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recognise it as characteristic. She was a Scottish Miss Edgeworth—of a lively, practical, penetrating cast of mind; skilful in depicting character and seizing upon national peculiarities; caustic in her wit and humour, with a quick sense of the ludicrous; with a conscious design to cherish sound morality and the courtesies and charities of life. Sometimes there is a vein of edifying religious feeling, not unlike Hannah More's; but for the most part she is concerned with the foibles and oddities of mankind about her, and few have drawn them with greater breadth of comic humour or effect. Her scenes often recall our best old comedies, and she may boast, like Foote, of adding many new and original creations to our comic literature. There is a touch of caricature in some of the many portraits of Scottish ladies, even if we grant Miss Ferrier's proviso that their Scotland was not ours, when the education even in families of rank left much to be desired, and there was indisputably a raciness as of the soil in manners and ideas we should now seek in vain. It is not only in satirising the foibles of her own sex that Miss Ferrier shows her humour. Dr Redgill, a medical hanger-on and diner-out, looks upon bad dinners as the source of much of the misery of married life, and compares a woman's reputation to a beefsteak-'if once breathed upon, 'tis good for nothing.' Many sly satirical touches occur throughout the work; thus we are told that country visits should seldom exceed three days-the rest day, the dressed day, and the pressed day. The three aunts contrived

to soothe their sorrow for the death of their brother, the old laird: 'They sighed and mourned for a time, but soon found occupation congenial to their nature in the little department of life: dressing crape; reviving black silk; converting narrow hems into broad hems; and, in short, who so busy, so important, as the ladies of Glenfern?'

Aware, doubtless, of the defective plan or story of her first novel, Miss Ferrier bestowed much more pains on the construction of The Inheritance, whose heroine, born in France, is heiress to a splendid estate in Scotland and peerage, to which, after various adventures and reverses, she finally succeeds. The tale is well developed; but its chief attraction consists in the delineation of characters like Uncle Adam and Miss Pratt-the former a touchy, sensitive, rich East Indian, and the latter another of Miss Ferrier's inimitable old maids. Destiny, though set amidst Highland scenery and Highland manners, is far from romantic, in spite of a sweet and gentle heroine and scenes of feeling and passion. The chief, Glenroy, proud and irascible, is spoiled by the fawning of his inferiors, and in his family circle is generous without kindness and profuse without benevolence. The Highland minister is an admirable creation, though by no means a prepossessing specimen of the country pastor.

In the following extract from Marriage, Mrs Violet Macshake, tall and hard-favoured, and dressed in the most antiquated style, is visited in her lofty lodging in the Old Town of Edinburgh by her grand-nephew, Mr Douglas, and his niece Mary:

A Scotch Lady of the Old School.

As soon as she recognised Mr Douglas, she welcomed him with much cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, patted him on the back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction, and, in short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness usual with gentlewomen of a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an impromptu than a habitual feeling; for, as the surprise wore off, her visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have excited.

'And wha thought o' seein' ye enoo?' said she, in a quick gabbling voice. What's brought you to the toon? Are you come to spend your honest faither's siller ere he's weel cauld in his grave, puir man?'

Mr Douglas explained that it was upon account of his niece's health.

'Health!' repeated she, with a sardonic smile; 'it wad mak an ool laugh to hear the wark that's made aboot young fowk's health noo-a-days. I wonder what ye're a' made o', grasping Mary's arm in her great bony hand -'a wheen puir feckless windlestraes-ye maun awa' to England for your healths. Set ye up! I wonder what cam o' the lassies i' my time that bute [behoved] to bide at hame? And whilk o' ye, I sud like to ken, 'll e'er leive to see ninety-sax, like me? Health! he, he!'

Mary, glad of a pretence to indulge the mirth the old lady's manner and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh.

'Tak aff yer bannet, bairn, an' let me see your face; wha can tell what like ye are wi' that snule o' a thing on your head?' Then, after taking an accurate survey of her face, she pushed aside her pelisse: 'Weel, it's ae mercy I see ye hae neither the red head nor the muckle cuits [ankles] o' the Douglases. I kenna whuther your faither had them or no. I ne'er set een on him : neither him nor his braw leddy thought it worth their while to speer after me; but I was at nae loss, by a' accounts.'

'You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends,' said Mr Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic cord.

'Time eneugh--wull ye let me draw my breath, man? -fowk canna say awthing at ance. An' ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu; a Scotch lass wadna ser' ye. An' yer wean, I'se warran' it's ane o' the warld's wonders-it's been unco lang o' comin'-he, he!'

'He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!' said Mr Douglas, in allusion to his father's death.

'An' wha's faut was that? I ne'er heard tell o' the like o' it, to hae the bairn kirsened an' its grandfaither deein' But fowk are naither born, nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to du-awthing's changed.'

'You must, indeed, have witnessed many changes!' observed Mr Douglas, rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.

'Changes!-weel a wat I sometimes wonder if it's the same warld, an' if it's my ain heed that's upon my shoothers.'

'But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?' said Mary in a tone of diffidence.

'Impruvements !' turning sharply round upon her; 'what ken ye about impruvements, bairn? A bonny impruvement, or ens no, to see tyleyors and sclaters leivin' whar I mind jewks and yerls. An' that great glowerin' New Toon there,' pointing out of her windows, 'whar I used to sit an' luck oot at bonny green parks, an' see the coos milket, an' the bits o' bairnies rowin' an' tumlin', an' the lasses trampin' i' their tubs-what see I noo but stane an' lime, an' stoor an' dirt, an' idle cheels an' dinkit oot madams prancin'. Impruvements, indeed!'

Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle's fortune by the judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no more. Mr Douglas, who was more au fait to the prejudices of old age, and who was always amused with her bitter remarks, when they did not touch himself, encouraged her to continue the conversation by some observation on the prevailing manners.

'Mainers!' repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh; 'what ca' ye mainers noo? for I dinna ken. Ilk ane gangs bang intill their neebor's hoose, an' bang oot o't, as it war a chynge-hoose; an' as for the maister o't, he's no o' sae muckle vaalu as the flunkey ahint his chyre. I' my grandfather's time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka maister o' a family had his ain sate in his ain hoose; ay! an' sat wi' his hat on his heed afore the best o' the land, an' had his ain dish, an' was ay helpit first, an' keepit up his owthority as a man sude du. Paurents war paurents than-bairns dardna set up their gabs afore them than as they du noo. They ne'er presumed to say their heeds war their ain i' thae days-wife an' servants, reteeners an' childer, a' trummelt i' the presence o' their heed.'

Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady's harangue. Mr Douglas availed himself of the opportunity to rise and take leave.

'Oo, what's takin' ye awa', Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,' laying her hand upon his arm, 'an' rest ye, an' tak' a glass o' wine an' a bit breed; or maybe,' turning to Mary, 'ye wad rather hae a drap broth to warm ye? What gars ye look sae blae, bairn? I'm sure it's no cauld; but ye're just like the lave; ye gang a' skiltin' about the streets half naked, an' than ye maun sit an' birsle yoursels afore the fire at hame.'

She had now shuffled along to the further end of the room, and opening a press, took out wine and a plateful of various shaped articles of bread, which she handed to Mary.

'Hae, bairn-tak a cookie-tak it up-what are you feared for? It'll no bite ye. Here's t' ye, Glenfern, an' your wife an' your wean; puir tead, it's had a very chancy ootset, weel a wat.'

The wine being drunk and the cookies discussed, Mr Douglas made another attempt to withdraw, but in vain. 'Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an' let me speer after my auld freens at Glenfern? Hoo's Grizzy, an' Jacky, an' Nicky?—aye workin' awa at the peels an' the drogs [pills and drugs]-he, he! I ne'er swallowed a peel nor gied a doit for drogs a' my days, an' see an ony o' them 'll run a race wi' me whan they 're near fivescore.'

Mr Douglas here paid some compliments upon her appearance, which were pretty graciously received; and added that he was the bearer of a letter from his aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck and brace of moor-game.

'Gin your roebuck's nae better than your last, atweel it's no worth the sendin': poor dry fissinless dirt, no worth the chowin'; weel a wat I begrudged my teeth on't. Your muirfowl war nae that ill, but they're no worth the carryin'; they 're doug cheap i' the market enoo, so it's nae great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o' guid mutton, or a cauler sawmont, there would hae been some sense in 't; but ye 're ane o' the fowk that 'll ne'er harry yoursel' wi' your presents; it's but the pickle powther they cost ye, an' I'se warran' ye're thinkin' mair o' your ain diversion than o' my stamick whan ye 're at the shootin' o' them, puir beasts.'

Mr Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life before, but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His colour rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from his lips as he strode indignantly towards the door.

His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him, and, breaking into a discordant laugh as she patted him on the back: 'So I see ye're just the auld man, Archie-aye ready to tak the strums an' ye dinna get a'thing your ain wye. Mony a time I had to fleech ye oot o' the dorts when ye was a callant. Do ye mind hoo ye was affronted because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon-pye an' a tanker o` tippenny ae night to your fowerhoors afore some leddies he, he, he! Weel a wat yere wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye're a cumstairy chield, Archie.'

Mr Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be angry.

'Come, come, sit ye doon there till I speak to this bairn,' said she, as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bedchamber, which wore the same aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a huge bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer, out of which she took a pair of diamond earrings. 'Hae, bairn,' said she as she stuffed them into Mary's hand; they belanged to your father's grandmother. She was a gude woman, an' had fouran'-twenty sons an' dochters, an' I wuss ye nae waur fortin than just to hae as mony. But mind ye,' with a shake of her bony finger, 'they maun a' be Scots. Gin I thought ye wad mairry ony pock-puddin', fient haet wad ye hae gotten frae me. Noo had your tongue, an' dinna deive me wi' thanks,' almost pushing her into the parlour again; 'an' sin ye're gawn awa' the morn, I'll see nae mair o' ye enoo-so fare-ye-weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an' tak your breakfast wi me. I hae muckle to say to you; but ye maunna be sae hard upon my baps as ye used to be,' with a facetious grin to her mollified favourite as they shook hands and parted.

'Well, how do you like Mrs Macshake, Mary?' asked her uncle as they walked home.

'That is a cruel question, uncle,' answered she, with a smile. My gratitude and my taste are at such variance,' displaying her splendid gift, 'that I know not how to reconcile them.'

'That is always the case with those that Mrs Macshake has obliged,' returned Mr Douglas: 'she does many liberal things, but in so ungracious a manner that people are never sure whether they are obliged or insulted by her. But the way in which she receives kindness is still worse. Could anything equal her impertinence about my roebuck?-Faith, I've a good mind never to enter her door again!'

Mary could scarcely preserve her gravity at her uncle's indignation, which seemed so disproportioned to the cause. But, to turn the current of his ideas, she remarked that he had certainly been at pains to select two admirable specimens of her countrywomen for her.

'I don't think I shall soon forget either Mrs Gawffaw or Mrs Macshake,' said she, laughing.

'I hope you won't carry away the impression that these two lusus naturæ are specimens of Scotchwomen?' said her uncle. The former, indeed, is rather a sort of weed that infests every soil; the latter, to be sure, is an indigenous plant. I question if she would have arrived at such perfection in a more cultivated field or genial clime. She was born at a time when Scotland was very different from what it is now. Female education was little attended to, even in families of the highest rank; consequently the ladies of those days possess a raziness in their manners and ideas that we should vainly seek for in this age of cultivation and refine

ment.

A Memoir is prefixed to the 1881 edition of Miss Ferrier's novels; and a Life, with Correspondence, was edited by her grand-nephew In 1899. There was an American illustrated edition of the novels in 1993-94, which was reprinted in London; and another edition is by R. Brimley Johnson (6 vols. 1894).

Allan Cunningham (1784-1842), born at Blackwood, near Thornhill in Dumfriesshire, was the son of the gardener on the estate of Blackwood, who in 1787 became factor or land-steward to Miller of Dalswinton, Burns's landlord at Ellisland; and in his father's cottage Allan in his sixth year heard Burns read Tam o'Shanter. An elder brother was a country mason and builder, and Allan was apprenticed to him in 1795; but in 1810, at the invitation of Cromek, on whom he had palmed off some of his own songs for old ones, he removed to London. Robert Hartley Cromek (1770-1812) was a speculative English engraver and picture publisher, who visited Scotland in 1808 and 1809 to collect the materials he published in his Reliques of Burns and Select Scottish Songs, Ancient and Modern. Cunningham furnished almost the whole of what Cromek issued, without any proper account of their provenance, as Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. The literary mason got the present of a book from Cromek and a promise of something further on, but had now to support himself and his wife mainly by writing. He produced both prose and verse; he reported for the newspapers; and in 1814, through Cromek's introduction, he became superintendent of works to Chantrey the sculptor, in whose studio he continued till the year before his own death. Some of his lyrics in Cromek's collection are warlike and Jacobite, some amatory, some are devotional, and some are on Covenanting

themes; but all of them illustrate Scottish country life and manners. As songs, they are not pitched in a key to be popular; but these pseudo-antique strains have a curious natural grace and tenderness, a certain Doric simplicity and fervour. In Chantrey's studio 'honest Allan' spent his days, serving also as secretary, while in the evenings he produced a large mass of literary work. In 1822 he published Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a dramatic poem, founded on Border story and superstition, and also two volumes of Traditional Tales. Three novels on like themes followed, even more diffuse and improbable-Paul Jones (1826), Sir Michael Scott (1828), and Lord Roldan (1836). In 1833 appeared a 'rustic epic' in twelve parts, The Maid of Elvar. He edited a collection of Scottish Songs in four volumes, and an edition of Burns in eight, with a Life (1834). To Murray's Family Library he contributed Lives of Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects (6 vols. 1829-33; new ed. 1879), which proved on the whole the most important of his books. His last work-completed just two days before his death—was a Life of Sir David Wilkie, in three volumes. 'A wet sheet and a flowing sea,' from the Traditional Tales, an admirable sea-song by an utter landsman, is not merely a remarkable tour de force, but is perhaps Allan's highest triumph in verse. His prose style was universally admired for its force and freedom: Southey said he was the best stylist next to Hume born north of the Tweed. There is a Life of him by David Hogg (1875).

The Young Maxwell.
'Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle?
And what do ye carry there?'
'I'm gaun to the hill, thou sodger man,
To shift my sheep their lair.'

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,
An' a gude lang stride took he;
'I trow thou be a feck auld carle,

Will ye show the way to me?'
And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle,
Adown by the greenwood side;
'Light down and gang, thou sodger man,
For here ye canna ride.'

He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed,
An' lightly down he sprang :

Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat,
Whare the gowden tassels hang.

He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle,
An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree;
An' wha was it but the young Maxwell!
An' his gude brown sword drew he!
'Thou killed my father, thou vile Southron!
An' ye killed my brethren three !
Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister,
I loved as the light o' my ee!
'Draw out yer sword, thou vile Southron !
Red-wat wi' blude o' my kin!
That sword it crapped the bonniest flower
E'er lifted its head to the sun!

'There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father!

There's twa for my brethren three !

An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,
Wham I loved as the light o' my ee.'

Hame, Hame, Hame.

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,

Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonny white rose it is withering an`a’;
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

Oh, there's naught frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave,
But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my ee,
'I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.'
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,

Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

Fragment.

Gane were but the winter-cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.

Cauld's the snaw at my head,

And cauld at my feet,

And the finger o' death 's at my een,

Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father,

Or my mither sae dear;

I'll meet them baith in heaven
At the spring o' the year.

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

'O for a soft and gentle wind!'
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud ; And hark the music, marinersThe wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing freeWhile the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

My Nanie O.

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,

Mirk is the night and rainie O,

Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
I'll gang and see my Nanie O;

My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

My kind and winsome Nanie O,

She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do 't but Nanie O.
In preaching-time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonny O,

I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,
For thieving looks at Nanie O;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The world's in love with Nanie O;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie O.
My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely O;

I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely O;

My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O;
Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,
And says, 'I dwell with Nanie O.'

Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonny O,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew,
When coming frae my Nanie O;
My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

Nane ken o' me and Nanie O;

The stars and moon may tell 't aboon,

They winna wrang my Nanie O !

The first four lines of the third stanza are from Allan Ramsay's Nanie O.

The Poet's Bridal-day Song.
Oh, my love 's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears-
Nor nights of thought nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain—
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit-
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon ;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose ;
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold;
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er

What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods are green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought-
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower-
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak :
I think the wedded wife of mine
The best of all that's not divine.

Allan Cunningham's sons were an exceptional instance of hereditary talent in one family : (1) JOSEPH DAVEY CUNNINGHAM (18121851), captain of Engineers in the Indian army, wrote a History of the Sikhs (1849; 2nd ed. 1853); (2) Major-General Sir ALEXANDER CUNNINGHAM (1814-93), appointed Archæological Surveyor-General of India in 1870, Companion of the Star of India in 1871, wrote The Bhilsa Topes or Buddhist Monuments of Central India (1854), Arian Architecture (1846), Ladak, Physical, Statistical, and Historical (1854), The Ancient Geography of India (1871), &c.; (3) PETER CUNNINGHAM (1816-69), clerk in the Audit Office 1834-60, wrote a Life of Nell Gwynn (1852), Handbook of London (1549), besides editing Walpole's Letters, Drummond of Hawthornden, Goldsmith, Johnson's Lives of the Poets, &c.; (4) FRANCIS CUNNINGHAM (1820-75), lieutenant-colonel in the Indian army, edited Marlowe, Massinger, and Ben Jonson.

Thomas Mounsey Cunningham (17761834) was the senior of his brother Allan (see the preceding article), and was a copious author in prose and verse, though with an undistinguished name, long before the author of the Lives of British Painters was known. He attended Dumfries Academy, became a wheelwright near Cambridge, and was ultimately chief clerk to Rennie, the civil engineer. His first poem was The Harst Kirn (1797); he wrote also satires such as The Cambridgeshire Garland and The Unco Grave.

David Vedder, a native of Burness, Orkney (1790-1854), obtained some reputation by a volume of Orcadian Sketches, published in 1842; and his Scottish songs and Norse ballads were popular in the north. Dr Chalmers was fond of quoting to his students a piece on 'The Temple of Nature.'

Sir Thomas Dick Lauder (1784-1848) wrote two novels of Scottish life and history, Lochandhu (1825; new ed. 1891) and The Wolfe of Badenoch (1827), of which the latter, with the turbulent son of Robert II. for its hero, is still popular, and often reprinted. In 1830 he wrote a vivid Account of the Great Floods in Morayshire in 1829. The son of a Haddingtonshire baronet, he had in 1808 married the heiress of Relugas in Moray, and was then living in the neighbourhood. In the story of the flood he showed, according to Dr John Brown, 'his descriptive power, his humour, his sympathy for suffering, his sense of the picturesque.' Sir Thomas also published a series of Highland Rambles, with a sequel, Legendary Tales of the Highlands. He wrote on natural history, and edited Gilpin's Forest Scenery and Sir Uvedale Price's Essays on the Picturesque; and he was commissioned to write a memorial of Queen Victoria's visit to Scotland in 1842. One of his best works was a descriptive account of Scottish Rivers for Tait's Magazine, left incomplete at his death and edited by Dr John Brown in 1874.

William Thom, the Inverurie Poet' (17991848), wrote some sweet and pathetic verses. He worked as a handloom-weaver at Aberdeen and Inverurie, and traversed the country as a pedlar, accompanied by his wife and children. This unsettled life induced careless and dissipated habits. His first poem that attracted notice, The Blind Boy's Pranks, appeared in the Aberdeen Herald. In 1844 he published a volume of Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver. He visited London, and was warmly received; but returning to Scotland, he died at Dundee in great penury.

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Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, such
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
But morning brings clutches, a' reckless and stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn.
Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed,
Now rests in the mools where her mammy is laid; mould
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o❜ his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn.

kindly

Oh! speak na him harshly--he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, an' blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

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