My father couldna wark-my mother couldna spin- My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back, My father urged me sair-my mither didna speak, I hadna been his wife a week but only four, Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die, For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. MISS JANE ELLIOT AND MRS. COCKBURN. Two national ballads, bearing the name of 'The Flowers of the Forest,' continue to divide the favour of all lovers of song, and both are the composition cf ladies. In minute observation of domestic life, traits of character and manners, and the softer language of the heart, ladies have often excelled the lords of the creation.' The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto (1727-1805), daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto. The second song, which appears to be on the same subject, but was in reality occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford of Fernilie, who was afterwards married to Mr. Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794. We agree with Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective. Sir Walter Scott has noticed how hap pily the manner of the ancient minstrels is imitated by Miss Elliot. The Flowers of the Forest; by Miss Jane Elliot. I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning- At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, The Flowers of the Forest; by Mrs. Cockburn I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Kind its caressing; But now 'tis fled-fled far away. I've seen the forest, Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Their scent the air perfuming! But now they are withered and weeded away. And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your frowns can fear me; ROBERT FERGUSSON. ROBERT FERGUSSON was the poet of Scottish city-life, or rather the laureate of Edinburgh. A happy talent in portraying the peculiarities of local manners, a keen perception of the ludicrous, a vein of original comic humour, and language at once copious and expressive, distinguished him as a poet. He had not the invention or picturesque fancy of Allan Ramsay, nor the energy and passion of Burns. His mind was a light warm soil, that threw up early its native products, sown by chance or little exertion; but it had not strength and tenacity 1 One who binds sheaves after reapers in the harvest-field. 2 Gray-haired. to nurture any great or valuable production. A few short years, however, comprised his span of literature and of life; and criticism would be ill employed in scrutinising with severity the occasional poems of a youth of twenty-three, written from momentary feelings and impulses, amidst professional drudgery or midnight dissipation. Fergusson was born in Edinburgh on the 17th of October 1751. His father, who was an accountant in the British Linen Company's Bank, died early; but the poet received a university education, having obtained a bursary in St. Andrews, where he continued from his thirteenth to his seventeenth year. On quitting college, he seems to have been truly unfitted with an aim,' and he was glad to take employment as a copying-clerk in a lawyer's office. In this mechanical and irksome duty his days were spent. His evenings were devoted to the tavern, where, over cauler oysters,' with ale or whisky, the choice spirits of Edinburgh used to assemble. Fergusson had dangerous qualifications for such a life. His conversational powers were of a very superior description, and he could adapt them at will to humour, pathos, or sarcasm, as the occasion might require. He was well educated, had a fund of youthful gaiety, and sung Scottish songs with taste and effect. To these qualifications he soon added the reputation of a poet. Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine' had been commenced in 1768, and was the chosen receptacle for the floating literature of that period in Scotland, particularly in Edinburgh. During the last two years of his life, Fergusson was a constant contributor to this miscellany, and in 1773 he collected and published his pieces in one volume. It was well received by the public. His dissipations, however, were always on the increase. His tavern-life and boon-companions were hastening him on to a premature and painful death. His reason first gave way, and his widowed mother being unable to maintain him at home, he was sent to an asylum for the insane. The religious impressions of his youth returned at times to overwhelm him with dread, but his gentle and affectionate nature was easily soothed by the attentions of his relatives and friends. His recovery was anticipated, but after about two months' confinement, he died in his cell on the 16th of October 1774. His remains were interred in the Canongate churchyard, where they lay unnoticed for many years, till Burns erected a simple stone to mark the poet's grave. The heartlessness of convivial friendships is well known: they literally 'wither and die in a day.' It is related, however, that a youthful companion of Fergusson, named Burnet, having gone to the East Indies, and made some money, invited over the poet, sending at the same time a draft for £100 to defray his expenses. This instance of generosity came too late: the poor poet had died before the letter arrived. ་ Fergusson may be considered the poetical progenitor of Burns. Meeting with his poems in his youth, the later strung his lyre anew,' and copied the style and subjects of his youthful prototype, The resemblance, however, was only temporary and incidental, Burns had a manner of his own, and though he sometimes condescended, like Shakspeare, to work after inferior models, all that was rich and valuable in the composition was original and unborrowed. He had an excessive admiration for the writings of Fergusson, and even preferred them to those of Ramsay, an opinion in which few will concur. The forte of Fergusson lay, as we have stated, in his representations of town-life. The King's Birthday,' 'The Sitting of the Session,' 'Leith Races,' &c. are all excellent. Still better is his feeling description of the importance of 'Guid Braid Claith,' and his 'Address to the Tron Kirk Bell.' In these we have a current of humorous observations, poetical fancy, and genuine idiomatic Scottish expression. The Farmer's Ingle' suggested the 'Cotter's Saturday Night' of Burns, and it is as faithful in its descriptions, though of a humbler class. Burns added passion, sentiment, and patriotism to the subject: Fergusson's is a mere sketch, an inventory of a farmhouse, unless we except the concluding stanza, which speaks to the heart: · Peace to the husbandman, and a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freed-' In one department-lyrical poetry, whence Burns draws so much of his glory-Fergusson does not 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, Falconer or Logan-he received the same education as the latter-his inferior rank as a general poet will be apparent. Ye wha are fain to hae your name To laurelled wreath, Braid Claith. While he draws breath, On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Gangs trigly, faith! Or to the Meadows, or the Park, Weel might ye trow, to see them there, The fuddlin' bardies, now-a-days, While each his sea of wine displays My Muse will no gang far frae hame, When eithly she can find the theme This is the name that doctors use, In kittle words to gar you roose 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 Though joints be stiff as ony rung, Out-owre the lugs, "Twill mak you souple, swack, and young, Withouten drugs. Though colic or the heart-scad tease us ; Or ony inward dwaam should seize us; It masters a' sic fell diseases That would ye spulzie, And brings them to a canny crisis Wi' little tulzie. Were 't no for it, the bonny lasses In gleefu' looks, and bonny faces, The fairest, then, might die a maid, As simmer rains brings simmer flowers, As for estate, or heavy dowers, What maks Auld Reekie's dames sae fair? That gars them a' sic graces skair, |