THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 EX LIBRIS • lOHN GRIBBEL 
 
 ST- AUSTELL HALL
 
 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects
 
 RANDOM SKETCHES 
 
 ON 
 
 SCOTTISH SUBJECTS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN D. ROSS 
 
 Author of " Scottish Poets in Amerita," Etc., Etc. 
 
 ^^^^^^^ 
 
 ALEXANDER GARDNER 
 
 ^I'ubHshp.r to Iflrir Majesty tbr: Qiifinn 
 PAISLEY; AND 26 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON 
 
 1896
 
 <1? 
 
 fl^ 
 
 733 
 
 r 
 
 19flj(tateli 
 
 TO 
 
 BSMJAMIN F. LtEGGEHTP, ©H.D., 
 
 Ward, Pa., U.S.A., 
 
 (OxE OF Nature's Noblemkn ; a Sweet Poet and an Eminent 
 Educationist) 
 
 IN (iRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF MANY 
 FAVOURS RECEIVED AT HIS HANDS. 
 
 
 ' ' ' J J ' 
 
 • > '3' ' > 
 13 3 3333 
 
 486279
 
 / 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Old Scottish Ballads, - - - - 9 
 
 Lady Nairne and Her Songs, - - - 19 
 
 The Water Mill, 35 
 
 The Poet Fergusson, .... 45 
 
 Robin Adair, ------- 51 
 
 The Mother of Robert Burns, - - - 58 
 
 The Literary Work of Mr. Peter Ross, - 66 
 
 Henry Mackenzie, 78 
 
 The Poet Latto, 92 
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce, - . . 99 
 
 Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane, - - - 121
 
 Raniom Sketches on Scottisli Subjects. 
 
 THE OLD SCOTTISH BALLADS. 
 
 I HAVE always had a tender and sincere regard for 
 the old Scottish ballads. In my boyhood days 
 they were a continual source of delight to me, and 
 I used to pore over them at all convenient hours. 
 A goodly portion of them were also committed to 
 memory, and to-day I can repeat them and enjoy 
 them as much as I did in the years gone by. What 
 a curious collection of old legendary lore they are, 
 to be sure. What wild adventures on land and 
 on sea do they chronicle ; wljat wonderful deeds 
 of dai'ing in love and in war ; what heroic self- 
 sacrifices ; what hairbreadth escapes ; what mys- 
 terious doings of spirits, water kelpies, goblins, 
 fairies, and so forth. Really, when I take up a 
 volume of these old favourites I am always sure 
 to immediately aliglit on ono that just suits the 
 particular mood in which i may happen at the 
 
 A
 
 10 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 moment to be. Even the particular haze of anti- 
 quity which envelopes so many of them has a 
 strange fascination for me, and I love to linger in 
 their company. Well do I remember the first of 
 these ballads that attracted my attention. It was 
 the little one entitled " Geordie." How dramati- 
 cally it opens : 
 
 There was a battle in the north, 
 And nobles there were manie ; 
 And they hae killed Sir Charlie Hay 
 And laid the blame on Geordie. 
 
 " Geordie " is supposed to have been George 
 Gordon, fourth Earl of Huntly, and the time of the 
 incident related in the ballad is in the reign of 
 King James V. Consigned not only to prison but 
 to death for a crime of which he is innocent, the 
 earl writes a long letter to his spouse acquainting 
 her with the fact and requesting her immediate 
 presence by his side: 
 
 Oh, he has written a lang letter ; 
 He sent it to his ladye ; 
 " It's ye maun come to E'nbrugh town 
 To see what word's of Geordie." 
 
 When first she look'd the letter on, 
 She was baith red and rosy ; 
 But she hadna read a word but twa 
 Till she turned pale as a lily.
 
 The Old Scottish Ballads. 11 
 
 But this was uo time for idle grief. She had to be 
 up and doing, and so she brushed her tears aside 
 and gave orders to 
 
 " Get to me my gude gray steed, 
 My men shall all gae with me : 
 For I shall neither eat nor drink 
 Till E'nbrugh town shall see me." 
 
 And so with her men at arms she mounted her gray 
 steed and rode in all haste to where her lord was 
 imprisoned. Nor did she arrive any too soon, for 
 
 First appeared the fatal block, 
 And syne the axe to held him, 
 And Geordie comin' down the stair. 
 And bands o' aim upon him. 
 
 But though he was chained wi' fetters strong 
 0' airn and steel sae heavy, 
 There was na ane in a' the court 
 Sae braw a man as Geordie. 
 
 The king however seems to have been conveni- 
 ently near, and she at once appeals to him, in the 
 regulation fashion of the time, for a pardon : 
 
 0, she's down on her bended knee, 
 I wot she's pale and wearie ; 
 " pardon, pardon, noble king, 
 And gie me back my deai'ie ! 
 
 *' I ha'e born seven sons to Geordie dear, 
 The seventh ne'er saw his daddie ; 
 O pardon, pardon, noble king, 
 Pity a waefu' lady ! "
 
 12 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 But alas her appeal found no responsive chord in 
 the heart of James V. Indeed it seemed only to 
 anger him, for he called out : 
 
 " Gar bid the beiding man mak' baste." 
 
 Convinced that this hne of action will not avail 
 her any, the lady tries to move him to pity through 
 an offer of her worldly possessions. 
 
 " noble king, tak' a' tbat's mine, 
 But gie me back my Geordie." 
 
 Still the king proved unrelenting, and the lady was 
 just about to call on the men who had accom- 
 panied her, to attempt a rescue by force, when a 
 crafty old earl ventured the suggestion : 
 
 " Gar her tell down five thousand pounds 
 And she'll buy back her Geordie." 
 
 This suggestion seems to have pleased the king. 
 It harmonized with his own ideas on the subject, 
 and he spoke out accordingly. 
 
 But five thousand pounds was a very large sum 
 of money to get together in so short a notice, yet 
 the noble lady was not to be thwarted in her de- 
 sign by such a small matter as that. She immedi- 
 ately appealed to the bystanders, and they seem 
 to have been hberally supplied with spare cash in 
 those days, for
 
 The Old Scottish Ballads. 13 
 
 Some ga'e her marks, some ga'e her crowns, 
 
 Some ga'e her dollars many, 
 And she's told down five thousand pounds 
 
 And she's gotten again her dearie. 
 
 And the ballad appropriately concludes with a 
 hint as to what might have taken place had the 
 earl not been Hberated, and a oomph' meet from the 
 earl to his lady which all will agree with me in 
 saying she richly deserved : 
 
 She blinket blythe in Geordie's face 
 Says, " Dear I've bought thee, Geordie, 
 
 But there would have been bloody bodies seen 
 Or I had tint my lordie." 
 
 He clasped her by the middle sma'. 
 
 And he kissed her lips sae rosy ; 
 " The fairest flower of womankind 
 
 Is my sweet bonnie ladye. " 
 
 I do not point out this ballad as being the best, 
 or even one of the best of the old Scottish ballads, 
 but simply because it was the one which first 
 thrilled me with delight and led me to continue 
 m}^ studies in this direction. I have read many 
 ballads since then, much finer ones in many re- 
 spects, I will admit, but " (ieordie " has a charm 
 for me yet, and ever will have. 
 
 Then there was the ballad of " Tamlane " with 
 its weird, uncanny story. Truly a wonderful crea- 
 tion and one well calculated to make a vivid and 
 lasting impression on the mind of a young reader.
 
 14 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Tamlane was an earl's son who had been spirited 
 away by the fairies when a boy and had grown up 
 to be a young man under their spell. The favour- 
 ite haunt or gathei'ing place of these fairies was a 
 place called Carterhaugh ; and Janet, an earl's 
 daughter and the heroine of the story, is strictly 
 forbidden to go near the place. Prompted by 
 curiosity, however, she pays it a visit, meets with 
 Tamlane and of course falls in love with him. He 
 explains matters as follows : — 
 
 When I was a boy just turned of nine 
 
 My uncle sent for me 
 To hunt and hawk and ride with him 
 
 And keep him companie. 
 
 There came a wind out of the north, 
 
 A sharp wind and a snell 
 A dead sleep then came over me 
 
 And frae my horse I fell. 
 
 The fairy queen she caught at me 
 
 And took me to hersel', 
 And ever since in j'on green hill, 
 
 With her I'm bound to dwell. 
 
 And we that live in fairy-land 
 
 Nae sickness know nor pain, 
 I quit my body when I will 
 
 And take to it again. 
 
 Our shapes and size we can convert 
 
 To either large or small, 
 An old nut shell's the same to us 
 
 As in a lofty hall.
 
 The Old Scottish Ballads. 15 
 
 We sleep in rosebuds soft and sweet 
 
 We revel in the stream, 
 We wanton lightly on the wind 
 
 Or glide on a sunbeam. 
 
 It seems however that this life with all its 
 charms has one drawback. The fairies, for some 
 reasons, have to part every seventh year with one 
 of their company to his satanic majesty, and 
 Tamlane being "young and fair and fat " feels 
 convinced that he has been selected as the next 
 victim to be sacrificed. So he asks Janet to save 
 him and to help him to regain his liberty and tells 
 her how she can accomplish this. She is to repair 
 to the Miles Cross at midnight and take holy 
 water with her and sprinkle it all around in a 
 circle. He will ride past with the fairies, and — 
 
 The first company that passes by 
 
 Stand still and let them gae ; 
 The next company that passes by 
 
 Stand still and do right sae. 
 
 The third company that passes by 
 
 All clad in robes of green 
 It is the head one of them all 
 
 For in it rides the queen. 
 
 I'll there ride on the milk white steed 
 
 With a gold star in my crown, 
 Because I was a christened knight 
 
 They gie me that renown,
 
 16 Random. Sketches on Scottish Subjects, 
 
 First let pass the black, Janet, 
 
 And syne let pass the brown, 
 But grip ye to the milk white steed 
 
 And pull the rider down. 
 
 And he goes on to explain how, when in her 
 arms he will be transformed into a snake, an 
 adder, a red hot piece of" iron, a toad, an eel, a 
 dove, a swan and last of all a mother naked man. 
 
 She is then to cast her green mantle over him 
 and the fairies' spell will be broken. So Janet 
 repairs at midnight to the Miles Cross and awaits 
 developments. Soon the fairy crowd make their 
 appearance and so carefully does she follow Tam- 
 lane's instructions that he is soon rescued and the 
 fairies' control over him is at an end. At this — 
 
 Up then spake the fairy queen 
 
 Out of a bush of rye : 
 " She's ta'en away the bonniest knight 
 
 In all my companie ; 
 But iiad I kenn'd Tamlane," she says, 
 
 " A lady would borrow thee, 
 I would hae ta'en out thy twa gray een 
 
 Put in twa een of tree ! 
 Had I but kenn'd Tamlaue," she says, 
 
 " Before ye came frae hame, 
 I would ta'en out your heart of flesh 
 
 Put in a heart of stane. 
 Had I but had the wit yestreen 
 
 That I hae coft this day 
 I'd paid my kane seven times to hell 
 
 Ere you'd been won away."
 
 The Old Scottish Ballads. 17 
 
 And who can read and ever forget the tragical 
 ballad of " Gil Morice " full of excitement and 
 horrors, yet containing some exquisite passages of 
 poetry for all that. Take the description of the 
 hero for instance. 
 
 His hair was like the threads of gold 
 
 Drawn from Minerva's loom ; 
 His lips like roses dropping dew. 
 
 His breath was all perfume. 
 
 His brow was like the mountain snow 
 
 Gilt by the morning beam , 
 His cheeks like living roses glow, 
 
 His e'en like azure stream. 
 
 ""he boy was clad in robes of green 
 
 Sweet as the infant Spring ; 
 And like the mavis on the bush 
 
 He made the vallej's ring. 
 
 But the rest of the old Scottish ballads are just 
 as spirited aud entertaining as " Tamlane " and 
 "Gil Morice" and it would be a comparatively 
 easy matter to extend this article to a dozen or 
 more columns by simply taking up the more pro- 
 minent ones and describing their special features 
 and plots. There are " The Dowie Dens of Yar- 
 row," "Annan Water," "Fair Annie of Lochryau," 
 " The Queen's Marie," " Katherine Janfarie," 
 " Clerk Saunders," " Sir Patrick Spens," " Johnnie 
 Armstrong," " Gilderoy," "Fair Annie's Ghost,"
 
 18 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 " The Gay Gos-Hawk," " Hardy Knute," " Sir 
 James the Rose," " The Drowned Lovers," and 
 various others, all more or less meritorious and 
 constituting as fine a collection of poetical litera- 
 ure as one could wish to read. Let me therefore 
 conclude by advising any one who is not already 
 familiar with the ballad minstrelsy of Scotland to 
 procure a collection without delay. In doing so 
 I can assure them that I am inviting them to the 
 enjoyment of a rare literary feast.
 
 LADY NAIRNE AND HER SONGS. 
 
 No country is so rich and varied in song literature 
 as Scotland. Her hills and glens, woods and 
 streams, people and history, have been celebrated 
 and made famous the world over through the 
 simple and exquisite language embodied in the 
 lyrical productions of her sons and daughters ; and 
 although man}' of these gifted song writers have 
 belonged to the higher and educated classes of 
 society, yet it is a well-known fact that the greatest 
 number of them have sprung from the lowly and 
 the poor, from the peasant's cot in the glen, the 
 shepherd's hut on the hillside, or the crowded 
 alleyways and the busy thoroughfares of our large 
 commercial cities. It is also a notable fact that 
 the fame and popularity of many of our song 
 writers rests wholly on one particular song which 
 they have written. Thus — Miss Jane Elliot im- 
 mortalized herself in the annals of Scottish song 
 by " The Flowers of the Forest ; " John Lowe by 
 " Mary's Dream ; " Alexander Lyle by his happy 
 and musical "Kelvin Grove;" George Halkett by 
 " Logic o' Buchan ; " Lady Ann Barnard by her
 
 20 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 beautiful and sad story of " Auld Robin Gray ; " 
 Adam Skirviug by his ever popular versiou of 
 " Johnnie Cope ; " John Eweu by " The Boatie 
 Rows;" William Laidlaw by his simple and affect- 
 ing description of " Lucy's Fhttiu' ; " Jean Adams 
 by what Burns termed "The most beautiful song 
 in the Scots or an}' other language," namely — 
 " There's nae luck about the house ; " Lady Baillie 
 by her curious and old worded song, " Were na my 
 heart licht 1 wad dee ; " Isabella Pagan by her 
 sweet and gentle " Ca' the yowes to the knowes ; " 
 Jean Glover by her equally sweet " O'er the 
 broom amang the heather; " John Lapraik by the , 
 
 noble and affectionate lines which he addressed to[jJrv^ 
 his wife, beginniug, " When I upon thy bosom 
 lean and fondly clasp thee a' my ain ; " Richard 
 Hewett by " Roslin Castle ; " William Glen, who 
 recalls so vividly the times, trials, and privations 
 of " Bonnie Prince Charlie," in " A wee bird cam' 
 to our ha' door ; " Mi-s. Grant by her inspiring 
 " Roy's Wife of Ardivalloch;" and Francis Semple 
 by his humourous and always enjoyable " Maggie 
 Lauder." These and many others which 1 might 
 mention have been awarded high places among 
 our prominent song writers, and their names have 
 become familiar to us all through one particular 
 song which they have added to, and by which 
 they have increased the value and the beauty of
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 21 
 
 the songs of Scotland as a collection, and their 
 memories will never fade or pass away into 
 obscurity as long as the language is understood in 
 which their respective productions are written. I 
 wish, however, to draw your readers' attention to 
 one who has endeared herself to every Scottish 
 heart, not on account of one song, but on account 
 of the galaxy of illustrious songs which she com- 
 posed and which she has now bequeathed to our 
 keeping. I allude to Caruline Baroness Nairne, 
 one of the finest songstresses which the world has 
 ever produced. 
 
 Lady Nairne was born at the " auld house " oi 
 Gask, in Perthshire, on July 16, 1766. Her father 
 was one of those staunch old Jacobites who openly 
 espoused the cause of the Stuarts, and proved his 
 loyalty to Prince Charles Edward by taking an 
 active part with him in the rebellion of 1745-6. 
 The disastrous results of this rebellion are well 
 known to every reader of history. It extinguished 
 for ever the hopes of that gallant young prince, 
 and compelled him and his principal followers to 
 retreat to the Continent for safety. Among the 
 latter was Lord Nairne, who thus spent seventeen 
 years of his life in exile. When he found it safe 
 to return home. Dr. Charles Rogers tells us : " He 
 would not permit the names of the reigning 
 monarch and his queen to be mentioned in his
 
 22 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 presence ; and when impaired eyesight compelled 
 him to seek the assistance of his family in reading 
 the newspapers, he angrily reproved the reader if 
 the " German lairdie and his leddy " were desig- 
 nated otherwise than by the initial letters "K. and 
 Q." This extreme Jacobitism, at a period when 
 the crime was scarcely to be dreaded, was reported 
 to George III., who sent the Laird his compliments 
 as Elector of Hanover, with a message testifying 
 respect for the steadiness of his principles." Lady 
 Nairne was christened Caroline, in honour of Prince 
 Charles, and in early life received an excellent 
 education. She was an exceedingly pretty child, 
 and at the age of eighteen was acknowledged to 
 be one of the most beautiful, intelligent and re- 
 fined young ladies in Scotland. Her sweet and 
 gentle manner, combined with her many charit- 
 able gifts so modestly bestowed upon the poor, 
 gained for her the poetical title of " The Flower of 
 Strathearn," but no one suspected her of being the 
 authoress of the many charming songs which were 
 then attracting by their beauty the admiration of 
 the public. Many of these compositions first ap- 
 peared under the assumed initials of " B. B." in 
 Smith's Scottish Minstrel, and so careful and anxious 
 was Lady Nairne to conceal her part in them that 
 even the publishers of the work were not aware of 
 the real name and position of their gifted contri-
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 23 
 
 butor uutil many years after their labour wafs com- 
 pleted. Since that time her songs have enjoyed a 
 world-wide reputation ; and deservedly so, as with 
 few exceptions they are worthy to be placed be- 
 side the noble productions of her great country- 
 men — Ramsay, Burns, and Tannahill. They are all 
 exquisite little pieces of poetry. Take, for instance, 
 " The Rowan Tree " or " The Auld House." What 
 tender recollections of childhood's days do these 
 two songs recall ! Nothing could be more fraught 
 with sweet, and, in many cases, sad memories of 
 the past than the verses: — 
 
 Oh ! the auld house, the auld house, 
 
 What tho' the rooms were wee ! 
 Oh ! kind hearts were dwellin' there, 
 
 And bairnies fu' o' glee ; 
 The wild rose and the jessamine 
 
 Still hang upon the wa', — 
 How many cherished memories 
 
 Do they, sweet flowers, reca' ! 
 
 The mavis still doth sweetly sing, 
 
 The blue bells sweetly blaw, 
 The bonny Earn's clear winding still, 
 
 But the auld house is awa'. 
 The auld house, the auld house, 
 
 Deserted tho' ye be. 
 There ne'er can be a new house 
 
 Will seem sae fair to me.
 
 24 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Still flourisliing the auld pear tree 
 
 The bairnies liked to see, 
 And oh, how often did they speir 
 
 When ripe they a' wad be ! 
 The voices sweet, the wee bit feet 
 
 Aye rinnin' here and there, 
 The merry shout — Oh ! wliiles we greet 
 
 To think we'll hear nae mair. 
 
 Or take again her well known song, '■' The Land 
 o' the Leal," which was composed on the occasion 
 of the death in infancy of the first-born of a per- 
 sonal friend of Lady Nairne. We certainly could 
 not wish for any verses that would touch our 
 hearts more deeply or engage our sympathies more 
 earnestly than these do : 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', John, 
 
 Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, 
 
 I'm wearin' awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, John, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, John, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, John, 
 She was baith guid and fair, John, 
 And we grudged her richt sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, 
 And joy's comiu' fast, John, 
 In joy that's aye to last. 
 
 In the land o' the leal.
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 25 
 
 Sae dear that joy was bought, John, 
 Sae free the battle fought, John, 
 That sinfu' man e'er brought 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Oh ! dry your glist'uin' e'e, John, 
 My saul langs to be free, John, 
 And angels beckon me 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 
 Oh ! baud ye leal and true, John, 
 Your day is wearin' through, John, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Now fare j^e weel my ain John, 
 This warld's cares are vain, John, 
 We'll meet, and we'll be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 Liues like these require no commeut at our 
 hands. They speak for themselves, and to many 
 who have undergone the sad ordeal of parting 
 with a little one through death, the second verse 
 must always appeal to tlieir hearts with a feeling 
 that is almost sacred. "The Laud o' the Leal" is at 
 once the finest of all Lady Nairne's productions, and 
 as such has been recognised aud sung ia all parts of 
 the civilised world. Turning, however, from the 
 serious to the comic side ot human nature, how 
 graphically does she portray to us the amusing 
 story of the Laiid o' Cockpeu, a worthy gentleman, 
 who, at rather an advanced period in existence, 
 arrives at the conclusion that he requires a wife,
 
 26 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 " bis braw house to keep ; " aud having settled the 
 fact to bis entire satisfaction, bis choice settles on 
 a certain lady whose age corresponds with his owu, 
 and who was known by the dignified title of 
 " Mistress Jean." He therefore resolves to at once 
 impart his conclusions to the lady in question ; 
 and, having equipped himself with a sword and 
 a cocked hat, he mounts his grey mare to make 
 his appearance more imposing, and sets forth, 
 never dreaming that the conclusions of Mistress 
 Jean might not exactly coincide with bis own. 
 Oh ! no ; the very idea to him would have seemed 
 ridiculous ; be was the Laird o' Cockpen, while she 
 was only 
 
 A peuniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 
 
 In due time he arrives at the gate of the mansion 
 wherein the lady resides, and at once commands 
 the servant to 
 
 Tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben 
 
 She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen. 
 
 And who cannot but enjoy the discomfiture and 
 astonishment of the worthy laird at the result of 
 the interview, and the wonderful courage he 
 exhibits when all is over : 
 
 When she cam' ben he bowed fu' low, 
 And what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
 Amazed was the laird when the lady said " Na," 
 Aud wi" a laigh courtsie she turned awa'.
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 27 
 
 Dumfouadered was he, but nae sigh did he gie, 
 He mounted his mare, and rode cannilie ; 
 And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, 
 She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen ! 
 
 Aud while Lady Nairne did not add the coucludiug 
 stanza to the song as it is now sung, yet we are 
 all pleased to learn that the Laird was ultimately 
 successful : 
 
 Next time that the laird and the lady was seen 
 They were gauu arm in arm to the kirk on the green. 
 
 Lady Nairne deserves special notice for her 
 many noble contributions to the Jacobite songs of 
 Scotland. Such sougs as " Wha'U be King but 
 CharHe 1 " " He's owre the hills that I I'oe weel," 
 " There grows a bounie brier bush in our kailyard," 
 " Wi' a hundred pipers an' a' an' a'," " Charlie is 
 my darhng," and " Will ye no come back again 1 " 
 are among the finest and most popular of our 
 national sougs. She was intensely imbued with 
 her father's patriotic spirit, and held the principles 
 and deeds of Prince CharHe in great veneration. 
 
 English brides were a' in vain, 
 
 Tho' puir and puirer we uiaun be ; 
 
 Siller canna buy the lieart 
 
 That beats aye for thine and thee. 
 
 We watch'd thee in the mornin' hour, 
 
 We watch'd thee in the morning grey ; 
 
 Though thirty thousand pounds they gie, 
 Oh there's nane that wad betray !
 
 28 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Sweet's the laverock's note, and lang, 
 
 Lilting wildly up the glen ; 
 But aye tae me he sin_^s ae sang — 
 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 Better lo'ed ye canna be — 
 Will ye no come back again ? 
 
 Another excellent and popular song is " Caller 
 Herriij'," which describes the various thoughts that 
 agitate the hearts of the jQshermeu's wives while 
 their husbands are engaged in their perilous occu- 
 pations on the deep : — 
 
 " Wha'U buy my caller lierrin' ? " 
 Ye may ca' them vulgar fairin', 
 Wives and mithers, maist despairin', 
 Ca' them lives o' men ! 
 
 The rest of her songs are each and all worthy of 
 notice, and will repay the time spent in reading 
 and studying them. They include, besides those 
 which I have mentioned : — 
 
 " Farewell Edinburgh, where happy I hae been." 
 
 " The Lass o' Gowrie." 
 
 " Would you be young again *? " 
 
 « The Twa Doos." 
 
 " He's a terrible man, John Todd, John Todd." 
 
 " The Fife Laird." 
 
 " When ye gang awa', Jamie."
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 29 
 
 " Kind Robin lo'es me." 
 
 " Rest is not here." 
 
 " Jamie, the Laird." 
 
 " Gude nicht and joy be wi' ye a'." 
 
 " Here's to them that are gane 1 " 
 And many others which I need not refer to. 
 
 Lady Nairne was married to her cousin, Captain 
 W. N. Nairne, in 1806, and had one cbikl, a son. 
 Her husband died in 1830 and her son in 1887. 
 After this she resided on the Continent, until fail- 
 ing health compelled her to forego the fatigues of 
 travel and return to Gask. Here she gradually 
 became very frail, and on Sunday, October 26th, 
 1845, passed peacefully away to the " Laud o' the 
 Leal," in the seventy-ninth year of her age. A few 
 months after her death, Dr. Chalmers, in an address 
 delivered at Edinburgh in relation to certain reli- 
 gious and educational work then being carried on 
 in the West Port of that city, said : — 
 
 " Let me speak now as to the countenance we 
 have received. I am now at liberty to mention a 
 very noble benefaction which I received about a 
 year ago. Inquiry was made at me by a lady, 
 mentioning that she had a sum at her disposal, 
 and that she wished to apply it to charitable pur- 
 poses ; and she wanted me to enumerate a list of 
 charitable objects, in prc^portion to the estimate I 
 had of their value. Accordingly, I furnished her
 
 30 Random Sketches^ on Scottish SuhjecU. 
 
 with a list of ab('ut five or six charitable objects. 
 The highest in the scale were those institutions 
 which had for their design the christianising of the 
 people at home; and I also mentioned to her, iu 
 connection, what we were doing at the West 
 Port ; and there came to me from her, in the 
 course of a day or two, no less a sum than £300. 
 She is now dead ; she is now in her grave, and 
 her works do follow her. When she gave me this 
 noble benefaction, she laid me under strict injunc- 
 tions of secrecy, and, accordingly, I did not men- 
 tion her name to any person ; but after she was 
 dead, I begged of her nearest heir that I might be 
 allowed to proclaim it, because 1 thought that her 
 example, so worthy to be followed, might influ- 
 ence others in imitating her ; and I am happy to 
 say that T am now at liberty to state that it was 
 Lady Nairne of Perthshire. It enabled ns at the 
 expense of £330, to purchase sites for schools, and 
 a church ; and we have got a site in the very 
 heart of the locality, with a very considerable ex- 
 tent of ground for a wasliing green, a washing- 
 house, and a play-ground for the children." This, 
 however, is but one of the many benevolent acts 
 recorded of Lady Nairne. She left considerable 
 sums of money to be used in extending the useful- 
 ness of various institutions, and it will be a long 
 time before the good name and charitable acts of
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 31 
 
 Lady Nairne, the " Flower of Strathearn," are for- 
 gotten in Scotland. 
 
 A writer in the Strathearn Herald, who recently 
 stood beside her grave says : — " When I mention 
 Gask House, it will be at once known that the 
 chief attraction for the visitor lies in its connection 
 with Lady Nairne, the authoress of " The Auld 
 Hoose " and many other of our favourite Scotch 
 songs. When I entered the grounds at Gask I 
 was fortunate in getting the kindly-proffered aid 
 of the land-steward, Mr. Chalmers, in shewing me 
 all round. He first took me along the Roman 
 road, which is at this point open for some miles 
 north and south, then showed me two Roman out- 
 posts, small circular raised bits of ground with 
 ditches surrounding them, similar to what are here 
 and there to be found in the neighbourhood. We 
 then passed the modern mansion of Gask, a pre- 
 tentious building with some claims of architectural 
 beauty ; and quite near to this my guide led me 
 unexpectedly to the ruins of the " auld hoose" of 
 the song. The shell only of the front wall of this 
 ancient dwelling remains, but that is guarded 
 carefully for the sake of the melodious references to 
 its history. Above the doorway and on several 
 other inscribed stones are the dates 1626 and 1662, 
 with the family coat of arms, three crescents, 
 popularly in the locality called horseshoes.
 
 32 Random Sketches on ScotfUh Subjects. 
 
 Stretched along the front wall of the house is the 
 old pear tree, quite dead, yet carefully preserved 
 in its fruitless and leafless old age, and suggestive 
 of the time when the " bairnies fu o' glee " of the 
 liouse itself looked so eagerly forward to its annual 
 fruit ripening. 
 
 The old parish church of Gask at one time stood 
 near the " auld hoose," but it has been removed, 
 and in its stead a private chapel has been erected 
 by the Oliphant family. Within this new chapel 
 lies the body of Lady Nairne, and around it are the 
 ancient parish tombstones, in " the kirkyard " of 
 the song, the oldest date on any that I saw being 
 1741. Within a stone's throw, and in sight of her 
 birth-place, as well as of her place of burial, is a 
 monumental cross erected this year (1889) by the 
 present proprietor to " Carolina Oliphant, Baroness 
 Nairn, born at Gask 1766, died at Gask 1845." 
 The legend, " Carmiua morte carent " (her song 
 shall never die), with the representation of a lyre 
 and the family crest, also are inscribed on the 
 monument. The old garden sun-dial, that " tauld 
 how time did pass," was not long ago dug out of 
 the garden where it had for many years been in- 
 terred, and it now stands very much in the posi- 
 tion it long ago held, the garden itself being now 
 laid out in grass walks that are pleasant to tread 
 upon. The grounds are most pleasantly situated
 
 Lady Nairne and her Songs. 33 
 
 on the rising slopes above the river Earn, much 
 attention being given by the present laird to the 
 timber on the estate, which has some splendid 
 specimens of Spanish chestnut amongst its other 
 riches — one we measured being 16i feet in cir- 
 cumference a few feet above the ground. Much 
 pleasure may be derived from a visit to this old 
 house, as even apart from the sentimental associa- 
 tions, the place is one of rare beauty, and the 
 owners are amongst the oldest of our Scottish 
 families. 
 
 The late Rev. Dr. Charles Rogers in his memoir 
 of Lady Nairne in the Scottish Minstrel, says : — 
 " After her ladyship's death, it occurred to her 
 relatives that, as there could no longer be any 
 reason for retaining her incognita, full justice 
 should be done to her memory by the publication 
 of a collected edition of her songs. This scheme 
 was partially executed in an elegant folio, entitled 
 Lays from Strathearn, by Carolina Baroness Nairne. 
 Arranged with symphonies and accompaniments 
 ior the pianoforte, by Finlay Dun. In 1868, the 
 editor of the present work undertook, chiefly at 
 the solicitation of the excellent gentlewoman to 
 whom Lady Nairne had entrusted the secret of 
 her authorship, to edit tlie whole of her lyrical 
 compositions along with a memoir of her life. In 
 the execution of his task, he was privileged to re-
 
 34 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 ceive the cordial assistance of Lady Nairne's rela- 
 tives, who, by an examination of the family cor- 
 respondence and otherwise, afforded him material 
 assistance in the accomplishment of his object. 
 The Life and Songs of the Baroness Nairne, pub- 
 lished by Messrs. Charles Griffin & Co., at once 
 passed into a second edition, and has excited much 
 interest among the lovers of Scottish minstrelsy 
 both at home and abroad."
 
 THE WATER MILL. 
 
 It is somewhat singular that the authorship of this 
 melodious and justly celebrated poem is still a sub- 
 ject of dispute, and all lovers of poetical literature 
 must regret that two versions of so valuable a pro- 
 duction are now standing before the world, both 
 of them surrounded with charges of plagiarism, 
 but with very grave doubts as to which of the two 
 is really the original. Such however is the case. 
 Two persons at different times have asserted their 
 right to the authorship of the poem, and while each 
 of these has given us a slightly different version of 
 it still the similarity of sentiment, tone and thought 
 embodied in almost every line of both versions 
 leaves little or no doubt in the mind of the reader 
 but that the one is simply a copy of the other. In 
 America the poem is generally attributed to the 
 bite Major-General D. C. McCallura of Rochester, 
 N.Y., while in Great Britain the honour is invaria- 
 bly awarded to Miss Sarah Doudney, authoress of 
 Psalms of Life, a work of considerable merit, and 
 which is now in its second edition. General 
 McCallum printed his version under the title of
 
 36 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 " The Water Mill," in the little volnme of poems 
 which he issued in 1870, and in 1871 Miss Doud- 
 ney printed her version under the title of " The 
 Lessons of the Water Mill," in the first edition of 
 her Psalms of Life. We append the two versions 
 herewith so that our readers may note how alike 
 they are to each other in all particulars. 
 
 THE LESSON OF THE WATERMILL. 
 
 BY MISS DOUDNEY. 
 
 ■ But this I say, brethren, the time is short.' 
 
 Listen to the waterinill 
 
 Through the livelong daj% 
 How the clicking of its wheel 
 
 Wears the hours away ! 
 Languidly the autumn wind 
 
 Stirs the forest leaves ; 
 Fiom the fields the reapers sing 
 
 Binding up the sheaves ; 
 And a proverb haunts my mind 
 
 As a spell is cast : 
 "The mill cannot grind 
 
 With the water that is past." 
 
 Autumn Minds revive no more 
 
 Leaves that once are shed, 
 And the sickle cannot reap 
 
 Corn once gathered : 
 Flows the ruffled streamlet on, 
 
 Tranquil, deep, and still, 
 Never gliding back again 
 
 To the watermill ;
 
 The Water Mill 37 
 
 Truly speaks that proverb old, 
 
 With a meaning vast — 
 " The mill cannot grind 
 
 With the water that is past." 
 
 Take the lesson to thyself, 
 
 True and loving heart ; 
 Golden youth is fleeting by, 
 
 Summer hours depart ; 
 Learn to make the moat of life, 
 
 Lose no happy day, 
 Time will never bring thee back 
 
 Chances swept away ; 
 Leave no tender word unsaid, 
 
 Love while love shall last ; 
 " The mill cannot grind 
 
 With the water that is past." 
 
 Work while yet the daylight shines, 
 
 Man of strength and will ! 
 Never does the streamlet glide 
 
 Useless by the mill ; 
 Wait not till to-morrow's sun 
 
 Beams upon thy way, 
 All that thou canst call thiue own 
 
 Lies in thy "to-day ; " 
 Power and intellect and health 
 
 May not always last ; 
 " The mill cannot grind 
 
 With the water that is past.' 
 
 Oh, the wasted hours of life 
 
 That have drifted by ! 
 Oh, the good that mUjIit have been — 
 
 Lost without a sigh ! 
 Love that we might once have saved 
 
 By a single word,
 
 38 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Thoughts conceived but never penned 
 
 Perishing unheard ; 
 Take the proverb to thine heart, 
 
 Take and hold it fast : 
 " The mill cannot grind 
 
 With the water that is past." 
 
 THE wate:;mill. 
 
 BY GENERAL M'CALLUM. 
 
 Oh listen to the watermill, through all the livelong day, 
 As the clicking of the wheel wears hour by hour away ; 
 How languidly the autumn wind doth stir the withered leaves, 
 As on the field the reapers sing w hile binding up the sheaves, 
 A solemn proverb strikes ray mind, and, as a spell, is cast — 
 "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 
 
 Soft summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and 
 
 main ; 
 The sickle never more will reap the yellow-garnered grain ; 
 The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep and still, 
 But never glideth back again to busy watermill. 
 The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast, 
 "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 
 
 Oh ! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true. 
 For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too. 
 And, learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day ; 
 For time will ne'er return sweet joys, neglected — thrown away ; 
 Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast — 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 
 
 Oh ! the wasted hours of life that have swiftly drifted by ; 
 Alas ! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh. 
 Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word —
 
 The Water Mill 39 
 
 Thoughts conceived hut ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, 
 
 unheard, 
 Oh ! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, 
 •'The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 
 
 Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and 
 
 will, 
 The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking watermill ; 
 Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way, 
 For all that thou can'st call thine own lies in the phrase " to- 
 
 day." 
 Possessions, power, and blooming health, must all be lost at 
 
 last, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 
 
 Oh ! love thy God and fellowman — this comprehendeth all 
 High Heaven's universal plan. Here let us prostrate fall ; 
 The wise, the ignorant may read this simple lesson taught. 
 All mystery or abstruse creed compared thei'ewith are naught. 
 Oh ! brothers on ! in deeds of love, for life is fleeting fast, 
 "The mill will never grind again with water that is past." 
 
 With which of the two versions is best we 
 have nothing to do at present ; what we de- 
 sire to find out is which of the two is the 
 original one, and it appears impossible to de- 
 cide this question by a mere perusal of both 
 versions. General McCallum was the very soul 
 of honour in all things, and it seems incredible to 
 his fi'iends that he would claim the authorship of 
 the poem if he really had no right to it. We may 
 state that a manuscript copy with various alter- 
 ations and notes was found among his papers after
 
 40 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 his death, but this in itself would not prove con- 
 clusively that he was the author of it, especially 
 when there was another claimant in the field for 
 the same honour. We may also remark in passing 
 that the fact that none of the general's other pro- 
 ductions equal " The Water Mill " does not prove 
 that he did not compose the latter piece. A 
 correspondent in Scotland, who has no doubt in 
 regard to the authorship, relates among other 
 items how the subject of the poem first presented 
 itself to the general. He says: "I knew General 
 McCallum when a boy, before he left this country, 
 and when he revisited Scotland, about sixteen 
 years ago, had the pleasure of spending an even- 
 ing with him and renewing our early acquaintance- 
 ship. During the evening the general recited 
 several of his productions, amongst them 'The 
 Water Mill,' and related the circumstances which 
 led to its inspiration. 
 
 " It was during the civil war in America. He 
 was on the move, accompanying President Lincoln, 
 when the train in which they were journeying 
 arrived at a river crossed by a swing bridge. 
 Having to wait a little, for the bridge being closed, 
 he alighted from the train. He had passed lately 
 through scenes that had depressed him both men- 
 tally and physically, and, as he stood there, musing 
 on the ever-flowing river and a water mill near by,
 
 The Water Mill 41 
 
 the spirit of the poem entered liis mind. He took 
 the earliest opportunity of putting the impressions 
 formed into words, and the result was 'The Water 
 Mill' " 
 
 From what I know personally of General Mc- 
 Callum, and from mutual friends in America, I 
 have no hesitation in maintaiuing he was the 
 author of the original poem. 
 
 Now in regard to Miss Doudnej's claim : she 
 says that she wrote the verses when a girl and 
 that they appeared with her name attached in one 
 of the issues of the Churchman's Family Mayazine, 
 a publication which has long since passed out of 
 existence. Could the particular number of this 
 magazitie be found with the poem iu it as stated, 
 that of course would end all controversy on the 
 subject. Mr. Robert Ford, the distinguished Scot- 
 tish author, relates the following interesting cir- 
 cumstances iu connection with the poem after it 
 had been set to music ; 
 
 " First it attracted attention as a recitation, and 
 was recited by public elocutionists over the length 
 and breadth of the laud. Then as a song, with 
 music by the late Washington Irving Bishop, the 
 celebrated thou;j,ht-reader, it rang through the 
 States, and by and by took wing over the sea, and 
 landed in Britain. Messrs. Moore and IJurgess, of 
 the well-known troupe, who hold forth perma- 
 
 c
 
 42 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 nently in London, wrote to Mr. Bishop for his per- 
 mission to sing the song in England, and their 
 request was granted. The minstrels' nightly use 
 of it for a time sent the song ringing through the 
 London streets, and several English music-pub- 
 hshers at once issued it in sheet form, which, under 
 the existing copyright laws, they could not of 
 course be debarred from doing. 
 
 " One day, when in Loudon, W. Irving Bishop 
 was looking over some second-hand volumes in a 
 shop in the Strand, when he noticed in a little 
 book of poems a set of verses under the title of 
 ' The Lesson of the Water Mill,' which, on reading, 
 he discovered were nearly the same as the Amer- 
 ican version, which, to his chagrin, had been so 
 freely pirated on this side of the Atlantic. Ap- 
 proaching the publisher of this volume, he inquired 
 about the author, and was referred to Miss Sarah 
 Doudney, journalist, Hants. Miss Doudney offered 
 to sell him the copyright of the song for ten 
 guineas. 
 
 " ' All right,' said Bishop, ' I will send you a 
 check to-morrow.' 
 
 " But when the morrow came the publishers 
 told the thought-reader that they had considered 
 the matter, and Miss Doudney could not sell the 
 copyright. They kept thinking apparently that 
 there might be something in it, so they set their
 
 The JVater Mill. 43 
 
 wits to work, as ' Luke Sharpe ' informed the read- 
 ers of the Detroit Free Press some time ago, and 
 soon found that ' The Water Mill ' was published 
 as a soug by half a dozen music firms; so pro- 
 ceeding's were at once commenced against the 
 firms aforesaid, and they each had to pay a sub- 
 stantial fine, with law costs, and a percentage on 
 every sheet sold. 
 
 " Of all this, however, the authoress got nothing, 
 and Mr. Bishop, with true American pertinacity, 
 did not let the matter drop here. He studied up 
 the law ol copyright and found that the author 
 had two rights to dispose of — one the right to 
 pubhsh in a book, and the other the right of public 
 representation. He found that Miss Doudney had 
 only sold the right to her publishers to publish in 
 book form, so he at once purchased from her the 
 right of reciting or singing the verses in public. 
 This done, he revisited the publishers, under the 
 shadow of St. Paul's. 
 
 " ' Gentlemen,' he said, ' I own the right to recite 
 or sing these verses. If any one sings or recites 
 them from your book, or the music, 1 can recover 
 twenty-five dollars from him or her. This will 
 greatly damage the sale of your niusic and your 
 book, a new edition of which has just been pub- 
 lished. Gentlemen, do you see the advisability of 
 compromising i '
 
 44 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 " They did, aud accordingly the matter was 
 compromised, the arrangemeut being that from 
 every sheet of music sold so much should go to 
 the publishers, so much to the composer, and so 
 much to the authoress. 
 
 " All this of course proves that Miss Doudney 
 never hesitated in claiming the poem as her indi- 
 vidual property, but we must not overlook the fact 
 that General McCallum at various times also made 
 the same claim. Both parties, as we have already 
 pointed out, published the poem, or at least a ver- 
 sion of it, under their own signature, yet one of 
 these must have known that their work was a 
 piece of plagiarism. Now to which of them does 
 the credit of authorship really belong ? The 
 question is certainly worthy of attention, and 
 should be decided without delay.
 
 THE POET FERGUSSON. 
 
 Walking leisurely up Broadway, New York, one 
 suuuy at'ternoou lately, I stopped at a certain 
 book-shop and began examining a lot of books 
 whicli were arranged on a table standing at the 
 door. There was a goodly number of them, and 
 directl}?" in front of me, painted in large black let- 
 ters, was the kindly invitation to " Pick them out, 
 only twenty-five cents each." Now, I am a great 
 lover of all kinds of books, and I am also a staunch 
 advocate of cheap literature for the people ; and 
 yet, I confess that instead of a feeling of gladness 
 coming over me, I experienced a deep twinge of 
 regret when 1 saw such works as D'Israeli's 
 Curiosities of Literature, Uncle Toms Cabin, The 
 Ingoldshy Legends, Sartor Resartus, Goethei's Poems, 
 Goldsmith' s Essays, Bon Gaidtier Ballads, and many 
 other equally well-known and standard works beg- 
 ging to be bought for twenty-five cents each. 
 Had they been soiled or torn second-hand copies 
 I would have considered them cheap enough at 
 the price, but these were new and dairitily bound 
 copies, and what astonished rae more, upon a
 
 46 Rnndom Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 closer inspection I found from their title pages 
 that they claimed to be " complete and unabrid- 
 ged." Truly there is no excuse nowadays for a 
 corner in each home not being well stocked with 
 a liberal supply of good and wholesome literature. 
 Leaving my new friends standing in all their 
 glory, I passed round to the other side of the table 
 and began an inspection of a number of genuine 
 relics of by-gone days that I found there. Here 
 were Baxter's Saints' Rest and Buchan's Do- 
 mestic Medicine, Bunyan's Pilgrinis Progress, and 
 JEsops Fables, Washington Irving's Sketch Book, 
 Scott's Ivanhoe, Crabbe's Poems and Miss Edge- 
 worth's Dramas, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and 
 Byron, besides Bibles, prayer-books, hymnals and 
 other religious books for all denominations and 
 tastes. But there was one little 12 mo, with a dirty 
 paper back and marble sides, which somehow ex- 
 cited my curiosity, and I took it up and, opening 
 it at the title-page, read : Poems on Various Sub- 
 jects, by Robert Fergusson. In two parts. Edin- 
 burgh, printed by T. Ruddiman & Co., 1785." 
 Scottish poetry has always possessed special charms 
 for me, and I have a very sincere veneration for 
 Fergusson. I already possessed three different 
 editions of his poems, but here was a kind of piize 
 forme; one of the earliest editions, uncut and in 
 the best possible state of preservation, price twenty-
 
 The Pod Fergusson. 47 
 
 five cents ! Needless to say the book immediately 
 became my property. 
 
 I took a seat and began to scan the pages. The 
 prefatory or rather biographical note was very 
 brief, occupying less than two leaves. What had 
 they to say about Fergusson in those days? I 
 read : " The author of these poems lives now only 
 in the literary world. We would not present them 
 to the public, did we not think the perusal would 
 give pleasure. Some short account of the life of 
 this juvenile writer, will not, we hope, be deemed 
 unnecessary : for every one wishes to know the 
 character of a man whose productions they admire. 
 Robert Fergusson, with whom Scottish poetry now 
 sleeps, was born at Edinburgh, September 5, 
 1751." One moment, please. Let me read the 
 beginning of this sentence again : " Robert Fer- 
 gusson, with whom Scottish poetry tioio sleeps." 
 Let me see. This book was printed in 1785, say 
 in the autumn — the year before Robert Burns first 
 visited Edinburgh and electrified its learned and 
 literary circles with the greatness of his genius. 
 Had no rumour of the remarkable poetical pro- 
 ductions of the Ayrshire ploughman yet reached 
 the writer of the words whicli had arrested my 
 attention ? Had no kind friend whispered to him 
 of the existence of such poems as " The Death of 
 poor Malie," the " Epistle to John Rankine," " The
 
 48 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Twa Herds," "The Jolly Beggars," "Ilallowe'eu," 
 "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "To a Mouse," 
 "Man was made to Mourn," or eveu "Holy Willie's 
 Prayer," all of which were composed duriug or 
 previous to 1785? Let us be charitable and con- 
 clude that he had not heard of these things. Let 
 us give him credit for the assertion that he made 
 and believed that he made it in all sincerity and 
 with a sad conviction that the chords of the Scot- 
 tish Harp had been rent asunder for ever when 
 the sod in the old Canongate churchyard of Edin- 
 burgh enfolded in its embrace the mortal remains 
 of Robert Fergusson. 
 
 *' When our poet became of an age susceptible 
 of education," continued our preface, " he was 
 taught its rudiments. After having acquired a 
 proper knowledge of English he was put to the 
 high school, where he made a quick progress in 
 the Latin language. The father of our poet in- 
 tended him for the church; and having by the 
 interest of his friends and the young gentleman's 
 merit, procured him a bursary, he was sent to the 
 University of St. Andrews. Though never over- 
 studious, he soon attained to a proficiency in 
 several sciences. His knowledge of mathematics 
 was such that he procured the approbation, friend- 
 ship and patronage of Dr. Wilkie, then a professor 
 of that branch of education. In the second Scot-
 
 The Poet Fergusson. 49 
 
 tish Eclogup, the doctor's death is most beautifully 
 aud pathetically regretted. Having finished his 
 studies at the University of St. Andrews he re- 
 turned to Edinburgh. His father died soon after 
 and with hira the plan for the education of his son. 
 Our author then attempted the study of the law — 
 a study the most improper tor him, and in which 
 he made little or no progress ; for a genius so 
 lively could not submit to the drudgery of that 
 dry and sedentary profession. 
 
 " To attempt a character of the works of this 
 youthful bard would be equally vain as difficult. 
 No colours but his own could paint it to the life ; 
 and who in his line of comp;)sitioa can ever draw 
 the sketch? His talent for versification in the 
 Scots' dialect has been exceeded by none — equalled 
 by few. The subjects he chose were generally 
 uncommon, often temporaiy. His images and 
 sentiments which he had a knack in clothing with 
 the n;ost agreeable and natural expression, were 
 lively and striking. Had he enjoyed life and health 
 to a mature age, it is probable he would have re- 
 vived our ancient Caledonian poetry, of late so 
 much neglected and despised. His works are 
 lasting monuments of his genius and vivacity. 
 For social life he possessed an amazing variety of 
 qualifications. With the best good nature, with 
 much modesty, atid the greatest goodness of heart
 
 50 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 he was always sprightly, always entertaining. His 
 powers of song were very great in a double ca- 
 pacity. When seated with some select companions 
 over a bowl his wit flashed like lightning, struck 
 his hearers irresistibly and set the table in a roar. 
 
 " But alas ! the engaging, nay, bewitching 
 qualities proved fatal to their owner, and short- 
 ened the period of his rational existence. Yet he 
 found favour in the sight of Providence, who was 
 pleased to call him from a miserable state of being 
 to a life of early immortality on the sixteenth of 
 October, 1774. Thus died Robert Fergusson, re- 
 gretted by his friends, and lamented by the lovers 
 of poetry, of wit, and of song." 
 
 Peace to the dust of him who composed the 
 above eulogy to the memory of Robert Fergusson, 
 and all honour to the generosity of Robert Burns, 
 who, with feelings of reverence and gratitude, 
 erected a tombstone over the last resting place of 
 him whom he extolled as : 
 
 " My elder brother in misfortune, 
 
 By far my elder brother in the muses."
 
 ROBIN ADAIR. 
 
 What's this dull town to me ? 
 
 Kobin's not here ; 
 What was't I wish'd to see ? 
 
 What wish'd to hear ? 
 Where's all the joy and mirth, 
 Made this town a heaven on earth ? 
 Oh ! they're all fled with thee, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 What made th' assembly shine ? 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 What made the ball so fine ? 
 
 Robin was there. 
 What when the play was o'er, 
 What made my heart so sore ? 
 Oh ! it was parting with 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 But now thou'rt cold to me, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Yet I'll be true to thee, 
 
 Robin Adair, 
 And him I loved so well. 
 Still in my heart sliall dwell. 
 Oh ! I can ne'er forget 
 
 Robin Adair,
 
 52 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Few songs or ballads have achieved a wider 
 popularity than that gained by this simple and 
 pathetic little gem. Indeed we may safely assert 
 that it has been sung and welcomed in almost 
 every portion of the civilized world, and it is still 
 a general favourite with all lovers of lyrical 
 poetry. Nor is this to be wondered at. There is 
 a simplicity, quaintness and delicacy not only in 
 the words, but also in the air, which fascinates our 
 feelings and makes the song linger in our mem- 
 ories long after we have enjoyed the rare pleasure 
 of listening to some fair singer warbling it forth in 
 all its cxquisiteness. "It is impossible," says Mr. 
 Colin Brown, "to conceive how any combinatim 
 of nine separate measures of music of three tones 
 each, or only thirty-four notes in all, could be 
 more replete with the very soul of melody. It be- 
 longs to a class of gems which bears the impress of 
 remote antiquity. Few of such peerless beauty 
 can be found in music, so simple in construction, 
 and so full of power and pathos." Most people 
 imagine that Robin Adair is a Scottish song, but 
 this is an eri-or. Properly classed it is an Irish 
 song, the subject of the original version (the one 
 quoted above) being an Irishman. There is also a 
 history attached to the .song which is not only 
 peculiar but interesting, and as many of our read- 
 ers are not acquainted with the circumstances that
 
 Robin Adair. 53 
 
 called this well-known lyric into existence, we 
 quote the facts herewith as related by the eminent 
 litterateur, Mr. J. Cuthbert Hadden. He says : 
 " Nearly a century and a half ago there was living 
 in Dublin an impulsive young Irishman, named 
 Robin Adair. He was studying for the medical 
 profession, and, like not a few of his genus in the 
 present day, he had got into some scrape which 
 obliged him to quit the city. Arriving at Holy- 
 head, he found that his purse was not equal to a 
 journey by coach to London, whither he had re- 
 solved to go, so he manfully set out to walk to the 
 metropolis. The roads of those days were any- 
 thing but pleasant for travelling, and Adair had 
 not proceeded far on his way when he came upon 
 a carriage that had been overturned. The occu- 
 pant of the vehicle proved to be a well known 
 lady of fashion, and we read that besides being 
 greatly alarmed at the accident, she had received 
 some slight personal injury. ' Adair, like a true 
 Irishman ' — so the story goes — ' at once offered his 
 services, and in a very short space of time had the 
 carriage righted and the lady attended to. Adair 
 was a really handsome and aristocratic-looking 
 young fellow, notwithstanding that his dress might 
 have been of finer texture and in better condition ; 
 and, with ready frankness, he soon explained that 
 he was a practiced surgeon, and begged penuission
 
 54 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 to examine the extent of the discomfited lady's 
 injuries. An examination soon showed that they 
 were of merely a trifling order — that, in short, the 
 nerves were more upset than the body hurt. At 
 the time of the accident the lady was journeying 
 towards the metropolis, and learning that her 
 benefactor was travelling thither, she naturally 
 invited him to take a seat in her carriage. Ar- 
 riving in London, she showed her gratitude by 
 presenting the young Irishman with a cheque for 
 a 100 guineas, at the same time inviting him to 
 visit her at her home as often as he pleased.' 
 
 " With the money thus placed at his disposal 
 Adair now began to study hard, and the result in 
 the end was that, with the help of his patroness, 
 he soon acquired a good connection. Being an 
 excellent dancer as well as a brilliant conversation- 
 alist, he was frequently invited to dances given 
 by the lady, and one night Lady Caroline Keppel, 
 the second daughter of the Earl of Albemarle, was 
 his partner. ' It was a case of love at fii'st sight,' 
 says the chronicler whose narrative we are follow- 
 ing, ' and Lady Caroline's attachment was as 
 sincere as it was sudden ; they were the observed 
 of all the guests, and her relatives were in despair. 
 The couple met again and again, and their affec- 
 tion soon ripened into an intense passion. The 
 lady's kinsmen were stupefied with amazement.
 
 Robin Adair. 55 
 
 Were they to allow an unknown Irishman to carry 
 off the flower of their flock, the beautiful Caroline? 
 They set their wits to work to try and persuade 
 her to give him up. But all in vain. Handsome 
 heirs of the oldest families were prevailed upon to 
 woo her, but she would not listen to them. She 
 was sent abroad to see if travel would alter her 
 determination, but without avail, and she gradu- 
 ally began to fall ill.' When she was at Bath, 
 whither she had gone for the benefit of her health, 
 she wrote the verses now so well known — verses 
 which have a new meaning to us when we know 
 the story of their composition : 
 
 What's this dull town to me ? 
 Robin's not near. 
 
 " Ai last the separation from Adair and the con- 
 tinual nagging of her relatives caused the lady to 
 become so dangerously ill that, upon the doctors 
 despairing of her life, the union was reluctantly 
 consented to. In the Grand Magazine of Universal 
 Intelligence the event was chronicled thus : ' Feb- 
 ruary 22, 1758, Robert Adair, Esq., to the Right 
 Honourable the Lady Caroline Keppel.' 
 
 "' A few days after the marriage Adair was made 
 inspector-general of military liospitals, and the 
 king being taken with his pleasant manner and 
 knowing his undoubted abihty appointed him
 
 56 Rmuloni Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 king's sergeant surgeon and surgeon of Chelsea 
 Hospital. Lady Caroline died after giving birth 
 to her third child. Knowing how devotedly her 
 husband was attached to her, she firmly believed 
 he would not marry again, and she was right. 
 Except on state occasions, when he was obHged 
 to appear in court costume, he continued to wear 
 mourning for his wife until his death, which took 
 place, we believe, in 1790. The only son of the 
 union, the Right Honourable Sir Robert Adair, 
 died in 1855." 
 
 The following version of Robin Adair is to be 
 found in various Scottisti song-books, and it is 
 doubtless from seeing this version in such works 
 that the idea of the song being a purely Scottish 
 one originated. The present version is by Mr. 
 Robert D. Jamieson, and is credited by many 
 people with biiug greatly superior to the original. 
 
 Art thou for ever gane, 
 
 Robin Adair ? 
 While I am left alane, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Can I believe thou art 
 Torn from my aching heart ; 
 How can I bide the smart, 
 
 Robin Adair ? 
 
 Still is thy bosom now, 
 
 Robin Adair ; 
 Cauld is thy manly brow, 
 
 Robin Adair.
 
 Rohin Adair. 57 
 
 Wintry this world to me, 
 Pleasure it canna gie — 
 I am bereft o' thee, 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 But true love canna dee, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Sweet thocht to comfort me, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 Soon shall we meet again, 
 Where joys that never wane 
 Shall banish ilka pain, 
 
 Robin Adair. 
 
 There are other versions of the song known to 
 exist, but none of them are worthy of being quoted 
 or even referred to.
 
 THE MOTHER OE ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 We are all more or less interested in the lives of 
 the mothers of great men. Indeed, the subject 
 invariably possesses a peculiar charm for us, and 
 we love to spend an occasional hour listening to 
 reminiscences of them, or to read about them, or 
 to think about them, and certainly we cannot but 
 honour and admire them for the great minds which 
 have been given to the world through them. And 
 yet, in most instances, these lives have been quiet 
 and uneventful ones. The chief characteristic in 
 them has generally been the adornment of the 
 home circle. They have proved themselves worthy 
 helpmates to their husbands in adversity, as well 
 as in prosperity; they have brought their children 
 up carefully and in a knowledge of God ; their 
 lives have been prolonged to a ripe old age, and 
 at last they have passed quietly away, leaving be- 
 hind them a sweetly cherished memory and the 
 fragrance of a pure and well spent life. Such in 
 fact is the record of the lives of many of these 
 noble women, and such was the life of Agnes
 
 The Mother of Robert Burns. 59 
 
 Brown, wife of William Burness, and mother of 
 " Scotland's darling poet " — Robert Burns. 
 
 Agnes Brown was born at Craigenton, in the 
 parish of Carrick, on the seventeenth of March, 
 1732. Her father rented and cultivated a small 
 farm in the district, and is credited with being a 
 frugal and industrious farmer. Her mother died 
 when Agnes was only nine years of age, and the 
 care of four younger children for loug afterwards 
 devolved upon her. Up to this time her education 
 had been of the most meagre description. She 
 had been taught by a woman in the village to 
 read a few words ot the Bible, and to repeat a few 
 verses of the psalms, and this constituted all the 
 education that she ever received. 
 
 While we can readily understand the reason, it 
 seems hard for us at this day to realize that the 
 mother of Robert Burns was unable to write even 
 her own name. She became acquainted with 
 William Burness (for so the poet's father spelt his 
 name), at one of the annual fairs held at Maybole, 
 and the acquaintance thus formed gradually 
 ripened into love, and they were married on the 
 loth of December, 1757. Robert was their first 
 born. Robert Chambers says of her at this time: 
 " She had a fine complexion, with pale red hair 
 and beautiful dark eyes. She was of a neat, small 
 figure, extremely active and industrious, naturally 
 
 /n
 
 60 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 cheerful, but in later life possessed by auxieties, uo 
 doubt a consequence of the life of hardships and 
 difficulties through which it has been her lot to 
 pass. She sung very well, and had a never-failing 
 store of old ballads and songs, on wiiich her 
 poetical sou must have fed in boyhood." 
 
 As a trait of the life of Mrs. Burness in the days 
 of sadness which preceded her husband's death, 
 Mrs. Begg (the poet's sister), remembers tlie old 
 man coming in one day from sowing, very weary. 
 He had used all the thrashed-up grain, and was 
 now desirous of preparing some for dinner for the 
 horses ; but his worthy helpmate, on seeing his 
 fatigued state, insisted that he should refresh him- 
 self by a rest, while she herself would see that the 
 beasts were duly cared for. The heroic little 
 woman then went to the barn with her servant 
 Lizzy Paton, and the two soon had the necessary 
 corn for the horses both thrashed and winnowed. 
 Such was the household of the youthful Burns. 
 Who can but regret that the lot of such a family 
 was not from the first a kindlier one! Everyone 
 in any way familiar with the poet's life will readily 
 recall the hard struggle with poverty which his 
 father had after his marriage, and which only 
 terminated for him with his death in 1784. 
 
 The wife bravely shared his hardships, and 
 never ceased to think him the wisest and best of
 
 The Mother of Robert Burns. 61 
 
 men. John Murdoch, the poet's teacher, tells us 
 that while visiting the Burns household: " The 
 father and sou sat down with us when we enjoyed 
 a conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible 
 remarks and a moderate seasoning of jocularity 
 were so nicely blended as to render it palatable to 
 all parties. . . . Mrs. Burness, too, was of the 
 party as much as possible : 
 
 But still the house affairs would draw her thence, 
 Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
 She'd come ag.ain, and with a greedy ear 
 Devour up their discourse, 
 
 and particularly that of her husband. At all times, 
 and in all companies she listened to him with a 
 more marked attention than to anybody else. 
 When under the necessity of being absent while 
 he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as a real 
 loss, that she had missed what the good man had 
 said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, had the 
 most thorough esteem for her husband of any 
 woman I ever knew." 
 
 Mrs. Burness lived to see her son's genius ac- 
 knowledged by the world, and to share in the 
 honour and renown which it brought to the family. 
 She died on the fourteenth of January, 1820, aged 
 eighty-eight years, and was buried in Bolton 
 church-yard, near Haddington. " Here," says a 
 writer in Jlie Haddingtonshire Courier, " lies in-
 
 62 Rnvdoni Slxtches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 terred all that is mortal of the honoured mother of 
 our national poet. Gilbert Burns, the eldest son 
 of the family, when factor to Lord Blautyre, re- 
 sided at Grant's Braes, his aged mother living with 
 him ; and at her death she was interred in the 
 churchyard. One after another of Gilbert's family 
 followed or preceded their grandmother to the 
 gi'ave, till five of the younger generation, all taken 
 away in the bloom of life, lay beside her along 
 with a daughter, the younger sister of the poet. 
 To mark the spot, Gilbert erected a neat head- 
 stone, on which are inscribed the names of those 
 who lie beneath. In due time his own was added 
 to the rest, and the warm-hearted but sagacious 
 elder brother of Burns now sleeps quietly with his 
 kindred in the churchyard of Bolton, far away 
 from the pleasant murmuring of the Doon, with 
 which he was familiar in the days of his youth. 
 The burying place ot the Burns family is now 
 surrounded by a chaste but substantial iron-railing. 
 The headstone and railing liavo been repainted, 
 the grass within the enclosure and around it is 
 tidily trimmed and everything done which could 
 denote that the dead were not forgotten by the 
 living. The survivors of Burns are not unmindful 
 of the place which Agnes Brown holds in the 
 affectionate regard of Scotsmen. But for her the 
 "Cottar's Saturday Night" might never have been
 
 The Mothn of Robert Burns. 63 
 
 written ; ami it cannot be uninteresting to the 
 dwellers in East Lothian to know that her remains 
 lie buried in one of the quietest and most peaceful 
 of our country churchyards, where the trees which 
 cast their morning shadows over the graves are 
 reflected in the sweet waters of the Coalston 
 streamlet as it flows eastward to the Tyue." The 
 following appropriate poem to her memory is from 
 the pen of Mr. John Russell : 
 
 AGNES BROWN. 
 
 The spring birds sing, nor care if uo one listen, 
 The spring flowers open if the sun but shine, 
 
 The spring winds wander where the green buds glisten 
 Through all the vale of Tyne. 
 
 And while, to music of the spring's returning, 
 Thy fair stream, Gifford, in the sunlight flows, 
 
 I, nursing tender thoughts, this sweet March morning. 
 Stand where the dead repose. 
 
 The snow-drop on the grass-green turf is blowing. 
 Its pure white chalice to the cold earth hung ; 
 
 The crocus with its heart of fire is glowing 
 As when old Homer sung. 
 
 And round me are the quaint-hewn gravestones, giving. 
 With emblems rude, by generations read, 
 
 Their simple words of warning for the living, 
 Of promise for the dead. 
 
 But not that mausoleum, huge and hoary. 
 With elegiac marble, telling how
 
 64 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Its long-forgotten great ones died in glory, 
 Has drawn me hither now. 
 
 Ah, no ! with reverence meet from these I turn : 
 They have what wealth could bring or love supply, 
 
 Like thousands such, who, born as they were born. 
 Live, have their day, and die. 
 
 Let peace be theirs ! It is a fairer meed, 
 
 A more enduring halo of renown, 
 That glorifies this grave, o'er which I read 
 
 The name of Agnes Brown. 
 
 A peasant name, befitting peasant tongue : 
 How lives it longer than an autumn noon ? 
 
 'Twas hers, the mother of the bard who sung 
 The banks and braes of Doon. 
 
 Here in this alien ground her ashes lie, 
 
 Far from her native haunts on Carrick shore. 
 
 Far from where first she felt a mother's joy 
 O'er the brave child she bore. 
 
 Ah, who can tell the thoughts that on her prest. 
 As o'er his cradle-hed she bent in bliss. 
 
 Or gave from the sweet fountains of her breast 
 The life that nourished his. 
 
 Perhaps in prescient vision came to her 
 Some shadowings of the glory yet afar — 
 
 Of that fierce storm, whence rose, serene and clear, 
 His never-setting star. 
 
 But dreamt she ever, as she sang to still 
 His infant heart in slumber sweet and long. 
 
 That he who silent lay the while, should fill 
 Half the round world with song ?
 
 The Mother of Robert Burns. 65 
 
 Yet so he filled it ; and she lived to see 
 
 The singer, chapleted with laurel, stand. 
 Upon his lips that wondrous melody 
 
 Which thrilled his native land. 
 
 She saw, too, when had passed the singer's breath, 
 A nation's proud heart throbbing at his name, 
 
 Forgetting, in the pitying light of death, 
 Whatever was of blame. 
 
 Oh, may we hope she heard not, even afar. 
 The screamings of that vulture-brood who tear 
 
 The heart from out the dead, and meanly mar 
 The fame they may not share ! 
 
 Who would not wish that her long day's decline 
 Had peacefullest setting, uiisuffused with tears. 
 
 Who bore to Scotland him, our Bard divine. 
 Immortal as the years? 
 
 He sleeps among the eternal ; nothing mars 
 
 His rest, nor ever pang to him returns ; 
 Write, too, her epitaph among the stars. 
 
 Mother of Roljert Burns. 
 
 Mrs. Begg described her mother as "about the 
 ordinaiy height ; a well-made, sonsie figure, with 
 a beautiful red and white complexion ; a skin the 
 most transparent she ever saw, red hair, dark eyes 
 and eyebrows, with a square forehead." To this 
 we may add that the poet in features strongly re- 
 sembled his mother.
 
 THE LITERARY WORK OF MR. PETER ROSS. 
 
 In that iuteresting and well-written work, Scot- 
 land and the Scots : Essays Illustrative of Scot- 
 tish Life, History, and Character (New York : 
 Scottish American), we read : " In journalism 
 we find the Scot in the foremost ranks. The New 
 York Herald was founded by James Gordon 
 Bennett, a native of xlberdeen. Wliitelaw Reid, 
 the editor of the New York Tribune, is of immedi- 
 ate Scotch descent. William Swinton has had a 
 stirring and changeful career as a newspaper cor- 
 respondent, editor and man of letters. Thomas C 
 Latto, of the Brooklyn Times, a native of Fifeshire, 
 is perhaps better known as a song writer than a 
 journalist, but his long connection with the press 
 warrants his being mentioned here. Col. McClure, 
 the best known journalist in Philadelphia, claims 
 Scottish descent. George Brown, of the Toronto 
 Globe, was a native of Edinburgh, and the founder 
 of the Montreal Witness, Mr. John Dougall, was a 
 native of Paisley. The Guelph Mercury was own- 
 ed and edited for nearly a quarter of a century by 
 George Pirie, a native of Aberdeen, and a lyrical
 
 The Literary JForJc of Mr. Peter Ross. 67 
 
 poet of much ability. Daniel Morrison, a native 
 of Inverness, did much good service as a journalist 
 on such papers as the Toronto Leader and the New- 
 York Tribune." 
 
 Many other notable names might appropriately 
 be added to this list of distinguished Scottish- 
 American litterateurs, and perhaps none more de- 
 servedly than that of the author of the book from 
 which we have just made the quotation — Mr. Peter 
 Ross. For over twenty-five years he has success- 
 fully laboured in the literary field as journalist and 
 author, and he was for many years on the staff of 
 the Scottish- American of New York. To-day he is 
 what is known as a special contributor on several 
 of our great daily and weekly newspapers, besides 
 being a writer for the Westminster Review and one 
 or two other British publications. Mr. Ross is a 
 native of Inverness, Scotland, having been born 
 there on the 11th of January, 1847. A few years 
 later his parents removed to Edinburgh, and here 
 in due time the boy began his educational studies. 
 He proved a willing and apt scholar and in conse- 
 quence was rapidly promoted. At an early age 
 he exhibited particularly bright literary talents, 
 and many of his juvenile essays, which are still 
 preserved in the family, show that as a boy he 
 possessed good discriminating powers and a sound 
 literary judgment. Books, magazines, papers and
 
 68 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 dramas of all kinds were eagerly and thoroughly 
 read by the fireside in those days, and as he has 
 steadily kept abreast of the times in all matters 
 pertaining to literature, it may readily be conjec- 
 tured that there is no better versed man in book 
 lore in New York city to-day than he is. 
 
 As soon as his school days were over, or at the 
 age of fourteen, he became apprenticed to Miles 
 Macphail, the once famous Established Church 
 publisher in Edinburgh. Here he met and con- 
 versed with many of the most brilliant literary 
 minds of Scotland at the time, including Russell, 
 the great editor of the Scotsman ; Manson of the 
 Daily Revieiv ; Phineas Deseret, J. W. Ebsworth, 
 Dr. Robert Lee, Dr. Bonar of The Canongate ; 
 Dean Ramsay, Dr. Cook of Haddington ; Cosmo 
 Innes, J. Hill Burton, the historian; Dr. M'Laucblin 
 of St. Colutuba; Maclagan, the poet; Sir James 
 Y. Simpson and others. After leaving Macphail's 
 establishment Mr. Ross was employed in various 
 stores in Edinburgh and Glasgow, and had already 
 accomplished some excellent literary work. He 
 contributed a history of Edinburgh to the Midlo- 
 thian Advertiser, and several clever articles from 
 his pen appeared in the Edinburgh Evening 
 Courant, the Caledonian Mercury, the Glasgow 
 Mail, etc. 
 
 In 1870, he edited the Poetical Works of Sir
 
 The Literary Work of Mr. Peter Ross. 69 
 
 William Alexander, in three large volumes, and in 
 1871 he compiled and published The Songs of Scot- 
 land, Chronologically Arranged loith Memoirs and 
 Notes. This work had a very extensive sale from 
 the first, and a number of editions were rapidly 
 disposed of. A new edition with preface, etc., has 
 just been issued by the enterprising Scottish pub- 
 lisher, Mr. Alexander Gardner, ot Paisley, and the 
 press in general has accorded it a very hearty 
 welcome in its new form. It has long since been 
 classed as a standard on the subject, and it is to be 
 found in every public and prominent library in the 
 British Empire. Besides brief memoirs of the 
 authors, it contains a great amount of historical 
 and antiquarian information, which is of the high- 
 est value not only to the student but to every one 
 interested in any way in the song hterature of Scot- 
 laud, " A special purpose of the book," writes Mr. 
 Ross in his preface to the third edition, " was that 
 it should be thoroughly national. Nothing was 
 admitted to its pages that was not the production 
 of Scottish writers. My idea was that the song 
 minstrelsy of Scotland was in itself grand enough 
 and varied enough to be measured by its native 
 productions solely. This high standard was en- 
 dorsed by many of the English reviews of the 
 book, notably that of the London Standard, which 
 ' closed a markedly appreciative notice by saying
 
 70 Ikmdom Sketches oii Scottish Subjects. 
 
 that tlie collection was ' the most convenient and 
 exhaustive we have seen of the songs of Scotland, 
 which, taken as a body of lyric poetry, have not 
 been surpassed even by the lyric poets of Greece, 
 hitherto the supreme masters of the lyric muse.' 
 The same idea was also enunciated by the lauda- 
 tory notice which appeared iu the Westmmster Re- 
 view. Had the volume not been thoroughly Scotch, 
 these compliments would not have been so clearly 
 earned." 
 
 Mr. Ross was married at Perth in 1872 to Miss 
 Mary Dryerre, an accomplished and highly intelli- 
 gent young lady, and sister of the well-known 
 Perthshire poet and correspondent, Henry Dryerre 
 of Blairgowrie. In the fall of 1873, and under the 
 impression that the United States afforded better 
 opportunities for advancement in a literary career 
 he took up his residence in New York city. Here 
 he at once identified himself with the press, and 
 ere long became a recognized authority on matters 
 relating to Great Britain, and especially to Scot- 
 land. He also took an active part in Scottish 
 society matters, and for many years past he has 
 been unanimously elected secretary of the North 
 American Caledonian Association, the Grand 
 Lodge, so to speak, of the Caledonian clubs of the 
 United States and Canada. 
 
 In 1886 he published his first American work,
 
 The Literary Work of Mr. Peter Ross. 71 
 
 A Life of Saint Andreiv, and very appropriately 
 dedicated it to Johu S. Kennedy, Esq., then presi- 
 dent of the St. Andrew's Society of the State of 
 New York. This was a pecnhar work and soon 
 commanded attention from prominent Scotsmen in 
 all parts of America. It treats of St. Andrew from 
 his early years, describes liis missionary work in 
 detail as far as is known, tells about his closing 
 years, how he became the patron saint for Scot- 
 land, etc. But the most interesting chapter in the 
 book to the writer is the one entitled " Saint 
 Andrew among the Poets." This chapter contains 
 some really excellent poetry on the subject of 
 Saint Andrew, and great credit is due to Mr. Ross 
 for having brought so much of it together and in 
 so convenient a form. 
 
 The chapter ends very neatly with a poem that 
 first appeared in the Christian at Work, entitled 
 " Twa Scots." No author's name is attached to 
 the poem, and as it has been quoted far and wide 
 it will no doubt interest many people to know that 
 Mr. Ross himself is the author of it. The three 
 last verses are particularly fine, wliile the com- 
 position taken altogether proves that the author 
 possesses a true poetic faculty, a gift which he 
 ought to cultivate much more than he evidently 
 does at present :
 
 72 Eandom Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 TWA SCOTS. 
 
 Twa youthfu' Scots came ower the sea 
 
 Frae where the Spey first meets the ocean, 
 
 To try and win Dame Fortune's smiles 
 In farm toil or trade's commotion. 
 
 They loved their hame, its hills and dales, 
 Wi' grand historic lore attendant. 
 
 But lack o' gear gaed little hope 
 That bidin', they'd be independent. 
 
 By wild Lake Erie's rugged shore 
 They settled, and wi' sturdy toil 
 
 They clear'd a farm frae brush and root, 
 And glean'd gear frae the virgin soil. 
 
 And twa miles south there lay a toun 
 Where centered a' the county's treasure ; 
 
 And soon in it they had some trade. 
 
 Their craps to sell, their corn to measure. 
 
 Their lassies syne frae Scotland cam', 
 And settled doun in comfort wi' them. 
 
 And weel-stocked houses crown'd the farm 
 And couthy bairns were born to them. 
 
 As years roll'd on their interests lay 
 Alike at stake in farm an' toun ; 
 
 And wealth cam' flowin' in apace 
 And blythesome ilka day wore roun'. 
 
 Ane owned a railroad, ane a mine, 
 Ane had a mill and ane a quarry, 
 
 And as their hands grew fu', their bairns 
 Took part and hain'd them frae the worry.
 
 The Literary JVwk of Mr. Peter Ross. 73 
 
 Ane built a kirk, and fee'd it fair ; 
 
 Ane built the puir, the sick, the lame 
 A snug and bien' like restin' place, 
 
 And call'd it a Saint Andrew's Hame. 
 
 And to the puir at hame, some wealth 
 They freely sent baith spring and simmer. 
 
 And mony a frail man blessed their names. 
 And for their peace pray'd mony a kimmcr. 
 
 Sae passed their lives content and pure, 
 
 Aye winnin' love through bein' kindly, 
 And helpin' ithers up the brae 
 
 They ance had clamb sae sair and blindly. 
 
 And when at last their time did come, 
 
 And baith to their iang hame were carried. 
 
 The neighbours a' for mony miles 
 
 Foregathered roun' where they were buried. 
 
 And o'er their graves is ae braid staue 
 
 Which haps their clay frae weet aud wind ; 
 
 And at the foot are carved these lines, 
 
 'Neath where their names are intertwined : 
 
 " Goit rest them ! Now their work is o'er ; 
 On their fair fame there's ne'er a blot, 
 They acted well their several parts 
 And loved to help a brither Scot. 
 
 " For this was aye their hamely creed — 
 
 Ilk Scotsman is a Scotsman's brither ; — 
 And whiles wi' glee they sung a sang, 
 
 Some auld stave learned on liills o' heather. 
 
 " They did whatever they thought was right, 
 Aud shared alike earth's glee and sorrow ; 
 And when life's woik wds done and past, 
 
 They won the peace which comes — to-morrow." 
 E
 
 74 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Mr. Ross's next contributiou to Scottish Ameri- 
 can literature was Scotland and the Scots, the work 
 from which we made om- opening extract. Too 
 nmch praise cannot be bestowed on this work, as 
 it is one of high Hterary merit, and such men as 
 Professor John Stuart Blackie, Rev. Dr. Charles 
 Rogers, and Rev. Dr. Wihiam M. Taylor have re- 
 ferred to it in very flattering terms. But apart 
 from this it forms delightful and profitable reading 
 for Americans and others, and it will in time be- 
 come a handy work of reference on the subject of 
 which it treats. As the New York Sun said : " The 
 characteristics of Scotsmen are very carefully and 
 accurately portrayed. The chapter on the ' Scot 
 in America' affords much interesting information 
 regarding his influence upon the civilization of 
 the new world ; " wbile the Critic in a more ex- 
 tended view of the book concluded by saying : — 
 
 " Scotland and the Scots" aids much in showing 
 what contributions Scotch blood and Scotch 
 genius have made to the world's fund of enterprise 
 and intelligence ; where the minor Scotlands of 
 to-day are to be found ; what communities apart 
 from the parent land are still markedly Scotch ; 
 and what forms Scotch institutions have taken in 
 exile. Mr. Ross's book abounds in curious and 
 interesting information on all those and many more 
 topics, including Scottish characteristics, anniver-
 
 The Literary Work of Mr. Peter Ross. 75 
 
 saries, holidays, superstitious and sports. There 
 are two particularly instructive chapters on ' The 
 Scot in America ' and ' iScot Abroad,' from which 
 we gather how penetrating, not to say pervasive, 
 the Scotchman has been from the time he began 
 to wander at all. . . . Now if some oDe will 
 treat the Welsh and Irish elements of our civiliza- 
 tion as fully and patriotically, the historian of the 
 future at least will not have to fall back upon 
 fables like Livy's or poems like that of ' El Cid,' 
 for his historical perspectives." 
 
 Scotland and the Scots is dedicated to " Captain 
 J. B. White, Fort Wayne, Indiana, member of 
 Congress from Fort Wayne, who, as a merchant, 
 soldier and legislator, has proved himself a typical 
 representative of the Scot in America, while his 
 active interest in everything relating to the land 
 of his birth shows that it still retains his reverent 
 love." 
 
 Mr. Ross is at present engaged on the manu- 
 scripts of some other works, the most important 
 one being A History of Scottish Literature. This 
 work has cost him several years uf close study and 
 research, and two years ago he accumulated con- 
 siderable special information for it while on a visit 
 to Scotland. It is not a mere history of Scottish 
 poetry, but a complete history of Scottish litera- 
 ture, embracing all branches? from the earliest
 
 76 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 period dowu to the present day. It is well ad- 
 vanced towards completion, and when published, 
 from what the writer has seen of it, the student 
 and others interested in the subject, will, like him, 
 be gratified at the evidence it presents of Scot- 
 land's literary wealth in all departments. 
 
 It is almost unnecessary to say that Mr. Ross is 
 a great admirer of the national poet, Robert 
 Burns, and that he has written some very fine 
 articles in connection with the poet and his times. 
 A few of these articles have been reprinted in 
 such works as Highland Mary, Burnsiana, etc., 
 He is also an enthusiastic Free-Mason, having 
 been originally initiated into The Thistle and Rose 
 Lodge, Glasgow. On his arrival iu New York he 
 joined Scotia Lodge and has held many of its 
 offices, in particular, that of master for two years 
 and treasurer for several years. In his recent visit 
 to Scotland he was elected an honorary member 
 of Canongate Kilwinning Lodge, No. 2, Edinburgh, 
 the lodge, by the way, of which Robert Burns was 
 crowned poet laureate, and of this honour he is 
 justly proud. 
 
 Apart from the books which Mr. Ross has pub- 
 lished, he is the author of a number of interesting 
 lectures, which have been delivered in the best 
 possible style by Mr. Charles 11. Govan, the well- 
 known elocutionist, before large audiences in New
 
 The Literary Worh of Mr. Peter Ross. 77 
 
 York, Brooklyn, Boston, and other large cities. 
 These lectures are on vari'ju.s subjects, such as 
 "Burns in the Highlands," "A Night with Sir 
 Walter Scott," " The Great Scottish-American 
 Author, Washington Irving," " Old Edinburgh," 
 " A Run Through Scotland," etc. They are well 
 written and form a very delightful and instructive 
 evening's entertainment. We might say consider- 
 ably more in connection with Mr. Ross and his 
 literary abilities, but we presume we have said 
 sufficient for the time being. We would simply 
 add, by way of conclusion, that he is a warm- 
 hearted, whole souled-man, and a patriotic Ameri- 
 can citizen. Such men as he are a credit to the 
 country and help in their own way to sustain the 
 respect in which the United States is held abroad.
 
 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 AND THE FJBST REVIEW OF BUBNS'S POEMS. 
 
 Henry Mackenzie, author of The Man of Feeling, 
 The Man of the World, Julia de Ronhigne, etc., was 
 born at Edinburgh in August, 1745. He was the 
 son of a well known physician and received a 
 careful and classical education. He afterwards 
 studied law, and in 1775 went to London to study 
 the modes of English exchequer practice. Shortly 
 after his return to his native city he was appointed 
 attorney for the crown in the exchequer court. 
 
 In 1777 he became connected with a social 
 society which numbered among its members many 
 of the prominent literary lights of the Scottish 
 capital at the time. At these meetings essays 
 were read, and these were afterwards published 
 in a weekly paper called the Mirror, and later on 
 in a similar paper called the Lounger. In the latter 
 publication, on tiie ninth of December, 1786, 
 Mackenzie publislied the first critique which had 
 appeared on the poems of Robert Burns — a critique 
 which awarded the poet a great deal of praise, 
 !ind served to introduce his poems to the fashion-
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 79 
 
 able and higher ranks of society throughout Scot- 
 land and England. 
 
 This critique is rarely to be met with nowadays, 
 and we therefore take pleasure in presenting it to 
 our readers. Its somewhat lengthy title is — Sur- 
 prising effects of Original Genias, exeraphfied in 
 the Poetical Productions of Robert Burns, an Ayr- 
 shire Ploughman : — 
 
 " To the feeling and the susceptible there is 
 something wonderfully pleasing in the contempla- 
 tion of genius, of that supereminent reach of mind 
 by which some men are distinguished. In the 
 view of highly superior talents, as in thit of great 
 and stupendous natural objects, there is a sublimity 
 which fills the soul with wonder and delight, which 
 expands it, as it were, beyond its usual bounds, 
 and which, investing our nature with extraordinary 
 honours, interests our curiosity and flatters our 
 pride. 
 
 " This divinity of genius, however, which admira- 
 tion is fond to worship, is best arrayed in the dark- 
 ness of distant and remote periods, and is not 
 easily acknowledged in the present tin)es, or in 
 places with which we are perfectly acquainted. 
 Exclusive of all the deductions which envy or 
 jealousy may sometimes be supposed to make, 
 there is a familiarity in the near approach of per- 
 sons around us, not very consistent with the lofty
 
 80 Bandom SJcetchefi on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 ideas which we wish to form of him who has led 
 captive our imaginatiou in the triumph of his fancy, 
 overpowered our feehugs with the tide of passion, 
 or enHghtened our reason with the investigation 
 of hidden truths. It may be that, ' in the olden 
 time,' genius had some advantages which tended 
 to its vigour and its growth ; but it is not unlikely 
 that, even in these degenerate days, it rises much 
 oftener than it is observed ; that in " the ignorant 
 present time" our posterity may find names whicb 
 they will dignify, though we neglected, and pay 
 to their memory those honours which their con- 
 temporaries have denied them. 
 
 " There is, however, a natural, and, indeed, a fc;r- 
 tunate vanity in trying to redress this wrong which 
 genius is exposed to suffer. In the discovery of 
 talents generally unknown, men are apt to indulge 
 the same fond partiality as in all other discoveries 
 which themselves have made ; and hence we have 
 had repeated instances of painters and of poets, 
 who have been drawn from obscure situations, and 
 held forth to public notice and applause by the 
 extravagant eiicomiums of their introducers, yet 
 in a short time have sunk again to their former 
 obscurity; wliose merit, though perhaps somewhat 
 neglected, did not appear much undervalued by 
 the world, and could not support, by its own in- 
 trinsic excellence, the superior place which the
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 81 
 
 enthusiasm of its patrons would have assigned it. 
 I know not if I shall be accused of such enthu- 
 siasm and partiahty when I introduce to the notice 
 of my readers a poet of our own country, with 
 whose writings I have lately become acquainted ; 
 but, if I am not greatly deceived, I think I may 
 safely pronounce him a genius of no ordinary rank. 
 The person to whom I allude is Robert Burns, an 
 Ayrshire ploughman, whose poems were some 
 time ago published in a country town in the west 
 of Scotland, with no other ambition, it would 
 seem, than to circulate among the inliabitants of 
 the country where he was born, to obtain a little 
 fame from those who had heard of his talents. I 
 hope I shall not be thought to assume too much if 
 I endeavour to place him in a higher point of 
 view, to call for a verdict ot his country on the 
 merit of his works, and to claiji for him those 
 honours which their excellence appears to deserve. 
 "In mentioning the circumstance of his humble 
 station, I mean not to rest his pretensions solely 
 on that title or to urge the merits of his poetry 
 when considered in relation to the lowuess of his 
 birth, and the little opportunity of improvement 
 which his education could afford. These parti- 
 culars, indeed, might excite our wonder at his 
 productions ; but his poetry, considered abstract- 
 edly, and without the apologies arising from his
 
 82 Randmi Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 situation, seems to me fully entitled to command 
 our feelings and to obtain our applause. 
 
 " One bar, indeed, bis birtb and education have 
 opposed to his fame — the language in which most 
 of his poems are written. Even in Scotland the 
 provincial dialect which Ramsay and he have used 
 is now read with a difficulty which greatly damps 
 the pleasure of the reader ; in England it cannot 
 be read at all without such a constant reference 
 to a glossary as nearly to destroy the pleasure. 
 
 " Some of his productions, however, especially 
 those of the grave style, are almost English. From 
 one of these I shall first present my readers with 
 an extract, in which, I think, they will discover a 
 high tone of feeling, a power and energy of ex- 
 pression, particularly and strongly characteristic 
 of the mind and the voice of a poet. 'Tis from his 
 poem entitled ' The Vision,' in which the genius 
 of his native county, Ayrshire, is thus supposed to 
 address him : — 
 
 With future hope I oft would gaze 
 Fond on thy little early ways. 
 Thy rudely caroU'd cliiaiing phrase, 
 
 In uncouth rhymes, 
 Fired at the simple, artless lays 
 
 Of other times. 
 
 I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
 Delighted with the dashing roar ;
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 83 
 
 Or when the north his fleecy store 
 
 Drove thro' the sky, 
 I saw grim nature's visage hoar 
 
 Struck thy young eye. 
 
 Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
 Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
 And joy and music pouring forth 
 
 In ev'ry grove, 
 I saw thee eye the general mirth 
 
 With boundless love. 
 
 When ripen'd fields and azure skies. 
 Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
 I saw thee leave their evening joys. 
 
 And lonely stalk, 
 To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
 
 In pensive walk. 
 
 When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
 Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
 Those accents, graceful to thy tongue, 
 
 Th' adorned name, 
 I taught thee how to pour in song. 
 
 To soothe thy flame. 
 
 I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
 Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 
 Misled by fancy's meteor ray. 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from heaven. 
 
 Of strains like the above, solemn and sublime, 
 with that rapt and inspired melancholy in which 
 the poet lifts his eye " above this visible diurual
 
 84 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 sphere,'" the poemf? entitled " Despondency," " The 
 Lament," " Winter, a Dirge," and the " Invocation 
 to Ruin," aiford no less striking examples. Of the 
 tender and the moral, specimens equally advanta- 
 geous might be drawn from the elegiac verses 
 entitled, " Man was made to mourn," from " The 
 Cotter's Saturday Night," the stanzas " To a 
 Mouse," or those " To a Mountain Daisy," on turn- 
 ing it down with the plough in April, 1786. This 
 last poem 1 shall insert entire, not from its superior 
 merit, but because its length suits the bounds of 
 my paper : 
 
 Wee, modest, crimsoii-tipp'd flow'r, 
 Thow's met me in an evil hour, 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem ; 
 To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet, 
 The bonny lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
 When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form,
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 85 
 
 The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
 High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield : 
 But though beneath the random bield 
 
 U' clod or stane, 
 Adorn the histie-stibble-field, 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise ; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid. 
 Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
 By/love's simplicity betray'd, 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard. 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
 Unskilled he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore, 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
 Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. 
 By Inimau pride or cunning driv'n 
 
 To mis'ry's brink, 
 Till wrenched of every stay but heaven. 
 He, ruin'd, sink !
 
 86 Uandom Sketches an Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Ev'n thou who inourn'st the daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Faun's plough-share drives, elate 
 
 Full on thy bloom. 
 Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 I have seldom met with an image more truly 
 pastoral than that of the lark in the second stanza. 
 Such strokes as these mark the pencil of the poet, 
 which delineates natm-e with the precision of inti- 
 macy, yet with the delicate colouring of beauty 
 and of taste. The power of genius is not less ad- 
 mirable in tracing the manners than in painting 
 the scenery of nature. That intuitive glance with 
 which a writer like Shakespeare discerns the char- 
 acters of men, with which he catches the many 
 changing lines of life, forms a sort of problem in 
 the science of mind, of which it is easier to see the 
 truth than to assign the cause. 
 
 Though I am very far from meaning to compare 
 our rustic bard to Shakespeare, yet whoever will 
 read his lighter and more humorous poems, his 
 
 " Dialogue of the Dogs," his " Dedication to G 
 
 H , Esq.," his "Epistle to a Young Friend," 
 
 and " To W. S n," will perceive with what un- 
 common penetration and sagacity this heaven- 
 taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered 
 station, has looked upon men and manners.
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 87 
 
 " Against some passages of these last-mentioned 
 poems it has been objected that they breathe a 
 spirit of libertinism and irreligion. But, if we con- 
 sider the ignorance and fanaticism of the lower 
 class of people in the country where these poems 
 were written, a fanaticism of that pernicious sort 
 which sets faith in opposition to good works, the 
 fallacy and danger which a mind so enlightened 
 as our poet's could not but perceive, we shall not 
 look upon his lighter muse as the enemy of re- 
 ligion (of which in several places he expresses the 
 justest sentiments) though she has been somewhat 
 unguarded in her ridicule of hypocrisy. 
 
 " In this, as in other respects, it must be allowed 
 that there are exceptional parts of the volume he 
 has given to the public, which caution would have 
 suppressed, or correction struck out ; but poets 
 are seldom cautious, and our poet had, alas I no 
 friends or companions from whom correction could 
 be obtained. When we reflect on his rank in life, 
 the habits to which he must have been subject, 
 and the society in which he must have mixed, 
 we regret perhaps more than wonder that delicacy 
 should be so often offended in perusing a volume 
 in which there is so much to interest and to please 
 us. 
 
 " Burns possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of 
 a poet. That honest pride and independence of
 
 88 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 soul which are sometimes the muse's only dower, 
 break forth on every occasion in his works. It 
 may be, then, I shall wrong his feelings while I 
 indulge my own, in calling the attention of the 
 public to his situation and circumstances. That 
 condition, humble as it was, in which he found 
 content, and wooed the muse, might not be deemed 
 uncomfortable ; but grief and misfortunes have 
 reached him there ; and one or two of bis poems 
 hint, what I have learnt from some of his country- 
 men, that he has been obliged to form the resolu- 
 tion of leaving his native land, to seek, under a 
 West Indian clime, that shelter and support which 
 Scotland has denied him. But I trust means may 
 be found to prevent this resolution from taking 
 place ; and to do my country no more than justice 
 when I suppose her ready to stretch out her hand 
 to cherish and retain this native poet, whose 
 "wood-notes wild," possess so much excellence. 
 To repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected 
 merit, to call forth genius from the obscurity in 
 which it had pined indignant, and place it where 
 it may profit or delight the world ; these are exer- 
 tions which give to wealth an enviable superiority, 
 to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride." 
 
 Up to the time when the above review appeared 
 Mackenzie and the poet had not met, but they 
 soon became friends and continued such till the
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 89 
 
 death of Burns, in 1796. The poet entertained a 
 very high opinion of his reviewer and referred to 
 him and his works on several occasions. Writing 
 to Mrs. Dunlop on the tenth of April, 1790, he 
 says, " Mackenzie has been called the Addison of 
 the Scots, and in my opinion, Addison would not 
 be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addison's 
 exquisite humour he as certainly out-does him in 
 the tender and the pathetic. His 'Man of Feeling' 
 (but I am not counsel learned in the law of criti- 
 cism), I estimate as the first performance in its 
 kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or even 
 pious, will the susceptible young mind receive im- 
 pressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, 
 generosity and benevolence ; in short, more of all 
 that ennobles the soul to herself or endears her to 
 others — than from the simple affecting tale of poor 
 Harley." Sir Walter Scott also had a high regard 
 for Mackenzie and his writings, and to him he 
 dedicated the first of his great romances, Waverley. 
 " The time, we hope, is yet distant," writes Sir 
 Walter, " when, speaking of this author as of those 
 with whom his genius ranks him, a biographer 
 may with delicacy trace his personal character 
 and peculiarities, or record the manner in which he 
 has discharged the duties of a citizen. 
 
 " When that hour shall arrive we trust few of 
 his contemporaries will be left to mourn him ; but 
 
 F
 
 90 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 we can anticipate the sorrow of a later sjeneration, 
 when deprived of the wit wliich eulivened their 
 hours of enjoyment, the benevolence which directed 
 and encouraged their studies, and the wisdom 
 which instructed them in their duties to society. 
 It is enough to say here that Mx. Mackenzie sur- 
 vives, venerable and venerated, as the last link of 
 the chain which connects the Scottish literature of 
 the present age with the period when there were 
 giants in the land — the days of Robertson and 
 Hume, and Smith, and Home, and Clark, and Fer- 
 gusson ; and that the remembrance of an era so 
 interesting could not have been intrusted to a 
 sounder judgment, a more correct taste, or a more 
 tenacious memory. 
 
 " But it is as a novelist that we are now called 
 on to consider our author's powers, and the uni- 
 versal and permanent popularity of his writings 
 entitles us to rank him amongst the most distin- 
 guished of his class. His works possess the rare 
 and invaluable property of originality, to which 
 all other qualities are as dust in the balance ; and 
 the sources to which he resorts to excite our inter- 
 est are rendered accessible by a patli peculiarly 
 his own. ' Besides "The Man of Feeling " and the 
 other works already referred to, Mackenzie pub- 
 lished a volume of translations and dramatic pieces 
 in 1791, a life of Dr. Blacklock in 1793, and a hfe
 
 Henry Mackenzie. 91 
 
 of John Hom e, author of " Douglai?," iu 1812. A 
 complete edition of his works in eight large ocfavo 
 volumes was pubhshed ia 1808. He died in Jan- 
 uary, 1831, at the advanced age of eighty-six. 
 
 Speaking of Mackenzie, the author of Peter^s 
 Letters, published iu 1820, says : " I have never 
 seen a finer specimen, both iu appearance and 
 manners, of the gentleman of the last age. In his 
 youth he must have been a perfect model of manly 
 beauty ; and, indeed, no painter could select a 
 more exquisite subject for his art even now. His 
 hair combed back from his forehead, and highly 
 powdered ; his long queue, his lace ruffles, his suit 
 of suuff-coluured cloth, cut in the old liberal way, 
 with long flaps to his waistcoat, his high-heeled 
 shoes, and rich stout buckles — everything was iu 
 perfect unison in all the fashion of his age."
 
 THE POET LATTO. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO HIS MEMORY. 
 
 [The following letter on the death of Mr. Thomas 
 C. Latto, appeared in a recent issue of the Edin- 
 Inirgh Weekly/ Scotsman.'] 
 
 Doubtless many of your readers have mourned 
 with us here in America over the death of the 
 gifted Scottish song- writer and poet, Mr. Thomas 
 Carstairs Latto. This sad event occurred at his 
 home in Brooklyn, New York, and created pro- 
 found sorrow among his numerous friends and 
 admirers. A kindly, gentle, genial, generous, 
 honest soul —one of Nature's noblemen — his mem- 
 ory will always be cherished by those who were 
 privileged to know him or to come in contact with 
 him. As a man of letters his place at present may 
 simply be among the minor poets of his country, 
 but he has left poems in MS. superior even to 
 those acknowledged immortal effusions of his 
 which have already been published, and these will 
 ultimately procure for him a high position among 
 the prominent Scottish poets of the nineteenth 
 centurv.
 
 The Poet Latto. 93 
 
 The Scottish nation may not yet fully appreciate 
 the fact, but in the death of Thomas C. Latto one 
 of the best of their sweet singers has passed away. 
 
 It was with very solemn feelings that the writer 
 of this brief tribute, and the distinguished Scottish 
 poet, Mr. Duncan MacGrregor Crerar, wended their 
 way to the house of the deceased, to take part in 
 the funeral services, and to look for the last time 
 on the face of the beloved bard. To Mr. Crerar, 
 indeed, the occasion was a particularly sad one, as 
 between him and Mr. Latto a warm friendship had 
 existed for more than thirty years. 
 
 Passing over the grief-stricken threshold, we 
 were ushered into the death chamber, where we 
 gazed for a moment on the noble features of him 
 whose journey through life was now terminated. 
 It was a painful realization for us. The next mo- 
 ment my companion quietly took from his pocket 
 a dainty little spray of Amulree heather, and 
 placed it reverently on the poet's bosom. And 
 never did heather look so grand to me as it did 
 then. Costly flowers of all kinds lay strewn 
 around us in great profusion, filling the atmosphere 
 with their rare and fragrant perfumes ; but none 
 of them looked so beautiful as the modest little 
 purple spray that nestled on the bosom of the 
 dead poet. One of Mr, Latto 's last poems was on 
 a sprig of the national flower, and he had inscribed
 
 94 Random Sketches on Scnttisih Subjects. 
 
 the piece to the friend who was now standing at 
 his side, and in wliat an appropriate manner had 
 this i^entleman shown his appreciation of the 
 honour paid to him ! These was something truly 
 sublime to me in the seemingly simple incident, 
 and I never longed to possess the genius of a poet 
 as I did on that evening. But nature had not be- 
 stowed this priceless gift on me, and I could only 
 regret that it was not within my power to set 
 forth in glowing and undying language the 
 thoughts which the incident had awakened in my 
 heart ! " He placed a spray of heather on his 
 breast!" What an inspiring title and subject for 
 a poet to write on. Possibly some member of the 
 honoured Bardic Clan in Auld Scotia, however, 
 may read these lines and be inspired to undertake 
 and accomplish that which I dared not even 
 attempt. 
 
 The funeral service was conducted at eight 
 o'clock, and the Rev. Dr. S. Giffard Nelson de- 
 livered an address — oration it might properly be 
 termed — which was listened to with breathless 
 attention. Feeling assured that the many friends 
 of iMr. Latto in Scotland and elsewhere would be 
 glad to read it, I take sincere pleasure in append- 
 ing a portion of it : — 
 
 " What need has he of our poor praise who now 
 is rewarded by the Master's welcome and cheered
 
 The Poet Latto. 95 
 
 by the hail of his comrades of the lyre who passed 
 before him into the land where beatific vision finds 
 its realization ? Over all the world, but chiefl}^ in 
 Scottish hearts, his melodies have sung themselves 
 to-day. The aS'ections they awaken are his chap- 
 let. The tears they evoke, tender as the dews 
 upon the Highland heather, are the jewels that 
 bedeck his fame. Henceforth his lot is in two 
 worlds. He lives for ever yonder, and here he 
 cannot die. 
 
 "Those who were his colleagues and com- 
 panions in the world of letters have already 
 spoken of his work with the authority that be- 
 longs to literary etiiinence, and with that heartiness 
 of royal friendship that his blameless life inspired. 
 The judgment they have pronounced is one that 
 the future shall accept as its own. It is a judgment 
 that would find a general acquiescence, were it 
 not that the singer's accents, being those of his 
 native land, narrowed his territory to people of 
 his own clime and race. 
 
 " Although Brooklyn was his home for forty 
 years and more, few within its borders knew his 
 eminence abroad. He sang for Scotland and fur 
 Scotsmen, not wholly indeed, but with such fre- 
 quency that the American public seldom heard 
 him in strains fa niliar to the popular ear. But 
 among his lyrics in English, pure and undefilod,
 
 96 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 are some that will hold a foremost place in the 
 poetry of the century. 
 
 " Born in Kingsbarus, Fife, Scotland, 1818, he 
 was educated at the University of St. Andrews, 
 and destined himself for the bar of his native land. 
 But his nature was too gentle, meek and retiring 
 for the conflicts of courts, and in literature he 
 found his goal. He was one of the brilliant com- 
 pany who made Blackioood's Magazine famous. 
 Among his colleagues were Professor Wilson 
 (Christopher North), the Ettrick Shepherd, Lord 
 Macaulay, Lord Jeffrey, Lord Neaves, Henry 
 Glassford Boll, and Sheriff Alison. These distin- 
 guished men had for his genius unaffected admira- 
 tion, and throughout their lives maintained inter- 
 course and correspondence with him. He disliked 
 notoriety, and was content to do his work unseen 
 and unapplauded. I remember well, just a year 
 and a half ago, when some literary men and jour- 
 nalists of this city desired to do him honour, they 
 entrusted to me the agreeable duty of inviting 
 him to a banquet. I shall never forget how the 
 dear old man raised his hands in deprecation, and 
 exclaimed, ' Well, well, is it possible you have 
 known me so long and do not know that I could 
 never consent to anything like that?' And con- 
 sent he would not, meeting every gentle insistence 
 by shaking his silver locks and uttering the meek
 
 The Poet Latto. 97 
 
 rejoinder, ' No, no ! I never wanted any fuss made 
 about me, and I'm too old to stand it now.' So 
 we were obliged to give up our project. 
 
 " The character of Thomas C. Latto was the 
 fitting complement of his genius. Of unsullied, 
 sensitive honour, truthful to the core, scorning 
 indirection however slight, he walked from first to 
 last among his fellows in garments of white. His 
 later years were lived in modest retirement, and to 
 his home those of us who were his friends, as often 
 as we could find opportunity, made our grateful 
 pilgrimage. In our recollections the hallowed 
 memory will ever linger of the dear old poet seated 
 in his arm-chair, his long gray locks falling on his 
 shoulders, his noble, unclouded brow awaiting the 
 conviction — the realization of his own description 
 of himself — 
 
 ' A patient Mordecai of song 
 At Phrebus' gate.'" 
 
 When the Doctor had finished, all present arose 
 and gazed for a few seconds on the face of the 
 illustrious dead. Many tears were shed, and many 
 kind words were spoketi. In little groups the 
 company afterwards dispersed, but those who par- 
 ticipated in the services of that evening are never 
 likely to forget it. And in the writer's memory there 
 will always be associated with the features of
 
 98 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Thomas C. Latto iu death a bright little spray of" 
 Highlaud heather, cliuging affectionately to his 
 bosom, as if proud of the fact that it was destined 
 to mingle its dust with that of the beloved poet.
 
 HON. WALLACE BRUCE: 
 
 POET, ORATOR AND SCHOLAR 
 
 Distinguished on the roll of American poets of 
 the present century stands the name of Wallace 
 Bruce. An accomplished scholar, a brilliant ora- 
 tor, a voluminous reader and an able critic, he 
 combines with these artistic qualities the feelings 
 and taste and imagination of a true poet, and 
 many of his productions through their exquisite 
 beauty have lent a lustre to the poetical literature 
 of our country, and they are destined to live, and 
 thus become a monument to his genius long after 
 he has passed to his final reward. 
 
 His is indeed a muse of surpassing sweetness and 
 excellence and power, and, to his credit be it said, 
 there is not a line or a verse which he has penned 
 that he need ever wish to blot out. As we glance 
 leisurely through his poems we find here and there 
 realistic touches of the fascinating beauty of Tenny- 
 son, the quaint simplicity of Wordsworth, the 
 exuberant humour of Butler, the dramatic strength 
 of Shakespeare, the divine loftiness of Milton, the 
 sturdy independence of Burns, the weird charms
 
 100 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 of Coleridge, the gentleness of Whittier, the mel- 
 ody of Moore, the picturesqueness of Chaucer, and 
 the vivid descriptive power of Byron. His lang- 
 uage is choice and appropriate, the expression 
 dignified, the similies striking, the versification 
 harmonious, while the subjects are invariably in- 
 teresting and instructive. Truly an original and 
 pleasing and inspired singer in all respects. 
 Where all is so uniformly good it becomes a 
 difficult matter to select pieces for quotation, 
 especially when these pieces must necessarily be 
 short ones and our author's talents are always dis- 
 played to better advantage in his longer composi- 
 tions. Here is one however that will serve as an 
 introduction: 
 
 THE SNOW ANGEL. 
 
 The sleigh-bells danced that winter night ; 
 
 Old Brattleborough rang with glee ; 
 The windows overflowed with light ; 
 
 Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas tree. 
 But to one the bells and mirth were naught : 
 His soul with deeper joy was fraught. 
 
 He waited until the guests were gone, 
 
 He waited to dream his dream alone ; 
 And the night wore on. 
 
 Alone he stands in the silent night ; 
 
 Ho piles the snow in the village square ; 
 With spade for chisel, a statue white 
 
 From the crystal quarry rises fair.
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 101 
 
 No light, save the stars, to guide his hand, 
 But the image obeys his soul's command. 
 
 The sky is draped with fleecy lawn, 
 
 The stars grow pale in the early dawn, 
 But the lad toils on. 
 
 And lo ! in the morn the people came 
 
 To gaze at the wondrous vision there ; 
 And they called it " The Angel," divining its name, 
 
 For it came in silence and unaware. 
 It seemed no mortal hand had wrought 
 The uplifted face with prayerful thought : 
 
 But its features wasted beneath the sun ; 
 
 Its life went out ere the day was done ; 
 And the lad dreamed on. 
 
 And his dream was this : In the years to be 
 
 I will carve the Angel in lasting stone ; 
 In another land; beyond the sea, 
 
 I will toil in darkness, will dream alone ; 
 While others sleep I will find a way 
 Up through the night to the light of da}'. 
 
 There's nothing desired beneath star or sun 
 
 Which patient genius has not won ; 
 And the boy toiled on. 
 
 The years go by. He has wrought with might ; 
 
 He has gained renown in the land of art ; 
 But the thought inspired that Christmas night 
 
 Still kept its place in the sculptor's heart ; 
 And the dream of the boy, that melted away 
 In the light of the sun that winter day, 
 
 Is embodied at last in enduring stone, 
 
 Snow Angel in marble — his purpose won ; 
 And the man toils on.
 
 102 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 " Wallace Bruce touches smoothly and sweetly 
 chords that have an echo on botti sides of the 
 Atlantic," said the Edinburgh Scotsman in review- 
 ing his poems, and the Glasgow Herald concluded 
 an extended notice of his merit by saying, " His 
 verse thrills with fine, free-flowing, vigorous spirit, 
 which imparts to it that feeling of reality and 
 freshness that gives to the poetry of Burns its per- 
 manent attraction." " Keenly alive to the beauti- 
 ful," says the Birmingham Gazette, " whether in 
 art or nature or home life," while the Saturday 
 Review declares that there is to be found in his 
 writings " freshness and power and a certain open- 
 air flavor at no time common to writers of verse." 
 The Rev. Henry Ward Beecher claimed that 
 his poetry, " by its merit and beauty made its way 
 to all eyes, ears and hearts," and Mr. Gladstone, 
 acknowledging the receipt of one of his volumes, 
 wrote : " The outward form is beautiful, and my 
 first acquaintance with the contents is in harmony 
 therewith." 
 
 As a poet, Mr. Bruce is endowed with a great 
 command of language and an abundance of rhyme. 
 His verses flow naturally and musically, and we 
 become interested in them at once. The follow- 
 ing poem, entitled " The Protest of the Immortals," 
 may be given as a specimen of this. It was re- 
 cited by Mr, Bruce at a banquet of the Edinburgh
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 103 
 
 Pen and Pencil Club, and was not only well receiv- 
 ed then but was much spoken of and quoted by 
 the Scottish press at the time : 
 
 A singular meeting the other night ! 
 
 Did you hear of it up at Parliament Hall ? 
 Just twelve o'clock, the moon shone bright ; 
 A strange, weird brilliancy flooded all 
 The rich-stained windows ; the portraits there 
 The spectral radiance seemed to share. 
 
 I followed the crowd, a ghastly throng, 
 
 A curious group of former days ; 
 As through the portal it surged along 
 Familiar faces met my gaze. 
 As if the library down below 
 Had yielded its worthies for public show. 
 
 In close procession, a hundred or more ; 
 
 But it seemed so strange, no voice or word, 
 No footfall on the oaken floor ; 
 
 An old time Provost profi'ered a word, 
 A motion forsooth, for then and there 
 Sir Walter responded and took the chair. 
 
 He seemed full pale as he rose to speak. 
 
 And bowed his head to the eager crowd. 
 But a flush forthwith illumed his cheek, 
 Erect his form, which erst was bowed ; 
 Intent on the Wizard seemed to be 
 That strange, peculiar company. 
 
 I noted expressions of scorn and pride 
 Vividly flashed from face to face ;
 
 104 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 The minstrel dashed a tear aside, 
 
 Appealing, it seemed, to tlie Scottish race ; 
 Ay more, each gesture seemed to be 
 For his darling city a loving plea. 
 
 I saw him point to the legend there 
 
 Emblazoned upon the windows high ; 
 To the Crown that Scotia used to wear 
 When her heroes dared to do and die : 
 And he seemed to say, " Edina's crown 
 Shall not for gold be trampled down. " 
 
 All hands went up at the talde round. 
 
 Where sat Kit North with flowing quill. 
 And the sentences seemed to leap and bound 
 Like living sparks from his sturdy will — 
 A protest deep, a trumpet-word 
 Straight from the heart, for his soul was stirred. 
 
 A moment's pause ; they were asked to sign ; 
 
 But who would lead that famous band? 
 Who on the roll of Auld Lang Syne, 
 Prince or peasant, thus dared to stand ? 
 With one accord the gathering turns. 
 And straightway summoned Robert Burns. 
 
 He came, and proudly wrote his name. 
 The clear, bold hand, beloved by all. 
 And there seemed to burst a loud acclaim 
 That shook the roof of the stately hall. 
 His plain sign-manual seemed to say — 
 We guard " Auld Eeekie" from wrong to-day. 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder, in steady file, 
 I noted them all as they passed along —
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 105 
 
 Dugald Stewart and stern Carlyle, 
 Riddle and Lockhart, of Border song, 
 Professor Aytoun and dear John Browne, 
 Brougham and Erskine, in wig and gown ; 
 
 Hugh Millar and Pollock, Mackenzie, Blair, 
 
 Cockburn, Jaffrey, and David Hume, 
 Hogg and Ram?ay — a curious pair, 
 
 De Quiucey, "Delta" in nom-de-plume, 
 
 Drummond of Hawthornden, Boswell, Home, 
 Fergusson, Alison — still they come. 
 
 They stood in groups, the roll was done ; 
 
 The chairman rose, they listened all ; 
 St. Giles pealed out the hour of one, 
 
 They took their way from the silent hall ; 
 Over the parchment alone I benfc — 
 It seemed like the League and Covenant. 
 
 I read it there in the fading light, 
 
 A message strange from the shadowy past. 
 With storied names for ever bright 
 While Scotland's fame and glory last ; 
 
 The ink on that parchment shall never fade 
 Till Arthur Seat in the Forth is laid. 
 
 "Stand by your city and guard it well — 
 
 That street is more than a common wynd 
 For smoking chimneys and sooty smell ; 
 Has Plutus made your guardians blind ? 
 What god your senses has so beguiled 
 That Art and Nature shall be defiled?" 
 
 So said Kit Nortii ; and I read with joy — 
 " Stand by your city aud guard it well ; 
 
 G
 
 106 Rwiidom Sketches on Scottkh Subjects. 
 
 For a mess of pottage, or base alloy, 
 
 Who dare your birthright or beauty sell ? 
 Never ! ah, never ! l<](lina, mine, 
 Shall force or folly thy virtue tyne. 
 
 " Stand by your city and guard it well ; 
 
 Burrow in rocks for your tunnelled ways, 
 Taint not the soil with carbon fell, 
 
 The flowers of the sod where the sunlight plays." 
 No wonder the hall with wild applause 
 Greeted the reading of every clause. 
 
 " Stand by your city and guard it well ; 
 
 Greed is mighty, but truth prevails ; 
 Let not j'our children's children tell 
 
 How beauty was bartered for iron rails." 
 Such was the meeting in Parliament Hall — 
 " Nemo impune ! " Guard us all. 
 
 The entire poem proves that Mr. Bruce has a 
 very sincere regard for Scotland, the home of his 
 ancestors. He delights to talk and to lecture on 
 her heroes, her poets, her statesmen and her 
 preachers, and he loves her old traditions, her 
 ballads, her songs, her literature and her customs, 
 with a love that is hardly surpassed even by 
 a native-born Scotsman. This love for Scotland 
 and all things Scottish is visible in nearly all his 
 writings and it was therefore a gratifying and 
 appropriate compliment to Mr. Bruce Avhen Presi- 
 dent Harrison appointed him United States Consul 
 at Edinburgh. I now take pleasure in appending
 
 Hon. fFallace Bruce. 107 
 
 another poem ou a Scottish subject and one which 
 1 think all readers will admire. 
 
 The poem is thoroughly Scottish in tone and 
 expression, besides being so well written that any 
 Scottish poet would be pleased could he say that 
 he was the author of it. 
 
 INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND. 
 
 [The island burial-place of Clan Alpine, resembling, from RossJhii, a re- 
 clining body with folded arms.] 
 
 No more Clan Alpine's pibroch wakes 
 
 Loch Lomond's hills and waters blue ; 
 •'Hail to the Chief " no longer breaks 
 
 The quiet sleep of Roderick Dhu ; 
 Enwrapped in peace the islands gleam 
 
 Like emerald gems in sapphire set, 
 And, far away, as in a dream, 
 
 Float purple fields where heroes met. 
 
 Inch-Cailliach — island of the blest ! 
 
 Columbia's daughter, passing fair, 
 With folded arms upon her breast. 
 
 Rests soft in sunset radiance there ; 
 A vision sweet of fond Elaine, 
 
 And floating barge of Camelot, 
 Upon her brow no trace of pain, 
 
 And on her heart " Fdrget me not." 
 
 Forget thee, saintly guardian ? Nay, 
 
 From the distant lands across the sea 
 To tliis lone isle 1 fondly stray 
 
 With song and garland fresh for thee ;
 
 108 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 I trace the old inscriptions dear, 
 Fast fading now from mortal ken, 
 
 And through the silver lichens peer 
 To read McAlpine's name again, 
 
 My mother's name, a sacred link 
 
 Wliicli binds me to the storied past ; 
 A rainbow bridge from brink to brink 
 
 Which spans with light the centuries vast. 
 Two hundred years ! Clan-Alpine's pine 
 
 Has struck its roots in other lands ; 
 My pulses thrill to trace the sign 
 
 And touch the cross with reverent hands. 
 
 All ruin here ! — the shrine is dust, 
 
 The chapel wall a shapeless mound ; 
 But Nature guards with loving trust, 
 
 And ivy twines her tendrils round 
 The humble slab, more fitting far 
 
 Than gilded dome for Scotia's line ; 
 The open sky and northern star 
 
 Become the chieftains of the pine. 
 
 Tiie light streams out from fair Rossdhu 
 
 Across the golden-tinted wave ; 
 That crumbling keep, that ancient yew, 
 
 Still mark a worthy foeman's grave ; 
 But warm the hearts that now await 
 
 Our coming at the open door. 
 With love and friendship at the gate. 
 
 And beacon-lights along the shore. 
 
 Dear Scotia ! evermore more dear 
 
 To loyal sons in ever}' land ; 
 Strong ill a race that knew no fear, 
 
 And for man's freedom dared to stand ;
 
 Hmi. Wallace Bruce. 109 
 
 Ay. dearer for thy songs that float 
 
 Like thistle-dowu o'er land and sea, 
 And strike the universal note 
 
 Of love, and faith, and libert\\ 
 
 Mr. Rowland B. Mahany, writing of Mr. Bruce 
 iu The Magazine of Poetry says : " It is as a poet, 
 however, that his genius shines with the greatest 
 lustre. Disregarding the mannerisms and conceits 
 of the present school, whose productions are at 
 best but ephemera], he has held fast to old stand- 
 ards, and struck a tone whose echo is destined to 
 vibrate in the hearts of listeners, now and here- 
 after. No American poet of this generation, not 
 even Whittier, has set to sweeter music the tender 
 memories of home. Without the broad effects of 
 Will Carleton or the stilted moralizing oF Long- 
 fellow, Wallace Bruce's " Old Homestead Poems," 
 l)ave that delicacy of fancy, sincerity of expression, 
 and depth of feeling which give fitting utterance 
 to the vague sanctity with which we hallow the 
 past. The same truthfulness of motive is charac- 
 teristic of all his verses, even when his abounding 
 humour ripplt-s into song. This nobility of pur- 
 pose and excellence of execution are the qualities 
 which make those familiar with his work enthusi- 
 astic admirers. His shorter lyrics, published iu the 
 leading magazines, have always been widely 
 praised and copied ; and the fervent patriotism
 
 110 Random Sketches on Scottish Suhject>^. 
 
 that pulsates through his poeras has caused his 
 selection as poet ou many distinguished occasions, 
 notably at the Newburg Centennial, over which 
 President Arthur presided, and at which Senator 
 Evarts and Senator Bayard were the chief orators. 
 The success of " The Long Drama," read by Mr. 
 Bruce, was by common consent the triumph of the 
 celebration. Patriotism is certainly another pre- 
 dominating feature in many of Mr. Bruce's poems. 
 It is introduced and interwoven into his verses 
 with great skill and always commands our admir- 
 ation. Nor are his efforts in this direction confined 
 to America alone. Wherever the bugle has 
 sounded in the cause of liberty and right, that 
 country has become sacred ground to him. But 
 his patriotism is never boisterous or unpoetical. 
 It is set forth clothed in the finest of language 
 and very guarded in expression, so as to give 
 offence to no one. The following poem, besides 
 being one of his best, will give a good idea of this 
 particular feature of his muse : — 
 
 "UNO DE MILLE." 
 
 by wallace bruce. 
 
 one of the thousand of oaribaldl 
 
 Lake Como. 
 
 [One April day in 1890 I saw a steamer draped 
 in black bring home to Como for burial a soldier 
 of the immortal One Thousand of Garibaldi. By
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. Ill 
 
 a strange and dramatic coincidence his comrade, an 
 eloquent scholar of Como, died a few hours later 
 at his desk, while preparing for the morrow a trib- 
 ute to his friend's memory, and on the next day 
 the boat bore his own body to his own kindred. — 
 W. B.] 
 
 Another goue of the thousand brave ; 
 Across Lake Como borne to his grave. 
 "Uno de Mille," they softly say, 
 Waiting there by the quiet bay ; 
 A crowded plaza, a weeping sky — 
 Hush ! the steamer is drawing nigh. 
 
 " Uno de Mille ! " Who is he ? 
 A soldier, they whisper, of liberty ; 
 One of the thousand from college hall 
 Who rallied at Garibaldi's call : 
 His voyage finished, the anchor cast. 
 Home at Como to sleep at last. 
 
 Home, by her rippling waters blue. 
 Mirroring skies of tender hue ; 
 Home, where a kinsman's heart-felt tear 
 Hallows a brother soldier's bier ; 
 Home, where a noble comrade now 
 Plaits a chaplet to grace his brow. 
 
 Strew with roses the hero's way, 
 Over the sleeping -warrior pray ; 
 Home, from journeying far and wide, 
 Welcome liim here with stately pride ; 
 The night, my brother, comes to me, 
 The morn, Italia, to thee !
 
 112 Eandoiii Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Strew with roses the hero's way, 
 Over the sleeping warrior pray ; 
 Wake, Italia ! speak for me, 
 Reunited from sea to sea, 
 Place a garland upon liis bier, 
 " Uno de Mille " is lying here. 
 
 Thus mused his comrade through the night, 
 Weaving a cliaplut frssh and bright. 
 Sorrowing for a brother dead. 
 Summoning hours forever Hed ; 
 The light burns dim, the dawning day 
 Touches the mountains cold and gray. 
 
 Tiie pen has fallen from his grasp, 
 His head is bowed, his hands unclasp ; 
 The sunlight pierces the casement there, 
 He greets the moi'ning with stony stare ; 
 The day, Italia, breaks for thee ! 
 The night, my brother, comes to me. 
 
 Not as he deemed. He little thought 
 The morrow's work would be unwrought. 
 Little he dreamed the boat that bore 
 His comrade dead to Como's shore, 
 Dark-draped its homeward course would kttp 
 To bear him, too, where his kinsmen sleep. 
 
 Hushed again the crowded square. 
 Sky and lake the stillness share ; 
 Over the mountains a fading glow, — 
 " Duo de Mille," they murmur low ; 
 One, with tapers in yonder dome. 
 One, 'neath the starlight, going home.
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 113 
 
 And so they parted, not in tears, 
 Wedded in death through coming years ; 
 Sleeping remote by the sunny shore, 
 Eeuiiited for ever more ! 
 Lake Como sings one song to me — 
 "The morn, Italia, to thee ! 
 
 Here also is a touching little poem on the death 
 of General Grant, and in which the same quiet 
 patriotic feeling will be noticed. The poem is 
 founded on the following incident. It is said that 
 when Grant was dying a ray of sunlight through 
 the half-closed shutters of his room fell upon Lin- 
 coln's picture, leaving the general's portrait, which 
 hung beside it, in deep shadow. After lingering 
 for a moment on the brow f)f the martyred Presi- 
 dent it passed at the instant of de ith and played 
 upon the portrait of the great general. 
 
 THE SILENT SOLDIER. 
 
 From gulf to lake, from sea to sea, 
 The land is draped — a nation weeps, 
 
 And o'er the bier bows reverently 
 Whereon the silent soldier sleeps, 
 
 The mountain top is bathed in light. 
 And eastern cliff with outlook wide ; 
 
 Its name shall live in memory bright — 
 The Mount MacGregor, where he died ! 
 
 A monument to stand for aye. 
 In summer's bloom, in wiuter's snows,
 
 114 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 A shrine where men shall come to pray, 
 While at its base the Hudson flows. 
 
 A humble room, tlie light burns low, 
 The morning breaks on distant hill. 
 
 The falling pulse is beating slow, 
 The group is motionless and still. 
 
 Two portraits hang upon the wall, 
 Two kiudred pictures side by side — 
 
 Statesman and soldiei', loved by all — 
 Lincoln and Grant, Columbia's pride. 
 
 A single ray through lattice streams, 
 And breaks in rainbow colours there ; 
 
 On Lincoln's brow a glory gleams, 
 As wife and children kneel in prayer. 
 
 A halo round the martyr's head. 
 
 It lights the sad and solemn room, 
 Above the living and the dead. 
 
 The soldier's portrait hangs in gloom. 
 
 In shadow one, and one in light ; 
 
 But look ! the pencil-ray has past. 
 And on the hei'o's picture bright 
 
 The golden sunlight rests at last. 
 
 And so, throughout the coming years, 
 On both the morning beam shall play, 
 
 When the long night of bitter tears 
 Has melted in the light away. 
 
 A highly moral and religious sentiment per- 
 vades all of Mr. Brnce's work, and this character-
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 115 
 
 istic makes his writings all the more acceptable to 
 readers of intelligence and refinement. Indeed, 
 many of his smaller poems are on religious sub- 
 jects entirely, and each of them gives strong evi- 
 dence that their author is a man who has a sincere 
 reverence for his Maker and for all things holy. A 
 brief specimen may be given : 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 AN EASTERN LEGEND. 
 
 An aged man came late to Abraham's tent ; 
 
 The sky was dark, and all the plain was bare. 
 He asked for bread ; his strength was well nigh spent, 
 
 His haggard look implored the tenderest caro. 
 The food was brought. He sat with thankful eyes, 
 
 But spake no grace, nor bowed he toward the east. 
 Safe-sheltered here from dark and angi-y skies, 
 
 The bounteous table seemed a royal feast. 
 But ere his hand had touched the tempting fare. 
 
 The Patriarch rose, and, leaning on his rod, 
 " Stranger," he said, " dost thou not bow in prayer? 
 
 Dost thou not fear, dost thou not worship God ? " 
 He answered, "Nay." The Patriarch sadly said : 
 "Thou hast my pity. Go ! eat not my bread." 
 
 Another came that wild and fearful night. 
 
 The fierce winds raged, and darker grew the sky ; 
 But all the tent was filled with wondrous light, 
 
 And Abraham knew the Lord his God was nigh. 
 " Where is that aged man ? " the Presen(;e said, 
 
 "Tliat asked for shelter from tlie driving blast? 
 Who made thee master of thy Master's bread ? 
 
 What right hast thou the wanderer forth to cast ? "
 
 116 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 "Forgive me, Lord," the Patriarch answer made, 
 With downcast look, with bowed and trembling knee. 
 
 "Ah me ! the stranger might have with me stayed, 
 But, my God, he would not worship Thee." 
 
 " I've borne him long," Cod said, " and still I wait : 
 Could'st thou not lodge him one night in thy gate?" 
 
 From a pamphlet recently issued by the Bryant 
 Literary Union we ^lean the folio wins;- interesting 
 particulars regarding Mr. Bruce and his career. 
 
 Wallace Bruce, whose name bespeaks his Scot- 
 tish ancestry, was born at Hillsdale, Columbia 
 county, New York. As a lad he was distinguished 
 tor zeal in scholarship and love of literature. At 
 the age of thirteen he translated a portion of the 
 first book of the yEneid into English verse. He 
 entered Claverack College at sixteen, where he 
 took the valedictory. Went to Yale University, 
 where he distinguished himself as scholar, writer, 
 and speaker, winning six literary honours, includ- 
 ing first prizes in English composition and public 
 debate. Was made editor of the Yale Literary 
 Magazine by unatn'mous vote of his class. In 1869 
 was admitted to practise law. In 1870 went to 
 Great Britain and France; was in Paris the lu'ght 
 Napoleon was captured at Sedan ; walked over a 
 large part of Scotland and England, studying the 
 characteristics and customs of the people. On his 
 return to the Hudson he adopted literature as his 
 life-work, and was received with marked favour
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 117 
 
 on the lecture platform. In 1871 went to Pough- 
 keepsie, N. Y., where he resided for eighteen years. 
 In 1872 was invited to lecture on the Pough- 
 keepsie Lyceum. It was a brilliant course, con- 
 sisting of John B. Gough, Robert Collyer, De Witt 
 Talmage, Daniel Dougherty, etc., but Mr. Bruce 
 was awarded the palm of the winter entertain- 
 ment, and his fame as a lecturer was established 
 in the Hudson valley. From this happy opening 
 in the queen city of the Hudson his fame widened 
 throughout the State, and within two years he 
 had all the appointments he was able to fill. Since 
 that time he has appeared ten times on the Pough- 
 keepsie Lyceum, always giving his new lecture as 
 the opening or closing lecture of the course. Un- 
 like many orators his fame began at home, and in 
 the lecture field he has not been without honour 
 " in his own country and in his own house." Be- 
 tween 1871 and 1889, in addition to orations and 
 poems on public occasions, Mr. Bruce has lectured 
 in almost every town and city in New England, 
 the Middle and Western States, aggregating over 
 two thousand appointments between New York 
 and San Francisco. Mr. Bruce was appointed 
 United States Consul to Edinburgh, July 1, 1889, 
 from which post, after an honourable career, he 
 retired on September 1, 1893. During his four 
 years in Scotland he was invited to appear on
 
 118 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 almost every lecture course in the realm, aiicl for 
 four years in succession before the Edinburgh 
 Literary Institute. He also ,t>^ave several lectures 
 in England, and was enthusiastically greeted by 
 the Parkside Institute of London. 
 
 While in Scotland he was made poet laureate 
 of Lodge Canongate Kilwinning, Edinburgh, as a 
 successor to Robert Burns, the peasant poet, and 
 James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, besides being 
 elected honorary corresponding member ot the 
 Scottish Society of Literature and Art, to succeed 
 the poet, John Greenleaf Whittier. He accepted 
 the invitation to write the poem for the unveiling 
 of the Burns monument at Ayr. Over forty thou- 
 sand people were present when the poem was read 
 and it was pronounced the event of the day. He 
 responded to " Burns clubs all around the world," 
 at Edinburgh and Kilmarnock ; gave an address 
 at the unveiling of Symington's monument at 
 Lead Hills ; a poem at Linlithgow at the riding of 
 the Marches; an address on Washington Irving at 
 the old grammar school building of Stratford-on- 
 Avon, and an oration on the occasion of putting 
 up the Scottish Standard on the battlefield of 
 Bannockburn. He also gave the dedicatory 
 address at the unveiling of the Lincoln monument 
 in Edinburgh, the first erected to Lincoln in 
 Europe, the money for which was raised by his
 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce. 119 
 
 exertions from American citizens as a memorial to 
 Scottish-American soldiers. 
 
 On his leaving Edinbm'gh he was honoured 
 with a farewell banquet by the Cap and Gown 
 Society, a letter of esteem from the Edinburgh 
 Chamber of Commerce: was made honorary presi- 
 dent of the Shakespeare Society of Edinburgh, 
 and was tendered a complimentary farewell dinner 
 by the citizeiis of Edmburgh, The Lord Provost 
 and Town Council of Edinburgh also presented 
 him with a solid silver loving cup, weighing 
 seventy-five ounces, bearing the following inscrip- 
 tion : — 
 
 Presented to 
 Hon. Wallace Bruce, 
 Consul of the United States of America, 
 by the 
 Lord Provost, Magistrates, and Town Council of 
 Edinburgh, 
 On His Retiring from Office in the City, as a mark of 
 Esteem, and Recognition of His Services to Scot- 
 tish Literature, September, 1893. 
 
 A grand reception awaited him on his return to 
 America, and his services have been much sought 
 after ever since. In the midst of this busy life a 
 poem now and then appears in Harper s or Black- 
 wood's Magazine, like bookmarks in the story of a 
 successful literary and business career. His 
 various publications have been good ventures ;
 
 120 Eandom Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 his hand-book of the Hudson having reached a 
 sale of one hundred and fifty thousand copies ; 
 and his poems, " The Land of Burns," " The Yose- 
 mite," "Tlie Hudson," "From the Hudson to the 
 Yosemite," " Old Homestead Poems," " In Clover 
 and Heather," "Here's a Hand," "The Long 
 Drama," and " The Candle Parade," have aggre- 
 gated twenty-five thousand copies. His new 
 volume. Wayside Poems will be issued in the early 
 autumn by Harper & Brothers, In brief, what- 
 ever Mr. Bruce does he does well. He has made 
 his waj to the very front of the lecture platform 
 without sensation, and has won his position by his 
 qualifications as an orator, a poet and a genial 
 man of letters. His poetry and oratory are both 
 full of the sunshine and enthusiasm of his own 
 nature. For grace, scholarship and magnetic 
 power, he stands to-day without a peer.
 
 JESSIE, THE FLOWER 0' DUNBLAxXE. 
 
 She's modest as onie, and blythe as she's bonnie ; 
 
 For guileless simplicity mai-ks her its ain ; 
 And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
 
 Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dunblane. 
 Sing on, tliou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, 
 
 Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen ; 
 Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning. 
 
 Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. 
 
 Among the illustrious suug writers which Scotland 
 produced towards the end of the eighteenth cent- 
 ury, was Robert Tannahill, a native of Paisley, in 
 Renfrewshire. He was born in 1774 and died in 
 1810. A short life, certainly, bur made conspicu- 
 ous by the fact of its having been passed amidst 
 such misery, disappointment and sorrow, and which 
 was finall}^ terminated by the poet himself in an 
 unconscious and unguarded hour. To his admir- 
 ers, however, it is some consolation to know that 
 happy moments, like bright rays of warm and re- 
 freshing sunshine, occasionally penetrated and dis- 
 pelled the gloomy atmosphere of his existence. 
 The muses became his frequent visitors and they 
 
 H
 
 122 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 must have thrown their inspiring mantle lovingly 
 over him at times, as his writings — or, to be 
 more correct, the lyrical portions of his writings — 
 are all stamped with the stamp of true genius. 
 Yes, a very short hfe was his, but a valuable one 
 for all that, and the glorious galaxy of song which 
 Robert Taunahill created and which he left to 
 posterity when he passed beyond the world's cares 
 and troubles, will perpetuate his memory for all 
 time. 
 
 His songs are known and have been listened to 
 in rapture wherever the English language is 
 spoken, and one of them in particular, " Jessie the 
 Flower o' Dunblane," is an especial favourite with 
 all lovers of lyrical poetry. It has indeed attained 
 a world-wide reputation, and deservedly so, as 
 there are very few songs that surpass it for simpli- 
 city, sweetness and purity. But I have often longed 
 for some further details regarding the heroine of 
 the song. Was she a real personage, the same as 
 we know Highland Mary, and many others cele- 
 brated in song and poetry to have been, or, did she 
 simply exist, with all her charms, in the poetic 
 imagination of the poet ? If such a maiden really 
 did exist at one time, where was she born, and 
 when ? Did she reciprocate the passion which she 
 bad kindled in the breast of her lover, or did she 
 disdain to own, or even to notice him ? Did she
 
 Jessie, the Flower d Dunblane. 123 
 
 marry during the poet's lifetime, or did she die 
 before him ? 
 
 These and similar thoughts would usually 
 occupy my attention after hearing the song sung, 
 and only the other night did I alight on satisfac- 
 tory answers to them. I was glancing leisurely 
 through a late volume of The Peoples Friend, 
 when I came upon an article signed " J. C" and 
 entitled "Who was Jessie, the Flower o' Dun- 
 blane? " As the article proved deeply interesting 
 to me, I immediately jotted it down, and feeling 
 assured that many of my readers will also be in- 
 terested in a perusal of it, I append it herewith : 
 
 "I will now let the reader know the true his- 
 tory of Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane, and the 
 cause of the disruption between her and Tannahill, 
 which hitherto has been very little known out of 
 the little circle to which the story was confined. 
 I got my information from a very authentic source 
 — namely, Jessie's faithful companion. I became 
 acquainted with the old lady in this wise : — In the 
 year 1856 I was working as a powerloom tenter 
 with j\Iessrs. Abercrombie & Yuill, of George Street, 
 Paisley, now occupied by Messrs. Wilson, a Glas- 
 gow firm. 
 
 " It lias long been a very common custom with 
 the working classes in Paisley to pass their leisure 
 hours in squads together. Well, during the three
 
 12i Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 years that 1 was in Paisley I was a member of 
 what was called the " Twenty iSqiiad," and a rare 
 squad of fellows they were, indeed. They were 
 all tradesmen of various kinds, with a few littera- 
 teurs among them. No one could be admitted as 
 a member unless he proved himself to be possessed 
 of some qualification — viz, could sing a good song, 
 compose rhyme, tell a good story, draw a caricature, 
 or write a good paragraph to the press. At one 
 of our convivial meetings in the Globe Hotel, 
 " Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane," was sung by a 
 young lad. When the song was finished I asked 
 the company if any of them could tell me about 
 the antecedents of Jessie, for I had never heard in 
 Glasgow, or any other place, who she was, where 
 she was born, what her proper name was, and 
 where she lived and died. The young lad at once 
 replied, " Weel, man, if ye are ony way anxious 
 to ken a' the particulars aboot Jessie, if ye like I'll 
 tak' ye up to my grandmother's hoose the morn's 
 nicht, an' she can tell ye mair aboot Jessie, the 
 Flower o' Dunblane, than ony ither person leevin' 
 noo, for my granny was the only companion Jessie 
 ever had in Paisley, baith in their young and auld 
 days." 1 said to the young man that certainly I 
 would feel very much obhged to him if he would 
 be so kind as to introduce me to his grandmother. 
 *' On the folio wiiig night 1 went with the lad and
 
 Jessie, the Flower d Dunblane. 125 
 
 saw the old lady. She was in bed at the time, as 
 she was very infirm through old age. To my 
 queries she said that her maiden name was Jane 
 Crawford, that h-r husband's name was Andrew 
 Smith, a son of Bailie Andrew Smith, and that her 
 husband had been a cotton spinner in his time, but 
 left her and this world for a better, she hoped, in 
 1810. 
 
 " I observed that she had all her faculties unim- 
 paired, and told that her young friend and I were 
 well acquainted with each other, and that he had 
 been letting me understand that she had known 
 Jessie, 'the Flower o' Dunblane,' in her young 
 days, and that I would be very much obliged if 
 she would be kind enough to me all she knew 
 about Jessie and Tanuahill. She replied that she 
 would do so with much pleasure, as she had long 
 known them and their affairs, Jessie and she being 
 faithful companions from the time they had first 
 met till death separated them. The old lady went 
 on to inforin me that Jessie's parents had come 
 from Dunblane to George Street, Paisley, and liv- 
 ed next door to her own people, and that Jessie 
 and she in a short time got very much attached to 
 one another. 
 
 The proper name of Tannahill's heroine was 
 Janet Tennant, but when the poet began to pay 
 his respects to her he persisted in calling her
 
 12G Random Sketcliej^ on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Jessie, as that, he declared, was a prettier name 
 than Janet. 
 
 I asked why Tatmahill did not marry his Flower 
 of Dunblane, whom he adnn'red so mnch? The 
 old lady replied that she could easily explain that. 
 The i-eason was that there was another young and 
 good-looking weaver lad, who had as great a love 
 for Jessie as Taunahill ever had, but who kept 
 himself back from declaring his love, seeing the 
 state of matters between Jessie and the poet. 
 
 But it happened, on a time when the district 
 annual ball was to come off in the Freemasons' 
 Hall, New Street, that the young man in question 
 lieard that Robert Tannahill did not intend going 
 on that occasion, for some re 'Son only known to 
 himself. The rival lover then saw that there was 
 an opening for him to make some movement, and, 
 being minded of the adage that a "faint heart 
 never won a fair lady," he at once made bold to 
 put himself in Jessie's way, and asked her if she 
 would have any objections to go with him as his 
 partner to the ball, as he understood that Tanna- 
 hill was not intending to be present. Jessie re- 
 plied that she would have no objections herself, 
 but that she would require to get Bob's consent 
 before she could promise to go, and if he would 
 c ill back on the following night she would be able 
 then to give him a final answer to the question.
 
 Jessie, the I'lmvcr o' Dunblane. 127 
 
 When Taunahill was spoken to on the matter 
 next day, he said that he had no objections to offer 
 to her going to the ball with any respectable party 
 for a night, seeing he did not intend being there 
 himself. Little did the unfortunate poet think 
 there was any spark of love lurking in the breast 
 of the gallaTit weaver for his "lovely, sweet Jessie." 
 On the following night, according to promise, she 
 let her admirer know that Bob (as she always 
 termed Taunahill) was quite agreeable that she 
 would go with him as his partner for that night to 
 the dance. The matter was then settled to the 
 unbounded satisfaction and joy of Jessie's new 
 lover, but she was not aware of his warm admira- 
 tion of her at this time. 
 
 When the night of the ball came on, Tannahill 
 somehow got a little uneasy at the idea of his 
 ''Flower" being in the hands of another, and 
 made up his mind to watch their movements on 
 the way home from the ball. Having waited with 
 much patience and anxiety till be saw them leave 
 the place before daylight began to appear, he 
 made all haste to the close where Jessie resided, 
 and concealed himself in a corner where he could 
 hear and see and not be seen. In a short time the 
 pair came to the close, and took up their stand at 
 the inner end of it at Jessie's stair-foot, where they 
 kept chatting, as young parties do in a quiet place.
 
 128 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Just as the peep o' day began to appear, the poet 
 heard them sayiug it was time to part before the 
 folks would get astir iu the land ; but before doing 
 so, the gallant weaver put liis arm about Jessie's 
 neck, and, as he firmly grasped her hand, he at 
 the same time gave lier a loving smack to boot ; 
 and this unfortunate incident pierced to the heart 
 the sensitive-minded poet as he kept quietly 
 crouching in his hiding place like a cat watching 
 mice. 
 
 So sensitive was the high, proud spirit of poor 
 Tannahill that the sound of that kiss, as it was 
 wafted on the calm air of the morning into the 
 listening ears of her lover, had the effect of snap- 
 ping for ever the silken cord of love betwixt 
 Robert Tannahill and Jessie, the Flower o' Dun- 
 blane; for he subsequently said to Mrs. Smith 
 that although he (h'd give his consent to Jessie's 
 going to the ball with tlie young man, it was not 
 iu the bargain that they were to behave as he had 
 seen and heard them do. 
 
 It is quite evident that the green-eyed demon 
 of jealousy entered there and then into the heart 
 and soul of Tannahill ; but although he had the 
 prudence to restrain himself, and suppress the dis- 
 turbed feelings that were like to rend his heart 
 asunder, he quietly went home, but, instead of 
 going to his loom, he went to his writing-desk.
 
 Jessie, the Flower d Dunblane. 129 
 
 aud wrote the well-known poem, " The Farewell" 
 — which, in oue sense, is as bitter as gall, and sent 
 it to Jessie that night. 
 
 The old lady in her own words spoke thus : 
 " Next mornin', after Jessie had got the letter 
 wi' the fareweel address in it, she cam' rinnin' to 
 me wi' tears in her een, an' her heart fu' o' grief, 
 an' said — ' Oh ! Miss Crawford, see this queer letter 
 that Bob has sent to me.' I tane it oot o' her han', 
 an' after readin' it a' owre, I shook my held an' 
 said — ' Weel, Jessie, 1 winna say ae thing to ye 
 an' think auither ; an' my min' o't is this — I haena 
 the sma'est doot but what Bob is lost to ye for 
 ever.' I wis verra sorry for what I had said, for 
 it made her gie vent to muckle sabbiii', sighin', an' 
 clespin' o' her haun's. I did a' I could to soothe 
 her a wee, but it wis o' nae use, for she gaed ower 
 in a fit o' hysterics, but I got her brocht round in 
 a wee, an' naebody kent onything aboot it but 
 oorsols." 
 
 I next asked the old lady if she could repeat to 
 me the words of the "Farewell Address." She 
 replied that she could only repeat eight lines, for, 
 as it was the words in these lines which stung 
 Jessie to the heart, she never fcn-got them to the 
 present day, and never would, she said. Mrs. 
 Smith commenced :
 
 130 Random Sketches on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 But when I knew thy plighted lips 
 
 Once to a rival's prcss'd, 
 Love smothered, Independence rose, 
 
 And spurned thee from my breast. 
 The fairest Hower in Nature's field 
 
 Conceals the rankling thorn ; 
 So thou, sweet flower, as false as fair, 
 
 This once kind heart hath torn. 
 
 Miss Crawford's remarks to Jessie turned out to 
 be correct, for the farewell address made a gap 
 betweeij them, and, whenever the gallant weaver 
 heard of the disruption, he at once called on Jessie 
 as soon as he could, and let her know that it had 
 been long his heart's wish to have her for a wife, 
 but, as there was a barrier in the way, he had been 
 kept from speaking. Now that the barrier was re- 
 moved, he considered himself justified in making 
 an honourable proposal to her — namely, to become 
 a helpmate to him for better or worse. Jessie re- 
 plied that, if he called on the following night, she 
 would have her mind made up, and would be able 
 to say yes or no. 
 
 After mature consideration of the all-importaat 
 question, and having consulted Miss Crawford on 
 the subject, who drew Jessie's attention to the old 
 adage that " a bird in the liand is worth two in the 
 bush ; " and, moreover, as Tannahill was a very 
 high-minded lad, and would undoubtedly act as 
 he said, by refusing the present offer she would
 
 Jessie, the Flower d Dunblane. 131 
 
 very likely lose both of them. Jessie held the 
 same view, and, ou taking everything into con- 
 sideration, she made up her mind to accept the 
 new suitor. When he called on her, according to 
 agreement, on the succeeding night, standing in 
 the same close where Tannahill had been watching 
 them, she told the young man that she was be- 
 trothed to her former sweetheart, but, as it was 
 not she who was the first to break off the engage- 
 ment, she considered herself at liberty, in the 
 sight of God and man, to look to her own interest, 
 and accordingly gave her hand and heart to the 
 gallant weavei". 
 
 They were married in a short time afterwards — 
 viz., in 1798 — and, on the raising of the volunteers 
 in 1803, the husband of Jessie being a good musi- 
 cian, was appointed band-master of Colonel 
 M'Kerrell's regiment. In after years all their 
 family emigrated to Canada. Before parting with 
 old Mrs. Smith, she said to me that, if she was 
 spared till the summer, she would let me see the 
 grave of Jessie in the Relief Churchyard, as she 
 died in Orr Square, Paisley, in 1833, at the age of 
 sixty-three. She added that, when younger and 
 able to walk well, she often visited Jessie's silent 
 grave, and shed tears on the green grass as it 
 waved over her narrow house of clay, and con- 
 cluded by saying : "For T ken weel that, it' I had
 
 132 Random Sl-etchea on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 been below the yird, an' her leevin', she wud hae 
 done the same to me." I then bade the old lady 
 a^ood-bye, but 1 never saw her more, for she passed 
 from this life before Nature put on her mautle so 
 green. 
 
 Twenty-three years after this conversation — 
 viz., in 1875, the late William Scott Douglas, a 
 gentleman of much learning, with a strong taste 
 for research, was anxious to get the real history of 
 Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane. He managed to 
 find out the address of some of her sons and 
 grandchildren in Canada, and wrote to them. He 
 got a reply, which was subsequently published in 
 the North BiHtish Advertise?'. The following are a 
 few extracts from the article : 
 
 " 1 wrote to a son and grand-daughter of Janet 
 Teunant, and got a communication from them. 
 There are two sous, it appears, and several grand- 
 children still living. Janet Teunant was the name 
 that those Canadians called her. They said that 
 she had kept company with Tannahill for tiiree 
 years, and they had danced with each other in the 
 Masonic Hall, Paisley, and that the tradition 
 among th( ni of the course of true love not running 
 smootli was the failure of the poet to carry on a 
 proper conversation in their long, lonely walks to- 
 gether, after ' the sun had gaed doon o'er the lofty 
 Benlomond,' and that when their father (and
 
 Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane. 133 
 
 grandfather to some of them) came forward and 
 offered Janet his heart and hand, he was at once 
 accepted in preference to Tannahill, although he 
 did write some sweet verses in her praise." 
 
 Those Canadian descendants of Jessie stated in 
 their letter to Mr. Douglas that the sending of the 
 " Farewell "' was only Tannahill's version for the 
 breaking of the engagement between them. Those 
 parties cannot be blamed for what they say in the 
 matter ; but it is, I think, quite evident that had 
 it not been for the kiss in the close, and the send- 
 ing of the "Farewell," the disruption between 
 them never would have taken place. It w;>s also 
 stated that on each recurring New Year's Day 
 they, in a family capacity, sing the song — " Jessie, 
 the Flower o' Dunblane." They concluded by 
 stating that their ancestor, Janet Tennant, was 
 buried in the ground of the West Relief Church, 
 Canal Street, Paisley, the number of the lair being 
 552. What those Canadians said in reference to 
 their far-famed ancestor, was just in substance 
 what the old lady in Paisley told me so many 
 years previously, except as to the cause of the 
 split between the once fond lovers. 
 
 Ill ci inclusion, I may state that since it has be- 
 come pretty generally known where Jessie's grave 
 is to be seen, when the annual awakening of our 
 national interest in Tannahill takes place, on those
 
 134 Rmidom Sketclies on Scottish Subjects. 
 
 Gleniffer Braes he loved so well, aud sang about 
 so sweetly, thoiisauds of the poet's admirers turn 
 aside to see the hallowed spot of ground where 
 underneath lie the ashes of the immortal "Flower" 
 who broke her true lover's heart. 
 
 The little poem refened to above, "The Fare- 
 well," is as follows : — 
 
 Accuse me not, inconstant fair, 
 
 Of being false to thee. 
 For I was true, would still been so, 
 
 Had'st thou been true to me ; 
 But when I knew thy plighted lips 
 
 Once to a rival's prest, 
 Love-smother'd independence rose 
 
 And spurn'd thee from my breast. 
 
 The fairest ilow'r in nature's field 
 
 Conceals the rankling thorn ; 
 So thou, sweet flower ! as false as fair, 
 
 This once kind heart hast torn : 
 'Twas mine to prove the fellest pangs 
 
 That slighted love can feel ; 
 'Tis thine to weep that one rash act, 
 
 Which bids this long farewell. 
 
 Tannahill never married. His death, like that 
 of Burns, called forth considerable comment at the 
 time, but the public appreciation of his genius has 
 gone on increasing with the years, and recently 
 an imposing monument to his memory and worth 
 was unveiled with elaborate ceremonies in his 
 native town.
 
 VERSES xVDDEESSED OR INSCRIBED TO 
 JOHN D. ROSS. 
 
 THE TWA BOOKS. 
 
 BY HENRY URQUHART, BOSTON. 
 
 A poetical efl'usion dedicated tu John D. Ross, New York, 
 upou receiving his two volumes, Celebrated Songs of Scotland, 
 and Scottish Poetic in America. 
 
 Kind sir, yer twa books hae come liame 
 For which my choicest thanks ye claim, 
 I dinna ken if I can name. 
 
 The meed that's due ye, 
 For this kind act bestowen on me 
 
 A stranger to ye. 
 
 The first, the Saugs 0' Scutland clear, 
 Proved sweetest music to my ear. 
 It gird me laugh, or else the tear 
 
 Cam' dribblin' doon. 
 To read o' Meg frae Anster Fair, 
 
 Or Sad Culloden. 
 
 Portrayed by sic-like able men, 
 Scotia seems near (even here) again, 
 Kindled by Burns' and Allan's flame, 
 
 She looks right at us, 
 An' a' the Stripes an' Bars and Stars, 
 
 Mak their quietus. 
 
 Ah ! Jimmey Hogg and Walter Scott, 
 Wha can forget what ye hae wrote ? 
 A lump seems gatlierin' in the throat 
 When your muse whistles. 
 
 I
 
 138 Appendix. 
 
 Like Roderick Dhu's hills, glens, and muirs, 
 Wi' heroes bristles. 
 
 Then book the second, " Scottish Bards," 
 Is worthy o' oor best re<,'ards, 
 A' seems deservin' o' rewards 
 
 For doonricht merit. 
 No%o is the time, no when they're deid, 
 
 Should men confer it. 
 
 A' rhyming fellow like mysel'. 
 Smelling o' peat an' heather-bell, 
 I like their lilting sonnets well, 
 
 And honour gie tliem ; 
 Wishing luck, health, an' gear 
 
 Be ever wi' them. 
 
 Now, sir, 'gin I e'er reach New York 
 I'll see ye's get a knife and fork, 
 An' on a haggis, or a stork 
 
 We'll baith gae dine. 
 An' what the piper likes to charge, 
 
 I'll 2>ay the fine. 
 
 We'll chain up auld care in a tether, 
 Tak' nae account o' wind an' weather, 
 But 'round the Bards o' Nature gather 
 
 Scotia's elect ; 
 Her heroes, minstrels, poets, kings 
 
 Shall be the subject. 
 
 So, noo, fare-weel ! but stop a blink 
 Ere I tak' stumpie frae the ink, 
 A thocht I wad sugij;est, ye think 
 
 When ye go coastin ; 
 Tak' the Fall River Line and come 
 
 The ien"th o' Boston.
 
 Appendix. 139 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Inscribed to John D. Ross, Esq. 
 
 Author of ^^ Scottish Poets in America," and editor of 
 "Bound Burns's Grave," " Burnsiana," etc. 
 
 BY DUNCAN MACGREGOR CRERAR. 
 
 Fair flower who gav'st thy leal heart to the Bard 
 That oft iu noblest lays of thee has sung 
 Melodious as thine own sweet Gaelic tongue, 
 
 And cherished thee with sacredest regard. 
 
 Pure as the sparkling dew on beauteous rose, 
 
 And chaste as snow on lofty Cruachan's brow, 
 Thy name and fame ; an influence good wert thou 
 
 That breathed sweet fragrance after life's close. 
 
 His hymn divine to thy " departed shade " 
 
 Poui'ed forth that memorable Ai;tumn morn, 
 The day thou wert from his fond bosom torn. 
 
 Lives soul-inspired an<l never shall it fade. 
 
 The ghoul who thy name hallowed dare defame 
 
 Should read the hymn, then melt in burning shame. 
 
 New York. 1893. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 (To John D. Ross on his Birthday). 
 
 BY benjamin F. LEGttETT. 
 
 With blush of crimson and with tint of gold, 
 He touches all the woodlands and they stand 
 Transfigured in their beauty by his wand, 
 
 As tricksy fairies wrought in days of old ! 
 
 The harvest fields liave all their treasure told. 
 
 And brown and bare they lie through dreamful days 
 That wrap the hills in mellow autumn haze, 
 
 And with late asters star the stubbled wold : 
 
 The frosted burs their thorny spheres divirle. 
 'Mid rustling leaves the ri[)ened chestnuts fall, 
 While liapjiy children through the woodlands call, 
 
 And childhood's echoes wander far and wide. 
 
 So fair October's gray and gold appear ! 
 
 And lo ! your birthday passes down the year ! 
 
 October 23, 1893.
 
 1 4 Appendix. 
 
 KINDRED SOULS. 
 (To John D. Ross). 
 
 BY JOHN IMRIE. 
 
 There is a kinship of the soul 
 
 Known to the good and true, 
 Pulsive as needle to the pole, — 
 
 One such I've found in you : 
 Friends are life's chain of golden links 
 
 Let down from Heaven above ; 
 Ood yet will weld the whole, methinks, 
 
 All perfected in love ! 
 
 There is a hope more sure than creeds, 
 
 To lead us home to God, — 
 The daily plantiu,' of good deeds 
 
 Shall flower Heaven's virgin sod ; 
 Each aspiration of the soul 
 
 In search of God and Truth, 
 Leads surely to tliat happy goal 
 
 Where dwells eternal youth ! 
 
 They grow not old that Wisdom love — 
 
 Our bodies may decay — 
 But, oh ! leal souls shall soar above : 
 
 Death hastens Life's birthday ! 
 Then, let us hold our Father's hand 
 
 Like children, and obey, — 
 If we but seek to understand. 
 
 He'll teach us by the way ! 
 Toronto, Canada. 
 
 LINES 
 
 To the Autlior of " Scottish Poets in America." 
 
 BY ARTHIIK JOHN LOCHIIART, MINISTER. 
 
 They are not born in vain v\ho live to bless 
 And solace others : who, while others strive 
 Out of the spoils of men to grow and thrive, 
 Abjure the meed of wrong or selfishness.
 
 Appendix. 141 
 
 He does not live in vain who maketh less 
 
 The sum of human sorrow ; who inspires 
 
 Hope in the breast and kindles love's sweet fires ; 
 
 Whose charity relieves a friend's distress. 
 
 Long may he live, to whom is ever dear 
 
 A brother's fame ; whose eye can recognise, 
 
 Whose pen proclaim the merit that he sees, 
 
 Who, with his books and friends holds gentle cheer, 
 
 And whom a poet's song or maxim wise, 
 
 Can never fail to interest and please. 
 
 TO JOHN D. EOSS, 
 
 Author oj " Scottish Poets hi America," etc., on 
 his Fortieth Birthday. 
 
 BY ARCHIBALD ROSS, MINISTER. 
 
 Li(-£ is to me a heritage of .L;ood, 
 
 That blossoms ever into summer flowers. 
 And thus I walk the sacred neighbourhood 
 
 Of minds congenial with the rolling hours. 
 Who ring auspicious birthdays for the soul. 
 
 So have I thought of thee, and I would fain 
 Ask blessings on the path that points the goal — 
 
 That joys and years may sing the long refrain. 
 For thou art here with us, an honest man. 
 
 One of the rarest of the human kind. 
 Looking for sweets within the poet's plan, 
 
 Clothed with the highest embassy of mind, 
 And thoughts all roseate with angelic grace 
 
 The opening buds of genius, meet our eye ; 
 This be thy great vocation here — to trace — 
 
 The beauty and the love that cannot die, 
 Gentle reminders of immortal life. 
 Which mar black perfidy, nor hato, nor strife 
 
 Can blur the beauteous picture thou has given. 
 On this October morn, thy natal day. 
 Unnumbered graces cheer thee on thy way, 
 
 As thou art cheering us with gathered hues of heaven. 
 
 October 23, 1893.
 
 142 Appendix. 
 
 GENEALOGICAL. 
 
 (To JoiiN D. Ross, on his asking for some biographical data, for 
 one of liis articles on Scottish poets. The article appeared 
 in the Home Journal (N.Y.), Dec. 6, 1893). 
 
 BY HECTOR MACPHERSON. 
 
 My worthy frien', I scarce can tell 
 Wherein my forbears' footsteps fell 
 But haith, I doot that poortith snell 
 
 Did nip them sair 
 For ne'er in ae place wad they dwell 
 
 Noo here, noo there. 
 
 My grandsire's is the oldest name 
 
 Unto my listenin' ears that came : 
 
 He ance midst scenes well kent to fame 
 
 Stood staunch an' true ; 
 He fought for glory an' his hame 
 
 At Waterloo. 
 
 Syne he in my auld native toon 
 
 When nigh full ninety years gaed roun', 
 
 Laid a' his heavy burdens doun, 
 
 For a' maun dee ; 
 An' noo in peace he slumbers soun', 
 
 Fast by the sea. 
 
 Wha can Dame Nature's power restrain 
 When youthfu' ardour fires ilk sein ! 
 My sire mang martial scenes was fain 
 
 To stand or fa' ; 
 While life's gay morn was a' his ain 
 
 He gaed awa'. 
 
 Ere lang 'fore Scotia's foes he stood 
 Where Death in strange an' fearsome mood 
 Wrought 'mang the noble an' the good 
 
 Maist direfu' ill, 
 An' there he marked a brother's blood 
 
 Stain Alma's hill.
 
 Appendix. 143 
 
 Syne oot upon far India's shore 
 The bloody brand of war he bore 
 Avenging many a pang fu' sore 
 
 That bled at hame, 
 Then wi' his wounds an' little more 
 
 To Scotland came. 
 
 Faith shone upon his early days 
 He noo to cheer his aulder ways 
 Does good, nor censure heeds, nor praise, 
 
 Aids a' he can ; 
 Thus doon life's gloamin' noo he strays 
 
 An honest man. 
 
 My aged mither blessings cheer 
 Her life's lang journey year by year, 
 May sorrow ne'er again draw near 
 
 To wake a plaint, 
 She's to the bosom far mair dear 
 
 Than queen or saint. 
 
 War's glamour for oor race is spent 
 Where furious passions madly blent. 
 Nor e'er midst bloody scenes intent 
 
 Was I to stray. 
 Fain wad I rove in sweet content 
 
 In peacefu' way. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 To John D. Ross, Brooklyn, N.Y. 
 
 BY ANGUS ROSS. 
 
 Ai.THo' the sea between us roll, 
 
 And mountain billows soar. 
 No distance can control the soul. 
 
 Nor chain it to the shore ; 
 So o'er the main on fancy's wing 
 
 I idace my hand in thine, 
 Aud at my heart I feel a wring, 
 
 And know thy friendship mine.
 
 144 Appendix. 
 
 Tho' bound hy a mysterious tie, 
 As e'er to mortal given, 
 
 I trust its registered on high, 
 And never will be riven. 
 
 62 Calder Street, 
 Govanhill, Glasgow. 
 
 WE NEVER MISS THE WATER TILL THE 
 WELL RINS DRY. 
 
 Specially composed for John D. Ross's " Celebrated Songs of 
 
 Scotland." 
 
 BY THOMAS C. LATTO. 
 
 Be lookin' out for fell auld age in sunny days o' youth. 
 
 Keep rain draps that ye dinna need ere comes the Autumn drouth. 
 
 Let aye some pennies ye can spare be cannily laid by ; 
 
 " We never miss the water till the well rins dry." 
 
 The wee bit stockin' fittie, that has its private neuk, 
 Comes just as handy in the end as weel-lined pocket beuk ; 
 Tak' tent an' no be wasterfu', the winter's drawing nigh ; 
 " We never miss the water till the well rins dry." 
 
 But be na parsimonious, I canna thole the coof, 
 Wha sees the beggar at his door an' doubles up his loof, 
 dinna let him gang his wa's wi' mutter'd bitter cry ; 
 " We never miss the water till the well rins dry." 
 
 There's plenty gude within this warld fu' quietly to be done, 
 Wark needfu' to be hurried through an' mair to be begun, 
 But Charity maun hae the means nor Pity lack supply ; 
 " We never miss the water till the well rins dry." 
 
 There's just ae water I wad hint that ne'er shortcoming knows. 
 The mair ye drink o't, aye the mair your pitcher over-flows. 
 The Water o' the Well o' Life ; come drink your fill an' try ; 
 It's brim is gurgling ever bright ; its fount is never dry. 
 
 Brooklyn, N.Y., 1886.
 
 Appendix. 145 
 
 THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Specially written for " Cehhrated Sonijs of Scotland," edited hij 
 
 John D. Boss. 
 
 BY JAMKS KENNEDY. 
 
 How dear to ev'ry Scottish heart are Scotland's melodies ! 
 They sweeteu life's dull atmosphere like perfume in the breeze, 
 Blythe as the wild bird's artless notes the ,t;reen\vood groves 
 
 among : 
 Eai'th's sweetest, noblest thoughts are those that warble into 
 
 song. 
 
 Their mellow music circles round the glad earth far and free, 
 Like light they leap from land to land and flash from sea to sea. 
 Till waken'd echoes gladly ring in ev'ry vale and hill : 
 And earth and air exultant catch the quick electric thrill. 
 
 How bright to fancy's eye they bring fair Scotland's classic land ! 
 The purple ghjry of her hills seems tow'ring high and grand : 
 Her rustling wealth of golden fields wave 'neath the gladd'ning 
 
 ray ; 
 Her silv'ry waters flash among her valleys green and gay. 
 
 Fair flow'rets bloom in tints that mock the rainbow's dazzling 
 
 dyes ; 
 And daisies ope with modest grace their myriad starry eyes ; 
 And all the glow of social life comes group'd in living throngs, 
 Transfigured by the magic grace and beauty of her songs. 
 
 And where hath Love's impassioned throes e'er found so sweet a 
 
 tongue ? 
 No mimic frenzy mocks the heart when Scotland's songs are 
 
 sung, 
 Each artless word, each liquid note in perfect tones express 
 The matchless might of manly grace and woman's tenderness. 
 
 And Ijuoyant on the tide of time what glorious tales they tell 
 Of freemen battling for the right, of gallant foes that fell ; 
 Of heroes who tempestuous rose the tyrant's touch to spurn ; 
 The glowing pride of Stirling Bridge ! The joy of Bannockburn !
 
 146 Appendix. 
 
 0, Scotland ! raise thy crested head above the azure sea ; 
 Thou art the home of worth and truth, the cradle of the free, 
 Where e'er the eye of Time shall see bold Freedom's flag 
 
 unfurled, 
 Thy songs shall stamp thy sons among the freemen of the world. 
 
 Thine eye of pity ever melts at tales of human wrongs ; 
 Thy seal is set, thy fame is fixed eternal as thy songs 
 Whose clarion blasts shall bravely ring in freedom's battle van 
 Until triumphant they shall hail the unity of Man ! 
 
 New York City, 1SS6. 
 
 ^^^
 
 TTXrr. '^"^ LIBRARY 
 
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 Random sketches 
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