The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.[1]

The suspicion which arose in regard to the authenticity of Ossian,

subsequent to his appearance in the pages of Macpherson, has unjustly

excited a misgiving respecting the entire poetry of the Gael. With

reference to the elder poetry of the Highlands, it has now been

established[2] that at the period of the Reformation, the natives were

engrossed with the lays and legends of Bards and Seanachies,[3] of which

Ossian, Caoillt, and Cuchullin were the heroes. These romantic strains

continued to be preserved and recited with singular veneration. They

were familiar to hundreds in different districts who regarded them as

relics of their ancestors, and would as soon have mingled the bones of

their fathers with the dust of strangers, as ventured on the alteration

of a single passage. Many of the reciters of this elder poetry were

writers of verses,[4] yet there is no instance of any attempt to alter

or supersede the originals. Nor could any attempt have succeeded. There

are specimens which exist, independent of those collected by Macpherson,

which present a peculiarity of form, and a Homeric consistency of

imagery, distinct from every other species of Gaelic poetry.

Of an uncertain era, but of a date posterior to the age of Ossian, there

is a class of compositions called _Ur-sgeula_,[5] or _new-tales_, which

may be termed the productions of the sub-Ossianic period. They are

largely blended with stories of dragons and other fabulous monsters; the

best of these compositions being romantic memorials of the

Hiberno-Celtic, or Celtic Scandinavian wars. The first translation from

the Gaelic was a legend of the _Ur-sgeula_. The translator was Ierome

Stone,[6] schoolmaster of Dunkeld, and the performance appeared in the

_Scots Magazine_ for 1700. The author had learned from the monks the

story of Bellerophon,[7] along with that of Perseus and Andromeda, and

from these materials fabricated a romance in which the hero is a

mythical character, who is supposed to have given name to Loch Fraoch,

near Dunkeld. Belonging to the same era is the "Aged Bard's Wish,"[8] a

composition of singular elegance and pathos, and remarkable for certain

allusions to the age and imagery of Ossian. This has frequently been

translated. Somewhat in the Ossianic style, but of the period of the

_Ur-sgeula_ are two popular pieces entitled _Mordubh_[9] and _Collath_.

Of these productions the imagery is peculiarly illustrative of the

character and habits of the ancient Gael, while they are replete with

incidents of the wars which the Albyn had waged with their enemies of

Scandinavia. To the same period we are disposed to assign the "Song of

the Owl," though it has been regarded by a respectable authority[10] as

of modern origin. Of a portion of this celebrated composition we subjoin

a metrical translation from the pen of Mr William Sinclair.

The Bard, expelled from the dwellings of men by

plunderers according to one account, by a discontented

helpmate according to another, is placed in a lone

out-house, where he meets an owl which he supposes

himself to engage in an interchange of sentiment

respecting the olden time:--

HUNTER.

O wailing owl of Strona's vale!

We wonder not thy night's repose

Is mournful, when with Donegal

In distant years thou first arose:

O lonely bird! we wonder not,

For time the strongest heart can bow,

That thou should'st heave a mournful note,

Or that thy sp'rit is heavy now!

OWL.

Thou truly sayest I lone abide,

I lived with yonder ancient oak,

Whose spreading roots strike deep and wide

Amidst the moss beside the rock;

And long, long years have gone at last,

And thousand moons have o'er me stole,

And many a race before me past,

Still I am Strona's lonely owl!

HUNTER.

Now, since old age has come o'er thee,

Confess, as to a priest, thy ways;

And fearless tell thou unto me

The glorious tales of bygone days.

OWL.

Rapine and falsehood ne'er I knew,

Nor grave nor temples e'er have torn,

My youthful mate still found me true--

Guiltless am I although forlorn!

I 've seen brave Britto's son, the wild,

The powerful champion, Fergus, too,

Gray-haired Foradden, Strona's child--

These were the heroes great and true!

HUNTER.

Thou hast well began, but tell to me,

And say what further hast thou known!

E'er Donegal abode with thee,

In the Fersaid these all were gone!

OWL.

Great Alexander of the spears,

The mightiest chief of Albyn's race,

Oft have I heard his voice in cheers

From the green hill-side speed the chase;

I saw him after Angus brave--

Nor less a noble warrior he--

Fersaid his home, his work he gave

Unto the Mill of Altavaich.

HUNTER.

From wild Lochaber, then, the sword

With war's dread inroads swept apace;

Where, gloomy-brow'd and ancient bird,

Was then thy secret hiding-place?

OWL.

When the fierce sounds of terror burst,

And plunder'd herds were passing on,

I turn'd me from the sight accurst

Unto the craig Gunaoch lone;

Some of my kindred by the lands

Of Inch and Fersaid sought repose,

Some by Loch Laggan's lonely sands,

Where their lamenting cries arose!

Here follows a noble burst of poetical fervour in praise of the lonely

rock, and the scenes of the huntsman's youth. The green plains, the wild

harts, the graceful beauty of the brown deer, and the roaring stag, with

the banners, ensigns, and streamers of the race of Cona,--all share in

the poet's admiration. The following constitutes the exordium of the

poem:--

Oh rock of my heart! for ever secure,

The rock where my childhood was cherish'd in love,

The haunt of the wild birds, the stream flowing pure,

And the hinds and the stags that in liberty rove;

The rock all encircled by sounds from the grove,

Oh, how I delighted to linger by thee,

When arose the wild cry of the hounds as they drove,

The herds of wild deer from their fastnesses free!

Loud scream'd the eagles around thee, I ween,

Sweet the cuckoos and the swans in their pride,

More cheering the kid-spotted fawns that were seen,

With their bleating, that sweetly arose by thy side,

I love thee, O wild rock of refuge! of showers,

Of the leaves and the cresses, all glorious to me,

Of the high grassy heights and the beautiful bowers

Afar from the smooth shelly brink of the sea!

The termination of the Sub-Ossianic period brings us to another epoch in

the history of Gaelic poetry. The Bard was now the chieftain's retainer,

at home a crofter and pensioner,[11] abroad a follower of the camp. We

find him cheering the rowers of the galley, with his _birlinn_ chant,

and stirring on the fight with his _prosnuchadh catha_, or battle-song.

At the noted battle of Harlaw,[12] a piece was sung which has escaped

the wreck of that tremendous slaughter, and of contemporary poetry. It

is undoubtedly genuine; and the critics of Gaelic verse are unanimous in

ascribing to it every excellence which can belong either to alliterative

art, or musical excitement. Of the battle-hymn some splendid specimens

have been handed down; and these are to be regarded with an amount of

confidence, from the apparent ease with which the very long "Incitement

to Battle," in the "Garioch Battle-Storm," as Harlaw is called, was

remembered. Collections of favourite pieces began to be made in writing

about the period of the revival of letters. The researches of the

Highland Society brought to light a miscellany, embracing the poetical

labours of two contemporaries of rank, Sir Duncan Campbell[13] of

Glenurchay, and Lady Isabel Campbell. From this period the poet's art

degenerates into a sort of family chronicle. There were, however,

incidents which deserved a more affecting style of memorial; and this

appears in lays which still command the interest and draw forth the

tears of the Highlander. The story of the persecuted Clan Gregor

supplies many illustrations, such as the oft-chanted _Macgregor na

Ruara_,[14] and the mournful melodies of Janet Campbell.[15] In the

footsteps of these exciting subjects of poetry, came the inspiring

Montrose wars, which introduce to our acquaintance the more modern class

of bards; of these the most conspicuous is, Ian Lom[16] or Manntach.

This bard was a Macdonald; he hung on the skirts of armies, and at the

close of the battle sung the triumph or the wail, on the side of his

partisans.[17] To the presence of this person the clans are supposed to

have been indebted for much of the enthusiasm which led them to glory in

the wars of Montrose. His poetry only reaches mediocrity, but the

success which attended it led the chiefs to seek similar support in the

Jacobite wars; and very animated compositions were the result of their

encouragement. Mathieson, the family bard of Seaforth, Macvuirich, the

pensioner of Clanranald, and Hector the Lamiter, bard of M'Lean, were

pre-eminent in this department. The Massacre of Glencoe suggested

numerous elegies. There is one remarkable for pathos by a clansman who

had emigrated to the Isle of Muck, from which circumstance he is styled

"Am Bard Mucanach."

The knights of Duart and Sleat, the chiefs of Clanranald and Glengarry,

the Lochaber seigniory of Lochiel, and the titled chivalry of Sutherland

and Seaforth,[18] formed subjects of poetic eulogy. Sir Hector Maclean,

Ailein Muideartach, and the lamented Sir James Macdonald obtained the

same tribute. The second of these Highland favourites could not make his

manly countenance, or stalwart arm, visible in hall, barge, or

battle,[19] without exciting the enthusiastic strain of the enamoured

muse of one sex, or of the admiring minstrel of the other. In this

department of poetry, some of the best proficients were women. Of these

Mary M'Leod, the contemporary of Ian Lom, is one of the most musical and

elegant. Her chief, _The M'Leod_, was the grand theme of her

inspiration. Dora Brown[20] sung a chant on the renowned Col-Kitto, as

he went forth against the Campbells to revenge the death of his father;

a composition conceived in a strain such as Helen Macgregor might have

struck up to stimulate to some deed of daring and vindictive enterprise.

Of the modern poetry of the Gael, Macpherson has expressed himself

unfavourably; he regarded the modern Highlanders as being incapable of

estimating poetry otherwise than in the returning harmony of similar

sounds. They were seduced, he remarks, by the charms of rhyme; and

admired the strains of Ossian, not for the sublimity of the poetry, but

on account of the antiquity of the compositions, and the detail of facts

which they contained. On this subject a different opinion has been

expressed by Sir Walter Scott. "I cannot dismiss this story," he writes,

in his last introduction to his tale of the "Two Drovers," "without

resting attention for a moment on the light which has been thrown on the

character of the Highland Drover, since the time of its first

appearance, by the account of a drover poet, by name Robert Mackay, or,

as he was commonly called, Rob Donn, _i.e._, Brown Robert; and certain

specimens of his talents, published in the ninetieth number of the

_Quarterly Review_. The picture which that paper gives of the habits

and feelings of a class of persons with which the general reader would

be apt to associate no ideas but those of wild superstition and rude

manners, is in the highest degree interesting; and I cannot resist the

temptation of quoting two of the songs of this hitherto unheard-of poet

of humble life.... Rude and bald as these things appear in a verbal

translation, and rough as they might possibly appear, even were the

originals intelligible, we confess we are disposed to think they would

of themselves justify Dr Mackay (editor of Mackay's Poems) in placing

this herdsman-lover among the true sons of song."

Of that department of the Gaelic Minstrelsy admired by Scott and

condemned by Macpherson, the English reader is presented in the present

work with specimens, to enable him to form his own judgment. These

specimens, it must however be remembered, not only labour under the

ordinary disadvantages of translations, but have been rendered from a

language which, in its poetry, is one of the least transfusible in the

world. Yet the effort which has been made to retain the spirit, and

preserve the rhythm and manner of the originals, may be sufficient to

establish that the honour of the Scottish Muse has not unworthily been

supported among the mountains of the Gael. Some of the compositions are

Jacobite, and are in the usual warlike strain of such productions, but

the majority sing of the rivalries of clans, the emulation of bards, the

jealousies of lovers, and the honour of the chiefs. They likewise abound

in pictures of pastoral imagery; are redolent of the heath and the

wildflower, and depict the beauties of the deer forest.

The various kinds of Highland minstrelsy admit of simple classification.

The _Duan Mor_ is the epic song; its subdivisions are termed _duana_ or

_duanaga_. Strings of verse and incidents ([Greek: Rhapsôdia]) were intended to

form an epic history, and were combined by successive bards for that

purpose. The battle-song (_Prosnuchadh-catha_) was the next in

importance. The model of this variety is not to be found in any of the

Alcaic or Tyrtæan remains. It was a dithyrambic of the wildest and most

passionate enthusiasm, inciting to carnage and fury. Chanted in the

hearing of assembled armies, and sometimes sung before the van, it was

intended as an incitement to battle, and even calculated to stimulate

the courage of the general. The war-song of the Harlaw has been already

noticed; it is a rugged tissue of alliteration, every letter having a

separate division in the remarkable string of adjectives which are

connected to introduce a short exordium and grand finale. The _Jorram_,

or boat-song, some specimens of which attracted the attention of Dr

Johnson,[21] was a variety of the same class. In this, every measure was

used which could be made to time with an oar, or to mimic a wave, either

in motion or sound. Dr Johnson discovered in it the proceleusmatic song

of the ancients; it certainly corresponds in real usage with the poet's

description:--

"Stat margine puppis,

Qui voce alternos nautarum temperet ictus,

Et remis dictet sonitum pariterque relatis,

Ad numerum plaudet resonantia cærula tonsis."

Alexander Macdonald excels in this description of verse. In a piece

called Clanranald's _Birlinn_, he has summoned his utmost efforts in

timing the circumstances of a voyage with suitable metres and

descriptions. A happy imitation of the boat-song has been rendered

familiar to the English reader by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Roderigh

Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! ieroe," of the "Lady of the Lake." The _Luineag_,

or favourite carol of the Highland milkmaid, is a class of songs

entirely lyrical, and which seldom fails to please the taste of the

Lowlander. Burns[22] and other song-writers have adopted the strain of

the _Luineag_ to adorn their verses. The _Cumha_, or lament, is the

vehicle of the most pathetic and meritorious effusions of Gaelic poetry;

it is abundantly interspersed with the poetry of Ossian.

Among the Gael, blank verse is unknown, and for rhyme they entertain a

passion.[23] They rhyme to the same set of sounds or accents for a space

of which the recitation is altogether tedious. Not satisfied with the

final rhyme, their favourite measures are those in which the middle

syllable corresponds with the last, and the same syllable in the second

line with both; and occasionally the final sound of the second line is

expected to return in every alternate verse through the whole poem. The

Gael appear to have been early in possession of these coincidences of

termination which were unknown to the classical poets, or were regarded

by them as defects.[24] All writers on Celtic versification, including

the Irish, Welsh, Manx, and Cornish varieties, are united in their

testimony as to the early use of rhyme by the Celtic poets, and agree in

assigning the primary model to the incantations of the Druids.[25] The

lyrical measures of the Gael are various, but the scansion is regular,

and there is no description of verse familiar to English usage, from the

Iambic of four syllables, to the slow-paced Anapæstic, or the prolonged

Alexandrine, which is not exactly measured by these sons and daughters

of song.[26] Every poetical composition in the language, however

lengthy, is intended to be sung or chanted. Gaelic music is regulated by

no positive rules; it varies from the wild chant of the battle-song to

the simple melody of the milkmaid. In Johnson's "Musical Museum,"

Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology," Thomson's "Collection," and Macdonald's

"Airs," the music of the mountains has long been familiar to the curious

in song, and lover of the national minstrelsy.[27]

[1] We are indebted for these observations on the Highland Muse to the

learned friend who has supplied the greater number of the translations

from the Gaelic poets, which appear in the present work.

[2] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 16-20.

[3] Genealogists or Antiquaries.

[4] Letter from Sir James Macdonald to Dr Blair.

[5] M'Callum's "Collection," p. 207. See also Smith's "Sean Dana, or

Gaelic Antiquities;" Gillies' "Collection" and Clark's "Caledonian

Bards."

[6] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 99, 105, 112.

[7] Boswell's "Life of Johnson," p. 320, Croker's edition, 1847.

[8] "Poems by Mrs Grant of Laggan," p. 395, Edinburgh, 1803, 8vo. The

original is to be found in the Gaelic collections.

[9] Mrs Grant's Poems, p. 371; Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 1.

[10] See Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 249. The

original is contained in Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets."

[11] See Johnson's "Journey to the Western Islands."

[12] Stewart's Collection, p. 1.

[13] Report on Ossian, p. 92. Sir Duncan Campbell fell at the battle of

Flodden, Lady Campbell afterwards married Gilbert, Earl of Cassillis.

[14] Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 196.

[15] Mrs Ogilvie's "Highland Minstrelsy." For the original see Turner's

Collection, p. 186.

[16] Reid's "Bibliotheca Scotica Celtica." Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets,"

p. 36.

[17] Napier's "Memoirs of Montrose." In this work will be found a very

spirited translation of Ian Lom's poem on the battle of Innerlochy.

[18] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," pp. 24, 59, 77, 77, 151; Turner's

"Gaelic Collection," _passim._

[19] See the beautiful verses translated by the Marchioness of

Northampton from "Ha tighinn fodham," in "Albyn's Anthology," or

Croker's "Boswell."

[20] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 56.

[21] Johnson's Works, vol. xii. p. 291.

[22] Poems, Chambers' People's Edition, p. 134.

[23] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 63.

[24] _Edinburgh Review_ on Mitford's "Harmony of Language," vol. vi. p.

383.

[25] Brown's "History of the Highlands," vol. i. p. 89.

[26] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 64.

[27] See also Logan's "Scottish Gael," vol. ii. p. 252.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

JAMES HOGG, 1

Donald Macdonald, 48

Flora Macdonald's farewell, 50

Bonnie Prince Charlie, 51

The skylark, 52

Caledonia, 53

O Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye, 54

When the kye comes hame, 55

The women folk, 58

M'Lean's welcome, 59

Charlie is my darling, 61

Love is like a dizziness, 62

O weel befa' the maiden gay, 64

The flowers of Scotland, 66

Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, 67

Pull away, jolly boys, 69

O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine? 70

The auld Highlandman, 71

Ah, Peggy, since thou 'rt gane away, 72

Gang to the brakens wi' me, 74

Lock the door, Lariston, 75

I hae naebody now, 77

The moon was a-waning, 78

Good night, and joy, 79

JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D., 81

Bess the gawkie, 82

MRS AGNES LYON, 84

Neil Gow's farewell to whisky, 86

See the winter clouds around, 87

Within the towers of ancient Glammis, 88

My son George's departure, 90

ROBERT LOCHORE, 91

Now, Jenny lass, 92

Marriage, and the care o't, 94

Mary's twa lovers, 95

The forlorn shepherd, 96

JOHN ROBERTSON, 98

The toom meal pock, 99

ALEXANDER BALFOUR, 101

The bonnie lass o' Leven water, 104

Slighted love, 105

GEORGE MACINDOE, 106

Cheese and whisky, 108

The burn trout, 109

ALEXANDER DOUGLAS, 110

Fife, an' a' the land about it, 112

WILLIAM M'LAREN, 114

Now summer shines with gaudy pride, 116

And dost thou speak sincere, my love? 116

Say not the bard has turn'd old, 117

HAMILTON PAUL, 120

Helen Gray, 128

The bonnie lass of Barr, 129

ROBERT TANNAHILL, 131

Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane, 136

Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, 137

The lass of Arranteenie, 139

Yon burn side, 140

The braes o' Gleniffer, 141

Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, 142

The braes o' Balquhither, 143

Gloomy winter 's now awa', 145

O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? 146

Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow, 147

The dear Highland laddie, O, 148

The midges dance aboon the burn, 149

Barrochan Jean, 150

O, row thee in my Highland plaid, 151

Bonnie wood of Craigie lea, 153

Good night, and joy, 154

HENRY DUNCAN, D.D., 156

Curling song, 161

On the green sward, 163

The Ruthwell volunteers, 164

Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, 165

The roof of straw, 166

Thou kens't, Mary Hay, 167

ROBERT ALLAN, 169

Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, 171

Come awa, hie awa, 171

On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, 173

To a linnet, 174

The primrose is bonnie in spring, 174

The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee, 175

The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, 176

Her hair was like the Cromla mist, 177

O leeze me on the bonnie lass, 178

Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle, 179

When Charlie to the Highlands came, 180

Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, 181

The lovely maid of Ormadale, 183

A lassie cam' to our gate, 184

The thistle and the rose, 186

The Covenanter's lament, 187

Bonnie lassie, 188

ANDREW MERCER, 189

The hour of love, 190

JOHN LEYDEN, M.D., 191

Ode to the evening star, 196

The return after absence, 197

Lament for Rama, 197

JAMES SCADLOCK, 199

Along by Levern stream so clear, 201

Hark, hark, the skylark singing, 202

October winds, 203

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART., 204

Jenny's bawbee, 208

Jenny dang the weaver, 210

The lass o' Isla, 211

Taste life's glad moments, 212

Good night, and joy be wi' ye a', 214

Old and new times, 215

Bannocks o' barley meal, 216

WILLIAM GILLESPIE, 218

The Highlander, 220

Ellen, 221

THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM, 223

Adown the burnie's flowery bank, 227

The hills o' Gallowa', 227

The braes o' Ballahun, 229

The unco grave, 230

Julia's grave, 231

Fareweel, ye streams, 232

JOHN STRUTHERS, 235

Admiring Nature's simple charms, 239

Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree, 240

RICHARD GALL, 241

How sweet is the scene, 243

Captain O'Kain, 243

My only jo and dearie, O, 244

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e, 245

The braes o' Drumlee, 246

I winna gang back to my mammy again, 248

The bard, 249

Louisa in Lochaber, 249

The hazlewood witch, 250

Farewell to Ayrshire, 251

GEORGE SCOTT, 253

The flower of the Tyne, 254

THOMAS CAMPBELL, 255

Ye mariners of England, 262

Glenara, 263

The wounded hussar, 264

Battle of the Baltic, 265

Men of England, 268

MRS G. G. RICHARDSON, 269

The fairy dance, 273

Summer morning, 274

There 's music in the flowing tide, 275

Ah! faded is that lovely broom, 276

THOMAS BROWN, M.D., 278

Consolation of altered fortunes, 281

The faithless mourner, 282

The lute, 283

WILLIAM CHALMERS, 285

Sing on, 286

The Lomond braes, 287

JOSEPH TRAIN, 288

My doggie, 293

Blooming Jessie, 295

Old Scotia, 296

ROBERT JAMIESON, 297

My wife 's a winsome wee thing, 299

Go to him, then, if thou can'st go, 300

WALTER WATSON, 302

My Jockie 's far awa, 304

Maggie an' me, 305

Sit down, my cronie, 306

Braes o' Bedlay, 307

Jessie, 308

WILLIAM LAIDLAW, 310

Lucy's flittin', 314

Her bonnie black e'e, 316

Alake for the lassie, 317

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

ALEXANDER MACDONALD, 321

The lion of Macdonald, 323

The brown dairy-maiden, 327

The praise of Morag, 329

News of Prince Charles, 335

JOHN ROY STUART, 340

Lament for Lady Macintosh, 341

The day of Culloden, 343

JOHN MORRISON, 346

My beauty dark, 347

ROBERT MACKAY, 349

The Highlander's home sickness, 349

* * * * *

GLOSSARY, 350

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.

JAMES HOGG.

The last echoes of the older Border Minstrelsy were dying from the

memory of the aged, and the spirit which had awakened the strains seemed

to have sighed an eternal farewell to its loved haunts in the past,

when, suddenly arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of

inspiration, at the close of last century, over several sons of song,

worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires. Of these,

unquestionably the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated

"The Ettrick Shepherd." This distinguished individual was born in the

bosom of the romantic vale of Ettrick, in Selkirkshire,--one of the most

mountainous and picturesque districts of Scotland. The family of Hogg

claimed descent from Hougo, a Norwegian baron; and the poet's paternal

ancestors at one period possessed the lands of Fauldshope in Ettrick

Forest, and were followers, under the feudal system, of the Knights of

Harden. For several generations they had adopted the simple occupation

of shepherds. On the mother's side, the poet was descended from the

respectable family of Laidlaw,--one of the oldest in Tweeddale, and of

which all the representatives bore the reputation of excelling either in

intellectual vigour or physical energy; they generally devoted

themselves to the pastoral life. Robert Hogg, the poet's father, was a

person of very ordinary sagacity, presenting in this respect a decided

contrast to his wife, Margaret Laidlaw, a woman of superior energy and

cultivated mind. Their family consisted of four sons, of whom the second

was James, the subject of this Memoir. The precise date of his birth is

unknown: he was baptised, according to the Baptismal Register of

Ettrick, his native parish, on the 9th of December 1770.[28]

At the period of his marriage, Robert Hogg was in circumstances of

considerable affluence; he had saved money as a shepherd, and, taking on

lease the two adjoining pastoral farms of Ettrick-hall and

Ettrick-house, he largely stocked them with sheep adapted both for the

Scottish and English markets. During several years he continued to

prosper; but a sudden depression in the market, and the absconding of a

party who was indebted to him, at length exhausted his finances, and

involved him in bankruptcy. The future poet was then in his sixth year.

In this destitute condition, the family experienced the friendship and

assistance of Mr Brydon, tenant of the neighbouring farm of Crosslee,

who, leasing Ettrick-house, employed Robert Hogg as his shepherd. But

the circumstances of the family were much straitened by recent reverses;

and the second son, young as he was, and though he had only been three

months at school, was engaged as a cow-herd, his wages for six months

being only a ewe-lamb and a pair of shoes! Three months' further

attendance at school, on the expiry of his engagement, completed the

future bard's scholastic instructions. It was the poet's lot, with the

exception of these six months' schooling, to receive his education among

the romantic retreats and solitudes of Nature. First as a cow-herd, and

subsequently through the various gradations of shepherd-life, his days,

till advanced manhood, were all the year round passed upon the hills.

And such hills! The mountains of Ettrick and Yarrow are impressed with

every feature of Highland scenery, in its wildest and most striking

aspects. There are stern summits, enveloped in cloud, and stretching

heavenwards; huge broad crests, heathy and verdant, or torn by fissures

and broken by the storms; deep ravines, jagged, precipitate, and

darksome; and valleys sweetly reposing amidst the sublimity of the awful

solitude. There are dark craggy mountains around the Grey-Mare's-Tail,

echoing to the roar of its stupendous cataract; and romantic and

beautiful green hills, and inaccessible heights, surrounding and

towering over St Mary's Loch, and the Loch of the Lowes. To the

sublimity of that vast academy, in which he had learned to invoke the

Muse, the poet has referred in the "Queen's Wake":--

"The bard on Ettrick's mountain green,

In Nature's bosom nursed had been;

And oft had mark'd in forest lone

The beauties on her mountain throne;

Had seen her deck the wildwood tree,

And star with snowy gems the lea;

In loveliest colours paint the plain,

And sow the moor with purple grain;

By golden mead and mountain sheer,

Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear,

When shadowy flocks of purest snow

Seem'd grazing in a world below."

Glorious as was his academy, the genius of the poet was not precocious.

Forgetting everything he had learned at school, he spent his intervals

of toil in desultory amusements, or in pursuing his own shadow upon the

hills. As he grew older, he discovered the possession of a musical ear;

and saving five shillings of his earnings, he purchased an old violin,

upon which he learned to play his favourite tunes. He had now attained

his fourteenth year; and in the constant hope of improving his

circumstances, had served twelve masters.

The life of a cow-herd affords limited opportunities for mental

improvement. And the early servitude of the Ettrick Shepherd was spent

in excessive toil, which his propensities to fun and frolic served just

to render tolerable. When he reached the respectable and comparatively

easy position of a shepherd, he began to think of teaching himself to

read. From Mrs Laidlaw, the wife of the farmer at Willinslee, on which

he served, he was privileged with the loan of two works, of which the

reputation had been familiar to him from childhood. These were Henry the

Minstrel's "Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace," and the "Gentle

Shepherd" of Allan Ramsay. On these the future poet with much difficulty

learned to read, in his eighteenth year. He afterwards read a number of

theological works, from his employer's collection of books; and among

others of a speculative cast, "Burnet's Theory of the Conflagration of

the Earth," the perusal of which, he has recorded, "nearly overturned

his brain."

At Whitsunday 1790, in his twentieth year, Hogg entered the service, as

shepherd, of Mr James Laidlaw, tenant of Blackhouse,--a farm situate on

the Douglasburn in Yarrow. This proved the most signally fortunate step

which he had yet taken. Mr Laidlaw was a man of singular shrewdness and

of a highly cultivated mind; he readily perceived his shepherd's

aptitude for learning, and gave him the use of his library. But the

poet's connexion with Blackhouse was especially valuable in enabling him

to form the intimacy of Mr William Laidlaw, his master's son, the future

factor and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott. Though ten years his junior,

and consequently a mere youth at the period of his coming to Blackhouse,

young Laidlaw began early to sympathise with the Shepherd's

predilections, and afterwards devoted a large portion of time to his

society. The friendship which ensued proved useful to both. A MS.

narrative of the poet's life by this unfailing friend, which has been

made available in the preparation of this Memoir, enables us to supply

an authentic account of this portion of his career. "He was not long,"

writes Mr Laidlaw, "in going through all the books belonging to my

father; and learning from me that Mr Elder, bookseller, Peebles, had a

large collection of books which he used as a circulating library, he

forthwith became a subscriber, and by that means read Smollett's and

Fielding's novels, and those voyages and travels which were published at

the time, including those of Cook, Carteret, and others."

The progress of the Shepherd in learning was singularly tardy. He was,

by a persevering course of reading, sufficiently familiar with the more

esteemed writers in English literature, ere he attempted penmanship. He

acquired the art upon the hill-side by copying the Italian alphabet,

using his knees as his desk, and having his ink-bottle suspended from

his button. In his twenty-sixth year he first essayed to write

verses,--an effort attended, in the manual department, with amusing

difficulty, for he stripped himself of his coat and vest to the

undertaking, yet could record only a few lines at a sitting! But he was

satisfied with the fame derived from his verses, as adequate

compensation for the toil of their production; he wrote for the

amusement of the shepherd maidens, who sung them to their favourite

tunes, and bestowed on him the prized designation of "Jamie the Poeter."

At the various gatherings of the lads and lasses in the different

homesteads, then frequent in this pastoral district, he never failed to

present himself, and had golden opportunities of winning the chaplet of

applause, both for the strains of his minstrelsy, and the music of his

violin. These _réunions_ were not without their influence in stimulating

him to more ambitious efforts in versification.

The Shepherd's popularity, while tending the flocks of Mr Laidlaw at

Blackhouse, was not wholly derived from his skill as a versifier, and

capabilities as a musician, but, among the fairer portion of the

creation, was perhaps scarcely less owing to the amenity of his

disposition, combined with the handsomeness of his person. As a

candidate for the honour of feminine approbation, he was successful

alike in the hall and on the green: the rumour of his approach at any

rural assemblage or merry-meeting was the watchword for increased mirth

and happiness. If any malignant rival had hinted aught to his prejudice,

the maidens of the whole district had assembled to vindicate his cause.

His personal appearance at this early period is thus described by Mr

William Laidlaw:--"About nineteen years of age, Hogg was rather above

the middle height, of faultless symmetry of form; he was of almost

unequalled agility and swiftness. His face was then round and full, and

of a ruddy complexion, with bright blue eyes that beamed with gaiety,

glee, and good-humour, the effect of the most exuberant animal spirits.

His head was covered with a singular profusion of light-brown hair,

which he was obliged to wear coiled up under his hat. On entering church

on a Sunday (where he was all his life a regular attender) he used, on

lifting his hat, to raise his right hand to assist a graceful shake of

his head in laying back his long hair, which rolled down his back, and

fell below his loins. And every female eye was upon him, as, with light

step, he ascended the stair to the gallery where he sat."

As the committing of his thoughts to paper became a less irksome

occupation, Hogg began, with commendable prudence, to attempt

composition in prose; and in evidence of his success, he had the

satisfaction to find short essays which he sent to the _Scots Magazine_

regularly inserted in that periodical. Poetry was cultivated at the same

time with unabated ardour, though the bard did not yet venture to expose

his verses beyond the friendly circle of his associates in Ettrick

Forest. Of these, the most judicious was young Laidlaw; who, predicting

his success, urged him to greater carefulness in composition. There was

another stimulus to his improvement. Along with several shepherds in the

forest, who were of studious inclinations, he formed a literary society,

which proposed subjects for competition in verse, and adjudged encomiums

of approbation to the successful competitors. Two spirited members of

this literary conclave were Alexander Laidlaw, a shepherd, and

afterwards tenant of Bowerhope, on the border of St Mary's Lake, and the

poet's elder brother, William, a man of superior talent. Both these

individuals subsequently acquired considerable distinction as

intelligent contributors to the agricultural journals. For some years,

William Hogg had rented the sheep-farm of Ettrick-house, and afforded

shelter and support to his aged and indigent parents. In the year 1800,

he resigned his lease to the poet, having taken another farm on the

occasion of his marriage. James now established himself, along with his

parents, at Ettrick-house, the place of his nativity, after a period of

ten years' connexion with Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, whose conduct

towards him, to use his own words, had proved "much more like that of a

father than a master." It was during the course of a visit to Edinburgh

in the same year, that an accidental circumstance gave a wider range to

his poetical reputation. Spending an evening with a party of friends in

the Crown Tavern, he was solicited for a song. He sung the last which he

had composed; it was "Donald Macdonald." The reception was a roar of

applause, and one of the party offered to get it set to music and

published. The song was issued anonymously from the music establishment

of Mr John Hamilton of Edinburgh. Within a few months it was sung in

every district of the kingdom; and, at a period when the apprehended

invasion of Napoleon filled the hearts of the nation with anxiety, it

was hailed as an admirable stimulus to patriotism. In the preparation of

the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," Scott had been largely indebted

to the intelligent peasantry of the south. He was now engaged in making

collections for his third volume, and had resolved to examine the

pastoral inhabitants of Ettrick and Yarrow. Procuring a note of

introduction from his friend Leyden to young Laidlaw, Scott arrived at

Blackhouse during the summer of 1801, and in his native home formed the

acquaintance of his future steward. To his visitor, Laidlaw commended

Hogg as the best qualified in the forest to assist him in his

researches; and Scott, who forthwith accompanied Laidlaw to

Ettrick-house, was more than gratified by an interview with the

shepherd-bard. "He found," writes his biographer, "a brother poet, a

true son of nature and genius, hardly conscious of his powers.... As

yet, his naturally kind and simple character had not been exposed to any

of the dangerous flatteries of the world; his heart was pure; his

enthusiasm buoyant as that of a happy child; and well as Scott knew that

reflection, sagacity, wit and wisdom, were scattered abundantly among

the humblest rangers of these pastoral solitudes, there was here a depth

and a brightness that filled him with wonder, combined with a quaintness

of humour, and a thousand little touches of absurdity, which afforded

him more entertainment, as I have often heard him say, than the best

comedy that ever set the pit in a roar." Scott remained several days in

the forest, daily accompanied in his excursions by Hogg and Laidlaw,

both of whom rapidly warmed in his regard. From the recitation of the

Shepherd's mother, he obtained important and interesting accessions to

his Minstrelsy.

With the exception of the song of "Donald Macdonald," Hogg had not yet

published verses. His _début_ as an author was sufficiently

unpropitious. Shortly after Scott's visit, he had been attending the

Monday sheep-market in Edinburgh, and being unable to dispose of his

entire stock, was necessitated to remain in the city till the following

Wednesday. Having no acquaintances, he resolved to employ the interval

in writing from recollection several of his poems for the press. Before

his departure, he gave the pieces to a printer; and shortly after, he

received intimation that a thousand copies were ready for delivery. On

comparing the printed sheets with his MSS. at Ettrick, he had the

mortification of discovering "many of the stanzas omitted, others

misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page." The little

_brochure_, imperfect as it was, sold rapidly in the district; for the

Shepherd had now a considerable circle of admirers, and those who had

ridiculed his verse-making, kept silent since Scott's visit to him. A

copy of the pamphlet is preserved in the Advocates' Library; it consists

of sixty-two pages octavo, and is entitled, "Scottish Pastorals, Poems,

Songs, &c., mostly written in the Dialect of the South, by James Hogg.

Edinburgh: printed by John Taylor, Grassmarket, 1801. Price One

Shilling." The various pieces evince poetic power, unhappily combined

with a certain coarseness of sentiment. One of the longer ballads,

"Willie and Keatie," supposed to be a narrative of one of his early

amours, obtained a temporary popularity, and was copied into the

periodicals. It is described by Allan Cunningham as a "plain, rough-spun

pastoral, with some fine touches in it, to mark that better was coming."

The domestic circumstances of the Shepherd were meanwhile not

prosperous; he was compelled to abandon the farm of Ettrick-house, which

had been especially valuable to him, as affording a comfortable home to

his venerated parents. In the hope of procuring a situation as an

overseer of some extensive sheep-farm, he made several excursions into

the northern Highlands, waiting upon many influential persons, to whom

he had letters of recommendation. These journeys were eminently

advantageous in acquainting him with many interesting and celebrated

scenes, and in storing his mind with images drawn from the sublimities

and wild scenery of nature, but were of no account as concerned the

object for which they were undertaken. Without procuring employment, he

returned, with very reduced finances, to Ettrick Forest. He published a

rough narrative of his travels in the _Scots Magazine_; and wrote two

essays on the rearing and management of sheep, for the Highland Society,

which were acknowledged with premiums. Frustrated in an attempt to

procure a farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, and declining an offer of

Scott to appoint him to the charge of his small sheep-farm at Ashestiel,

he was led to indulge in the scheme of settling in the island of Harris.

It was in the expectation of being speedily separated from the loved

haunts of his youth, that he composed his "Farewell to Ettrick,"

afterwards published in the "Mountain Bard," one of the most touching

and pathetic ballads in the language. The Harris enterprise was not

carried out; and the poet, "to avoid a great many disagreeable questions

and explanations," went for several months to England. Fortune still

frowned, and the ambitious but unsuccessful son of genius had to return

to his former subordinate occupation as a shepherd. He entered the

employment of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-Slack, in Nithsdale.

Dissatisfied with the imitations of ancient ballads in the third volume

of "The Border Minstrelsy," Hogg proceeded to embody some curious

traditions in this kind of composition. He transmitted specimens to

Scott, who warmly commended them, and suggested their publication. The

result appeared in the "Mountain Bard," a collection of poems and

ballads, which he published in 1803, prefixed with an account of his

life. From the profits of this volume, with the sum of eighty-six pounds

paid him by Constable for the copyright of his two treatises on sheep,

he became master of three hundred pounds. With this somewhat startling

acquisition, visions of prosperity arose in his ardent and enthusiastic

mind. He hastily took in lease the pastoral farm of Corfardin, in the

parish of Tynron, Dumfriesshire, to which he afterwards added the lease

of another large farm in the same neighbourhood. Misfortune still

pursued him; he rented one of the farms at a sum exceeding its value,

and his capital was much too limited for stocking the other, while a

disastrous murrain decimated his flock. Within the space of three years

he was again a penniless adventurer. Removing from the farm-homestead of

Corfardin, he accepted the generous invitation of his hospitable

neighbour, Mr James Macturk of Stenhouse, to reside in his house till

some suitable employment might occur. At Stenhouse he remained three

months; and he subsequently acknowledged the generosity of his friend,

by honourably celebrating him in the "Queen's Wake." Writing to Mr

Macturk, in 1814, he remarks, in reference to his farming at Corfardin,

"But it pleased God to take away by death all my ewes and my lambs, and

my long-horned cow, and my spotted bull, for if they had lived, and if I

had kept the farm of Corfardin, I had been a lost man to the world, and

mankind should never have known the half that was in me. Indeed, I can

never see the design of Providence in taking me to your district at all,

if it was not to breed my acquaintance with you and yours, which I hope

will be one source of happiness to me as long as I live. Perhaps the

very circumstance of being initiated into the mysteries of your

character,[29] is of itself a sufficient compensation for all that I

suffered in your country."

Disappointed in obtaining an ensigncy in a Militia Regiment, through the

interest of Sir Walter Scott, and frustrated in every other attempt to

retain the social position he had gained, he returned to Ettrick, once

more to seek employment in his original occupation. But if friendship

had somewhat failed him, on his proving unsuccessful at Ettrick-house,

his _prestige_ was now completely gone; old friends received him coldly,

and former employers declined his services. He found that, till he

should redeem his reputation for business and good management, there was

no home for him in Ettrick Forest. Hogg was not a man who would tamely

surrender to the pressure of misfortune: amidst his losses he could

claim the strictest honesty of intention, and he was not unconscious of

his powers. With his plaid over his shoulders, he reached Edinburgh in

the month of February 1810, to begin, in his fortieth year, the career

of a man of letters. The scheme was singularly adventurous, but the die

was cast; he was in the position of the man on the tread-wheel, and felt

that he must write or perish.

It affords no matter of surprise that the Shepherd was received coldly

by the booksellers, and that his offers of contributing to their

periodicals were respectfully declined. His volume, "The Mountain Bard,"

had been forgotten; and though his literary fitness had been undisputed,

his lengthened want of success in life seemed to imply a doubt of his

general steadiness. Mr Constable, his former publisher, proved the most

friendly; he consented to publish a collection of songs and ballads,

which he had prepared, two-thirds being his own composition, and the

remainder that of his ingenious friends. This publication, known as "The

Forest Minstrel," had a slow sale, and conferred no benefit on the

unfortunate author. What the booksellers would not do for him, Hogg

resolved to do for himself; he originated a periodical, which he

designated "The Spy," acting as his own publisher. The first number of

this publication--a quarto weekly sheet, price fourpence--was issued on

the first of September 1810. With varied popularity, this paper existed

during the space of a year; and owing to the perseverance of the

conductor might have subsisted a longer period, but for a certain

ruggedness which occasionally disfigured it. As a whole, being chiefly

the composition of a shepherd, who could only read at eighteen, and

write at twenty-six, and who, to use his own words, "knew no more of

human life or manners than a child," the work presented a remarkable

record in the annals of literature. As a business concern, it did not

much avail the projector, but it served indirectly towards improving his

condition, by inducing the habit of composing readily, and with

undeviating industry. A copy of "The Spy" is now rare.

From his literary exertions, Hogg was long, subsequent to his arrival in

the metropolis, in deriving substantial pecuniary emolument. In these

circumstances, he was fortunate in the friendship of Mr John Grieve, and

his partner Mr Henry Scott, hat manufacturers in the city, who, fully

appreciating his genius, aided him with money so long as he required

their assistance. These are his own words, "They suffered me to want for

nothing, either in money or clothes, and I did not even need to ask

these." To Mr Grieve, Hogg was especially indebted; six months he was an

inmate of his house, and afterwards he occupied comfortable lodgings,

secured him by his friend's beneficence. Besides these two invaluable

benefactors, the Shepherd soon acquired the regard and friendship of

several respectable men of letters, both in Edinburgh and elsewhere. As

contributors to "The Spy," he could record the names of James Gray of

the High School, and his accomplished wife; Thomas Gillespie, afterwards

Professor of Humanity in the University of St Andrews; J. Black,

subsequently of the _Morning Chronicle_; William Gillespie, the

ingenious minister of Kells; and John Sym, the renowned Timothy Tickler

of the "_Noctes_." Of these literary friends, Mr James Gray was the more

conspicuous and devoted. This excellent individual, the friend of so

many literary aspirants, was a native of Dunse, and had the merit of

raising himself from humble circumstances to the office of a master in

the High School of Edinburgh. Possessed of elegant and refined tastes,

an enthusiastic admirer of genius, and a poet himself,[30] Mr Gray

entertained at his table the more esteemed wits of the capital; he had

extended the hand of hospitality to Burns, and he received with equal

warmth the author of "The Forest Minstrel." In the exercise of

disinterested beneficence, he was aided and encouraged by his second

wife, formerly Miss Peacock, who sympathised in the lettered tastes of

her husband, and took delight in the society of men of letters. They

together made annual pedestrian excursions into the Highlands, and the

narrative of their adventures proved a source of delightful instruction

to their friends. Mr Gray, after a lengthened period of residence in

Edinburgh, accepted, in the year 1821, the Professorship of Latin in the

Institution at Belfast; he subsequently took orders in the Church of

England, and proceeded to India as a chaplain. In addition to his

chaplaincy, he held the office of preceptor to one of the native princes

of Hindostan. He died at Bhoog, in the kingdom of Cutch, on the 25th of

September 1830; and if we add that he was a man of remarkable learning,

his elegy may be transcribed from the "Queen's Wake:"--

"Alike to him the south and north,

So high he held the minstrel worth;

So high his ardent mind was wrought,

Once of himself he never thought."

As the circle of the poet's friends increased, a scheme was originated

among them, which was especially entertained by the juniors, of

establishing a debating society for mutual improvement. This institution

became known as the Forum; meetings were held weekly in a public hall of

the city, and strangers were admitted to the discussions on the payment

of sixpence a-head. The meetings were uniformly crowded; and the

Shepherd, who held the office of secretary, made a point of taking a

prominent lead in the discussions. He spoke once, and sometimes more

frequently, at every meeting, making speeches, both studied and

extemporaneous, on every variety of theme; and especially contributed,

by his rough-spun eloquence, to the popularity of the institution. The

society existed three years; and though yielding the secretary no

pecuniary emolument, proved a new and effective mean of extending his

acquaintance with general knowledge.

Hogg now took an interest in theatricals, and produced two dramas, one

of which, a sort of musical farce, was intended as a burlesque on the

prominent members of the Forum, himself included. This he was induced,

on account of the marked personalities, to confine to his repositories;

he submitted the other to Mr Siddons, who commended it, but it never was

brought upon the stage. He was about to appear before the world in his

most happy literary effort, "The Queen's Wake,"--a composition

suggested by Mr Grieve. This ingenious individual had conceived the

opinion that a republication of several of the Shepherd's ballads in

"The Spy," in connexion with an original narrative poem, would arrest

public attention as to the author's merits; while a narrative having

reference to the landing of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen Mary,

seemed admirably calculated to induce a general interest in the poem.

The proposal, submitted to Allan Cunningham and Mr Gray, received their

warm approbation; and in a few months the entire composition was ready

for the press. Mr Constable at once consented to undertake the

publication; but a more advantageous offer being made by Mr George

Goldie, a young bookseller, "The Queen's Wake" issued from his

establishment in the spring of 1813. Its success was complete; two

editions were speedily circulated, and the fame of the author was

established. With the exception of the _Eclectic Review_, every

periodical accorded its warmest approbation to the performance; and

vacillating friends, who began to doubt the Shepherd's power of

sustaining the character he had assumed as a poet and a man of letters,

ceased to entertain their misgivings, and accorded the warmest tributes

to his genius. A commendatory article in the _Edinburgh Review_, in

November 1814, hailed the advent of a third edition.

By the unexpected insolvency of his publisher, while the third edition

was in process of sale, Hogg had nearly sustained a recurrence of

pecuniary loss. This was, however, fortunately prevented by the

considerate beneficence of Mr Goldie's trustees, who, on receiving

payment of the printing expenses, made over the remainder of the

impression to the author. One of the trustees was Mr Blackwood,

afterwards the celebrated publisher of _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_.

Hogg had now attained the unenviable reputation of a literary prodigy,

and his studies were subject to constant interruption from admirers, and

the curious who visited the capital. But he gave all a cordial

reception, and was never less accessible amidst the most arduous

literary occupation. There was one individual whose acquaintance he was

especially desirous of forming; this was John Wilson, whose poem, "The

Isle of Palms," published in 1812, had particularly arrested his

admiration. Wilson had come to reside in Edinburgh during a portion of

the year, but as yet had few acquaintances in the city. He was slightly

known to Scott; but a peculiarity of his was a hesitation in granting

letters of introduction. In despair of otherwise meeting him, Hogg, who

had reviewed his poem in the _Scots Magazine_, sent him an invitation to

dinner, which the Lake-poet was pleased cordially to accept. That dinner

began one of the most interesting of the Shepherd's friendships; both

the poets were pleased with each other, and the closest intimacy ensued.

It was on his way to visit Wilson, at Elleray, his seat in Cumberland,

during the autumn of 1814, that the Shepherd formed the acquaintance of

the Poet-laureate. He had notified to Southey his arrival at one of the

hotels in Keswick, and begged the privilege of a visit. Southey promptly

acknowledged his summons, and insisted on his remaining a couple of days

at Greta Hall to share his hospitality. Two years could not have more

firmly rivetted their friendship. As a mark of his regard, on returning

to Edinburgh Hogg sent the Laureate the third edition of "The Queen's

Wake," then newly published, along with a copy of "The Spy." In

acknowledging the receipt of these volumes, Southey addressed the

following letter to the Shepherd, which is now for the first time

published:--

"Keswick, _December 1, 1814._

"Dear Hogg,--Thank you for your books. I will not say

that 'The Queen's Wake' has exceeded my expectations,

because I have ever expected great things from you,

since, in 1805, I heard Walter Scott, by his own

fireside at Ashestiel, repeat 'Gilmanscleuch.'[31] When

he came to that line--'I ga'e him a' my goud,

father'--the look and the tone with which he gave it

were not needed to make it go through me. But 'The

Wake' has equalled all that I expected. The

improvements in the new edition are very great, and

they are in the two poems which were most deserving of

improvement, as being the most impressive and the most

original. Each is excellent in its way, but 'Kilmeny'

is of the highest character; 'The Witch of Fife' is a

real work of fancy--'Kilmeny' a fine one of

imagination, which is a higher and rarer gift. These

poems have given general pleasure throughout the house;

my eldest girl often comes out with a stanza or two of

'The Witch,' but she wishes sometimes that you always

wrote in English. 'The Spy' I shall go through more at

leisure.

"I like your praise both of myself and my poem, because

it comes from a good quarter. You saw me where and how

a man is best seen--at home, and in his every-day wear

and tear, mind and manners: I have no holiday suit, and

never seek to shine: such as it is, my light is always

burning. Somewhat of my character you may find in

Chaucer's Clerk of Oxenford; and the concluding line of

that description might be written, as the fittest

motto, under my portrait--'Gladly would he learn, and

gladly teach.' I have sinned enough to make me humble

in myself, and indulgent toward others. I have suffered

enough to find in religion not merely consolation, but

hope and joy; and I have seen enough to be contented

in, and thankful for, the state of life in which it has

pleased God to place me.

"We hoped to have seen you on your way back from

Ellery. I believe you did not get the ballad of the

'Devil and the Bishop,' which Hartley transcribed for

you. I am reprinting my miscellaneous poems, collected

into three volumes. Your projected publication[32] will

have the start of it greatly, for the first volume is

not nearly through the press, and there is a corrected

copy of the ballad, with its introduction, in

Ballantyne's hands, which you can make use of before it

will be wanted in its place.

"You ask me why I am not intimate with Wilson. There is

a sufficient reason in the distance between our

respective abodes. I seldom go even to Wordworth's or

Lloyd's; and Ellery is far enough from either of their

houses, to make a visit the main business of a day. So

it happens that except dining in his company once at

Lloyd's many years ago, and breakfasting with him here

not long afterwards, I have barely exchanged

salutations once or twice when we met upon the road.

Perhaps, however, I might have sought him had it not

been for his passion for cock-fighting. But this is a

thing which I regard with abhorrence.

"Would that 'Roderick' were in your hands for

reviewing; I should desire no fairer nor more competent

critic. But it is of little consequence what friends or

enemies may do for it now; it will find its due place

in time, which is slow but sure in its decisions. From

the nature of my studies, I may almost be said to live

in the past; it is to the future that I look for my

reward, and it would be difficult to make any person

who is not thoroughly intimate with me, understand how

completely indifferent I am to the praise or censure of

the present generation, farther than as it may affect

my means of subsistence, which, thank God, it can no

longer essentially do. There was a time when I was

materially injured by unjust criticism; but even then I

despised it, from a confidence in myself, and a natural

buoyancy of spirit. It cannot injure me now, but I

cannot hold it in more thorough contempt.

"Come and visit me when the warm weather returns. You

can go nowhere that you will be more sincerely

welcomed. And may God bless you.

"Robert Southey."

In waging war with the Lake school of poetry, the _Edinburgh Review_ had

dealt harshly with Southey. His poems of "Madoc" and "The Curse of

Kehama" had been rigorously censured, and very shortly before the

appearance of "Roderick," his "Triumphal Ode" for 1814, which was

published separately, had been assailed with a continuance of the same

unmitigated severity. The Shepherd, who knew, notwithstanding the

Laureate's professions of indifference to criticism, that his nature was

sensitive, and who feared that the _Review_ would treat "Roderick" as it

had done Southey's previous productions, ventured to recommend him to

evince a less avowed hostility to Jeffrey, in the hope of subduing the

bitterness of his censure. The letter of Southey, in answer to this

counsel, will prove interesting, in connexion with the literary history

of the period. The Bard of Keswick had hardly advanced to that happy

condition which he fancied he had reached, of being "indulgent toward

others," at least under the influence of strong provocation:--

"Keswick, _24th Dec. 1814._

"Dear Hogg,--I am truly obliged to you for the

solicitude which you express concerning the treatment

'Roderick' may experience in the _Edinburgh Review_,

and truly gratified by it, notwithstanding my perfect

indifference as to the object in question. But you

little know me, if you imagine that any thoughts of

fear or favour would make me abstain from speaking

publicly of Jeffrey as I think, and as he deserves. I

despise his commendation, and I defy his malice. _He_

crush the 'Excursion!!!'[33] Tell him that he might as

easily crush Skiddaw. For myself, _popularity_ is not

the mark I shoot at; if it were, I should not write

such poems as 'Roderick;' and Jeffrey can no more stand

in my way to _fame_, than Tom Thumb could stand in my

way in the street.

"He knows that he has dealt unfairly and maliciously by

me; he knows that the world knows it, that his very

friends know it, and that if he attacks 'Roderick' as

he did 'Madoc' and 'Kehama,' it will be universally

imputed to personal ill-will. On the other hand, he

cannot commend this poem without the most flagrant

inconsistency. This would be confessing that he has

wronged me in the former instances; for no man will

pretend to say that 'Madoc' does not bear marks of the

same hand as 'Roderick;' it has the same character of

language, thought, and feeling; it is of the same ore

and mint; and if the one poem be bad, the other cannot

possibly be otherwise. The irritation of the _nettling_

(as you term it), which he has already received [a

portion of the letter is torn off and lost]....

Whatever part he may take, my conduct towards him will

be the same. I consider him a public nuisance, and

shall deal with him accordingly.

"Nettling is a gentle term for what he has to undergo.

In due season he shall be _scorpioned_ and

_rattlesnaked_. When I take him in hand it shall be to

dissect him alive, and make a preparation of him to be

exhibited _in terrorem_, an example to all future

pretenders to criticism. He has a forehead of native

brass, and I will write upon it with aqua-fortis. I

will serve him up to the public like a turkey's

gizzard, sliced, scored, peppered, salted, cayanned,

grilled, and bedevilled. I will bring him to justice;

he shall be executed in prose, and gibbeted in

verse....[34]

.... "'Roderick' has made good speed in the world, and

ere long I shall send you the poem in a more commodious

shape,[35] for Ballantyne is at this time reprinting

it. I finished my official ode a few days ago. It is

without rhyme, and as unlike other official odes in

matter as in form; for its object is to recommend, as

the two great objects of policy, general education and

extensive colonization. At present, I am chiefly

occupied upon 'The History of Brazil,' which is in the

press--a work of great labour.

"The ladies here all desire to be kindly remembered to

you. I have ordered 'The Pilgrims of the Sun,' and we

look for it with expectation, which, I am sure, will

not be disappointed. God bless you.--Yours very truly,

"Robert Southey."

A review of "Roderick" appeared in the _Edinburgh Review_ for June 1815,

which on the whole was favourable, so that the wrath of the Laureate was

appeased.

During the earlier period of his Edinburgh career, Hogg had formed the

acquaintance of an estimable family in Athol, Mr and Mrs Izett, of

Kinnaird House, and he had been in the habit of spending a portion of

his time every summer at their hospitable residence. In the summer of

1814, while visiting there, he was seized with a severe cold, which

compelled him to prolong his stay with his friends; and Mrs Izett, who

took a warm interest in his welfare, suggested that he might turn his

illness to account, by composing a poem, descriptive of the beauties of

the surrounding scenery. The hint was sufficient; he commenced a

descriptive poem in the Spenserian stanza, which was speedily completed,

and given to the world under the title of "Mador of the Moor." It was

well received; and the author is correct in asserting that it contains

"some of his highest and most fortunate efforts in rhyme." "The

Pilgrims of the Sun" was his next poem; it was originally intended as

one of a series, to be contained in a poetical work, which he proposed

to entitle "Midsummer Night Dreams," but which, on the advice of his

friend, Mr James Park of Greenock, he was induced to abandon. From its

peculiar strain, this poem had some difficulty in finding a publisher;

it was ultimately published by Mr John Murray of London, who liberally

recompensed the author, and it was well received by the press.

The circle of the Shepherd's literary friends rapidly extended. Lord

Byron opened a correspondence with him, and continued to address him in

long familiar letters, such as were likely to interest a shepherd-bard.

Unfortunately, these letters have been lost; it was a peculiarity of

Hogg to be careless in regard to his correspondence. With Wordsworth he

became acquainted in the summer of 1815, when that poet was on his first

visit to Edinburgh. They met at the house, in Queen Street, of the

mother of his friend Wilson; and the Shepherd was at once interested and

gratified by the intelligent conversation and agreeable manners of the

great Lake-poet. They saw much of each other in the city, and afterwards

journeyed together to St Mary's Loch; and the Shepherd had the

satisfaction of entertaining his distinguished brother-bard with the

homely fare of cakes and milk, in his father's cottage at Ettrick.

Wordsworth afterwards made the journey memorable in his poem of "Yarrow

Visited." The poets temporarily separated at Selkirk,--Wordsworth having

secured the promise of a visit from his friend, at Mount Ryedale, prior

to his return to Edinburgh. The promise was duly fulfilled; and the

Shepherd had the pleasure of meeting, during his visit, Lloyd, and De

Quincey, and his dear friend Wilson. A portion of the autumn of 1815 was

spent by the Shepherd at Elleray. In the letter inviting his visit

(dated September 1815), the author of "The Isle of Palms" indicates his

opinion of the literary influence of his correspondent, by writing as

follows:--"If you have occasion soon to write to Murray,[36] pray

introduce something about 'The City of the Plague,' as I shall probably

offer him that poem in about a fortnight, or sooner. Of course, I do not

_wish_ you to say that the poem is utterly worthless. I think that a

bold eulogy from you (if administered immediately), would be of service

to me; but if you do write about it, do not tell him that I have any

intention of offering it to him, but you may say, you hear I am going to

offer it to a London bookseller."

The Shepherd's intimacy with the poets had induced him to entertain a

somewhat plausible scheme of bettering his finances. He proposed to

publish, in a handsome volume, a poem by each of the living bards of

Great Britain. For this purpose, he had secured pieces from Southey,

Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and some others;

and had received promises of contributions from Lord Byron and Samuel

Rogers. The plan was frustrated by Scott. He was opposed to his

appearing to seek fresh laurels from the labours of others, and

positively refused to make a contribution. This sadly mortified the

Shepherd,[37] and entirely altered his plans. He had now recourse to a

peculiar method of realising his original intention. In the short period

of four weeks, he produced imitations of the more conspicuous bards,

which speedily appeared in a volume entitled "The Poetic Mirror." This

work, singularly illustrative of the versatility of his genius, was

eminently successful, the first edition disappearing in the course of

six weeks. The imitations of the bards were pronounced perfect, only

that of Wordsworth was intentionally a caricature; the Shepherd had been

provoked to it by a conceived slight of the Lake-poet, during his visit

at Mount Ryedale.[38]

"The Poetic Mirror" appeared in 1816; and in the following year the

Shepherd struck out a new path, by publishing two duodecimo volumes of

"Dramatic Tales." This work proved unsuccessful. In 1813 he had

dedicated his "Forest Minstrel" to the Countess of Dalkeith; and this

amiable and excellent woman, afterwards better known as Harriet, Duchess

of Buccleuch, had acknowledged the compliment by a gift of a hundred

guineas, and several other donations. The Shepherd was, however,

desirous of procuring the means of comfortable self-support,

independently of his literary exertions; and had modestly preferred the

request that he might receive a small farm in lease on the Buccleuch

estates. The request was at length responded to. The Duchess, who took a

deep interest in him, made a request to the Duke, on her death-bed, that

something might be done for her ingenious protégé. After her decease,

the late Charles, Duke of Buccleuch, gave the Shepherd a life-lease of

the farm of Altrive Lake, in Yarrow, at a nominal rent, no portion of

which was ever exacted. The Duke subsequently honoured him with his

personal friendship, and made him frequently share of his hospitality.

From the time of his abandoning "The Spy," Hogg had contemplated the

publication of a periodical on an extended scale. At length, finding a

coadjutor in Mr Thomas Pringle, he explained their united proposal to

his friend, Mr Blackwood, the publisher, who highly approved of the

design. Preliminaries were arranged, and the afterwards celebrated

_Blackwood's Magazine_ took its origin. Hogg was now resident at

Altrive, and the editorship was entrusted to Pringle and his literary

friend Cleghorn. The vessel had scarcely been well launched, however, on

the ocean of letters, when storms arose a-head; hot disputes occurred

between the publisher and the editors, which ultimately terminated in

the withdrawal of the latter from the concern, and their connexion with

the _Edinburgh Magazine_, an opposition periodical established by Mr

Constable. The combating parties had referred to the Shepherd, who was

led to accord his support to Mr Blackwood. He conceived the idea of the

"Chaldee Manuscript," as a means of ridiculing the oppositionists. Of

this famous satire, the first thirty-seven verses of chapter first, with

several other sentences throughout, were his own composition, the

remaining portion being the joint fabrication of his friends Wilson and

Lockhart.[39] This singular production produced a sensation in the

capital unequalled in the history of any other literary performance; and

though, from the evident personalities and the keenness of the satire,

it had to be cancelled, so that a copy in the pages of the magazine is

now a rarity, it sufficiently attained the purpose of directing public

attention to the newly-established periodical. The "Chaldee Manuscript"

appeared in the seventh number of _Blackwood's Magazine_, published in

October 1817. To the magazine Hogg continued to be a regular

contributor; and, among other interesting compositions, both in prose

and verse, he produced in its pages his narrative of the "Shepherd's

Calendar." His connexion with this popular periodical is more generally

known from the position assigned him in the "_Noctes Ambrosianæ_" of

Professor Wilson. In those interesting dialogues, the _Shepherd_ is

represented as a character of marvellous shrewdness and sagacity, whose

observations on men and manners, life and literature, uttered, as they

are, in the homeliest phrases, contain a depth of philosophy and vigour

of criticism rarely exhibited in the history of real or fictitious

biography. "In wisdom," writes Professor Ferrier, "the Shepherd equals

the Socrates of Plato; in humour, he surpasses the Falstaff of

Shakspeare; clear and prompt, he might have stood up against Dr Johnson

in close and peremptory argument; fertile and copious, he might have

rivalled Burke in amplitude of declamation; while his opulent

imagination and powers of comical description invest all that he utters,

either with a picturesque mildness or a graphic quaintness peculiarly

his own." These remarks, applicable to the Shepherd of the "_Noctes_,"

would, indeed, be much overstrained if applied to their prototype; yet

it is equally certain that the leading features of the ideal Shepherd

were depicted from those of the living Shepherd of Ettrick, by one who

knew well how to estimate and appreciate human nature.

On taking possession of his farm of Altrive Lake, which extended to

about seventy acres, Hogg built a small cottage on the place, in which

he received his aged father, his mother having been previously called to

her rest. In the stocking of the farm, he received very considerable

assistance from the profits of a guinea edition of "The Queen's Wake,"

of which the subscribers' list was zealously promoted by Sir Walter

Scott. At Altrive he continued literary composition with unabated

ardour. In 1817, he published "The Brownie of Bodsbeck," a tale of the

period of the Covenant, which attained a considerable measure of

popularity. In 1819, he gave to the world the first volume of his

"Jacobite Relics," the second volume not appearing till 1821. This work,

which bears evidence of extensive labour and research, was favourably

received; the notes are lengthy and copious, and many of the pieces,

which are set to music, have long been popular. His "Winter Evening

Tales" appeared in 1820: several of them were composed on the hills in

early life.

The worldly circumstances of the Shepherd now were such as rendered him

abundantly justifiable in entering into the married state. On the 28th

April 1820, he espoused Miss Margaret Phillips, the youngest daughter of

Mr Phillips, late of Longbridgemoor, in Annandale. By this union he

became brother-in-law of his friend Mr James Gray, whose first wife was

a sister of Mrs Hogg. At the period of his marriage, from the profits of

his writings and his wife's dowry, he was master of nearly a thousand

pounds and a well-stocked farm; and increasing annual gains by his

writings, seemed to augur future independence. But the Shepherd, not

perceiving that literature was his forte, resolved to embark further in

farming speculations; he took in lease the extensive farm of Mount

Benger, adjoining Altrive Lake, expending his entire capital in the

stocking. The adventure proved almost ruinous.

The coronation of George IV. was fixed to take place on the 19th of

July 1821; and Sir Walter Scott having resolved to be among the

spectators, invited the Shepherd to accompany him to London on the

occasion. Through Lord Sidmouth, the Secretary of State, he had procured

accommodation for Hogg at the pageant, which his lordship had granted,

with the additional favour of inviting both of them to dinner, to meet

the Duke of York on the following day. The Shepherd had, however, begun

to feel more enthusiastic as a farmer than a poet, and preferred to

attend the sheep-market at St Boswells. For this seeming lack of

loyalty, he afterwards made ample compensation; he celebrated the King's

visit to Scotland, in August 1822, in "a Masque or Drama," which was

published in a separate form. A copy of this production being laid

before the King by Sir Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, then Secretary of

State, received his Majesty's gracious command suitably to acknowledge

it. In his official communication, Sir Robert thanked the Shepherd, in

the King's name, "for the gratifying proof of his genius and loyalty."

It had been Scott's desire to obtain a Civil List pension for the

Shepherd, to aid him in his struggles at Mount Benger; and it was with

something like hope that he informed him that Sir Robert Peel had

expressed himself pleased with his writings. But the pension was never

obtained.

Harassed by pecuniary difficulties, Hogg wrote rapidly, with the view of

relieving himself. In 1822, he published a new edition of his best

poems, in four volumes, for which he received the sum of £200; and in

this and the following year, he produced two works of fiction, entitled,

"The Three Perils of Man," and "The Three Perils of Women," which

together yielded him £300. In 1824, he published "The Confessions of a

Fanatic;" and, in 1826, he gave to the world his long narrative poem of

"Queen Hynde." The last proved unequal to his former poetical efforts.

In 1826, Mr J. G. Lockhart proceeded to London to edit the _Quarterly

Review_, taking along with him, as his assistant, Robert Hogg, a son of

the Shepherd's elder brother. The occasion afforded the poet an

opportunity of renewing his correspondence with his old friend, Allan

Cunningham. Allan wrote to him as follows:--

"27 Lower Belgrave Place, _16th Feb. 1826._

"My dear James,--It required neither present of book,

nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render

your letter a most welcome one. You are often present

to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your

friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your

nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man,

and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as

yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you,

carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast

of genius about her. One of your very happiest little

things is in the Souvenir of this season--it is pure

and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in

the language to compare to it, save everybody's

'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been

equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which

are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it--where

fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are

unrivalled.

"Often do I tread back to the foot of old

Queensberry,[40] and meet you coming down amid the

sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little

sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my

sight--your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my

feet--the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for

the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as

it really was--poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk,

and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to

Thornhill, and there whilst the glass goes round, and

lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on

verse, and still our speech is song. Poetry had then a

charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can

now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me;

yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest

aspirations, and contents itself with purifying and

completing the conceptions of early years.

"We are both a little older and a little graver than we

were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and

joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the

same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh--at least

so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might

admonish me of change--of loss of bloom, and abatement

of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier; he

is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by

Cæsar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School,

and are distinguished in their classes; they climb to

the head, and keep their places. The other three are at

their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity

for mirth and mischief.

"I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to

remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the

spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed

into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own

reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile,

and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and

the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by

gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six

children fed now like the prophet Elijah--they are more

likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I

cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I

sing. So farewell to song for a season.

"My brother's[41] want of success has surprised me too.

He had a fair share of talent; and, had he cultivated

his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his

fate would have been different. But he sees nature

rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful

eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise

of those who love singular and curious things. I have

said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might

have said much, for we hear her household prudence and

her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my

own dear country--a good assurance of a capital wife

and an affectionate mother. My wife and I send her and

you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in

London during the summer.

"You have written much, but you must write more yet.

What say you to a series of poems in your own original

way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition,

but purified from its grossness by your own genius and

taste? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and

commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a

yearly pastoral _Gazette_ in prose and verse for our

_ain_ native Lowlands. The thing would take.

"The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like

an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now what

it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue

in every town--let it lay out its money in purchasing

an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Wellington,

and money could never be laid out more worthily.--I

remain, dear James, your very faithful friend,

"Allan Cunningham."

One of the parties chiefly aggrieved in the matter of the Chaldee MS.

was Thomas Pringle, one of the original editors of _Blackwood_. This

ingenious person had lately returned from a period of residence in

Southern Africa, and established himself in London as secretary to the

Slave Abolition Society, and a man of letters. Forgetting past

differences, he invited the Shepherd, in the following letter, to aid

him in certain literary enterprises:--

"London, _May 19, 1827._

"My dear Sir,--I wrote you a hasty note some time ago,

to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of

Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other

friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly

publication, something in the shape of the _Literary

Gazette_, to be entitled _The London Review_. The

editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume

of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a

young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name

has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public,

though he has been a contributor to several of the

first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the

work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The

editors, knowing that I have the pleasure of your

acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to

their work, either in verse or prose, and they will

consider themselves pledged to pay for any

contributions with which you may honour them at the

same rate as _Blackwood_. May I hope, my dear sir, that

you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them

something for their first number, which is to appear in

the beginning of June....

"I always read your '_Noctes_,' and have had many a

hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern

Africa; for though I detest _Blackwood's_ politics, and

regret to see often such fine talents so sadly

misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never

permitted my own political predilections, far less any

reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to

the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and

beautifies so many delightful articles in that

magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very

truly,

"Tho. Pringle."

A similar request for contributions was made the year following by

William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary

style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of

the Society of Friends.

"Nottingham, _12th mo., 20th, 1828._

"Respected Friend,--Herewith I forward, for thy

acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony

of the high estimation in which we have long held thy

writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my

wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on

foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that

nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance

prevented us.

"I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the

Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to

furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put

him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he

may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a

notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons,

and the beautiful in scenery,--of all that is pleasant

in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I

hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a

little time, both a pleasant and original volume, and

one which may do its mite towards strengthening and

diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so

desirable in a great commercial country like this,

where our manufacturing population are daily spreading

over its face, and cut off themselves from the

animating and heart-preserving influence of

nature,--are also swallowing up our forests and heaths,

those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which

have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our

noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold

and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may

wander, without being continually offended and

obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable

factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores

of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of

anything characteristic of the seasons, in

_mountainous_ scenery especially, I shall regard them

as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether

any particular customs or festivities are kept up in

the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time,

as were wont of old all over England; and where is

there a man who could solve such a problem like

thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my

request; but as my object is to promote the love of

nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more

influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to

have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have

it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists;

being more desirous to give to others that ardent

attachment to the beauties of the country that has

clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which

all our real poets are so distinguished, than to

realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me

about your country life, or the impression which the

scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different

seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should

be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems

of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable

or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of

presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary

requests me to present to thee her respectful regards;

and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect,

thy friend,

"W. Howitt."

In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount

Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever

ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the

report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to

literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of

"Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter,

intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his

contendings with adversity:--

"Devongrove, _27th June 1829._

"My dear Friend James Hogg,--I have never seen, spoken,

whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's

visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and

inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath.

How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been

going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to

another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the

chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down

from one degree of poetical extenuation to another,

till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of

literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and

compare you as you are now with what you were in your

'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very

fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you

indeed, at times, in the _Literary Journal_; I see you

in _Blackwood_, fighting, and reaping a harvest of

beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John

Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I

see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you

in the looking-glass of my own facetious and

song-recalling memory--but I should wish to see you in

the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your

own person, standing before me in my own house, at my

own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical

radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear

Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may

tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by

the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of

the Shakspeare cellars[42]--but you may rest yourself

under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space,

and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it

is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me,

will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.

"To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take

a trip up this way some time during the summer. I

understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that

thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write

me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again

to see your fist at least, though the Fates should

forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you

would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa

friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have

in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me

now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be,

ever most sincerely yours,

"Wm. Tennant."

The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns,

published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet

Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his songs,

which received a wide circulation. On account of some unfortunate

difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to

London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication

of his whole works. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his

fame; he was courted with avidity by all the literary circles, and fêted

at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two

hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of

letters, was given him in Freemasons' Hall, on the anniversary of the

birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John

Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns

on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl

of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its present owner, Mr

Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a publisher for his

works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising bookseller in

Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of

March 1832, under the designation of the "Altrive Tales." By the

unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that

the unfortunate Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from a three

months' residence in London.

Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour; and, though

his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private

subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed

vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an

author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and

morals, under the title of "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good

Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James

Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number of _Blackwood's Magazine_

for 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated

"_Noctes_," which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing

to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subject we are

privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by

Professor Wilson:--

"_30th April._

"My dear Mr Hogg,--After frequent reflection on the

estrangement that has so long subsisted between those

who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced

that _I_ ought to put an end to it on my own

responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you

or Mr Blackwood, I have written a '_Noctes_,' in which

my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I

have done right. I intend to write six within the year;

and it is just, and no more than just, that you should

receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for

No. I. of the new series.

"If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which

at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters

to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the

Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your

opinions and sentiments on all things, _angling_,

shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic

style, it will be easy for you to add £50 per annum to

the £50 which you will receive for your '_Noctes_.' I

hope you will do so.

"I have taken upon myself a responsibility which

nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced

me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my

motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in

the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it;

and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent

anything happening that can be disagreeable to your

feelings.--With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I

am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,

"John Wilson."

During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he

accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public

dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both

of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles,

the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of

his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the

hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so

many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could

exclaim that surely he had found it at last!

The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and

well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety,

as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London,

a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom

complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world

evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in

three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be

his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and,

though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in

the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman.

He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length

obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks,

he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William

Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he

had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill."

The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.

The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the

district. Of his literary friends--owing to the remoteness of the

locality--Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the

grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his

tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the

exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive

more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with

Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the

first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen

appeared in the _Athenæum_ of the 12th of December:--

"When first descending from the moorlands,

I saw the stream of Yarrow glide,

Along a bare and open valley,

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

"When last along its banks I wander'd,

Through groves that had begun to shed

Their golden leaves upon the pathway,

My steps the Border Minstrel led.

"The mighty minstrel breathes no longer,

'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;

And death, upon the braes of Yarrow,

Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.

* * * * *

"No more of old romantic sorrows,

For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid,

With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,

And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"

Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his

birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of

Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory has been erected

by his widow. "When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Riddell,

"pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the

nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the

yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to

welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land,

many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains

of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. And a verse of one of the songs of his early

days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified,

when he says--

'Flow, my Ettrick! it was thee

Into my life that first did drop me;

Thee I 'll sing, and when I dee,

Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me.

Pausing swains will say, and weep,

Here our Shepherd lies asleep.'"

As formerly described, Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking and

well-formed. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features.

His countenance[43] presented the peculiarity of a straight cheekbone;

his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its

vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with

gray. He was rather above the middle height, and was well-built; his

chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well-rounded. He

disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he

wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles

of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its

ways; in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral

character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language, from

the honesty of the narrator; never before did man of letters so minutely

reveal the history of his foibles and failings. He was entirely

unselfish and thoroughly benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of

shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way.

Towards his aged parents his filial affection was of the most devoted

kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly

welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man

of letters in the land.[44] Fond of conviviality, he loved the

intercourse of congenial minds; the voice of friendship was always more

precious to him than the claims of business. He was somewhat expert in

conversation; he talked Scotch on account of long habit, and because it

was familiar to him. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved

to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the

enthusiasm with which he sung amply compensated for the somewhat

discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event

to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education; and he built

a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit

of the children of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he

was in the present a devoted loyalist, and strongly maintained that the

stability of the state was bound up in the support of the monarchy; he

had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and

apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly

conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in

his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in

the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or

indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the

sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit,

he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of

his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These

prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language

of fervency and faith. From the strict rules of morality he may have

sometimes deviated, but it would be the worst exercise of

uncharitableness to doubt of his repentance.

It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the envenomed shafts of

calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much

has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple

nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of

the principles of his life. He has been broadly accused[45] of doing an

injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was one of his best

benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was

incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact?

Hogg strained his utmost effort to do honour to the dust of his

illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume,

and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy:--"He had

a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously

kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a

just judge, and a punctual correspondent.... Such is the man we have

lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an

extraordinary man,--the greatest man in the world."[46] Was ever more

panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his

recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger

biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and

the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a

genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions

of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and

Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his

resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was

somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of

such achievements?

Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most

distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in

the region of the imagination he stands supreme. A child of the forest,

nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his

strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the

mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled

with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were

calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor

Wilson,[47] "he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the

brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and

faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human

affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities

that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the

mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales

where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of

fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of

phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier

reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly

shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he

revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faëry:

the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the

potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius.

His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a

poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard

conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer, or

more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another

ballad in "The Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and

terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to

be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the

Sun." His ballads, generally in his peculiar vein of the romantic and

supernatural, are all indicative of power; his songs are exquisitely

sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though

he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's

Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Scottish song

had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high; many

of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are too

frequently disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral

experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers

and admirers while a love for rural habits, and the amusing arts of

pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.

Of the Shepherd it has been recorded by one[48] who knew him well, that

at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who

had ever attained his age; he was possessed of a buoyancy which

misfortune might temporarily depress, but could not subdue. To the close

of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and field exercises of his

youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running,

been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in

his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish

games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he was famous alike on the moor and

by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills;

and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny

brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with

enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into

the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his

worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one

who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable

man that ever wore the _maud_ of a Shepherd."[49]

Hogg left some MSS. which are still unpublished,--the journals of his

Highland tours being in the possession of Mr Peter Cunningham of London.

Since his death, a uniform edition of many of his best works,

illustrated with engravings from sketches by Mr D. O. Hill, has been

published, with the concurrence of the family, by the Messrs Blackie of

Glasgow, in eleven volumes duodecimo. A Memoir, undertaken for that

edition by the late Professor Wilson, was indefinitely postponed. A

pension on the Civil List of £50 was conferred by the Queen on Mrs Hogg,

the poet's widow, in October 1853; and since her husband's death, she

has received an annuity of £40 from the Duke of Buccleuch. Of a family

of five, one son and three daughters survive, some of whom are

comfortably settled in life.

[28] The Shepherd entertained the belief that he was born on the 25th of

January 1772.

[29] Mr Macturk is well remembered in Dumfriesshire as a person of

remarkable shrewdness and unbounded generosity.

[30] Mr Gray was the author of "Cona, or the Vale of Clywyd," "A Sabbath

among the Mountains," and other poems.

[31] The ballad of "Gilmanscleuch" appeared in "The Mountain Bard." See

"The Ettrick Shepherd's Poems," vol. ii., p. 203. Blackie and Son.

[32] "The Poetic Mirror," for which the Shepherd had begun to collect

contributions.

[33] Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth's "Excursion" in the _Edinburgh Review_

for November 1814, and certainly had never used more declamatory

language against any poem.

[34] In a letter to Mr Grosvenor C. Bedford, dated Keswick, December 22,

1814, Southey thus writes:--"Had you not better wait for Jeffrey's

attack upon 'Roderick.' I have a most curious letter upon this subject

from Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a worthy fellow, and a man of very

extraordinary powers. Living in Edinburgh, he thinks Jeffrey the

greatest man in the world--an intellectual Bonaparte, whom nobody and

nothing can resist. But Hogg, notwithstanding this, has fallen in liking

with me, and is a great admirer of 'Roderick.' And this letter is to

request that I will not do anything to _nettle_ Jeffrey while he is

deliberating concerning 'Roderick,' for he seems favourably disposed

towards me! Morbleu! it is a rich letter! Hogg requested that he himself

might review it, and gives me an extract from Jeffrey's answer, refusing

him. 'I have, as well as you, a great respect for Southey,' he says,

'but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his

neighbour Wordsworth.' But he shall be happy to talk to Hogg upon this

and other _kindred_ subjects, and he should be very glad to give me a

lavish allowance of praise, if I would afford him occasion, &c.; but he

must do what he thinks his duty, &c.! I laugh to think of the effect my

reply will produce upon Hogg. How it will make every bristle to stand on

end like quills upon the fretful porcupine!"--_Life and Correspondence

of Robert Southey, edited by his Son_, vol. iv., p. 93. London: 6 vols.

8vo.

[35] The first edition of "Roderick" was in quarto,--a shape which the

Shepherd deemed unsuitable for poetry.

[36] Murray of Abermarle Street, the famous publisher.

[37] Hogg evinced his strong displeasure with Sir Walter for his

refusal, by writing him a declamatory letter, and withdrawing from his

society for several months. The kind inquiries which his old benefactor

had made regarding him during a severe illness, afterwards led to a

complete reconciliation,--the Shepherd apologising by letter for his

former rashness, and his illustrious friend telling him "to think no

more of the business, and come to breakfast next morning."

[38] See Hogg's autobiography, prefixed to the fifth volume of Blackie's

edition of his poems, p. 107.

[39] See the Works of Professor Wilson, edited by his Son-in-law,

Professor Ferrier, vol. i., p. xvi. Edinburgh: 1855. 8vo.

[40] When the Shepherd was tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of

Mitchel-slack, on the great hill of Queensberry, in Nithsdale, he was

visited by Allan Cunningham, then a lad of eighteen, who came to see

him, moved with admiration for his genius.--(See Memoir of Allan

Cunningham, _postea_). [Transcriber's Note: This Memoir appears in

Volume III.]

[41] Thomas Mouncey Cunningham. See _postea_.

[42] The Shakspeare Club of Alloa, which is here referred to, took its

origin early in the century--being composed of admirers of the

illustrious dramatist, and lovers of general literature in that place.

The anniversary meeting was usually held on the 23d of April, generally

supposed to be the birth-day of the poet. The Shepherd was laureate of

the club, and was present at many of the meetings. On these occasions he

shared the hospitality of Mr Alexander Bald, now of Craigward

Cottage--"the Father of the Club," and one of his own attached literary

friends. Mr Bald formed the Shepherd's acquaintance in 1803, when on a

visit to his friend Grieve, at Cacrabank. This venerable gentleman is in

possession of the original M.S. of the "Ode to the Genius of

Shakspeare," which Hogg wrote for the Alloa Club in 1815. In a letter,

addressed to Mr Bald, accompanying that composition, he wrote as

follows: "_Edin., April 23d, 1815._--Let the bust of Shakspeare be

crowned with laurel on Thursday, for I expect it will be a memorable day

for the club, as well as in the annals of literature,--for I yesterday

got the promise of being accompanied by both _Wilson_, and _Campbell_,

the bard of Hope. I must, however, remind you that it was very late, and

over a bottle, when I extracted this promise--they both appeared,

however, to swallow the proposal with great avidity, save that the

latter, in conversing about our means of conveyance, took a mortal

disgust at the word _steam_, as being a very improper agent in the

wanderings of poets. I have not seen either of them to-day, and it is

likely that they will be in very different spirits, yet I think it not

improbable that one or both of them may be induced to come." The club

did not on this occasion enjoy the society of any of the three poets.

[43] Hogg used to say that his face was "out of all rule of drawing," as

an apology for artists, who so generally failed in transferring a

correct representation of him to canvas. There were at least four

oil-paintings of the poet: the first executed by Nicholson in 1817, for

Mr Grieve; the second by Sir John Watson Gordon for Mr Blackwood; the

third by a London artist for Allan Cunningham; and the fourth by Mr

James Scott of Edinburgh, for the poet himself. The last is universally

admitted to be the most striking likeness, and, with the permission of

Mrs Hogg, it has been very successfully lithographed for the present

volume.

[44] See "Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs Grant of Laggan." 1844.

[45] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

[46] "The Domestic Memoirs and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, by

James Hogg," p. 118. Glasgow, 1834. 16mo.

[47] _Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. iv., p. 521.

[48] Mr H. S. Riddell.

[49] Mr J. G. Lockhart.

DONALD MACDONALD.

AIR--_"Woo'd, and married, and a'."_

My name it is Donald Macdonald,

I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;

I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,

Wherever my master[50] has land.

When rankit amang the blue bonnets,

Nae danger can fear me ava;

I ken that my brethren around me

Are either to conquer or fa':

Brogues an' brochin an' a',

Brochin an' brogues an' a';

An' is nae her very weel aff,

Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?

What though we befriendit young Charlie?--

To tell it I dinna think shame;

Poor lad! he cam to us but barely,

An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.

'Twas true that our reason forbade us,

But tenderness carried the day;

Had Geordie come friendless amang us,

Wi' him we had a' gane away.

Sword an' buckler an' a',

Buckler an' sword an' a';

Now for George we 'll encounter the devil,

Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!

An' O, I wad eagerly press him

The keys o' the East to retain;

For should he gie up the possession,

We 'll soon hae to force them again,

Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,

Though it were my finishing blow,

He aye may depend on Macdonald,

Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row:

Knees an' elbows an' a',

Elbows an' knees an' a';

Depend upon Donald Macdonald,

His knees an' elbows an' a'.

Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,

Auld Europe nae langer should grane;

I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him

Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane;

Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny

We 'd rattle him off frae our shore,

Or lull him asleep in a cairny,

An' sing him--"Lochaber no more!"

Stanes an' bullets an a',

Bullets an' stanes an' a';

We 'll finish the Corsican callan

Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.

For the Gordon is good in a hurry,

An' Campbell is steel to the bane,

An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,

An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;

The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,

An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;

An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald,

Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!

Brogues and brochin an' a',

Brochin an' brogues an' a';

An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,

The kilt an' the feather an' a'.

[50] This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his

lawful prince. The word "maker," which appears in former editions of the

song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd

never had the confidence to alter it.

FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL.[51]

Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,

An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea,

The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane,

The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.

She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung,

Away on the wave, like a bird of the main;

An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung,

Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,

Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,

He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;

The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,

Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim;

The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,

The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,

But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,

Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he:

The conflict is past, and our name is no more--

There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!

The target is torn from the arm of the just,

The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,

The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,

But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;

The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,

Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue,

Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud,

When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?

Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good!

The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!

[51] Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow,

junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it

was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was

so agreeably astonished--I could hardly believe my senses that I had

made so good a song without knowing it.--_Hogg._

BONNY PRINCE CHARLIE.

Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,

Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry,

Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades,

Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,

King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?

I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald;

But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry!

Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald--

For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!

Follow thee! follow thee! &c.

I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,

Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;

Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them,

These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!

Follow thee! follow thee! &c.

Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore!

Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!

Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore,

Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie!

Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?

Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!

Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,

King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?

THE SKYLARK.[52]

Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Bless'd is thy dwelling-place--

O to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and mountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place--

O to abide in the desert with thee!

[52] For the fine original air, see Purdie's "Border Garland."--_Hogg._

CALEDONIA.[53]

Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock,

Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind--

Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,

Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:

Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,

Though bleak thy dun islands appear,

Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,

That roam on these mountains so drear!

A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,

Could never thy ardour restrain;

The marshall'd array of imperial Rome

Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain!

Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,

Of genius unshackled and free,

The Muses have left all the vales of the south,

My loved Caledonia, for thee!

Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,

Where loveliness slumbers at even,

While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps,

A calm little motionless heaven!

Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,

Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave--

Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,

And the land of my forefathers' grave!

[53] An appropriate air has just been composed for this song by Mr

Walter Burns of Cupar-Fife, which has been arranged with symphonies and

accompaniments for the pianoforte by Mr Edward Salter, of St Andrews.

O, JEANIE, THERE 'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE!

AIR--_"Over the Border."_

O, my lassie, our joy to complete again,

Meet me again i' the gloamin', my dearie;

Low down in the dell let us meet again--

O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,

Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;

Love be thy sure defence,

Beauty and innocence--

O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

Sweetly blaw the haw an' the rowan tree,

Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery;

Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be--

O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary,

List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,

Then come with fairy haste,

Light foot, an' beating breast--

O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

Far, far will the bogle and brownie be,

Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it;

Kind love is the tie of our unity,

A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.

'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery,

Love gars a' Nature look bonny that 's near ye;

That makes the rose sae sweet,

Cowslip an' violet--

O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.[54]

AIR--_"Shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't."_

Come all ye jolly shepherds,

That whistle through the glen,

I 'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken:

What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?

'Tis to woo a bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame,

When the kye comes hame,

'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,

When the kye comes hame.

'Tis not beneath the coronet,

Nor canopy of state,

'Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor arbour of the great--

'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk,

In the glen without the name,

Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,

When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

There the blackbird bigs his nest

For the mate he lo'es to see,

And on the topmost bough,

O, a happy bird is he;

Where he pours his melting ditty,

And love is a' the theme,

And he 'll woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

When the blewart bears a pearl,

And the daisy turns a pea,

And the bonny lucken gowan

Has fauldit up her e'e,

Then the laverock frae the blue lift

Doops down, an' thinks nae shame

To woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

See yonder pawkie shepherd,

That lingers on the hill,

His ewes are in the fauld,

An' his lambs are lying still;

Yet he downa gang to bed,

For his heart is in a flame,

To meet his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, &c.

When the little wee bit heart

Rises high in the breast,

An' the little wee bit starn

Rises red in the east,

O there 's a joy sae dear

That the heart can hardly frame,

Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,

When the kye comes hame!

When the kye comes hame, &c.

Then since all Nature joins

In this love without alloy,

O, wha would prove a traitor

To Nature's dearest joy?

Or wha would choose a crown,

Wi' its perils and its fame,

And miss his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame?

When the kye comes hame,

When the kye comes home,

'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,

When the kye comes hame!

[54] In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose

rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common,

that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and

shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a

wedding with great glee the latter way, "When the kye come hame," when a

tailor, scratching his head, said, "It was a terrible affectit way

that!" I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.--_Hogg._

THE WOMEN FOLK.[55]

O sarely may I rue the day

I fancied first the womenkind;

For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae

Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!

They hae plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e,

An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,

But aye, for a' their witchery,

The pawky things I lo'e them still.

O, the women folk! O, the women folk!

But they hae been the wreck o' me;

O, weary fa' the women folk,

For they winna let a body be!

I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,

I 've studied them wi' a' my skill,

I 've lo'ed them better than mysel,

I 've tried again to like them ill.

Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,

To comprehend what nae man can;

When he has done what man can do,

He 'll end at last where he began.

O, the woman folk, &c.

That they hae gentle forms an' meet,

A man wi' half a look may see;

An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,

An' waving curls aboon the bree;

An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud,

An' e'en sae pauky, bright, an' rare,

Wad lure the laverock frae the clud--

But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!

O, the woman folk, &c.

Even but this night, nae farther gane,

The date is neither lost nor lang,

I tak ye witness ilka ane,

How fell they fought, and fairly dang.

Their point they 've carried right or wrang,

Without a reason, rhyme, or law,

An' forced a man to sing a sang,

That ne'er could sing a verse ava.

O, the woman folk! O, the woman folk!

But they hae been the wreck o' me;

O, weary fa' the women folk,

For they winna let a body be!

[55] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by

Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar,

whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own

favourite humorous song when forced by ladies to sing against my will,

which too frequently happens; and notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it

will never be sung by any so well again.--For the air, see the "Border

Garland."--_Hogg._

M'LEAN'S WELCOME.[56]

Come o'er the stream, Charlie,

Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;

Come o'er the stream, Charlie,

And dine with M'Lean;

And though you be weary,

We 'll make your heart cheery,

And welcome our Charlie,

And his loyal train.

We 'll bring down the track deer,

We 'll bring down the black steer,

The lamb from the braken,

And doe from the glen,

The salt sea we 'll harry,

And bring to our Charlie

The cream from the bothy

And curd from the penn.

Come o'er the stream, Charlie,

Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;

Come o'er the sea, Charlie,

And dine with M'Lean;

And you shall drink freely

The dews of Glen-sheerly,

That stream in the starlight

When kings do not ken;

And deep be your meed

Of the wine that is red,

To drink to your sire,

And his friend The M'Lean.

Come o'er the stream, Charlie,

Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;

Come o'er the stream, Charlie,

And dine with M'Lean;

If aught will invite you

Or more will delight you

'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,

All ranged on the heather,

With bonnet and feather,

Strong arms and broad claymores,

Three hundred and ten!

[56] I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in Glen-Lyon, from a

scrap of prose said to be the translation, _verbatim_, of a Gaelic song,

and to a Gaelic air, sung by one of the sweetest singers and most

accomplished and angelic beings of the human race. But, alas! earthly

happiness is not always the lot of those who, in our erring estimation,

most deserve it. She is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to

her memory. The air is arranged by Smith.--See the "Scottish

Minstrel."--_Hogg._

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.[57]

'Twas on a Monday morning,

Right early in the year,

That Charlie cam' to our town,

The young Chevalier.

An' Charlie is my darling,

My darling, my darling;

Charlie is my darling,

The young Chevalier.

As Charlie he came up the gate,

His face shone like the day;

I grat to see the lad come back

That had been lang away.

An' Charlie is my darling, &c.

Then ilka bonny lassie sang,

As to the door she ran,

Our King shall hae his ain again,

An' Charlie is the man:

For Charlie he 's my darling, &c.

Out ow'r yon moory mountain,

An' down the craggy glen,

Of naething else our lasses sing,

But Charlie an' his men.

An' Charlie he 's my darling, &c.

Our Highland hearts are true an' leal,

An' glow without a stain;

Our Highland swords are metal keen,

An' Charlie he 's our ain.

An' Charlie he 's my darling,

My darling, my darling;

Charlie he 's my darling,

The young Chevalier.

[57] Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published

in the "Jacobite Relics."--_Hogg._

LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.

AIR--_"Paddy's Wedding."_

I lately lived in quiet ease,

An' never wish'd to marry, O!

But when I saw my Peggy's face,

I felt a sad quandary, O!

Though wild as ony Athol deer,

She has trepann'd me fairly, O!

Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear

Torment me late an' early, O!

O, love, love, love!

Love is like a dizziness,

It winna let a poor body

Gang about his business!

To tell my feats this single week,

Would mak' a daft-like diary, O!

I drave my cart outow'r a dike,

My horses in a miry, O!

I wear my stockings white an' blue,

My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O!

I drill the land that I should plough,

An' plough the drills entirely, O!

O, love, love, love! &c.

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,

I rose to theek the stable, O!

I keust my coat an' plied away

As fast as I was able, O!

I wrought that morning out an' out,

As I 'd been redding fire, O!

When I had done an' look'd about,

Gude faith, it was the byre, O!

O, love, love, love! &c.

Her wily glance I 'll ne'er forget,

The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't

Has pierced me through an' through the heart,

An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't.

I tried to sing, I tried to pray,

I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't,

I tried wi' sport to drive 't away,

But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.

O, love, love, love! &c.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove,

Or how severe my pliskie, O!

I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love

Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O!

For love has raked me fore an' aft,

I scarce can lift a leggie, O!

I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,

An' soon I 'll dee for Peggy, O!

O, love, love, love!

Love is like a dizziness,

It winna let a poor body

Gang about his business!

O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.[58]

O, weel befa' the maiden gay,

In cottage, bught, or penn,

An' weel befa' the bonny May

That wons in yonder glen;

Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,

Wha 's aye kind, an' aye sae leal,

An' pure as blooming asphodel

Amang sae mony men.

O, weel befa' the bonny thing

That wons in yonder glen!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float

Along the gloaming lea;

'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note

Come pealing frae the tree;

To see the lambkins lightsome race--

The speckled kid in wanton chase--

The young deer cower in lonely place,

Deep in her flowing den;

But sweeter far the bonny face

That smiles in yonder glen!

O, had it no' been for the blush

O' maiden's virgin flame,

Dear beauty never had been known,

An' never had a name;

But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame

Was modell'd by an angel's frame,

The power o' beauty reigns supreme

O'er a' the sons o' men;

But deadliest far the sacred flame

Burns in a lonely glen!

There 's beauty in the violet's vest--

There 's hinney in the haw--

There 's dew within the rose's breast,

The sweetest o' them a'.

The sun will rise an' set again,

An' lace wi' burning goud the main--

The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,

Sae lovely to the ken;

But lovelier far the bonny thing

That wons in yonder glen!

[58] This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland,

where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system

of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged

in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day--a fair set-to

who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I

am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best

poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr

Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of

singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very

impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed

all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our

daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I

always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any

grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine

fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations,

they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to

myself, "Gude faith, it 's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went

over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn

what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had

heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.--_Hogg._

THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"The Blue Bells of Scotland."_

What are the flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel--

The lovely flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel?

The thistle's purple bonnet,

And bonny heather-bell,

O, they 're the flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel!

Though England eyes her roses

With pride she 'll ne'er forego,

The rose has oft been trodden

By foot of haughty foe;

But the thistle in her bonnet blue,

Still nods outow'r the fell,

And dares the proudest foeman

To tread the heather-bell.

For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,

Alack and well-a-day!

For ilka hand is free to pu'

An' steal the gem away.

But the thistle in her bonnet blue

Still bobs aboon them a';

At her the bravest darena blink,

Or gie his mou' a thraw.

Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,

The emblems o' the free,

Their guardians for a thousand years,

Their guardians still we 'll be.

A foe had better brave the deil,

Within his reeky cell,

Than our thistle's purple bonnet,

Or bonny heather-bell.

LASS, AN' YE LO'E ME, TELL ME NOW.[59]

"Afore the muircock begin to craw,

Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now,

The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,

For I canna come every night to woo."

"The gouden broom is bonny to see,

An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw,

The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea,

But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'."

"Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat,

Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;

It 's no the thing that I would be at,

An' I canna come every night to woo!

The lamb is bonny upon the brae,

The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe,

The bird is bonny upon the tree--

But which is the dearest of a' to you?"

"The thing that I lo'e best of a',

Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;

The dearest thing that ever I saw,

Though I canna come every night to woo,

Is the kindly smile that beams on me,

Whenever a gentle hand I press,

And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e

Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess."

"Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see,

What I lo'e best I 'll tell you now,

The compliment that ye sought frae me,

Though ye canna come every night to woo;

Yet I would rather hae frae you

A kindly look, an' a word witha',

Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',

Than a' the lads that ever I saw."

"Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine,

Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now,

Our hearts an' fortunes we 'll entwine,

An' I 'll aye come every night to woo;

For O, I canna descrive to thee

The feeling o' love's and nature's law,

How dear this world appears to me

Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!"

[59] This song was suggested to the Shepherd by the words adapted to the

formerly popular air, "Lass, gin ye lo'e me"--beginning, "I hae laid a

herring in saut."

PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS!

Here we go upon the tide,

Pull away, jolly boys!

With heaven for our guide,

Pull away!

Here 's a weather-beaten tar,

Britain's glory still his star,

He has borne her thunders far,

Pull away, jolly boys!

To your gallant men-of-war,

Pull away!

We 've with Nelson plough'd the main,

Pull away, jolly boys!

Now his signal flies again,

Pull away!

Brave hearts, then let us go

To drub the haughty foe,

Who once again shall know,

Pull away, gallant boys!

That our backs we never shew,

Pull away!

We have fought and we have sped,

Pull away, gallant boys!

Where the rolling wave was red,

Pull away!

We 've stood many a mighty shock,

Like the thunder-stricken oak,

We 've been bent, but never broke,

Pull away, gallant boys!

We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,

Pull away!

Here we go upon the deep,

Pull away, gallant boys!

O'er the ocean let us sweep,

Pull away!

Round the earth our glory rings,

At the thought my bosom springs,

That whene'er our pennant swings,

Pull away, gallant boys!

Of the ocean we 're the kings,

Pull away!

O, SAW YE THIS SWEET BONNY LASSIE O' MINE?

O, saw ye this sweet bonny lassie o' mine,

Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine;

Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?

Sure naebody e'er was so happy as me!

It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,

It 's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;

But O, it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,

That makes me as happy as happy can be.

To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,

When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;

To breathe out the soul of a saft melting kiss--

On earth here there 's naething is equal to this!

I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,

When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;

I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,

When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd:

But O, there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm

In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;

When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss--

On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this!

THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN.

Hersell pe auchty years and twa,

Te twenty-tird o' May, man;

She twell amang te Heelan hills,

Ayont the reefer Spey, man.

Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,

She first peheld te licht, man;

Tey shot my father in tat stoure--

A plaguit, vexin' spite, man.

I 've feucht in Scotland here at hame,

In France and Shermanie, man;

And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons,

Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man.

But wae licht on te nasty cun,

Tat ever she pe porn, man;

Phile koot klymore te tristle caird,

Her leaves pe never torn, man.

Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot,

Phane'er it cam my turn, man;

Put a' te force tat I could gie,

Te powter wadna purn, man.

A filty loon cam wi' his cun,

Resolvt to to me harm, man;

And wi' te tirk upon her nose,

Ke me a pluddy arm, man.

I flang my cun wi' a' my micht,

And felt his nepour teit, man;

Tan drew my swort, and at a straik

Hewt aff te haf o 's heit, man.

Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks;

My oons pe nae tiscrace, man;

Ter no pe yin pehint my back,

Ter a pefore my face, man.

AH, PEGGIE, SINCE THOU 'RT GANE AWAY![60]

Ah, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away,

An' left me here to languish,

I canna fend anither day

In sic regretfu' anguish.

My mind 's the aspen i' the vale,

In ceaseless waving motion;

'Tis like a ship without a sail,

On life's unstable ocean.

I downa bide to see the moon

Blink owre the glen sae clearly;

Aince on a bonnie face she shone--

A face that I lo'ed dearly!

An' when beside yon water clear,

At e'en I 'm lanely roaming,

I sigh an' think, if ane was here,

How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!

When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile,

Thy words sae free an' kindly,

Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,

The unbidden tear will blind me.

The rose's deepest blushing hue

Thy cheek could eithly borrow,

But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou'

Was worth a year o' sorrow.

Oh! in the slippery paths of love,

Let prudence aye direct thee;

Let virtue every step approve,

An' virtue will respect thee.

To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,

Alak! I am nae stranger;

An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang

Is best aware o' danger.

May still thy heart be kind an' true,

A' ither maids excelling;

May heaven distil its purest dew

Around thy rural dwelling.

May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing

Around thee late an' early;

An' oft to thy remembrance bring

The lad that loo'd thee dearly.

[60] This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who in

nine years afterwards became the poet's wife.

GANG TO THE BRAKENS WI' ME.

I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather,

An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,

Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither,

Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime,

Love beckons in every sweet motion,

Commanding due homage to gie;

But the shrine o' my dearest devotion

Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.

I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie

To gang to the brakens wi' me;

But though neither lordly nor saucy,

Her answer was--"Laith wad I be!

I neither hae father nor mither,

Sage counsel or caution to gie;

An' prudence has whisper'd me never

To gang to the brakens wi' thee."

"Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,

An' try your ain love to beguile?

For ye are the richest young lady

That ever gaid o'er the kirk-stile.

Your smile that is blither than ony,

The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree,

An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny,

Are five hunder thousand to me!"

She turn'd her around an' said, smiling,

While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear,

"You 're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,

For, O, you have valued it dear:

Gae make out the lease, do not linger,

Let the parson indorse the decree;

An' then, for a wave of your finger,

I 'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"

There 's joy in the bright blooming feature,

When love lurks in every young line;

There 's joy in the beauties of nature,

There 's joy in the dance and the wine:

But there 's a delight will ne'er perish,

'Mang pleasures all fleeting and vain,

And that is to love and to cherish

The fond little heart that's our ain!

LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON.

Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale,

Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on,

The Armstrongs are flying,

Their widows are crying,

The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone;

Lock the door, Lariston,--high on the weather gleam,

See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky,

Yeoman and carbineer,

Billman and halberdier;

Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.

Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar,

Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey,

Hedley and Howard there,

Wandale and Windermere,--

Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay.

Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston?

Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye?

Thou bold Border ranger

Beware of thy danger--

Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.

Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,

His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace;

"Ah, welcome, brave foemen,

On earth there are no men

More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!

Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here,

Little know you of our moss-troopers' might,

Lindhope and Sorby true,

Sundhope and Milburn too,

Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!

"I 've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby,

Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;

Come, all Northumberland,

Teesdale and Cumberland,

Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray."

Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale,

Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold;

Many a bold martial eye

Mirror'd that morning sky,

Never more oped on his orbit of gold!

Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout,

Lances and halberts in splinters were borne;

Halberd and hauberk then

Braved the claymore in vain,

Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.

See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere,

Howard--ah! woe to thy hopes of the day!

Hear the wide welkin rend,

While the Scots' shouts ascend,

"Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"

I HAE NAEBODY NOW.

I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now

To meet me upon the green,

Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,

An' joy in her deep blue e'en;

Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,

An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,

An' the wee bit tale o' news the while

That had happen'd when I was away.

I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now

To clasp to my bosom at even,

O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,

An' pray for a blessing from heaven.

An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face

In the morning, that met my eye,

Where are they now, where are they now?

In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.

There 's naebody kens, there 's naebody kens,

An' O may they never prove,

That sharpest degree o' agony

For the child o' their earthly love--

To see a flower in its vernal hour

By slow degrees decay,

Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death,

Breathe its sweet soul away.

O, dinna break, my poor auld heart!

Nor at thy loss repine,

For the unseen hand that threw the dart

Was sent frae her Father and thine;

Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,

Even till my latest day;

For though my darling can never return,

I can follow the sooner away.

THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

The moon was a-waning,

The tempest was over;

Fair was the maiden,

And fond was the lover;

But the snow was so deep,

That his heart it grew weary,

And he sunk down to sleep,

In the moorland so dreary.