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The drifted snow hung on his yellow Fair Freedom's temple, where he marked beard, her grave.

And his broad shoulders braved the He steeled the blunt Batavian's arms

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The curlew screamed, the tritons blew
Their shells to celebrate the ravished rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew ;
And Independence saw the light.
The light he saw in Albion's happy

Where under cover of a flowering thorn,
While Philomel renewed her warbled


The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born

The mountain Dryads seized with joy, The smiling infant to their charge consigned;

The Doric muse caressed the favourite boy;

The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind.

As rolling years matured his age,

He flourished bold and sinewy as his sire; While the mild passions in his breast assuage

The fiercer flames of his maternal fire.


Accomplished thus, he winged his way,
And zealous roved from pole to pole,
The rolls of right eternal to display,
And warm with patriot thought the as-
piring soul.

On desert isles 'twas he that raised
Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave,
Where Tyranny beheld amazed


Arabia's scorching sands he crossed,
Where blasted nature pants supine,
Conductor of her tribes adust,
To Freedom's adamantine shrine;

And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast He snatched from under fell Oppression's wing,

And taught amidst the dreary waste,
The all-cheering hymns of liberty to sing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,
Diffused through every baser mould;
Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky

And turns the dross of Corsica to gold;
He, guardian genius, taught my youth
Pomp's tinsel livery to despise :
My lips by him chastised to truth,
Ne'er paid that homage which my heart


Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,

Where varnished vice and vanity combined

To dazzle and seduce, their banner spread, And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind.

While Insolence his wrinkled front up


And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow; And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,

Full often wreathed around the miscre- And taste unspoiled the frugal table ant's brow; spread,

Where ever-dimpling falsehood, pert and And industry supply the humble store,


Presents her cup of stale profession's froth;
And pale disease, with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth.


In Fortune's car behold that minion ride, With either India's glittering spoils oppressed,

So moves the sumpter-mule in harnessed pride,

That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.

For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string;

Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure

And jingling bells fantastic folly ring:
Disquiet, doubt, and dread shall inter-


And nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,
Shook from the baleful pinions of disgust.


And sleep unbribed his dews refreshing


White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polished pebbles

While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride,
The salmon, monarch of the tide ;

Nature I'll court in her sequestered The ruthless pike, intent on war,


By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove,

or cell;

The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,

Where the poised lark his evening ditty By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,


And health, and peace, and contemplation dwell.

There, study shall with solitude recline, And friendship pledge me to his fellowswains,

And toil and temperance sedately twine The slender cord that fluttering life sustains;

And hedges flowered with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen :
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrowned with toil;
And hearts resolved, and hands pre-

And fearless poverty shall guard the door, The blessings they enjoy to guard!





IT might be a mistake to say that the poetic instinct is less generally diffused among the natives of the north of Scotland than among those of the south; but it is no mistake, however it may be accounted for, that it has produced fewer poets than the south. Yet at the period at which we have arrived, Ross, Skinner, Beattie, Geddes, and M'Pherson, all natives of the north, were contemporaries.

John Skinner, best known as the author of the national song "Tullochgorum," named after a famous strathspey, was born in 1721, at Balfour, in Aberdeenshire. His father was schoolmaster of the parish of Birse. Young Skinner was sent to Aberdeen University at the age of thirteen, and distinguished himself as a student. After graduating, he became an assistant teacher for some time, and in 1740 went to Shetland as a tutor. On his return he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal Church, and became a pastor of that communion at Longside. In 1745, he was imprisoned for six months, for refusing to take the oath of allegiance.

Burns, on his tour to the north of Scotland, was anxious to meet Skinner, whose "Tullochgorum" he considered one of the best songs in Scottish literature; but having omitted to get its author's address he returned without seeing him, though he was in his immediate neighbourhood. This cir

cumstance led to some complimentary correspondence between the poets, from which it appears that Skinner had a very modest opinion of his own verses, which he says he composed to please his daughters, who were well acquainted with the native airs.

.After ministering at Longside for sixty-five years, he went to live with his son, the Bishop of Aberdeen, and died in that city a few days after his arrival, in his eighty-sixth year.

Skinner resembles Ross in many points, as a man and as a poet. Both were of equally happy and contented dispositions, fond of the native manners and music; and both were skilful players on the violin. They both excelled in Latin composition, and lived to about the same age, in the same spot to which they had been appointed in youth. Skinner, though devout, was devoid of either political or ecclesiastical narrowness; and the same may be said of Ross, whose wife was of the Roman Catholic persuasion; and lastly, each of them is best known by a single contribution to our song literature, which excited the admiration of the greatest master of the lyre which our own or any country has yet produced.

Besides his poems, which were pub lished in a collected form, and entitled Amusements of Leisure Hours, &c., Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, as well as several theological treatises.


COME, gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folk to chide

For what's been done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whig-mig-morum.

Let Whig and Tory all agree

To spend this night in mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,

The reel of Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',

The reel of Tullochgorum.

There needna be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,

Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum:
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like auld Philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each 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, May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' 'em! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstained by any vicious blot; And may he never want a groat,

That's fond of Tullochgorum!

But for the discontented fool,
Who wants 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,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say, Wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum!


O, WERE I able to rehearse,
My ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw.
My ewie wi' the crookit horn!
A' that kenn'd her would ha'e sworn,
Sic a ewie ne'er was born,

Hereabouts nor far awa'.

She neither needed tar nor keel,
To mark her upon hip or heel;
Her crookit hornie did as weel

To ken her by amang 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 ca'.

A better nor a thriftier beast,

Nae honest man need e'er ha'e wish'd;
For, silly thing, she never miss'd

To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa.
The first she had I ga'e to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock;
And now the laddie has a flock

Of mair than thretty head and twa.

The neist I ga'e to Jean; and now
The bairn's sae braw, has faulds sae fu',
That lads sae thick come her to woo,
They're fain to sleep on hay or straw.
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind or rain could never wrang her;
Ance she lay an ouk and langer

Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw.

When other ewies lap the dyke,
And ate the kale for a' the tyke,
My ewie never play'd the like,

But teezed about the barn wa'.

I lookit aye at even for her,

Lest mishanter should come ower her,
Or the foumart micht devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa'.

Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can tell o't without greeting?)
A villain cam', when I was sleeping,
Staw my ewie, horn and a.'

I socht her sair upon the morn,
And down aneath a bush o' thorn,
There I fand her crookit horn,
But my ewie was awa'.

But gin I had the loon that did it,
I ha'e sworn as weel as said it,
Although the laird himsell forbid it,
I sall gi'e his neck a thraw.

I never met wi' sic a turn:
At e'en I had baith ewe and horn
Safe steekit up; but, 'gain the morn,
Baith ewe and horn were stown awa'.
A' the claes that we ha'e worn,
Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn ;
The loss o' her we could ha'e borne,

Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa'.
O, had she died o' croup or cauld,
As ewies die when they grow auld,
It hadna been, by mony fauld,

Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'.

But thus, puir thing, to lose her life,
Beneath a bluidy villain's knife;
In troth, I fear that our gudewife
Will never get abune 't ava.

O, all ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call up your muses, let them mourn
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Frae us stown, and fell'd and a'!


O! WHY should old age so much wound
us, O?
There is nothing in't all to confound us,

For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oyes all around
us, O.

We began in the world wi' naething, O, And we've jogged on and toiled for the ae thing, O;

We made use of what we had, And our thankfu' hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O.

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