consideration several curious Galloway traditions, which he had
recovered. These Sir Walter politely acknowledged, and begged the favour
of his endeavouring to procure for him some account of the present
condition of Turnberry Castle, for his poem the "Lord of the Isles,"
which he was then engaged in composing. Mr Train amply fulfilled the
request by visiting the ruined structure situated on the coast of
Ayrshire; and he thereafter transmitted to his illustrious correspondent
those particulars regarding it, and of the landing of Robert Bruce, and
the Hospital founded by that monarch, at King's Case, near Prestwick,
which are given by Sir Walter in the notes to the fifth canto of the
poem. During a succession of years he regularly transmitted legendary
tales and scraps to Sir Walter, which were turned to excellent account
by the great novelist. The fruits of his communications appear in the
"Chronicles of the Canongate," "Guy Mannering," "Old Mortality," "The
Heart of Mid Lothian," "The Fair Maid of Perth," "Peveril of the Peak,"
"Quintin Durward," "The Surgeon's Daughter," and "Redgauntlet." He
likewise supplied those materials on which Sir Walter founded his dramas
of the "Doom of Devorgoil," and "Macduff's Cross."
When Sir Walter was engaged, a few years previous to his death, in
preparing the Abbotsford or first uniform edition of his works, Mr Train
communicated for his use many additional particulars regarding a number
of the characters in the Waverley Novels, of which he had originally
introduced the prototypes to the distinguished author. His most
interesting narrative was an account of the family of Robert Paterson,
the original "Old Mortality," which is so remarkable in its nature, that
we owe no apology for introducing it. Mr Train received his information
from Robert, a son of "Old Mortality," then in his seventy-fifth year,
and residing at Dalry, in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright. According to
the testimony of this individual, his brother John sailed for America in
1774, where he made a fortune during the American War. He afterwards
settled at Baltimore, where he married, and lived in prosperous
circumstances. He had a son named Robert, after "Old Mortality," his
father, and a daughter named Elizabeth; Robert espoused an American
lady, who, surviving him, was married to the Marquis of Wellesley, and
Elizabeth became the first wife of Prince Jerome Bonaparte.[115]
On his first connexion with the Excise, Mr Train turned his attention to
the most efficient means of checking illicit distillation in the
Highlands; and an essay which he prepared, suggesting improved
legislation on the subject, was in 1815 laid before the Board of Excise
and Customs, and transmitted with their approval to the Lords of the
Treasury. His suggestions afterwards became the subject of statutory
enactment. At this period, he began a correspondence with Mr George
Chalmers, author of the "Caledonia," supplying him with much valuable
information for the third volume of that great work. He had shortly
before traced the course of an ancient wall known as the "Deil's Dyke,"
for a distance of eighty miles from the margin of Lochryan, in
Wigtonshire, to Hightae, in Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire, and an account of
this remarkable structure, together with a narrative of his discovery of
Roman remains in Wigtonshire, greatly interested his indefatigable
correspondent. In 1820, through the kindly offices of Sir Walter, he was
appointed Supervisor. In this position he was employed to officiate at
Cupar-Fife and at Kirkintilloch. He was stationed in succession at South
Queensferry, Falkirk, Wigton, Dumfries, and Castle-Douglas. From these
various districts he procured curious gleanings for Sir Walter, and
objects of antiquity for the armory at Abbotsford.
Mr Train contributed to the periodicals both in prose and verse. Many of
his compositions were published in the _Dumfries Magazine_, _Bennett's
Glasgow Magazine_, and the _Ayr Courier_ and _Dumfries Courier_
newspapers. An interesting tale from his pen, entitled "Mysie and the
Minister," appeared in the thirtieth number of _Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal_; he contributed the legend of "Sir Ulrick Macwhirter" to Mr
Robert Chambers' "Picture of Scotland," and made several gleanings in
Galloway for the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," published by the same
gentleman. He had long contemplated the publication of a description of
Galloway, and he ultimately afforded valuable assistance to the Rev.
William Mackenzie in preparing his history of that district. Mr Train
likewise rendered useful aid to several clergymen in Galloway, in
drawing up the statistical accounts of their parishes,--a service which
was suitably acknowledged by the writers.
Having obtained from Sir Walter Scott a copy of Waldron's "Description
of the Isle of Man," a very scarce and curious work, Mr Train conceived
the idea of writing a history of that island. In the course of his
researches, he accidentally discovered a M.S. volume containing one
hundred and eight acts of the Manx Legislature, prior to the accession
of the Atholl family to that kingdom. Of this acquisition he transmitted
a transcript to Sir Walter, along with several Manx traditions, as an
appropriate acknowledgment for the donation he had received. In 1845 he
published his "History of the Isle of Man," in two large octavo volumes.
His last work was a curious and interesting history of a religious sect,
well known in the south of Scotland by the name of "The Buchanites."
After a period of twenty-eight years' service in the Excise, Mr Train
had his name placed on the retired list. He continued to reside at
Castle-Douglas, in a cottage pleasantly situated on the banks of
Carlingwark Lake. To the close of his career, he experienced pleasure in
literary composition. He died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, on the 7th
December 1852. His widow, with one son and one daughter, survive. A few
months after his death, a pension of fifty pounds on the Civil List was
conferred by the Queen on his widow and daughter, "in consequence of his
personal services to literature, and the valuable aid derived by the
late Sir Walter Scott from his antiquarian and literary researches
prosecuted under Sir Walter's direction."
[114] Mr Train published, in 1806, a small volume, entitled "Poetical
Reveries."
[115] Sir Walter Scott was convinced of the accuracy of the statement,
regarding the extraordinary connexion between the Wellesley and
Bonaparte families, and deferred publishing it only to avoid giving
offence to his intimate friend, the Duke of Wellington.
MY DOGGIE.
AIR--_"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen."_
The neighbours a' they wonder how
I am sae ta'en wi' Maggie,
But ah! they little ken, I trow,
How kind she 's to my doggie.
Yestreen as we linked o'er the lea,
To meet her in the gloamin';
She fondly on my Bawtie cried,
Whene'er she saw us comin'.
But was the tyke not e'en as kind,
Though fast she beck'd to pat him;
He louped up and slaked her cheek,
Afore she could win at him.
But save us, sirs, when I gaed in,
To lean me on the settle,
Atween my Bawtie and the cat
There rose an awfu' battle.
An' though that Maggie saw him lay
His lugs in bawthron's coggie,
She wi' the besom lounged poor chit,
And syne she clapp'd my doggie.
Sae weel do I this kindness feel,
Though Mag she isna bonnie,
An' though she 's feckly twice my age,
I lo'e her best of ony.
May not this simple ditty show,
How oft affection catches,
And from what silly sources, too,
Proceed unseemly matches;
An' eke the lover he may see,
Albeit his joe seem saucy,
If she is kind unto his dog,
He 'll win at length the lassie.
BLOOMING JESSIE.
On this unfrequented plain,
What can gar thee sigh alane,
Bonnie blue-eyed lassie?
Is thy mammy dead and gane,
Or thy loving Jamie slain?
Wed anither, mak nae main,
Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Though I sob and sigh alane,
I was never wed to ane,
Quo' the blue-eyed lassie.
But if loving Jamie's slain,
Farewell pleasure, welcome pain,
A' the joy wi' him is gane
O' poor hapless Jessie.
Ere he cross'd the raging sea,
Was he ever true to thee,
Bonnie, blooming Jessie?
Was he ever frank and free?
Swore he constant aye to be?
Did he on the roseate lea
Ca' thee blooming Jessie?
Ere he cross'd the raging sea,
Aft he on the dewy lea,
Ca'd me blue-eyed lassie.
Weel I mind his words to me,
Were, if he abroad should die,
His last throb and sigh should be,
Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Far frae hame, and far frae thee,
I saw loving Jamie die,
Bonnie blue-eyed lassie.
Fast a cannon ball did flee,
Laid him stretch'd upo' the lea,
Soon in death he closed his e'e,
Crying, "Blooming Jessie."
Swelling with a smother'd sigh,
Rose the snowy bosom high
Of the blue-eyed lassie.
Fleeter than the streamers fly,
When they flit athwart the sky,
Went and came the rosy dye
On the cheeks of Jessie.
Longer wi' sic grief oppress'd
Jamie couldna sae distress'd
See the blue-eyed lassie.
Fast he clasp'd her to his breast,
Told her a' his dangers past,
Vow'd that he would wed at last
Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
OLD SCOTIA.
I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will,
Till the heart that now beats in my bosom is still.
My forefathers loved thee, for often they drew
Their dirks in defence of thy banners of blue;
Though murky thy glens, where the wolf prowl'd of yore,
And craggy thy mountains, where cataracts roar,
The race of old Albyn, when danger was nigh,
For thee stood resolved still to conquer or die.
I love yet to roam where the beacon-light rose,
Where echoed thy slogan, or gather'd thy foes,
Whilst forth rush'd thy heroic sons to the fight,
Opposing the stranger who came in his might.
I love through thy time-fretted castles to stray,
The mould'ring halls of thy chiefs to survey;
To grope through the keep, and the turret explore,
Where waved the blue flag when the battle was o'er.
I love yet to roam o'er each field of thy fame,
Where valour has gain'd thee a glorious name;
I love where the cairn or the cromlach is made,
To ponder, for low there the mighty are laid.
Were these fall'n heroes to rise from their graves,
They might deem us dastards, they might deem us slaves;
But let a foe face thee, raise fire on each hill,
Thy sons, my dear Scotia, will fight for thee still!
ROBERT JAMIESON.
An intelligent antiquary, an elegant scholar, and a respectable writer
of verses, Robert Jamieson was born in Morayshire about the year 1780.
At an early age he became classical assistant in the school of
Macclesfield in Cheshire. About the year 1800 he proceeded to the shores
of the Baltic, to occupy an appointment in the Academy of Riga. Prior to
his departure, he had formed the scheme of publishing a collection of
ballads recovered from tradition, and on his return to Scotland he
resumed his plan with the ardour of an enthusiast. In 1806 he published,
in two octavo volumes, "Popular Ballads and Songs, from Tradition,
Manuscripts, and Scarce Editions; with Translations of Similar Pieces
from the Ancient Danish Language, and a few Originals by the Editor." In
the preparation of this work, he acknowledges his obligations to Dr
Jamieson, author of the "History of the Culdees," Dr Robert Anderson,
editor of the "British Poets," Dr John Leyden, and some others. On the
recommendation of Sir Walter Scott he was received into the General
Register House, as assistant to the Deputy-Clerk-Register, in the
publication of the public records. He held this office till 1836, during
a period of thirty years. Subsequently he resided at Newhaven, near
Edinburgh, and ultimately in London, where he died on the 24th of
September 1844. Familiar with the northern languages, he edited,
conjointly with Sir Walter Scott and Henry Weber, a learned work,
entitled "Illustrations of Northern Antiquities from the Earlier
Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances." Edinburgh, 1814, quarto. In 1818 he
published, with some contributions from Scott, a new edition of Burt's
"Letters from the North of Scotland."
Mr Jamieson was of the middle size, of muscular form, and of
strongly-marked features. As a literary antiquary, he was held in high
estimation by the men of learning in the capital. As a poet he composed
several songs in early life, which are worthy of a place among the
modern minstrelsy of his country.
MY WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING.
TUNE--_"My Wife 's a wanton wee Thing."_
My wife 's a winsome wee thing,
A bonnie, blythesome wee thing,
My dear, my constant wee thing,
And evermair sall be;
It warms my heart to view her,
I canna choose but lo'e her,
And oh! weel may I trow her
How dearly she lo'es me!
For though her face sae fair be,
As nane could ever mair be;
And though her wit sae rare be,
As seenil do we see;
Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me,
Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me,
Nor baith sae lang retain'd me,
But for her love to me.
When wealth and pride disown'd me,
A' views were dark around me,
And sad and laigh she found me,
As friendless worth could be;
When ither hope gaed frae me,
Her pity kind did stay me,
And love for love she ga'e me;
And that 's the love for me.
And, till this heart is cald, I
That charm of life will hald by;
And, though my wife grow auld, my
Leal love aye young will be;
For she 's my winsome wee thing,
My canty, blythesome wee thing,
My tender, constant wee thing,
And evermair sall be.
GO TO HIM, THEN, IF THOU CAN'ST GO.
Go to him, then, if thou can'st go,
Waste not a thought on me;
My heart and mind are a' my store,
And they were dear to thee.
But there is music in his gold
(I ne'er sae sweet could sing),
That finds a chord in every breast
In unison to ring.
The modest virtues dread the spell,
The honest loves retire,
The purer sympathies of soul
Far other charms require.
The breathings of my plaintive reed
Sink dying in despair,
The still small voice of gratitude,
Even that is heard nae mair.
But, if thy heart can suffer thee,
The powerful call obey,
And mount the splendid bed that wealth
And pride for thee display.
Then gaily bid farewell to a'
Love's trembling hopes and fears,
While I my lanely pillow here
Wash with unceasing tears.
Yet, in the fremmit arms of him
That half thy worth ne'er knew,
Oh! think na on my lang-tried love,
How tender and how true!
For sure 'twould break thy gentle heart
My breaking heart to see,
Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it 's tholed,
And yet maun thole for thee.
WALTER WATSON.
Walter Watson was the son of a handloom weaver in the village of
Chryston, in the parish of Calder, and county of Lanark, where he was
born, on the 29th March 1780. Having a family of other two sons and four
daughters, his parents could only afford to send him two years to
school; when at the age of eight, he was engaged as a cow-herd. During
the winter months he still continued to receive instructions from the
village schoolmaster. At the age of eleven his father apprenticed him to
a weaver; but he had contracted a love for the fields, and after a few
years at the loom he hired himself as a farm-servant. In the hope of
improving his circumstances, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was
employed as a sawyer. He now enlisted in the Scots Greys; but after a
service of only three years, he was discharged, in June 1802, on the
reduction of the army, subsequent to the peace of Amiens. At Chryston he
resumed his earliest occupation, and, having married, resolved to employ
himself for life at the loom. His spare hours were dedicated to the
muse, and his compositions were submitted to criticism at the social
meetings of his friends. Encouraged by their approval, he published in
1808 a small volume of poems and songs, which, well received, gained him
considerable reputation as a versifier. Some of the songs at once became
popular. In 1820 he removed from Chryston, and accepted employment as a
sawyer in the villages of Banton and Arnbrae, in Kilsyth; in 1826 he
proceeded to Kirkintilloch, where he resumed the labours of the loom; in
1830 he changed his abode to Craigdarroch, in the parish of Calder, from
which, in other five years, he removed to Lennoxtown of Campsie, where
he and several of his family were employed in an extensive printwork. To
Craigdarroch he returned at the end of two years; in other seven years
he made a further change to Auchinairn which, in 1849, he left for
Duntiblae, in Kirkintilloch. He died at the latter place on the 13th
September 1854, in his seventy-fifth year. His remains were interred at
Chryston, within a few yards of the house in which he was born. His
widow, the "Maggie" of his songs, still survives, with only four of
their ten children.
Besides the volume already mentioned, Watson published a small
collection of miscellaneous poems in 1823, and a third volume in 1843. A
selection of his best pieces was published during the year previous to
his death, under the superintendence of several friends in Glasgow, with
a biographical preface by Mr Hugh Macdonald. The proceeds of this
volume, which was published by subscription, tended to the comfort of
the last months of the poet's life. On two different occasions during
his advanced years, he received public entertainments, and was presented
with substantial tokens of esteem. Of amiable dispositions, modest
demeanour, and industrious habits, he was beloved by all to whom he was
known. His poems generally abound in genuine Scottish humour, but his
reputation will rest upon a few of his songs, which have deservedly
obtained a place in the affections of his countrymen.
MY JOCKIE 'S FAR AWA'.
Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers,
The woods wi' leaves so green,
An' little burds around their bowers
In harmony convene;
The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree,
While saft the zephyrs blaw,
But what are a' thae joys to me,
When Jockie 's far awa'?
When Jockie 's far awa' on sea,
When Jockie 's far awa';
But what are a' thae joys to me,
When Jockie 's far awa'?
Last May mornin', how sweet to see
The little lambkins play,
Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me,
Did kindly walk this way!
On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd,
To busk my bosom braw;
Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd,
But now he 's far awa'.
But now, &c.
O gentle peace, return again,
Bring Jockie to my arms,
Frae dangers on the raging main,
An' cruel war's alarms;
Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll part
While we hae breath to draw;
Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart,
My Jockie 's far awa';
My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.
MAGGIE AN' ME.
AIR--_"The Banks o' the Dee."_
The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander
Amang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea,
An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander,
To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea;
The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin',
As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein',
An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin'
Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.
The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty,
The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree,
While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty,
As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee.
Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant,
The future, by thee, is made almost the present;
Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant,
Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.
Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances,
An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e,
We needit nae art to engage our young fancies,
'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee.
Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither,
We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither,
An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither,
Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.
SIT DOWN, MY CRONIE.[116]
Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack,
Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back,
Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit,
We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet;
An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet,
We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.
Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale,
It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale,
We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,
We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet,
An' sae will we yet, &c.
Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime,
Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time;
Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit,
We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet,
An' sae will we yet, &c.
[116] The last stanza of this song has, on account of its Bacchanalian
tendency, been omitted.
BRAES O' BEDLAY.[117]
AIR--_"Hills o' Glenorchy."_
When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,
My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day;
My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sang
Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay.
How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,
When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,
Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes
That screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.
There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie,
An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay,"
Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane,
An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.
I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,
Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her,
Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her,
It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.
We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,
Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,
Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiled
By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay.
Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story,
Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,
Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,
Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.
[117] The braes of Bedlay are in the neighbourhood of Chryston, about
seven miles north of Glasgow.
JESSIE.
AIR--_"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."_
Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie,
Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell,
Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy,
An' luve lilts his tale through the dell?
O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie,
Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw;
The lassies hae doubts about Jessie,
Her charms steal their luvers awa'.
I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin',
Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean,
Your wooers are aften complainin'
O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en.
I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee,
Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast;
May luve wi' his blessins abide thee,
For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.
I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie,
For fear some young laird o' degree
May come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy,
An' ding a' my prospects agee.
There 's naething like gowd to the miser,
There 's naething like light to the e'e,
But they canna gie me ony pleasure,
If Jessie prove faithless to me.
Let us meet on the border, my Jessie,
Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye,
Though my words may be scant to address ye,
My heart will be loupin' wi' joy.
If ance I were wedded to Jessie,
An' that may be ere it be lang,
I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassie
That ere was the theme o' a sang.
WILLIAM LAIDLAW.
As the confidential friend, factor, and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott,
William Laidlaw has a claim to remembrance; the authorship of "Lucy's
Flittin'" entitles him to rank among the minstrels of his country. His
ancestors on the father's side were, for a course of centuries,
substantial farmers in Tweedside, and his father, James Laidlaw, with
his wife, Catherine Ballantyne, rented from the Earl of Traquair the
pastoral farm of Blackhouse, in Yarrow. William, the eldest of a family
of three sons, was born in November 1780. His education was latterly
conducted at the Grammar School of Peebles. James Hogg kept sheep on his
father's farm, and a strong inclination for ballad-poetry led young
Laidlaw to cultivate his society. They became inseparable friends--the
Shepherd guiding the fancy of the youth, who, on the other hand,
encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.
In the summer of 1801, Laidlaw formed the acquaintance of Sir Walter
Scott. In quest of materials for the third volume of the "Border
Minstrelsy," Scott made an excursion into the vales of Ettrick and
Yarrow; he was directed to Blackhouse by Leyden, who had been informed
of young Laidlaw's zeal for the ancient ballad. The visit was an
eventful one: Scott found in Laidlaw an intelligent friend and his
future steward, and through his means formed, on the same day, the
acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. The ballad of "Auld Maitland," in
the third volume of the "Minstrelsy," was furnished by Laidlaw; he
recovered it from the recitation of "Will of Phawhope," the maternal
uncle of the Shepherd. A correspondence with Scott speedily ripened
into friendship; the great poet rapidly passing the epistolary forms of
"Sir," and "Dear Sir," into "Dear Mr Laidlaw," and ultimately into "Dear
Willie,"--a familiarity of address which he only used as expressive of
affection. Struck with his originality and the extent of his
acquirements, Scott earnestly recommended him to select a different
profession from the simple art of his fathers, especially suggesting the
study of medicine. But Laidlaw deemed himself too ripe in years to think
of change; he took a farm at Traquair, and subsequently removed to a
larger farm at Liberton, near Edinburgh.
The sudden fall in the price of grain at the close of the war, which so
severely affected many tenant-farmers, pressed heavily on Laidlaw, and
compelled him to abandon his lease. He now accepted the offer of Sir
Walter to become steward at Abbotsford, and, accordingly, removed his
family in 1817 to Kaeside, a cottage on the estate comfortably fitted up
for their reception. Through Scott's recommendation, he was employed to
prepare the chronicle of events and publications for the _Edinburgh
Annual Register_; and for a short period he furnished a similar record
to _Blackwood's Magazine_. He did not persevere in literary labours, his
time becoming wholly occupied in superintending improvements at
Abbotsford. When Sir Walter was in the country, he was privileged with
his daily intercourse, and was uniformly invited to meet those literary
characters who visited the mansion. When official duties detained Scott
in the capital, Laidlaw was his confidential correspondent. Sir Walter
early communicated to him the unfortunate event of his commercial
embarrassments, in a letter honourable to his heart. After feelingly
expressing his apprehension lest his misfortunes should result in
depriving his correspondent of the factorship, Sir Walter proceeds in
his letter: "You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it
is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be
useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I
will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your
services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer
in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must
have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my
inclination to observe the most strict privacy, the better to save
expense, and also time. I do not dislike the path which lies before me.
I have seen all that society can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can
give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit."
Laidlaw was too conscientious to remain at Abbotsford, to be a burden on
his illustrious friend; he removed to his native district, and for three
years employed himself in a variety of occupations till 1830, when the
promise of brighter days to his benefactor warranted his return. Scott
had felt his departure severely, characterising it as "a most melancholy
blank," and his return was hailed with corresponding joy. He was now
chiefly employed as Sir Walter's amanuensis. During his last illness,
Laidlaw was constant in his attendance, and his presence was a source of
peculiar pleasure to the distinguished sufferer. After the funeral, Sir
Walter's eldest son and his lady presented him with a brooch, their
marriage gift to their revered father, which he wore at the time of his
decease; it was afterwards worn by his affectionate steward to the close
of his life. The death of Scott took place on the 21st of September
1832, and shortly thereafter Laidlaw bade adieu to Abbotsford. He was
appointed factor on the Ross-shire property of Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of
Seaforth,--a situation which he subsequently exchanged for the
factorship of Sir Charles Lockhart Ross of Balnagowan, in the same
county. Compelled to resign the latter appointment from impaired health,
he ultimately took up his residence with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw,
tenant at Contin, near Dingwall, in whose house he expired on the 18th
of May 1845, having attained his sixty-fifth year. At an early age he
espoused his cousin, Miss Ballantyne, by whom he had a numerous family.
His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a sequestered
spot under the shade of the elevated Tor-Achilty, amidst the most
interesting Highland scenery.
A man of superior shrewdness, and well acquainted with literature and
rural affairs, Laidlaw was especially devoted to speculations in
science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and
entomology, and a considerable geologist. He prepared a statistical
account of Innerleithen, wrote a geological description of Selkirkshire,
and contributed several articles to the "Edinburgh Encyclopedia." In
youth, he was an enthusiast in ballad-lore; and he was especially expert
in filling up blanks in the compositions of the elder minstrels. His
original metrical productions are limited to those which appear in the
present work. "Lucy's Flittin'" is his masterpiece; we know not a more
exquisitely touching ballad in the language, with the single exception
of "Robin Gray." Laidlaw was a devoted friend, and a most intelligent
companion; he spoke the provincial vernacular, but his manners were
polished and pleasing. He was somewhat under the middle height, but was
well formed and slightly athletic, and his fresh-coloured complexion
beamed a generous benignity.
LUCY'S FLITTIN'.[118]
AIR--_"Paddy O'Rafferty."_
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',
And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year,
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,
And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear.
For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer;
She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.
She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in',
Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see.
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin',
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang.
She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',
And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.
Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.
Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',
I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.
Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see,
He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit;
The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea,
But Lucy likes Jamie;--she turn'd and she lookit,
She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn;
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.
[118] This exquisite ballad was contributed by Laidlaw to Hogg's "Forest
Minstrel." There are two accounts as to the subject of it, both of which
we subjoin, as they were narrated to us during the course of a recent
excursion in Tweedside. According to one version, Lucy had been in the
service of Mr Laidlaw, sen., at Blackhouse, and had by her beauty
attracted the romantic fancy of one of the poet's brothers. In the other
account Lucy is described as having served on a farm in "The Glen" of
Traquair, and as having been beloved by her master's son, who afterwards
deserted her, when she died of a broken heart. The last stanza was added
by Hogg, who used to assert that he alone was responsible for the death
of poor Lucy. "The Glen" is a beautiful mountain valley opening on the
Tweed, near Innerleithen; it formerly belonged to Mr Alexander Allan,
but it is now the possession of Charles Tennent, Esq., Glasgow.
HER BONNIE BLACK E'E.
AIR--_"Saw ye my Wee Thing."_
On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander,
The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me;
I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature,
I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws,
An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree;
I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on
The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November,
The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea;
Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain,
I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses,
Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me;
I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes,
When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin',
When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see;
Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin',
Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry,
Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be;
Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie,
An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never,
She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me;
An' this is my wish, may I leave it if ever
She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.
ALAKE FOR THE LASSIE!
AIR--_"Logie o' Buchan."_
Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a',
That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa';
But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain
That lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.
The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fain
To see my dear laddie, to see him again;
My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thought
O' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.
The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e,
When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee;
I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair,
For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.
I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw,
I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;
I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see,
In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.
He never wad see me in ony ae place,
At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face;
I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa,
He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.
My neebour lads strave to entice me awa';
They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;
But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,
For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.
His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!
He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;
An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me--
I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD.
Alexander Macdonald, who has been termed the Byron of Highland Bards,
was born on the farm of Dalilea, in Moidart. His father was a non-juring
clergyman of the same name; hence the poet is popularly known as
_Mac-vaistir-Alaister_, or Alexander the parson's son. The precise date
of his birth is unknown, but he seems to have been born about the first
decade of the last century. He was employed as a catechist by the
Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, under whose auspices he
afterwards published a vocabulary, for the use of Gaelic schools. This
work, which was the first of the kind in the language, was published at
Edinburgh in 1741. Macdonald was subsequently elected schoolmaster of
his native parish of Ardnamurchan, and was ordained an elder in the
parish church. But the most eventful part of his life was yet to come.
On the tidings of the landing of Prince Charles Edward, he awoke his
muse to excite a rising, buckled on his broadsword, and, to complete
his duty to his Prince, apostatised to the Catholic religion. In the
army of the Prince he bore an officer's commission. At the close of the
Rebellion, he at first sought shelter in Borodale and Arisaig; he
afterwards proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of teaching children in
the Jacobite connexion. The latter course was attended with this
advantage; it enabled him by subscription to print a volume of Gaelic
poetry, which contains all his best productions. Returning to his native
district, he attempted farming without success, and ultimately he became
dependent on the liberality of his relations. He died sometime
subsequent to the middle of the century.
Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the
descriptive, in which his reading made him largely a borrower; the
lyrical in which he excelled; the satirical, in which he was personal
and licentious; and the Jacobitical, in which he issued forth treason of
the most pestilential character. He has disfigured his verses by
incessant appeals to the Muses, and repeated references to the heathen
mythology; but his melody is in the Gaelic tongue wholly unsurpassed.
THE LION OF MACDONALD.
This composition was suggested by the success of Caberfae, the clan song
of the Mackenzies. Macdonald was ambitious of rivaling, or excelling
that famous composition, which contained a provoking allusion to a
branch of his own clan. In the original, the song is prefaced by a
tremendous philippic against the hero of Caberfae. The bard then strikes
into the following strain of eulogy on his own tribe, which is still
remarkably popular among the Gael.
Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown,
Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119] blossoms crown;
Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air,
And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare.
Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious,
To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious;
How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle,
As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!
Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming,
O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right assuming!
I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming,
As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.
The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing,
Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in.
A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side,
And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?
The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith,
And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death.
Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?
They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.
Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold,
And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told;
O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour,
And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger;
And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara,
Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow.
Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following,
Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing.
Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them,
Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found
all eyes though scanning them.
They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never
Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever.
Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying,
And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying.
Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan,
How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.
O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave,
Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive;
Nor wants their course the speed, the force,
--nor wants their gallant stature,
This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water,
Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell,
So fierce they gush--the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well.
Clandonuil's[124] root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem,
What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them?
Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared;
Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?
What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd,
in that cloud burst of steel,
That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel,
While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along,
And stranger[125] notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!
Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather,
So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather;
Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true,
Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew,
Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed
Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed,
And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on,
And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.
O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud,
The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd,
Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim,
Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126] limb.
Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127]
Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy;
The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best,
Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!
That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,--
Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.
[119] The clan badge is a tuft of heather.
[120] The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.
[121] A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.
[122] Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, _Old King Coul_;
Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.
[123] The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed
to animate the combatants, during the period of excitement.
[124] The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are
not quite ascertained; as Sleat, Clanronald, Glengarry, Keppoch, and
Glencoe.
[125] _Lit._ Lowland or stranger. Killiecrankie and Sheriff Muir, not to
mention Innerlochy and Tippermuir, must have blended the dying shrieks
of Lowlanders with the triumphant shouts of the Gael. The image is a
fine one.
[126] The armorial emblem was gules.
[127] Prince Charles Edward was expected.
THE BROWN DAIRY-MAIDEN.
Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted
the air for his "Banks of the Devon."
My brown dairy, brown dairy,
Brown dairy-maiden;
Brown dairy-maiden,
Bell of the heather!
A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling;
Thy glove[128] there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover;
When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis,
As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over;
Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee,
And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.
To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing,
Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all,
For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!
White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending,
And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry;
Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in,
An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry;
At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying,
From the tresses[129] they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming,
And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.
Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading
O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.
Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining,
How their lustre is shining in union becoming!
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying
With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer,
O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding,
When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!
The music of milking, with melodies lilting,
While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over,
Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becoming
As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
[128] Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a
great figure in their poetry.
[129] The most frequent of all song-images in Gaelic, is the description
of yellow or auburn hair.
THE PRAISE OF MORAG.
This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the
native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable
tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is
understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the
humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the
imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or
Amaryllis _ideal_ of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was
married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of
the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the
"Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion
piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our
apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best
modern composition in their language.
URLAR.
O that I were the shaw in,[130]
When Morag was there,
Lots to be drawing
For the prize of the fair!
Mingling in your glee,
Merry maidens! We
Rolicking would be
The flow'rets along;
Time would pass away
In the oblivion of our play,
As we cropp'd the primrose gay,
The rock-clefts among;
Then in mock we 'd fight,
Then we 'd take to flight,
Then we 'd lose us quite,
Where the cliffs overhung.
Like the dew-drop blue
In the mist of morn
So thine eye, and thy hue
Put the blossom to scorn.
All beauties they shower
On thy person their dower;
Above is the flower,
Beneath is the stem;
'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers,
'Tis a star 'mid the streamers,
'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers
The foremost of them!
Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!
As we wonder, still we say
Can it be a thing of clay
We see in that gem?
Since thy first feature
Sparkled before me,
Fair! not a creature
Was like thy glory.[131]....
[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or
the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed.
[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical
descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in
the poet's eye.
SIUBHAL.
Away with all, away with all,
Away with all but Morag,
A maid whose grace and mensefulness
Still carries all before it.
You shall not find her marrow,
For beauty without furrow,
Though you search the islands thorough
From Muile[132] to the Lewis;
So modest is each feature,
So void of pride her nature,
And every inch of stature
To perfect grace so true is.[133]
* * * * *
O that drift, like a pillow,
We madden to share it;
O that white of the lily,
'Tis passion to near it;
Every charm in a cluster,
The rose adds its lustre--
Can it be but such muster
Should banish the Spirit!
URLAR.
We would strike the note of joy
In the morning,
The dawn with its orangery
The hill-tops adorning.
To bush and fell resorting,
While the shades conceal'd our courting,
Would not be lack of sporting
Or gleeful _phrenesie_;
Like the roebuck and his mate,
In their woodland haunts elate
The race we would debate
Around the tendril tree.
SIUBHAL.
Thou bright star of maidens,
A beam without haze,
No murkiness saddens,
No disk-spot bewrays.
The swan-down to feeling,
The snow of the gaillin,[134]
Thy limbs all excelling,
Unite to amaze.
The queen, I would name thee,
Of maidenly muster;
Thy stem is so seemly,
So rich is its cluster
Of members complete,
Adroit at each feat,
And thy temper so sweet,
Without banning or bluster.
My grief has press'd on
Since the vision of Morag,
As the heavy millstone
On the cross-tree that bore it.
In vain the world over,
Seek her match may the rover;
A shaft, thy poor lover,
First struck overpowering.
When thy ringlets of gold,
With the crooks of their fold,
Thy neck-wards were roll'd
All weavy and showering.
Like stars that are ring'd,
Like gems that are string'd
Are those locks, while, as wing'd
From the sun, blends a ray
Of his yellowest beams;
And the gold of his gleams
Behold how he streams
'Mid those tresses to play.
In thy limbs like the canna,[135]
Thy cinnamon kiss,
Thy bright kirtle, we ken a'
New phoenix of bliss.
In thy sweetness of tone,
All the woman we own,
Nor a sneer nor a frown
On thy features appear;
When the crowd is in motion
For Sabbath devotion,[136]
As an angel, arose on
Their vision, my fair
With her meekness of grace,
And the flakes of her dress,
As they stream, might express
Such loveliness there.
When endow'd at thy birth
We marvel that earth
From its mould, should yield worth
Of a fashion so rare.
URLAR.
I never dream'd would sink
On a peak that mounts world's brink,
Of sunlight, such a blink,
Morag! as thine.
As the charmings of a spell,
Working in their cell,
So dissolves the heart where dwell
Thy graces divine.
SIUBHAL.
Come, counsel me, my comrades,
While dizzy fancy lingers,
Did ever flute become, lads,
The motion of such fingers?
Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137]
Or see or hear, before her,
Such gracefulness, adore her
Yet, woes me, how concealing
From her I 've wedded, dare I?
Still, homeward bound, I tarry,
And Jeanie's eye is weary,
Her truant unrevealing.
The glow of love I feel,
Not all the linns of Sheil,
Nor Cruachan's snow avail
To cool to congealing.[138]....
CRUNLUATH.
My very brain is humming, sirs,
As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs,
And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs,
My passion such a flame is.
My very eyes are blinding, sirs,
Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs,
Nor height nor distance minding, sirs,
The crag, as Corrie, tame is....
[132] Mull.
[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope
would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy
of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.
[134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation
and periodic visits to the Islands.
[135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors.
[136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion.
[137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders.
NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.
Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's
compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to
the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of
indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the
mask of civility.
Glad tidings for the Highlands!
To arms a ringing call--
Hammers storming, targets forming,
Orb-like as a ball.[139]
Withers dismay the pale array,
That guards the Hanoverian;
Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er,
The help is nigh we weary on.
From friendly east a breeze shall haste
The fruit-freight of our prayer--
With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140]
A prince to do and dare;
Stuart his name, his sire's the same,
For his riffled crown appealing,
Strong his right in, soon shall Britain
Be humbled to the kneeling.
Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield,
And firearms play defiance;
Forwards they fly, and still their cry,
Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions.
Make ready for your travel,
Be sharp-set, and be willing,
There will be a dreadful revel,
And liquor red be spilling.
O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife,
Are burning for the slaughter,
Would let their volley, like fire to holly,
Blaze on the usurping traitor.
Full many a soldier arming,
Is laggard in his spirit,
E'er his blood the flag is warming
Of the King that should inherit.
He may be loon or coward,
That spur scarce touch would nearly--
The colours shew, he 's in a glow,
Like the stubble of the barley.
Onward, gallants! onward speed ye,
Flower and bulwark of the Gael;
Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy,
Rosy-red, and do not quail.
Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous,
As your princely strain beseems,
In your hands, alert for conflict,
While the Spanish weapon gleams.--
Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143]
Humming music to the gale;
Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144]
Proud the banner staff to bear.
A slashing weapon on his thigh,
He tends his charge unfearing;
Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh,
To the gristle nostrils sheering.
Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight,
The finger white, the clever, he
That gives the war-pipe his embrace
To raise the storm of bravery.
A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring
Battle-sounding breeze of her
Would stir the spirit of the clans
To rake the heart of Lucifer.
March ye, without feint and dolour,
By the banner of your clan,
In your garb of many a colour,
Quelling onset to a man.
Then, to see you swiftly baring
From the sheath the manly glaive,
Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing
Marrow-showering of the brave!
Woe the clattering, weapon-battering
Answering to the piobrach's yell!
When your racing speeds the chasing,
Wide and far the clamours swell.
Hard blows whistle from the bristle
Of the temples to the thigh,
Heavy handed as the land-flood,
Who will turn ye, or make fly?
Many a man has drunk an ocean
Healths to Charlie, to the gorge,
Broken many a glass proposing
Weal to him and woe to George;
But, 'tis feat of greater glory
Far, than stoups of wine to trowl,
One draught of vengeance deep and gory,
Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl!
Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all,
Join ye to your clans your cheer!
Nor heed though wife and child pursue all,
Bidding you to fight, forbear.
Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty,
Gallant in your loyal pride,
By your hacking, low as bracken
Stretch the foe the turf beside.
Our stinging kerne of aspect stern
That love the fatal game,
That revel rife till drunk with strife,
And dye their cheeks with flame,
Are strange to fear;--their broadswords shear
Their foemen's crested brows,
The red-coats feel the barb of steel,
And hot its venom glows.
The few have won fields, many a one,
In grappling conflicts' play;
Then let us march, nor let our hearts
A start of fear betray.
Come gushing forth, the trusty North,
Macshimei,[145] loyal Gordon;
And prances high their chivalry,
And death-dew sits each sword on.
[138] Here Morag's musical performance on the flute, form the subject of
a panegyric, in which Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath are imitated.
[139] "Round as the shield of my fathers."--_Ossian_.
[140] The French military costume, distinguished by its white colour,
was assumed by the Jacobites.
[141] "Come, and I will give you flesh," a Highland war-cry invoking the
birds and beasts of prey to their bloody revel.
[142] Macdonald of Sleat, Macleod, and others, first hesitated, and
finally withheld themselves from the party of the white cockade.
[143] Flag.
[144] Warrior.
[145] Lovat and his clan.
JOHN ROY STUART.
John Roy Stuart was a distinguished officer in the Jacobite army of
1745. He was the son of a farmer in Strathspey, who gave him a good
education, and procured him a commission in a Highland regiment, which
at the period served in Flanders. His military experiences abroad proved
serviceable in the cause to which he afterwards devoted himself. In the
army of Prince Charles Edward, he was entrusted with important commands
at Gladsmuir, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; and he was deemed of
sufficient consequence to be pursued by the government with an amount of
vigilance which rendered his escape almost an approach to the
miraculous. An able military commander, he was an excellent poet. His
"Lament for Lady Macintosh" has supplied one of the most beautiful airs
in Highland music.[146] In the second of his pieces on the battle of
Culloden, translated for the present work, the lamentation for the
absence of the missing clans, and the night march to the field, are
executed with the skill and address of a genuine bard, while the story
of the battle is recited with the fervour of an honourable partisan.
Stuart died abroad in circumstances not differing from those of the best
and bravest, who were engaged in the same unhappy enterprise.
[146] See the Rev. Patrick Macdonald's Collection, No. 106.
LAMENT FOR LADY MACINTOSH.
This is the celebrated heroine who defended her castle of Moy, in the
absence of her husband, and, with other exploits, achieved the surprisal
of Lord Loudon's party in their attempt to seize Prince Charles Edward,
when he was her guest. Information had been conveyed by some friendly
unknown party, of a kind so particular as to induce the lady to have
recourse to the following stratagem. She sent the blacksmith on her
estate, at the head of a party of other seven persons, with instructions
to lie in ambush, and at a particular juncture to call out to the clans
to come on and hew to pieces "the scarlet soldiers," as were termed the
royalist troops. The feint succeeded, and is known in Jacobite story as
the "Route of Moy." The exploit is pointedly alluded to in the Elegy,
which is replete with beauty and pathos.
Does grief appeal to you, ye leal,
Heaven's tears with ours to blend?
The halo's veil is on, and pale
The beams of light descend.
The wife repines, the babe declines,
The leaves prolong their bend,
Above, below, all signs are woe,
The heifer moans her friend.
The taper's glow of waxen snow,
The ray when noon is nigh,
Was far out-peer'd, till disappear'd
Our star of morn, as high
The southern west its blast released,
And drown'd in floods the sky--
Ah woe! was gone the star that shone,
Nor left a visage dry
For her, who won as win could none
The people's love so well.
O, welaway! the dirging lay
That rung from Moy its knell;
Alas, the hue, where orbs of blue,
With roses wont to dwell!
How can we think, nor swooning sink,
To earth them in the cell?
Silk wrapp'd thy frame, as lily stem,
And snowy as its flower,
So once, and now must love allow,
The grave chest such a dower!
The fairest shoot of noble root
A blast could overpower;
'Tis woman's meed for chieftain's deed,
That bids our eyes to shower.
Beseems his grief the princely chief,
Who reins the charger's pride,
And gives the gale the silken sail,
That flaps the standard's side;
Who from the hall where sheds at call,
The generous shell its tide,
And from the tower where Meiners'[147] power
Prevails, brought home such bride.
[147] She was a daughter of Menzies of that Ilk, in Perthshire. The
founder of the family was a De Moyeners, in the reign of William the
Lion. The name in Gaelic continued to testify to its original, being
_Meini_, or _Meinarach_.
THE DAY OF CULLODEN.
Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust,
And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground;
So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear,
Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound.
For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm
With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown;
The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued,
While the base-born[148] by hosts is secured on the throne?
Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace,
Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small,
Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight,
But the musters that failed at the moment of call--
Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world,
Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day;
Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril,
Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array?
Where the sons of the glen,[149] the Clan-gregor, in vain
That never were hail'd to the carnage of war--
Where Macvurich,[150] the child of victory styled?
How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar!
Clan-donuil,[151] my bosom friend, woe that the blossom
That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd,
Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts
Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd!
And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow
Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's[152] command,
And the Farquharsons[153] bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd,
So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand.
But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead,
As I think of Clan-chattan,[154] the foremost in fight;
Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime,
And woe that the left[155] had not stood at the right!
Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn,
And Alister Rua the king of the feast;
And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart,
Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased.
In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright,
Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced;
Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning,
When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast.
As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil,
Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather,
That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor,
Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather
Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed,
And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun,
Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger,
And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.[156]
Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong
To our forces, the wiles of the traitor[157] have wrought;
To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust
Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought.
His gorget he spurns, and his mantle[158] he turns,
And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue;
But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal,
From the south or the north, the award of his due.
And fell William,[159] the son of the man on the throne,
Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree;
May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit
Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be
As barren and bare--not a partner to share,
Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace;
Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour,
Like Egypt, the darkness and loss of his race!
Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high,
And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey,
And the lieges each one, from the child to the man,
The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.
[148] George the First's Queen was a divorcée. The Jacobites retorted
the alleged spuriousness of the Chevalier de St George, on George II.,
the reigning Sovereign.
[149] _Glengyle_, and his Macgregors, were on their way from the
Sutherland expedition, but did not reach in time to take part in the
action.
[150] Macpherson of Clunie, the hero of the night skirmish at Clifton,
and with his clan, greatly distinguished in the Jacobite wars.
[151] Macdonald of the Isles refused to join the Prince.
[152] Of the routed army, the division whereof the Frazers formed the
greater number fled to Inverness. Being the least considerable in force,
they were pursued by the Duke of Cumberland's light horse, and almost
entirely massacred.
[153] The Farquharsons formed part of the unfortunate right wing in the
battle, and suffered severely.
[154] The Mackintoshes, whose impetuosity hurried the right wing into
action before the order to engage had been transmitted over the lines.
They were of course the principal sufferers.
[155] An allusion to the provocation given to the Macdonalds of
Clanranald, Glengarry, and Keppoch, by being deprived of their usual
position--the right wing. Their motions are supposed to have been tardy
in consequence. The poet was himself in the right wing.
[156] The unfortunate night-march of the Highlanders is described with
historic truth and great poetic effect.
[157] Roy Stuart lived and died in the belief (most unfounded, it
seems), that Lord George Murray was bribed and his army betrayed.
[158] Military orders received from the Court of St Germains.
[159] The Duke of Cumberland.
JOHN MORRISON.
John Morrison was a native of Perthshire. Sometime before 1745 he was
settled as missionary at Amulree, a muirland district near Dunkeld. In
1759 he became minister of Petty, a parish in the county of Inverness.
He obtained his preferment in consequence of an interesting incident in
his history. The proprietor of Delvine in Perthshire, who was likewise a
Writer to the Signet, was employed in a legal process, which required _a
diligence_ to be executed against one of the clan Frazer. A design to
waylay and murder the official employed in the _diligence_ had been
concerted. This came to the knowledge of a clergyman who ministered in a
parish chiefly inhabited by the Lovat tenantry. The minister, afraid of
openly divulging the design, on account of the unsettled nature of his
flock, begged an immediate visit from his friend, Mr Morrison, who
speedily returned to Perthshire with information to the laird of
Delvine. The Frazers found the authority of the law supported by a
sufficient force; and Mr Morrison was rewarded by being presented,
through the influence of the laird of Delvine, to the parish of Petty.
Amidst professional engagements discharged with zeal and acceptance,
Morrison found leisure for the composition of verses. Two of his lyrics
are highly popular among the Gael; one of them we offer as a specimen,
and an improved version of the other will afterwards appear in the
present work. Mr Morrison died in November 1774.
MY BEAUTY DARK.
The heroine of this piece was a young lady who became the author's wife,
upon an acquaintance originally formed by the administration of the
ordinance of baptism to her in infancy.
My beauty dark, my glossy bright,
Dark beauty, do not leave me;
They call thee dark, but to my sight
Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.
'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,[160]
Came tirling at my door,
The image of a lovely lass
That haunts me evermore.
Beside my sleeping couch she stood,
And now she mars my rest;
Still as I try the solemn mood,
She hunts it from my breast.
At lecture and at study
That ankle white I span,
Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,--
A fay I seem to scan.
Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray
That dashes to the side,
Or like the silver-tail'd that play
Their gambols in the tide.
As heaps of snow on mountain brow
When shed the clouds their fleece,
Or churn of waves when tempest raves,
Thy swelling limbs in grace.
Thy eyes are black as berries,
Thy cheeks are waxen dyed,
And on thy temple tarries
The raven's dusk, my pride!
Gives light below each slim eye-brow
A swelling orb of blue,
In April meads so glance the beads,
In May the honey-dew.
Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap,
But sheaf-like, neatly bound
Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream
As bright thine ears around.
Those raven spires of hair, that fair,
That turret-bosom's shine!
False friends! from me that banish'd thee,
Who fain would call thee mine.
No lilts I spin, their love to win,
The viol strings I shun,
But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear
My wisdom, dearest one!
[160] Evidently a Valentine morning surprise.
ROBERT MACKAY.
THE HIGHLANDER'S HOME SICKNESS.
We have been favoured by Mr William Sinclair with the following spirited
translation of Mackay's first address to the fair-haired Anna, the
heroine of the "Forsaken Drover" (vol. i. p. 315). In the enclosures of
Crieff, the Highland bard laments his separation from the hills of
Sutherland, and the object of his love.
Easy is my pillow press'd
But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest;
Northwards do the shrill winds blow--
Thither do my musings go!
Better far with thee in groves,
Where the young deers sportive roam,
Than where, counting cattle droves,
I must sickly sigh for home.
Great the love I bear for her
Where the north winds wander free,
Sportive, kindly is her air,
Pride and folly none hath she!
Were I hiding from my foes,
Aye, though fifty men were near,
I should find concealment close
In the shieling of my dear.
Beauty's daughter! oh, to see
Days when homewards I 'll repair--
Joyful time to thee and me--
Fair girl with the waving hair!
Glorious all for hunting then,
The rocky ridge, the hill, the fern;
Sweet to drag the deer that 's slain
Downwards by the piper's cairn!
By the west field 'twas I told
My love, with parting on my tongue;
Long she 'll linger in that fold,
With the kine assembled long!
Dear to me the woods I know,
Far from Crieff my musings are;
Still with sheep my memories go,
On our heath of knolls afar:
Oh, for red-streak'd rocks so lone!
Where, in spring, the young fawns leap,
And the crags where winds have blown--
Cheaply I should find my sleep.
END OF VOL. II.
GLOSSARY.
_Aboon_, above.
_Ava_, at all.
_Baldron_, name for a cat.
_Bauld_, bold.
_Bawbee_, halfpenny.
_Bawsint_, a white spot on the forehead of cow or horse.
_Bawtie_, name for a dog.
_Beild_, shelter, refuge, protection.
_Ben_, the spence or parlour.
_Blethers_, nonsensical talk.
_Blewart_, a flower, the blue bottle, witch bells.
_Bob_, nosegay, bunch, or tuft; also to curtsey.
_Bobbin_, a weaver's quill or pirn.
_Bonspiel_, a match at archery, curling, golf, or foot-ball.
_Bourtree_, the elder tree or shrub.
_Braggin_, boasting.
_Braken_, the female fern (_pterisaquilina_, Linn.)
_Bree_, the eyebrow.
_Brochin_, oatmeal boiled in water till somewhat thicker than gruel.
_Brogues_, shoes made of sheepskin.
_Bught_, a pen for sheep.
_Burn_, a stream.
_Buskit_, dressed tidily.
_Buss_, a bush.
_Cairny_, heap of stones.
_Camstrarie_, froward, cross, and unmanageable.
_Cantrips_, spells, charms, incantations.
_Carline_, an old woman.
_Chap_, a blow, also a young fellow.
_Cleading_, clothing.
_Cleck_, to hatch, to breed.
_Clout_, to strike with the hand, also to mend a hole in clothes or
shoes.
_Coof_, a fool.
_Coost_, cast.
_Corrie_, a hollow in a hill.
_Cosie_, warm, snug.
_Cower_, to crouch, to stoop.
_Cranreugh_, the hoarfrost.
_Croodle_, to coo as a dove, to sing with a low voice.
_Crowdy_, meal and cold water stirred together.
_Dab_, to peck as birds do.
_Daddy_, father.
_Daff_, to make sport.
_Dantit_, subdued, tamed down.
_Dawtie_, a pet, a darling.
_Doo_, dove.
_Dool_, grief.
_Doops_, dives down.
_Downa_, expressive of inability.
_Dreeping_, dripping, wet.
_Drucket_, drenched.
_Drumly_, muddy.
_Dub_, a mire.
_Dumpish_, short and thick.
_Eild_, old.
_Eirie_, dreading things supernatural.
_Eithly_, easily.
_Ettled_, aimed.
_Fardin_, farthing.
_Feckly_, mostly.
_Fend_, to provide for oneself, also to defend.
_Fleeched_, flattered, deceived.
_Forby_, besides.
_Freenge_, fringe.
_Fremmit_, strange, foreign.
_Gabbin_, jeering.
_Ganger_, a pedestrian.
_Gar_, compel.
_Gaucie_, plump, jolly.
_Gawkie_, a foolish female.
_Gie_, give.
_Glamour_, the influence of a charm.
_Glint_, a glance.
_Gloaming_, the evening twilight.
_Glower_, to look staringly.
_Glum_, gloomy.
_Gowd_, gold.
_Graffs_, graves.
_Graith_, gear.
_Grane_, groan.
_Grat_, wept.
_Grecie_, a little pig.
_Grup_, grasp.
_Haet_, a whit.
_Hauds_, holds.
_Hecht_, called, named.
_Heftit_, familiarised to a place.
_Hie_, high.
_Hinney_, honey, also a term of endearment.
_Hirple_, to walk haltingly.
_Howe_, hollow.
_Howkit_, dug.
_Howlet_, an owl.
_Hurkle_, to bow down to.
_Ilka_, each.
_Jaupit_, bespattered.
_Jeel_, jelly.
_Jimp_, neat, slender.
_Kaim_, comb.
_Ken_, know.
_Keust_, threw off.
_Kippered_, salmon salted, hung and dried.
_Kith_, acquaintance.
_Kittle_, difficult, uncertain.
_Kye_, cows.
_Laigh_, low.
_Laith_, loth.
_Lapt_, enwrapped.
_Leeve_, live.
_Leeze me_, a term of congratulatory endearment.
_Lift_, the sky.
_Loof_, the palm of the hands.
_Lowe_, flame.
_Lucken_, webbed.
_Lugs_, ears.
_Lum_, a chimney.
_Lure_, allure.
_Lyart_, of a mixed colour, gray.
_Mawn_, mown, a basket.
_May_, maiden.
_Mense_, honour, discretion.
_Mickle_, much.
_Mim_, prim, prudish.
_Mirk_, darkness.
_Mools_, dust, the earth of the grave.
_Mullin_, crumb.
_Mutch_, woman's cap.
_Naig_, a castrated horse.
_Neive_, the fist.
_Niddered_, stunted in growth.
_Niffer_, to exchange.
_Nip_, to pinch.
_Oons_, wounds.
_Opt_, opened.
_Outower_, outover, also moreover.
_Owk_, week.
_Owsen_, oxen.
_Paitrick_, partridge.
_Pawkie_, cunning, sly.
_Pleugh_, plough.
_Pliskie_, a trick.
_Rax_, reach.
_Rede_, to counsel--advice, wisdom.
_Reefer_, river.
_Reft_, bereft, deprived.
_Rocklay_, a short cloak or surplice.
_Roke_, a distaff, also to swing.
_Rowes_, rolls.
_Runts_, the trunks of trees, the stem of colewort.
_Saughs_, willow-trees.
_Scowl_, to frown.
_Scrimpit_, contracted.
_Scroggie_, abounding with stunted bushes.
_Shanks-naigie,_ to travel on foot.
_Sheiling_, a temporary cottage or hut.
_Sinsyne_, after that period.
_Skipt_, went lightly and swiftly along.
_Sleekit_, cunning.
_Slockin_, to allay thirst.
_Smoored_, smothered.
_Soughs_, applied to the breathing a tune, also the sighing of the wind.
_Sowdie_, a heterogeneous mess.
_Speer_, ask.
_Spulzien_, spoiling.
_Squinting_, looking obliquely.
_Staigie_, the diminutive of staig, a young horse.
_Starn_, star.
_Swither_, to hesitate.
_Tane_, the one of two.
_Tent_, care.
_Tether_, halter.
_Teuch_, tough.
_Theek_, thatch.
_Thole_, to endure.
_Thraw_, to throw, to twist.
_Thrawart_, froward, perverse.
_Timmer_, timber.
_Tint_, lost.
_Toom_, empty.
_Tout_, shout.
_Tramps_, heavy-footed travellers.
_Trig_, neat, trim.
_Trow_, to make believe.
_Tyne_, lose.
_Wabster_, weaver.
_Wae_, sad, sorrowful.
_Warsled_, wrestled.
_Wat_, wet, also to know.
_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.
_Weir_, war, also to herd.
_Whilk_, which.
_Wysed_, enticed.
_Yate_, gate.
_Yeldrin_, a yellow hammer.
_Yird_, earth, soil.
_Yirthen_, earthen.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.
Project Gutenberg's The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume III, by Various
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[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. III.
ABBOTSFORD
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Allan Cunningham.
Lithographed for the Modern Scottish Minstrel, by Schenck & McFarlane.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL. III
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
M.DCCC.LVI.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL
SIR JAMES EDWARD ALEXANDER,
K.L.S., AND K.ST.J.,
A DISTINGUISHED TRAVELLER, A GALLANT OFFICER, AND
A PATRIOTIC SCOTSMAN,
THIS THIRD VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SENTIMENTS OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT, FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
SCOTTISH AND HELLENIC MINSTRELSY:
An Essay.
BY JAMES DONALDSON, A.M.
Men who compare themselves with their nearest neighbours are almost
invariably conceited, speak boastingly of themselves, and
disrespectfully of others. But if a man extend his survey, if he mingle
largely with people whose feelings and opinions have been modified by
quite different circumstances, the result is generally beneficial. The
very act of accommodating his mind to foreign modes of thought expands
his nature; and he becomes more liberal in his sentiments, more
charitable in his construction of deeds, and more capable of perceiving
real goodness under whatever shape it may present itself. So when a
Scotsman criticises Scotch poetry viewed by itself alone, he is apt to
be carried away by his patriotism,--he sees only the delightful side of
the subject, and he ventures on assertions which flatter himself and his
country at the expense of all other nations. If, however, we place the
productions of our own country side by side with those of another, the
excellences and the deficiencies of both are seen in stronger relief;
the contrasts strike the mind, and the heart is widened by sympathising
with goodness and beauty diversely conceived and diversely portrayed.
For this reason, we shall attempt a brief comparison of Hellenic and
Scottish songs.
Before we enter on our characterisation of these, we must glance at the
materials which we have to survey. Greek lyric poetry arose about the
beginning of the eighth century before the Christian era, and continued
in full bloom down to the time when it passed into drama on the Athenian
stage. The names of the poets are universally known, and have become,
indeed, almost part of our poetic language. Every one speaks of an
Anacreon, a Sappho, and a Pindar; and the names of Archilochus, Alcman,
Alcæus, Stesichorus, Simonides, Ibycus, and Bacchylides, if not so often
used, are yet familiar to most. Few of these lyrists belonged to Greece
proper. They belonged to Greece only in the sense in which the Greeks
themselves used the word, as including all the colonies which had gone
forth from the motherland. Most of the early Greek song-writers dwelt in
Asia Minor--some were born in the islands of the Cyclades, and some in
Southern Italy; but all of them were proud of their Greek origin, all of
them were thorough Greeks in their hearts. It is only the later bards
who were born and brought up on the Greek mainland, and most of these
lived to see the day when almost all the lyric poets took their grandest
flights in the choral odes of their dramas. These odes, however, do not
fall within the province of our comparison. The lyrical efforts both of
Æschylus and Sophocles were inwoven with the structure of their plays,
the chorus in Æschylus being generally one of the actors; and they have
their modern representatives, not in the songs of the people, but in the
arias of operas. Setting these aside, we have few genuine efforts of
the Greek lyric muse belonging to the dramatic period--the most
important being several songs sung by the Greeks at their banquets,
which have fortunately been preserved. After this era, we have no lyric
poems of the Greeks worth mentioning. The verse-writers took henceforth
to epigrams--epigrams on everything on the face of the earth. These have
been collected into the "Greek Anthology;" but the greater part of them
are contemptible in a poetic point of view. They are interesting as
throwing light on the times; but they are weak and vapid as expressions
of the beatings of the human heart, and they are full of conceits.
Besides these, there are the Anacreontic odes, known to all Greek
scholars and to a great number of English, since they have been
frequently translated. With one or two exceptions, they were all written
between the third and twelfth centuries of the Christian era, though
some scholars have boldly asserted that they were forgeries even of a
later date. Most of them seem to be expansions of lines of Anacreon.
They are in general neat, pretty, and gaysome, but tame and insincere.
There is nothing like earnestness in them, nothing like genuine deep
feeling; but thus they are all the more suited for a certain class of
lovers and drinkers, who do not wish to be greatly moved by anything
under the sun.
Scotch lyric poetry may be said to commence with the lyrics attributed
to James I., or with those of Henryson. There is clear proof, indeed,
that long before this time the Scotch were much given to song-making and
song-singing; but of these early popular lilts, almost nothing remains.
Henryson's lyrics, however, belonged more to the class that were
intended to be read than to be sung, and this is true of a considerable
number of his successors, such as Dunbar, and Maitland of Lethington,
who were learned men, and wrote with a learned air, even when writing
for the people. The Reformation, as surely as it threw down every carved
stone, shut up the mouth of every profane songster. Wedderburne's "Haly
Ballats" may have been spared for a time by the iconoclasts, because
they had helped to build up their own temple; but they could not survive
long,--they were cast in a profane mould, they were sung to profane
tunes, and away they must go into oblivion. Our song-writers, for a long
time after, are unknown minstrels, who had no character to lose by
making or singing profane songs,--they were of the people, and sang for
them. So matters continued, until, at the commencement of the eighteenth
century, Scottish songs began to be the rage both in England and
Scotland, and an eager desire arose to gather up old snatches and
preserve them. Henceforth Scotch poetry held up its head, and a few
remarkable poets won their way into the hearts of large masses of the
people. At last appeared the emancipator of Scottish song in the form of
a ploughman, stirring the deepest feelings of all classes with songs
that may be justly styled the best of all national popular songs, and
for ever settling the claims of a song-writer to one of the highest
niches in the temple of Fame.
The first thing that strikes us, on dipping into a book of Greek songs,
and then a book of Scotch, is the different position of the poets. The
Greek poet was regarded as a kind of superior being--an interpreter
between gods and men; and, supposed to be under the special protection
of Divinity, he was highly honoured and reverenced wherever he went. The
Scotch bard, on the other hand, is a poor wanderer, whose name is
unknown, who received little respect, and whose knowledge of God and
the higher purposes of life cannot be reckoned in any way great. There
may be a few exceptions. We find nobles sometimes writing popular songs,
and occasionally a learned man may have contributed strains; but these
are generally not superior either in wit, pathos, or morality, to the
verses of the unknown and hard-toiling. This striking contrast arises
from a change that had taken place in the history of song. In Greece,
all the teeming ideas of the fertile-minded people found expression in
harmonious measures, and their songs touched every chord of their varied
existence. This was partly owing to their innate love of melody, and
partly to the public life which they led. From the earliest ages, they
were fond of sweet sounds; and their continual public gatherings gave
innumerable opportunities for using their vocal powers unitedly, and
turning music to all its best and noblest purposes. They sang sacred
songs as they marched in procession to their temples; and on entering,
they hymned the praises of the gods. When they rushed on to battle, they
shouted their inspiring war-songs; and if victory crowned the fight, the
battle-field rang with their joyous pæans, and their poets tuned their
lyres in honour of the brave that had fallen. A victor in the Olympic
games would have lost one of his greatest rewards, if no poet had sung
his fame. Then, in their banquets, the Greeks amused themselves in
stringing together pretty verses, and joined in merry and jovial
drinking-songs. If there happened to be a marriage, the young people
assembled round the house, and late in the evening and early in the
morning sang the praises of bride and bridegroom, prayed for blessings
on the couple, and sometimes discussed the comparative blessedness of
single and married life. Or if a notable person happened to die, his
dirge was sung, and the poet composed an encomium on him, full of wise
reflections on destiny, and the fate that awaits all. There was, in
fact, no public occasion which the Greeks did not beautify with song.
It is entirely different with us. Our minister now performs the function
of the Greek poet at marriages and funerals. Our funeral sermons and
newspaper paragraphs have taken the place of the Greek encomiums. Our
fiddles or piano do duty instead of the Greek dithyrambs, hyporchems,
and other dancing songs. Our warriors are either left unsung, or
celebrated in verse that reads much better than it sings. The members of
the "Benevolent Pugilistic Association" do not stand so high in the
British opinion as the wrestlers of old stood in the Greek; and our
jockeys have fallen frightfully from the grand position which the Greek
racers occupied in the plains of Olympia. Very few in these days would
think the champion of England, or the winner of the Derby, worth a noble
ode full of old traditions and exalted religious aspirations. Through
various causes, song has thus come to be very circumscribed in its
limits, and to perform duty within a comparatively small sphere in
modern life.
Indeed, song in these days does exactly what the Greeks rarely
attempted: it concerns itself with private life, and especially with
that most characteristic feature of modern private life--love. Love is,
consequently, the main topic of Scottish song. It is a theme of which
neither the song-writer nor the song-singer ever wearies. It is the one
great passion with which the universal modern mind sympathises, and from
the expressions of which it quaffs inexhaustible delight. This holds
true even of the cynical people who profess a distaste for love and
lovers. For love has for them its comic side,--it appears to them
exquisitely humorous in the human weakness it causes and brings to
light; and if they do not enjoy the song in its praise, they seldom fail
to laugh heartily at the description of the plights into which it leads
its devotees.
Perhaps no country contains a richer collection of love-songs than
Scotland. We have a song for every phase of the motley-faced
passion,--from its ludicrous aspect to its highest and most rapturous
form. Every pulsation of the heart, as moved by love, has had its poetic
expression; and we have lovers pouring out the depths of their souls to
all kinds of maids, and in all kinds of situations. And maids are
represented as bodying forth their feelings, also, under the sway of
love. Many of these feminine lyrics are written by women themselves.
Some of them exult in the full return which their love meets; but for
the most part, it is a keen sorrow that forces women to poetic
composition. They thus contribute our most pathetic songs--wails
sometimes over blasted hopes and blighted love, as in "Waly, Waly;" or
over the death of a deeply-loved one, as in Miss Blamire's "Waefu'
Heart;" or over the loss of the brave who have fallen in battle, as in
Miss Jane Elliot's "Flowers of the Forest."
Peculiarly characteristic of Scotland are the songs that describe the
development of love, after the lovers have been married. Here the
comical phase is most predominant. For the most part, the Scottish
songster delights in describing the quarrels between the goodman and the
goodwife--the goodwife in the early poems invariably succeeding in
making John yield to her. Sometimes, however, there is a deeper and
purer current of feeling, to which Burns especially has given
expression. How intensely beautiful is the affection in "John Anderson,
my Jo!" And we have in "Are ye sure the news is true?" the whole
character of a very loving wife brought out by a simple incident in her
life,--the expected return of her husband. Some of these songs also have
been written by poetesses, such as Lady Nairn's exquisite "Land of the
Leal;" and really there is such delicacy, such minute accuracy in the
portrayal of a woman's feelings in "Are ye sure the news is true?" that
one cannot help thinking it must have been written by Jean Adams, or
some woman, rather than by Mickle:--
"His very foot has music in 't,
As he comes up the stair."
What man has an ear so delicate as to hear such music?
The contrast between Greek poetry and Scotch is very marked in this
point. There is not one Greek lyric devoted to what we should designate
love, with perhaps something like an exception in Alcman. In fact, while
moderns rarely make a tragedy or comedy, a poem or novel, without some
love-concern which is the pivot of the whole, all the great poems and
dramas of the ancients revolve on entirely different passions. Love,
such as we speak of, was of rather rare occurrence. Women were in such a
low position, that it was a condescension to notice them,--there was no
chivalrous feeling in regard to them; they were made to feel the
dominion of their absolute lords and masters. Besides this, the greater
number of them were confined to their private chambers, and seldom saw
any man who was not nearly related. Those who were on free terms of
intercourse with men, were for the most part strangers, whose morals
were low, and who could not be expected to win the respectful esteem of
true lovers. The men enjoyed the society of these--their tumbling,
dancing, singing, and lively chat; but the distance was too great to
permit that deep devotion which characterises modern love. Moreover,
when a Greek speaks of love, we have to remember that he fell in love as
often with a male companion as with a woman--he admired the beauty of a
fair youth, and he felt in his presence very much as a modern lover
feels in the presence of his sweetheart. We have, therefore, to examine
expressions of love cautiously. Anacreon says, for instance, that love
clave him with an axe, like a smith; but it seems far more likely that
the reference is to the affection excited by some charming youth.[1] We
have a specimen remaining of the nonchalant style in which he addressed
a woman, in the ode commencing "O Thracian mare!"--Schneidewin, Poet.
Lyr. Anac. fr. 47.
The great poet of Love was not Anacreon, but Sappho, whose heart and
mind were both of the finest. Her life is involved in obscurity, but it
is probable that she was a strong advocate of woman's rights in her own
land; and as she found men falling in love with other men, so she took
special pains to win the affections of the young Æolian ladies, to train
them in all the accomplishments suited to woman's nature, and to
initiate them into the art of poetry,--that art without which, she says,
a woman's memory would be for ever forgotten, and she would go to the
house of Hades, to dwell with the shadowy dead, uncared for and unknown.
We have two poems of hers which have come down to us tolerably complete,
both, we think, addressed to some of her female friends, and both
remarkably sweet, touching, and beautiful.
The Scottish songs devoted to other subjects than love are few, and
almost exclusively descriptive. Our sense of the humorous gives us a
delight in queer and odd characters, in which the Greeks probably would
not have participated. Though they had an abundance of wit, and a keen
perception of the ridiculous, no songs have reached us which are
intended to please by their pure absurdity and good-natured foolishness.
Archilochus and Hipponax wrote many a jocular song; but the fun of the
thing would have been lost, had the sting which they contained been
extracted.
Nor do the Greeks seem to have cared much for descriptive songs. They
frequently introduced their heroes into their odes, but these were ever
living, ever present to their minds; and several of the songs written on
particular occasions were probably sung when the singer had no connexion
with the events. But they lived, like boys, too much in the present, to
throw themselves back into the past. They wished to give utterance to
the feelings of the moment in their own persons, and directly; while we
are content to be mere listeners, and are often as much pleased by the
occurrences of another's life as by the sentiments of our own hearts.
We are remarkably deficient in what are called class-songs. The Greeks
had none of these, for there scarcely existed any classes but free and
slave. The people were all one--had the same interests and the same
emotions. There was far less of individuality with them than with us,
and there was still less of that feeling which divides society into
exclusive circles. A Greek turned his hand to anything that came in his
way, while division of labour has reached its utmost limit among us. We
can find, therefore, no contrast here between Greek and Scotch songs;
but we find a very marked one between Scotch and German. We have no
student-songs, very few expressive of the feelings of soldiers
(Lockhart's are almost the only), sailors, or of any other class.
Indeed, we are deficient not only in class-songs, but in social-songs.
The Scotch propensity to indulge in drink is, unfortunately, notorious;
and yet our drinking-songs of a really social nature would be comprised
in a few pages. One sings of his coggie, as if he were in the custom of
gulping his whisky all alone; many describe the boisterous carousals in
which they made fools of themselves; not a few extol the power and
properties of whisky, and incite to Bacchanalian pleasures; and we have
several good songs suitable for singing at the close of an evening
pleasantly spent, but almost none which express the feelings that
naturally well-up when one sees his friends around him, becomes
exhilarated through pleasant social intercourse, and finds the path of
life smoothed and sweetened by the aid of his brothers.
The reason of this peculiar circumstance is not far to seek. It lies in
the distinctive character of the two great classes into which the Scotch
have been divided since the Reformation, called, at the early period of
Scottish song, the Covenanters and the Cavaliers. The one party bowed
before religion, most scrupulously abstained from all worldly pleasures,
and regarded and denounced as sin, or something akin to it, every
approach to levity or frivolity. The other party was a wild rebound from
this. Sanctimoniousness was hateful in their eye; and not being able to
find a medium, they abjured religion, and rushed into the pleasures of
this life with headlong zest. The poets, in accordance with their
joy-loving natures, allied themselves to the latter class. There was
thus in Scotland a deep, dark gulf between the religious and the
poetical or beautiful, which has not yet been completely bridged over.
The consequence is, that the elder Scottish songs, of all songs, contain
the fewest references to the Divine Being. The name of God is never
mentioned unless in the caricatures of the Covenanters; and a foreigner,
taking up a book of Scottish songs written since the Reformation, and
judging of the religion of the Scotch from them alone, would be prone to
suppose that, if Scotland had any religion at all, it consisted in using
the name of the devil occasionally with respect or with dread. The
Cavaliers, in their most energetic moods, swore by him and by no other;
while the Covenanters had no songs at all, scarcely any poetry of any
kind, and doubtless would have regarded as impious the tracing of any
but the most spiritual pleasures to God. The words, for instance, which
Allan Cunningham puts into the mouth of a Covenanter, "I hae sworn by my
God, my Jeanie" (p. 17 of this volume), would still be regarded by many
people as profane.
The case was the very opposite with the Greeks. Every joy, every sorrow,
was traced to the gods. They almost never opened their lips without an
allusion to their divinities. They sang their praises in their
processions and in all their public ceremonials. Wine was a gift from a
kind and beneficent god, to cheer their hearts and soothe the sorrows of
life. And they delighted in invoking his presence, in celebrating his
adventures, and in using moderately and piously the blessings which he
bestowed on them. Then, again, when love seized them, it was a god that
had taken possession of their minds. They at once recognised a superior
power, and they worshipped him in song with heart and soul. In fact,
whatever be the subject of song, the gods are recognised as the rulers
of the destinies of men, and the causes of all their joys and sorrows.
We cannot expect such a strong infusion of the supernatural in modern
lays, but still we have enough of it in German songs to form a
remarkable contrast to Scotch. Take any German song-book, and you will
immediately come upon a recognition of a higher power as the spring of
our joys, and upon an expressed desire to use them, so as to bring us
nearer one another, and to make us more honest, upright, happy, and
contented men. Let this one verse, taken from a song of Schiller's, in
singing which a German's heart is sure to glow, suffice:--
"Joy sparkles to us from the bowl!
Behold the juice, whose golden colour
To meekness melts the savage soul,
And gives despair a hero's valour!
"Up, brothers! Lo, we crown the cup!
Lo, the wine flashes to the brim!
Let the bright foam spring heavenward! 'Up!'
TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--this glass to HIM!
_Chorus._
"Praised by the ever-whirling ring
Of stars and tuneful seraphim--
TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--the Father-king
In heaven!--this glass to Him!"[2]
We meet with the contrast in the Reformers of the respective
nations--Knox and Luther. Knox, ever stern, frowning on all the
amusements of the palace and the people, and indifferent to every
species of poetry; Luther, often drinking his mug of ale in a tavern,
making and singing his tunes and songs, and though frequently enough
tormented by devils, yet still ready to throw aside the cares of life
for a while, and enjoy himself in hearty intercourse with the various
classes of the people. Who would have expected the German Reformer to be
the author of the couplet--
"He who loves not women, wine, and song,
Will be a fool his whole life long."
And yet he was. And his songs, sacred though most of them be, have a
place in German song-books to this day.
Though Scottish songs seldom refer to a Divine Being, yet they are very
far from being without their noble sentiments and inspirations. On the
contrary, they have frequently sustained the moral life of a man. "Who
dare measure in doubt," says William Thom in his "Recollections," "the
restraining influences of these very songs? To us, they were all instead
of sermons.... Poets were indeed our priests. But for those, the last
relict of our moral existence would have surely passed away!"
Yet there is a marked contrast between the very aims of Scottish and
Greek song-writers. The Scottish wish merely to please, and consequently
never concern themselves with any of the deeper subjects of this life or
the life to come. There is seldom an allusion to death, or to any of the
great realities that sternly meet the gaze of a contemplative man. There
may be a few exceptions in the case of pious song-writers, like Lady
Nairn; but even such poets are shy of making songs the vehicle of what
is serious or profound. The Greeks, on the other hand, regarding their
poets as inspired, expected from them the deepest wisdom, and in fact
delighted in any verse which threw light on the great mysteries of life
and death. Thus it happens that the remains of the Greek lyric poets,
especially the later, such as Simonides and Bacchylides, are principally
of a deeply moral cast. The Greeks do not seem to have had the
extravagant rage which now prevails for merely figurative language. They
sought for truth itself, and the man became a poet who clothed living
truths in the most appropriate and expressive words.
There is a remarkable contrast between the Scotch and Greeks in their
historical songs. The lyric muse sings at great epochs, because then the
deepest emotions of the human heart are roused. But since, in Greece,
the states were small, and every emotion thrilled through all the free
citizens, there was more of determined and unanimous feeling than with
us, and consequently a greater desire to see the heroic deeds of
themselves or their fellows wedded to verse. And then, too, the poet did
not live apart; he was one of the people, a soldier and a citizen as
well as others, and animated by exactly the same feelings, though with
greater rapture. This is the reason why the Greeks abounded in songs in
honour of their brave. At the time of the resistance to the Persian
invasion, there was no end to the encomiums and pæans. Almost every
individual hero was celebrated, and these songs were made by the
acknowledged masters of the lyre, such as Æschylus and Simonides. With
us, great deeds have to wait their poets. Distance of time must first
throw around them a poetic hue; and after the hero has sunk unnoticed
into a nameless grave, the bard showers his praises on him, and his
worth is universally recognised. Or if his merits are discerned before
his death, song is not one of the appointed organs through which our
people demand that he should be praised. If a heroic action gets its
poet, the people will listen; but if it pass unsung, none will regret
it. Besides, we do not discern the poetry of the present so strongly as
the Greeks did. Everything with them seems to have been capable of
finding its way into verse. Alcman delights in speaking of his porridge,
and Alcæus of the various implements of war which adorned his hall. The
real world in which the Greeks moved had the most powerful attraction
for them. This is also, in a great measure, true of the unknown poets,
who have contributed so much to Scottish minstrelsy in the days of the
later Stuarts. There is no squeamishness about the introduction of
realities, whatever they be; and the people took delight in a mere
series of names skilfully strung together, or even in an enumeration of
household articles or dishes.[3]
This pleasure in the contemplation of the actual things around us, is
not nearly so great in modern cultivated minds. We are continually
trying to get out of ourselves, to transport ourselves to other times,
and to throw ourselves into bygone scenes and characters. Hence it is
that almost all our best historical songs, written in these days, have
their basis in the past; and the one which moves us most powerfully,
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," actually carries us back to the times
of Robert the Bruce.
It is rather singular that most of the Scottish songs which refer to our
history, are essentially aristocratic, and favourable to the divine
right of kings. The Covenanters--our true freemen--disdained the use of
the poet's pen. They uttered none of their aspirations for freedom in
song, and thus the Royalists had the whole field of song-writing to
themselves. Such was the state of matters until Burns rose from amidst
the people, and sang in his own grand way of the inherent dignity of man
as man, and of the rights of labour. It is one of the frequent
contradictions which we see in human nature, that the very same people
who sing "A Man's a Man for a' that," and "Scots wha hae," mourn over
the unfortunate fate of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and lament his disasters,
as if his succession to the throne of Scotland would have been a
blessing. Notwithstanding, however, what Burns has done, Scotland is
still deficient in songs embodying her ardent love of freedom. Liberty
and her blessings are still unsung. It was not so in Greece, especially
in Athens. The whole city echoed with hymns in its praise, and the
people wiled away their leisure in making little chants on the men who
they fancied had given the death-blow to tyranny. The scolia of
Callistratus, beginning, "I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bow," are well
known.
Few of the patriotic songs of the Greeks are extant, and it is probable
that they were not so numerous as ours. Institutions had a more powerful
hold on them than localities. They were proud of themselves as Greeks,
and of their traditions; but wherever they wandered, they carried Greece
with them, for they were part of Greece themselves. Thus we may account
for the absence of Greek songs expressive of longing for their native
land, and of attachment to their native soil. We, on the other hand,
have very many patriotic songs, full of that warm enthusiasm which every
Scotsman justly feels for his country, and containing frequently a much
higher estimate of ourselves and our position than other nations would
reckon true or fair. In these songs, we are exceedingly confined in our
sympathies. The nationality is stronger than the humanity. We have no
such songs as the German, "Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland?"
Perhaps there is no point in which the Greeks contrast with the Scotch
and all moderns more strikingly than in their mode of describing nature.
This contrast holds good only between the cultivated Greek and the
cultivated modern; for the cultivated Greek and the uncultivated
Scotsman are one in this respect. Perhaps we should state it most
correctly, if we say that the Greek never pictures natural scenery with
words--the modern often makes the attempt. There is no song like Burns's
"Birks o' Aberfeldy," or even like the "Welcome to May"[4] of early
Scottish poetry, in the Greek lyric poets. The Greek poet seizes one or
two characteristic traits in which he himself finds pleasure; but his
descriptions are not nicely shaded, minute, or calculated to bring the
landscape before the mind's eye. No doubt, the Greek was led to this
course by an instinct. For, first, his interest in inanimate nature was
nothing as compared to his strong sympathies with man. He had not
discovered that "God made the country, and man made the town." The gods,
according to his notion, ruled the destinies of man, and every thought
and device of man were inspirations from above. He saw infinitely more
of deity in his fellow-men--in his and their pleasures, pursuits, and
hopes--than in all the insentient things on the face of the earth; and
consequently he clung to men. He delighted in representations of them;
and in embodying his conceptions of the gods, he gave them the human
form as the noblest and most beautiful of all forms. Nature was merely a
background exquisitely beautiful, but not to be enjoyed without the
presence of man. And, secondly, though the Greeks may not have
enunciated the principle, that poetry is not the art suited for
picturing nature, still they probably had an instinctive feeling of its
truth. Poetry, as Lessing pointed out in his Laocoon, has the element of
time in it, and is therefore inapplicable in the description of those
things which, while composed of various parts, must be comprehended at
one glance before the right impression is produced. Look how our modern
poet goes to work! He has a fair scene before his fancy. He paints every
part of it, with no reason why one part should be placed before
another,--and as you read it, you have to piece each part together, as
in a child's dissected map; and after you have constructed the whole out
of the fragments, you have to imagine the effect. The Greek told you the
effect at once,--he gave up the attempt to picture the scene in words.
But when he had to deal with any part of nature that had life or motion
in it--in fact, any element of time--then he was as minute as the most
thorough Wordsworthian could wish. How admirably, for instance, does
Homer describe the advance of a foam-crested wave, or the rush of a
lion, the swoop of an eagle, or the trail of a serpent!
The Greeks were as much gladdened by the sight of flowers as moderns.
Did they not use them continually on all festive occasions, public and
private? But minuteness of detail was out of the question in poetry. The
poet was not to play the painter or the naturalist. And it had not yet
become the fashion to profess a mysterious inexpressible joy in the
observation of natural scenery. Nor had men as yet retired from human
society in disgust, or in search of freedom from sin, and betaken
themselves to the love of pure inanimate objects instead of the love of
sin-stained man. It had not yet become unlawful, as it did with the
Arabs afterwards, to represent the human form in sculpture. Human nature
was not looked on as so contemptible, that it would be appropriate to
represent human bodies writhing under gargoyles, as in Gothic churches,
or beneath pillars, as in Stirling Palace. The human form was then
considered diviner than the forms of lions or flowers.
In bold personification of natural objects, the Greeks could not be
easily surpassed. In reality, it was not personification with them,--it
was simply the result of the ideas they had formed regarding causation.
If a river flowed down, fringed with flowery banks, they imagined there
must be some cause for this, and so they summoned up before their fancy
a beautiful river-god crowned with a garland. Even in the more common
process of making nature pour back on us the sentiments we unconsciously
lend her, the Greeks were very far from deficient. The passage in which
Alcman describes the hills, and all the tribes of living things as
asleep,[5] and the celebrated fragment of Simonides on Danae, where she
says, "Let the deep sleep, let immeasurable evil sleep," are only two
out of very many instances that might be quoted.
Perhaps the most marked instance of the poetic instinct of the Greeks,
is their avoiding descriptions of personal beauty. Though they were
permeated by the idea, and thrillingly sensitive to it, it is easier to
tell what a Scotch poet regards as elements of beauty than what a Greek
did. A beautiful person with the Greek is a beautiful person; and that
is all he says about the matter. This is not true of the Anacreontics,
or of the Latin poets. Now, in Scotland, again, there is little feeling
of beauty of any kind. A Scottish boy wantonly mars a beautiful object
for mere fun. There is not a monument set up, not a fine building or
ornament, but will soon have a chip struck off it, if a Scotch boy can
get near it. And the Scotsman, as a general matter, sees beauty nowhere
except in a "bonnie lassie." Even then, when he comes to define what he
thinks beautiful features, he is at fault, and there are songs in praise
of the narrow waist, and other enormities--
"She 's backet like a peacock;
She 's breasted like a swan;
She 's jimp about the middle,
Her waist you weel may span--
Her waist you weel may span;
And she has a rolling e'e,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I 'd lay down my head and die."
It is needless to say that we are very far from having exhausted our
subject. Few contrasts could be greater than that which exists between
Greek and Scotch songs, and perhaps mainly for this reason, that
Scotland has felt so very little of the influence of Greek literature.
German poetry had its origin in a revived study of the great Greek
classics; and such a study is the very thing required to give breadth to
our character, and to supplement its most striking deficiencies.
[1] Later writers attributed to Anacreon immoralities in Paiderastia of
which they themselves were guilty, but of which there is not the
slightest trace in him, or indeed in any of the early bards. Welcker
(Sappho von einem herrschenden Vorurtheile befreit) has successfully
defended the character of Sappho from the accusations of a later age,
and it would be easy to do the same both for Alcæus and Anacreon.
[2] Schiller's Poems and Ballads, by Bulwer, vol. ii., p. 122. The whole
song should be read. Bulwer calls it a "Hymn to Joy," Schiller himself,
simply, "To Joy."
[3] There is a curious instance of this in the song, "The Blithesome
Bridal."--Chambers's "Scottish Songs," p. 71.
[4] Sibbald's "Chronicle of Scottish Poetry," vol. iii., p. 193.
[5] Campbell has translated this fragment, but he has not retained the
simplicity of the original.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, 1
She 's gane to dwall in heaven, 9
The lovely lass of Preston mill, 10
Gane were but the winter cauld, 12
It's hame, and it's hame, 13
The lovely lass of Inverness, 14
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 15
The bonnie bark, 16
Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 17
Young Eliza, 19
Lovely woman, 20
EBENEZER PICKEN, 22
Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e, 24
Woo me again, 25
STUART LEWIS, 27
Lanark mills, 30
O'er the muir, 31
DAVID DRUMMOND, 34
The bonnie lass o' Levenside, 36
JAMES AFFLECK, 38
How blest were the days, 39
JAMES STIRRAT, 40
Henry, 41
Mary, 42
JOHN GRIEVE, 43
Culloden; or, Lochiel's Farewell, 46
Lovely Mary, 48
Her blue rollin' e'e, 48
CHARLES GRAY, 50
Maggie Lauder, 52
Charlie is my darling, 53
The black-e'ed lassie, 54
Grim winter was howlin', 55
JOHN FINLAY, 57
O! come with me, 59
'Tis not the rose upon the cheek, 60
I heard the evening linnet's voice, 61
Oh! dear were the joys, 62
WILLIAM NICHOLSON, 63
The braes of Galloway, 65
The hills of the Highlands, 66
The banks of Tarf, 67
O! will ye go to yon burn-side? 68
ALEXANDER RODGER, 71
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen, 73
Behave yoursel' before folk, 74
Lovely maiden, 76
The peasant's fireside, 78
Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell," 79
JOHN WILSON, 81
Mary Gray's song, 86
The three seasons of love, 88
Prayer to Sleep, 90
DAVID WEBSTER, 91
Tak it, man; tak it, 92
Oh, sweet were the hours, 94
Pate Birnie, 95
WILLIAM PARK, 97
The patriot's song, 99
THOMAS PRINGLE, 102
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, 106
The exile's lament, 107
Love and solitude, 108
Come awa', come awa', 109
Dearest love, believe me, 110
WILLIAM KNOX, 112
The dear Land o' Cakes, 114
The lament, 116
To Mary, 116
WILLIAM THOM, 118
Jeanie's grave, 121
They speak o' wiles, 122
The mitherless bairn, 123
The lass o' Kintore, 124
My hameless ha', 125
WILLIAM GLEN, 126
Waes me for Prince Charlie! 128
Mary of sweet Aberfoyle, 129
The battle-song, 131
The maid of Oronsey, 134
Jess M'Lean, 136
How eerily, how drearily, 137
The battle of Vittoria, 139
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 140
Fareweel to Aberfoyle, 141
DAVID VEDDER, 143
Jeanie's welcome hame, 146
I neither got promise of siller, 147
There is a pang for every heart, 148
The first of May, 149
Song of the Scottish exile, 150
The tempest is raging, 151
The temple of nature, 152
JOHN M'DIARMID, 155
Nithside, 158
Evening, 159
PETER BUCHAN, 162
Thou gloomy Feberwar, 164
WILLIAM FINLAY, 166
The breaking heart, 167
The auld emigrant's fareweel to Scotland, 167
O'er mountain and valley, 169
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, 171
Broadswords of Scotland, 177
Captain Paton's lament, 178
Canadian boat-song, 183
THOMAS MATHERS, 184
Early love, 185
JAMES BROWN, 186
My Peggy's far away, 187
Love brought me a bough, 188
How 's a' wi' ye, 189
Oh! sair I feel the witching power, 192
DANIEL WEIR, 194
See the moon, 196
Love is timid, 196
Raven's stream, 197
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours, 198
Could we but look beyond our sphere, 199
In the morning of life, 200
On the death of a promising child, 201
The dying hour, 202
The midnight wind, 203
ROBERT DAVIDSON, 206
Farewell to Caledonia, 207
On visiting the scenes of early days, 208
To wander lang in foreign lands, 210
PETER ROGER, 212
Lovely Jean, 214
JOHN MALCOLM, 215
The music of the night, 217
The sea, 218
ERSKINE CONOLLY, 220
Mary Macneil, 221
There 's a thrill of emotion, 222
GEORGE MENZIES, 223
The braes of Auchinblae, 224
Fare thee weel, 225
JOHN SIM, 226
Nae mair we 'll meet, 227
Bonnie Peggy, 227
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er, 229
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 230
Jeanie Morrison, 233
Wearie's Well, 236
Wae be to the orders, 238
The midnight wind, 239
He is gone! he is gone! 240
DAVID MACBETH MOIR, 242
Casa Wappy, 245
Farewell, our fathers' land, 249
Heigh ho, 250
ROBERT FRASER, 252
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, 253
JAMES HISLOP, 254
The Cameronian's dream, 257
How sweet the dewy bell is spread, 259
ROBERT GILFILLAN, 261
Manor braes, 262
Fare thee well, 263
The first rose of summer, 264
The exile's song, 264
The happy days o' youth, 266
'Tis sair to dream, 267
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
WILLIAM ROSS, 271
The Highland May, 272
The Celt and the stranger, 274
Cormac's cure, 274
The last lay of love, 276
LACHLAN MACVURICH, 279
The exile of Cluny, 280
JAMES M'LAGGAN, 282
Song of the royal Highland regiment, 284
* * * * *
GLOSSARY, 287
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Allan Cunningham was born at Blackwood, in Nithside, Dumfriesshire, on
the 7th December 1784. Of his ancestry, some account has been given in
the memoir of his elder brother Thomas.[6] He was the fourth son of his
parents, and from both of them inherited shrewdness and strong
talent.[7] Receiving an ordinary elementary education at a school,
taught by an enthusiastic Cameronian, he was apprenticed in his eleventh
year to his eldest brother James as a stone-mason. His hours of leisure
were applied to mental improvement; he read diligently the considerable
collection of books possessed by his father, and listened to the
numerous legendary tales which his mother took delight in narrating at
the family hearth. A native love for verse-making, which he possessed in
common with his brother Thomas, was fostered and strengthened by his
being early brought into personal contact with the poet Burns. In 1790,
his father removed to Dalswinton, in the capacity of land-steward to Mr
Miller, the proprietor, and Burns' farm of Ellisland lay on the opposite
side of the Nith. The two families in consequence met very frequently;
and Allan, though a mere boy, was sufficiently sagacious to appreciate
the merits of the great bard. Though, at the period of Burns' death, in
1796, he was only twelve years old, the appearance and habits of the
poet had left an indelible impression on his mind.
In his fifteenth year, Allan had the misfortune to lose his father, who
had sunk to the grave under the pressure of poverty and misfortune; he
thus became necessitated to assist in the general support of the family.
At the age of eighteen he obtained the acquaintance of the Ettrick
Shepherd; Hogg was then tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of
Mitchelslack, in Nithsdale, and Cunningham, who had read some of his
stray ballads, formed a high estimate of his genius. Along with his
elder brother James, he paid a visit to the Shepherd one autumn
afternoon on the great hill of Queensberry; and the circumstances of the
meeting, Hogg has been at pains minutely to record. James Cunningham
came forward and frankly addressed the Shepherd, asking if his name was
Hogg, and at the same time supplying his own; he then introduced his
brother Allan, who diffidently lagged behind, and proceeded to assure
the Shepherd that he had brought to see him "the greatest admirer he had
on earth, and himself a young aspiring poet of some promise." Hogg
warmly saluted his brother bard, and, taking both the strangers to his
booth on the hill-side, the three spent the afternoon happily together,
rejoicing over the viands of a small bag of provisions, and a bottle of
milk, and another of whisky. Hogg often afterwards visited the
Cunninghams at Dalswinton, and was forcibly struck with Allan's
luxuriant though unpruned fancy. He had already written some ingenious
imitations of Ossian, and of the elder Scottish bards.
On the publication of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," in 1805,
Cunningham contrived to save twenty-four shillings of his wages to
purchase it, and forthwith committed the poem to memory. On perusing the
poem of "Marmion," his enthusiasm was boundless; he undertook a journey
to Edinburgh that he might look upon the person of the illustrious
author. In a manner sufficiently singular, his wish was realised.
Passing and repassing in front of Scott's house in North Castle Street,
he was noticed by a lady from the window of the adjoining house, who
addressed him by name, and caused her servant to admit him. The lady was
a person of some consideration from his native district, who had fixed
her residence in the capital. He had just explained to her the object of
his Edinburgh visit, when Scott made his appearance in the street.
Passing his own door, he knocked at that of the house from the window of
which his young admirer was anxiously gazing on his stalwart figure. As
the lady of the house had not made Scott's acquaintance, she gently laid
hold on Allan's arm, inducing him to be silent, to notice the result of
the proceeding. Scott, in a reverie of thought, had passed his own
door; observing a number of children's bonnets in the lobby, he suddenly
perceived his mistake, and, apologising to the servant, hastily
withdrew.