THEMODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL

Among those modern Scottish poets whose lives, by extending to a considerably distant period, render them connecting links between the old and recent minstrelsy of Caledonia, the first place is due to the Rev.John Skinner. This ingenious and learned person was born on the 3d of October 1721, at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, and county of Aberdeen. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was parochial schoolmaster; but two years after his son's birth, he was presented to the more lucrative situation of schoolmaster of Echt, a parish about twelve miles distant from Aberdeen. He discharged the duties of this latter appointment during the long incumbency of fifty years. He was twice married. By his first union with Mrs Jean Gillanders, the relict of Donald Farquharson of Balfour, was born an only child, the subject of this memoir. The mother dying when the child was only two years old, the charge of his early training depended solely on his father, who for several years remained a widower. The paternal duties were adequately performed: the son,while a mere youth, was initiated in classical learning, and in his thirteenth year he became a successful competitor for a bursary or exhibition in Marischal College, Aberdeen. At the University, during the usual philosophical course of four years, he pursued his studies with diligence and success; and he afterwards became an usher in the parish schools of Kemnay and Monymusk.

From early youth, young Skinner had courted the Muse of his country, and composed verses in the Scottish dialect. When a mere stripling, he could repeat, which he did with enthusiasm, the long poem by James I. of "Christ-kirk on the Green;" he afterwards translated it into Latin verse; and an imitation of the same poem, entitled "The Monymusk Christmas Ba'ing," descriptive of the diversions attendant on the annual Christmas gatherings for playing the game of foot-ball at Monymusk, which he composed in his sixteenth year, attracting the notice of the lady of Sir Archibald Grant, Bart. of Monymusk, brought him the favour of that influential family. Though the humble usher of a parish school, he was honoured with the patronage of the worthy baronet and his lady, became an inmate of their mansion, and had the uncontrolled use of its library. The residence of the poet in Monymusk House indirectly conduced towards his forming those ecclesiastical sentiments which exercised such an important influence on his subsequent career. The Episcopal clergyman of the district was frequently a guest at the table of Sir Archibald; and by the arguments and persuasive conversation of this person, Mr Skinner was induced to enlist his sympathies in the cause of the Episcopal or non-juring clergy of Scotland. They bore the latter appellation from their refusal, during the existence of the exiled family of Stewart, to take the oath of allegiance to the House ofHanover. In 1740, on the invitation of Mr Robert Forbes, Episcopal minister at Leith, afterwards a bishop, Mr Skinner, in the capacity of private tutor to the only son of Mr Sinclair of Scolloway, proceeded to Zetland, where he acquired the intimate friendship of the Rev. Mr Hunter, the only non-juring clergyman in that remote district. There he remained only one year, owing to the death of the elder Mr Sinclair, and the removal of his pupil to pursue his studies in a less retired locality. He lamented the father's death in Latin, as well as in English verse. He left Scolloway with the best wishes of the family; and as a substantial proof of the goodwill of his friend Mr Hunter, he received in marriage the hand of his eldest daughter.

Returning to Aberdeenshire, he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal Church, by Bishop Dunbar of Peterhead; and in November 1742, on the unanimous invitation of the people, he was appointed to the pastoral charge of the congregation at Longside. Uninfluenced by the soarings of ambition, he seems to have fixed here, at the outset, a permanent habitation: he rented a cottage at Linshart in the vicinity, which, though consisting only of a single apartment, besides the kitchen, sufficed for the expenditure of his limited emoluments. In every respect he realised Goldsmith's description of the village pastor:—

"A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place."

Secluded, however, as were Mr Skinner's habits, and though he never had interfered in the political movements of the period, he did not escape his share in thoseruthless severities which were visited upon the non-juring clergy subsequent to the last Rebellion. His chapel was destroyed by the soldiers of the barbarous Duke of Cumberland; and, on the plea of his having transgressed the law by preaching to more than four persons without subscribing the oath of allegiance, he was, during six months, detained a prisoner in the jail of Aberdeen.

Entering on the sacred duties of the pastoral office, Mr Skinner appears to have checked the indulgence of his rhyming propensities. His subsequent poetical productions, which include the whole of his popular songs, were written to please his friends, or gratify the members of his family, and without the most distant view to publication. In 1787, he writes to Burns, on the subject of Scottish song:—"While I was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things; but on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all tolerably good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted those effusions which have made a public appearance, beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions; at the same time, I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to see respected." Some of Mr Skinner's best songs were composed at a sitting, while they seldom underwent any revision after being committed to paper. To the following incident, his most popular song, "Tullochgorum," owed its origin. In the course of a visit he was making to a friend in Ellon (not Cullen, as has been stated on the authority of Burns), a dispute arose among the guests on the subject of Whig and Tory politics, which, becoming somewhat too exciting for the comfort of the lady of thehouse, in order to bring it promptly to a close, she requested Mr Skinner to suggest appropriate words for the favourite air, "The Reel of Tullochgorum." Mr Skinner readily complied, and, before leaving the house, produced what Burns, in a letter to the author, characterised as "the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw." The name of the lady who made the request to the poet was Mrs Montgomery, and hence the allusion in the first stanza of the ballad:—

"Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,And lay your disputes all aside;What signifies 't for folks to chideFor what was done before them?Let Whig and Tory all agree," &c.

Though claiming no distinction as a writer of verses, Mr Skinner did not conceal his ambition to excel in another department of literature. In 1746, in his twenty-fifth year, he published a pamphlet, in defence of the non-juring character of his Church, entitled "A Preservative against Presbytery." A performance of greater effort, published in 1757, excited some attention, and the unqualified commendation of the learned Bishop Sherlock. In this production, entitled "A Dissertation on Jacob's Prophecy," which was intended as a supplement to a treatise on the same subject by Dr Sherlock, the author has established, by a critical examination of the original language, that the words in Jacob's prophecy (Gen. xlix. 10), rendered "sceptre" and "lawgiver" in the authorised version, ought to be translated "tribeship" and "typifier," a difference of interpretation which obviates some difficulties respecting the exact fulfilment of this remarkable prediction. In a pamphlet printed in 1767, Mr Skinner again vindicated the claims and authority of his Church; and onthis occasion, against the alleged misrepresentations of Mr Norman Sievewright, English clergyman at Brechin, who had published a work unfavourable to the cause of Scottish Episcopacy. His most important work, "An Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, from the first appearance of Christianity in that kingdom," was published in the year 1788, in two octavo volumes. This publication, which is arranged in the form of letters to a friend, and dedicated, in elegant Latin verse, "Ad Filium et Episcopum," (to his son, and bishop), by partaking too rigidly of a sectarian character, did not attain any measure of success. Mr Skinner's other prose works were published after his death, together with a Memoir of the author, under the editorial care of his son, Bishop Skinner of Aberdeen. These consist of theological essays, in the form of "Letters addressed to Candidates for Holy Orders," "A Dissertation on the Sheckinah, or Divine Presence with the Church or People of God," and "An Essay towards a literal or true radical exposition of the Song of Songs," the whole being included in two octavo volumes, which appeared in 1809. A third volume was added, containing a collection of the author's compositions in Latin verse, and his fugitive songs and ballads in the Scottish dialect—the latter portion of this volume being at the same time published in a more compendious form, with the title, "Amusements of Leisure Hours; or, Poetical Pieces, chiefly in the Scottish dialect."

Though living in constant retirement at Linshart, the reputation of the Longside pastor, both as a poet and a man of classical taste, became widely extended, and persons distinguished in the world of letters sought his correspondence and friendship. With Dr Gleig, afterwards titular Bishop of Brechin, Dr Doig of Stirling,and John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, he maintained an epistolary intercourse for several years. Dr Gleig, who edited theEncyclopædia Britannica, consulted Mr Skinner respecting various important articles contributed to that valuable publication. His correspondence with Doig and Ramsay was chiefly on their favourite topic of philology. These two learned friends visited Mr Skinner in the summer of 1795, and entertained him for a week at Peterhead. This brief period of intellectual intercourse was regarded by the poet as the most entirely pleasurable of his existence; and the impression of it on the vivid imagination of Mr Ramsay is recorded in a Latin eulogy on his northern correspondent, which he subsequently transmitted to him. A poetical epistle addressed by Mr Skinner to Robert Burns, in commendation of his talents, was characterized by the Ayrshire Bard as "the best poetical compliment he had ever received." It led to a regular correspondence, which was carried on with much satisfaction to both parties. The letters, which chiefly relate to the preparation of Johnson'sMusical Museum, then in the course of publication, have been included in his published correspondence. Burns never saw Mr Skinner; he had not informed himself as to his locality during the prosecution of his northern tour, and had thus the mortification of ascertaining that he had been in his neighbourhood, without having formed his personal acquaintance. To Mr Skinner's son, whom he accidentally met in Aberdeen on his return, he expressed a deep regret for the blunder, as "he would have gone twenty miles out of his way to visit the author of 'Tullochgorum.'"

As a man of ingenuity, various acquirements, and agreeable manners, Mr Skinner was held in muchestimation among his contemporaries. Whatever he read, with the assistance of a commonplace-book, he accurately remembered, and could readily turn to account; and, though his library was contained in a closet of five feet square, he was abundantly well informed on every ordinary topic of conversation. He was fond of controversial discussion, and wielded both argument and wit with a power alarming to every antagonist. Though keen in debate, he was however possessed of a most imperturbable suavity of temper. His conversation was of a playful cast, interspersed with anecdote, and free from every affectation of learning. As a clergyman, Mr Skinner enjoyed the esteem and veneration of his flock. Besides efficiently discharging his ministerial duties, he practised gratuitously as a physician, having qualified himself, by acquiring a competent acquaintance with the healing art at the medical classes in Marischal College. His pulpit duties were widely acceptable; but his discourses, though edifying and instructive, were more the result of the promptitude of the preacher than the effects of a painstaking preparation. He abandoned the aid of the manuscript in the pulpit, on account of the untoward occurrence of his notes being scattered by a startled fowl, in the early part of his ministry, while he was addressing his people from the door of his house, after the wanton destruction of his chapel.

In a scene less calculated to invite poetic inspiration no votary of the muse had ever resided. On every side of his lonely dwelling extended a wild uncultivated plain; nor for miles around did any other human habitation relieve the monotony of this cheerless solitude. In her gayest moods, Nature never wore a pleasing aspect inLong-gate, nor did the distant prospect compensate forthe dreary gloominess of the surrounding landscape. For his poetic suggestions Mr Skinner was wholly dependent on the singular activity of his fancy; as he derived his chief happiness in his communings with an attached flock, and in the endearing intercourse of his family. Of his children, who were somewhat numerous he contrived to afford the whole, both sons and daughters, a superior education; and he had the satisfaction, for a long period of years, to address one of his sons as the bishop of his diocese.

The death of Mr Skinner's wife, in the year 1799, fifty-eight years after their marriage, was the most severe trial which he seems to have experienced. In a Latin elegy, he gave expression to the deep sense which he entertained of his bereavement. In 1807, his son, Bishop Skinner, having sustained a similar bereavement, invited his aged father to share the comforts of his house; and after ministering at Longside for the remarkably lengthened incumbency of sixty-five years, Mr Skinner removed to Aberdeen. But a greater change was at hand; on the 16th of June 1807, in less than a week after his arrival, he was suddenly seized with illness, and almost immediately expired. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Longside; and the flock to which he had so long ministered placed over the grave a handsome monument, bearing, on a marble tablet, an elegant tribute to the remembrance of his virtues and learning. At the residence of Bishop Skinner, he had seen his descendants in the fourth generation.

Of Mr Skinner's songs, printed in this collection, the most popular are "Tullochgorum," "John o' Badenyon," and "The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn." The whole are pervaded by sprightliness and good-humouredpleasantry. Though possessing the fault of being somewhat too lengthy, no song-compositions of any modern writer in Scottish verse have, with the exception of those of Burns, maintained a stronger hold of the Scottish heart, or been more commonly sung in the social circle.

Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,And lay your disputes all aside,What signifies 't for folks to chideFor what was done before them:Let Whig and Tory all agree,Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,Whig and Tory all agree,To drop their Whig-mig-morum;Let Whig and Tory all agreeTo spend the night wi' mirth and glee,And cheerful sing alang wi' meThe Reel o' Tullochgorum.

O Tullochgorum 's my delight,It gars us a' in ane unite,And ony sumph that keeps a spite,In conscience I abhor him:For blythe and cheerie we'll be a',Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie,Blythe and cheerie we'll be a',And make a happy quorum;For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'As lang as we hae breath to draw,And dance, till we be like to fa',The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

What needs there be sae great a fraiseWi' dringing dull Italian lays?I wadna gie our ain StrathspeysFor half a hunder score o' them;They're dowf and dowie at the best,Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,Dowf and dowie at the best,Wi' a' their variorum;They're dowf and dowie at the best,Theirallegrosand a' the rest,They canna' please a Scottish taste,Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly worms their minds oppressWi' fears o' want and double cess,And sullen sots themsells distressWi' keeping up decorum:Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,Sour and sulky shall we sit,Like old philosophorum?Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,Nor ever try to shake a fitTo th' Reel o' Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings aye attendEach honest, open-hearted friend,And calm and quiet be his end,And a' that's good watch o'er him;May peace and plenty be his lot,Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,Peace and plenty be his lot,And dainties a great store o' them:May peace and plenty be his lot,Unstain'd by any vicious spot,And may he never want a groat,That 's fond o' Tullochgorum!

But for the sullen, frumpish fool,That loves to be oppression's tool,May envy gnaw his rotten soul,And discontent devour him;May dool and sorrow be his chance,Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,Dool and sorrow be his chance,And nane say, Wae 's me for him!May dool and sorrow be his chance,Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,Wha e'er he be that winna danceThe Reel o' Tullochgorum.

When first I cam to be a manOf twenty years or so,I thought myself a handsome youth,And fain the world would know;In best attire I stept abroad,With spirits brisk and gay,And here and there and everywhereWas like a morn in May;No care I had, nor fear of want,But rambled up and down,And for a beau I might have pastIn country or in town;I still was pleased where'er I went,And when I was alone,I tuned my pipe and pleased myselfWi' John o' Badenyon.

Now in the days of youthful primeA mistress I must find,Forlove, I heard, gave one an airAnd e'en improved the mind:On Phillis fair above the restKind fortune fix'd my eyes,Her piercing beauty struck my heart,And she became my choice;To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,I offer'd many a vow;And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,As other lovers do;But, when at last I breathed my flame,I found her cold as stone;I left the girl, and tuned my pipeTo John o' Badenyon.

Whenlovehad thus my heart beguiledWith foolish hopes and vain;Tofriendship'sport I steer'd my course,And laugh'd at lovers' pain;A friend I got by lucky chance,'Twas something like divine,An honest friend 's a precious gift,And such a gift was mine;And now whatever might betideA happy man was I,In any strait I knew to whomI freely might apply.A strait soon came: my friend I try'd;He heard, and spurn'd my moan;I hied me home, and tuned my pipeTo John o' Badenyon.

Methought I should be wiser next,And would apatriotturn,Began to doat on Johnny WilkesAnd cry up Parson Horne.[1]Their manly spirit I admired,And praised their noble zeal,Who had with flaming tongue and penMaintain'd the public weal;But e'er a month or two had pass'd,I found myself betray'd,'Twasselfandparty, after all,For a' the stir they made;At last I saw the factious knavesInsult the very throne,I cursed them a', and tuned my pipeTo John o' Badenyon.

What next to do I mused awhile,Still hoping to succeed;I pitch'd onbooksfor company,And gravely tried to read:I bought and borrow'd everywhere,And studied night and day,Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wroteThat happen'd in my way:Philosophy I now esteem'dThe ornament of youth,And carefully through many a pageI hunted after truth.A thousand various schemes I tried,And yet was pleased with none;I threw them by, and tuned my pipeTo John o' Badenyon.

And now, ye youngsters everywhere,That wish to make a show,Take heed in time, nor fondly hopeFor happiness below;What you may fancy pleasure here,Is but an empty name,Andgirls, andfriends, andbooks, and so,You 'll find them all the same.Then be advised, and warning takeFrom such a man as me;I 'm neither Pope nor Cardinal,Nor one of high degree;You 'll meet displeasure everywhere;Then do as I have done,E'en tune your pipe and please yourselvesWith John o' Badenyon.

Were I but able to rehearseMy Ewie's praise in proper verse,I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierceAs ever piper's drone could blaw;The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,Wha had kent her might hae swornSic a Ewe was never born,Hereabout nor far awa';Sic a Ewe was never born,Hereabout nor far awa'.

I never needed tar nor keilTo mark her upo' hip or heel,Her crookit horn did as weelTo ken her by amo' them a';She never threaten'd scab nor rot,But keepit aye her ain jog-trot,Baith to the fauld and to the cot,Was never sweir to lead nor caw;Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.

Cauld nor hunger never dang her,Wind nor wet could never wrang her,Anes she lay an ouk and langerFurth aneath a wreath o' snaw:Whan ither ewies lap the dyke,And eat the kail, for a' the tyke,My Ewie never play'd the like,But tyc'd about the barn wa';My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.

A better or a thriftier beastNae honest man could weel hae wist,For, silly thing, she never mistTo hae ilk year a lamb or twa':The first she had I gae to Jock,To be to him a kind o' stock,And now the laddie has a flockO' mair nor thirty head ava';And now the laddie has a flock, &c.

I lookit aye at even' for her,Lest mishanter should come o'er her,Or the fowmart might devour her,Gin the beastie bade awa;My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,Well deserved baith girse and corn,Sic a Ewe was never born,Hereabout nor far awa';Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,(Wha can speak it withoutgreeting?)A villain cam' when I was sleeping,Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a':I sought her sair upo' the morn,And down aneath a buss o' thornI got my Ewie's crookit horn,But my Ewie was awa';I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.

O! gin I had the loon that did it,Sworn I have as well as said it,Though a' the warld should forbid it,I wad gie his neck a thra':I never met wi' sic a turnAs this sin' ever I was born,My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn,Silly Ewie, stown awa';My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

O! had she died o' crook or cauld,As Ewies do when they grow auld,It wad na been, by mony fauld,Sae sair a heart to nane o's a':For a' the claith that we hae worn,Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,The loss o' her we could hae born,Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa';The loss o' her we could hae born, &c.

But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,Aneath a bleedy villain's knife,I 'm really fleyt that our guidwifeWill never win aboon 't ava:O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,Call your muses up and mourn,Our Ewie wi' the crookit hornStown frae 's, and fell'd and a'!Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

Tune—"Dumbarton Drums."

O! why should old age so much wound us?[2]There is nothing in it all to confound us:For how happy now am I,With my old wife sitting by,And our bairns and our oys all around us;For how happy now am I, &c.

We began in the warld wi' naething,And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing;We made use of what we had,And our thankful hearts were glad,When we got the bit meat and the claithing;We made use of what we had, &c.

We have lived all our lifetime contented,Since the day we became first acquainted:It 's true we 've been but poor,And we are so to this hour,But we never yet repined or lamented;It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit,Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit;But we always gave a shareOf the little we could spare,When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it;But we always gave a share, &c.

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy,By means that were cunning or stealthy;But we always had the bliss—And what further could we wiss?—To be pleased with ourselves, and be healthy;But we always had the bliss, &c.

What though we cannot boast of our guineas?We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies;And these, I 'm certain, areMore desirable by farThan a bag full of poor yellow steinies;And these, I am certain, are, &c.

We have seen many wonder and ferly,Of changes that almost are yearly,Among rich folks up and down,Both in country and in town,Who now live but scrimply and barely;Among rich folks up and down, &c.

Then why should people brag of prosperity?A straiten'd life we see is no rarity;Indeed, we 've been in want,And our living 's been but scant,Yet we never were reduced to need charity;Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.

In this house we first came together,Where we 've long been a father and mither;And though not of stone and lime,It will last us all our time;And I hope we shall ne'er need anither;And though not of stone and lime, &c.

And when we leave this poor habitation,We 'll depart with a good commendation;We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss,To a better house than this,To make room for the next generation;We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.

Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.

It has long been my fate to be thought in thewrong,And my fate it continues to be;The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,And the clerk and the cottar agree.There is nothing I do, and there 's nothing I say,But some one or other thinks wrong;And to please them I find there is no other way,But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.

Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refinedIn sense to a wondrous degree;Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,And it 'swrongnot to seek to be free."Says the sage Politician, "Your natural shareOf talents would raise you much higher,Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,And it 'swrongin you not to aspire."

Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic lifeIs surely deserving of blame?You have children to care for, as well as a wife,And it 'swrongnot to lay up for them."Says the fat Gormandiser, "To eat and to drinkIs the truesummum bonumof man:Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,And it 'swrongnot to live while you can."

Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject,Nor give ourselves trouble about them:It is manners and dress that procure us respect,And it 'swrongto look for it without them."Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,"Ah! me, but your manners are vile:A parson that 's blythe is a shame to be seen,And it 'swrongin you even to smile."

Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,"Sir, whatever your character be,To obey you in this I will never be brought,And it 'swrongto be meddling with me."Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,"Our matters to ruin must go:Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,And it 'swrongto neglect the house so."

Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,And I 'm censured by old and by young,Who in one point agree, though in others they split,That in something I 'm still in thewrong.But let them say on to the end of the song,It shall make no impression on me:If to differ from such be to be in thewrong,In thewrongI hope always to be.

Tune—"Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen."

There lives a lassie i' the braes,And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her,When she has on her Sunday's claes,Ye never saw a lady brawer;So a' the lads are wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!

Her mither ware a tabbit mutch,Her father was an honest dyker,She 's a black-eyed wanton witch,Ye winna shaw me mony like her:So a' the lads are wooing at her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!

A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer,Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her,And nae a swankie far nor near,But tries wi' a' his might to win her:They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her,Courting her, but canna get her;Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!

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