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"Should appetite her wish achieve,

To herd with brutes her joy would bound; Pleased other paradise to leave,

Content to pasture on the ground.

"But pride rebels, nor towers alone

Beyond that confine's lowly sphere-Seems as from the eternal throne

It aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.

"Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare;

But, seek we to our bliss the way, Let us to Heaven our path refer,

Believe, and worship, and obey. "That choice is all-to range beyond

Nor must, nor needs; provision, grace, In these he gives, who sits enthroned, Salvation, competence, and peace." The instructive vision pass'd away,

But not its wisdom's dreamless lore; No more in shadow-tracks I stray, And fondle shadow-shapes no more.

ADAM SKIRVING.

BORN 1719-DIED 1803.

ADAM SKIRVING, a wealthy farmer of Had-| dingtonshire, was born in the year 1719, and educated at Preston Kirk, in East Lothian. He long held the farm of Garleton, near Haddington, on the road to Gosford. Skirving was a very athletic man, and excelled in all manly sports and exercises. He died in April, 1803, and was buried in the church of Athelstaneford, where his merits are recorded in a metrical epitaph:

"In feature, in figure, agility, mind,

And happy wit rarely surpass'd. With lofty or low could be plain or refined, Content beaming bright to the last."

Skirving composed in 1745 two songs, which have for more than a hundred years held a place in the hearts of his countrymen, and in nearly every collection of Scottish minstrelsy. Among the various personages referred to in one of these, was a certain Lieut. Smith, an Irish

man, who displayed much pusillanimity in the battle of Preston, or, as the poet calls it, Tranent Muir. He, however, challenged Skirving for the manner in which he was spoken of. "Gang back," said the rustic poet to the officer who brought the message, "and tell Lieut. Smith that I ha'e nae leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here, and I'll tak' a look o' him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht, I'll fecht him; and if no-I'll do as he did-I'll rin awa."

Skirving's other lyric, "Johnnie Cope," doubtless owes much of its popularity to its spirit-stirring air. Perhaps no song in existence has so many variations. Sir John Cope, as is well known, made a precipitate retreat from the field, followed by his dragoons, and did not draw rein till he reached Dunbar. He was tried by court-martial for his "foul flight," as Colonel Gardiner called it, but was acquitted. The Muses, however, did not acquit him; but

have immortalized his cowardly and disgrace- | bravery of Prince Charles, aided by the impetu-
ful retreat from the field of battle, called ous charge of the clans, defeated, a punning
according to the different local positions of the rhymster made the following ludicrous but
conflicting parties, Gladsmuir, Prestonpans, accurate epigram:-
and Tranent Muir. Of the three generals
whom the presence of mind and great personal

Cope could not cope, nor Wade wade thro' the snow,
Nor Hawley haul his cannon on the foe.

TRANENT MUIR1

The Chevalier, being void of fear,
Did march up Birsle brae, man,
And through Tranent, e'er he did stent,
As fast as he could gae, man;
While General Cope did taunt and mock,
Wi' mony a loud huzza, man;
But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock,
We heard anither craw, man.

The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell,
Led Camerons on in cluds, man;
The morning fair, and clear the air,

They loos'd with devilish thuds, man;
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew,
And soon did chase them aff, man;
On Seaton Crafts they buft their chafts,
And gart them rin like daft, man.

The volunteers prick'd up their ears,

And vow gin they were crouse, man;
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st,
They were not worth a louse, man;
Maist feck gade hame-O, fy for shame!
They'd better stay'd awa', man,
Than wi' cockade to make parade,
And do nae good at a', man.

And Simpson keen, to clear the een
Of rebels far in wrang, man,
Did never strive wi' pistols five,

But gallop'd wi' the thrang, man:
He turn'd his back, and in a crack
Was cleanly out of sight, man;
And thought it best; it was nae jest
Wi' Highlanders to fight, man.

'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang
But twa, and ane was tane, man;
For Campbell rade, but Myrie staid,
And sair he paid the kain, man;
Fell skelps he got, was waur than shot,
Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man;

Two objectionable verses-the third and fifth-of this song are omitted.-ED.

Frae many a spout came running out
His reeking-het red gore, man.
But Gard'ner brave did still behave
Like to a hero bright, man;
His courage true, like him were few,
That still despised flight, man;
For king and laws, and country's cause,
In honour's bed he lay, man;
His life, but not his courage, fled,

While he had breath to draw, man.

And Major Bowle, that worthy soul,

Was brought doun to the ground, man;
His horse being shot, it was his lot

For to get mony a wound, man:
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man,
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head,
And wadna be gainsaid, man.

He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his beast,
'Twas little there he saw, man;
To Berwick rade, and safely said,

The Scots were rebels a', man:
But let that end, for well 'tis kend
His use and wont to lie, man;
The Teague is naught, he never fought,
When he had room to flee, man.

And Cadell drest, amang the rest,

With gun and good claymore, man,
On gelding gray he rode that way,

With pistols set before, man;
The cause was good, he'd spend his blood,
Before that he would yield, man;
But the night before, he left the core,

And never fac'd the field, man.

But gallant Roger, like a soger,

Stood and bravely fought, man;
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell,

But mae doun wi' him brought, man:
At point of death, wi' his last breath,
(Some standing round in ring, man),
On's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat,
And cry'd, God save the king, man.

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Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs,

Neglecting to pursue, man,
About they fac'd, and in great haste

Upon the booty flew, man;
And they, as gain for all their pain,

Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man,
Fu bauld can tell how her nainsell

Was ne'er sae pra before, man.

At the thorn-tree, which you may see
Bewest the meadow-mill, man,
There mony slain lay on the plain,
The clans pursuing still, man.
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks,

I never saw the like, man;

Lost hands and heads cost them their deads,
That fell near Preston-dyke, man.

That afternoon, when a' was done,
I gaed to see the fray, man;
But had I wist what after past,
I'd better staid awa', man;
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands,
They pick'd my pockets bare, man;
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear,
For a' the sum and mair, man.

JOHNNIE COPE.

Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar:—
Charlie, meet me an ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art o' war,

If you'll meet wi' me i' the morning.
Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet?

Or are your drums a-beating yet?
If ye were wauking, I wad wait

To gang to the coals i' the morning.
When Charlie look'd the letter upon,
He drew his sword the scabbard from:
Come follow me, my merry merry men,

And we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the
morning.

Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word,
Come let us try both fire and sword;
And dinna flee away like a frighted bird,
That's chased frae its nest in the morning.
When Johnnie Cope he heard of this,
He thought it wadna be amiss
To ha'e a horse in readiness,

To flee awa' in the morning.
Fy now, Johnnie, get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes mak' a din;
It is best to sleep in a hale skin,

For 'twill be a bluidy morning.

When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came,
They speer'd at him, Where's a' your men?
The deil confound me gin I ken,

For I left them a' i' the morning.

Now, Johnnie, troth ye are na blate,
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat,
And leave your men in sic a strait,
Sae early in the morning.

Oh! faith, quo' Johnnie, I got sic flegs
Wi' their claymores and philabegs;
If I face them again, deil break my legs-
So I wish you a' gude morning.

JOHN WILSON.

BORN 1720-DIED 1789.

The author of "The Clyde," a descriptive | his father compelled him to withdraw. He poem of considerable merit, was born in the parish of Lesmahagow, in Lanarkshire, June 30, 1720. He was the son of a small farmer, who, to maintain his family, was obliged to divide his labours between the anvil and plough a practice not uncommon in Scotland in former times. John was sent to the grammar-school of Lanark, where he remained until his fourteenth year, when the death of

had made such rapid progress in his studies that even at this early age he was able to begin instructing others, and from this period till he arrived at manhood he maintained himself by private teaching. In 1746 he was appointed schoolmaster in his native parish, and in this situation he continued many years. His first production as an author was a Dramatic Essay," which he afterwards expanded

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into the "Earl Douglas," a tragedy. This he published at Glasgow in 1764, with his poem of "The Clyde."

before being appointed master of the Greenock school, was published by Dr. Leyden in the first volume of Scottish Descriptive Poems, to which he prefixed a memoir of the author. Wilson had two sons, both of whom gave great promise of poetical talents. "James the eldest," says Dr. Leyden, "was a young man of more than ordinary abilities, displayed a fine taste for both poetry and drawing, and,

In the year 1767, on a vacancy occurring in the grammar-school of Greenock, Wilson was offered the situation of master on the singular condition, it is said, that he should abandon "the profane and unprofitable art of poemmaking." With this Gothic proposition the poor poet, having a wife and children to main-like his father, possessed an uncommon share tain, was compelled to comply. He was in a situation not dissimilar to that of the bard of "Bara's Isle," who, to save his Mora from death, made a fire of his harp:

"Dark grows the night! and cold and sharp
Beat wind and hail, and drenching rain;
Nought else remains. I'll burn my harp!'
He cries, and breaks his harp in twain."

of humour. He went to sea, and after distinguishing himself in several naval engagements, was killed Oct. 11, 1776, in an action on Lake Champlain, in which his conduct received such approbation from his commanding officer, that a small pension was granted by the government to his father. George, who died at the age of twenty-one years, was distinguished for his taste and classical erudition as well as his poetical talents."

It is somewhat remarkable that the Greenock magistrates, in placing an embargo on the muse of Wilson, did so in contravention of one of the acts of the General Assembly, that venerable body having in 1645 enacted that,

To avoid the temptation of violating his promise, which he esteemed sacred, he took an early opportunity of destroying his unfinished manuscripts. After this he never ventured to replace the forbidden lyre, though the memory of its departed sounds often filled his heart with sadness. Someti nes, when the conver-"for the remedy of the great decay of poesy, sation of friends restored the vivacity of these recollections, he would carelessly pour out some extemporaneous rhymes; but the inspiration passed away, and its fleeting nature palliated the momentary transgression. Wilson died June 2, 1789, in the sixty-ninth year of

his age.

A few poetic fragments that had escaped the flames were found among his papers. These were chiefly hasty effusions on temporary subjects, or juvenile paraphrases of passages of Scripture. An improved edition of "The Clyde," which he had prepared for the press

no schoolmaster be admitted to teach a grammar-school in burghs, or in other considerable parishes, but such as, after examination, shall be found skilful in the Latin tongue, not only for prose, but also for verse.” Of this law, however, the enlightened bailies and skippers of Greenock were (as well as the poet), of course, quite ignorant when they issued their interdict against the cultivation of poetry. Our readers will peruse with pleasure the subjoined opening lines of "The Clyde," together with the brief extracts which follow, taken from the same fine descriptive poem.

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Formed thy soft breast to melt at human woe,
Generous to cherish worth, and wise to know;
Each finer passion of the breast to move,
To awe with virtue, and inspire with love;
With native goodness all mankind to charm;
With love thy noble Hyndford's soul to warm:
This tribute of a humble muse regard,
Who scorns to flatter, or to court reward;
Who, proud to mark with partial eye the fair,
Still makes their virtue, and their charms her

care;

But chiefly joys to pour her peaceful strains
On Clyde's delightful banks and fruitful plains.
From one vast mountain bursting on the day,
Tweed, Clyde, and Annan urge their separate
way.

To Anglia's shores bright Tweed and Annan run,
That seeks the rising, this the setting sun;
Where raged the Border war, and either flood
Now blushed with Scottish, now with English
blood;

Both lands by turns their heroes lost deplore; But blest Britannia knows these woes no more.

Clyde far from scenes of strife and horror fled, And through more peaceful fields his waters led; But ere he issued from their deep abodes, He sagely thus addressed his brother floods: "Full well you know the imperial mandate given, His salutary law who rules in heaven! That, hasting hence, our waters seek the day, And from a thousand fountains force their way, Pour on the plain, and genial moisture yield To verdant pasture, and to golden field; Nurse the fair flowers which on our margins rise, And forests proud which sweep the lofty skies; See populous cities on our banks extend,

And through their crowded gates their thousands send;

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Full mighty fleets on our fair bosoms ride,
Loading with war or wealth our labouring tide;
Round spacious islands stretch our silver arms,
And in our caverns feed the scaly swarms.
Then in the ocean poured, our journey run,
Forced by rude winds, or courted by the sun,
Our waters, from the brine, disdainful rise,
Through air aspire, and sail along the skies;
On deluged plain, or parched pasture, pour
In sounding tempest or in silent shower;
Adorn the fields, mature the golden grain,
And blot from fields of death the sanguine stain;
Or load with low'ring mists the mountain's brow,
Sink through the soil, and feed the springs below;
Or, darkly from the bottom of the deep,
Along the beds of sand in silence creep;

Along his infant stream, on either side
The lofty hills, in clouds, their summits hide;
In whose vast bowels, treasured dark and deep,
Exhaustless mines of lead in secret sleep.
But man, audacious man! whose stubborn pride
Free gifts disdains, and longs for all denied,
Mid central earth, bids hardy hands combine
To drag the metal from its parent mine;
Which, forced to light, forms the destructive ball,
At whose dire touch fleets sink and armies fall;
Seas blush with blood, while floats the crimson
field;

Walls sink to dust, to rapine cities yield.
Nor death alone to fated realms it brings:
It to the cistern guides the distant springs;
The lofty palace or the temple crowns,
Or, raised on high, a sage or hero frowns.
Yet, mortals, fear the first of crimes, be wise;
Prize what Heaven gives, forbear what Heaven
denies;

Who numerous flocks o'er every mountain pours,
And makes the fleece and harmless bearer yours;
Burdened with milk, o'er all the hills they bleat,
Or, clad with wool, they crop the pasture sweet.

THE CLYDE PERSONIFIED.

To whom the parent flood-"My children dear,
The festive sounds of peace salute mine ear.
Henceforth our peaceful ports, from insult free,
Anchor'd secure, their loaded fleets shall sce;
And, to my honour, happy world shall know,
They to a sou of mine their safety owe.
Great Bute! who, warm with patriot zeal, arose
To still wild war, and give the world repose;
And having done the good his heart desir'd,
Scorning reward, to shades obscure retir'd.
For all he valued was already given,
Approven of his soul, his prince, and Heaven!
He calmly smil'd. Eclips'd ambition rav'd,
To see a world by worth superior sav'd!

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

By Crookston Castle waves the still green yew,
The first that met the royal Mary's view,
When, bright in charms, the youthful princess led
The graceful Darnley to her throne and bed:

Through earth's dark veins work out their wind- Emboss'd in silver, now its branches green

ing way,

And fresh to light from countless fountains play.
Heaven's generous purpose let us glad assist,
For general good. To yield is to be blest."
The river said; and with impetuous force
Rent the huge hills, and rushed along his course.

Transcend the myrtle of the Paphian green.
But dark Langside, from Crookston view'd afar,
Still seems to range in pomp the rebel war;
Here, when the moon rides dimly through the

sky,

The peasant sees broad dancing standards fly,

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