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Menie.

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steeped in morning dews.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,

In vain to me the violets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims,

And everything is blessed but I. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A wo-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree:
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

Ae Fond Kiss.

['These exquisitely affecting stanzas contain the essence of a thousand love tales.'-Scott.]

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas! for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
My Bonnie Mary.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie;
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;

But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
Mary Morison.

['One of my juvenile works.'-Burns. Of all the productions of Burns, the pathetic and serious love songs which he has left behind him in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines of Mary Morison, &c.'-Hazlitt.]

Oh Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha”,
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
Bruce's Address.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die!

ALEXANDER WILSON.

ALEXANDER WILSON, a distinguished naturalist. was also a good Scottish poet. He was a native of Paisley, and born July 6, 1766. He was brought up to the trade of a weaver, but afterwards preferred that of a pedlar, selling muslin and other wares. In 1789 he added to his other commodities a prospectus of a volume of poems, trusting, as he said,

If the pedlar should fail to be favoured with sale, Then I hope you'll encourage the poet.

He did not succeed in either character; and after publishing his poems he returned to the loom. In 1792 he issued anonymously his best poem, Watty and Meg, which was at first attributed to Burns. A foolish personal satire, and a not very wise admiration of the principles of equality disseminated at the time of the French Revolution, drove Wilson to America in the year 1794. There he was once more a weaver and a pedlar, and afterwards a schoolmaster. A love of ornithology gained upon him, and he wandered over America, collecting specimens of birds. In 1808 appeared his first volume of the American Ornithology, and he continued collecting and publishing, traversing swamps and forests in quest of rare birds, and undergoing the greatest privations and fatigues, till he had committed an eighth volume to the press. He sank under his severe labours on the 23d of August 1813, and was interred with public honours at Philadelphia. In the Ornithology of Wilson we see the fancy and descriptive powers of the poet. The following extract is part of his account of the bald eagle, and is extremely vivid and striking :

of wing, and sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish-hawk, settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and balancing himself with half-opened wings on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around. At this moment the eager looks of the eagle are all ardour; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air with screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, instantly gives chase, and soon gains on the fish-hawk; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencontres the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unencumbered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish: the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods.'

By way of preface, 'to invoke the clemency of the reader,' Wilson relates the following exquisite trait of simplicity and nature:

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"The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the fish procured there, as for the numerous carcases of squirrels, deer, bears, and various other animals, that, in their attempts to cross the river above the falls, have been dragged into the current, In one of my late visits to a friend in the counand precipitated down that tremendous gulf, where, try, I found their youngest son, a fine boy of eight among the rocks that bound the rapids below, they or nine years of age, who usually resides in town furnish a rich repast for the vulture, the raven, and for his education, just returning from a ramble the bald eagle, the subject of the present account. through the neighbouring woods and fields, where He has been long known to naturalists, being com- he had collected a large and very handsome bunch mon to both continents, and occasionally met with of wild flowers, of a great many different colours; from a very high northern latitude to the borders and, presenting them to his mother, said, “Look, of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the my dear mamma, what beautiful flowers I have sea, and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and found growing on our place! Why, all the woods large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the are full of them! red, orange, and blue, and 'most severest cold, feeding equally on the produce of the every colour. Oh! I can gather you a whole parcel sea and of the land, possessing powers of flight of them, much handsomer than these, all growing capable of outstripping even the tempests them-in our own woods! Shall I, mamma? Shall I go selves, unawed by anything but man, and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad at one glance on an immeasurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes, and ocean deep below him, he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons, as in a few minutes he can pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from thence descend at will to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth. He is, therefore, found at all seasons in the countries he inhabits; but prefers such places as have been mentioned above, from the great partiality he has for fish.

In procuring these, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring, and tyrannieal; attributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but when put forth, overpowering all opposition. Elevated on the high dead limb of some gigantic tree that commands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to contemplate the motions of the various feathered tribes that pursue their busy avocations below; the snow-white gulls slowly winnowing the air; the busy tringæ coursing along the sands; trains of ducks streaming over the surface; silent and watchful cranes intent and wading; clamorous crows; and all the winged multitudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these hovers one whose action instantly arrests his whole attention. By his wide curvature

and bring you more?" The good woman received the bunch of flowers with a smile of affectionate complacency; and, after admiring for some time the beautiful simplicity of nature, gave her willing consent, and the little fellow went off on the wings of ecstacy to execute his delightful commission.

The similarity of this little boy's enthusiasm to my own struck me, and the reader will need no explanations of mine to make the application. Should my country receive with the same gracious indulgence the specimens which I here humbly present her; should she express a desire for me to go and bring her more, the highest wishes of my ambition will be gratified; for, in the language of my little friend, our whole woods are full of them, and I can collect hundreds more, much handsomer than these.'

The ambition of the poet-naturalist was amply gratified.

[A Village Scold surprising her Husband in an
Ale-house.]

I' the thrang o' stories tellin,
Shakin hands and jokin queer,
Swith! a chap comes on the hallan-
'Mungo! is our Watty here?'

Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry
Darted through him like a knife:
Up the door flew-like a fury
In came Watty's scoldin wife.

"Nasty, gude-for-naething being!
O ye snuffy drucken sow!
Bringin wife and weans to ruin,
Drinkin here wi' sic a crew!
Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel!
Drink's your night and day's desire;
Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll
Fling your whisky i' the fire!'
Watty heard her tongue unhallowed,
Paid his groat wi' little din,
Left the house, while Maggy fallowed,
Flyting a' the road behin'.

Folk frae every door came lampin,
Maggy curst them ane and a',
Clapped wi' her hands, and stampin,
Lost her bauchels! i' the snaw.

Hame, at length, she turned the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout,

Ragin like a very devil,

Kickin stools and chairs about.
'Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round ye-
Hang you, sir, I'll be your death!
Little hauds my hands, confound you,
But I cleave you to the teeth!'
Watty, wha, 'midst this oration,
Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak,
Sat, like patient Resignation,
Trembling by the ingle-cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
(Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell),
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighin aften to himsel

'Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilk ane has his ills to dree;
But through a' the hale creation
Is nae mortal vexed like me.'

[A Pedlar's Story.]

I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat,
Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table;
I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable:
Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.

Ay! thae were days indeed, that gar'd me hope,
Aiblins, through time to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,

I kenned my Kate wad grapple at me than.
Oh, Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks! were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whene'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal day but set;
Stapped her pouches fu' o' preens and laces,
And thought mysel weel paid wi' twa three kisses:
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug would say,
'Ae half-year langer's no nae unco stop,
We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop.'

Oh, sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care:
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he loes?
A lover true minds this in all he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I couldna get her to relent,
There was nought left but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventured there in spite o' wind and weet.
Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the snaw
For three hale days incessantly did fa';

1 Old shoes.

Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Where nought was seen but mountains and the lift,
I lost my road and wandered mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.
Thus wandering, east or west, I kenned na where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe I plunged at ance, forsooth,
Down through a wreath o' snaw up to my mouth-
Clean owre my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens-I never knew!

What great misfortunes are poured down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinder-end was come!
Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul owercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsled roun' and roun',
I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole.

Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wandered up and down,
Till chance at last conveyed me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate,
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon would gather mair,
Wi' whilk I hoped, within a towmont's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.

Fool that I was! how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for faut o' clink!
The loss o' fair-won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this-ne'er had power to force a tear.

I trusted time would bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate! would then be a' mine ain:
Consoled my mind in hopes o' better luck-
But, oh! what sad reverse! how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That-Kate was cried and married on anither!

Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,
At ance had drapped cauld dead at my feet;
Or though I'd heard the last day's dreadful ca',
Nae deeper horror owre my heart could fa':
I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate,
And grat-and sabbing cried, Oh Kate! oh Kate!
Frae that day forth I never mair did weel,
But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil!
My siller vanished, far frae hame I pined,
But Kate for ever ran across my mind;
In her were a' my hopes-these hopes were vain,
And now I'll never see her like again.

HECTOR MACNEILL.

HECTOR MACNEILL (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but was unsuccessful in most of his business affairs. He cultivated in secret an attachment to the muses, which at length brought him fame, though not wealth. In 1789 he published a legendary poem, The Harp, and in 1795 his moral tale, Scotland's Skaith, or the History o' Will and Jean. The object of this production was to depict the evil effects of intemperance. A happy rural pair are reduced to ruin, descending by gradual steps till the husband is obliged to enlist as a soldier, and the wife to beg with her children through the country. The situation of the little ale-house where Will begins his unlucky potations is finely described. In a howm whose bonny burnie Whimpering rowed its crystal flood, Near the road where travellers turn aye, Neat and beild a cot-house stood:

White the wa's wi' roof new theekit,
Window broads just painted red;
Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit,
Haflins seen and haflins hid.

Up the gavel-end thick spreading
Crap the clasping ivy green,
Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin,
Raised a' round a cosey screen.
Down below a flowery meadow

Joined the burnie's rambling line;
Here it was that Howe the widow

That same day set up her sign. Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marvelling sees 'Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,'

Painted bright between twa trees.

'Godsake, Tam! here's walth for drinking! Wha can this new-comer be?'

'Hout,' quo' Tam, there's drouth in thinkingLet's in, Will, and syne we'll see.'

The rustic friends have a jolly meeting, and do not separate till ''tween twa and three' next morning. A weekly club is set up at Maggy Howe's, a newspaper is procured, and poor Will, the hero of the tale, becomes a pot-house politician, and soon goes to ruin. His wife also takes to drinking.

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace!
Wha in neebouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm.
Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?

Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But war ony half sae fair?

See them now-how changed wi' drinking!
A' their youthfu' beauty gane!

Davered, doited, daized, and blinking-
Worn to perfect skin and bane!
In the cauld month o' November
(Claise and cash and credit out),
Cowering o'er a dying ember,

Wi' ilk face as white's a clout!
Bond and bill and debts a' stoppit,
Ilka sheaf selt on the bent;
Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit
Now to pay the laird his rent.
No anither night to lodge here--

No a friend their cause to plead !
He's ta'en on to be a sodger,

She wi' weans to beg her bread!

The little domestic drama is happily wound up: Jeanie obtains a cottage and protection from the Duchess of Buccleuch; and Will, after losing a leg in battle, returns, placed on Chelsea's bounty,' and finds his wife and family.

Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',
Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;
On a cart, or in a wagon,
Hirpling aye towards the north.
Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,
Pondering on his thraward fate,
In the bonny month o' July,

Willie, heedless, tint his gate.
Saft the southland breeze was blawing,
Sweetly sughed the green aik wood;
Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,

Strack the ear wi' thundering thud:
Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;
Linties chirped on ilka tree;
Frae the west the sun, near setting,
Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.

Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!

Craigs and water, woods and glen! Roslin's banks unpeered by ony,

Save the Muses' Hawthornden! Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will (though hardly fit to gang) Wandered on through scenes inviting, Listening to the mavis' sang.

Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapt asleep.

'Soldier, rise!-the dews o' e'ening
Gathering, fa' wi' deadly skaith!—
Wounded soldier! if complaining,
Sleep na here, and catch your death.'

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Silent stept he on, poor fallow!

Listening to his guide before,
O'er green knowe and flowery hallow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.
Laigh it was, yet sweet and humble;
Decked wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.
Melville's towers sae white and stately,
Dim by gloaming glint to view;

Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red and lift sae blue.

Entering now, in transport mingle
Mother fond and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle
Bleezing on a clean hearthstane.
'Soldier welcome! come, be cheerie-
Here ye'se rest and tak' your bed-
Faint, waes me! ye seem, and weary,
Pale's your cheek sae lately red!"

'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till her;
'Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be ;
Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller

Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?"
Нае ye marked the dews o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray?

Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,
Drap when pierced by death mair fleet?
Then see Jean wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet.

After three lang years' affliction

(A' their waes now hushed to rest), Jean ance mair, in fond affection, Clasps her Willie to her breast.

The simple truth and pathos of descriptions like these appealed to the heart, and soon rendered Macneill's poem universally popular in Scotland. Its moral tendency was also a strong recommendation, and the same causes still operate in procuring readers for the tale, especially in that class best fitted to appreciate its rural beauties and homely pictures, and to receive benefit from the lessons it inculcates. Macneill wrote several Scottish lyrics, but he wanted the true genius for song-writing-the pathos, artlessness, and simple gaiety which should accompany the flow of the music. He published a descriptive poem, entitled The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling; and some prose tales, in which he laments the effect of modern

change and improvement. The latter years of the poet were spent in comparative comfort at Edinburgh, where he enjoyed the refined and literary society of the Scottish capital till an advanced age.

Mary of Castle-Cary.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea-
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,

Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature,
She never loved ony till ance she loed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary,
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:
Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your
scorning,

Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie.

Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling-
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

O Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to me,
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.

The Filial Vow.

Why heaves my mother oft the deep-drawn sigh?
Why starts the big tear glistening in her eye?
Why oft retire to hide her bursting grief!
Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish relief?
'Tis for my father, mouldering with the dead,
My brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid,
And for the pains which age is doomed to bear,
She heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and drops the secret
tear.

Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ,
But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy;
She grieves to think she may be burdensome,
Now feeble, old, and tottering to the tomb.
O hear me, Heaven! and record my vow;
Its non-performance let thy wrath pursue!
I swear, of what thy providence may give,
My mother shall her due maintenance have.
"Twas hers to guide me through life's early day,
To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way:
Now, while her powers in frigid languor sleep,
'Tis mine to hand her down life's rugged steep;
With all her little weaknesses to bear,
Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care.
"Tis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows
From lessening an aged parent's woes.

The filial piety of Tannahill is strikingly apparent from this effusion, but the inferiority of the lines to any of his Scottish songs shows how little at home he was in English. His mother outlived him thirteen

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ROBERT TANNAHILL.

ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of a superior order, whose songs rival all but the best of Burns's in popularity, was born in Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His education was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native town until his twenty-sixth year, when, with one of his younger brothers, he removed to Lancashire. There he continued two years, when the declining state of his father's health induced him to return. He arrived in time to receive the dying blessing of his parent, and a short time afterwards we find him writing to a friend- My brother Hugh and I are all that now remain at home, with our old mother, bending under age and frailty; and but seven years back, nine of us used to sit at dinner together.' Hugh married, and the poet was left alone with his widowed mother. On this occasion he adopted a resolution which he has expressed in the following

lines:

Robert Tannahill.

years. Though Tannahill had occasionally composed verses from a very early age, it was not till after this time that he attained to anything beyond mediocrity. Becoming acquainted with Mr R. A. Smith, a musical composer, the poet applied himself sedulously to lyrical composition, aided by the encouragement and the musical taste of his friend. Smith set some of his songs to original and appropriate airs, and in 1807 the poet ventured on the publication of a volume of poems and songs, of which the first impression, consisting of 900 copies, were sold in a few weeks. It is related that in a solitary walk on one occasion, his musings were interrupted.

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