The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were entirely directed to a

military life; but his continued lameness interposed an insuperable

difficulty, and was a source of deep mortification. He was at length

induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities,

entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his

confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his

aspirations, he was chiefly reconciled by the consideration that his

fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books.

Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had

attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the

second year of his apprenticeship. While precluded from active duty,

being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by

speaking, he was still allowed to read; a privilege which accelerated

his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he

was recommended exercise on horseback; and in obeying the instructions

of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself

generally familiar with localities and scenes famous in Scottish story.

On the restoration of his health, he at length became seriously engaged

in the study of law for several continuous years, and, after the

requisite examinations, was admitted as an advocate, on the 10th of July

1792, when on the point of attaining his twenty-first year.

In his twelfth year, Scott had composed some verses for his preceptor

and early friend Dr Adam, which afforded promise of his future

excellence. But he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early

life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in

prose wore a stiff formality. On being called to the bar, he at first

carefully refrained, according to his own statement, from claiming the

honour of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose

that his habits were unsuitable to a due attention to the duties of his

profession. He was relieved of dependence on professional employment by

espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman,

possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaintance he had formed at

Gilsland, a watering-place in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed

Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of £300 a year. While he

continued in his father's office he had made himself familiar with the

French and Italian languages, and had read many of their more celebrated

authors, especially the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after

he came to the bar, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad

poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis,

whose friendship he had recently acquired. In 1796 he made his first

adventure as an author by publishing translations of "Lenoré," and "The

Wild Huntsman" of Bürger. The attempt proved unsuccessful; but,

undismayed, he again essayed his skill in translation by publishing, in

1799, an English version of Goëthe's "Goetz of Berlichingen." His

success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original

performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.

Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of

the Scottish borders, which had only been preserved by the recitations

of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The

independence of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his

long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, a

wild pastoral district on the Scottish border, anciently peopled by the

noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions;

and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information,

partly communicated to him by intelligent correspondents, he gave to the

world, in 1802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of "Minstrelsy of

the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume,

consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and

others. These volumes issued from the printing-press of his early friend

and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun

to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards so

justly celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript

in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of "Sir Tristrem;"

and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was

the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the

Rhymer. He published in 1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original

ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for

him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of £600.

The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. In the year following

that which produced the "Lay," he received his appointment as a

principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards

brought him £1200 a-year. To literary occupation he now resolved to

dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced "Marmion," his

second great poem, which brought him £1000 from the publisher, and at

once established his fame. During the same year he completed the heavy

task of editing the works of Dryden, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he

edited the state papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a

contributor to the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, conducted by Southey.

"The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his

poetical works, appeared in 1810; "Don Roderick," in 1811; "Rokeby," in

1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless," and

"The Bridal of Triermain," appeared subsequently, without the author's

name.

As a poet, Scott had now attained a celebrity unrivalled among his

contemporaries, and it was in the apprehension of compromising his

reputation, that, in attempting a new species of composition, he was

extremely anxious to conceal the name of the author. The novel of

"Waverley," which appeared in 1814, did not, however, suffer from its

being anonymous; for, although the sale was somewhat heavy at first, the

work soon afterwards reached the extraordinary circulation of twelve

thousand copies. Contrary to reasonable expectation, however, the author

of "Waverley" did not avow himself, and, numerous as was the catalogue

of prose fictions which, for more than twenty years, proceeded from his

pen, he continued as desirous of retaining his secret as were his female

contemporaries, Lady Nairn and Lady Anne Barnard, to cast a veil over

their poetical character. The rapidity with which the "Great Unknown"

produced works of fiction, was one of the marvels of the age; and many

attempts were made to withdraw the curtain which concealed the

mysterious author. Successive years produced at least one, and often

two, novels of a class infinitely superior to the romances of the past

age, all having reference to the manners and habits of the most

interesting and chivalrous periods of Scottish or British history,

which, in these works, were depicted with a power and vivacity

unattained by the most graphic national historians. Subsequently to the

publication of "Guy Mannering" and "The Antiquary," in 1815 and 1816,

and as an expedient to sustain the public interest, Scott commenced a

new series of novels, under the title of "Tales of my Landlord," these

being professedly written by a different author; but this resort was

abandoned as altogether unnecessary for the contemplated object. Each

successive romance by the author of "Waverley" awakened renewed ardour

and enthusiasm among the public, and commanded a circulation

commensurate with the bounds in which the language was understood. Many

of them were translated into the various European languages. In the year

1814 he had published an edition of the works of Swift, in nineteen

volumes octavo.

For some years after his marriage, Scott had occupied a cottage in the

romantic vicinity of Lasswade, near Edinburgh; but in 1804 he removed to

Ashestiel, an old mansion, beautifully situated on the banks of the

Tweed, seven miles above Selkirk, where, for several years, he continued

to reside during the vacation of the Court. The ruling desire of his

life was, that by the proceeds of his intellectual labour he might

acquire an ample demesne, with a suitable mansion of his own, and thus

in some measure realise in his own person, and in those of his

representatives, somewhat of the territorial importance of those olden

barons, whose wassails and whose feuds he had experienced delight in

celebrating. To attain such distinction as a Scottish _laird_, or

landholder, he was prepared to incur many sacrifices; nor was this

desire exceeded by regard for literary reputation. It was unquestionably

with a view towards the attainment of his darling object, that he taxed

so severely those faculties with which nature had so liberally endowed

him, and exhibited a prolificness of authorship, such as has rarely been

evinced in the annals of literary history. In 1811 he purchased, on the

south bank of the Tweed, near Melrose, the first portion of that estate

which, under the name of Abbotsford, has become indelibly associated

with his history. The soil was then a barren waste, but by extensive

improvements the place speedily assumed the aspect of amenity and

beauty. The mansion, a curious amalgamation, in questionable taste, of

every species of architecture, was partly built in 1811, and gradually

extended with the increasing emoluments of the owner. By successive

purchases of adjacent lands, the Abbotsford property became likewise

augmented, till the rental amounted to about £700 a-year--a return

sufficiently limited for an expenditure of upwards of £50,000 on this

favourite spot.

At Abbotsford the poet maintained the character of a wealthy country

gentleman. He was visited by distinguished persons from the sister

kingdom, from the Continent, and from America, all of whom he

entertained in a style of sumptuous elegance. Nor did his constant

social intercourse with his visitors and friends interfere with the

regular prosecution of his literary labours: he rose at six, and

engaged in study and composition till eleven o'clock. During the period

of his residence in the country, he devoted the remainder of the day to

his favourite exercise on horseback, the superintendence of improvements

on his property, and the entertainment of his guests. In March 1820,

George IV., to whom he was personally known, and who was a warm admirer

of his genius, granted to him the honour of a baronetcy, being the first

which was conferred by his Majesty after his accession. Prior to this

period, besides the works already enumerated, he had given to the world

his romances of "The Black Dwarf," "Old Mortality," "Rob Roy," "The

Heart of Midlothian," "The Bride of Lammermoor," "A Legend of Montrose,"

and "Ivanhoe." The attainment of the baronetcy appears to have

stimulated him to still greater exertion. In 1820 he produced, besides

"Ivanhoe," which appeared in the early part of that year, "The

Monastery" and "The Abbot;" and in the beginning of 1821, the romance of

"Kenilworth," being twelve volumes published within the same number of

months. "The Pirate" and "The Fortunes of Nigel" appeared in 1822;

"Peveril of the Peak" and "Quentin Durward," in 1823; "St Ronan's Well"

and "Redgauntlet," in 1824; and "The Tales of the Crusaders," in 1825.

During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter

undertook the congenial duty of acting as Master of Ceremonies, which he

did to the entire satisfaction of his sovereign and of the nation. But

while prosperity seemed to smile with increasing brilliancy, adversity

was hovering near. In 1826, Archibald Constable and Company, the famous

publishers of his works, became insolvent, involving in their

bankruptcy the printing firm of the Messrs Ballantyne, of which Sir

Walter was a partner. The liabilities amounted to the vast sum of

£102,000, for which Sir Walter was individually responsible. To a mind

less balanced by native intrepidity and fortified by principle, the

apparent wreck of his worldly hopes would have produced irretrievable

despondency; but Scott bore his misfortune with magnanimity and manly

resignation. He had been largely indebted to both the establishments

which had unfortunately involved him in their fall, in the elegant

production of his works, as well as in respect of pecuniary

accommodation; and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal

obligation, fully to discharge the debt. He declined to accept an offer

of the creditors to be satisfied with a composition; and claiming only

to be allowed time, applied himself with indomitable energy to his

arduous undertaking, at the age of fifty-five, in the full

determination, if his life was spared, of cancelling every farthing of

his obligations. At the crisis of his embarrassments he was engaged in

the composition of "Woodstock," which shortly afterwards appeared. The

"Life of Napoleon," which had for a considerable time occupied his

attention, was published in 1827, in nine vols. octavo. In the course of

its preparation he had visited both London and Paris in search of

materials. In the same year he produced "Chronicles of the Canongate,"

_first series_; and in the year following, the second series of those

charming tales, and the first portion of his juvenile history of

Scotland, under the title of "Tales of a Grandfather." A second portion

of these tales appeared in 1829, and the third and concluding series in

1830, when he also contributed a graver History of Scotland in two

volumes to _Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopædia_. In 1829 likewise appeared

"Anne of Geierstein," a romance, and in 1830 the "Letters on Demonology

and Witchcraft." In 1831 he produced a series of "Tales on French

History," uniform with the "Tales of a Grandfather," and his novels,

"Count Robert of Paris," and "Castle Dangerous," as a fourth series of

"Tales of My Landlord." Other productions of inferior mark appeared from

his pen; he contributed to the _Edinburgh Review_, during the first year

of its career; wrote the articles, "Chivalry," "Romance," and "Drama,"

for the sixth edition of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_; and during his

latter years contributed somewhat copiously to the _Quarterly Review_.

At a public dinner in Edinburgh, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund,

on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter made his first avowal as to the

authorship of the Waverley Novels,--an announcement which scarcely took

the public by surprise. The physical energies of the illustrious author

were now suffering a rapid decline; and in his increasing infirmities,

and liability to sudden and severe attacks of pain, and even of

unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the

praiseworthy effort to pay his debts, he was sacrificing his health and

shortening his life. Those apprehensions proved not without foundation.

In the autumn of 1831, his health became so lamentably broken, that his

medical advisers recommended a residence in Italy, and entire cessation

from mental occupation, as the only means of invigorating a constitution

so seriously dilapidated. But the counsel came too late; the patient

proceeded to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, but experiencing no benefit

from the change, he was rapidly conveyed homewards in the following

summer, in obedience to his express wish, that he might have the

satisfaction of closing his eyes at Abbotsford. The wish was gratified:

he arrived at Abbotsford on the 11th of July 1832, and survived till

the 21st of the ensuing September. According to his own request, his

remains were interred in an aisle in Dryburgh Abbey, which had belonged

to one of his ancestors, and had been granted to him by the late Earl of

Buchan. A heavy block of marble rests upon the grave, in juxtaposition

with another which has been laid on that of his affectionate partner in

life, who died in May 1826. The aisle is protected by a heavy iron

railing.

In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet; but his personal

appearance, which had otherwise been commanding, was considerably marred

by the lameness of his right limb, which caused him to walk with an

awkward effort, and ultimately with much difficulty. His countenance, so

correctly represented in his numerous portraits and busts, was

remarkable for depth of forehead; his features were somewhat heavy, and

his eyes, covered with thick eyelashes, were dull, unless animated by

congenial conversation. He was of a fair complexion; and his hair,

originally sandy, became gray from a severe illness which he suffered in

his 48th year. His general conversation consisted in the detail of

chivalric adventures and anecdotes of the olden times. His memory was so

retentive that whatever he had studied indelibly maintained a place in

his recollection. In fertility of imagination he surpassed all his

contemporaries. As a poet, if he has not the graceful elegance of

Campbell, and the fervid energy of Byron, he excels the latter in purity

of sentiment, and the former in vigour of conception. His style was well

adapted for the composition of lyric poetry; but as he had no ear for

music, his song compositions are not numerous. Several of these,

however, have been set to music, and maintain their popularity.[72] But

Scott's reputation as a poet is inferior to his reputation as a

novelist; and while even his best poems may cease to be generally read,

the author of the Waverley Novels will only be forgotten with the disuse

of the language. A cabinet edition of these novels, with the author's

last notes, and illustrated with elegant engravings, appeared in

forty-eight volumes a short period before his decease; several other

complete editions have since been published by the late Mr Robert

Cadell, and by the present proprietors of the copyright, the Messrs

Black of Edinburgh.

As a man of amiable dispositions and incorruptible integrity, Sir Walter

Scott shone conspicuous among his contemporaries, the latter quality

being eminently exhibited in his resolution to pay the whole of his

heavy pecuniary liabilities. To this effort he fell a martyr; yet it was

a source of consolation to his survivors, that, by his own extraordinary

exertions, the policy of life insurance payable at his death, and the

sum of £30,000 paid by Mr Cadell for the copyright of his works, the

whole amount of the debt was discharged. It is, however painfully, to be

remarked, that the object of his earlier ambition, in raising a family,

has not been realised. His children, consisting of two sons and two

daughters, though not constitutionally delicate, have all departed from

the scene, and the only representative of his house is the surviving

child of his eldest daughter, who was married to Mr John Gibson

Lockhart, the late editor of the _Quarterly Review_, and his literary

executor. This sole descendant, a grand-daughter, is the wife of Mr

Hope, Q.C., who has lately added to his patronymic the name of Scott,

and made Abbotsford his summer residence. The memory of the illustrious

Minstrel has received every honour from his countrymen; monuments have

been raised to him in the principal towns--that in the capital, a rich

Gothic cross, being one of the noblest decorations of his native city.

Abbotsford has become the resort of the tourist and of the traveller

from every land, who contemplate with interest and devotion a scene

hallowed by the loftiest genius.

"The grass is trodden by the feet

Of thousands, from a thousand lands--

The prince, the peasant, tottering age,

And rosy schoolboy bands;

All crowd to fairy Abbotsford,

And lingering gaze, and gaze the more;

Hang o'er the chair in which _he_ sat,

The latest dress _he_ wore."[73]

[72] We regret that, owing to the provision of the copyright act, we are

unable, in this work, to present four of Sir Walter Scott's most popular

songs, "The Blue Bonnets over the Border," "Jock o' Hazeldean,"

"M'Gregor's Gathering," and "Carle, now the King's come." These songs

must, however, be abundantly familiar to the majority of readers.

[73] From "The Grave of Sir Walter Scott," a poem by Thomas C. Latto

(see "The Minister's Kail-yard, and other Poems." Edinburgh, 1845,

12mo). To explain an allusion in the last line of the above stanza, it

should be noticed, that the last dress of the poet is exhibited to

visitors at Abbotsford, carefully preserved in a glass case.

IT WAS AN ENGLISH LADYE BRIGHT.[74]

It was an English ladye bright

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),

And she would marry a Scottish knight,

For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;

But they were sad ere day was done,

Though Love was still the lord of all.

The sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,

And he swore her death, ere he would see

A Scottish knight the lord of all.

That wine she had not tasted well

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),

When dead in her true love's arms she fell,

For Love was still the lord of all.

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall--

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),

And died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)

Pray for their souls who died for love,

For Love shall still be lord of all!

[74] This song appears in the sixth canto of "The Lay of the Last

Minstrel." "It is the author's object in these songs," writes Lord

Jeffrey, "to exemplify the different styles of ballad-narrative which

prevailed in this island at different periods, or in different

conditions of society. The first (the above) is conducted upon the rude

and simple model of the old border ditties, and produces its effect by

the direct and concise narrative of a tragical occurrence."

LOCHINVAR.[75]

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)

"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,

He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar--

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better, by far,

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

[75] This song occurs in the fifth canto of "Marmion." It is founded on

a ballad entitled "Katharine Janfarie," in the "Minstrelsy of the

Scottish Border."

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.[76]

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow;

Where early violets die

Under the willow.

Eleu loro, &c.

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;

There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever;

Never again to wake,

Never, O never!

Eleu loro, &c.

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingle war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

Eleu loro, &c.

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it,--

Never, O never!

Eleu loro, &c.

Never, O never!

[76] From the third canto of "Marmion."

SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.[77]

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battle-fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more;

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,

Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;

Trump nor pibroch summon here,

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come

At the daybreak from the fallow;

And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near,

Guards nor wardens challenge here;

Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing,

Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,

Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveillé.

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,

How thy gallant steed lay dying.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,

Think not of the rising sun,

For at dawning to assail ye,

Here no bugles sound reveillé.

[77] The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of "The Lady of the

Lake."

HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES![78]

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!

Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine!

Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,

Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,

While every Highland glen

Sends our shout back agen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade;

Moor'd in the rifted rock

Proof to the tempest shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo his praise agen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,

And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;

Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,

And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;

Lennox and Leven-Glen

Shake when they hear agen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!

Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands

Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem,

Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from the deepmost glen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

[78] The "boat song" in the second canto of "The Lady of the Lake." It

may be sung to the air of "The Banks of the Devon."

THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED.[79]

The heath this night must be my bed,

The bracken curtains for my head,

My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary.

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,

My couch may be the bloody plaid,

My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!

It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,

I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.

No fond regret must Norman know;

When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,

His heart must be like bended bow,

His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught,

For if I fall in battle fought,

Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.

And if return'd from conquer'd foes,

How blithely will the evening close,

How sweet the linnet sing repose

To my young bride and me, Mary!

[79] Song of Norman in "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.

THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.[80]

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,

My idle greyhound loathes his food,

My horse is weary of his stall,

And I am sick of captive thrall;

I wish I were as I have been,

Hunting the hart in forest green,

With bended bow and bloodhound free,

For that 's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time

From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,

Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring,

The sable rook my vespers sing:

These towers, although a king's they be,

Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise

And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,

Drive the fleet deer the forest through,

And homeward wend with evening dew;

A blithesome welcome blithely meet

And lay my trophies at her feet,

While fled the eve on wing of glee--

That life is lost to love and me!

[80] "The Lady of the Lake," canto sixth.

HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.[81]

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow;

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Wafts the leaves that are searest,

But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie,

Sage counsel in cumber,

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever.

[81] "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.[82]

"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine!

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,

No more of me ye knew, my love!

No more of me ye knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again."

He turn'd his charger as he spake,

Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, "Adieu for evermore, my love!

And adieu for evermore."

[82] "Rokeby," canto third.

ALLEN-A-DALE.[83]

Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,

Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,

Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning;

Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!

And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,

And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,

The mere for his net, and the land for his game,

The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;

Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,

Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;

The mother she asked of his household and home;

"Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,

My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still;

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,

And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel and the mother was stone,

They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry,

He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,

And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,

And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

[83] "Rokeby," canto third.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.[84]

Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me,

Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Too lively glow the lilies' light,

The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,

The mayflower and the eglantine

May shade a brow less sad than mine;

But, lady, weave no wreath for me,

Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine

With tendrils of the laughing vine;

The manly oak, the pensive yew,

To patriot and to sage be due;

The myrtle bough bids lovers live

But that Matilda will not give;

Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,

Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Let merry England proudly rear

Her blended roses, bought so dear;

Let Albin bind her bonnet blue

With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.

On favour'd Erin's crest be seen

The flower she loves of emerald green;

But, lady, twine no wreath for me,

Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Strike the wild harp while maids prepare

The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;

And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,

With bloody hand the victor weaves,

Let the loud trump his triumph tell;

But when you hear the passing-bell,

Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,

And twine it of the cypress-tree!

Yes, twine for me the cypress bough;

But, O Matilda, twine not now!

Stay till a few brief months are past

And I have look'd and loved my last!

When villagers my shroud bestrew

With pansies, rosemary, and rue,--

Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,

And weave it of the cypress-tree!

[84] "Rokeby," canto fifth.

THE CAVALIER.[85]

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,

My true love has mounted his steed and away,

Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;--

Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,

He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair,

From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down--

Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,

Her king is his leader, her church is his cause,

His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,--

God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all

The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;

But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,

That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.

There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;

There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!

Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,

With the barons of England that fight for the crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier,

Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,

Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,

In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!

[85] "Rokeby," canto fifth.

HUNTING SONG.[86]

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day,

All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily, merrily, mingle they--

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,

Springlets in the dawn are steaming,

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:

And foresters have busy been

To track the buck in thicket green;

Now we come to chant our lay,

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

To the green-wood haste away;

We can shew you where he lies,

Fleet of foot and tall of size;

We can shew the marks he made

When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;

You shall see him brought to bay,

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,

Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,

Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay.

[86] First published in the continuation of Strutt's Queenhoohall, 1808,

inserted in the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, of the same year, and set

to a Welsh air in Thomson's _Select Melodies_, vol. iii., 1817.

OH, SAY NOT, MY LOVE, WITH THAT MORTIFIED AIR.

Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,

That your spring-time of pleasure is flown;

Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,

For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,

Its tendrils in infancy curl'd;

'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine,

Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,

Has assumed a proportion more round,

And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,

Looks soberly now on the ground--

Enough, after absence to meet me again,

Thy steps still with ecstacy move;

Enough, that those dear sober glances retain

For me the kind language of love.

* * * * *

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

* * * * *

ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN).

Robert Mackay, called _Donn_, from the colour of his hair, which was

brown or chestnut, was born in the Strathmore of Sutherlandshire, about

the year 1714.

His calling, with the interval of a brief military service in the

fencibles, was the tending of cattle, in the several gradations of herd,

drover, and bo-man, or responsible cow-keeper--the last, in his pastoral

county, a charge of trust and respectability. At one period he had an

appointment in Lord Reay's forest; but some deviations into the

"righteous theft"--so the Highlanders of those parts, it seems, call the

appropriation of an occasional deer to their own use--forfeited his

noble employer's confidence. Rob, however, does not appear to have

suffered in his general character or reputation for an _unconsidered

trifle_ like this, nor otherwise to have declined in the favour of his

chief, beyond the necessity of transporting himself to a situation

somewhat nearer the verge of Cape Wrath than the bosom of the deer

preserve.

Mackay was happily married, and brought up a large family in habits and

sentiments of piety; a fact which his reverend biographer connects very

touchingly with the stated solemnities of the "Saturday night," when the

lighter chants of the week were exchanged at the worthy drover's

fireside for the purer and holier melodies of another inspiration.[87]

As a pendant to this creditable account of the bard's principles, we are

informed that he was a frequent guest at the presbytery dinner-table; a

circumstance which some may be so malicious as to surmise amounted to

nothing more than a purpose to enhance the festive recreations of the

reverend body--a suspicion, we believe, in this particular instance,

totally unfounded. He died in 1778; and he has succeeded to some rather

peculiar honours for a person in his position, or even of his mark. He

has had a reverend doctor for his editorial biographer,[88] and no less

than Sir Walter Scott for his reviewer.[89]

The passages which Sir Walter has culled from some literal translations

that were submitted to him, are certainly the most favourable specimens

of the bard that we have been able to discover in his volume. The rest

are generally either satiric rants too rough or too local for

transfusion, or panegyrics on the living and the dead, in the usual

extravagant style of such compositions, according to the taste of the

Highlanders and the usage of their bards; or they are love-lays, of

which the language is more copious and diversified than the sentiment.

In the gleanings on which we have ventured, after the illustrious person

who has done so much honour to the bard by his comments and selections,

we have attempted to draw out a little more of the peculiar character of

the poet's genius.

[87] Songs and Poems of Robert Mackay, p. 38. (Inverness, 1829. 8vo.)

[88] The Rev. Dr Mackintosh Mackay, successively minister of Laggan and

Dunoon, now a clergyman in Australia.

[89] _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., April 1831.

THE SONG OF WINTER.

This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It

is in a style peculiar to the Highlands, where description runs so

entirely into epithets and adjectives, as to render recitation

breathless, and translation hopeless. Here, while we have retained

the imagery, we have been unable to find room, or rather rhyme, for

one half of the epithets in the original. The power of alliterative

harmony in the original song is extraordinary.

I.

At waking so early

Was snow on the Ben,

And, the glen of the hill in,

The storm-drift so chilling

The linnet was stilling,

That couch'd in its den;

And poor robin was shrilling

In sorrow his strain.

II.

Every grove was expecting

Its leaf shed in gloom;

The sap it is draining,

Down rootwards 'tis straining,

And the bark it is waning

As dry as the tomb,

And the blackbird at morning

Is shrieking his doom.

III.

Ceases thriving, the knotted,

The stunted birk-shaw;[90]

While the rough wind is blowing,

And the drift of the snowing

Is shaking, o'erthrowing,

The copse on the law.

IV.

'Tis the season when nature

Is all in the sere,

When her snow-showers are hailing,

Her rain-sleet assailing,

Her mountain winds wailing,

Her rime-frosts severe.

V.

'Tis the season of leanness,

Unkindness, and chill;

Its whistle is ringing,

An iciness bringing,

Where the brown leaves are clinging

In helplessness, still,

And the snow-rush is delving

With furrows the hill.

VI.

The sun is in hiding,

Or frozen its beam

On the peaks where he lingers,

On the glens, where the singers,[91]

With their bills and small fingers

Are raking the stream,

Or picking the midstead

For forage--and scream.

VII.

When darkens the gloaming

Oh, scant is their cheer!

All benumb'd is their song in

The hedge they are thronging,

And for shelter still longing,

The mortar[92] they tear;

Ever noisily, noisily

Squealing their care.

VIII.

The running stream's chieftain[93]

Is trailing to land,

So flabby, so grimy,

So sickly, so slimy,--

The spots of his prime he

Has rusted with sand;

Crook-snouted his crest is

That taper'd so grand.

IX.

How mournful in winter

The lowing of kine;

How lean-back'd they shiver,

How draggled their cover,

How their nostrils run over

With drippings of brine,

So scraggy and crining

In the cold frost they pine.

X.

'Tis hallow-mass time, and

To mildness farewell!

Its bristles are low'ring

With darkness; o'erpowering

Are its waters, aye showering

With onset so fell;

Seem the kid and the yearling

As rung their death-knell.

XI.

Every out-lying creature,

How sinew'd soe'er,

Seeks the refuge of shelter;

The race of the antler

They snort and they falter,

A-cold in their lair;

And the fawns they are wasting

Since their kin is afar.

XII.

Such the songs that are saddest

And dreariest of all;

I ever am eerie

In the morning to hear ye!

When foddering, to cheer the

Poor herd in the stall--

While each creature is moaning,

And sickening in thrall.

[90] "Birk-shaw." A few Scotticisms will be found in these versions, at

once to flavour the style, and, it must be admitted, to assist the

rhymes.

[91] Birds.

[92] The sides of the cottages--plastered with mud or mortar, instead of

lime.

[93] Salmon.

DIRGE FOR IAN MACECHAN.

A FRAGMENT.

Mackay was entertained by Macechan, who was a respectable

store-farmer, from his earliest life to his marriage. According to

his reverend biographer,[94] the last lines of the elegy, of which

the following is a translation, were much approved.

I see the wretch of high degree,

Though poverty has struck his race,

Pass with a darkness on his face

That door of hospitality.

I see the widow in her tears,

Dark as her woe--I see her boy--

From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;

The flash of youth through rags appears.

I see the poor's--the minstrel's lot--

As brethren they--no boon for song!

I see the unrequited wrong

Call for its helper, who is not.

You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?

You ask me _when_ this deep distress

Began to rage without redress?

"With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"

[94] "Poems," p. 318.

THE SONG OF THE FORSAKEN DROVER.

During a long absence on a droving expedition, Mackay was deprived of

his mistress by another lover, whom, in fine, she married. The discovery

he made, on his return, led to this composition; which is a sequel to

another composed on his distant journey, in which he seems to

prognosticate something like what happened. Both are selected by Sir

Walter Scott as specimens of the bard, and may be found paraphrastically

rendered in a prose version, in the _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., p.

371, and in the notes to the last edition of "The Highland Drover," in

"Chronicles of the Canongate." With regard to the present specimen, it

may be remarked, that part of the original is either so obscure, or so

freely rendered by Sir Walter Scott's translator, that we have attempted

the present version, not without some little perplexity as to the sense

of one or two allusions. We claim, on the whole, the merit of almost

literal fidelity.

I.

I fly from the fold, since my passion's despair

No longer must harbour the charms that are there;

Anne's[95] slender eyebrows, her sleek tresses so long,

Her turreted bosom--and Isabel's[96] song;

What has been, and is not--woe 's my thought!

It must not be spoken, nor can be forgot.

II.

I wander'd the fold, and I rambled the grove,

And each spot it reported the kiss of my love;

But I saw her caressing another--and feel

'Tis distraction to hear them, and see them so leal.

What has been, and is not, &c.

III.

Since 'twas told that a rival beguil'd thee away,

The dreams of my love are the dreams of dismay;

Though unsummon'd of thee,[97] love has captured thy thrall,

And my hope of redemption for ever is small.

Day and night, though I strive aye

To shake him away, still he clings like the ivy.

IV.

But, auburn-hair'd Anna! to tell thee my plight,

'Tis old love unrequited that prostrates my might,

In presence or absence, aye faithful, my smart

Still racks, and still searches, and tugs at my heart--

Broken that heart, yet why disappear

From my country, without one embrace from my dear?

V.

She answers with laughter and haughty disdain--

"To handle my snood you petition in vain;

Six suitors are mine since the year thou wert gone,

What art _thou_, that thou should'st be the favourite one?

Art thou sick? Ha, ha, for thy woe!

Art thou dying for love? Troth, love's payment was slow."[98]

VI.

Though my anger may feign it requites thy disdain,

And vaunts in thy absence, it threatens in vain--

All in vain! for thy image in fondness returns,

And o'er thy sweet likeness expectancy burns;

And I hope--yes, I hope once more,

Till my hope waxes high as a tower[99] in its soar.

[95] "Anne"--Rob's first love, the heroine of the piece. "Similar in

interest to the Highland Mary of Burns, is the yellow-haired Anne of Rob

Donn."--"Life," p. 18.

[96] "Isabel"--the daughter of Ian Macechan, the subject of other

verses.

[97] "Unsummon'd of thee." The idea is rather quaintly expressed in the

original thus--"Though thou hast sent me no summons, love has, of his

own accord, acted the part of a catchpole (or sheriff's officer), and

will not release me." Such are the homely fancies introduced into some

of the most passionate strains of the Gaelic muse.

[98] Alluding to his absence, and delay in his courtship.

[99] Rather more modest than the classic's "feriam sidera vertice."

ISABEL MACKAY--THE MAID ALONE.

TO A PIOBRACH TUNE.

This is one of those lyrics, of which there are many in Gaelic poetry,

that are intended to imitate pipe music. They consist of three parts,

called Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath. The first is a slow, monotonous

measure, usually, indeed, a mere repetition of the same words or tones;

the second, a livelier or brisker melody, striking into description or

narrative; the third, a rapid finale, taxing the reciter's or

performer's powers to their utmost pitch of expedition. The heroine of

the song is the same Isabel who is introduced towards the commencement

of the "Forsaken Drover;" and it appears, from other verses in Mackay's

collection, that it was not her fate to be "alone" through life. It is

to be understood that when the verses were composed, she was in charge

of her father's extensive pastoral _manége_, and not a mere milk-maid or

dairy-woman.

URLAR.

Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,

And Isabel Mackay is alone;

Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,

And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c.

Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye,

At the forest foot--and alone?

SIUBHAL.

By the Virgin and Son![100]

Thou bride-lacking one,

If ever thy time

Is coming, begone,

The occasion is prime,

For Isabel Mackay

Is with the milk kye

At the skirts of the forest,

And with her is none.

By the Virgin and Son, &c.

Woe is the sign!

It is not well

With the lads that dwell

Around us, so brave,

When the mistress fine

Of Riothan-a-dave

Is out with the kine,

And with her is none.

O, woe is the sign, &c.

Whoever he be

That a bride would gain

Of gentle degree,

And a drove or twain,

His speed let him strain

To Riothan-a-dave,

And a bride he shall have.

Then, to her so fain!

Whoever he be, &c.

And a bride he shall have,

The maid that's alone.

Isabel Mackay, &c.

Oh, seest not the dearie

So fit for embracing,

Her patience distressing,

The bestial a-chasing,

And she alone!

'Tis a marvellous fashion

That men should be slack,

When their bosoms lack

An object of passion,

To look such a lass on,

Her patience distressing,

The bestial a-chasing,

In the field, alone.

CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

Oh, look upon the prize, sirs,

That where yon heights are rising,

The whole long twelvemonth sighs in,

Because she is alone.

Go, learn it from my minstrelsy,

Who list the tale to carry,

The maiden shuns the public eye,

And is ordain'd to tarry

'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware,

Where brown hills rear their ridges bare,

And wails her plight the livelong year,

To spend the day alone.

[100] A common Highland adjuration.

EVAN'S ELEGY.

Mackay was benighted on a deer-stalking expedition, near a wild hut

or shealing, at the head of Loch Eriboll. Here he found its only

inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet,

apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he

"crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the

following elegiac ditty, in which, it will be observed, he alludes

to the death, then recent, of Pelham, an eminent statesman of

George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old

man's feelings were moved in a way which will be found in the

appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in the

_Quarterly_, and is now attempted in the measure of the original.

How often, Death! art waking

The imploring cry of Nature!

When she sees her phalanx breaking,

As thou'dst have all--grim feature!

Since Autumn's leaves to brownness,

Of deeper shade were tending,

We saw thy step, from palaces,

To Evan's nook descending.

Oh, long, long thine agony!

A nameless length its tide;

Since breathless thou hast panted here,

And not a friend beside.

Thine errors what, I judge not;

What righteous deeds undone;

But if remains a se'ennight,

Redeem it, dying one!

Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true,

What dust of time would blind?

Such thy impartiality

To our highest, lowest kind.

Thy look is upwards, downwards shot,

Determined none to miss;

It rose to Pelham's princely bower,

It sinks to shed like this!

Oh, long, long, &c.!

So great thy victims, that the noble

Stand humbled by the bier;

So poor, it shames the poorest

To grace them with a tear.

Between the minister of state

And him that grovels there,

Should one remain uncounselled,

Is there one whom dool shall spare?

Oh, long, long, &c.!

The hail that strews the battle-field

Not louder sounds its call,

Than the falling thousands round us

Are voicing words to all.

Hearken! least of all the nameless;

Evan's hour is going fast;

Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones--

Princely Pelham's hour is past.

Oh, long, long, &c.!

Friends of my heart! in the twain we see

A type of life's declining;

'Tis like the lantern's dripping light,

At either end a-dwining.

Where was there one more low than thou--

Thou least of meanest things?[101]

And where than his was higher place

Except the throne of kings?

Oh, long, long, &c.!

[101] At this humiliating apostrophe, the beggar is reported to have

instinctively raised his staff--an action which the bard observed just

in time to avoid its descent on his back.

DOUGAL BUCHANAN.

Dougal Buchanan was born at the Mill of Ardoch, in the beautiful valley

of Strathyre, and parish of Balquhidder, in the year 1716. His parents

were in circumstances to allow him the education of the parish school;

on which, by private application, he so far improved, as to be qualified

to act as teacher and catechist to the Highland locality which borders

on Loch Rannoch, under the appointment of the Society for Propagating

Christian Knowledge. Never, it is believed, were the duties of a calling

discharged with more zeal and efficiency. The catechist was, both in and

out of the strict department of his office, a universal oracle,[102] and

his name is revered in the scene of his usefulness in a degree to which

the honours of canonization could scarcely have added. Pious, to the

height of a proverbial model, he was withal frank, cheerful, and social;

and from his extraordinary command of the Gaelic idiom, and its poetic

phraseology, he must have lent an ear to many a song and many a

legend[103]--a nourishment of the imagination in which, as well as in

purity of Gaelic, his native Balquhidder was immeasurably inferior to

the Rannoch district of his adoption.

The composition of hymns, embracing a most eloquent and musical

paraphrase of many of the more striking inspirations of scriptural

poetry, seems to have been the favourite employment of his leisure

hours. These are sung or recited in every cottage of the Highlands where

a reader or a retentive memory is to be found.

Buchanan's life was short. He was cut off by typhus fever, at a period

when his talents had begun to attract a more than local attention. It

was within a year after his return from superintending the press of the

first version of the Gaelic New Testament, that his lamented death took

place. His command of his native tongue is understood to have been

serviceable to the translator, the Rev. James Stewart of Killin, who had

probably been Buchanan's early acquaintance, as they were natives of the

same district. This reverend gentleman is said to have entertained a

scheme of getting the catechist regularly licensed to preach the gospel

without the usual academical preparation. The scheme was frustrated by

his death, in the summer of 1768.

We know of no fact relating to the development of the poetic vein of

this interesting bard, unless it be found in the circumstance to which

he refers in his "Diary,"[104] of having been bred a violent Jacobite,

and having lived many years under the excitement of strong, even

vindictive feelings, at the fate of his chief and landlord (Buchanan of

Arnprior and Strathyre), who, with many of his dependents, and some of

the poet's relations, suffered death for their share in the last

rebellion. While he relates that the power of religion at length

quenched this effervescence of his emotions, it may be supposed that

ardent Jacobitism, with its common accompaniment of melody, may have

fostered an imagination which every circumstance proves to have been

sufficiently susceptible. It may be added, as a particular not unworthy

of memorial in a poet's life, that his remains are deposited in perhaps

the most picturesque place of sepulture in the kingdom--the peninsula of

Little Leny, in the neighbourhood of Callander; to which his relatives

transferred his body, as the sepulchre of many chiefs and considerable

persons of his clan, and where it is perhaps matter of surprise that his

Highland countrymen have never thought of honouring his memory with some

kind of monument.

The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials

for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and

their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available

for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not

directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem

on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105] have been

omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for

our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being

mere amplifications of Scripture--wonderful, indeed, in point of

vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight

traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some

passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models.

[102] "Statistical Account of Fortingall."--Stat. Acc., x., p. 549.

[103] The same account observes that though none of his works are

published but his sacred compositions, he composed "several songs on

various subjects."

[104] Published at Glasgow, 1836.

[105] These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and

"The Good and Wicked Pastor."

A CLAGIONN.

THE SKULL.

As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave

Lo! a featureless skull on the ground;

The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp,

While I turn it around and around.

Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express

Of the bystander nigh, a thought;

Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both,

Nor passes emotion its throat.

No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace

Its brow, and no ear for my song;

Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death

The raised features hath flatten'd along.

The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam--

The intelligent sight, are no more;

But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil,

Come hither their dwellings to bore.

No lineament here is left to declare

If monarch or chief art thou;

Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave

That on dunghill expires, is as low.

Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath

Who tenants my hand, unfold;

That my voice may not die without a reply,

Though the ear it addresses is cold.

Say, wert thou a May,[106] of beauty a ray,

And flatter'd thine eye with a smile?

Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net,

The hearts of the youth to wile?

Alas every charm that a bosom could warm

Is changed to the grain of disgust!

Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her

Gracefulness all in the dust!

Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe

Acknowledge thy rule o'er them--

A magistrate true, to all dealing their due,

And just to redress or condemn?

Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold

In the scales of thy partial decree;

While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd,

And appeal'd their distresses to thee?

Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power

To extinguish the fever of ail?

And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried

O'er omnipotent death to prevail?

Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'd

Thy hope when the need was thine own;

What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healing

When the hours of thy portion were flown?

Or--wert thou a hero, a leader to glory,

While armies thy truncheon obey'd;

To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering

In flight, left their mountains of dead?

Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade,

When came onwards in battle array

The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms,

To sack and to rifle their prey?

How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while

Besieging, the reptile is vain,

And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find

His defence in the lodge of thy brain!

Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been,

Some, the organ where music repair'd;

In rabble and rout they come in and come out

At the gashes their fangs have bared.

* * * * *

Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land,

Represented by nakedness, here?

Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind,

Nor all unimparted thy gear;

Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou!

To leanness their countenances grew--

'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for right

Required, to a moment, its due;

While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied

To cover their head from the chill,

And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand,

As cold blows the blast of the hill.

Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown,

Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid;

All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke!

While but claims their obeisance the dead.

* * * * *

Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such,

That death must have lent them his sting--

So daring they were, so reckless of fear,

As heaven had wanted a king?

Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spy

In the haunt of thy venomous jaws,

Its slander display, as poisons its prey

The devilish snake in the grass?

That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd,

The inflexible shackles of death;

And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail

Where its slaver once harbour'd beneath.

And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urn

And expired, with impenitent groan;

To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part,

And then to appear--at the Throne!

Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take

To the Judge of thy actions the way,

And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse,

Thy sentence of termless dismay.

* * * * *

The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ,

To brass-links the veins of thy frame

Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow

Like the anvil that melts not in flame!

But wert thou the mould of a champion bold

For God and his truth and his law?

Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each sense

Is broken--each gem with a flaw--

Be comforted thou! For rising in air

Thy flight shall the clarion obey;

And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd,

If they will, by the creatures of prey.

[106] Maiden or virgin--_orig._

AM BRUADAR.

THE DREAM.

We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The

Skull." In the original they are touched in phraseology scarcely

unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.

As lockfasted in slumber's arms

I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race

When every spectral object charms,

To melt, like shadow, in the chase),

A vision came; mine ear confess'd

Its solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught!

Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest,

Or fills the world thy crave of thought?

* * * * *

"Since fell transgression ravaged here

And reft Man's garden-joys away,

He weeps his unavailing tear,

And straggles, like a lamb astray.

"With shrilling bleat for comfort hie

To every pinfold, humankind;

Ah, there the fostering teat is dry,

The stranger mother proves unkind.

"No rest for toil, no drink for drought,

For bosom-peace the shadow's wing--

So feeds expectancy on nought,

And suckles every lying thing.

"Some woe for ever wreathes its chain,

And hope foretells the clasp undone;

Relief at handbreadth seems, in vain

Thy fetter'd arms embrace--'tis gone!

"Not all that trial's lore unlearns

Of all the lies that life betrays,

Avails, for still desire returns--

The last day's folly is to-day's.

"Thy wish has prosper'd--has its taste

Survived the hour its lust was drown'd;

Or yields thine expectation's zest

To full fruition, golden-crown'd?

"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom,

'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven--

Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb,

When to the grasping hand 'tis given.

"Go, search the world, wherever woe

Of high or low the bosom wrings,

There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe,

Is answer'd from the breast of kings.

"From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud,

From every heart its sigh is roll'd;

The rose's stalk is fang'd--one shroud

Is both the sting's and honey's fold.

"Is wealth thy lust--does envy pine

Where high its tempting heaps are piled?

Look down, behold the fountain shine,

And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!

"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale,

And falls an insect[107] in its toil?

The creature turns thy life-blood pale,

And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.

"When high thy fellow-mortal soars,

His state is like the topmost nest--

It swings with every blast that roars,

And every motion shakes its crest.

"And if the world for once is kind,

Yet ever has the lot its bend;

Where fortune has the crook inclined,

Not all thy strength or art shall mend.

"For as the sapling's sturdy stalk,

Whose double twist is crossly strain'd,

Such is thy fortune--sure to baulk

At this extreme what there was gain'd.

"When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd,

'Twas vain who hoarded its supply,

Not all his miser care avail'd

His neighbour's portion to outvie.

"So, blended all that nature owns,

So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless--

With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans;

With courtly luxury, distress.

"Lift up the balance--heap with gold,

Its other shell vile dust shall fill;

And were a kingdom's ransom told,

The scales would want adjustment still.

"Life has its competence--nor deem

That better than enough were more;

Sure it were phantasy to dream

With burdens to assuage thy sore.

"It is the fancy's whirling strife

That breeds thy pain--to-day it craves,

To-morrow spurns--suffices life

When passion asks what passion braves?

"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.

[107] _Orig._--The venomous red spider.

DUNCAN MACINTYRE.

Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most

extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced.

Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour

forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible.

And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry

committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,--the late Dr

Stewart of Luss,--who, when a young man, became acquainted with this

extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of

under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's

father was minister.

Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724,

and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of

keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a

musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take

part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of

Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City

Guard.

Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest

scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His

verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of

subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and

the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been

experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.

MAIRI BHAN OG.

MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.

My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,

My life-time love, my own!

The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie

Was bound to me alone,

By covenant true, and ritual holy,

Gave happiness all but divine;

Nor needed there more to transport me wholly,

Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.

* * * * *

'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted

Was far, but I rivall'd the wind,

The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,

That force can never unbind.

I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,

While I gain'd a love and a bride,

I heard my heart, and could tell each second,

As its pulses struck on my side.

* * * * *

I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,

And said that no salve could save;

She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,

For herself to my breast she gave.

* * * * *

Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee

For chasing away, away,

My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,

And teaching no more to stray.

I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,

All shapely from branch to stem,

My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying

To cull the fairest from them;

One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,

Bent lowly down to my hand,

And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,

To me, the least of the band.

I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,

Where the stream's transparence ran,

Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in,

Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.

Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection

With such a prize to my share!

My love is a ray, a morning reflection,

Beside me she sleeps, a star.

[108] Gaelic, "gealag"--descriptive of the salmon, from its glossy

brightness.

BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT.

Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or

lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses,

than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality--the

dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's

treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his

performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small

risk,--although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in

any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman

somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit

this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating

them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in

the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance,

and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always

rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who

understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in

other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.

URLAR.

The noble Otter hill!

It is a chieftain Beinn,[109]

Ever the fairest still

Of all these eyes have seen.

Spacious is his side;

I love to range where hide,

In haunts by few espied,

The nurslings of his den.

In the bosky shade

Of the velvet glade,

Couch, in softness laid,

The nimble-footed deer;

To see the spotted pack,

That in scenting never slack,

Coursing on their track,

Is the prime of cheer.

Merry may the stag be,

The lad that so fairly

Flourishes the russet coat

That fits him so rarely.

'Tis a mantle whose wear

Time shall not tear;

'Tis a banner that ne'er

Sees its colours depart:

And when they seek his doom,

Let a man of action come,

A hunter in his bloom,

With rifle not untried:

A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint,

To strike a trusty dint,

And make the gun-lock glint

With a flash of pride.

Let the barrel be but true,

And the stock be trusty too,

So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew,

Shall be purple-dyed.

He should not be novice bred,

But a marksman of first head,

By whom that stag is sped,

In hill-craft not unskill'd;

So, when Padraig of the glen

Call'd his hounds and men,

The hill spake back again,

As his orders shrill'd;

Then was firing snell,

And the bullets rain'd like hail,

And the red-deer fell

Like warrior on the field.

SIUBHAL.

Oh, the young doe so frisky,

So coy, and so fair,

That gambols so briskly,

And snuffs up the air;

And hurries, retiring,

To the rocks that environ,

When foemen are firing,

And bullets are there.

Though swift in her racing,

Like the kinsfolk before her,

No heart-burst, unbracing

Her strength, rushes o'er her.

'Tis exquisite hearing

Her murmur, as, nearing,

Her mate comes careering,

Her pride, and her lover;--

He comes--and her breathing

Her rapture is telling;

How his antlers are wreathing,

His white haunch, how swelling!

High chief of Bendorain,

He seems, as adoring

His hind, he comes roaring

To visit her dwelling.

'Twere endless my singing

How the mountain is teeming

With thousands, that bringing

Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming,

With his hind, and her gala

Of younglings, that follow

O'er mountain and beala,[112]

All lightsome are beaming.

When that lightfoot so airy,

Her race is pursuing,

Oh, what vision saw e'er a

Feat of flight like her doing?

She springs, and the spreading grass

Scarce feels her treading,

It were fleet foot that sped in

Twice the time that she flew in.

The gallant array!

How the marshes they spurn,

In the frisk of their play,

And the wheelings they turn,--

As the cloud of the mind

They would distance behind,

And give years to the wind,

In the pride of their scorn!

'Tis the marrow of health

In the forest to lie,

Where, nooking in stealth,

They enjoy her[113] supply,--

Her fosterage breeding

A race never needing,

Save the milk of her feeding,

From a breast never dry.

Her hill-grass they suckle,

Her mammets[114] they swill,

And in wantonness chuckle

O'er tempest and chill;

With their ankles so light,

And their girdles[115] of white,

And their bodies so bright

With the drink of the rill.

Through the grassy glen sporting

In murmurless glee,

Nor snow-drift nor fortune

Shall urge them to flee,

Save to seek their repose

In the clefts of the knowes,

And the depths of the howes

Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]

URLAR.

In the forest den, the deer

Makes, as best befits, his lair,

Where is plenty, and to spare,

Of her grassy feast.

There she browses free

On herbage of the lea,

Or marsh grass, daintily,

Until her haunch is greased.

Her drink is of the well,

Where the water-cresses swell,

Nor with the flowing shell

Is the toper better pleased.

The bent makes nobler cheer,

Or the rashes of the mere,

Than all the creagh that e'er

Gave surfeit to a guest.

Come, see her table spread;

The _sorach_[117] sweet display'd

The _ealvi_,[118] and the head

Of the daisy stem;

The _dorach_[119] crested, sleek,

And ringed with many a streak,

Presents her pastures meek,

Profusely by the stream.

Such the luxuries

That plump their noble size,

And the herd entice

To revel in the howes.

Nobler haunches never sat on

Pride of grease, than when they batten

On the forest links, and fatten

On the herbs of their carouse.

Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming,

When the supper-time

Calls all their hosts from roaming,

To see their social prime;

And when the shadows gather,

They lair on native heather,

Nor shelter from the weather

Need, but the knolls behind.

Dread or dark is none;

Their 's the mountain throne,

Height and slope their own,

The gentle mountain kind;

Pleasant is the grace

Of their hue, and dappled dress,

And an ark in their distress,

In Bendorain dear they find.

SIUBHAL.

So brilliant thy hue

With tendril and flow'ret,

The grace of the view,

What land can o'erpower it?

Thou mountain of beauty,

Methinks it might suit thee,

The homage of beauty

To claim as a queen.

What needs it? Adoring

Thy reign, we see pouring

The wealth of their store in

Already, I ween.

The seasons--scarce roll'd once,

Their gifts are twice told--

And the months, they unfold

On thy bosom their dower,

With profusion so rare,

Ne'er was clothing so fair,

Nor was jewelling e'er

Like the bud and the flower

Of the groves on thy breast,

Where rejoices to rest

His magnificent crest,

The mountain-cock, shrilling

In quick time, his note;

And the clans of the grot

With melody's note,

Their numbers are trilling.

No foot can compare,

In the dance of the green,

With the roebuck's young heir;

And here he is seen

With his deftness of speed,

And his sureness of tread,

And his bend of the head,

And his freedom of spring!

Over corrie careers he,

The wood-cover clears he,

And merrily steers he

With bound, and with fling,--

As he spurns from his stern

The heather and fern,

And dives in the dern[120]

Of the wilderness deep;

Or, anon, with a strain,

And a twang of each vein

He revels amain

'Mid the cliffs of the steep.

With the burst of a start

When the flame of his heart

Impels to depart,

How he distances all!

Two bounds at a leap,

The brown hillocks to sweep,

His appointment to keep

With the doe, at her call.

With her following, the roe

From the danger of ken

Couches inly, and low,

In the haunts of the glen;

Ever watchful to hear,

Ever active to peer,

Ever deft to career,--

All ear, vision, and limb.

And though Cult[121] and Cuchullin,

With their horses and following,

Should rush to her dwelling,

And our prince[122] in his trim,

They might vainly aspire

Without rifle and fire

To ruffle or nigh her,

Her mantle to dim.

Stark-footed, lively,

Ever capering naively

With motion alive, aye,

And wax-white, in shine,

When her startle betrays

That the hounds are in chase,

The same as the base

Is the rocky decline--

She puffs from her chest,

And she ambles her crest

And disdain is express'd

In her nostril and eye;--

That eye--how it winks!

Like a sunbeam it blinks,

And it glows, and it sinks,

And is jealous and shy!

A mountaineer lynx,

Like her race that 's gone by.

CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

Her lodge is in the valley--here

No huntsman, void of notion,

Should hurry on the fallow deer,

But steal on her with caution;--

With wary step and watchfulness

To stalk her to her resting place,

Insures the gallant wight's success,

Before she is in motion.

The hunter bold should follow then,

By bog, and rock, and hollow, then,

And nestle in the gulley, then,

And watch with deep devotion

The shadows on the benty grass,

And how they come, and how they pass;

Nor must he stir, with gesture rash,

To quicken her emotion.

With nerve and eye so wary, sir,

That straight his piece may carry, sir,

He marks with care the quarry, sir,

The muzzle to repose on;

And now, the knuckle is applied,

The flint is struck, the priming tried,

Is fired, the volley has replied,

And reeks in high commotion;--

Was better powder ne'er to flint,

Nor trustier wadding of the lint--

And so we strike a telling dint,

Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]

[109] Anglicised into _Ben_.

[110] The deer.

[111] Stag of the first head.

[112] Pass.

[113] Any one who has heard a native attempt the Lowland tongue for the

first time, is familiar with the personification that turns every

inanimate object into _he_ or _she_. The forest is here happily

personified as a nurse or mother.

[114] Bog-holes.

[115] Stripings.

[116] _Gaelic_--Easan-an-tsith.

[117] Primrose.

[118] St John's wort.

[119] A kind of cress, or marshmallow.

[120] _Anglice_--dark.

[121] _Gaelic_--Caoillt; who, with Cuchullin, makes a figure in

traditional Gaelic poetry.

[122] _Gaelic_--King George.

[123] Literally--"From the barrel of Nic-Coisean." This was the poet's

favourite gun, to which his muse has addressed a separate song of

considerable merit.

THE BARD TO HIS MUSKET.[124]

Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of

Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at

his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired

of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in

his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence

a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment

of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his

feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the

original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are

enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the

spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the

Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at

our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems

of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it

to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr

Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain,

of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come

forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of

Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic

productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride,

thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of

patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he

carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as

enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was

love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.

Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal

May happen to a Highlan' man;

Though he fall in love he soon may feel

He cannot get the fancied one;

The first I loved in time that 's past,

I courted twenty years, ochone!

But she forsook me at the last,

And Duncan then was left alone.

To Edinbro' I forthwith hied

To seek a sweetheart to my mind,

An', if I could, to find a bride

For the fause love I left behind;

Said Captain Campbell of the Guard,

"I ken a widow secretly,

An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,

To put her, Duncan, in your way."

As was his wont, I trow, did he

Fulfil his welcome promise true,

He gave the widow unto me,

And all her portion with her too;

And whosoe'er may ask her name,

And her surname also may desire,

They call her Janet[125]--great her fame--

An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.

She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,

No vexing gloom or look at hand,

As high in rank and in degree

As any lady in the land;

She 's my support and my relief,

Since e'er she join'd me, any how;

Great is the cureless cause of grief

To him who has not got her now!

Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite,

Altho' she liveth still at ease--

An' allow the crested stags to fight

And wander wheresoe'er they please,

A young wife I have chosen now,

Which I repent not any where,

I am not wanting wealth, I trow,

Since ever I espoused the fair.

I pass my word of honour bright--

Most excellent I do her call;

In her I ne'er, in any light,

Discover'd any fault at all.

She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,

Without a hidden fault, my friend;

In her, defect I never found,

Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.

When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!

For money in a great degree;

Ah, George's daughter--generous lass--

Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;

She keepeth me in drink, and stays

By me in ale-houses and all,

An' at once, without a word, she pays

For every stoup I choose to call!

An' every turn I bid her do

She does it with a willing grace;

She never tells me aught untrue,

Nor story false, with lying face;

She keeps my rising family

As well as I could e'er desire,

Although no labour I do try,

Nor dirty work for love or hire.

I labour'd once laboriously,

Although no riches I amass'd;

A menial I disdain'd to be,

An' keep my vow unto the last.

I have ceased to labour in the lan',

Since e'er I noticed to my wife,

That the idle and contented man

Endureth to the longest life.

'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed--

In whom I faithfully believe,

She 's able still to earn my bread,

An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;

I 'll have no lack of linens fair,

An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,

An' trust me that all worldly care

Now gives me not the least concern.

[124] The "Auld Town Guard" of Edinburgh, which existed before the

Police Acts came into operation, was composed principally of

Highlandmen, some of them old pensioners. Their rendezvous, or place of

resort, was in the vicinity of old St Giles's Church, where they might

generally be found smoking, snuffing, and speaking in the true Highland

vernacular. Archie Campbell, celebrated by Macintyre as "Captain

Campbell," was the last, and a favourable specimen of this class of

civic functionaries. He was a stout, tall man; and, dressed in his "knee

breeks and buckles, wi' the red-necked coat, and the cocked hat," he

considered himself of no ordinary importance. He had a most thorough

contempt for grammar, and looked upon the Lord Provost as the greatest

functionary in the world. He delighted to be called "the Provost's

right-hand man." Archie is still well remembered by many of the

inhabitants of Edinburgh, as he was quite a character in the city. In

dealing with a prisoner, Archie used to impress him with the idea that

he could do great things for him by merely speaking to "his honour the

Provost;" and when locking a prisoner up in the Tolbooth, he would say

sometimes--"There, my lad, I cannot do nothing more for you!" He took

care to give his friends from the Highlands a magnificent notion of his

great personal consequence, which, of course, they aggrandised when they

returned to the hills.

[125] A byeword for a regimental firelock.

[126] A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and

elsewhere.

JOHN MACODRUM.

Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of

merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,--of whom, after a distinguished

career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature

death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.

Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's

report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which

Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story

is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little

with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian,

in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic

to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have,"

quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."

Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald,

lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains--a fact that brings the

time in which he flourished down to 1766.

His poem entitled the "Song of Age," is admired by his countrymen for

its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some

occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of

versification.

ORAN NA H-AOIS,

THE SONG OF AGE.

Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,

The notes would betray the languor of woe;

My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone

That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.

The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare,

And offers us ne'er the respite of peace,

Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,

For under the sun is no hope of release.

'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen

Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside;

How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower

The arm of our power, and the step of our pride.

As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,

The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,

So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,

Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.

Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,

And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;

Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve--

In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.

To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,

Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;

On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]

The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.

Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held

By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;

The friends of our love at thy call must remove,--

What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?

They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store,

Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;

Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us,

Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.

Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face

To hasten its race on the route to the tomb,

To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear,

Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb;

Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd,

Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!

To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,

Even sympathy dies--and thy helper is none.

We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'd

Thy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose;

Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,

And the ivory[128] tare from its sockets' repose.

Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould,

Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim;

What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track,

And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb!

Thou leper of fear--thou niggard of cheer--

Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found?

Thou contempt of the brave--oh, rather the grave,

Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound.

Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray,

Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom;

Thou bane of delight--when thy shivering plight,

And thy grizzle of white,[129] and thy crippleness, come

To beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor,

And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread;

All unwelcome they call--from the hut to the hall

The confession of all is, "_'Tis time he were dead_!"

The picturesque portion of the description here terminates. With respect

to the moral and religious application, it is but just to the poet to

say, that before the close he appeals in pathetic terms to the young,

warning them not to boast of their strength, or to abuse it; and that he

concludes his lay with the sentiment, that whatever may be the ills of

"age," there are worse that await an unrepenting death, and a suffering

eternity.

[127] Alluding to the plagues.

[128] The teeth.

[129] _Gaelic_--Matted, rough, gray beard.

NORMAN MACLEOD;

OR, TORMAID BAN.

Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had his _marrow_ in a

Highland bard, nearly his contemporary, whose one effort was attended

with more lasting popularity than the sole oration of that celebrated

person. The clan song of the Mackenzies is the composition in question,

and its author is now ascertained to have been a gentleman, or farmer of

the better class, of the name of Norman Macleod, a native of Assynt[130]

in Sutherland. The most memorable particular known of this person,

besides the production of his poetic effort, is his having been the

father of a Glasgow professor,[131] whom we remember occupying the chair

of Church History in the university in very advanced age, about 1814,

assisted by a helper and successor; and of another son, who was the

respected minister of Rogart till towards the end of last century.

The date of "Caberfae" is not exactly ascertained. It was composed

during the exile of Lord Seaforth, but, we imagine, before the '45, in

which he did not take part, and while Macshimei (Lord Lovat) still

passed for a Whig. In Mackenzie's excellent collection (p. 361), a

later date is assigned to the production.

The Seaforth tenantry, who (after the manner of the clans) privately

supported their chief in his exile, appear to have been much aggrieved

by some proceedings of the loyalist, Monro of Fowlis, who, along with

his neighbour of Culloden and Lovat, were probably acting under

government commission, in which the interests of the crown were seconded

by personal or family antagonism. The loyal family of Sutherland, who

seem by grant or lease to have had an interest in the estates, also come

in for a share of the bard's resentment.

All this forms the subject of "Caberfae," which, without having much

meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated "Lillibulero," to animate

armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be

imagined. The repetition of "the Staghead, when rises his cabar on,"

which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a

Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,--being a simple

allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag

at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant. The cabar is the

horn, or, rather, the "tine of the first-head,"--no ignoble emblem,

certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity. The difficulty of the

measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of

some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader's indulgence.

[130] In Stat. Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.

[131] Hugh Macleod.

CABERFAE,

THE STAGHEAD.[132]

A health to Caberfae,

A toast, and a cheery one,

That soon return he may,

Though long and far his tarrying.

The death of shame befal me,

Be riven off my eididh[133] too,

But my fancy hears thy call--we

Should all be _up and ready, O_!

'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,

Thine arm, inaction scorning,

Assign their dues to the Munroes,

Their _welcome_ in the morning.

Nor stood the Cátach[134] to his bratach[135]

For dread of a belabouring,

When up gets the Staghead,

And raises his cabar on.

Woe to the man of Folais,[136]

When he to fight must challenge thee;

Nor better fared the Roses[137]

That lent _Monro_ their valiancy.

The Granndach[138] and the Frazer,[139]

They tarried not the melee in;

Fled Forbes,[140] in dismay, sir,

Culloden-wards, undallying.

Away they ran, while firm remain,

Not one to three, retiring so,

The earl,[141] the craven, took to haven,

Scarce a pistol firing, O!

Mackay[142] of Spoils, his heart recoils,

He cries in haste his cabul[143] on,

He flies--as soars the Staghead,

And raises his cabar on.

Like feather'd creatures flying,

That in the hill-mist shiver,

In haste for refuge hieing,

To the meadow or the river--

So, port they sought, and took to boat,

Bewailing what had happened them,

To trust was rash, the missing flash

Of the rusty guns that weapon'd them.

The coracle of many a skull,

The relics of his neighbour, on,

Monro retreats[144]--for Staghead

Is raising his cabar on.

I own my expectation,--

'Tis this has roused my apathy,

That He who rules creation

May change the dismal hap of thee,

And hasten to restore thee

In safety from thy danger,

To thine own, in joy and glory,

To save us from the stranger.

With princely grace to give redress,

Nor a taunt to suffer back again;

The fell Monro has felt thy blow,

And should he dare attack again,

Then as he flew, he 'll run anew,

The flames to quench he 'll labour on,

Of castle fired--when Staghead

High raises his cabar on!

I 've seen thee o'er the lowly,

A gracious chieftain ever,

The Cátach[145] self below thee,

And the Gallach[145] cower'd for cover;

But ever more their striving,

When claim'd respect thine eye,

Thy scourge corrected, driving

To other lands to fly.

Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,

No panic fear shall turn them,

With steel-cap, blade, and _skene_ array'd,

Their banning foes they spurn them.

Clan-Shimei[146] then may dare them,

They 'll fly, had each a sabre on,

Needs but a look--when Staghead

Once raises his cabar on.

Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,

Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147] O!

Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,

That forays with the beagle, O!

For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148]

My song shall raise the mountain-deer;

The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,

He loves the cress, the fountain cheer.

His lodge is in the forest;--

While carion-flesh enticing

Thy greedy maw, thou buriest

Thou kite of prey! thy claws in

The putrid corse of famish'd horse,

The greedy hound a-striving

To rival thee in gluttony,

Both at the bowels riving.

Thou called the _true bird_![149]--Never,

Thou foster child of evil,[150] ha!

How ill match with thy feather[151]

The talons[152] of thy devilry!

But when thy foray preys on

Our harmless flocks, so dastardly,

How often has the shepherd

With trusty baton master'd thee;

Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,

Else, not alone, belabouring,

He 'd gored thee with the Staghead,

Up-raising his cabar on.[153]

Woe worth the world, deceiver--

So false, so fair of seeming!

We 've seen the noble Siphort[154]

With all his war-notes[155] screaming;

When not a chief in Albain,

Mac-Ailein's[156] self though backing him,

Could face his frown--as Staghead

Arose with his cabar on.

To join thy might, when call'd the right,

A gallant army springing on,

Would rise, from Assint to the crags

Of Scalpa, rescue bringing on.

Each man upon, true-flinted gun,

Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean;

With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157]

When up rose thy cabar on!

Came too the men of Muideart,[158]

While stream'd their flag its bravery;

Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159]

That havock'd on the cavalry.

Macalister,[160] Mackinnon,

With many a flashing trigger there,

The foemen rushing in on,

Resistless shew'd their vigour there.

May fortune free thee--may we see thee

Again in Bràun,[161] the turreted,

Girt with thy clan! And not a man

But will get the scorn he merited.

Then wine will play, and usquebae

From flaggons, and from badalan,[162]

And pipers scream--when Staghead

High raises his cabar on.

[132] Applicable both to the chief and his crest.

[133] Literally, "_the dress_," (pron. _eidi_,) _i.e._, Highland garb,

not yet abolished.

[134] Sutherlanders, or Caithness men.

[135] Banner.

[136] Monro of Fowlis.

[137] Rose of Kilravock and his clan.

[138] Grant of Grant.

[139] Lovat.

[140] Of Culloden.

[141] Of Sutherland.

[142] Lord Reay.

[143] Steed. The Celtic "Cabul" and Latin "Caballus" correspond.

[144] Here the bard is a little obscure; but he seems to mean that the

Monroes made their escape over the skulls of the dead, as if they were

boats or coracles by which to cross or get away from danger.

[145] The Caithness and Sutherland men.

[146] Lovat's men.

[147] The eagle being the crest of the Monro.

[148] The _eagle_; the crest of Monro of Fowlis. The filthy and cruel

habits of this predatory bird are here contrasted with the

forest-manners of the stag in a singular specimen of clan vituperation.

[149] _Fioreun_, the name of the eagle, signifying true bird.

[150] Literally--Accursed by Moses, or the Mosaic law.

[151] The single eagle's feather crested the chieftain's bonnet.

[152] Literally--If thy feather is noble, thy claws are (of) the devil!

[153] This picture of the eagle is not much for edification--nor another

hit at the lion of the Macdonalds, then at feud with the Seaforth. The

former is abridged, and the latter omitted; as also a lively detail of

the _creagh_, in which the Monroes are reproached with their spoilages

of cheese, butter, and winter-mart beef.

[154] Seaforth.

[155] Literally--Bagpipes.

[156] Macallammore: Argyle.

[157] Macdonald of Sleat.

[158] Clanranald's country.

[159] Literally--Of blue steel.

[160] Mac-Mhic-Alister, the patronymic of Glengary.

[161] Castle Brahan, Seaforth's seat.

[162] _Gaelic_--Barrels of liquor, properly _bùidealan_.

END OF VOL. I.

GLOSSARY.

_A-low_, on fire.

_Ava_, at all.

_Ayont_, beyond.

_Ban_, swear.

_Bang_, to change place hastily.

_Bangster_, a violent person.

_Bawks_, the cross-beams of a roof.

_Bein_, good, suitable.

_Bicker_, a dish for holding liquor.

_Boddle_, an old Scottish coin--value the third of a penny.

_Boggie_, a marsh.

_Brag_, vaunt.

_Braw_, gaily dressed.

_Busk_, to attire oneself.

_Buss_, bush.

_Cantie_, cheerful.

_Castocks_, the pith of stalks of cabbages.

_Caw_, to drive.

_Chat_, talk.

_Chuckies_, chickens.

_Chuffy_, clownish.

_Clavering_, talking idly.

_Cleeding_, clothing.

_Clishmaclavers_, idle talk.

_Clocksie_, vivacious.

_Cock-up_, a hat or cap turned up before.

_Coft_, purchased.

_Cogie_, a hollow wooden vessel.

_Coozy_, warm.

_Cosie_, snug, comfortable.

_Cowt_, cattle.

_Creel_, a basket.

_Croft_, a tenement of land.

_Croon_, to make a plaintive sound.

_Crouse_, brisk.

_Crusie_, a small lamp.

_Cuddle_, embrace.

_Curpin_, the crupper of a saddle.

_Cuttie_, a short pipe.

_Daff_, sport.

_Daut_, caress.

_Daud_, blow.

_Daunder_, to walk thoughtlessly.

_Dautit_, fondled.

_Dirdum_, tumult.

_Disjasket_, having appearance of decay.

_Doited_, stupid.

_Dool_, grief.

_Dorty_, a foolish urchin.

_Douf_, dull.

_Dowie_, sad.

_Draigle_, draggle.

_Dringing_, delaying.

_Drone_, sound of bagpipes.

_Dung_, defeated.

_Eerie_, timorous.

_Eident_, wary.

_Elf_, a puny creature.

_Fashious_, troublesome.

_Fauld_, a fold.

_Ferlies_, remarkable things.

_Fleyt_, frightened.

_Fogie_, a stupid old person.

_Foumart_, a pole-cat.

_Fraise_, flattery.

_Frumpish_, crumpled.

_Gabbit_, a person prone to idle talk.

_Gart_, compelled.

_Giggle_, unmeaning laughter.

_Gin_, if.

_Girse_, grass.

_Glaikit_, stupid.

_Glamrie_, the power of enchantment.

_Glower_, stare.

_Grusome_, frightful.

_Grist_, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.

_Gutchir_, grandfather.

_Gutters_, mud, wet dust.

_Hain_, save, preserve.

_Hap_, cover.

_Havens_, endowments.

_Henny_, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.

_Hinkum_, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.

_Howe_, a hollow.

_Hyne_, hence.

_Kail_, cabbages, colewort.

_Kebbuck_, a cheese.

_Keil_, red clay, used for marking.

_Ken_, know.

_Kenspeckle_, having a singular appearance.

_Leal_, honest, faithful.

_Leese me_, pleased am I with.

_Lyart_, gray-haired.

_Loof_, the palm of the hand.

_Lowin_, warm.

_Lucky, A_, an old woman.

_Luntin_, smoking.

_Mailin_, a farm.

_Maukin_, a hare.

_Mirk_, dark.

_Mishanter_, a sorry scrape.

_Mittens_, gloves without fingers.

_Mouldie_, crumbling.

_Mouls_, the earth of the grave.

_Mows_, easy.

_Mutch_, a woman's cap.

_Neip_, a turnip.

_Neive_, the closed fist.

_Nippen_, carried off surreptitiously.

_Ouk_, week.

_Owerlay_, a cravat.

_Perk_, push.

_Perlins_, women's ornaments.

_Poortith_, poverty.

_Preed_, tasted.

_Randy_, a scold, a shrew.

_Rate_, slander.

_Rink_, run about.

_Routh_, abundance.

_Rummulgumshin_, common sense.

_Sabbit_, sobbed.

_Scant_, scarce.

_Scartle_, a graip or fork.

_Scrimply_, barely.

_Scug_, shelter.

_Seer_, sure.

_Shaw_, a plantation.

_Shiel_, a sheep shed.

_Skeigh_, timorous.

_Skiffin_, moving lightly.

_Smeddum_, sagacity.

_Snooded_, the hair bound up.

_Spaewife,_ a female fortune-teller.

_Spence_, a larder.

_Steenies_, guineas.

_Sud_, should.

_Sumph_, a soft person.

_Swankie_, a clever young fellow.

_Sweir_, indolent.

_Syne_, then.

_Tabbit_, benumbed.

_Tapsle-teerie_, topsyturvy.

_Ted_, toad.

_Thairms_, strings.

_Thowless_, thoughtless.

_Thraw_, twist.

_Tint_, lost.

_Tirl_, to uncover.

_Tocher_, dowry.

_Toss_, toast.

_Towmond_, a year.

_Trig_, neat, trim.

_Tryst_, appointment.

_Tyced_, made diversion.

_Vauntit_, boasted.

_Weel_, will.

_Whigmigmorum_, political ranting.

_Wile_, choice.

_Wist_, wished.

_Wizen_, the throat.

_Wow_, vow.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.

[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.

F.S.A. SCOT.

VOL. II.

ALTRIVE.

_THE RESIDENCE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD._

EDINBURGH:

ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,

BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:

[Signature: James Hogg]

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

Lithographed from an original Portrait in the possession of his widow

by Schenck & McFarlane, Edinburgh.]

* * * * *

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE

PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS

IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED

MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.

F.S.A. SCOT.

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH:

ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,

BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.

M.DCCC.LVI.

EDINBURGH:

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,

PAUL'S WORK.

TO

JOHN BROWN, ESQ., OF MARLIE.

My dear Sir,

I dedicate to you this second volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL,"

as a sincere token of my estimation of your long continued and most

disinterested friendship, and of the anxiety you have so frequently

evinced respecting the promotion of my professional views and literary

aspirations.

I have the honour to be,

My dear Sir,

your most obliged,

and very faithful servant,

CHARLES ROGERS.

Argyle House, Stirling,

_December 1855._

INTRODUCTION

TO