Chapter IX: Part II: ," Edinburgh, 1779, 12mo. He was admitted as a Writer to the (5)

James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769. Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued study with unflinching assiduity and success. On completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of Innerleithen; and on the death of the incumbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses to the _Edinburgh Magazine_; and he afterwards published a collection of "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo. This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of that immortal bard.

At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement. He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS., in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed a number of articles to the _Edinburgh Encyclopædia_, among which are "Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.

Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November 1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.

BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.

Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,
Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;
'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer,
The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e.
For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander,
Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!

Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?
Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?
When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!--
That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?
Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream,
Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,
Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin',
Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.

BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN' STREAM.

By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam,
Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e;
Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour,
When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.

The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made,
When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie;
An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,
An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.

Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales,
An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree;
Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,
For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!

When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang,
An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e,
My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?
But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.

Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,
To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!
Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,
The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.

But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear,
Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;
For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again,
Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.

HALUCKIT MEG.

Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,
While loud as a lavrock she sang.
Her Geordie had promised to marry,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair.

"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me,
An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg,
An' say they expect soon to hear me,
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.
An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter,
An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'
An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter,
He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.

"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about;
But they needna let on that he 's crazie,
His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa';
Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy,
For fient a hair has he ava'.

"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beauty I never will miss 't.
Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever will burn?
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures,
A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear.
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare,
Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',
His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie;
Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;
An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,
His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,
Designin' to rax her a lounder,
He chanced on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder,
Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!

MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.

My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still;
I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!
My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',
I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;
I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.

Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try--
Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew weary the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,
'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye--
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;
And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!
There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

James Montgomery, the spiritual character of whose writings has gained him the honourable designation of the Christian Poet, was born at Irvine, in the county of Ayr, on the 4th of November 1771. His father, John Montgomery, was a missionary of the Moravian Brethren, and in this capacity came to Irvine from Ireland, only a few days before the birth of James, his eldest son. In his fourth year he returned to Ireland with his parents, and received the rudiments of his education from the village schoolmaster of Grace Hill, a settlement of the Moravian Brethren in the county of Antrim. In October 1777, in his seventh year, he was placed by his father in the seminary of the Moravian settlement of Fulneck, near Leeds; and on the departure of his parents to the West Indies, in 1783, he was committed to the care of the Brethren, with the view of his being trained for their Church. He was not destined to see his parents again. His mother died at Barbadoes, in November 1790, and his father after an interval of eight months.

In consequence of his indolent habits, which were incorrigible, young Montgomery was removed from the seminary at Fulneck, and placed in the shop of a baker at Mirfield, in the vicinity. He was then in his sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidence of a refined taste, both in poetry and music, though careless of the ordinary routine of scholastic instruction, his new occupation was altogether uncongenial to his feelings. He, however, remained about eighteen months in the baker's service, but at length made a hasty escape from Mirfield, with only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, and seemingly without any scheme except that of relieving himself from an irksome employment. But an accidental circumstance speedily enabled him to obtain an engagement with a shopkeeper in Wath, now a station on the railway between London and Leeds; and in procuring this employment, he was indebted to the recommendation of his former master, whose service he had unceremoniously quitted. But this new situation had few advantages over the old, and he relinquished it in about a year to try his fortune in the metropolis. He had previously sent a manuscript volume of poetry to Harrison, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, who, while declining to publish it, commended the author's talents, and so far promoted his views as now to receive him into his establishment. But Montgomery's aspirations had no reference to serving behind a counter; he only accepted a place in the bookseller's establishment that he might have an opportunity of leisurely feeling his way as an author. His literary efforts, however, still proved fruitless. He composed essays and tales, and wrote a romance in the manner of Fielding, but none of his productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he quitted London in eight months, and returned to the shop of his former employer at Wath. After the interval of another year, he proceeded to Sheffield, to occupy a situation under Mr Joseph Gales, a bookseller, and the proprietor of the _Register_ newspaper.

Montgomery was now in his twenty-first year, and fortune at length began, though with many lowering intervals, to smile upon his youthful aspirations. Though he occupied a subordinate post in Mr Gales' establishment, his literary services were accepted for the _Register_, in which he published many of his earlier compositions, both in prose and verse. This journal had advocated sentiments of an ultra-liberal order, and commanding a wide circulation and a powerful influence among the operatives in Sheffield, had been narrowly inspected by the authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of sympathising in the transactions of the French revolutionists; he was prosecuted for sedition, and deemed himself only safe from compulsory exile by a voluntary exit to America. This event took place about two years after Montgomery's first connexion with Sheffield, and he had now reverted to his former condition of abject dependence unless for a fortunate occurrence. This was no less than his being appointed joint-proprietor and editor of the newspaper by a wealthy individual, who, noticing the abilities of the young shopman, purchased the copyright with the view of placing the management entirely in his hands.

The first number of the newspaper under the poet's care, the name being changed to that of _The Sheffield Iris_, appeared in July 1794; and though the principles of the journal were moderate and conciliatory in comparison with the democratic sentiments espoused by the former publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new conductor. He did not escape their vigilance; for the simple offence of printing for a ballad-vender some verses of a song celebrating the fall of the Bastile, he was libelled as "a wicked, malicious, seditious, and evil-disposed person;" and being tried before the Doncaster Quarter Sessions, in January 1795, was sentenced to three months' imprisonment in the Castle of York. He was condemned to a second imprisonment of six months in the autumn of the same year, for inserting in his paper an account of a riot in the place, in which he was considered to have cast aspersions on a colonel of volunteers. The calm mind of the poet did not sink under these persecutions, and some of his best lyrics were composed during the period of his latter confinement. During his first detention he wrote a series of interesting essays for his newspaper. His "Prison Amusements," a series of beautiful pieces, appeared in 1797. In 1805, he published his poem, "The Ocean;" in 1806, "The Wanderer in Switzerland;" in 1808, "The West Indies;" and in 1812, "The World before the Flood." In 1819 he published "Greenland, a Poem, in Five Cantos;" and in 1825 appeared "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." Of all those productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious criticism in the _Edinburgh Review_, at once procured an honourable place for the author among his contemporaries. He became sole proprietor of the _Iris_ in one year after his being connected with it, and he continued to conduct this paper till September 1825, when he retired from public duty. He subsequently contributed articles for different periodicals; but he chiefly devoted himself to the moral and religious improvement of his fellow-townsmen. A pension of £150 on the civil list was conferred upon him as an acknowledgment of his services in behalf of literature and of philanthropy; a well-merited public boon which for many years he was spared to enjoy. He died at his residence, The Mount, Sheffield, on the 30th of April 1854, in the eighty-second year of his age. He bequeathed handsome legacies to various public charities. His Poetical Works, in a collected form, were published in 1850 by the Messrs Longman, in one octavo volume; and in 1853 he gave to the world his last work, being "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social Devotion." Copious memoirs of his life are now in the course of publication.

As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his versification, and for the fervent piety pervading all his compositions. As a man, he was gentle and conciliatory, and was remarkable as a generous promoter of benevolent institutions. The general tendency of his poems was thus indicated by himself, in the course of an address which he made at a public dinner, given him at Sheffield, in November 1825, immediately after the toast of his health being proposed by the chairman, Lord Viscount Milton, now Earl Fitzwilliam:--

"I sang of war--but it was the war of freedom, in which death was
preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that
most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since
the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat
as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to
sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which
your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous
legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own
day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;'
extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang
of love--the love of country, the love of my own country; for,

'Next to heaven above,
Land of my fathers! thee I love;
And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
With all thy faults I love thee still.'

I sang, likewise, the love of home--its charities, endearments and
relationships--all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection
of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder
gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker
pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his
brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I
sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard
under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, who _is_ love. Nor did
I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the
young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety
will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered
through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me
worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the
British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language
is spoken--from America, the East and West Indies, from New
Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves--I have received
testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers,
hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to
criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary
communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like
voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear
of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch--the voice of
posterity."

"FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH."

When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound
Among a band of brothers,
The cup of joy goes gaily round,
Each shares the bliss of others.
Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow;
The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
Shall bloom again to-morrow.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

On halcyon wings our moments pass,
Life's cruel cares beguiling;
Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,
In gay good-humour smiling:
With ermine beard and forelock gray,
His reverend part adorning,
He looks like Winter turn'd to May,
Night soften'd into Morning.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

From these delightful fountains flow
Ambrosial rills of pleasure;
Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,
A more resplendent treasure?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
Will form a constellation,
Where every star, with modest light,
Shall gild its proper station.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth--
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?

When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,--
The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?--
'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

GERMAN WAR-SONG.[69]

Heaven speed the righteous sword,
And freedom be the word;
Come, brethren, hand in hand,
Fight for your fatherland.

Germania from afar
Invokes her sons to war;
Awake! put forth your powers,
And victory must be ours.

On to the combat, on!
Go where your sires have gone;
Their might unspent remains,
Their pulse is in our veins.

On to the battle, on!
Rest will be sweet anon;
The slave may yield, may fly,--
We conquer, or we die!

O Liberty! thy form
Shines through the battle-storm.
Away with fear, away!
Let justice win the day.

[69] The simple and sublime original of these stanzas, with the fine air by Hümmel, became the national song of Germany, and was sung by the soldiers especially, during the latter campaigns of the war, when Buonaparte was twice dethroned, and Europe finally delivered from French predominance.

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

Night turns to day:--
When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Ere long the opening flowers,
With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.

Storms die in calms:--
When over land and ocean
Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
Cheer up, cheer up;
The voice of wild commotion,
Proclaims tranquillity behind.

Winter wakes spring:--
When icy blasts are blowing
O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,
Cheer up, cheer up;
All beautiful and glowing,
May floats in fragrance on the breeze.

War ends in peace:--
Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghostly corses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Where groan'd the field of battle,
The song, the dance, the feast, go round.

Toil brings repose:--
With noontide fervours beating,
When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,
Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

Death springs to life:--
Though brief and sad thy story,
Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
Look up, look up;
Eternity and glory
Dawn through the portals of the tomb.

VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST, WHICH VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.

Welcome, pretty little stranger!
Welcome to my lone retreat!
Here, secure from every danger,
Hop about, and chirp, and eat:
Robin! how I envy thee,
Happy child of Liberty!

Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,
Shakes the world with tempests round,
Heaven above with vapours scowling,
Frost imprisons all the ground:
Robin! what are these to thee?
Thou art bless'd with liberty.

Though yon fair majestic river[70]
Mourns in solid icy chains,
Though yon flocks and cattle shiver
On the desolated plains:
Robin! thou art gay and free,
Happy in thy liberty.

Hunger never shall disturb thee,
While my rates one crumb afford;
Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee;
Come and share my humble board:
Robin! come and live with me--
Live, yet still at liberty.

Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes,
Steal upon the blooming year;
Then, amid the enamour'd bushes,
Thy sweet song shall warble clear:
Then shall I, too, join with thee--
Swell the hymn of Liberty.

Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin,
In this iron-hearted age,
Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,
And confine thee in a cage,
Then, poor prisoner! think of me--
Think, and sigh for liberty.

[70] The Ouse.

SLAVERY THAT WAS.

Ages, ages have departed,
Since the first dark vessel bore
Afric's children, broken-hearted,
To the Caribbéan shore;
She, like Rachel,
Weeping, for they were no more.

Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd,
In the fight and on the deep;
Millions, millions more have water'd,
With such tears as captives weep,
Fields of travail,
Where their bones till doomsday sleep.

Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading,
Rent her garments, smote her breast,
Till a voice from Heaven proceeding,
Gladden'd all the gloomy west,--
"Come, ye weary,
Come, and I will give you rest!"

Tidings, tidings of salvation!
Britons rose with one accord,
Purged the plague-spot from our nation,
Negroes to their rights restored;
Slaves no longer,
_Freemen,--freemen_ of the _Lord_.

ANDREW SCOTT.

Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication--a counsel which induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in 1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work, entitled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe.

The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills, the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however, experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence, extended towards him countenance and assistance.

Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle, or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the office of schoolmaster of that parish.

The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing: his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden, and has been pronounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was modest and unassuming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable specimens of his muse.[71]

[71] We have to acknowledge our obligations for several particulars of this sketch to Mr Robert Bower, Melrose, the author of a volume of "Ballads and Lyrics," published at Edinburgh in 1853.

RURAL CONTENT; OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_

I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land,
And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't,
And I hae servants at my command,
And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.
My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,
And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,
To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.

Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,
It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;
I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,
And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.
A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,
I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,
Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,
And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.

My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,
And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,
And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,
Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;
And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,
My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,
And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,
But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,
How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,
Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.
In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,
But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,
And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.

Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae--
My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?--
In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,
I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,
And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.

Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,
My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;
My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,
And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.
Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,
Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.

And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't,
And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',
Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.
My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,
The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,
And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.

And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,
My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;
He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,
And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.
And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,
The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,
Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,
Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.

And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,
My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;
Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,
And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,
On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,
And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,
Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,
Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.

Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,
Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,
Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,
Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:
For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,
The seasons row round us in rural content;
We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,
And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

SYMON AND JANET.

AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,
For mony lang towmond thegither,
There lived an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation,
The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, when deep are the gutters,
And night's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
And lowsin' his buttons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',
To lock in the door was her care;
She seein' our signals a-blazin',
Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.

"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!
Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"

"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,
And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',
"Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"
Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.

"Our youngest son 's in the militia,
Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:
O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
I too in the ranks shall appear."

His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;
His bullets he put in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.

Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"
And teughly she hang by his tails.

"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,
"Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,
For now to be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."

Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!
Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;
This aught days I tentit a pyot
Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.

"And yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croakin';
I kend it foreboded some ill."

"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
For ere the next sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown?"

"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,
I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,
And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."

Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;
At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,
Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.

There footmen and yeomen paradin',
To scour aff in dirdum were seen,
Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'
The briny saut tears frae their een.

Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,
And to the commander he gaes;
Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,
And help ye to lounder our faes.

"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,
Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,
And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,
I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."

"Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"
The captain did smiling reply,
But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
Till daylight should glent in the sky.

Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;
Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,
Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing,
Gaed bannin' the French again hame.

COQUET WATER.

AIR--_"Braw Lads of Gala Water."_

Whan winter winds forget to blaw,
An' vernal suns revive pale nature,
A shepherd lad by chance I saw,
Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.

Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays,
His Mary's charms an' matchless feature,
While echoes answer'd frae the braes,
That skirt the banks of Coquet water.

"Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine,"
Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her;
An' deem mysel' as happy syne,
As landit laird on Coquet water.

"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam,
In foreign lands their fortune fritter;
But love's pure joys be mine at home,
Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.

"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I,
Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better;
Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy,
Tending my flocks by Coquet water.

"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream,
For on thy banks aft hae I met her;
Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam,
That busk the banks of Coquet water."

THE YOUNG MAID'S WISH FOR PEACE.

AIR--_"Far frae Hame," &c._

Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease,
An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace;
Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea,
Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.

My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main,
An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain;
But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me,
That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.

When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break,
An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake;
Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be,
An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.

Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore,
Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar;
In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee,
Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.

Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war,
An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar:
But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity,
First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.

An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!
On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie,
Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea,
Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.

Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!
An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won;
On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily,
An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.

But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand
To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land,
When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be,
An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.

THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW.

There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,
He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,
An' in his profession he had right good luck
At bridals his elbow to diddle.

But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,
As a' men to dust must return;
An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,
That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.

Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,
Lamenting the day that she saw,
An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,
That silent now hang on the wa'.

Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,
Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,
As in came a younker some comfort to speak,
Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.

"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,
Consent but to marry me now,
I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,
An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."

The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,
"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,
If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,
Folks needna contend against fate."

He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,
An' put a' the thairms in tune,
The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,
For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.

Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,
For death still the dearest maun sever;
For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,
An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF.

He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,
Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:
We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,
Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.

Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,
Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;
And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,
His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.

When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,
Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,
Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,
Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.

Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,
Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,
Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,--
Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.

Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted--
The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed--
Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,
Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.

THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.

Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining,
I sigh, for thy exit is near;
Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining,
Who now presses hard on thy rear.

The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning,
Droop sick as they nod on the lea;
The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morning
Shrill warbles his song from the tree.

Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow,
No warbler to lend her a lay,
No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow,
As wont for to welcome the day.

Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley,
Each landscape how pensive its mien!
They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily,
And losing their liv'ry of green.

O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions,
To where purer streamlets still flow,
Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions,
Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.

Sir Walter Scott, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771. His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his mother's side his progenitors were likewise highly respectable: his maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of the uncommon attribute of genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When scarcely two years old he was seized with an illness which deprived him of the proper use of his right limb, a loss which continued during his life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside with his paternal grandfather, Robert Scott, who rented the farm of Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, in Roxburghshire. Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant; but he had afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness, he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve months, without experiencing benefit from the mineral waters. During the three following years he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border legends, chiefly derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a person of a romantic inclination and sprightly intelligence. At this period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in Ramsay's "Evergreen," were his favourite studies; and he took delight in reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages, or verses, to his mother, who sought every incentive to stimulate his native propensity. In 1778 he was sent to the High School, where he possessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able scholar, and Dr Adam, the distinguished rector. His progress in scholarship was not equal to his talents; he was already a devotee to romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend to some quiet spot in the country, to relate or to listen to a fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the prescribed tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, the love of miscellaneous literature, especially the works of the great masters of fiction, amounted to a passion; and as his memory was singularly tenacious, he accumulated a great extent and variety of miscellaneous information.

On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to reside with some relations at Kelso; and in this interesting locality his growing attachment to the national minstrelsy and legendary lore received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh he entered the University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in October 1793. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the High School, insomuch that Mr Dalziel, the professor of Greek, was induced to give public expression as to his hopeless incapacity. The professor fortunately survived to make ample compensation for the rashness of his prediction.

The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were entirely directed to a military life; but his continued lameness interposed an insuperable difficulty, and was a source of deep mortification. He was at length induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities, entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his aspirations, he was chiefly reconciled by the consideration that his fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books.

Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the second year of his apprenticeship. While precluded from active duty, being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by speaking, he was still allowed to read; a privilege which accelerated his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he was recommended exercise on horseback; and in obeying the instructions of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself generally familiar with localities and scenes famous in Scottish story. On the restoration of his health, he at length became seriously engaged in the study of law for several continuous years, and, after the requisite examinations, was admitted as an advocate, on the 10th of July 1792, when on the point of attaining his twenty-first year.

In his twelfth year, Scott had composed some verses for his preceptor and early friend Dr Adam, which afforded promise of his future excellence. But he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in prose wore a stiff formality. On being called to the bar, he at first carefully refrained, according to his own statement, from claiming the honour of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose that his habits were unsuitable to a due attention to the duties of his profession. He was relieved of dependence on professional employment by espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman, possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaintance he had formed at Gilsland, a watering-place in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of £300 a year. While he continued in his father's office he had made himself familiar with the French and Italian languages, and had read many of their more celebrated authors, especially the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after he came to the bar, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis, whose friendship he had recently acquired. In 1796 he made his first adventure as an author by publishing translations of "Lenoré," and "The Wild Huntsman" of Bürger. The attempt proved unsuccessful; but, undismayed, he again essayed his skill in translation by publishing, in 1799, an English version of Goëthe's "Goetz of Berlichingen." His success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.

Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of the Scottish borders, which had only been preserved by the recitations of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The independence of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, a wild pastoral district on the Scottish border, anciently peopled by the noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions; and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information, partly communicated to him by intelligent correspondents, he gave to the world, in 1802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume, consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and others. These volumes issued from the printing-press of his early friend and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards so justly celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of "Sir Tristrem;" and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the Rhymer. He published in 1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of £600.

The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. In the year following that which produced the "Lay," he received his appointment as a principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards brought him £1200 a-year. To literary occupation he now resolved to dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced "Marmion," his second great poem, which brought him £1000 from the publisher, and at once established his fame. During the same year he completed the heavy task of editing the works of Dryden, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he edited the state papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a contributor to the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, conducted by Southey. "The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his poetical works, appeared in 1810; "Don Roderick," in 1811; "Rokeby," in 1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless," and "The Bridal of Triermain," appeared subsequently, without the author's name.