wanderings, his friend and land-steward in advanced years, his amanuensis in the composition of some of his novels, and he was one of the few who watched over his last sad and painful moments. Lucy's Flittin' is deservedly popular for its unaffected tenderness and simplicity. Mr Laidlaw died at Contin, in Ross-shire, May 18, 1845. 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't, And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear: For Lucy had served i' the Glen a' the simmer; She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her; Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see; 'Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' quo' Jamie, and ran in ; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', 'Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin', And Robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang. 'Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither; Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. 'Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon, It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He couldna say mair but just "Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!" Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. "The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie ;'-she turned and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonny sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! The Brownie of Blednoch. By WILLIAM NICHOLSON, known as the 'Galloway Poet,' who, after an irregular, dissipated life, died a pauper in 1849. There cam a strange wight to our town-en', An' the fient a body did him ken; He tirled na lang, but he glided ben His face did glow like the glow o' the west, I trow the bauldest stood aback, Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did crack, Oh, had ye seen the bairns's fright, The black dog growling cowered his tail, His matted head on his breast did rest, Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen *The last four lines were added by Hogg to 'complete the story,' though in reality it was complete with the account of the flitting. On his wauchie arms three claws did meet, But he drew a score, himsel' did sain; But the canty auld wife cam till her breath, 'His presence protect us!' quoth the auld gudeman; 'I lived in a lan' where we saw nae sky, 'I'll shiel a' your sheep i' the mornin' sune, If ye 'll keep puir Aiken-drum. I'se tame 't,' quoth Aiken-drum. 'To wear the tod frae the flock on the fell, 'I'se seek nae guids, gear, bond, nor mark; I use nae beddin', shoon, nor sark; But a cogfu' o' brose 'tween the light an' the dark, Is the wage o' Aiken-drum.' Quoth the wylie auld wife: 'The thing speaks weel; But the wenches skirled: 'He's no be here! Roun' a' that side what wark was dune ... On Blednoch banks, an' on crystal Cree, But a new-made wife, fu' o' rippish freaks, Fond o' a' things feat for the first five weeks, Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks By the brose o' Aiken-drum. Let the learned decide when they convene, What spell was him an' the breeks between; For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen, An' sair missed was Aiken-drum. He was heard by a herd gaun by the Thrieve, Awa', ye wrangling sceptic tribe, Though the 'Brownie o' Blednoch' lang be gane, Tell the feats o' Aiken-drum. E'en now, light loons that jibe an' sneer At the Glashnoch mill hae swat wi' fear, An' looked roun' for Aiken-drum. An' guidly folks hae gotten a fright, When the moon was set, an' the stars gied nae light, The Cameronian's Dream.-By JAMES HISLOP. James Hislop was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar, near the source of the Nith, in July 1798. He was employed as a shepherd-boy in the vicinity of Airdsmoss, where, at the grave-stone of a party of slain Covenanters, he composed the following striking poem. He afterwards became a teacher, and his poetical effusions having attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey and other eminent literary characters, he was, through their influence, appointed schoolmaster, first on board the Doris, and subsequently the Tweed man-of-war. He died on the 4th December 1827, from fever caught by sleeping one night in the open air upon the island of St Jago. His compositions display an elegant rather than a vigorous imagination, much chasteness of thought, and a pure, ardent love of nature. In a dream of the night I was wafted away 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood; When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud, And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl was crying, For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed; With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded. Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended; A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye, Song By JOSEPH TRAIN. Mr Train will be memorable in our literary history for the assistance he rendered to Sir Walter Scott in the contribution of some of the stories on which the Waverley novels were founded. He served for some time as a private soldier, but obtaining an appointment in the Excise, he rose to be a supervisor. He was a zealous and able antiquary, and author of a History of the Isle of Man, and an account of a religious sect well known in the south of Scotland as The Buchanites. Mr Train died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, in 1852, aged seventy-three. Wi' drums and pipes the clachan rang; I bickered down the mountain-side. To do the auld thing o'er again. Ye barons bold, whose turrets rise The auld thing weel done o'er again. Right far a-fiel' I freely fought, Discharges a' my toil and pain, The pleasant auld thing o'er again. The great popularity of Burns's lyrics, co-operating with the national love of song and music, continued to call forth numerous Scottish poets, chiefly lyrical. A recent editor, Dr Charles Rogers, has filled no less than six volumes with specimens of The Modern Scottish Minstrel, or the Songs of Scotland of the Past Half-century (1856, 1857). Many of these were unworthy of resuscitation, but others are characterised by simplicity, tenderness, and pathetic feeling. DRAMATISTS. The popular dramatic art or talent is a rare gift. Some of the most eminent poets have failed in attempting to portray actual life and passion in interesting situations on the stage; and as Fielding and Smollett proved unsuccessful in comedy-though the former wrote a number of pieces-so Byron and Scott were found wanting in the qualities requisite for the tragic drama. 'It is evident,' says Campbell, that Melpomene demands on the stage something, and a good deal more than even poetical talent, rare as that is. She requires a potent and peculiar faculty for the invention of incident adapted to theatric effect; a faculty which may often exist in those who have been bred to the stage, but which, generally speaking, has seldom been shewn by any poets who were not professional players. There are exceptions to the remark, but there are not many. If Shakspeare had not been a player, he would not have been the dramatist that he is.' Dryden, Addison, and Congreve are exceptions to this rule; also Goldsmith in comedy, and, in our own day, Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer in the romantic drama. The Colmans, Sheridan, Morton, and Reynolds never wore the sock or buskin; but they were either managers, or closely connected with the theatre. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Sheridan was early in the field as a dramatist, and both in wit and success eclipsed all his contemporaries. In January 1775 his play of The Rivals was brought out at Covent Garden. In this first effort of Sheridan-who was then in his twenty-fourth year-there is more humour than wit. He had copied some of his characters from Humphry Clinker, as the testy but generous Captain Absolute-evidently borrowed from Matthew Bramble and Mrs Malaprop, whose mistakes in words are the echoes of Mrs Winifred Jenkins' blunders. Some of these are farcical enough; but as Moore observes-and no man has made more use of similes than himself-the luckiness of Mrs Malaprop's simile as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile'--will be acknowledged as long as there are writers to be run away with by the wilfulness of this truly headstrong species of composition. In the same year, St Patrick's Day and The Duenna were produced; the latter had a run of seventy-five nights! It certainly is greatly superior to The Beggars Opera, though not so general in its satire. In 1777, Sheridan wrote other two plays, The Trip to Scarborough and The School for Scandal. In plot, character, and incident, diais acknowledged to surpass any comedy of logue, humour, and wit, The School for Scandal modern times. It was carefully prepared by the author, who selected, arranged, and moulded his language with consummate taste, so as to form it into a transparent channel of his thoughts. Mr Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives some amusing instances of the various forms which a witticism or pointed remark assumed before its final adoption. As, in his first comedy, Sheridan had taken hints from Smollett, in this, his last, he had recourse to Smollett's rival, or rather twin novelist, Fielding. The characters of Charles and Joseph Surface are evidently copies from those of Tom Jones and Blifil. Nor is the moral of the play an improvement on that of the novel. The careless extravagant rake is generous, warm-hearted, and fascinating; seriousness and gravity are rendered odious by being united to meanness and hypocrisy. The dramatic art of Sheridan is evinced in the ludicrous incidents and situations with which The School for Scandal abounds: his genius shines forth in its witty dialogues. The entire comedy,' says Moore, 'is an El Dorado of wit, where the precious metal is thrown about by all classes as carelessly as if they had not the least idea of its value.' This fault is one not likely to be often committed! Some shorter pieces were afterwards written by Sheridan: The Camp, a musical opera, and The Critic, a witty afterpiece, in the manner of The Rehearsal. The character of Sir Fretful Plagiary-intended, it is said, for Cumberland the dramatist-is one of the author's happiest efforts; and the schemes and contrivances of Puff the manager-such as making his theatrical clock strike four in a morning scene, 'to beget an awful attention' in the audience, and to description of the rising sun, and a great deal about gilding the eastern hemisphere felicitous combination of humour and satire. The scene in which Sneer mortifies the vanity of Sir Fretful, and Puff's description of his own mode of life by his proficiency in the art of puffing, are perhaps the best that Sheridan ever wrote. save a -are a Mrs Dangle. I confess he is a favourite of mine, because everybody else abuses him. Sneer. Very much to the credit of your charity, madam, if not of your judgment. |