Chapter III: Part 3

The look cast over the shoulder is a very fa-miliar action in the ballads, as is also that where an angry man strikes the table with his hand and "keps" it with his knee. Every one who receives the letter is described as first smiling and then having his eyes filled with tears, as in Sir Patrick Spence, and almost in an exact repetition of the language, and there are numerous actions and phases which are the common stock of the ballad poets. The idea of the exclusive rights to poetical property and of the sin of plagiarism does not seem to have occurred to them, and they took a striking image or an effective phrase wherever they found it as a part of the common stock of poetry. These familiar and striking phrases doubt-less added to the effect, being recognized as old friends by the audience, and, like the repetitions of words and action by a number of persons in the same ballad, such as by the members of a family in succession denying the prayer of an unfortunate, emphasizing and deepening the impression. Certain adjectives also became attached to words as a part of their property, such as red to gold and wan to water, and are essential parts of the ballad language, which add to its effect by constant repetition.

One of the charms of these ancient ballads is the appreciation of the effects of nature, given sometimes with a magical effect of suddenness and originality. What can be more effective, for instance, than the touch of beauty and charm in the tragedy of Babylon:--

He's killed the maid and he's laid her by

To bear the red rose company.

And can we not feel the magic of the note of elfin horn, touching the heart with irresistible call through the summer air, in the opening to Hind Etin?--

Lady Margaret sits at her bower door,

Sewing her silken seam;

She heard a note in Elmond wood,

And wished she there had been.

The voice of the unseen sea gives a note of deep solemnity and terror to the supernatural landscape through which Thomas, the Rhymer, journeys with the elfin queen:--

And they rode on and farther on,

And they waded the river above the knee,

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But they heard the roaring of the sea.

How the strength of a lover's thought is illuminated by the touch of nature itself in Willie and Alison:--

When he was in his saddle set,

And slowly ridin' on his way,

He had more mind o' Alison

Than he had o' the light o' day.

These touches of the power of nature upon human action, and revealing human thought, are scattered throughout the ballads, and have the effect of perfect naturalness and simplicity, as though the heart and not the mind spoke in them.

A specimen of the ancient ballad in its most perfect strength, absolute and concise in its construction, without wandering into irrelevancies and incongruities, as many of them do, and in which the appalling tragedy strikes with a sudden blow upon the heart at its close, is Edward. It has all the characteristic features of the ballads, in the vivid colors of nature illuminating and intensifying his dramatic dialogue, while it has the mist of blood in the witchlike questions of its opening, and the passion of hatred and despair in its close.

Ballads of similar form and subject are to be found in Scandinavian literature, and counterparts to its methods of revelation in various English and Scottish ballads, but none have so pure a construction and so perfect an effect as this:--

"Why does your brand sae drap wi' bluid,

Edward, Edward?

Why does your brand sae drap wi' bluid,

And why sae sad gang yee, O?"

"O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,

Mither, mither.

O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid,

And I had nae mair but hee, O."

"Your hauke's bluid was nevir sae reid,

Edward, Edward.

Your hauke's bluid was nevir sae reid,

My deir son, I tell thee, O."

O, I hae killed my red roan steed,

Mither, mither.

O, I hae killed my red roan steed

That was sae fair and free, O."

"Your steed was auld and ye hae gat mair,

Edward, Edward.

Your steed was auld and ye hae got mair.

Sum other dule ye drie, O."

"O, I hae killed my fadir deir,

Mither, mither.

O, I hae killed my fadir deir.

Alas! and wae is mee, O."

"And whatten penance will ye drie for that,

Edward, Edward?

And whatten penance will ye drie for that,

My deir son? Now tell mee, O."

"I 'll set my feit in yonder boat,

Mither, mither.

I 'll set my feit in yonder boat,

And I 'll fare ovir the sea, O."

"And what will you doe wi' your towirs and your ha',

Edward, Edward?

And what will you doe wi' your towirs and your ha',

That were sae fair and free, O?"

"I 'll let them stand tul they down fa',

Mither, mither.

I 'll let them stand tul they down fa',

For here nevir mair maun I bee, O."

"And what wul ye leave to your bairns and your wife,

Edward, Edward?

And what wul ye leave to your bairns and your wife,

When ye gang ovir the sea, O?"

"The warlde's room, late them beg thrae life,

Mither, mither.

The warlde's room, late them bag thrae life,

For them nevir mair wul I see, O."

"And what wul ye leave to your ain mither, deir,

Edward, Edward?

And what wul ye leave to your ain mither, deir,

My deir son? Now tell mee, O."

"The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,

Mither, mither.

The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir,

Sic counseils ye gave to me, O."

Edward was communicated to Bishop Percy from Scotland by Lord Hailes, and there is some affectation in the ancient spelling, but it is undoubtedly genuine, and, as Professor Child remarks, "as spelling will not make an old ballad, so it will not unmake one."

One of the most famous and best known of the ancient Scottish ballads is that entitled Waly, Waly, gin Love be Bony, or, as it is sometimes called, Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, which was first published in Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany. It has numerous variants embodying the language of the lament in stories of a more dramatic character, founded on a tradition of the Douglas family, but this has the strength and simplicity of an original:--

O, waly, waly, up the bank,

And waly, waly, down the brae;

And waly, waly, yon burn-side,

Where I and my love wont to gae.

I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;

But first it bowed, and syne it brak,

Sae my true love did lightly me.

O, waly, waly, but love be bony,

A little time, while it is new;

But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like morning dew.

O, wherefore should I brush my head?

O, wherefore should I kaim my hair,

For my true love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never love me mair.

Now, Arthur's seat shall be my bed,

The sheets shall ne'er be fyld by me;

Saint Anton's well shall be my drink

Since my true love's forsaken me.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,

And shake the green leaves off the tree

O, gentle death, when wilt thou come,

For of my life I am weary.

'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;

'T is not the cauld as makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comelie sight to see;

My love was clad in black velvet,

And I myself in cramoisie.

But had I wist before I kist

That love had been sae ill to win;

I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin.

Oh, oh, if my young babe was born,

And set upon the nurse's knee;

And I mysell were dead and gone,

For a maid again I 'll never be.

The burden of this lament, its simple passion appealing to the popular heart and its melody holding the ear, has been perpetuated through the generations since it was first sung. It has been printed in all forms and variations in the broadsides and penny song books, as well as in the critical collections of poetry, solaced the sentimental feeling of the dairy maid as well as haunted the vision of Charles Lamb, and its refrain may be heard to-day in the burlesque choruses of the negro minstrel stage. A very interesting example is given by Professor Child of the way in which an old ballad of perfect form and construction may be made incoherent and shapeless in a broadside copy, mere matter of "silly sooth" for old age or primitive ignorance, without losing the fine flower of pathos and feeling, or the grace of expression, in its disconnected and ejaculatory stanzas. It is also interesting as an example, of which many others could be given, of the effect of oral tradition passing from minds of native strength, if without education, down to and through those of a lower order of intelligence, from whom now only the debris of the ancient songs and ballads can be obtained.

It is from a broadside printed in Edinburgh, without date, but of considerable antiquity, and entitled Arthur's Seat shall be My Bed, etc., or Love in Despair.

Come lay me soft and draw me near,

And lay thy white hand over me;

For I am starving in the cold,

And thou art bound to cover me.

O, cover me in my distress,

And help me in my miserie;

For I do wake, when I should sleep,

All for the love of my dearie.

My rents they are but very small,

For to maintain my love withall;

But with my labour and my pain,

I will maintain my love with them.

O, Arthur's seat shall be my bed,

And the sheets shall never be filed by me,

St. Anthony's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love's forsaken me.

Should I be bound, that may go free?

Should I love them that love not me?

I 'll rather travel into Spain,

Where I 'll get love for love again.

And I 'll cast off my robes of black,

And will put on the robes of blue;

And I will come to some other land

To see if my love will on me rue.

It is not the cold that makes me cry,

It is not the weet that wearies me;

Nor is it the frost that freezes fell,

But I love a lad, and I dare not tell.

Oh, faith is gone, and truth is past,

And my true love's forsaken me;

If all be true that I hear say,

I 'll mourn until the day I die.

Oh, if I had nere been born,

That to have died, when I was young;

Then I had never wet my cheeks

For the love of any woman's son.

Oh, oh, if my young babe was born,

And set upon the nurse's knee;

And I myself were dead and gone,

For a maid again I shall never be.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow,

And blow the green leefs off the tree;

O gentle Death, when wilt thou come,

For of my life I am wearie.

As in all single hearts and primitive natures, the visible features of death, the white shroud and the grave, "hap'd with the sods sae green," make a deep impression, and the imagination concerning the loved one lost is not lifted to spiritual forms, but dwells upon the painful figures of the charnel house. The ghosts that visit the living have the fatal breath of decaying mortality, and are summoned back by the cock to the winding sheet and the worm. The ballads that deal with this subject are all in the same strain, and repeat the same phrases. The lady asks her dead lover if there is any room at his head or any room at his feet in his new bed, and he answers that there is none, it is made so narrow, and that the worms are his only bedfellows; and warns her that he cannot give the kiss she craves, for his breath would be fatal. Sometimes the images of mortality are extremely powerful as well as grotesque, as in the ballad of Sweet William's Ghost:--

My meikle toe is my gavil post,

My nose is my roof tree,

My ribs are kebars to my house;

There is no room for thee.

Sometimes they have a touch of homely pathos, which relieves them from the conventional note of sorrow, as when the three sons of The Wife of Usher's Well are called back to the grave by the crowing cock, and the youngest says:--

Fare ye weel, my mother, dear;

Farewell to barn and byre,

And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,

That kindles my mother's fire.

One of the most interesting specimens of the ballads of this kind, as they exist to-day, borrowed in a modified form from the ancient, but embodying a still popular superstition, is The Unquiet Grave, recently taken down from the lips of a young girl in Sussex. It is founded on the belief, common to many primitive peoples, that excessive weeping disturbs the repose of the departed, and has a touch of that natural originality of description and that abruptness which presupposes a quickness of appreciation, which does not require an elaborate story to make the connection intelligible, characteristic of popular poetry, and which shows that the elements of mind to which it is addressed are always the same:--

The wind doth blow to-day, my love,

And a few small drops of rain.

I never had but one true love--

In the cold grave she was lain.

I 'll do as much for my true love

As any young man may,

I 'll sit and mourn all at her grave

For a twelvemonth and a day.

The twelvemonth and a day being up,

The dead began to speak:

"O, who sits weeping on my grave

And will not let me sleep?"

"'T is I, my love, sits on your grave

And will not let you sleep;

For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,

And that is all I seek."

"You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,

But your breath smells earthly strong;

If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips

Your time will not be long."

'T is down in yonder garden green,

Love, where we used to walk:

The finest flower that e'er was seen

Is withered on the stalk.

The stalk is withered dry, my love,

So will our hearts decay:

So make yourself content, my love,

Till God calls you away.

By far the larger number of the popular ballads had their origin in Scotland, and they are also of much finer quality than those of England. Even if the question of the origin of the ballad of Chevy Chace should be decided in favor of the latter, it would simply be localized upon the Border within the limit of Scottish influence. The English ballads are mostly heavy and dull, imperfect in form and expression, in comparison with the Scottish, and show few signs of the depth and glow of feeling in the burning words of the latter. The English ballads relating to King Arthur are greatly inferior in strength and spirit to the prose chronicles, and their dealing with the marvelous is coarse and commonplace in comparison with the spiritual and majestic mystery of the Welsh cycle of Arthurian romance. And the English ballads continued to degenerate, rather than improve, from the rude vigor of some of the Arthurian ballads, and took on the element of coarse humor which is characteristic of the Robin Hood cycle, from which nearly every gleam of poetry is eliminated. It may be said that the degeneracy of the English popular ballad was due to the spread of education among the people, and the development of their genius in more strictly literary forms under the influence of Chaucer and his associates. But the spread of education and the increase of literary production among the English people was by no means so general as to affect the quality of the popular ballad at this period, and certainly less than that which prevailed in Scotland at a later time, when the production of popular poetry was in its fullest flower. The adventures of the English outlaws, of whom Robin Hood, however mythical his actual existence, was the type, were not less stirring and full of the natural elements of poetry than those of the reivers and cattle thieves of the Scottish Border, but the ballads of the former cycle are only full of a vulgar peasant humor, while the latter are illuminated with the light of battle, and have the quarter staff and broken pate in place of the spear and the bleeding breast. Of Robin Hood it is said:--

Then Robin took them both by the hand,

And danced about the oke tree;

For three merry men and three merry men

And three merry men are we.

While the Lord of Branxholm cries:

Gae warn the water broad and wide,

Gae warn it sune and hastilie;

He that winna ride for Telfer's Kyle

Let him neer look in the face o' me.

and the difference in the spirit is reflected in the quality of the verse, the one dull and commonplace, suited to an audience of heavy-faced rustics in an alehouse, and the other full of fire and vigor, fit to be chanted in the dining hall of a Border chief. It is impossible to analyze ethnologically the causes of the great superiority of the Scottish popular poetry, or to define how much of the elevation of feeling and appreciation of the magic of nature came from the greater admixture of the Celtic element, which in its turn was given force and vigor, directness of expression and coherence of construction by the stronger nature of the invading element, which, for the want of a more definite term, is called Saxon. The effect of these influences is merely conjectural, as is also that of the country itself, its natural scenery, the disturbed life of the people, and the ferment of the popular mind. It can only be said that there was something in the national genius of the Lowland Scotch different from that of their more stolid neighbors at the south and their more mystical neighbors at the north, and which fitted them for the production of popular poetry in song and ballad at once elevated and impassioned, and which has resulted in a quantity and quality which no other province of the world has rivaled. It is known over the world, and has been translated into almost every literary language of Europe. To the English reader it is only necessary to give the titles to recall the verses that cling to the memory, and express the deepest glow of passion and pathos in words whose magic melody is beyond the reach of art, and which are winged with a force above the powers of uninspired speech. The Border Widow tells how she buried her slain husband:--

I took his body on my back,

And whiles I gaed and whiles I sat,

I digged a grave and laid him in,

And happd him with sod sae green.

Lord Randal comes home to his mother from his false love's poisoned banquet:--

O, where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son,

O, where hae ye been, my handsome young man;

I have been to the greenwood; mither, mak my bed soon,

For I'm wearie wi hunting and fain wald lie down."

The lady of the House of Airlie cries out from the burning reek to the cruel Edom o' Gordon:--

"Were my good lord but here this day,

As he's awa wi Charlie;

The dearest blood o' a' thy men

Wad sloken the lowe o' Airlie."

Johnnie Armstrong gives his last "Good Night" in defiance:--

O, how John looked over his left shoulder,

And to his merry men thus spoke he;

"I have asked grace of a graceless face,

No pardon here for you and me."

Mary Hamilton cries from the gallows-tree in a burst of anguish:--

O, little did my mother ken,

The day she cradled me,

The land I was to travel in,

The death I was to dee.

These verses, and many like them, cling to the tongues and have sunk deep into the hearts of men, and will live until the speech in which they were created has passed away. The Flower of Yarrow will always utter her melodious lament so long as there is English poetry, and the Border moss-troopers will ride with spear in hand and "splent on spauld" until the valleys of the Tweed and the Tyne are inhabited by an alien race, and the songs in which they are sung have perished like those of the Assyrian shepherds.

The collection and study of folk-song is being pursued with a vigor and a scholarly diligence which promises to leave no corner of the world unransacked, and no people, however simple and savage, neglected, and very valuable treasures of poetry have been and are being collected, which speak to the heart with the native eloquence of unsophisticated feeling and thought, and which give a more accurate knowledge of national temperament and of the stages of the development of the human intellect than any material remains or any historical records. But none have as yet been discovered, or are likely to be, which have a stronger power of original poetry, passion, and pathos, or which reveal a more vigorous and noble native genius than the ballads and songs which were produced within the limits of the little province between the Grampians and the Border.

LADY NAIRNE AND HER SONGS.

The supreme felicity of lyric song is extremely rare even in the greatest masters of the art, and seems to come from something outside of themselves, some accident of the moment, some almost fortuitous intermingling of sound with meaning, which could have been attained by no ordinary inspiration and no deliberate skill, however accomplished and sure and strong the poetical organ which produced it. It is this supreme felicity, when it occurs, by which the lyric song of man, with only the elements of harsh and prosaic speech and common words to frame it, rivals the magic of the bird's note in joyous ecstasy or sorrow, and floods the heart, as it captivates the ear, with emotions sweeter and deeper, more ethereal and more mysterious, than life had seemed able to give. It is well known that singers, whose skill in the use of their vocal organs is the result of highly trained art, giving certainty and assurance to a great natural gift, and able at all times to command what seems the full extent of their power, sometimes have moments when they surpass themselves and exceed the limits of any art, when the voice touches a note of magic melody, which they can reach by no conscious effort even in the highest moments of inspiration, and which seems to come from some power not at their conscious command. It seems to be the same in lyric poetry, and when the power does come, then we have the touch which makes it song, as the thrill of the lark, and the ecstasy of the mocking-bird in the tropic night, are songs. The magic may not be prolonged through an entire lyric. It seldom is. It may be only in a single line or in a single verse. It may not be even the highest strain of feeling or nobility of sentiment, and may even carry with it little definite meaning upon analysis. It derives its power from the magic melody as much as from the feeling or the intelligible sense of the words, and its effect is indefinable by any law of the understanding. In its highest estate it combines the most penetrating feeling with not only perfect but magic melody, but it sometimes comes in a wild refrain, in which the meaning merely floats in the words, and the rhythm, the accent, the song itself, so to speak, is predominant. For the first instance there is the perfect example of Burns, the rapture caught once for a single strain in a song, which does not rise above the level of his accomplished skill otherwise, and which has the keenest and most penetrating feeling, joined to, and permeated by, the perfect and magic melody:--

Had we never loved sae blindly,

Had we never loved sae kindly,

Never met and never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 1

For the second instance, where the melody is predominant over the meaning, and where the poet seemed only to be affected by the desire to frame words that would sing themselves and merely symbolize his thought, there are very many examples in the peasant poetry and folk-song of Scotland,--refrains that have no direct connection with the song, but, like the note of a second flute in a concerto, intensify the effect of the first strain by a kindred, yet diverse accentuation, as

The broom blooms bonnie and says it is fair;

and as the most perfect specimen that occurs, the refrain to the ballad of Lord Barnard in Jamieson's collection:--

O, wow for day!

And dear gin it were day!

Gin it were day and I were away,

For I haena long time to stay.

It is only the uneducated poets who have the courage to use language arbitrarily with a purpose

1 It is needless to say that the supreme felicity of these
lines has been pointed out by other and more distinguished
critics.

more for melody than for meaning, and when an attempt is made to reproduce its effect deliberately, as has been done by Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Morris, the result is simply artificial and bizarre, in spite of the skill, the intensity, and the poetical power of Sister Helen, and the melody of the most perfect example of the modern imitation of the refrain in Morris's The Wind.

Wind, Wind, thou art sad, art thou kind?

Wind, Wind, unhappy; thou art blind,

Yet still thou wanderest the lily seed to find.

Perhaps the most perfect example of the lyric song, in which the melody is mingled with and sustains and elevates the feeling, and both are conjoined in an effect which melts the heart and possesses the ear, although the strain is not of so high a rapture of love or sorrow as parts of Burns's Ae Fond Kiss or Lady Anne Bothwell's Balow, and is of a peaceful sweetness and resignation rather than passion, is The Land of the Leal, by Carolina, Lady Nairne. In its original and simplest form, before she had interpolated a verse to express some of her theological ideas, it is the perfect interpretation of a sweet, solemn, and simple thought, the tenderest and purest emotion, breathed in an equally simple, but absolutely perfect melody, that is like the flowing of limpid water, crystal clear and unbroken to the end. The heart of the world has responded, and it has a place like none other in the tongue of song.

I'm wearin' awa, John,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,

I 'm wearin awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, John,

There's neither cauld nor care, John,

The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, John,

She was baith gude and fair, John,

And, oh, we grudged her sair

To the land o' the leal.

But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,

And joy's a-comin' fast, John,

The joy that's aye to last,

In the land o' the leal.

Oh, dry your glist'ning ee, John,

My saul langs to be free, John,

And angels beckon me

To the land o' the leal.

O, haud ye leal and true, John,

Your day it's wearin' through, John,

And I 'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,

The world's cares are vain, John,

We 'll meet and will be fain

In the land o' the leal.

The fame of the authoress, so far as she can be said to have any of her own individual personality, rests upon this song, and sufficiently, while the English language shall last, but it was not the solitary example of her genius, and her poetical work, although not great in hulk, contains other lyrics of a very high quality, with a wide range from high martial spirit and homely pathos to gay and frolicsome humor, and instinct with the vital and living element of song. Lady Nairne was almost morbidly anxious to retain her incognito as a writer during her life, so that her own husband and nearest relatives were not in the secret, and those who surmised or guessed it hardly dared to allude to it in her presence, and the veil has rested over her personality to a great degree in comparison with the flood of light poured over the words and actions of her great contemporaries, Scott and Burns, and many lesser figures in Scotch provincial literature like Professor Wilson and Hogg. Nevertheless, since her death at a very advanced age in 1846, her songs have been collected and published under her own name, and enough has been made known concerning her life and character to give to her poetry an individuality, and reveal a very gracious, noble and engaging figure.

Carolina Oliphant was born in "the auld house of Gask," in Perthshire, on the 16th of August, 1766, six years later than Robert Burns. She came of stanch Jacobite stock on both sides, her father, Laurence Oliphant, a name since made familiar by the singular and notable career of the accomplished writer, traveler, and scholar, who puzzled the world not less by his naïve religious aberrations than by his accomplishments, took up arms for the Stuarts in "the Forty-five," and suffered attainder and temporary banishment in company with his father, who had also been "out" in the Earl of Mar's rebellion in "the Fifteen." Young Laurence Oliphant, while in exile at Versailles, married his cousin, Margaret Robertson, daughter of Duncan Robertson of Strowan, chief of the clan Dorrochy. The Robertsons had also been ardent Jacobites, and suffered in purse and person for their loyalty. The grandfather, Duncan Robertson, was notable in character and personality as well in adventure and misfortune, and had his portrait painted in immortal colors by Scott as the Baron of Bradwardine. Carolina, baptized after the exiled prince, spent her infancy and early childhood on the Continent in France and Belgium, under the care of her grandmother, her parents being in feeble health, and then returned with them to the old home at Gask, where she spent her happy, healthy, and gay youth and young womanhood. From a feeble and delicate child she had grown into a strong, vigorous, and beautiful young woman, the beauty of the country-side, called "the Flower of Strathearn" and "the lovely Car," and her life was of a kind to strengthen her ardent patriotism and cultivate her fondness for the native music, poetry, and song of which Scotland was full, but whose transcendent merits were unknown and unappreciated by the literary world until they were illuminated by the light of the genius of Burns a few years later. The anecdotes of her life give a very charming picture of innocent gayety, family affection, and friendship. She played the Jacobite airs for her aged grandfather, as she afterward wrote Jacobite songs for his pleasure, and with a skill and feeling which won the difficult approval of the famous Neil Gow, the wandering fiddler, whose skill on his instrument was like that of Scott's "Wandering Willie," and whose presence at a laird's house would draw all the young people for miles around to dance to the winged notes of his strathspeys and hornpipes. She was foremost in all scenes of gayety, and is said to have taken a carriage at midnight and driven several miles to bring one of her young lady friends out of bed for a party where partners were scarce. In the simple social pleasures of the local aristocracy, the county balls and meetings, and the gatherings of the tenantry, "the Flower of Strathearn" was a conspicuous figure, while her keen eyes were taking in the queer figures that appeared later in all the glow of bright humor in The Laird of Cockpen, The County Meeting, and Jamie, the Laird. Her first verses, The Ploughman, were written for a harvest home dinner, and were read by her brother as a contribution by an unknown author. About this time the first poems of Burns made their appearance, and stirred the heart of Scotland not less by their original genius than by the revivification of the old airs and scraps of songs, finished and cleansed of their coarseness, and made to speak to the hearts of the people in the drawing-room as well as in the peasant's cottage and the taproom of the country alehouse. It was the first acknowledgment, if not the beginning, of that appreciation of the wealth of pathos and humor in the peasant poetry of Scotland, among the cultivated classes, and drew that attention and emulation to which all there is of value in modern Scotch poetry is due. It was the inspiration of the genius of Carolina Oliphant, and from this time she began to write the new verses to the old airs, and to replace the imperfect, unworthy, and sometimes coarse and vulgar scraps of songs with the beautiful ones of her own, equally Scotch and racy of the soil, and full of the thoughts and sentiments as well as the dialect of the people. The old grandfather, worn with disease and living in the past light of fervid days, heard his favorite airs of welcome, gathering, and victory, for the Young Chevalier sung to new and glowing words, and the young ladies laughed at the funny lilts in which were drawn the queer figures of the dullards and provincial fops, without knowing to whose keen pen they were indebted. The Land o' the Leal was written for Mrs. Archibald Campbell Colquhoun, a dear friend of Miss Oliphant, upon the death of an infant daughter, and to one other only was the secret of its authorship ever definitely disclosed, although its aurora, more or less mysteriously, finally settled around the head of Lady Nairne. Mrs. Colquhoun was born Mary Anne Erskine, and was the sister of that William Erskine afterward Lord Kinedder who was the dearest friend and associate of Walter Scott in his early Edinburgh days, and the sister, who kept the house for her brother until her marriage with Mr. Colquhoun, was the earliest and deepest love of Scott.

Somewhat late in life Carolina Oliphant married her cousin, Major William Nairne, the heir to the forfeited Barony of Nairne, Assistant Inspector General of Barracks in Scotland, and with him removed to Edinburgh, where she occupied for a time a cottage at Portobello and afterward official quarters in Holyrood place. The impulse given by Burns to the cultivation of native Scotch poetry still continued, and was being strengthened by his contributions of songs for the music of the old airs in Johnson's Museum, and a coterie of the literary ladies of Edinburgh established the Scotch Minstrel for the same purpose. To this Mrs. Nairne became a contributor, with a single friend for a confidant, under the name of "Mrs. Bogan of Bogan," with other pseudonyms, a disguised handwriting and other elaborate precautions for concealment. There was, of course, a keen curiosity to discover the author of these beautiful songs, but the secret was well guarded, and not even the husband was aware of it. "I dare not even tell William"-- Mrs. Nairne wrote to her friend--"lest he blab." She and her friend at one time cherished the purpose of "cleansing and moralizing" the songs of Burns, as he had done those of his unknown predecessors, but a wiser second thought restrained them. Miss Oliphant had been "converted," as the phrase goes, when a young woman on a visit to England, and her piety and religious feeling deepened with her years, until it took on completely the rigid, depressing, and dismal forms of Scotch denominationalism, and her genius for poetry shriveled under it. During the visit of George the Fourth to Edinburgh he signalized his theatrical clemency by a restoration of the forfeited titles of the Jacobite nobility, and Major Nairne became Baron Nairne. Lord Nairne survived his restoration but a few years, and died in 1829, leaving his widow with an only son. To his education she devoted herself, residing for a time in Bath, afterward in Ireland, and traveling on the Continent for the health of the young lord, who was of feeble constitution, and who died at Brussels in 1837. It is painful to read of the narrow bigotry and theological gloom which enveloped the joyous and healthy spirit of Lady Nairne. She would not allow her son to be taught to dance, and regarded her poetry as the somewhat flagitious exercise of a worldly spirit, and spent her days in the doubt and self-affliction of a harsh creed and in the petty interests of a narrow church. She was deeply interested in the hopeless task of "converting" the Catholics of Ireland and the Jews to Scotch Presbyterianism, and was the mentor of her relatives after the fashion of Mrs. Hannah More, the patroness of bazaars, and at one time with her sister was expelled from an Italian town for distributing Protestant Bibles to the people. But her native nobleness of character shone through the theological clouds. She was regarded with affection as well as reverence by her younger relatives and her servants, and impressed all who came in contact with her by the cordial grace of her manners, and the aristocratic and highly marked contour of her features, which in the bloom of youth had made her "the Flower of Strathearn." Her benevolence was unceasing and self-sacrificing, if not always wisely directed, and at one time she had all her family plate sold and the proceeds sent to Dr. Chalmers for the support of an industrial school for the poor. She lived during her later years at the old house of Gask, the honored guest of her nephew and his wife, and died in 1845 at the advanced age of seventy-one, in peace and tranquillity, and with only the gentle decay of her mental faculties and bodily forces. The year after her death her poems were collected and published under her own name, and the world for the first time knew to whom it was indebted for the songs which had impressed themselves upon the popular heart and become a distinct and notable part of the lyric poetry of Scotland.

As has been said, The Land o' the Leal reaches the highest note in its inspiration, perfection, and completeness, within the limits of its purpose, not only of Lady Nairne's work, but of all the lyric poetry of Scotland, but it was not the solitary example of a genius which had much of the versatility, if not the fecundity and strength, of Burns, in interpreting the emotions and the thoughts, the passions and the humors, of the Scotch people. Lady Nairne's poetical genius was entirely lyric. There was no Cotter's Saturday Night, much less any scene from Poosey Nancy's alehouse, or witch's gathering at Kirk Alloway, in her interpretation of Scotch life, and her voice was only the pure lilt of Scotch song, grave or gay. Without determined literary ambition and the responsibility of a known name, the stimulus of production was not absorbing and lasting, and a good deal of her work was simply occasional, careless, and imperfect. The best, that which will live as long as Scotch song, could be comprised within the limits of a dozen pages. But its quality is of the very highest in inspiration and execution, the pure voice of the lark lilting beneath the blue cloud, the mourning of the croodlin' doo, and the gay warble of the cheery thrush.

Almost as famous in its own and very different way as The Land o' the Leal, and almost as perfect in its execution, the limitation of the true lyric to the simplest and most absolute words, and the complete interpretation of its spirit in the melody, is The Laird of Cockpen. It was written, it is said, to supply proper words to the gay old air of When She cam ben, She bobbit, which being interpreted, means that when she came into the front of the house, she curtsied, and of which the first verse of the imperfect and rather vulgar old song is--

When she cam' ben, she bobbit,

When she cam' ben, she bobbit,

When she cam' ben she kissed Cockpen

And syne denied that she did it.

But no one can doubt that it was the true picture of a character and incident which had given laughter to Carolina Oliphant and her young friends, and had been the joke of the country-side, ere it lilted itself to the rollicking jig. The commonly printed version of The Laird of Cockpen is injured by the fact that it has two additional verses, contributed by Miss Ferrier, the novelist, which destroy its absolute completeness and perfection of humor as it was written by Lady Nairne.

THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN.

The laird of Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great;

His mind is taen up wi' things o' the State.

He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,

But favour wi' wooin' was fasheous to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

At his table-head he thought she'd look well,

M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha'-Lee,

A penniless lass wi' a long pedigree.

His wig was well pouthered, as gude as when new,

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;

He put on a ring, a sword and cock'd hat,

And wha could resist a laird wi' a that.

He took the grey mare and rode cannily,

An' rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha'-Lee.

"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben--

She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine;

"O, what brings the laird at sic' a like time."

She put off her apron and on her silk gown,

Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu low,

An' what was his errand he soon let her know;

Amazed was the laird when the lady said "Na,"

And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumfoundered was he, nae sigh did he gie.

He mounted his mare--he rade cannily.

An' often he thought as he gaed thro' the glen,

She's daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen.

Only a little less humorous and perfect is Jamie, the Laird, whose doting mother may have persecuted Carolina Oliphant herself, or some of her friends, with the story of his mental and physical perfections until there was this burst of mocking vexation, to the tune of The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow:--

JAMIE, THE LAIRD.

Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak' him drink

Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak' him think;

Send a craw to the surgin, an' still he will craw;

An' the wee laird had nae rummelgumpshion ava;

Yet he is the pride o' his fond mother's e'e;

In body or mind nae faut can she see;

"He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"

Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow,

An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, I trow.

"He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonnie wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

His legs they are bow'd, his e'es they do glee,

His wig, whiles its off, an' when on, its ajee.

He's braird as he's long--an' ill-faur'd is he,

A dafter like body I never did see.

An' yet for this cretur she says I am deein';

When that I deny--she's fear'd at my leein'.

Obliged to pit up wi' the sair defamation,

I'm liken to dee wi' shame and vexation.

An' oh, she's a haverin' Lucky, etc.

An' her clish-ma-clavers gang a' thro' the town,

An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll drown;

Wi' his gawkie like face yestreen he did say,

"I 'll maybe tak' you, for Bess I 'll no hae,

Nor Mollie, nor Effie, nor long-legged Jeanie,

Nor Nellie, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."

I stoppet my ears, ran off in a fury--

I'm thinkin' to bring them before Judge and Jury.

For oh, what a randy old Lucky is she, etc.

Frien's, gie yere advice--I 'll follow yere counsel.

Maun I speak to the Provost or honest Town Council?

Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,

For the law o' the Lucky I shall and will hae.

The hale town at me are jibbin' an' jeerin',

For a leddy like me it's really past hearin';

The Lucky now maun hae done wi' her claverin',

For I 'll no pit up wi' her an' her haverin'.

For oh, she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,

For oh, she's a randy, I trow, I trow.

"He's a fell clever lad an' a bonnie wee man,"

Is aye the beginuin' an' end o' her sang.

The finest efflorescence of Scotch lyric poetry, which is the richest and finest in the English language, if not in the world, was that of the Jacobite era, and the influence which followed it and inspired the renaissance of Scotch song is the genius of Burns, Hogg, Cunningham, Lady Nairne, and many more of less distinction, who made a galaxy of singers hardly less remarkable in their way, as marking an era in literature, than the dramatists of the Elizabethan age. The genius of folk-song and ballad poetry had always been remarkably developed in Scotland, in comparison, at least, with England, and, in spite of many characteristics among the Lowlanders, worldly thrift, bitter and barren bigotry, and a sort of dourness and hardheadedness, not calculated to encourage sentiment and emotion; and the student of racial distinctions may be inclined to attribute it to the influence of Celtic blood and tradition, creating a vein of sensitiveness, tenderness, and susceptibility to the magic of song and music in the strong and hard fabric of the Saxon character. But from whatever cause the tendency of the native genius was created, its existence was obvious, and from the very earliest time, since song began to be preserved in written words, the quality and quantity of Scotch folk-poetry and folk-music have been remarkable. The native faculty and the inherited tendency were all present when the spark of an inspiration, involving all the elements of patriotism, daring adventure, personal devotion, despair, and lamentation, gave fire to the genius of national poetry. All the incidents and events of the Rebellion of Forty-five, the landing of the young Prince Charles at Moidart with only seven followers, the blaze of fiery loyalty that swept through the Highlands at his call, the extraordinary victories won by the sheer impetus and hand-to-hand onslaughts of the Highland clans, the picturesque entry into Edinburgh and the gallant court of Holyrood, the swift march into England, which seemed at one time to promise to carry the Chevalier into St. James's Palace by its rush, the retreat and disorganization, and finally the woeful slaughter of Culloden, followed by the attainders and executions and the romantic adventures of the Prince in hiding from his hunters among the mountains and islands, all contrived to create themes for song and poetry which have never been surpassed in modern history. The enterprise was as foolish as it was daring, an episode of knight-errantry after the age when success was possible, but it had all the elements of chivalry in its impulse and conduct, and no modern war has been less selfish and sordid, not even the insurrections of Poland or the uprising of the Spanish and German people against Napoleon. The young Chevalier himself, only twenty-four years of age, tall, handsome, and martial, with his flowing yellow hair and Tartan dress, and with the fascination of his race in his manner, his courage, clemency, and misfortune, gave it the personal element so necessary to the highest poetry, and altogether the circumstances and the conditions combined to create an effervescence of popular poetry which has never been surpassed. Its quantity was as remarkable as its quality. The two large volumes of Hogg's Jacobite Relics by no means exhausted the collection of songs in the Lowland dialect, and to this day those in Gaelic are still being discovered by the labors of Professor Blackie and others, as they are yet preserved in the bothies of the Highlands and the islands. The inspiration of the later poets, Burns, Hogg, Cunningham, and

Lady Nairne, was hardly less strong, fed as it was upon the vivid traditions and by the stories and histories of the men living about them, or of their own families, full of all the elements of poetry, and their purpose to vivify and recreate the native song of Scotland must have had its most fertile impulse and material in the Jacobite songs, of which the country is full. In Lady Nairne the ancestral and personal impulse must have been especially strong. Her father and mother had been married in exile; her grandfather had been distinguished for his services as well as for his misfortunes, and upon both sides her family had been notable for more than one generation for its loyalty and its importance in the Scotch struggle for the restoration of the Stuarts. An old ballad says:--

Gask and Strowan were nae slack,

and letters of thanks and tokens of gratitude from the royal hands were heirlooms of the houses. It was a keen pleasure to the grandfather in his old age to hear the songs and the music which had illumined the unhappy cause, and it is no wonder that the earliest inspiration of the young poetess was from such themes, and her keenest reward to see the blood warming more freely the old man's worn cheeks as she sang the new and stirring words to the old airs, and found the token of her success in his appreciation. The greater portion of her Jacobite songs were composed under this inspiration, and so long as she wrote at all they were her favorite themes. They are among the finest in what may be termed the modern Jacobite songs, unsurpassed by anything of the kind by Burns, Hogg, or Cunningham, and only so by that consummate flower of all Scotch Jacobite poetry by William Glen:--

A wee bird cam' to our ha' door,

while in the pure singing quality, the lilt and the verse, there is nothing to exceed the power of--

The news from Moidart cam' yestreen.

The story of The Hundred Pipers an' A' is historically correct in that there were so many musicians of the class attached to the little army of the Prince, and that the Highland lads did dance themselves dry to the pibroch's sound after fording the Esk, but it was not on the advance to Carlisle, but on the retreat from England, and the scene had doubtless been often described by the old laird of Strowan.

THE HUNDRED PIPERS.

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a';

We 'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw,

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Oh, it's owre the Border awa', awa';

It's owre the Border awa', awa';

We 'll on and we 'll march to Carlisle ha;

Wi' its yetts, its castle an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', etc.

Our young sodger lads looked braw, looked braw,

With their tartans, kilts an' a', an' a',

With their bonnets and feathers and glittering gear,

An' pibrochs sounding sweet an' clear.

Will they a' return to their ain dear glen?

Will they a' return, our Hieland men?

Second-sighted Sandy looked fu wae,

An' mothers grat, when they marched away,

Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.

O, wha' is foremost o' a', o' a';

O, wha' does follow the blaw, the blaw,

Bonnie Charlie, the King o' us a', hurra!

Wi' his hundred pipers an' a', an' a';

His bonnet an' feather he's wavin' high,

His prancin' steed maist seems to fly,

The nor' wind plays wi' his curlin' hair,

While the pipers blew up an' unco flare,

Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.

The Esk was swollen sae red and sae deep,

But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep,

Two thousand swam o'er to fell English ground,

An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.

Dumfoundered the English saw--they saw,

Dumfoundered they heard the blaw, the blaw;

Dumfoundered they a' ran awa', awa',

From the hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.

We 'll up an gie them a blaw, a blaw,