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 knaw 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 !


Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tullochgorum, the composition of the Rev. JOHN SKINNER (1721-1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good will among men. Mr Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the Rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons! He died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised his wish of 'seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.' Besides "Tullochgorum,' and other songs, Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises.

Come gie's a sang, 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.
0, 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 lang 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 wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score oem.
They're douff and 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,

Conipared 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 auld 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!

ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his “Tea-Table Miscellany, and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733. Crawford had 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.?

The Bush aboon Traquair. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,

I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,

Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,

Unheeded, never move her ;
At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,

'Twas there I first did love her.
That day she smiled and made me glad,

No maid seemed ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,

So sweetly there to find her;
I tried to soothe my amorous flame,

In words that I thought tender ;
If more there passed, I'm not to blame

I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she scornful flees the plain,

The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet she shows disdain,

She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May,

It's sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay-

It fades as in December.
Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,

Why thus should Peggy grieve me !
O make her partner in my pains,

Then let her siniles relieve me:
If not, my love will turn despair,

My passion no more tender ;
I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair
To lonely wilds I'll wander.


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ners, a nice perception of the ludicrous, a vein of

original comic humour, and language at once copious What beauties does Flora disclose !

and expressive, form his chief merits as a poet. He How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! had not the invention or picturesque fancy of Allan Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,

Ramsay, nor the energy and passion of Burns. His Both nature and fancy exceed.

mind was a light warm soil, that threw up early its No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,

native products, sown by chance or little exertion ; Not all the gay flowers of the field,

but it had not strength and tenacity to nurture any Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, great or valuable production. A few short years, Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

however, comprised his span of literature and of life; The warblers are heard in the grove,

and criticism would be ill employed in scrutinising

with severity the occasional poems of a youth of The linnet, the lark, and the thrush; The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,

twenty-three, written from momentary feelings and With music enchant every bush.

impulses, amidst professional drudgery or midnight Come let us go forth to the mead ;

dissipation. That compositions produced under such Let us see how the primroses spring;

circumstances should still exist and be read with We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,

pleasure, is sufficient to show that Fergusson must And love while the feathered folk sing.

have had the eye and fancy of a true poet. His

observation, too, for one so young, is as remarkable How does my love pass the long day!

as his genius: he was an accurate painter of scenes Does Mary not tend a few sheep?

of real life and traits of Scottish character, and his Do they never carelessly stray

pictures are valuable for their truth, as well as for While happily she lies asleep ?

their liveliness and humour. If his habits had been Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest, different, we might have possessed more agreeable Kind nature indulging my bliss,

delineations, but none more graphic or faithful. To ease the soft pains of my breast,

Fergusson was born in Edinburgh on the 17th of I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

October 1751. His father, who was an accountant in Tis she does the virgins excel;

the British Linen Company's bank, died early, but No beauty with her may compare ;

the poet received a university education, having obLove's graces around her do dwell;

tained a bursary in St Andrews, where he continued She's fairest where thousands are fair.

from his thirteenth to his seventeenth year. On Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?

quitting college, he seems to have been truly unOh, tell me at morn where they feed ?

fitted with an aim,' and he was glad to take employShall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay? ment as a copying clerk in a lawyer's office. In Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

this mechanical and irksome duty his days were

spent. His evenings were devoted to the tavern, SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

where, over caller oysters,' with ale or whisky, the

choice spirits of Edinburgh used to assemble. FerSIR GILBERT ELLIOT, author of what Sir Walter gusson had dangerous qualifications for such a life. Scott calls the beautiful pastoral song,' beginning His conversational powers were of a very superior My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,

description, and he could adapt them at will to

humour, pathos, or sarcasm, as the occasion might was father of the first Earl of Minto, and was dis- require. He was well educated, had a fund of tinguished as a speaker in parliament. He was in youthful gaiety, and sung Scottish songs with taste 1763 treasurer of the navy, and afterwards keeper and effect. To these qualifications he soon added of the signet in Scotland. He died in 1777. Mr the reputation of a poet. Ruddiman's Weekly Tytler of Woodhouselee says, that Sir Gilbert Elliot, Magazine' had been commenced in 1768, and was who had been taught the German flute in France, the chosen receptacle for the floating literature of was the first who introduced that instrument into that period in Scotland, particularly in Edinburgh. Scotland, about the year 1725.

During the two last years of his life, Fergusson was

a constant contributor to this miscellany, and in [Amynta.]

1773 he collected and published his pieces in one My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,

volume. Of the success of the publication in a And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;

pecuniary point of view, we have no information ; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;

but that it was well received by the public, there For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.

can be no doubt, from the popularity and fame of Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?

its author. His dissipations, however, were always Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my vow?

on the increase. His tavern life and boon comOh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,

panions were hastening him on to a premature and Ind I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

painful death. His reason first gave way, and his

widowed mother being unable to maintain hiin at Through regions remote in rain do I rove,

home, he was sent to an asylum for the insane. The And bid the wide ocean secure me from love!

religious impressions of his youth returned at times ! Oh, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue

to overwhelm him with dread, but his gentle and A love so well-founded, a passion so true!

affectionate nature was easily soothed by the attenAlas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;

tions of his relatives and friends. His recovery was Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine :

anticipated, but after about two months' confineThy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, ment, he died in his cell on the 16th of October The moments neglected return not again.

1774. His remains were interred in the Canongate churchyard, where they lay unnoticed for twelve

years, till Burns erected a simple stone to mark the ROBERT FERGUSSON,

poet's grave. The heartlessness of convivial friendROBERT FERGUSSON was the poet of Scottish city- ships is well known: they literally wither and die life, or rather the laureate of Edinburgh. A happy in a day.' It is related, however, that a youthful talent of portraying the peculiarities of local man- companion of Fergusson, named Burnet, having


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gone to the East Indies, and made some money, ir.. Falconer or Logan (he received the same education
vited over the poet, sending at the same time a as the latter), his inferior rank as a general poet
draught for £100 to defray his expenses. This in- will be apparent.
stance of generosity came too late : the poor poet
had died before the letter arrived.

Braid Claith.
Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote i' the bonnie book o' fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurelled wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,

In guid braid claith.
He that some ells o' this may fa',
And slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa,

Wi' a' this graith,
When beinly clad wi’ shell fu’ braw

O'guid braid claith.
Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't!
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at;
A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit

While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit

Wi’guid braid claith.
On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
When he has done wi' scrapin' wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadows, or the Park,
Fergusson's Tomb.

In guid braid claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there, Fergusson may be considered the poetical pro

That they to shave your haffits bare, genitor of Burns. Meeting with his poems in his Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, youth, the latter strung his lyre anew,' and copied

Would be right laith, the style and subjects of his youthful prototype. When pacin' wi' a gawsy air The resemblance, however, was only temporary and

In guid braid claith. incidental. Burns had a manner of his own, and though he sometimes condescended, like Shakspeare,

If ony mettled stirrah green! to work after inferior models, all that was rich and

For favour frae a lady's een, valuable in the composition was original and un

He maunna care for bein' seen borrowed. He had an excessive admiration for the

Before he sheath writings of Fergusson, and even preferred them to

His body in a scabbard clean those of Ramsay, an opinion in which few will con

O'guid braid claith. cur. The forte of Fergusson lay, as we have stated, For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare, in his representations of town-life. The King's Birth- A feg for him she winna care, day, The Sitting of the Session, Leith Races, &c., are But crook her bonny mou fou sair, all excellent. Still better is his feeling description

And scauld him baith: of the importance of Guid Braid Claith, and his Wooers should aye their travel spare, Address to the Tron-Kirk Bell. In these we have a

Without braid claith. current of humorous observations, poetical fancy, Braid claith lends fouk an unca heeze ; and genuine idiomatic Scottish expression. The

Maks mony kail-worms butterflees; Farmer's Ingle suggested “The Cotter's Saturday

Gies mony a doctor his degrees, Night' of Burns, and it is as faithful in its descrip

For little skaith: tions, though of a humbler class. Burns added

In short, you may be what you please, passion, sentiment, and patriotism to the subject :

Wi' guid braid claith. Fergusson's is a mere sketch, an inventory of a farm-house, unless we except the concluding stanza,

For though yo had as wise a snout on, which speaks to the heart :-

As Shakspeare or Sir Isaac Newton,

Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on, Peace to the husbandman, and a his tribe,

I'll tak my aith, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!

Till they could see ye wi' a suit on
Lang may his sock and cou’ter turn the glebe,

O’guid braid claith.
And banks of corn bend down wi' laded ear !
May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green ;

To the Tron-Kirk Bell.
Her yellow hairsts frae scowry blasts decreed !
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien,

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freed-

As e'er was framed to jow or ring ! And a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed ! What gar'd them sic in steeple hing,

They ken themsel; In one department-lyrical poetry-whence Burns But weel wat I, they couldna bring draws so much of his glory-Fergusson does not

Waur sounds frae hell. seem, though a singer, to have made any efforts to excel. In English poetry he utterly failed, and if we consider him in reference to his countrymen,

1 Desire.


Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow,
Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now
Maun stap their lugg wi' teats o' woo,

Thy sound to bang,
And keep it frae gaun through and through

Wi’jarrin' twang.
Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't ;
Like scauldin' wife's, there is nae guidin't;
When I'm 'bout ony business eident,

It's sair to thole;
To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't,

Wi' senseless knoll.
Oh! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a'the powers aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down ;

Nor should you think
(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown)

Again to clink.
For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap,
And fain wald fa' owre in a nap,
Troth, I could doze as sound's a tap,

Were't no for thee,
That gies the tither weary chap

To wauken me.
I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick:
Quo' he—' This bell o' mine's a trick,
A wily piece o' politic,

A cunnin' snare,
To trap fouk in a cloven stick,

Ere they're aware.
As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
A' body at the kirk will skair;
Quo' they, if he that preaches there

Like it can wound,
We downa care a single hair,

For joyfu' sound.'
If magistrates wi' me would 'gree,
For aye tongue-tackit should you be ;
Nor fileg wi' anti-melody

Sic honest fouk,
Whase lugs were never made to dree

Thy dolefu' shock.
But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they would scunner at your knell;
Gie the foul thief his riven bell,

And then, I trow,
The byword hauds, ' The dies himsel

Has got his due.'
Scottish Scenery and Music.

From • Hame Content, a Satire.]
The Amo and the Tiber lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence o' schools,
They're baith but lifeless, dowie pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonnie Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer bead ?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Though there the herds can jink the showers
'Mang thriving vines and myrtle bowers,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While echo's tongue commends their pains ;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple saft bewitching art.
On Leader haughs and Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.

Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread
The simmer's flowery velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightful lowse
On Tweeda's bank or Cowdenknowes.

That, ta'en wi' thy enchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleased they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;
Soon will they guess ye only wear
The simple garb o' nature here;
Mair comely far, and fair to sight,
When in her easy cleedin' dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tiber's or on Arno's shore.

O Bangour !l now the hills and dales
Nae mair gie back thy tender tales !
The birks on Yarrow now deplore,
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore.
Near what bright burn or crystal spring,
Did you your winsome whistle hing!
The muse shall there, wi' watery ee,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowie dame!
Shall there forget her bluid-stained stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Who mourned her fate, condoled her woes.

Cauler Water.
When father Adie first pat spade in
The bonnie yard o' ancient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in

To fire his mou;
Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin',

For bein' fou.
A cauler burn o'siller sheen,
Ran cannily out-owre the green;
And when our gutcher's drouth had been

To bide right gair,
He loutit down, and drank bedeen

A dainty skair.
His bairns had a', before the flood,
A langer tack o'flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood

Than Noah's line,
Wha still hae been a feckless brood,

Wi' drinkin' wine.
The fuddlin' bardies, now-a-days,
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise;
And limp and stoiter through their lays

While each his sea of wine displays

As big's the Pontic.
My Muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth, the jillet ye might blame

For thinkin' on't,
When eithly she can find the theme

This is the name that doctors use,
Their patients' noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,

They labour still
In kittle words to gar you roose

Their want o' skill.
But we'll hae nae sic clitter-clatter;
And, briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd guid cauler water;

Than whilk, I trow,
Few drugs in doctors' shops are better

For me or you.
Though joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in cauler water flung

Out-owre the lugs,
'Twill mak you souple, swack, and young,

Withouten drugs.
Mr Hamilton of Bangour, author of the beautiful ballad
The Braes of Yarrow.'

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Though cholic or the heart-scad teaze us;

Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills, Or ony inward dwaam should seize us;

Supply them in their Sunday's gills;
It masters a' sic fell diseases

Where writers aften spend their pence,
That would ye spulzie,

To stock their heads wi' drink and sense.
And brings them to a canny crisis

While danderin cits delight to stray
Wi' little tulzie.

To Castlehill or public way,

Where they nae other purpose mean, Were't no for it, the bonnie lasses

Than that fool cause o' being seen,
Wad glower nae mair in keekin'-glasses;

Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue,
And soon tyne dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen

Where bonnie pastures meet the view,
In gleefư looks, and bonnie faces,

And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues,
To catch our een.

Befitting Willie Shakspeare's muse.

If Fancy there would join the thrang, The fairest, then, might die a maid,

The desert rocks and hills amang, And Cupid quit his shootin' trade;

To echoes we should lilt and play,
For wha, through clarty masquerade,

And gie to mirth the live-lang day.
Could then discover

Or should some cankered biting shower
Whether the features under shade

The day and a' her sweets deflower,
Were worth a lover?

To Holyrood-house let me stray,
As simmer rains bring simmer flowers,

And gie to musing a' the day; And leaves to cleed the birken bowers,

Lamenting what auld Scotland kner,
Sae beauty gets by cauler showers

Bein days for ever frae her view.
Sae rich a bloom,

O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse
As for estate, or heavy dowers,

Would pay to thee her couthy vows,
Aft stands in room.

Gin ye wad tent the humble strain,

And gie's our dignity again! What maks Auld Reekie's dames sae fair?

For, oh, wac's me! the thistle springs It canna be the halesome air;

In domicile o' ancient kings,
But cauler burn, beyond compare,

Without a patriot to regret
The best o' onie,

Our palace and our ancient state.
That gars them a' sic graces skair,

And blink sae bonnie. On May-day, in a fairy ring,

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF THE PERIOD 1727-1780. We've seen them round St Anthon's spring,

Ad Amicos.
Frae grass the cauler dew-draps wring
To weet their een,

[By Richard West -- written at the age of twenty. This And water, clear as crystal spring,

amiable poet died in his twenty-sixth year, 1742.] To synd them clean. Oh may they still pursue the way

Yes, happy youths, on Camus' sedgy side,

You feel each joy that friendship can divide; To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay !

Each realm of science and of art explore,
Then shall their beauties glance like May;

And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
And, like her, be

Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
The goddess of the vocal spray,

To raise the genius, or the heart to mend;
The Muse and me.

Now pleased along the cloistered walk you rove,

And trace the verdant mazes of the grove, [A Sunday in Edinburgh.]

Where social oft, and oft alone, ye choose, [From Auld Reekie.']

To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse. On Sunday, here, an altered scene

Meantime at me (while all deroid of art

These lines give back the image of my heart),
O' men and manners meets our een.
Ane wad maist trow, some people chose

At me the power that comes or soon or late,
To change their faces wi' their clo’es,

Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate; And fain wad gar ilk neibour think

From you remote, methinks, alone I stand, They thirst for guidness as for drink;

Like some sad exile in a desert land ; But there's an unco dearth o' grace,

Around no friends their lenient care to join That has nae mansion but the face,

In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine. And never can obtain a part

Or real pains, or those which fancy raise, In benmost corner o' the heart.

For ever blot the sunshine of my days ;

To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Why should religion mak us sad,

Health turns from me her rosy face away.
If good frae virtue's to be had ?
Na: rather gleefu’ turn your face,

Just Heaven! what sin ere life begins to bloom, Forsake hypocrisy, grimace;

Devotes my head untimely to the tomb? And never hae it understood

Did e'er this hand against a brother's life You fleg mankind frae being good.

Drug the dire bowl, or point the murderous knife! In afternoon, a' brawly buskit,

Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim, The joes and lasses loe to frisk it.

Or madly violate my Maker's name? Some tak a great delight to place

Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, The modest bon-grace owre the face;

Or know a thought but all the world might know? Though you may see, if so inclined,

As yet just started from the lists of time, The turning o' the leg behind.

My growing years have scarcely told their prime;

Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
Now, Comely-Garden and the Park
Refresh them, after forenoon's wark:

No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.

Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear, 1 St Anthony's Well, a beautiful small spring, on Arthur's Would pluck the promise of the vernal year; Seat, near Edinburgh. Thither it is still the practice of young Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray, Edinburgh maidens to resort on May-day.

Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray?


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