"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a real incident which it describes, namely, a supper, where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles to Glasgow by my father,[69]who, when learning his business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,' which contains some very droll verses, was written in compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then also a young manufacturer, but who died about two months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson—'Bachelor Willie'—and my father's social good-nature, are pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough as they are."June 1, 1855."
"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a real incident which it describes, namely, a supper, where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles to Glasgow by my father,[69]who, when learning his business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,' which contains some very droll verses, was written in compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then also a young manufacturer, but who died about two months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson—'Bachelor Willie'—and my father's social good-nature, are pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough as they are.
"June 1, 1855."
Tune—"The gude forgi' me for leein'."
Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk,When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing,I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk,And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing,And ne'er was choked for leeing.Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas,If e'er I thought worthy the preeing,Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese,May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing,May I sup porridge for leeing.When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease,Can as weel keep a body frae deeing,As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese,I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing,I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze,I never could think about fleeing,But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese;Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing,Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.
Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk,When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing,I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk,And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing,And ne'er was choked for leeing.
Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas,If e'er I thought worthy the preeing,Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese,May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing,May I sup porridge for leeing.
When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease,Can as weel keep a body frae deeing,As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese,I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing,I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.
Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze,I never could think about fleeing,But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese;Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing,Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.
Tune—"The gude forgi' me for leein'."
Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout,An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing;He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout,An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing,An' said it wad just be a preeing.In the burn that rins by his grandmother's doorThis trout had lang been a dweller,Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore,An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller,An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nailThat grannie had reested her ham on,Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail,An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon,An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate,Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't;The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat,But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't,But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive,Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane,May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive,An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing,An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.
Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout,An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing;He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout,An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing,An' said it wad just be a preeing.
In the burn that rins by his grandmother's doorThis trout had lang been a dweller,Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore,An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller,An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.
This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nailThat grannie had reested her ham on,Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail,An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon,An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.
This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate,Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't;The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat,But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't,But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.
When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive,Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane,May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive,An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing,An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.
Alexander Douglas was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the village of Strathmiglo in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771. Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of studying for the ministry,—a laudable aspiration, which was unfortunately checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle to the farmers in the vicinity; and while so occupied, he read the Bible in the fields, and with a religious sense, remarkable for his years, engaged in daily prayer in some sequestered spot, for the Divine blessing to grant him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now assiduously sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and while busily plying the shuttle began to compose verses for his amusement. These compositions were jotted down during the periods of leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty, his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of this gentleman. A cordial recommendation to publish hisverses was the result; and a large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume of "Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a profit of one hundred pounds.
Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow, who still survives. Three children, the issue of the first marriage, died in early life. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, Douglas had few pretensions as a poet; some of his songs have however obtained a more than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.
Tune—"Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."
Fife, an' a' the land about it,Fife, an' a' the land about it;May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.We 'll raise the song on highest key,Through every grove till echo shout it;The sweet enchantin' theme shall be,Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.Her braid an' lang extended valesAre clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow;Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills;Her woods resound wi' music mellow.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.Her waters pastime sweet affordTo ane an' a' wha like to angle;The seats o' mony a laird an' lord,Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.In ilka town an' village gay,Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin';While to an' frae each port an' bay,See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.Her maids are frugal, modest, fair,As lilies by her burnies growin';An' ilka swain may here repair,Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.In peace, her sons like lammies mild,Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin';In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild,As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.May auld an' young hae meat an' claes;May wark an' wages aye be plenty;An' may the sun to latest daysSee Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.Fife, an' a' the land about it,Fife, an' a' the land about it;May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
Fife, an' a' the land about it,Fife, an' a' the land about it;May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
We 'll raise the song on highest key,Through every grove till echo shout it;The sweet enchantin' theme shall be,Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her braid an' lang extended valesAre clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow;Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills;Her woods resound wi' music mellow.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her waters pastime sweet affordTo ane an' a' wha like to angle;The seats o' mony a laird an' lord,Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
In ilka town an' village gay,Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin';While to an' frae each port an' bay,See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her maids are frugal, modest, fair,As lilies by her burnies growin';An' ilka swain may here repair,Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
In peace, her sons like lammies mild,Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin';In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild,As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'.Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
May auld an' young hae meat an' claes;May wark an' wages aye be plenty;An' may the sun to latest daysSee Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.
Fife, an' a' the land about it,Fife, an' a' the land about it;May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill—an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend—to which is appended anélogeon Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.
At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, hefound it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]
Now summer shines with gaudy pride,By flowery vale and mountain side,And shepherds waste the sunny hoursBy cooling streams, and bushy bowers;While I, a victim to despair,Avoid the sun's offensive glare,And in sequester'd wilds deploreThe perjured vows of Ella More.Would Fate my injured heart provideSome cave beyond the mountain tide,Some spot where scornful Beauty's eyeNe'er waked the ardent lover's sigh;I 'd there to woods and rocks complain,To rocks that skirt the angry main;For angry main, and rocky shore,Are kinder far than Ella More.
Now summer shines with gaudy pride,By flowery vale and mountain side,And shepherds waste the sunny hoursBy cooling streams, and bushy bowers;While I, a victim to despair,Avoid the sun's offensive glare,And in sequester'd wilds deploreThe perjured vows of Ella More.
Would Fate my injured heart provideSome cave beyond the mountain tide,Some spot where scornful Beauty's eyeNe'er waked the ardent lover's sigh;I 'd there to woods and rocks complain,To rocks that skirt the angry main;For angry main, and rocky shore,Are kinder far than Ella More.
Tune—"Lord Gregory."
And dost thou speak sincere, my love?And must we ever part?And dost thou unrelenting seeThe anguish of my heart?Have e'er these doating eyes of mine,One wandering wish express'd?No; thou alone hast ever beenCompanion of my breast.I saw thy face, angelic fair,I thought thy form divine,I sought thy love—I gave my heart,And hoped to conquer thine.But, ah! delusive, cruel hope!Hope now for ever gone!My Mary keeps the heart I gave,But with it keeps her own.When many smiling summer sunsTheir silver light has shed,And wrinkled age her hoary hairsWaves lightly o'er my head;Even then, in life's declining hour,My heart will fondly traceThe beauties of thy lovely form,And sweetly smiling face.
And dost thou speak sincere, my love?And must we ever part?And dost thou unrelenting seeThe anguish of my heart?Have e'er these doating eyes of mine,One wandering wish express'd?No; thou alone hast ever beenCompanion of my breast.
I saw thy face, angelic fair,I thought thy form divine,I sought thy love—I gave my heart,And hoped to conquer thine.But, ah! delusive, cruel hope!Hope now for ever gone!My Mary keeps the heart I gave,But with it keeps her own.
When many smiling summer sunsTheir silver light has shed,And wrinkled age her hoary hairsWaves lightly o'er my head;Even then, in life's declining hour,My heart will fondly traceThe beauties of thy lovely form,And sweetly smiling face.
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled,Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string,Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prizeAttracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and brightAs the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright,In the hall of his chief, on a festival night,I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone,His strains then are various—now rapid, now slow,As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,I list with delight to his rapturous strain,While the borrowing echo returns it again;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.But not summer's profusion alone can inspireHis soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow,When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven,Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven,And smile at the billows that angrily rave,Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart—When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave,And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled,Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string,Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.
Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prizeAttracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and brightAs the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright,In the hall of his chief, on a festival night,I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone,His strains then are various—now rapid, now slow,As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,I list with delight to his rapturous strain,While the borrowing echo returns it again;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
But not summer's profusion alone can inspireHis soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow,When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven,Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven,And smile at the billows that angrily rave,Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart—When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave,And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.
A man of fine intellect, a poet, and an elegant writer, Hamilton Paul has claims to remembrance. On the 10th April 1773, he was born in a small cottage on the banks of Girvan Water, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. In the same dwelling, Hugh Ainslie, another Scottish bard, was afterwards born. Receiving his elementary education at the parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Thomas Campbell, author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was a college contemporary; and their mutual love of poetry drew them closely to each other; they competed for academical rewards offered for the best compositions in verse, till frequent adjudication as to the equality of their merits, induced them to forbear contesting on the same subjects. At least on one occasion the verses of Paul were preferred to those of the Bard of Hope. The following lines, exhibiting a specimen of his poetical powers at this period, are from a translation of Claudian's "Epithalamium on the Marriage of Honorius and Maria," for which, in the Latin class, he gained a prize along with his friend:—
"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms,Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms;Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires,And in his breast awakens new desires.In love a novice, while his bosom glowsWith restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows;The rural pastimes suited to his age,His late delight, no more his care engage;No more he wills to give his steed the reinsIn eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains;No more he joys to bend the twanging bow,To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw;His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove,To wounds inflicted by the god of love.How oft, expressive of the inward smart,Did groans convulsive issue from his heart!How oft did blushes own the sacred flame,How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name!Now presents worthy of the plighted fair,And nuptial robes his busy train prepare—Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired,And those bright dames that to the beds aspiredOf emperors. Yet the celestial maidRequires no earthly ornamental aidTo give her faultless form a single grace,Or add one charm to her bewitching face."
"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms,Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms;Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires,And in his breast awakens new desires.In love a novice, while his bosom glowsWith restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows;The rural pastimes suited to his age,His late delight, no more his care engage;No more he wills to give his steed the reinsIn eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains;No more he joys to bend the twanging bow,To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw;His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove,To wounds inflicted by the god of love.How oft, expressive of the inward smart,Did groans convulsive issue from his heart!How oft did blushes own the sacred flame,How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name!Now presents worthy of the plighted fair,And nuptial robes his busy train prepare—Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired,And those bright dames that to the beds aspiredOf emperors. Yet the celestial maidRequires no earthly ornamental aidTo give her faultless form a single grace,Or add one charm to her bewitching face."
The circumstances of the young poets were far from affluent. Campbell particularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning to the lodgings of his friend to request his opinion of some verses; they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the production:—
"Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite,That rode upon the storm of night,And loud the waves were heard to roarThat lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."
"Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite,That rode upon the storm of night,And loud the waves were heard to roarThat lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."
After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a family in Argyleshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the island of Mull. They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose andverse. "Your verses on the Unfortunate Lady," writes Campbell to his friend, "I read with sweet pleasure; for there is a joy in grief, when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad.... Morose as I am in judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion, I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan, written soon after my arrival in Mull:—
"Glassy Jordan, smooth meanderingJacob's grassy meads between,Lo! thy waters, gently wandering,Lave thy valleys rich and green."When the winter, keenly show'ring,Strips fair Salem's holy shade,Then thy current, broader flowing,Lingers 'mid the leafless glade."When, O! when shall light returningGild the melancholy gloom,And the golden star of morningJordan's solemn vault illume?"When shall Freedom's holy charmerCheer my long benighted soul?When shall Israel, proud in armour,Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.
"Glassy Jordan, smooth meanderingJacob's grassy meads between,Lo! thy waters, gently wandering,Lave thy valleys rich and green.
"When the winter, keenly show'ring,Strips fair Salem's holy shade,Then thy current, broader flowing,Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.
"When, O! when shall light returningGild the melancholy gloom,And the golden star of morningJordan's solemn vault illume?
"When shall Freedom's holy charmerCheer my long benighted soul?When shall Israel, proud in armour,Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.
"The similarity of the measure with that of your last made me think of sending you this piece. I am much hurried at present with my comedy, the 'Clouds of Aristophanes.' I have already finished my translation of the Choephorœ of Æschylus. I dreamt a dream about your being before Parnassus upon your trial for sedition and contumacy. I thought Thalia, Clio,&c. addressed you. Their speeches shall be nonsensified into rhyme, and shall be part of some other scrawl from your affectionate friend,
"Thomas the Hermit."
In another epistle Campbell threatens to "send a formal message to the kind nymphs of Parnassus, telling them that, whereas Hamilton Paul, their favourite and admired laureate of the north, has been heard to express his admiration of certain nymphs in a certain place; and that the said Hamilton Paul has ungratefully and feloniously neglected to speak with due reverence of the ladies of Helicon; that said Hamilton Paul shall be deprived of all aid in future from these goddesses, and be sent to draw his inspiration from the dry fountain of earthly beauty; and that, furthermore, all the favours taken from the said Hamilton Paul shall accrue to the informer and petitioner!"
After two years' residence in the Highlands, both the poets returned to Glasgow to resume their academical studies: Campbell to qualify himself as a man of letters, and Paul to prepare for the ministry of the Scottish Church. "It would have been impossible, even during the last years of their college life," writes Mr Deans,[72]"to have predicted which of the two students would ultimately arrive at the greatest eminence. They were both excellent classical scholars; they were both ingenious poets; and Campbell does not appear to have surpassed his companion either in his original pieces or his translations; they both exhibited great versatility of talent; they were both playful and witty; and seem to have been possessed of great facilities in sport.During his latter years, when detailing the history of those joyous days, Mr Paul dwelt on them with peculiar delight, and seemed animated with youthful emotion when recalling the curious frolics and innocent and singular adventures in which Campbell and he had performed a principal part."
While resident at Inverary, Mr Paul composed several poems, which were much approved by his correspondent. Among these, a ballad entitled "The Maid of Inverary," in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Lady Bury, was set to music, and made the subject of elaborate criticism. On his return to the university, he composed with redoubled ardour, contributing verses on every variety of topic to the newspapers and periodicals. Several of his pieces, attracting the notice of some of the professors, received their warm commendation.
Obtaining licence to preach, the poet returned to his native county. During a probation of thirteen years, he was assistant to six parish ministers, and tutor in five different families. He became joint-proprietor and editor of theAyr Advertiser, which he conducted for a period of three years. At Ayr he was a member of every literary circle; was connected with every club; chaplain to every society; a speaker at every meeting; the poet of every curious occurrence; and the welcome guest at every table. Besides editing his newspaper, he gave private instructions in languages, and preached on Sabbath. His metrical productions became widely known, and his songs were sung at the cottage hearths of the district. His presence at the social meeting was the sure indication of a prevalent good humour.
In 1813, Mr Paul attained the summit of his professional ambition; he was ordained to the pastoral office in the united parishes of Broughton, Glenholm,and Kilbucho, in Peeblesshire. Amidst due attention to his clerical duties, he still found leisure to engage in literary pursuits, and continued to contribute to the public journals both in prose and poetry. Of the poet Burns he was an enthusiastic admirer; he was laureate of the "Burns' Allowa' Club," and of the Glasgow Ayrshire Friendly Society, whose annual meetings were held on the Bard's anniversary; and the odes which he composed for these annual assemblages attracted wide and warm admiration. He therefore recommended himself as a suitable editor of the works of Burns, when a new edition was contemplated by Messrs Wilson and M'Cormick, booksellers in Ayr. In the performance of his editorial task, he was led, in an attempt to palliate the immoralities of Burns, to make some indiscreet allusions respecting his own clerical brethren; for this imprudence he narrowly escaped censure from the ecclesiastical courts. His memoir, though commended inBlackwood's Magazine, conducted by Professor Wilson, was severely censured by Dr Andrew Thomson in theChristian Instructor.
The pastoral parish of Broughton was in many respects suited for a person of Hamilton Paul's peculiar temperament and habits; in a more conspicuous position his talents might have shone with more brilliancy; but, after the burst of enthusiasm in his youth was past, he loved seclusion, and modestly sought the shade. No man was less conscious of his powers, or attached less value to his literary performances.[73]Of his numerous poetical compositions each was the work of a sitting, orhad been uttered impromptu; and, unless secured by a friend, they were commonly laid aside never to be recollected. As a clergyman, he retained, during a lengthened incumbency, the respect and affection of his flock, chiefly, it may be remarked, from the acceptability of his private services, and the warmth and kindliness of his dispositions. His pulpit discourses were elegantly composed, and largely impressed with originality and learning; but were somewhat imperfectly pervaded with those clear and evangelical views of Divine truth which are best calculated to edify a Christian audience. In private society, he was universally beloved. "His society," writes Mr Deans, "was courted by the rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned. In every company he was alike kind, affable, and unostentatious; as a companion, he was the most engaging of men; he was the best story-teller of his day." His power of humour was unbounded; he had a joke for every occasion, abon-motfor every adventure. He had eminent power of satire when he chose to wield it; but he generally blended the complimentary with the pungent, and lessened the keenness of censure by the good-humour of its utterance. His anecdotes are familiar over a wide district, and many of his witty sayings have become proverbial. He was abundantly hospitable, and had even suffered embarrassments from its injudicious exercise; still he was always able, as he used to say—
"To invite the wanderer to the gate,And spread the couch of rest."
"To invite the wanderer to the gate,And spread the couch of rest."
It was his earnest desire that he might live to pay his liabilities, and he was spared to accomplish the wish. He died on the 28th of February 1854, in the 81st year of his age.
In appearance, Hamilton Paul presented a handsome person, tall and erect; his countenance was regular and pleasant; and his eyes, which were partially concealed by overhanging eye-lashes, beamed with humour and intelligence. In conversation he particularly excelled, evincing on every topic the fruits of extensive reading and reflection. He was readily moved by the pathetic; at the most joyous hour, a melancholy incident would move him into tears. The tenderness of his heart was frequently imparted to his verses, which are uniformly distinguished for smoothness and simplicity.
Fair are the fleecy flocks that feedOn yonder heath-clad hills,Where wild meandering crystal TweedCollects his glassy rills.And sweet the buds that scent the air,And deck the breast of May;But none of these are sweet or fair,Compared to Helen Gray.You see in Helen's face so mild,And in her bashful mien,The winning softness of the child,The blushes of fifteen.The witching smile, when prone to go,Arrests me, bids me stay;Nor joy, nor comfort can I know,When 'reft of Helen Gray.I little thought the dark-brown moors,The dusky mountain's shade,Down which the wasting torrent pours,Conceal'd so sweet a maid;When sudden started from the plainA sylvan scene and gay,Where, pride of all the virgin train,I first saw Helen Gray.* * * * *May never Envy's venom'd breath,Blight thee, thou tender flower!And may thy head ne'er droop beneathAffliction's chilling shower!Though I, the victim of distress,Must wander far away;Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll blessThe name of Helen Gray.
Fair are the fleecy flocks that feedOn yonder heath-clad hills,Where wild meandering crystal TweedCollects his glassy rills.And sweet the buds that scent the air,And deck the breast of May;But none of these are sweet or fair,Compared to Helen Gray.
You see in Helen's face so mild,And in her bashful mien,The winning softness of the child,The blushes of fifteen.The witching smile, when prone to go,Arrests me, bids me stay;Nor joy, nor comfort can I know,When 'reft of Helen Gray.
I little thought the dark-brown moors,The dusky mountain's shade,Down which the wasting torrent pours,Conceal'd so sweet a maid;When sudden started from the plainA sylvan scene and gay,Where, pride of all the virgin train,I first saw Helen Gray.
* * * * *
May never Envy's venom'd breath,Blight thee, thou tender flower!And may thy head ne'er droop beneathAffliction's chilling shower!Though I, the victim of distress,Must wander far away;Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll blessThe name of Helen Gray.
Of streams that down the valley run,Or through the meadow glide,Or glitter to the summer sun,The Stinshar[74]is the pride.'Tis not his banks of verdant hue,Though famed they be afar;Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue,Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew;'Tis she that chiefly charms the view,The bonnie lass of Barr.When rose the lark on early wing,The vernal tide to hail;When daisies deck'd the breast of spring,I sought her native vale.The beam that gilds the evening sky,And brighter morning star,That tells the king of day is nigh,With mimic splendour vainly tryTo reach the lustre of thine eye,Thou bonnie lass of Barr.The sun behind yon misty isle,Did sweetly set yestreen;But not his parting dewy smileCould match the smile of Jean.Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe,Mine strove with tender war.On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow,While rivers to the ocean flow,With love of thee my heart shall glow,Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
Of streams that down the valley run,Or through the meadow glide,Or glitter to the summer sun,The Stinshar[74]is the pride.'Tis not his banks of verdant hue,Though famed they be afar;Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue,Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew;'Tis she that chiefly charms the view,The bonnie lass of Barr.
When rose the lark on early wing,The vernal tide to hail;When daisies deck'd the breast of spring,I sought her native vale.The beam that gilds the evening sky,And brighter morning star,That tells the king of day is nigh,With mimic splendour vainly tryTo reach the lustre of thine eye,Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
The sun behind yon misty isle,Did sweetly set yestreen;But not his parting dewy smileCould match the smile of Jean.Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe,Mine strove with tender war.On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow,While rivers to the ocean flow,With love of thee my heart shall glow,Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
Robert Tannahill was born at Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His father, James Tannahill, a silk-gauze weaver, espoused Janet Pollock, daughter of Matthew Pollock, owner of the small property of Boghall, near Beith; their family consisted of six sons and one daughter, of whom the future poet was the fourth child. On his mother's side he inherited a poetical temperament; she was herself endowed with strong natural sagacity, and her maternal uncle Hugh Brodie of Langcroft, a small landowner in Lochwinnoch, evidenced poetic powers by composing "A Speech in Verse upon Husbandry."[75]When a mere youth, Tannahill wrote verses; and being unable, from a weakness in one of his limbs to join in the active sports of his school-fellows, he occasionally sought amusement by composing riddles in rhyme for their solution. As a specimen of these early compositions, we submit the following, which has been communicated to us by Mr Matthew Tannahill, the poet's surviving brother. It was composed on old grumbling Peter Anderson, the gardener of King's Street, a character still remembered in Paisley:—
"Wi' girnin' and chirmin',His days they hae been spent;When ither folk right thankfu' spoke,He never was content."
"Wi' girnin' and chirmin',His days they hae been spent;When ither folk right thankfu' spoke,He never was content."
Along with poetry Tannahill early cultivated the kindred arts of music and song; a mere youth, he occasionally earned the payment of ten shillings for playing on the fife at the Greenock parades; he afterwards became eminent for his skill in the use of the flute. Having completed his education at school, which consisted of instruction in the elementary branches, he became apprenticed to a cotton-weaver. Collecting old or obscure airs, he began to adapt to them suitable words, which he jotted down as they occurred, upon a rude writing-desk he had attached to his loom. His spare hours were spent in the general improvement of his mind. For a period of two years at the commencement of the century, he prosecuted his handicraft occupation at Bolton in England. Returning to Paisley in the spring of 1802, he was offered the situation of overseer of a manufacturing establishment, but he preferred to resume the labours of the loom.
Hitherto Tannahill had not dreamt of becoming known as a song-writer; he cultivated his gift to relieve the monotony of an unintellectual occupation, and the usual auditor of his lays was his younger brother Matthew, who for some years was his companion in the workshop. The acquaintance of Robert Archibald Smith, the celebrated musical composer, which he was now fortunate in forming, was the means of stimulating his Muse to higher efforts and of awakening his ambition. Smith was at this period resident in Paisley; and along with one Ross, a teacher of music from Aberdeen, he set several of Tannahill's best songs to music. In 1805 he was invited to become a poetical contributor to a leading metropolitan periodical; and two years afterwards he published a volume of "Poems and Songs." Of this work a large impression was sold, and a number of the songs soon obtained celebrity. Encouraged by R. A. Smith andothers, who, attracted by his fame, came to visit him, Tannahill began to feel concerned in respect of his reputation as a song-writer; he diligently composed new songs and re-wrote with attention those which he had already published. Some of these compositions he hoped would be accepted by his correspondent, Mr George Thomson, for his collection, and the others he expected would find a publisher in the famous bookselling firm of Constable & Co. The failure of both these schemes—for Constable's hands were full, and Thomson exhibited his wonted "fastidiousness"—preyed deeply on the mind of the sensitive bard. A temporary relief to his disappointed expectations was occasioned by a visit which, in the spring of 1810, he received from James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who made a journey to Paisley expressly to form his acquaintance. The visit is remembered by Mr Matthew Tannahill, who describes the enthusiasm with which his brother received such homage to his genius. The poets spent a night together; and in the morning Tannahill accompanied the Shepherd half-way to Glasgow. Their parting was memorable: "Farewell," said Tannahill, as he grasped the Shepherd's hand, "we shall never meet again! Farewell, I shall never see you more!"
The visit of the Ettrick Bard proved only an interlude amidst the depression which had permanently settled on the mind of poor Tannahill. The intercourse of admiring friends even became burdensome to him; and he stated to his brother Matthew his determination either to leave Paisley for a sequestered locality, or to canvass the country for subscribers to a new edition of his poems. Meanwhile, his person became emaciated, and he complained to his brother that he experienced a pricklingsensation in the head. During a visit to a friend in Glasgow, he exhibited decided symptoms of insanity. On his return home, he complained of illness, and took to bed in his mother's house. He was visited by three of his brothers on the evening of the same day, and they left him about ten o'clock, when he appeared sufficiently composed. Returning about two hours afterwards to inquire for him, and for their mother, who lay sick in the next apartment, they found their brother's bed empty, and discovered that he had gone out. Arousing the neighbours, they made an immediate search, and at length they discovered the poet's lifeless body at a deep spot of the neighbouring brook. Tannahill terminated his own life on the 17th May 1810, at the age of thirty-six.
The victim of disappointments which his sensitive temperament could not endure, Tannahill was naturally of an easy and cheerful disposition. "He was happy himself," states his surviving brother, "and he wished to see every one happy around him." As a child, his brother informs us, his exemplary behaviour was so conspicuous, that mothers were satisfied of their children's safety, if they learned that they were in company with "BobTannahill." Inoffensive in his own dispositions, he entertained every respect for the feelings of others. He enjoyed the intercourse of particular friends, but avoided general society; in company, he seldom talked, and only with a neighbour; he shunned the acquaintance of persons of rank, because he disliked patronage, and dreaded the superciliousness of pride. His conversation was simple; he possessed, but seldom used, considerable powers of satire; but he applied his keenest shafts of declamation against the votaries of cruelty. In performing acts of kindness he took delight, but he wasscrupulous of accepting favours; he was strong in the love of independence, and he had saved twenty pounds at the period of his death. His general appearance did not indicate intellectual superiority; his countenance was calm and meditative, his eyes were gray, and his hair a light-brown. In person, he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are much inferior to his songs; of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and graceful simplicity, they are pervaded by the gentlest pathos. Rich in description of beautiful landscapes, they softly tell the tale of man's affection and woman's love.[76]