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Hae ye marked the dews o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray?

Hae ye seen the bird, fast fleeing,

Drap, when pierced by death mair fleet?
Then see Jean, wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet.

After three lang years' affliction

A' their waes now hushed to restJean ance mair, in fond affection,

Clasps her Willie to her breast.

'Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

'O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.'

JOHN MAYNE.

JOHN MAYNE, author of the Siller Gun, Glasgow, and other poems, was a native of Dumfriesborn in the year 1761-and died in London in 1836. He was brought up to the printing business, and whilst apprentice in the Dumfries Journal office in 1777, in his sixteenth year, he published the germ of his Siller Gun in a quarto page of twelve stanzas. The subject of the poem is an ancient custom in Dumfries, called 'Shooting for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small silver tube presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades as a prize to the best marksman. This poem Mr Mayne continued to enlarge and improve up to the time of his death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two years to two cantos; in another year (1780) the poem was published-enlarged to three cantos-in Ruddiman's Magazine; and in 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, who said (in one of his notes to the Lady of the Lake)

The simple truth and pathos of descriptions like these appealed to the heart, and soon rendered Macneill's poem universally popular in Scotland. Its moral tendency was also a strong recommendation, and the same causes still operate in procuring readers for the tale, especially in that class best fitted to appreciate its rural beauties and homely pictures, and to receive benefit from the lessons it inculcates. Macneill wrote several Scottish lyrics, and published a descriptive poem, entitled The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling; and some prose tales, in which he laments the effect of modern change and improvement. The latter years of the poet'that it surpassed the efforts of Fergusson, and were spent in comparative comfort in Edinburgh.

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The

came near to those of Burns.' Mr Mayne was
author of a short poem on Halloween, printed in
Ruddiman's Magazine in 1780; and in 1781, he
published at Glasgow his fine ballad of Logan
Braes, which Burns had seen, and two lines of
which he copied into his Logan Water.
Siller Gun is humorous and descriptive, and is
happy in both. The author is a shrewd and
lively observer, full of glee, and also of gentle
and affectionate recollections of his native town
and all its people and pastimes. The ballad of
Logan Braes is a simple and beautiful lyric,
superior to the more elaborate version of Burns.
Though long resident in London (as proprietor
of the Star newspaper), Mr Mayne retained his
Scottish enthusiasm to the last; and to those
who, like ourselves, recollect him in advanced
life, stopping, in the midst of his duties as a
public journalist, to trace some remembrance 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
tenacity of early feelings and local associations.

Logan Braes.

By Logan's 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, thale days are gane,
And I wi' grief may heri alane,
While my dear lad mau n face his facs,
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 ILogan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane :
Frae kirk and fair I conne alane,
While my dear lad man 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 faes,
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,
For, night and day, on me she cries;
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sighed,
For me she wished to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind,
Took deadly aim at me :
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rushed in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell—
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
And tore my love from me!
For if, where all the graces shine-
Oh! if on earth there's aught divine,
My Helen! all these charms were thine-
They centred all in thee!

Ah, what avails it that, amain,

I clove the assassin's head in twain ;
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
No resting-place for me:

I see her spirit in the air-
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When Murder laid her bosom bare,
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee !

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,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise;
And, joining Helen in the skies,

Forget Kirkconnel-Lee !*

Mustering of the Trades to Shoot for the Siller Gun.

The lift was clear, the morn serene,
The sun just glinting ower the scene,

The concluding verse of the old ballad is finer:
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies

For her sake that died for me.

Also an earlier stanza:

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

When James M'Noe began again To beat to arms,

Rousing the heart o' man and wean
Wi' war's alarms.

Frae far and near the country lads
(Their joes ahint them on their yads)
Flocked in to see the show in squads;
And, what was dafter,
Their pawky mithers and their dads
Cam trotting after !

And mony a beau and belle were there,
Doited wi' dozing on a chair;

For, lest they 'd, sleeping, spoil their hair,
Ór miss the sight,

The gowks, like bairns before a fair,
Sat up a' night!

Wi' hats as black as ony raven,

Fresh as the rose, their beards new shaven,
And a' their Sunday's cleeding having
Sae trim and gay,

Forth cam our Trades, some orra saving
To wair that day.

Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carle,
Weel may he bruik his new apparel!
And never dree the bitter snarl
O' scowling wife!

But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel,
Be blithe through life!

Hech, sirs! what crowds cam into town,
To see them mustering up and down!
Lasses and lads, sunburnt and brown-
Women and weans,
Gentle and semple, mingling, crown
The gladsome scenes!

At first, forenent ilk Deacon's hallan,
His ain brigade was made to fall in ;
And, while the muster-roll was calling,
And joy-bells jowing,

Het-pints, weel spiced, to keep the saul in,
Around were flowing!

Broiled kipper, cheese, and bread, and ham,
Laid the foundation for a dram

O' whisky, gin frae Rotterdam,
Or cherry brandy;

Whilk after, a' was fish that cam
To Jock or Sandy.

Oh! weel ken they wha lo'e their chappin,
Drink maks the auldest swack and strappin';
Gars Care forget the ills that happen-
The blate look spruce-

And even the thowless cock their tappin,
And craw fu' croose!

The muster ower, the different bands
File aff in parties to the sands,
Where, 'mid loud laughs and clapping hands,
Glee'd Geordy Smith

Reviews them, and their line expands
Alang the Nith!

But ne'er, for uniform or air,

Was sic a group reviewed elsewhere!
The short, the tall; fat folk and spare ;
Syde coats and dockit;
Wigs, queues, and clubs, and curly hair;

Round hats and cockit!

As to their guns-thae fell engines,
Borrowed or begged, were of a' kinds,
For bloody war, or bad designs,
Or shooting cushies--
Lang fowling-pieces, carabines,
And blunderbusses!

Maist feck, though oiled to mak them glimmer,
Hadna been shot for mony a simmer ;
And Fame, the story-telling kimmer,
Jocosely hints

That some o' them had bits o' timmer
Instead o' flints!

Some guns, she threeps, within her ken,
Were spiked, to let nae priming ben;
And, as in twenty there were ten
Worm-eaten stocks,

Sae, here and there, a rozit-end
Held on their locks!

And then, to shew what difference stands
Atween the leaders and their bands,
Swords that, unsheathed since Prestonpans,
Neglected lay,

Were furbished up, to grace the hands
O' chiefs this day!

'Ohon!' says George, and ga'e a grane,
'The age o' chivalry is gane!'
Syne, having ower and ower again

The hale surveyed,

Their route, and a' things else, made plain,
He snuffed, and said:

'Now, gentlemen! now, mind the motion,
And dinna, this time, mak a botion :
Shouther your arms! Oh! haud them tosh on,
And not athraw!

Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean,
And march awa'!'

Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound,
Fifes, clarionets, and hautboys sound!
Through crowds on crowds, collected round,
The Corporations

Trudge aff, while Echo's self is drowned
In acclamations!

BARONESS NAIRNE.

CAROLINA OLIPHANT (1766-1845), of the family of Oliphant of Gask, and justly celebrated for her beauty, talents, and worth, wrote several lyrical pieces, which enjoy great popularity. These are, The Land o' the Leal, The Laird o' Cockpen, Caller Herrin', The Lass o' Gowrie, &c. In 1806 she was married to Major William Murray Nairne, who, in 1824, on the restoration of the attainted Scottish peerages, became Baron Nairne. Shortly before her death, this excellent and accomplished lady gave the Rev. Dr Chalmers a sum of £300, to assist in his schemes for the amelioration of the poorer classes in Edinburgh.

The Land o' the Leal.

I'm wearin' awa', John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John;
I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, John ;

There's neither cauld nor care, John ;

The day's aye fair

I' the land o' the leal.

Our bonny bairn's there, John; She was baith gude and fair, John; And, oh! we grudged her sair

To the land o' the leal.

But sorrow's sel' wears past, John

And joy's a-comin' fast, John

The joy that's aye to last

In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,

Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought

To the land o' the leal.

Oh, dry your glistening ee, John !
My saul langs to be free, John!
And angels beckon me

To the land o' the leal.

Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!
Your day it's wearin' through, John;
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Now, fare-ye-weel, my ain John;
This warld's cares are vain, John;
We'll meet, and we 'll be fain,

In the land o' the leal.

The Laird o' Cockpen.

The Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great,
His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state;
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she 'd look well;
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,

A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouthered, and as gude as new ;
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked-hat;
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the gray mare, and rade cannilie,
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee:
'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen.'

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine:
And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?'
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

And when she cam ben, he bowed fu' low,
And what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said 'Na;'
And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'.

Dumfoundered he was, but nae sigh did he gie;
He mounted his mare-he rade cannilie ;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.

And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
'Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten-
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.'

Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen-

But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.*

Caller Herrin'.†

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'?

They're bonny fish and halesome farin'; Wha 'll buy my caller herrin',

New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows,

The last two verses were added by Miss Ferrier, authoress of

Marriage. They are quite equal to the original,

† Caller, cool, fresh; herring new caught.

Darkling as they faced the billows,
A' to fill the woven willows?

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? &c.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
They're no brought here without brave daring.
Buy my caller herrin',

Hauled through wind and rain.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? &c.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin',
Wives and mithers maist despairing
Ca' them lives o' men.

Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? &c.

When the creel o' herrin' passes,
Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Cast their heads and screw their faces.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? &c.
Caller herrin''s no got lightly,
Ye can trip the spring fu' tightly,
Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin',
Gow has set you a' a-singin'.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? &c.
Neebour wives, now tent my tellin':
When the bonny fish ye 're sellin',
At ae word be in yer dealin';
Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'? &c.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of a superior order, whose songs rival all but the best of Burns's in popularity, was born in Paisley, on the 3d of June 1774. His education 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 town until his twentysixth year, when, with one of his younger brothers, he removed to Lancashire. There he continued two years, when the declining state of his father's health induced him to return. He arrived in time to receive the dying blessing of his parent, and a short time afterwards we find him writing to a friend: 'My brother Hugh and I are all that now remain at home with our old mother, bending under age and frailty; and but seven years back, nine of us used to sit at dinner together.' Hugh married, and the poet was left alone with his widowed mother. În a poem, The Filial Vow, he says:

'Twas hers to guide me through life's early day,
To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way:
Now, while her powers in frigid languor sleep,
'Tis mine to hand her down life's rugged steep;
With all her little weaknesses to bear,
Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care.
'Tis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows
From lessening an aged parent's woes.

The filial piety of Tannahill is strikingly apparent from this effusion, but the inferiority of the lines to any of his Scottish songs shews how little at home he was in English. His mother outlived him thirteen years. Though Tannahill had occasionally composed verses from a very early age, it was not till after this time that he attained

Neil Gow (1727-1807), a distinguished Scottish violinist, famous for playing the livelier airs known as strathspeys and reels.

to anything beyond mediocrity. Becoming acquainted with Mr R. A. Smith, a musical composer, the poet applied himself sedulously to lyrical composition, aided by the encouragement and the musical taste of his friend. Smith set some of his songs to original and appropriate airs, and in 1807 the poet ventured on the publication of a volume of poems and songs, of which the first impression, consisting of 900 copies, was sold in a few weeks. It is related that in a solitary walk on one occasion, his musings were interrupted by the voice of a country-girl in an adjoining field singing by herself a song of his

own

We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn-side; and he used to say he was more pleased at this evidence of his popularity, than at any tribute which had ever been paid him. He afterwards contributed some songs to Mr George Thomson's Select Melodies, and exerted himself to procure Irish airs, of which he was very fond. 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 manuscript 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. This disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his manuscripts, and sank into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th of 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 the tunnel of a neighbouring brook, pointing out but too surely where his body was to be found.'* Tannahill was a modest and temperate man, devoted to his kindred and friends, and of unblemished purity and correctness of conduct. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind which had overthrown his reason. The poems of this ill-starred son of genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They have all a common-place artificial character. His lyrics, on the other hand, are rich and original, both in description and sentiment. His diction is copious and luxuriant, particularly in describing natural objects and the peculiar features of the Scottish landscape. His simplicity is natural and unaffected; and though he appears to have possessed a deeper sympathy with nature than with the workings of human feeling, or even the passion of love, he is often tender and pathetic. His Gloomy Winter's now Awa' is a beautiful concentration of tenderness and melody.

The Braes o' Balquhither.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonny Highland heather;

* Memoir prefixed to Tannahill's Works. Glasgow, 1838.

Where the deer and the roe,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae drearie, And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn

On the night-breeze is swelling, So merrily we 'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer's in prime

Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme

A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

The Braes o' Gleniffer.

Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer;
The auld castle turrets are covered wi' snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw!
The wild-flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonny,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they hae marched my dear Johnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie,
Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie,
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
Johnie ;

'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,

That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin',

It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my ee; For oh! gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan, The dark days o' winter were summer to me.

The Flower o' Dumblane.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben-Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin,

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its sauft fauldin' blossom! And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower 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,

Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o'
Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Gloomy Winter's now Awa'.
Gloomy winter's now awa';
Saft the westlin breezes blaw;
'Mang the birks o' Stanley-shaw

The mavis sings fu' cheerie O.
Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonny sel',

My young, my artless dearie O.
Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day

Midst joys that never wearie O.

Towering o'er the Newton woods,
Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds;
Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,

Adorn the banks sae brierie O.
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feathery breckans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheerie O. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie O.

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 considerable comic humour, and coarse but charBawbee; Jenny dang the Weaver, &c., display acteristic 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 printingpress 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

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