He was the son of Mr William Motherwell, an ironmonger in Glasgow, and was born in that city in 1797. His family removing to Edinburgh, he became a pupil of the High School; but in his eleventh year he went to live with an uncle in Paisley, and he finished his education at the grammar-school of that town, with the exception of a session, when he attended Greek and Latin classes in Glasgow University.

In

He served some time in the SheriffClerk's office in Paisley, and soon after received the appointment of Sheriffclerk Depute of Renfrewshire. 1819, he became editor of The Harp of Renfrewshire, a poetical miscellany, and in 1827, published his best-known book, Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern, the historical introduction to which displayed an extensive acquaintance with the subject, and great critical taste and discernment. In 1828, he started the Paisley Magazine, which did not live beyond its first volume. He at the same time edited the Paisley Advertiser, a weekly conservative newspaper. In 1830, he became editor of the Glasgow Courier, and continued in charge of it till his death in 1835. He published an elegant collection of his poems, entitled, Poems, Narrative and Lyrical, in 1832; and an enlarged edition, with a memoir, was published soon after his death. He has two marked stylesthe homely pathetic sentimental, where he employs Scotch; and the chivalrous imaginative sentimental, which he writes in pure English, or affected antique. "Jeannie Morrison" is his best in the former, and "The Cavalier's Song" is a fair specimen of the latter style.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule ;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,

Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,

Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, We cleek'd thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.

Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve !

Oh lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang !
Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?

The simmer leaves hung ower our head,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood:
The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessèd time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!

THE CAVALIER'S SONG.
A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed,
A sword of metal keene!

All else to noble heartes is drosse,
All else on earth is meane.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,
The rowlinge of the drum,
The clangour of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering presse of knightes Whenas their war cryes swell,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,
And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte, then mounte, brave gallants, all,

And don your helemes amaine : Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honour, call Us to the field againe.

No shrewish tears shall fill our eye

When the sword-hilt's in our handHeart whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and pulling crye, Our businesse is like men to fight, And hero-like to die!