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The Beggar.

By the Rev. T. Moss, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Hill and of Trentham, Staffordshire. He published in 1769 a small collection of miscellaneous poems.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ;

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed. Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow, and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter-once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife-sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your

door,

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While the pure stream, which still and slow,

Its gentler current brings,

Through every change of time shall flow,
With unexhausted springs.

Lines.

By Sir JOHN Henry Moore (1756-1780). Cease to blame my melancholy,

Though with sighs and folded arms I muse with silence on her charms; Censure not-I know 'tis folly.

Yet these mournful thoughts possessing, Such delights I find in grief,

That, could Heaven afford relief, My fond heart would scorn the blessing.*

SCOTTISH POETS.

Though most Scottish authors at this time—as Thomson, Mallet, &c.-composed in the English language, a few, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue. The best of these was Fergusson. The popularity of Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany led to other collections and to new contributions to Scottish song, including The Charmer, by J. Yair, 1749–51. In 1776 appeared Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, Heroic Ballads, &c. The editor of this collection was DAVID HERD (1732-1810), a native of St Cyrus, in Kincardineshire, who was clerk to an accountant in Edinburgh. Sir Walter Scott calls Herd's collection 'the first classical collection of Scottish Songs and Ballads.' Above fifty pieces were written down from recitation, and thus preserved by the meritorious editor.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour, a Scottish gentleman of education, rank, and accomplishments, was born of an ancient family in Ayrshire in 1704. He was the delight of the fashionable circles of his native country, and became early distinguished for his poetical talents. Struck, we may suppose, with the romance of the enterprise, Hamilton, in 1745, joined the standard of Prince Charles, and became the 'volunteer laureate' of the Jacobites, by celebrating the battle of Gladsmuir. On the discomfiture of the party, Hamilton succeeded in effecting his escape to France; but having many friends and admirers among the royalists at home, a pardon was procured for the rebellious poet, and he was soon restored to his native country and his paternal estate. He did not, however, live long to enjoy his good-fortune. His health had always been delicate, and a pulmonary complaint forced him to seek the warmer climate of the continent. He gradually declined, and died at Lyon in 1754.

Hamilton's first and best strains were dedicated

*These lines of the young poet seem to have suggested a similar piece by Samuel Rogers, entitled, "To ..

Go-you may call it madness, folly;
You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a treasure
Monarchs are too poor to buy.

to lyrical poetry. Before he was twenty, he had assisted Allan Ramsay in his Tea-table Miscellany. In 1748, some person, unknown to him, collected and published his poems in Glasgow; but the first genuine and correct copy did not appear till after the author's death, in 1760, when a collection was made from his own manuscripts. The most attractive feature in his works is his pure English style, and a somewhat ornate poetical diction. He had more fancy than feeling, and in this respect his amatory songs resemble those of the courtier-poets of Charles II.'s court. Nor was he more sincere, if we may credit an anecdote related of him by Alexander Tytler in his life of Henry Home, Lord Kames. One of the ladies whom Hamilton annoyed by his perpetual compliments and solicitations, consulted Home how she should get rid of the poet, who, she was convinced, had no serious object in view. The philosopher advised her to dance with him, and shew him every mark of her kindness, as if she had resolved to favour his suit. The lady adopted the counsel, and the success of the experiment was complete. Hamilton wrote a serious poem, entitled Contemplation, and a national one on the Thistle, which is in blank

verse:

How oft beneath

Its martial influence have Scotia's sons,

Through every age, with dauntless valour fought On every hostile ground! While o'er their breast, Companion to the silver star, blest type Of fame, unsullied and superior deed, Distinguished ornament! this native plant Surrounds the sainted cross, with costly row Of gems emblazed, and flame of radiant gold, A sacred mark, their glory and their pride! Professor Richardson of Glasgow-who wrote a critique on Hamilton in the Lounger-quotes the following as a favourable specimen of his poetical powers:

In everlasting blushes seen,

Such Pringle shines, of sprightly mien ;
To her the power of love imparts,
Rich gift! the soft successful arts,
That best the lover's fire provoke,
The lively step, the mirthful joke,
The speaking glance, the amorous wile,
The sportful laugh, the winning smile.
Her soul awakening every grace,
Is all abroad upon her face;
In bloom of youth still to survive,

All charms are there, and all alive.

Others of his amatory strains are full of quaint conceits and exaggerated expression, without any trace of real passion. His ballad of The Braes of Yarrow is by far the finest of his effusions: it has real nature, tenderness, and pastoral simplicity. Having led to the composition of Wordsworth's three beautiful poems, Yarrow Unvisited, Yarrow Visited, and Yarrow Revisited, it has, moreover, some external importance in the records of British literature. The poet of the lakes has copied some of its lines and images. A complete collated edition of Hamilton's poems and songs, edited by James Paterson, was published in 1850.

The Braes of Yarrow.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride;
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow !
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen,
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride;
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow !
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dool and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover, lover dear,

Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dool and sorrow! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the doolful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dool and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lo'e,

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Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

the

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'.
Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love;
In flowery bands thou him didst fetter;
Though he was fair and weil beloved again,
Than me he never lo'ed thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride;
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
C. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow,
How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow.

O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my love,

My love, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing.
Ah! wretched me! I little, little ken'd

He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dool and sorrow,

But ere the to-fall of the night,

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning,
But lang ere night, the spear was flown
That slew my love, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffin',

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

And strive with threatening words to move me, My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husband-lover.

But who the expected husband, husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ;
O lay his cold head on my pillow;

Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,

And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, O could my warmth to life restore thee! Ye'd lie all night between my breasts;

No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale, pale, indeed, O lovely, lovely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts;
No youth shall ever lie there after.

A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs;
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

JOHN SKINNER.

Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tullochgorum, the composition of the Rev. JOHN SKINNER (1721-1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good-will among men. Mr Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy

of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons! He died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised his wish of 'seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.' Besides Tullochgorum, and other songs, Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises.

Tullochgorum.

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, And lay your disputes all aside;

What signifies 't for folks to chide

For what's been done before them?

Let Whig and Tory all agree,

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whigmegmorum.
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To spend this night with mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me

The reel of Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',

And mak a cheerfu' quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.

There need nae be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum?

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But for the discontented fool,

Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum!

ROBERT CRAWFORD.

ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, was a cadet of the family of Crawford of Drumsoy. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his Tea-table Miscellany, and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733, aged about thirty-eight. Crawford had genuine poetical fancy and expression. The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, 'seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.'

The Bush aboon Traquair.

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her;
At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder;

I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her;

I tried to soothe my amorous flame,
In words that I thought tender;

If more there passed, I'm not to blame-
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;

If e'er we meet she shews disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloomed fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay-
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
O make her partner in my pains,

Then let her smiles relieve me : If not, my love will turn despair, My passion no more tender; I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair— To lonely wilds I'll wander.

Tweedside.

What beauties does Flora disclose!

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed.

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The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush; The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead;

Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feathered folk sing. How does my love pass the long day? Does Mary not tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray While happily she lies asleep? Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To ease the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgins excel;

No beauty with her may compare ; Love's graces around her do dwell;

She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh, tell me at morn where they feed? Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay? Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

LADY GRISELL BAILLIE.

A favourite Scottish song, Were na my Heart licht I wad dee, appeared in the Orpheus Caledonius about 1725, and was copied by Allan Ramsay into his Tea Table Miscellany. It was written by Lady GRISELL HOME, daughter of Sir Patrick Home, created Earl of Marchmont. She was born at Redbraes Castle, December 25, 1665; was married to George Baillie of Jerviswood in 1692, and died in London, December 6, 1746. The eldest daughter of Lady Grisell, namely, Lady Murray of Stanhope (whom Gay, in his poem entitled Mr Pope's Welcome from Greece, has celebrated as 'the sweet-tongued Murray'), wrote Memoirs of her parents, first published entire by Thomas Thomson, Deputy Clerk Register, Edinburgh, in 1822. This is a highly interesting and affecting biography, illustrating the profligacy and contempt of law and justice in the reigns of Charles II. and James II. We quote part of the narrative in which Lady Murray describes the sufferings of Lady Grisell and her father, Sir Patrick Home :

Her father thought it necessary to keep concealed; and soon found he had too good reason for so doing. parties being continually sent out in search of him, and often to his own house to the terror of all in it; though not from any fear for his safety, whom they imagined at a great distance from home; for no soul knew where he was, but my grandfather and my mother, except one man, a carpenter, named Jamie Winter, who used to work in the house. The frequent examinations and oaths put to servants, in order to make discoveries, were so strict they durst not run the risk of trusting any of them. By the assistance of this man, they got a bed and bed-clothes carried in the night to the burying-placea vault under ground at Polwarth church, a mile from the house, where he was concealed a month, and had only for light an open slit at one end. She went every night by herself at midnight to carry him victuals and drink, and stayed with him as long as she could to get

The

home before day. Often did they laugh heartily, in that doleful habitation, at different accidents that happened. She at that time had a terror for a churchyard, especially in the dark, as is not uncommon at her age, by idle nursery stories; but when engaged by concern for her father, she stumbled every night alone over the graves without fear of any kind entering her thoughts, but for soldiers and parties in search of him. minister's house was near the church; the first night she went, his dogs kept such a barking as put her to the utmost fear of a discovery: my grandmother sent for the minister next day, and upon pretence of a mad dog, got him to hang all his dogs. There was also difficulty of getting victuals to carry to him, without the servants suspecting; the only way it was done was by stealing it off her plate at dinner into her lap. Her father liked sheep's head; and while the children were eating their broth, she had conveyed most of one into her lap; when her brother Sandy (the late Lord Marchmont) had done, he looked up with astonishment, and said: 'Mother, will you look at Grisell? while we have been eating our broth, she has ate up the whole sheep's head!' This occasioned so much mirth amongst them, that her father at night was greatly entertained by it, and desired Sandy might have a share of the next. His great comfort and constant entertainment-for he had no light to read by was repeating Buchanan's Psalms, which he had by heart from beginning to end, and retained them to his dying day.

As the gloomy habitation my grandfather was in, was not to be long endured but from necessity, they were contriving other places of safety for him; amongst others, particularly one under a bed which drew out in a ground floor, in a room of which my mother kept the key. She and the same man worked in the night, making a hole in the earth, after lifting the boards; which they did by scratching it up with their hands, not to make any noise, till she left not a nail upon her fingers; she helping the man to carry the earth, as they dug it, in a sheet on his back, out at the window into the garden. He then made a box at his own house, large enough for her father to lie in, with bed and bedclothes, and bored holes in the boards for air. When all this was finished, she thought herself the most secure, happy creature alive. When it had stood the trial for a month of no water coming into it, her father ventured home, having that to trust to. After being at home a week or two, one day the bed bounced to the top, the box being full of water. In her life she was never so struck, and had near dropped down, it being at that time their only refuge. Her father, with great composure, said to his wife and her, he saw they must tempt Providence no longer, and that it was fit and necessary for him to go off and leave them.

Accordingly, Sir Patrick left Scotland disguised, travelling on horseback, and passing for a surgeon. He reached London in safety, and from thence proceeded to France and Holland; he had been joined by his wife and family, and they remained three years and a half in Holland; their estate was forfeited; but on the abdication of James II. and the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne of England, the exiles were restored to their country, their honours, and their patrimony. The faithful Grisell Home was married to her early love, George Baillie of Jerviswood, of whom she wrote in a book: 'The best of husbands, and delight of my life for forty-eight years, without one jar betwixt us.'

Were na my Heart licht.

There was ance a May,1 and she lo'ed na men ; She biggit her bonny bower down i' yon glen,

1 A maid.

But now she cries dool and well-a-day!
Come down the green gait, and come here away.

When bonny young Johnny cam ower the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me ;
He hecht1 me baith rings and mony braw things;
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.

He had a wee titty that lo'ed na me,
Because I was twice as bonny as she;
She raised such a pother 'twixt him and his mother,
That werena my heart licht I wad dee.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be :
The wife took a dwam,3 and lay down to dee;
She maned and she graned out o' dolour and pain,
Till he vowed he never wad see me again.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree,
Said, what had he to do wi' the like of me?
Albeit I was bonny, I wasna for Johnny :
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.
They said I had neither cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o' drink rins through the draff,*
Nor pickles o' meal rins through the mill-ee;
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.

His titty she was baith wily and slee,
She spied me as I cam owre the lea;
And then she cam in and made a loud din;
Believe your ain een an he trow na me.

His bonnet stood aye fu' round on his brow ;*
His auld ane looked aye as weel as some's new ;
But now he lets 't wear ony gait it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing.

And now he gaes daunerin about the dykes,
And a' he dow dae is to hound the tykes;
The live-lang nicht he ne'er steeks his ee,
And werena my heart licht I wad dee.

5

Were I young for thee as I hae been
We should hae been gallopin' down on yon green,
And linkin' it on yon lily-white lea;
And wow! gin I were but young for thee.

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT (1722-1777), author of what Sir Walter Scott calls the beautiful pastoral song,' beginning

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, was third baronet of Minto, and brother of Miss Jane Elliot. Sir Gilbert was educated for the Scottish bar; he was twenty years in parliament as member successively for the counties of Selkirk and Roxburgh, and was distinguished as a speaker. He was in 1763 appointed treasurer of the navy, and afterwards keeper of the Signet in Scotland. He died at Marseille, whither he had gone for the recovery of his health, in 1777. Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee says, that Sir Gilbert Elliot, who had been taught the German flute in France, was the first who introduced that instrument into Scotland, about the year 1725.

2 Sister. 4 Grains.

1 Offered or proffered. 3 Took an ill turn, a sickness. This stanza and the concluding one, somewhat altered, were applied by Burns to himself in his latter days, when the Dumfries gentry held aloof from the poet. See Lockhart's Life of Burns. A heap of grain inclosed, or boarded off.

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