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Our review of Scottish Poetry pro

TIBBY AND THE LAIRD. perly ends with Robert Nicoll. The

(ALEXANDER MACLAGAN). anonymous pieces which follow, like those attached to former periods, are

Auld Robin, our laird, thought o'changin' placed at the end as a matter of arrange

his life,

But he didna weel ken whaur to wale a ment.

gude wife. Our design has been to give a select,

A plump quean had he, wha had served not an exhaustive view of the subject;

him for years : placing the means of estimating the

“Ho, Tibby!” he cried. Lo! douce character and quality, rather than the Tibby appears. extent of Scottish poetry, within easy Sit doun,” said the laird ; "ye are reach of the public. We do not think wanted awee.” that a continuation to the present date “Very weel, sir," quo' Tibby,

sae let would present any new features, especially in its more peculiarly Scotch

Noo, Tibby," quo' he, “there's a queer aspects, for, though Scottish poetry

rumour rins will always retain traces of its native Through the hail country-side, that there's character, that of language it may be naebody spins, said to have already ceased to cultivate, Bakes, washes, or brews, wi' sic talents except occasionally. The dialect pre

as you ; sently spoken in out-of-the-way corners, An' what a'body says, ye ken, maun be in debased forms, is unsuitable as a

true, vehicle of the national sentiments, and So ye ought to be gratefu' for their courcannot be expected or desired to hold

tesie.” out long against educational and other “Very weel, sir," quo' Tibby,

it be." influences. But the language in which the noble body of Scottish poetry is “Noo, it seemeth but just an' richt proper embalmed may always be quite well

to me, understood by Scotsmen, although its use That ye milk your ain cow 'neath your as a literary medium may be said to

ain fig-tree; have ceased with the productions of That a servant sae thrifty a gude wife will such devoted cultivators as James Ballantine, James Smith, and Alexander Is as clear as daylicht, sae a man ye maun

tak', Maclagan, specimens of whose poetry

Wha will haud ye as dear as the licht o' we append. The future course of the

his e'e." stream of Scottish song is best indi

“Very weel, sir," quo' Tibby, “sae let cated by Olrig Grange, and the few

it be." beautiful remains of Thomas Davidson.


sae let


He was the son of Mr William

JEANIE MORRISON. Motherwell, an ironmonger in Glasgow,

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, and was born in that city in 1797. His

Through mony a weary way ; family removing to Edinburgh, he be- But never, never can forget came a pupil of the High School ; but

The luve o' life's young day! in his eleventh year he went to live. The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, with an uncle in Paisley, and he finished

May weel be black gin Yule ; his education at the grammar-school of But blacker fa' awaits the heart that town, with the exception of a Where first fond luve grows cule. session, when he attended Greek and Latin classes in Glasgow University. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

He served some time in the Sheriff- The thochts o' bygane years Clerk's office in Paisley, and soon after Still fling their shadows ower my path, received the appointment of Sheriff- And blind my een wi' tears : clerk Depute of Renfrewshire. In They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 1819, he became editor of The Harp of And sair and sick I pine, Renfrewshire, a poetical miscellany, and As memory idly summons up in 1827, published his best-known

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. book, Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern, the historical introduction to which 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, displayed an extensive acquaintance

'Twas then we twa did part ;

Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at with the subject, and great critical taste

scule, and discernment. In 1828, he started the Paisley Magazine, which did not live 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! beyond its first volume. He at the

To leir ilk ither lear ; same time edited the Paisley Advertiser, And tones, and looks, and smiles were a weekly conservative newspaper. In shed, 1830, he became editor of the Glasgow Remembered evermair. Courier, and continued in charge of it till his death in 1835. He published I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, an elegant collection of his poems, en- When sitting on that bink, titled, Poems, Narrative and Lyrical, in Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, 1832 ; and an enlarged edition, with a

What our wee heads could think? memoir, was published soon after his When baith bent doun ower ae braid death. He has two marked styles


Wi' ae buik on our knee, the homely pathetic sentimental, where he employs Scotch ; and the chivalrous Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee. imaginative sentimental, which he writes in pure English, or affected antique. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, “ Jeannie Morrison ” is his best in the

How cheeks brent red wi’ shame, former, and “The Cavalier's Song" | Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, is a fair specimen of the latter style. We cleek'd thegither hame?

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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 !

And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes

The 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 othee.
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 blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth,

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?

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 gal

lants, 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 !

'Twas morning; and summer's young Their faces grew pale, and their swords sun from the east

were unsheathed, Lay in loving repose on the green moun- But the vengeance that darkened their tain's breast;

brow was unbreathed ; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear With eyes turned to heaven in calm reshining dew,

signation, Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and They sung their last song to the God of mountain flowers blue.


And far up in heaven, near the white sunny The hills with the deep mournful music cloud,

were ringing, The song of the lark was melodious and The curlew and plover in concert were loud,

singing ; And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, length. But the melody died 'mid derision and ened and deep,

laughter, Were the whistling of plovers and bleat. As the host of th' ungodly rushed on to ing of sheep.

the slaughter.

And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed Though in mist and in darkness and fir music and gladness,

they were shrouded, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and redness ;

and unclouded ; Its daughters were happy to hail the re

Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm turning,

and unbending, And drink the delights of July's sweet They stood like the rock which the morning.

thunder is rending.

But, oh! there were hearts cherished far | The muskets were flashing, the blue other feelings,

swords were gleaming, Illumed by the light of prophetic reveal-The helmets were cleft, and the red blood ings,

was streaming ; Who drank from the scen'ry of beauty The heavens grew dark, and the thunder but sorrow,

was rolling, For they knew that their blood would be. When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the dew it to-morrow.

mighty were falling.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with When the righteous had fallen, and the Cameron were lying,

combat was ended, Concealed 'mong the mist where the A chariot of fire through the dark cloud heath fowl was crying,

descended; For the horseinen of Earlshall around Its drivers were angels on horses of whitethem were hovering,

ness, · And their bridle reins rung through the And its burning wheels turned on axles of thin misty covering.


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