Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed-never to return! Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And fondly sae did I o' mine. But if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him, My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; TAM GLEN.1 My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie! Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I'm thinkin', wi' sic a braw fallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drummeller, "Guid day to you, brute!" he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me; But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE O' MY BEAUTY.2 O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. JOHN MAYNE. BORN 1759-DIED 1836. JOHN MAYNE, the amiable author of "The | 1759, and was educated at the grammar-school Siller Gun," was born at Dumfries, March 26, of his native town under Dr. Chapman, whose of Edinburgh, and subsequently to that of the lords of council and session. This was the fair but unfortunate lady whom Burns makes so beautifully to soliloquize "the banks and braes o' bonnie Doon." But the poet did not live to see her "fause luver" punished by law, as the action against him had not then been brought to a close.-ED. "This is a capital song," says William Motherwell, "and true in all its touches to nature." Lockhart pronounces it to be "one of his best humorous songs."-ED. 2 Mr. Carlyle says of Burns and his songs, "It will seem a small praise if we rank him as the first of all our song-writers: for we know not where to find one worthy of being second to him."-ED. learning and character are celebrated by the poet. After leaving school Mayne became a printer, and was employed upon a journal issued in Dumfries. He had been but a short time at this business when his father's family removed to Glasgow, to which city John accompanied them, finding employment in a printing establishment, where he remained for a period of five years. The chief predilection of the young printer appears, from a very early age, to have been towards poetry, and that too in his own native dialect, instead of the statelier and more fashionable diction of Pope and the other poets of that day. In him such a preference was the more noticeable, because it was before the poetry of Burns had arrested the decay of the native Scottish, and given it a classical permanency. It is worthy of mention also, that Mayne's poem entitled "Halloween" evidently suggested to the Ayrshire bard both the subject and style of one of his happiest productions of the same name. So early as 1777 the germ of "The Siller Gun," consisting of twelve stanzas, was printed at Dumfries on a single quarto sheet. Two years later it appeared, expanded to two cantos; in 1780 it was extended to three, and published in Ruddiman's Magazine; and in 1808 it appeared in London enlarged to four cantos, with notes and a glossary. The last edition of this exceedingly popular poem, expanded to five cantos, with Mayne's final improvements and corrections, was published in a 12mo volume in 1836, the year in which the author died. The poem is founded upon an ancient custom which existed in Dumfries, called Shooting for the Siller Gun," which is a small silver tube, like the barrel of a pistol, presented by James VI., and ordained as a prize to the best marksman among the corporations of that town. Mayne selected as his subject the trial which was held in 1777. From the following stanzas it may be inferred that neither the marksmanship on that occasion nor the weapons were of a very formidable description: "By this time, now, wi' mony a dunder, That collar-banes gat mony a lunder, "Wide o' the mark, as if to scar us, The bullets ripp'd the swaird like harrows; And, fright'ning a' the craws and sparrows Ramrods were fleeing thick as arrows "You are no less happy," wrote Lord Woodhouselee to Mayne in allusion to this charming poem, "in those occasional strokes of a delicate and tender nature which take the reader, as it were, by surprise, and greatly enhance the effect of the general ludicrous strain of the composition-as when, after representing some of the finest of the old Scottish airs, you add -a thought not unworthy of Milton, "He play'd in tones that suit despair, Thirty years later Professor Wilson, writing on the same subject, said, "Poor John Mayne's poem! Would the blameless man were alive, to see under our hand the praise he heard from our lips, and smiled to hear; but a tear falls on these lines, "And should the Fates, till death ensue,' ??? &c. In 1783 Mayne's beautiful song, "Logan Braes," appeared. Burns, mistaking it for an old composition, as it was published anonymously, produced an imitation, which certainly does not surpass, if it equals the origi nal. Our author's most important production next to "The Siller Gun," which Sir Walter Scott said "surpassed the best efforts of Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns," was a descriptive poem entitled 'Glasgow." this work, published in 1803, accompanied with illustrative notes, it may be said that it possesses considerable merit, and is worthy of attention from its interesting pictures of a condition of men and things that have entirely passed away from the Scottish metropolis of the west. Of John Mayne removed to London in 1787, when his Glasgow engagement expired, and during the remainder of his long life never again saw his native land. He ultimately became joint-editor and proprietor of the Star, an evening paper which, under his management, proved a most profitable and successful journal. From year to year Mayne contributed to his own columns, and also to the pages of the Gentleman's Magazine, poems chiefly Scottish, all characterized by careful fastidiousness, in which quality rather than quantity was the chief object of solicitude. After a spotless life of great industry and usefulness, extended to seventy-seven years, the gentle poet died at his residence in London, March 14, 1836, and was buried in his family vault, Paddington churchyard. Chambers, who shared his agreeable recollections of Mayne with the writer, bore the following testimony: "Though long resident in London, he 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 associa Allan Cunningham has awarded to Mayne the high praise of never having committed to paper a single line, the tendency of which was not to afford amusement or to improve and increase the happiness of mankind. "Of his private character," honest Allan said, and he knew him well, that "a better or warmer hearted man never existed." Dr. Robert tions." And never dree the bitter snarl O' scowling wife! But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel, Hegh, sirs! what crowds cam into town, At first, forenent ilk deacon's hallan, His ain brigade was made to fall in; And, while the muster-roll was calling, And joybells jowing, Het-pints, weel spic'd, to keep the saul in, Broil'd kipper, cheese and bread, and ham, Whilk after, a' was fish that cam To Jock or Sandy: O! weel ken they wha loo their chappin, Drink maks the auldest swack and strappin'; Gars care forget the ills that happen The blate look spruce And ev'n the thowless cock their tappin, The muster owr, the diff'rent bands Reviews them, and their line expands But ne'er, for uniform or air, Syde coats, and dockit; Wigs, queus, and clubs, and curly hair; As to their guns-thae fell engines, Or shooting cushies Lang fowling-pieces, carabines, And blunder-busses! Maist feck, though oil'd to mak them glimmer, That some o' them had bits o' timmer Instead o' flints! Some guns, she threeps, within her ken, Sae, here and there a rozit-end Held on their locks! And then, to show what diff'rence stands Were furbish'd up, to grace the hands "Ohon!" says George, and ga'e a grane, "The age o' chivalry is gane!" Syne, having owr and owr again The hale survey'd, Their route, and a' things else, made plain, He snuff d, and said: "Now, gentlemen! now mind the motion, Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean, 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 drown'd Their steps to martial airs agreeing, Their bauld convener proud o' being Attended by his body-guard, He stepp'd in gracefu'ness unpair'd! Nae ee cou'd look without regard His craft, the Hammermen, fu' braw, Led the procession, twa and twa: The leddies wav'd their napkins a', And boys huzzay'd, As onward to the waponshaw They stately strade! Close to the Hammermen, behold, The Squaremen come like chiefs of old! The Fleshers, on this joyous day, Able, in ony desp'rate fray, To feght like deils! The journeymen were a' sae gaucy, Th' applauding heart o' mony a lassie Brisk as a bridegroom gaun to wed, For, blithsome Sir John Barleycorn Had charm'd them sae, this simmer's morn, That, what wi' drams, and many a horn, And reaming bicker, The ferley is, withouten scorn, They walk'd sae sicker. Amang the flow'ry forms they weave, There's Adam to the life, and Eve: She, wi' the apple in her neeve, Enticing Adam; While Satan's laughing in his sleeve At him and madam! The lily white, the vi'let blue, The heather-bells of azure hue, Heart's-ease for lovers kind and true, Whate'er their lot, And that dear flow'r, to friendship due, "Forget-me-not " A' thae, and wi' them, mingled now, Perfume, congenial to the clime, The sweetest in the sweetest time! |