of creed does not appear to have in any way interrupted the happiness of their married life.

In 1732 he was appointed teacher of the parish school of Lochlee, in the valley of the South Esk, and in this sequestered but romantic glen he passed the rest of his days, in the quiet and unambitious, but conscientious discharge of the monotonous duties of his small school, varied by those of sessionclerk and precentor. He also qualified as a notary-public, but it is unlikely that the demands upon his time in this capacity were either many or remunerative. His money income, from all sources, did not much exceed twenty pounds a-year, besides a free house; yet, considering the fewness of his wants, and several perquisites in kind, with six acres of grazing and arable land, and an unlimited supply of peat fuel, his circumstances present nothing to excite our commiseration. Indeed, few poets have enjoyed a more equable share of happiness, and endured less of the cankering cares incident to the battle of life. Nothing that he has written bears the slightest trace of discontent.

His leisure time he divided between poetry and classical translation from the Latin, and the lighter relaxations of practising on the violin and angling. He continued his practice of translation from an early date, and wrote most of his poems long before the idea of publication occurred to him. His songs and other poems had a local fame, and appear to have been familiar to several persons of taste and influence in the neighbourhood, whose friendship and esteem he retained by the simplicity (7)

of his character, his self-respect, and the urbanity of his manners.

In this uneventful, yet happy manner, his life passed on, till in his sixtyseventh year, when, requiring to go to Aberdeen on business, the idea struck him of taking his manuscripts along with him. The son of his friend Beattie of Laurencekirk, long since dead, was now professor of moral philosophy in Aberdeen; and though The Minstrel did not appear till two years after, he was known as a poet and elegant essayist—and Ross resolved to submit his manuscripts to his cultivated judgment. Beattie was favourably impressed with the poems and their author, and advised the publication of "Helenore" and a few of the songs. In 1768 the volume made its appearance at Aberdeen, and met with gratifying success. Beattie, to give it a lift, wrote an anonymous letter, and his only specimen of Scotch vernacular poetry, to the printer of the Aberdeen Journal. Ross's preface, which is modest enough, and somewhat prolix, informs us that the MS. lay beside him for many years, and that copies of it having got into circulation, one of the gentlemen who thus read it wrote him urging its publication. He cleared £20 by the

venture.

In 1778 Ross resolved to bring out a second edition, which he carefully revised. It was dedicated to the famous Duchess of Gordon, and contains "Bydby's Dream," his finest imaginative sketch, which he must have written in the interval between the two editions. On its publication, having received an invitation to Gordon Castle, he resolved

2 E

to present his copies to his patroness in person. He was within a year of eighty when he undertook this journey of about sixty miles on horseback, accompanied by his grandson and future biographer. His reception was creditable to the Duchess, and the old man found his way home safely, and much gratified with his expedition.

In his 82d year he translated from Latin into blank verse of excellent quality, the Poemata Sacra of Andrew Ramsay, to which he added a preface, which shows his prose style to be much inferior to his verse. This was his last work, for on May 29, 1784, as Burns says, he joined "the sons of the morning," and was buried beside his wife in the old burying-ground of Lochlee. An Aberdeen granite slab, erected by subscription among his admirers, marks his last resting-place.

The defects in the plot of "Helenore" will be seen from the annexed prose story of it; and the specimens given are selected to represent its characteristic beauties.

The latest and best edition of Ross's published works, with life, and an account of his unpublished manuscripts, preserved in the Advocates' Library, is edited by Dr Longmuir, Edinburgh, 1865.

THE STORY OF HELENORE.

Nory and Lindy, as the hero and heroine of Ross's pastoral are familiarly known in the Mearns, are the children of two neighbouring cottars in the poetically named valley of Flaviana. They grow up from childhood as companions, and juvenile attachment in

sensibly ripens into mutual love. Their parents are pleased, and look upon their union in due time as a matter of

course.

The expected time is now not far distant, when one of those events, not unusual in love affairs, intervenes to change the current of their destinies. A band of Highland plunderers, called Sevitians, make one of their predatory raids upon the glen, and sweep off almost all the live stock belonging to the peasantry. While defending their flocks and herds, Nory's father, Colin, and Lindy her lover, are made captives. Nory, fired by filial attachment, and the still stronger passion of love, follows in their track, but night coming on, she loses her way among the hills. Next morning she is discovered asleep by Olimund, the young Laird of BonnyHa, who is so fascinated with her beauty, that he remains by her till she awakes. He then kindly takes her home, and places her under the charge of his maiden aunt.

Meanwhile, Lindy and Colin have made their escape from their captors, by the assistance of Bydby, who has fallen in love with Lindy, and effected their release on condition of his marrying her. The three start for Flaviana together, but Lindy, to get quit of Bydby whom he has no thought of marrying, sends her back for his coat, which he left behind him, promising to wait her return. Bydby returns to find her lover fled, but she determines to follow. Passing Bonny-Ha, she falls in with Nory, who ascertaining her destination, determines to accompany her. On their way she learns about

The howlet shriek'd, and that was worst of a';

For ilka time the on-beast1 gae the yell,
In spite of grief, it gae her heart a knell.
At length, what wi' the fright, and what
wi' grief,

And soupit 2 spirits, hopeless of relief,
Sleep bit and bit crap in upon her wae,
And a' was quiet for an hour or sae ;
But yet her heart was aye upo' the flought;3
Sleeping and waking, Lindy filled her
thought.

Sair was she catcht, for ilka now and then
She'd start, and fumper, 4 then lie o'er again.
At last her dolour gets the upper hand.
She starts to foot, but has nae maughts 5
to stand :

Nae meiths' she kend, ilk hillock-head was

new,

And a' thing unco' 2 that was in her view.
Nor was it fairly, 3 for she had na been
So far a fieldward, or sick glens had seen;
For ne'er afore, by lang twa miles and mair,
Had errands led her thro' the glens to fare.
On ilka hand the hills were stay4 and steep,
And sud she tak them, she behoved to

creep.

Baith wit and will in her together strave, And she's in swither5 how she shall behave. The fear o' Lindy wad na let her turn, The frightful craigs and mountains gar'd her mourn.

And now for faut and mister she was spent, As water weak, and dweble 7 like a bent.

snell.

'Tis yet pit-mark, the yerd9 a' black about, And the night-fowl began again to shout; Thro' ilka limb and lith the terror thirl'd, At ev'ry time the dowie monster skirl'd. At last the kindly sky began to clear, The birds to chirm, 10 and daylight to appear:

This laid her eery thoughts, but yet the pain

For her dear Lindy, ever did remain. When light did sair12 her tosee round about. Where she might be, she now began to doubt.

And for a while shot out baith hand and

foot,

As she had been with an elf-arrow shot. At last the dwaum yeed2 frae her bit an' bit, And she begins to draw her limbs and sit; And by the help of a convenient stane, To which she did her weary body lean, She wins to foot, and swavering, makes to gang,3

And spies a spot of averens 4 ere lang. Right yap 5 she yoked to the ready feast, And lay and ate a full half-hour at least. The feckless meltet did her head o'erset, 'Cause nature frae't did little sust'nance get.

Sick, sick she grows; syne, after that a

lyn.

Yet, put and row,1 wi' mony a weary twine, She wins at last to where the pools did shine.

Alang the burn, that buskèd was wi' trees, A bonny easie beaten road she sees. Upon the busses birdies sweetly sung, Till a' the cloughs2 about wi' musick rung: They seem'd to do their best to ease the fair,

But she for that was o'er far gane in care. Yet with the pleasant roddie3 she was ta'en, And down the burn she taks the road

her lane ;,

Weening at length she might some town

espy,

And sae amo' them for her Lindy try.
Now very sair the sun began to beat,
And she is like to sconfice4 wi' the heat;
The summer cauts 5 were trembling here
and there,

And clouds of midges dancing i' the air! The streams of sweat and tears through ither ran

Down Nory's cheeks, and she to fag began:

Wi' wae, and faut, and meethness of the day,

Sae sair beset she was, that down she lay. For her gueed 7 luck, a wee bit aff the paid,8 Grew there a tree, with branches close and braid :

The shade beneath a canness-braid 9 out throw,