And who, in ev'ry rapt'rous line, Displays an energy divine; Commands, not courts, our approbation— And hence there are (perhaps you know 'em) From the 'Epistola Macaronica.' All in a word qui se oppressos most heavily credunt It is a curious commentary on the brevity of Geddes's poetic fame that not one of his poems, save the translations from Horace and the things contained in the first volume of the Antiquarian Transactions, is to be found in any public library in Edinburgh. There is a Life of Geddes by Dr Mason Good (1803), a shorter Life in Lives of Scottish Poets (vol. ii. 1822), and one in Dr Robert Chambers's Eminent Scotsmen. Perthshire, where she acquired that taste for Scottish melody and music which prompted her lyrics, The Nabob, And ye shall walk in Silk Attire, The Siller Croun, and others. She knew Allan Ramsay's works, but seems not to have seen anything of Burns's. Besides her Scotch songs, she wrote pieces in the Cumbrian dialect, a number of addresses to friends and occasional verses, and a descriptive poem of some length entitled Stoklewath, or the Cumbrian Village. The Scotch lyrics, much more numerous than the Cumbrian ones, are in a rather artificial Scotch. Some are partly Cumbrian and partly Scotch, and with the Cumbrian words altered (like nobbet in Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee) appear regularly in Scotch collections. Miss Blamire died unmarried at Carlisle in her forty-seventh year, and her name had almost faded from remembrance, when, in 1842, her poetical works were collected by Dr Lonsdale and published in a small volume, with a memoir and notes by Patrick Maxwell. The Nabob. When silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, I sought again my native land Wha kens gin the dear friends I left May still continue mine? Or gin I e'er again shall taste The joys I left langsyne? As I drew near my ancient pile Those days that followed me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys A' naething to langsyne! The ivied tower now met my eye, Where minstrels used to blaw; Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, Nae weel-kenned face I saw ; Till Donald tottered to the door, Wham I left in his prime, And grat to see the lad return He bore about langsyne. I ran to ilka dear friend's room, I knew where ilk ane used to sit, I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, 'Cut, cut,' they cried, those aged elms Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' Na na! our fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne. To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, In vain I sought in music's sound I listened to langsyne. Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Forgie an auld man's spleen, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns The days he ance has seen. When time has passed and seasons fled, Your hearts will feel like mine; And aye the sang will maist delight That minds ye o' langsyne! What Ails this Heart o' Mine? What ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery ee? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee? When thou art far awa', Thou 'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say I used to meet thee there. Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca't a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I hae been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. Auld Robin Forbes (in Cumbrian). And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance, The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see In yen that was dark and hard-featured leyke me ; But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, That he offen said-nea pleace was leyke his awn heame! I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle, There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel; When the clock had struck eight, I expected him heame, That age, time, or death can divide thee and me! Hector Macneill (1746–1818), son of an old captain of the 42nd who turned farmer in Stirlingshire, spent some years in the West Indies, in 1780-86 was assistant-secretary on an admiral's flagship, and after two visits to Jamaica settled in Edinburgh on an annuity given him by a friend. He wrote several pamphlets, two novels, and some satirical poems denouncing modern changes; a legendary poem, The Harp (1789), and a descriptive poem, The Carse of Forth; but his name is associated with Scotland's Skaith, or the History o Will and Jean, telling how a husband reduces a happy family to beggary by drinking, and recovers himself after a spell of soldiering and the loss of a leg. But far better known are Macneill's lyrics, several of which— My boy Tammy,' 'I lo’ed ne'er a laddie but ane,' and 'Come under my plaidie,' for example are still popular Scotch songs; and Mary of Castle-Cary,' in spite of her soft rolling ee,' is constantly sung. Mary' is appended, as also a verse of each of the two other songs, and part of Scotland's Skaith. Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa'; I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw : 'Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses- 'I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree: 'It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing, Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.' Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, 'O Jamie, forgie me; your heart 's constant to me; fly John Lowe (1750-98), son of the gardener at Kenmure Castle in Galloway, studied for the Presbyterian ministry at Edinburgh. His one popular song, Mary's Dream, was written on the drowning of a ship's-doctor named Miller, who was attached to a daughter of the house in which Lowe was tutor. Lowe afterwards emigrated to America, where he taught a while, then took orders as an Episcopal clergyman, but having made an unhappy marriage, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Fredericksburg in Virginia. Only fragments of his other poems have been printed. Mary's Dream. The moon had climbed the highest hill And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, Her head, to ask who there might be, It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me! 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare ; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more! Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said : 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' Lady Anne Barnard (1750-1825) was the eldest daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres. Her life was divided between Balcarres in East Fife and Edinburgh, till in 1793 she married Andrew Barnard, son of the Bishop of Limerick, and afterwards appointed by Dundas as Colonial Secretary, under Lord Macartney, at the Cape of Good Hope. On his death in 1807 she settled in London. Her Auld Robin Gray, one of the most perfect, tender, and affecting of all our ballads of humble life, was written when she was a girl of twenty-two, published anonymously, and assumed to be an ancient piece. She revealed the secret of its authorship, which till then had been carefully kept, in a letter (8th July 1823) to Sir Walter Scott: Robin Gray, so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcarres, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London. I was melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an English-Scotch melody of which I was passionately fond. Sophy Johnstone, who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarres. She did not object to its having improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different words, and give its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister [Elizabeth], now Lady Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and given her Auld Robin Gray for a lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines, poor thing! Help me to one! Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed. At our fireside and amongst our neighbours Auld Robin Gray' was always called for. I was pleased in secret with the approbation it met with; but such was my dread of being suspected of writing anything, perceiving the shyness it created in those who could write nothing, that I carefully kept my own secret. With this letter Lady Anne sent two continuations of the ballad, which, like most continuations, are greatly inferior to the original. Scott published them, however, in his Auld Robin Gray: a Ballad (Bannatyne Club, 1825), to which reference may be made, as also to Lord Crawford's Lives of the Lindsays (1849). Lady Anne was brought before the public as an authoress once more during the South African troubles in 1899-1902, when nineteen interesting letters written home by her from the Cape in 1797-1801 were published as South Africa a Century Ago (1901). In these admirable specimens of the eighteenth-century style of letterwriting a shrewd, humorous, and widely experienced gentlewoman gives with entire frankness and frequent flashes of wit a clear and instructive account of the state of South Africa when the British flag was first hoisted over Cape Town,' and by no means omits the difficulties that beset attempts to conciliate the Dutch as much as possible' twenty years before her countryman Pringle recorded his experience of the settler's life. Auld Robin Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, [away; My father cauldna wark-my mother couldna spin- Or why am I spared to cry wae is me? My father urged me sair-my mither didna speak, I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, Robert Fergusson was born, on 5th September 1750, in Cap-and-Feather Close, off the High Street of Edinburgh. His father was a poor clerk, but both father and mother were of gentle Aberdeenshire blood, and a maternal uncle was a landed proprietor and factor in that county; his best biographer, Dr Grosart, assigns him two clerical great-grandfathers. Fergusson was sent to a private school at the age of six, and entered Edinburgh High School in 1758. He spent four years there, and is reputed to have been quick at making up leeway lost by frequent absences due to native delicacy of constitution, and to have been a devourer of books. In 1761 he procured a bursary which provided for 'maintenance and education' at the Grammar School of Dundee and the University of St Andrews, and after spending three years at the School he matriculated at St Andrews in 1765. Student life at St Andrews was not refined. The town swarmed with ale-houses, and the bursars had a too liberal supply of ale in their otherwise not too generous commons. So it is mainly the 'larks' of Fergusson's university career that contemporary gossip has preserved; a college servant described him as 'a tricky callant, but a fine laddie for a' that;' and careless biographers have stated wrongly that he was expelled for participation in a row.' But he is reputed to have loved and known Virgil and Horace; he read much good English; and he had a close friend in Professor William Wilkie, whom Charles Townshend pronounced the most singular combination of god and brute he had ever met (see page 441). Fergusson had rhymed in the ver nacular from a very early period, and one of his extra-academical performances was an elegy on the death of Professor Gregory, which showed that at fifteen he was on equal terms with Ramsay: Now mourn, ye college masters a'! And frae your een a tear let fa', His university studies were broken off by the death of his father. He had intended to qualify for the church, but he left St Andrews in 1768. A visit to the well-to-do uncle in the north, who *Copyright 1902 by J. B. Lippincott Company to the poem entitled "Verses written at the Hermitage of Braid," page 8ɔ6. might have helped him to a career, proved fruitless, ending indeed in a violent quarrel. His mother had to support herself by 'taking lodgers,' and want of means barred all the professions to him. He secured employment in the office of the Commissary Clerk in Edinburgh, and remained there, an industrious drudge, till shortly before his early death. He was accustomed to eke out the scanty wage he got for his mechanical office work by copying other legal documents; and he did not discontinue his essays in verse. 'R. Fergusson' was announced as the author of the 'words' of 'three favourite Scots airs' incorporated in Arne's opera, Artaxerxes, as performed in the Theatre-Royal, Edinburgh, in 1769. At this period he was unaware that the vernacular to which he had been faithful in boyhood was the right medium for his poetic ideas. The prose-writers who had made Edinburgh a literary centre were laborious imitators of English models. So when an opportunity of printing his manuscripts came to Fergusson, it was natural that he should emulate Pope and Gay rather than Ramsay or Hamilton. The Weekly Magazine in 1771 offered hospitality first. to three pastorals of the conventional type, then to 'A Saturday's Expedition: in mock heroics,' to another serious 'Pastoral Elegy,' and a burlesque, all in English. Immediately, however, Fergusson found his métier, and showed that he knew it by signing the pieces in the vernacular which he contributed to the Magazine in rapid succession throughout 1772 and 1773; taking his place between Ramsay and Burns in that long line of realist-painters of the humours of homely Scottish life, a line which included the authors of Peblis to the Play and Chrystis Kirk in the sixteenth century (see Vol. I. p. 210), and the Sempills in the seventeenth (Vol. I. pp. 818, 819). The first of these vernacular pieces was 'The Daft Days.' Then an 'Elegy on the Death of Scots Music' proved pretty conclusively that a poet had arrived who could use his mother-tongue skilfully, if unequally, to paint nature and express natural though as yet superficial feeling : By the end of 1773 his contributions to the Magazine had accumulated to such an extent that he felt warranted in publishing a selection of eleven of the best; and he cleared £50 by the volume. Then the poet's sun set suddenly. Fergusson was eminently sociable, but he was also physically incapable of sparing 'slices of his constitution' to those who courted his society. The Magazine had at once profited by his contributions and brought him fame. He was both talker and singer, and clearly an attractive personality apart from his growing reputation as a poet. The Edinburgh of There is plenty was seemingly glorious to Fergusson as it was to nine out of ten men of his day. He was Sir Precentor of the Cape Club, and retained his St Andrews fondness for high jinks. of evidence to show that he never neglected his daily task, and that he was not more dissipated than the average of his contemporaries; much less so, indeed, than many who have escaped the lash of the moralist that has fallen too heavily on the shoulders of the 'poor poet.' He had a severe illness in the beginning of 1774, and gradually sank into religious melancholia. He had to be confined in a madhouse, and expired there on the 16th of October 1774, at the age of twenty-four. He was buried in the Canongate churchyard, where, fifteen years later, Burns, at his own expense, erected a memorial stone with a poetical inscription on it to his elder brother in the Muses.' It is neither possible nor desirable to dissociate the achievements of Robert Fergusson from the 'acute painful youth' of 'the poor, high-soaring, deep-falling, gifted and misguided man' he has been described by the most generous and accurate of his censors. From first to last, from the St Andrews bursar's protest against 'rabbits hot and rabbits cold' to the 'half-fed, half-mad, halfsarket' law-clerk's spirited protest against Samuel Johnson's representation of Scotland, this undergraduate in life and in literature was a realist and a humourist-a humourist because he was a realist. It is, therefore, at once impossible to say how much he might have done within the field which Nature had marked out for him, and easy to mark the bounds of that field. His limitations,' says Mr Aitken, are evident enough. He had no lyric vein, no high reach of imagination, and no large constructive skill.' The observation is as true as it is succinct. He had no lyric vein because he had had no lyric experiences. The battle of life was hard enough with him, and went against him; but it was not sufficiently varied or long to allow him to escape from his dreary, if also picturesquely sordid, environments into the audacious satire of Dunbar, into the mystical yet profoundly humanitarian confidence of Burns that the universal plan will all direct,' or even into the sagacious and mildly sensual Horatianism of Allan Ramsay. Even if time and sanity had been allowed him, Fergusson could not have risen to the heights of the 'Dance of the Sevin Deidly Synnis' or the ultra-Rabelaisanism of the 'Tournament;' he could not have given the wandering train' immortal glory and almost immortal justification in 'The Jolly Beggars,' or supplied a democracy |