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1807 A.D.]

ALEXANDER ROSS.-JOHN SKINNER.

407

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,

Bear me to your deadly tide.

I die I come-my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

The Scottish poets of the present period wrote generally in the English language; but as a few, such as Ross, Skinner, Lowe, Crawford, Elliot, and Fergusson, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue with considerable success, we shall here give them a passing notice.

ALEXANDER Ross, a schoolmaster in Lochlee, in Angus, published at Aberdeen, in 1768, a volume of poems entitled Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which are added a few Songs by the Author. Ross was a good descriptive poet, and some of his songs are still popular in Scotland; but being chiefly written in the northern dialect, which differs materially from the lowland Scotch of Burns, the author is less known out of his native district than he should be. Beattie took a warm interest in the 'good-humored, social, happy old man,' and to promote the sale of his poems, he addressed a letter and a poetical epistle in praise of them to the Aberdeen Journal. This epistle is remarkable as Beattie's only attempt in Aberdeenshire Scotch; and the following stanza of it is equal to Burns:

O bonny are our green sward hows,

Where through the birks the burnie rows,
And the bee bums, and the ox lows,

And saft winds rustle,

And shepherd lads on sunny knowes
Blaw the blythe whistle.

The last of Ross's songs are, Woo'd, and Married, and a', and The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow. His death occurred in 1784, at the advanced age of eighty-four.

JOHN SKINNER, born in 1721, inspired some of the finest strains of Burns, and delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindness and good-will among men. He was a clergyman of the Episcopal church, and officiated as minister of Longside, in Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the Rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland labored under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons. He died at his son's house at Aberdeen, in 1807, having realized his wish of 'seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.'

Tullochgorum, Skinner's principal poem, partakes both of a national and patriotic character, and has always been extremely popular. He was the

author of several other songs also, an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises.

TULLOCHGORUM.

Come gie 's a song, Montgomery cried,

And lay your disputes all aside;

What signifies 't for folks to chide

For what 's been done before them?

Let Whig and Tory all agree,

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,

Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whigmegmorum.

Let Whig and Tory all agree

To spend this night with mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me

The reel of Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum 's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,

In conscience I abhor him.

Blithe and merry we 's be a',

Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we 's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.

Blithe and merry we 's be a',
As long as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.

There need na be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wad na gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They 're douff at dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They 're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorums.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress

Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like old Philosophorum?

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,

And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend,
Each honest hearted open friend;
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that 's good watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties, a great store o' 'em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by any vicious blot;
And may he never want a groat,
That 's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!

May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae 's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance

The reel of Tullochgorum!

JOHN LOWE, Son of the gardener at Kenmore, in Galloway, and afterwards a student of divinity, was born in 1750. He is chiefly known as the author of a fine pathetic lyric, called Mary's Dream, occasioned by the death of a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon in the navy, who was attached to a Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was, at the time, tutor in the family of the lady's father, and was engaged to her sister. He emigrated to America, however, where he married another lady, became dissipated, and died in great misery, near Fredericksburg, in Virginia, in 1798.

Lowe was the author of numerous other poems, all of which seem to have been prompted by poetical feeling and the romantic scenery of his native glen, but his ballad is his only production worthy of preservation.

MARY'S DREAM.

The moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,

And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
When, soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!'

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow ee.

'O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me.

Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

O maiden dear, thyself prepare;

We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!'
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,

'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'

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ROBERT CRAWFORD was the brother of Colonel Crawford, of Achinames; but little farther of the history of his life has been ascertained than that he was drowned in coming from France, in the year 1733. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his 'Tea-Table Miscellany' and possessed genuine poetical fancy and expression. The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, 'seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people, and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.'

Crawford was the author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, which follows:

TWEEDSIDE.

What beauties does Flora disclose!

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!

Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed;

No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.
The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush;
The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,
With music enchant every bush.
Come let us go forth to the mead;

Let us see how the primroses spring;

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SIR GILBERT ELLIOT, of an ancient and honorable family, was father of the first Earl of Minto, and was distinguished as a speaker in parliament. In 1763, he was made treasurer of the navy, and afterwards keeper of the signet in Scotland. In such honorable offices he was occupied until his death, which occurred in 1777.

Elliot, according to Tytler, had been taught the German flute in France, and was the first to introduce that instrument into Scotland. He was the author of the following beautiful pastoral song,' and a number of others, though, according to Sir Walter Scott, not of equal merit :

AMYNTA.

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love!
Oh, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well-founded, a passion so true!

Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine:
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again,

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