The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams profuse, That stripe the hem of heaven with woolly gold, Whereon are happy angels wont to lie Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled, That they may spy the precious light of God, Flung from the blessed east o'er the fair Earth abroad. The fair Earth laughs through all her boundless range, Heaving her green hills high to greet the beam; City and village, steeple, cot, and grange, Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf-gold seem; Up from their nests and fields of tender corn Mount to the heaven's blue keystone flickering; As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell the sound. For when the first upsloping ray was flung On Anster steeple's swallow-harbouring top, Its bell and all the bells around were rung Sonorous, jangling, loud, without a stop; For, toilingly, each bitter beadle swung, Even till he smoked with sweat, his greasy rope, And almost broke his bell-wheel, ushering in The morn of Anster Fair with tinkle-tankling din. And, from our steeple's pinnacle outspread, The town's long colours flare and flap on high, Whose anchor, blazoned fair in green and red, Curls, pliant to each breeze that whistles by; Whilst on the boltsprit, stern, and topmast head Of brig and sloop that in the harbour lie, Streams the red gaudery of flags in air, All to salute and grace the morn of Anster Fair. On the Road to the Fair. Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland The horny-knuckled kilted Highlandman : From where upon the rocky Caithness strand Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began, And where Loch Fyne from her prolific sand Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan, Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye, Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy thigh. They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks, Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth; Claymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe, Are left to rust above the smoky hearth; Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks; Their teeth are set most desperately for mirth; And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung Great wallets, crammed with cheese and bannocks and cold tongue. Nor stayed away the Islanders, that lie To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed; From Jura, Arran, Barra, Uist, and Skye, Piping they come, unshaved, unbreeched, unhosed; Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west!- Of virtuous industry and talents rare ; And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle; Avowed freebooters, that have many a day Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill; Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a rogue That blots the eighth command from Moses' decalogue. And some of them in sloop of tarry side, Come from North Berwick harbour sailing out; Others, abhorrent of the sickening tide, Have ta'en the road by Stirling brig about, Slugging on their slow-gaited asses stout, Andrew Picken (1788–1833) was the son of a Paisley manufacturer, and was for a time in business in the West Indies. He failed as a bookseller in Liverpool, and went to London to pursue literature as a profession. His first work, Tales and Sketches of the West of Scotland, gave offence by its satirical portraits. His novel of The Sectarian; or the Church and the Meeting-house (1829), by the representation it gave of the Dissenters as selfish, hypocritical, and sordid, irritated a great body of readers. The Dominie's Legacy (1830) was warmly welcomed for its sketches of Scottish life, somewhat akin to Carleton's Irish tales-some humorous and some pathetic; Minister Tam and Mary Ogilvy almost rival the happiest efforts of Galt. Picken partly succeeded in conciliating the evangelical Dissenters by interesting Travels and Researches of Eminent English Missionaries (1830). In 1831 he issued The Club-Book, a collection of original tales by different authors; G. P. R. James, Galt, Moir, James Hogg, Allan Cunningham, and others contributed each a story, and the editor himself wrote two-'The Deer-stalkers' and the 'Three Kearneys'-the latter of which was dramatised. Picken planned his Traditionary Stories of Old Families as the first part of a series which was to embrace the legendary history of England, Scotland, and Ireland. He had just completed what he thought his best work, The Black Watch (on the gallant 42nd Regiment), when he succumbed to the apoplexy that carried him off. Picken was, according to one of his friends, 'the dominie of his own tales-simple, affectionate, retiring; dwelling apart from the world, and blending in all his views of it the gentle and tender feelings reflected from his own mind.'-An earlier Paisley author of the same name, Ebenezer Picken (1769–1816), wrote two volumes of poems, mostly in the vernacular, and published a pocket dictionary of the Scottish. dialect (1818). William Glen (1789-1826), born in Glasgow, was for a time in the West Indies; failed as a Glasgow merchant, and sank into poverty, dissipation, and ill-health. His poems-'The Battle Song,' 'The Maid of Oronsey,' and the rest— are mostly forgotten; but the Jacobite lament, 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie,' remains one of the most popular of Scottish songs. 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie.' I took my bannet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. Quoth I: 'My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Are these some words ye 've learnt by heart, 'Oh, no, no, no!' the wee bird sang; But sic a day o' wind and rain Oh, wae 's me for Prince Charlie. 'On hills that are by right his ain, On every side he 's pressed by want- Yestreen I met him in a glen, For sadly changed indeed was he- 'Dark night cam' on, the tempest roared And where was 't that your Prince lay down, He rowed him in a Hieland plaid, Which covered him but sparely, And slept beneath a bush o' broomOh, wae's me for Prince Charlie.' But now the bird saw some red-coats, I'll tarry here nae langer.' But weel I mind the fareweel strain Was, 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie.' William Motherwell (1797-1835) was born. in Glasgow, went to school in Edinburgh, and after his eleventh year was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. Having studied one session at Glasgow University, he was, at the age of twenty-one, appointed depute to the sheriff-clerk at Paisley; but he early showed a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany entitled the Harp of Renfrewshire. A taste for antiquarian research, 'Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,' divided with the muse the empire of his genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early history of Scottish traditionary poetry. The results appeared in Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a very able historical introduction, the basis of most later investigations. In the following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine to which he contributed some of his happiest verses. His editorial skill and vigour advanced him in 1830 to the more important charge of the Glasgow Courier, which he retained till his death. In youth a Radical reformer, he early became a rather pronounced Tory. In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He joined with Hogg in editing the works of Burns, and was collecting materials for a Life of Tannahill, when he was suddenly cut off by a fit of apoplexy at the early age of thirty-eight. He was highly successful in versifying the Scandinavian folksongs, and in imitating those of his own land; but he is chiefly remembered by his lyrics. His best songs show imagination, warmth, and tenderness. Jeanie Morrison. I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The love o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule; O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Still fling their shadows ower my path, In a love more abiding than that the heart knows And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shield. See the Life by M'Conechy prefixed to the edition of 1846, reedited in 1848 and reprinted in 1881. James Hyslop (1798–1827), a shepherd poet, was born in the Dumfriesshire parish of Kirkconnel. Mainly self-taught, he began amidst farmwork to contribute prose and verse to the provincial newspapers; and while serving as shepherd near Airdsmoss, Ayrshire, the scene of Richard Cameron's death, he wrote 'The Cameronian's Dream.' He taught a school at Greenock for a year or two, through the influence of Lord Jeffrey was appointed tutor on a man-of-war, and died cruising off the Cape Verd Islands. His poems, nearly a hundred in number, were collected by the Rev. P. Mearns in 1887; but only one is really well known. It was made the foundation of a cantata in the last year of the century by Mr Hamish MacCunn, and so became known out of Scotland. Cameron, the field-preacher, published an extravagant 'Declaration' in 1680 against the Government of Charles II., and a month afterwards fell, with many of his sixty armed followers, in a skirmish with the royal dragoons. The Cameronian's Dream. 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, 'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew Glistened there 'mong the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue. And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud, And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; But, ah! there were hearts cherished far other feelings 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying, For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle reins rang through the thin misty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed; With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, They sang their last song to the God of Salvation. The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing, Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, Henry Scott Riddell (1797-1870), born in Eskdale, was bred a shepherd, but contriving to make out a course at Edinburgh University, served for a few years a chapel in the Roxburghshire parish of Cavers. He wrote on sheepfarming, Lays of the Ark, and many songs, some of which are still sung in Scotland-'Scotland Yet' (beginning 'Gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair'), a version of 'The Crook and Plaid,' and one or two others. Christopher North warmly praised 'When the Glen is all still;' a pithier lyric begins, 'Ours is the land of gallant hearts.' Robert Gilfillan (1798-1850), the son of a Dunfermline weaver, was clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith, and afterwards collector of poor-rates there. His Songs passed through three editions in his lifetime; and an edition of his Works, with a Life by Anderson, appeared in 1851. The songs are marked by kindly feeling and smooth versification, and several of them have been well set to music. The Exile's Song. Oh, why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, The bulbul sweetly sings; Awakes the Sabbath morn, Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain, But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie! David Macbeth Moir (1798-1851) was, above the signature of ‘Delta' (rather the actual A), a frequent poetical contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, while he practised as a surgeon in his native town of Musselburgh, beloved by all who knew him. His best pieces are grave and tender; but he also wrote some lively jeux d'esprit and a humorous Scottish tale of the kailyard, The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch, which was reprinted from Blackwood in 1828, and is still constantly reissued and read in Scotland. Besides the Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine (1831), a pamphlet on cholera, and memoirs of his friend Galt and some other notables, his other works are The Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems (1824), Domestic Verses (1843), and Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century (1851). He edited Mrs Hemans, and contributed some four hundred articles to Blackwood. His Poetical Works, edited with a Memoir by Thomas Aird, were published in two volumes in 1852. Even his friend Aird admitted that in much of Delta's work fancy, feeling, and musical rhythm are more conspicuous than power or new thought. When thou at Eve art Roaming. Along the elm-o'ershadowed walk, And falling down—a cataract, 'Twas there with thee I wont to talk ; Think thou upon the days gone by, And heave a sigh. When sails the moon above the mountains, When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling, Muse, for that hour to thought is dear, And then its flight remembrance wings To bypast things. To me, through every season, dearest ; A quenchless star, for ever bright; I think of thee! Thomas Aird (1802–76) produced some poems showing a weird and powerful imagination, and some descriptive sketches of Scottish rural scenery and character. Born at Bowden in Roxburgh, he was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and in 1826 produced a tragedy, Martzoufle, with some other poems. He formed the acquaintance of Professor Wilson, 'Delta' Moir, and other contributors to Blackwood's Magazine; and in that periodical he published many of the poetical pieces collected into one volume in 1848. The Captive of Fez (1830) was a long narrative poem. Two volumes of prose sketches were called Religious Characteristics (1827) and The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village (1848). The editing of a Conservative weekly newspaper, The Dumfries Herald, for over a quarter of a century (1835-63), carried on with zeal and vigour, left time for the writing of not a few poems, usually published in the Herald. He edited D. M. Moir's works, and prefixed a biography. And till ill-health came on him after 1852, his life glided on in a simple and happy tranquillity rare among poets. George Gilfillan's first Gallery of Literary Portraits took shape at his suggestion, and appeared for the most part in his paper; Christopher North, writing on Spenser, was largely guided by his judgment as a critic, often adopting Aird's very phrases. After a reading of the MS. of the Life of Sterling, submitted to him by his friend Carlyle, Aird said: 'It is very able and interesting; but it might have been as well to let the poor forlorn sheet-lightning die away in its cloud.' He retained Carlyle's friendship till his death, and Carlyle said that in Aird's poetry he found everywhere a healthy breath as of mountain breezes: a native manliness, geniality, and veracity.' The longer poems are admittedly defective in construction. Aird's memory was revived in 1902 by centenary celebrations and memorials at Bowden and at Dumfries. From The Devil's Dream on Mount Aksbeck,' Beyond the north where Ural hills from polar tempests run, A glow went forth at midnight hour as of unwonted sun; Upon the north at midnight hour a mighty noise was heard, As if with all his trampling waves the Ocean were unbarred; And high a grizzly Terror hung, upstarting from below, Like fiery arrow shot aloft from some unmeasured bow. 'Twas not the obedient seraph's form that burns before the Throne, Whose feathers are the pointed flames that tremble to be gone: With twists of faded glory mixed, grim shadows wove his wing; An aspect like the hurrying storm proclaimed the Infernal King. And up he went, from native might, or holy sufferance given, As if to strike the starry boss of the high and vaulted heaven. Aloft he turned in middle air, like falcon for his prey, And bowed to all the winds of heaven as if to flee away; Till broke a cloud—a phantom host, like glimpses of a dream, Sowing the Syrian wilderness with many a restless gleam : He knew the flowing chivalry, the swart and turbaned train, That far had pushed the Moslem faith, and peopled well his reign: With stooping pinion that outflew the Prophet's winged steed, In pride throughout the desert bounds he led the phantom speed; But prouder yet he turned alone, and stood on Tabor hill, With scorn as if the Arab swords had little helped his will: With scorn he looked to west away, and left their train to die, Like a thing that had awaked to life from the gleaming of his eye. What hill is like to Tabor hill in beauty and in fame? There, in the sad days of his flesh, o'er Christ a glory came; And light outflowed him like a sea, and raised his shining brow; And the voice went forth that bade all worlds to God's Beloved bow. One thought of this came o'er the fiend, and raised his startled form, And up he drew his swelling skirts, as if to meet the storm. With wing that stripped the dews and birds from off the boughs of Night, Down over Tabor's trees he whirled his fierce distempered flight; And westward o'er the shadowy earth he tracked his earnest way, Till o'er him shone the utmost stars that hem the skirts of day; Then higher 'neath the sun he flew above all mortal ken, Yet looked what he might see on earth to raise his pride again. |