Gloomy Winter's now Awa. Gloomy winter's now awa, The mavis sings fu' cheerie O. My young, my artless dearie O. Midst joys that never wearie O. Adorn the banks sae brierie O. Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feathery brekans fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheerie O. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie O. RICHARD GALL. Contemporary with Tannahill, and possessing a kindred taste in song-writing, was RICHARD GALL (1776-1801), who, whilst employed as a printer in Edinburgh, threw off some Scottish songs that were justly popular. My only jo and dearie O,' for pleasing fancy and musical expression, is not unworthy Tannahill. I remember,' says Allan Cunningham, ' when this song was exceedingly popular: its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft schoolgirl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.' My only Jo and Dearie 0. Upon the banks sae briery 0; O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee! The birdie sings upon the thorn Nae care to mak it eerie 0; Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0; I hac a wish I canna tine, And never mair to leave me 0: Then I wad daut thee night and day, Farewell to Ayrshire. [This song of Gall's has been often printed-in consequence First enthralled this heart o' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying, Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine! Friends so dear my bosom ever, Ye hae rendered moments dear; But, alas! when forced to sever, Then the stroke, oh! how severe ! Friends, that parting tear reserve it, Though 'tis doubly dear to me; Could I think I did deserve it, How much happier would I be! Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu! JOHN MAYNE. JOHN MAYNE, author of the Siller Gun, Glasgow, and other poems, was a native of Dumfries-born in the year 1761-and died in London in 1836. He was brought up to the printing business, and whilst apprentice in the Dumfries Journal office in 1777, in his sixteenth year, he published the germ of his Siller Gun' in a quarto page of twelve stanzas. The subject of the poem is an ancient custom in Dumfries, called Shooting for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small silver tube presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades as a prize to the best marksman. This poem Mr Mayne continued to enlarge and improve up to the time of his death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two years to two cantos; in another year (1780) the poem was published-enlarged to three cantos-in Ruddiman's Magazine; and in 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, who said (in one of his notes to the Lady of the Lake) 'that it surpassed the efforts of Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns.' In 1836 the Siller Gun' was again reprinted with the addition of a fifth canto. Mr Mayne was author of a short poem on Halloween, printed in Ruddiman's Magazine in 1780; and in 1781 he published at Glasgow his fine ballad of Logan Braes, which Burns had seen, and two lines of which he copied into his Logan Water. The 'Siller Gun' is humorous and descriptive, and is happy in both. The author is a shrewd and lively observer, full of glee, and also of gentle and affeetionate recollections of his native town and all its people and pastimes. The ballad of Logan Braes' is a simple and beautiful lyric, superior to the more elaborate version of Burns. Though long resident in London (as proprietor of the Star newspaper), Mr Mayne retained his Scottish enthusiasm to the last; and to those who, like ourselves, recollect him in advanced life, stopping in the midst of his duties, as a public journalist, to trace some remembrance of his native Dumfries and the banks of the Nith, or to hum over some rural or pastoral song which he had heard forty or fifty years before, his name, as well as his poetry, recalls the strength and permanency of early feelings and associations. Logan Braes. By Logan streams that rin sae deep, Nae mair at Logan kirk will he While my dear lad maun face his faes, At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, Helen of Kirkconnel. [Helen Irving, a young lady of exquisite beauty and accomplishments, daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of rank and fortune in that neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the sweet banks of the Kirtle, she was murdered by a disappointed and sanguinary rival. This catastrophe took place during the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, and is the subject of three different ballads: the first two are old, the third is the composition of the author of the Siller Gun.' It was first inserted in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1815) by Sir Walter Scott.] I wish I were where Helen lies, For, night and day, on me she cries; Still seems to beckon me! Where Kirtle-waters gently wind, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Though heaven forbids my wrath to swell, For if, where all the Oh! if on earth there's aught divine, Ah! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain ! No resting-place for me: I see her spirit in the airI hear the shriek of wild despair, When Murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Oh! when I'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, To the River Nith. Hail, gentle stream! for ever dear Blithe on thy banks, thou sweetest stream In pairs have dragged them from their den, [Mustering of the Trades to Shoot for the Siller Gha The lift was clear, the morn serene, Frae far and near the country lads And mony a beau and belle were there, The gowks, like bairns before a fair, Wi' hats as black as ony raven, Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl, O' scowling wife! But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel, Be blithe through life! 'Now, gentlemen! now, mind the motion, Wheel wi' your left hands to the ocean, Wi' that, the dinlin drums rebound, Trudge aff, while Echo's self is drowned SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL. SIR ALEXANDER Boswell (1775-1822), the eldest son of Johnson's biographer, was author of some amusing songs, which are still very popular. Auld Gudeman, ye're a Drucken Carle, Jenny's Bawbee, Jenny Dang the Weaver, &c. display considerable comic humour, and coarse but characteristic painting. The higher qualities of simple rustic grace and elegance he seems never to have attempted. In 1803 Sir Alexander collected his fugitive pieces, and published them under the title of Songs chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. In 1810 he published a Scottish dialogue, in the style of Fergusson, called Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty; a Sketch of Manners, by Simon Gray. This Sketch is greatly overcharged. Sir Alexander was an ardent lover of our early literature, and reprinted several works at his private printing-press at Auchinleck. When politics ran high, he unfortunately wrote some personal satires, for one of which he received a challenge from Mr Stuart of Dunearn. The parties met at Auchtertool, in Fifeshire: conscious of his error, Sir Alex ander resolved not to fire at his opponent; but Mr Stuart's shot took effect, and the unfortunate baronet fell. He died from the wound on the following day, the 26th of March 1822. He had been elevated to the baronetcy only the year previous. Jenny Dang the Weaver. At Willie's wedding on the green, But Jock would not believe her; And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, The coof would never leave her; He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, Peugh, And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Jenny's Bawbee. I met four chaps yon birks amang, Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel, The first, a captain till his trade, Quo' he, 'My goddess, nymph, and queen, But-Jenny's bawbee. A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, Accounts he had through a' the town, A Norland laird neist trotted up, What's gowd to me?-I've walth o' lan'; A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs, A Thing cam neist (but life has rubs), A' clatty, squintin' through a glass, She bade the laird gang comb his wig, The fool cried, "Tehee, I kent that I could never fail!' And kept her bawbee. Good Night, and Joy be wi ye a'. This song is supposed to proceed from the mouth of an aged chieftain.] Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'; Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart; May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw! In sorrow may ye never part! The mountain-fires now blaze in vain : Or fiercer waved the red claymore! I gave him of our lordly fare, I gave him here a welcome hame. The auld will speak, the young maun hear; Be cantie, but be good and leal; Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear, Anither's aye hae heart to feel. So, ere I set, I'll see you shine, I'll see you triumph ere I fa'; My parting breath shall boast you mineGood night, and joy be wi' you a'. [The High Street of Edinburgh.] [From Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty."] Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise, Whose azure summits mingle with the skies; There, from the earth the labouring porters bear The elements of fire and water high in air; There, as you scale the steps with toilsome tread, The dripping barrel madifies your head; Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel, A rising porter greets you with his creel! Here, in these chambers, ever dull and dark, The lady gay received her gayer spark, Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread, Trembled at opening casements overhead; But when in safety at her porch he trod, He seized the ring, and rasped the twisted rod. No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet, Linked, six a-row, six hours in Princes Street; But, one by one, they panted up the hill, And picked their steps with most uncommon skill; Then, at the Cross, each joined the motley mob'How are ye, Tam? and how's a' wi' ye, Bob?' Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired, And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired. O'er draughts of wine the beau would moan his love; O'er draughts of wine the cit his bargain drove; O'er draughts of wine the writer penned the will; And legal wisdom counselled o'er a gill. * Yes, mark the street, for youth the great resort, And there, an active band, with frequent boast, Offspring of Birmingham's creative art, JAMES HOGG. JAMES HOGG, generally known by his poetical name of 'The Ettrick Shepherd,' was perhaps the most creative and imaginative of the uneducated poets. His fancy had a wide range, picturing in its flights scenes of wild aerial magnificence and beauty. His taste was very defective, though he had done much to repair his early want of instruction. His occupation of a shepherd, among solitary hills and glens, must have been favourable to his poetical enthusiasm. He was not, like Burns, thrown into society when young, and forced to combat with misfortune. His destiny was unvaried, until he had arrived at a period when the bent of his genius was fixed for life. Without society during the day, his evening hours were spent in listening to ancient legends and ballads, of which his mother (like Burns's) was a great reciter. This nursery of imagination he has himself beautifully described: O list the mystic lore sublime Hogg was descended from a family of shepherds, and born, as he alleged (though the point was often disputed) on the 25th January (Burns's birthday), in the year 1772. When a mere child he was put out to service, acting first as a cow-herd, until capable of taking care of a flock of sheep. He had in all about half a year's schooling. When eighteen years of age he entered the service of Mr Laidlaw, Blackhouse. He was then an eager reader of poetry and romances, and he subscribed to a circulating library in Peebles, the miscellaneous contents of which he perused with the utmost avidity. He was a remarkably fine-looking young man, with a profusion of light-brown hair, which he wore coiled up under his hat or blue bonnet, the envy of all the country maidens. An attack of illness, however, brought on by over-exertion on a hot summer day, completely altered his countenance, and changed the very form of his features. His first literary effort was in song-writing, and in 1801 he published & small volume of pieces. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott by his master's son, Mr William Laidlaw, and assisted in the collection of old ballads for the Border Minstrelsy. He soon imitated the style of these ancient strains with great felicity, and published another volume of songs and poems under the title of The Mountain Bard. He now embarked in sheep-farming, and took a journey to the island of Harris on a speculation of this kind; but all he had saved as a shepherd, or by his publication, was lost in these attempts. He then repaired to Edinburgh, and endeavoured to subsist by his pen. A collection of songs, The Forest Minstrel, was his first effort· his second was a periodical called The Spy; but it was not till the publication of the Queen's Wake, in 1813, that the shepherd established his reputation as an author. This legendary poem' consists of a collection of tales and ballads supposed to be sung to Mary Queen of Scots by the native bards of Scotland assembled at a royal wake at Holyrood, in order that the fair queen might prove The wondrous powers of Scottish song. The design was excellent, and the execution so varied and masterly, that Hogg was at once placed among the first of our living poets. The different productions of the native minstrels are strung together by a thread of narrative so gracefully written in many parts, nat the reader is surprised equally at the delicacy and the genius of the author. At the conclusion of the poem, Hogg alludes to his illustrious friend Scott, and adverts with some feeling to an advice which Sir Walter had once given him, to abstain from his worship of poetry. The land was charmed to list his lays; Blest be his generous heart for aye! Scott was grieved at this allusion to his friendly counsel, as it was given at a time when no one dreamed of the shepherd possessing the powers that he displayed in the Queen's Wake.' Various works |