His humour and lively characteristic painting are well displayed in the account of the different parties who, gay and fantastic, flock to the fair, as Chaucer's pilgrims did to the shrine of Thomas-â-Becket. The following verses describe the men from the north:

Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland

The horny-knuckled kilted Highlandman: From where upon the rocky Caithness strand Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began, And where Lochfine from her prolific sand

Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan, Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye, Plaided and breechless all, with Esau's hairy thigh. They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks, Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth; Claymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe, Are left to rust above the smoky hearth; Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks;

Their teeth are set most desperately for mirth; And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung Great wallets, crammed with cheese and bannocks and cold tongue.

Nor staid away the Islanders, that lie

To buffet of the Atlantic surge exposed; From Jura, Arran, Barra, Uist, and Skye, Piping they come, unshaved, unbreeched, unhosed; And from that Isle, whose abbey, structured high, Within its precincts holds dead kings enclosed, Where St Columba oft is seen to waddle

Gowned round with flaming fire upon the spire

astraddle.

Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr,

(Sweet Ayr! with crops of ruddy damsels blest, That, shooting up, and waxing fat and fair,

Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west!)
And from Dumfries, and from Kilmarnock (where
Are night-caps made, the cheapest and the best)
Blithely they ride on ass and mule, with sacks
In lieu of saddles placed upon their asses' backs.
Close at their heels, bestriding well-trapped nag,
Or humbly riding asses' backbone bare,
Come Glasgow's merchants, each with money-bag,
To purchase Dutch lintseed at Anster Fair-
Sagacious fellows all, who well may brag

Of virtuous industry and talents rare;

The accomplished men o' the counting-room confest,
And fit to crack a joke or argue with the best.
Nor keep their homes the Borderers, that stay
Where purls the Jed, and Esk, and little Liddel,
Men that can rarely on the bagpipe play,

And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle;
Avowed freebooters, that have many a day

Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill; Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a rogue That blots the eighth command from Moses' decalogue. And some of them in sloop of tarry side,

Come from North-Berwick harbour sailing out; Others, abhorrent of the sickening tide,

Have ta'en the road by Stirling brig about, And eastward now from long Kirkaldy ride,

Slugging on their slow-gaited asses stout, While dangling at their backs are bagpipes hung, And dangling hangs a tale on every rhymer's tongue.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL (1797-1835) was born in Glasgow, but, after his eleventh year, was brought up under the care of an uncle in Paisley. At the age of twenty-one, he was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk at that town. He early evinced a love

of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany entitled the Harp of Renfrewshire. A taste for antiquarian research

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools supposedivided with the muse the empire of Motherwell's genius, and he attained an unusually familiar acquaintance with the early history of our native literature, particularly in the department of traditionary poetry. The results of this erudition appeared in Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern (1827), a collection of Scottish ballads, prefaced by a historical introduction, which must be the basis of all future investigations into the subject. In the following year he became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his happiest poetical effusions. The talent and spirit which he evinced in his editorial duties, were the means of advancing him to the more important office of conducting the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He also joined with Hogg in editing the works of Burns; and he was collecting materials for a life of Tannahill, when he was suddenly cut off by a fit of apoplexy at the early age of thirty-eight. The taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities of Motherwell, rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. As an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, and truthful. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrels.

Jeanie Morrison.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve of life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears!
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

"Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part;

Sweet time!-sad time!-twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To lear ilk ither lear;

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remembered ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but

My lesson was in thee.

O mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said,
We cleeked thegither hame?

And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braes

The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!

Oh, lichtsome days and lang,

When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms, sprang!

O mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its water croon ?

The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wud
The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wud,
The burn sung to the trees,
And we with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' vera gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

The Midnight Wind.

Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by:
It speaks a tale of other years-
Of hopes that bloomed to die-
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie!

Far isles of the ocean thy lightning hath known,
And wide o'er the mainland thy horrors have shone.
Great sword of my father, stern joy of his hand!
Thou hast carved his name deep on the stranger's red
strand,

And won him the glory of undying song.
Keen cleaver of gay crests,
Sharp piercer of broad breasts,
Grim slayer of heroes, and scourge of the strong!
FAME GIVER! I kiss thee.

In a love more abiding than that the heart knows
For maiden more lovely than summer's first rose,
My heart's knit to thine, and lives but for thee;
In dreamings of gladness thou'rt dancing with me,
Brave measures of madness, in some battle field,
Where armour is ringing,
And noble blood springing,
And cloven, yawn helmet, stout hauberk, and shield.
DEATH GIVER! I kiss thee.

In joy and gladness,
In mirth and sadness,
Come signs and tokens ;
Life's angel brings
Upon its wings
Those bright communing
The soul doth keep-
Those thoughts of heaven
So pure and deep!

[Death.]

[This poem is supposed to have been the last, or among the last, of Nicoll's compositions.]

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass,

Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps; The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,

A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps; But I, who love them all, shall never be Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea! The sun shines sweetly-sweeter may it shine!Blessed is the brightness of a summer day; It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine, Although among green fields I cannot stray! Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you wave, Familiar with death, and neighbour to the grave! These words have shaken mighty human soulsLike a sepulchre's echo drear they soundE'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls The ivied remnants of old ruins round. Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?

Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away?

Are there not aspirations in each heart

After a better, brighter world than this? Longings for beings nobler in each part

Things more exalted-steeped in deeper bliss? Who gave us these? What are they? Soul, in thee The bud is budding now for immortality! Death comes to take me where I long to be;

One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower; Death comes to lead me from mortality,

To lands which know not one unhappy hour;

I have a hope, a faith-from sorrow here

The Exile's Song.

Oh! why left I my hame!
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep!
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs;
And, to the Indian maid,
The bulbul sweetly sings.
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang

O' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bell

Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard

Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every wo,

And a balm for every pain, But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep,

And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!

In the Days o' Langsyne.

In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young,
An' nae foreign fashions amang us had sprung;
When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our ain
yill,

An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the hill;
O! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye fill!
In the days o' langsyne we were happy and free,
Proud lords on the land, and kings on the sea!
To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were kind,

If I have loved the forest and the field,

Can I not love them deeper, better there?

If all that Power hath made, to me doth yield
Something of good and beauty-something fair-
Freed from the grossness of mortality,
May I not love them all, and better all enjoy?
A change from wo to joy-from earth to heaven,
Death gives me this-it leads me calmly where
The souls that long ago from mine were riven

May meet again! Death answers many a prayer.
Bright day, shine on! be glad: days brighter far
Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortals

are!

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

Though no Scottish poetry besides that of Burns attracts attention out of its native country, there is not wanting a band of able and warm-hearted men who continue to cultivate it for their own amusement and that of their countrymen. Amongst these may be mentioned MESSRS RODGER, BALLANTYNE, VEDDER, and GRAY: a high place in the class is due to MR ROBERT GILFILLAN, a native of Dunfermline, whose Poems and Songs have passed through three editions. The songs of Mr Gilfillan are marked by gentle and kindly feelings, and a smooth flow of versification, which makes them eminently suitable for being expressed in music.

The banner of Scotland float high in the wind!
In the days o' langsyne we aye ranted and sang
By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang;
Our lads busked braw, and our lasses looked fine,
An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine;
O! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne?
In the days o' langsyne ilka glen had its tale,
Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale;
An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain,
As it trotted alang through the valley or plain;
Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again?
In the days o' langsyne there were feasting and glee,
Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk ee; [tyne,
And the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to
It was your stoup the nicht, and the morn 'twas mine:
O! the days o' langsyne-O! the days o' langsyne.

The Hills o' Gallowa'.

[By Thomas Cunningham.] [Thomas Cunningham was the senior of his brother Allan by some years, and was a copious author in prose and verse, though with an undistinguished name, long before the author of the Lives of the British Painters was known. He died in 1834.]

Amang the birks sae blithe and gay,
I met my Julia hameward gaun;
The linties chantit on the spray,
The lammies loupit on the lawn;

On ilka howm the sward was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit braw,
And gloamin's plaid o' gray was thrawn
Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,

And fragrance winged alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,

And saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin' ee
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, and kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted ee wad hae, quoth I,

The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer.
But gi'e to me my Julia dear,

Ye powers wha row this yirthen ba',
And O! sae blithe through life I'll steer,
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,

And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That owre the muir meandering rows; Or, tint amang the scroggy knowes,

My birkin pipe I'll sweetly blaw, And sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills and dales o' Gallowa'. And when auld Scotland's heathy hills, Her rural nymphs and joyous swains, Her flowery wilds and wimpling rills,

Awake nae mair my canty strains; Whare friendship dwells and freedom reigns, Whare heather blooms and muircocks craw, O! dig my grave, and hide my banes Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Lucy's Flittin'.

[By William Laidlaw.]

[William Laidlaw is son of the Ettrick Shepherd's master at Blackhouse. All who have read Lockhart's Life of Scott,

know how closely Mr Laidlaw was connected with the illustrious baronet of Abbotsford. He was his companion in some of his early wanderings, his friend and land-steward in advanced years, his amanuensis in the composition of some of his novels, and he was one of the few who watched over his last sad and painful moments. Lucy's Flittin' is deservedly popular for its unaffected tenderness and simplicity. In printing the song, Hogg added the last four lines to complete the story."]

'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in,
And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,
That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,
And left her auld maister and neibours sae dear:
For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer;

She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';

Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see; 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' quo' Jamie, and ran in ; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. 'Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee ! If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.
Though now he said naething but "Fare ye weel, Lucy!"
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He couldna say mair but just," Fare ye weel, Lucy!"
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit;
The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea;
But Lucy likes Jamie ;'-she turned and she lookit,
She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless!
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!

The Brownie of Blednoch.

[By William Nicholson.]
There cam a strange wight to our town-en',
An' the fient a body did him ken;
He tirled na lang, but he glided ben

Wi' a dreary, dreary hum.

His face did glow like the glow o' the west,
When the drumly cloud has it half o'ercast;
Or the struggling moon when she's sair distrest.
O, sirs! 'twas Aiken-drum.

I trow the bauldest stood aback,

Wi' a gape an' a glower till their lugs did crack,
As the shapeless phantom mum'ling spak-
Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?

O! had ye seen the bairns' fright,

As they stared at this wild and unyirthly wight;
As they skulkit in 'tween the dark and the light,
And graned out, Aiken-drum!

The black dog growling cowered his tail,
The lassie swarfed, loot fa' the pail;
Rob's lingle brak as he men't the flail,

At the sight o' Aiken-drum.

His matted head on his breast did rest,
A lang blue beard wan'ered down like a vest;
But the glare o' his ee hath nae bard exprest,
Nor the skimes o' Aiken-drum.

Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen
But a philabeg o' the rashes green,
An' his knotted knees played aye knoit between-
What a sight was Aiken-drum!

On his wauchie arms three claws did meet,
As they trailed on the grun' by his taeless feet;
E'en the auld gudeman himsel' did sweat,
To look at Aiken-drum.

But he drew a score, himsel' did sain,
The auld wife tried, but her tongue was gane;
While the young ane closer clasped her wean,
And turned frae Aiken-drum.

But the canny auld wife cam till her breath,
And she deemed the Bible might ward aff scaith,
Be it benshee, bogle, ghaist, or wraith-

But it feared na Aiken-drum.

'His presence protect us!' quoth the auld gudeman; 'What wad ye, whare won ye, by sea or by lan'? I conjure ye-speak-by the beuk in my han'!' What a grane ga'e Aiken-drum!

'I lived in a lan' where we saw nae sky,

I dwalt in a spot where a burn rins na by;
But I'se dwall now wi' you if ye like to try-
Hae ye wark for Aiken-drum?