Amynta. My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, Through regions remote in vain do I rove, Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine; ALEXANDER ROSS. ALEXANDER Ross, a schoolmaster in Lochlee, in Angus, when nearly seventy years of age, in 1768, published at Aberdeen, by the advice of Dr Beattie, a volume entitled Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which are added a few Songs by the Author. Ross was a good descriptive poet, and some of his songs-as Woo'd, and Married, and a', The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow-are still popular in Scotland. Being chiefly written in the Kincardineshire dialect-which differs in many expressions, and in pronunciation, from the Lowland Scotch of Burns-Ross is less known out of his native district than he ought to be. Beattie took a warm interest in the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man'-who was independent on £20 a year-and to promote the sale of his volume, he addressed a letter and a poetical epistle in praise of it to the Aberdeen Journal. The epistle is remarkable as Beattie's only attempt in Aberdeenshire Scotch; one verse of it is equal to Burns: O bonny are our greensward hows, And saft winds rustle, And shepherd lads on sunny knowes Ross died in 1784, at the age of eighty-six. Woo'd, and Married, and a'. The bride cam out o' the byre, And have neither blankets nor sheets; Nor scarce a coverlet too; That was woo'd, and married, and a'? Out spake the bride's father, As he cam in frae the pleugh: 'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye 'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your cornWhat wad ye be at, ye jaud?' Out spake the bride's mither: Out spake the bride's brither, I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.' Out spake the bride's sister, As she cam in frae the byre: 'O gin I were but married, It's a' that I desire ; But we poor folk maun live single, And do the best that we can ; I dinna care what I should want, If I could get but a man.' JOHN LOWE. JOHN LOWE (1750-1798), a student of divinity, son of the gardener at Kenmore in Galloway, was author of the fine pathetic lyric, Mary's Dream, which he wrote on the death of a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, who was attached to a Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was tutor in the family of the lady's father, and was betrothed to her sister. He emigrated to America, however, where he made an unhappy marriage, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Freder icksburgh. Mary's Dream. The moon had climbed the highest hill Her silver light on tower and tree; Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying: 'Mary, weep no more for me!' She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale, and hollow ee. 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me! 'Three stormy nights and stormy days So, Mary, weep no more for me! LADY ANNE BARNARD was authoress of Auld Robin Gray, one of the most perfect, tender, and affecting of all our ballads or tales of humble life. About the year 1771, Lady Anne composed the ballad to an ancient air. It instantly became popular, but the lady kept the secret of its authorship for the long period of fifty years, when, in 1823, she acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, accompanying the disclosure with a full account of the circumstances under which it was written. At the same time, Lady Anne sent two continuations to the ballad, which like all other continuations-Don Quixote, perhaps, excepted are greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its parts, that no additions could be made without marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady Anne was daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres; she was born 8th December 1750, married in 1793 to Mr Andrew Barnard, son of the bishop of Limerick, and afterwards secretary, under Lord Macartney, to the colony at the Cape of Good Hope. She died, without issue, on the 6th of May 1825. Auld Robin Gray. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, MISS JANE ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. Two national ballads, bearing the name of The Flowers of the Forest, continue to divide the favour of all lovers of song, and both are the composition of ladies. In minute observation of domestic life, traits of character and manners, and the softer language of the heart, ladies have often excelled the lords of the creation.' The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto Minto. The second song, which appears to be on (1727-1805), daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot of the same subject, but was in reality occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford of Fernilie, who was afterwards married to Mr Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794. We agree with Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective. Sir Walter Scott has noticed how happily the manner When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's of the ancient minstrels is imitated by Miss come hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; me. Elliot. The Flowers of the Forest; by Miss Jane Elliot. At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 1 One who binds sheaves after reapers in the harvest-field. Gray-haired. ROBERT FERGUSSON was the poet of Scottish city-life, or rather the laureate of Edinburgh. A happy talent in portraying the peculiarities of local manners, a keen perception of the ludicrous, a vein of original comic humour, and language at once copious and expressive, distinguish him as a poet. He had not the invention or picturesque fancy of Allan Ramsay, nor the energy and passion of Burns. His mind was a light warm soil, that threw up early its native products, sown by chance or little exertion; but it had not strength and tenacity to nurture any great or valuable production. A few short years, however, comprised his span of literature and of life; and criticism would be ill employed in scrutinising with severity the occasional poems of a youth of twenty-three, written from momentary feelings and impulses, amidst professional drudgery or midnight dissipation. Fergusson was born in Edinburgh on the 17th of October 1751. His father, who was an accountant in the British Linen Company's Bank, died early; but the poet received a university education, having obtained a bursary in St Andrews, where he continued from his thirteenth to his seventeenth year. On quitting college, he seems to have been truly unfitted with an aim,' and he was glad to take employment as a copyingclerk in a lawyer's office. In this mechanical and irksome duty his days were spent. His evenings were devoted to the tavern, where, over 'cauler oysters,' with ale or whisky, the choice spirits of Edinburgh used to assemble. Fergusson had dangerous qualifications for such a life. His conversational powers were of a very superior 714 description, and he could adapt them at will to humour, pathos, or sarcasm, as the occasion might require. He was well educated, had a fund of youthful gaiety, and sung Scottish songs with taste and effect. To these qualifications he soon added the reputation of a poet. Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine had been commenced in 1768, and was the chosen receptacle for the floating literature of that period in Scotland, particularly in Edinburgh. During the last two years of his life, Fergusson was a constant contributor to this miscellany, and in 1773 he collected and published his pieces in one volume. It was well received by the public. His dissipations, however, were always on the increase. His tavern-life and booncompanions were hastening him on to a premature and painful death. His reason first gave way, and his widowed mother being unable to maintain him at home, he was sent to an asylum for the insane. The religious impressions of his youth returned at times to overwhelm him with dread, but his gentle and affectionate nature was easily soothed by the attentions of his relatives and friends. His recovery was anticipated, but after about two months' confinement, he died in his cell on the 16th of October 1774. His remains were interred in the Canongate churchyard, where they lay unnoticed for many years, till Burns erected a simple stone to mark the poet's grave. The heartlessness of convivial friendships is well known: they literally 'wither and die in a day.' It is related, however, that a youthful companion of Fergusson, named Burnet, having gone to the East Indies, and made some money, invited over the poet, sending at the same time a draft for £100 to defray his expenses. This instance of before the letter arrived. generosity came too late: the poor poet had died genitor of Burns. Meeting with his poems in his Fergusson may be considered the poetical proyouth, the latter 'strung his lyre anew,' and copied the style and subjects of his youthful prototype. The resemblance, however, was only temporary and incidental. Burns had a manner of his own, and though he sometimes condescended, like Shakspeare, to work after inferior models, all that was rich and valuable in the composition was original and unborrowed. He had an excessive admiration for the writings of Fergusson, and even preferred them to those of Ramsay, an opinion in which few will concur. Fergusson lay, as we have stated, in his represenThe forte of tations of town-life. Sitting of the Session, Leith Races, &c. are all The King's Birthday, The excellent. Still better is his feeling description of the importance of Guid Braid Claith, and his Address to the Tron Kirk Bell. In these we have a current of humorous observations, poetical fancy, and genuine idiomatic Scottish expression. The Farmer's Ingle suggested the Cotter's Saturday Night of Burns, and it is as faithful in its descriptions, though of a humbler class. Burns added passion, sentiment, and patriotism to the subject: Fergusson's is a mere sketch, an inventory of a farmhouse, unless we except the concluding stanza, which speaks to the heart": Peace to the husbandman, and a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the glebe, And banks of corn bend down wi' laded ear! May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green; Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freed— In one department-lyrical poetry, whence Burns draws so much of his glory-Fergusson does not seem, though a singer, to have made any efforts to excel. In English poetry he utterly failed; and if we consider him in reference to his countrymen, Falconer or Logan-he received the same education as the latter-his inferior rank as a general poet will be apparent. Braid Claith. Ye wha are fain to hae your name To laurelled wreath, But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In guid braid claith. He that some ells o' this may fa', When bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw, Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't! On Sabbath-days the barber spark, When he has done wi' scrapin' wark, Wi' siller broachie in his sark, Gangs trigly, faith! Or to the Meadows, or the Park, Weel might ye trow, to see them there, Would be right laith, When pacin' wi' a gawsy air If ony mettled stirrah grien His body in a scabbard clean O' guid braid claith. For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare, Wooers should aye their travel spare, Braid claith lends fouk an unco heeze; In short, you may be what you please, For though ye had as wise a snout on, As Shakspeare or Sir Isaac Newton, Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on, Till they could see ye wi' a suit on Cauler Water, When father Adie first pat spade in Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin', A cauler burn o' siller sheen, Ran cannily out-owre the green; And when our gutcher's drouth had been He loutit down, and drank bedeen His bairns had a', before the flood, Wha still hae been a feckless brood, The fuddlin' bardies, now-a-days, While each his sea of wine displays My Muse will no gang far frae hame, This is the name that doctors use, In kittle words to gar you roose The fairest, then, might die a maid, And Cupid quit his shootin' trade; For wha, through clarty masquerade, Could then discover Whether the features under shade Were worth a lover? As simmer rains brings simmer flowers, As for estate, or heavy dowers, Aft stands in room. What maks Auld Reekie's dames sae fair? It canna be the halesome air; But cauler burn, beyond compare, That gars them a' sic graces skair, On May-day, in a fairy ring, We've seen them round St Anthon's spring,1 And water, clear as crystal spring, O may they still pursue the way To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gae! The goddess of the vocal spray, A Sunday in Edinburgh.-From 'Auld Reekie.' On Sunday, here, an altered scene In afternoon, a' brawly buskit, 1 St Anthony's Well, a beautiful small spring on Arthur's Seat, near Edinburgh. Thither it was long the practice of young Edin burgh maidens to resort on May-day. 716 If Fancy there would join the thrang, Or should some cankered biting shower The day and a' her sweets deflower, To Holyroodhouse let me stray, And gie to musing a' the day; Lamenting what auld Scotland knew, Bien days for ever frae her view. O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse Would pay to thee her couthy vows, Gin ye wad tent the humble strain, And gie's our dignity again! For, oh, wae's me! the thistle springs In domicile o' ancient kings, Without a patriot to regret Our palace and our ancient state. DRAMATISTS. The tragic drama of this period bore the impress of the French school, in which cold correctness or turgid declamation was more regarded than the natural delineation of character and the fire of genius. One improvement was the complete separation of tragedy and comedy. Otway and Southerne had marred the effect of some of their most pathetic and impressive dramas, by the introduction of farcical and licentious scenes and characters, but they were the last who committed this incongruity. Public taste had become more critical, aided perhaps by the papers of Addison in the Spectator, and by other essayists, as well as by the more general diffusion of literature and knowledge. Fashion and interest combined to draw forth dramatic talent. A writer for the stage, it has been justly remarked, like the public orator, has the gratification of 'witnessing his own triumphs; of seeing in the plaudits, tears, or smiles of delighted spectators, the strongest testimony to his own powers.' The publication of his play may also insure him the fame and profit of authorship. If successful on the stage, the remuneration was then considerable. Authors were generally allowed the profits of three nights' performances; and Goldsmith, we find, thus derived between four and five hundred pounds by She Stoops to Conquer. The genius of Garrick may also be considered as lending fresh attraction and popularity to the stage. Authors were ambitious of fame as well as profit by the exertions of an actor so well fitted to portray the various passions and emotions of human nature, and who partially succeeded in recalling the English taste to the genius of Shakspeare. One of the most successful and conspicuous of the tragic dramatists was the author of the Night Thoughts, who, before he entered the church, produced three tragedies, all having one peculiarity, that they ended in suicide. The Revenge, still a popular acting play, contains, amidst some rant and hyperbole, passages of strong passion and eloquent declamation. Like Othello, The Revenge is founded on jealousy, and the principal character, Zanga, is a Moor. The latter, son of the Moorish king Abdallah, is taken prisoner after a fell, and is condemned to servitude by Don conquest by the Spaniards, in which his father Alonzo. In revenge, he sows the seeds of jealousy |