Helen of Kirkconnel.

[Helen Irving, a young lady of exquisite beauty and accomplishments, daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of rank and fortune in that neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the sweet banks of the Kirtle, she was murdered by a disappointed and sanguinary rival. This catastrophe took place during the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, and is the subject of three different ballads: the first two are old, the third is the composition of the author of the Siller Gun. It was first inserted in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1815) by Sir Walter Scott.]

I wish I were where Helen lies,

For, night and day, on me she cries;
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sighed,
For me she wished to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

*The concluding verse of the old ballad is finer :
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies

For her sake that died for me.

Also an earlier stanza:

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms bird Helen dropt,
And died to succour me:

Frae far and near the country lads
(Their joes ahint them on their yads)
Flocked in to see the show in squads;
And, what was dafter,

Their pawky mithers and their dads
Cam trotting after !

And mony a beau and belle were there, Doited wi' dozing on a chair;

For lest they 'd, sleeping, spoil their hair,
Or miss the sight,

The gowks, like bairns before a fair,
Sat up a' night!

Wi' hats as black as ony raven,

Fresh as the rose, their beards new shaven,
And a' their Sunday's cleeding having
Sae trim and gay,

Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving
To wair that day.

Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl,
Weel may he bruik his new apparel!
And never dree the bitter snarl
O' scowling wife!

But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel,
Be blithe through life!

Hech, sirs! what crowds cam into town,
To see them mustering up and down!
Lasses and lads, sunburnt and brown-
Women and weans,
Gentle and semple, mingling, crown
The gladsome scenes!

At first, forenent ilk Deacon's hallan,
His ain brigade was made to fall in ;
And, while the muster-roll was calling,
And joy-bells jowing,

Het-pints, weel spiced, to keep the saul in,
Around were flowing!

Broiled kipper, cheese, and bread, and ham,
Laid the foundation for a dram

O' whisky, gin frae Rotterdam,
Or cherry brandy;

Whilk after, a' was fish that cam
To Jock or Sandy:

O! weel ken they wha lo'e their chappin,
Drink maks the auldest swack and strapping;
Gars Care forget the ills that happen-
The blate look spruce-

And even the thowless cock their tappin,
And craw fu' croose!

The muster owre, the different bands
File aff in parties to the sands;
Where, 'mid loud laughs and clapping hands,
Gley'd Geordy Smith

Reviews them, and their line expands
Alang the Nith!

But ne'er, for uniform or air,
Was sic a group reviewed elsewhere!
The short, the tall; fat folk, and spare;
Syde coats, and dockit;
Wigs, queues, and clubs, and curly hair;
Round hats, and cockit!

As to their guns-thae fell engines,
Borrowed or begged, were of a' kinds
For bloody war, or bad designs,
Or shooting cushies-
Lang fowling-pieces, carabines,
And blunderbusses!

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

SIR ALEXANDER Boswell (1775-1822), the eldest son of Johnson's biographer, was author of some amusing songs, which are still very popular. Auld Gudeman ye're a Drucken Carle, Jenny's Bawbee, Jenny Dang the Weaver, &c., display considerable comic humour, and coarse but characteristic painting. The higher qualities of simple rustic grace and elegance he seems never to have attempted. In 1803 Sir Alexander collected his fugitive pieces, and published them under the title of Songs chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. In 1810, he published a Scottish dialogue, in the style of Fergusson, called Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty; a Sketch of Manners, by Simon Gray. This Sketch is greatly overcharged. Sir Alexander was an ardent lover of our early literature, and reprinted several works at his private printing-press at Auchinleck. When politics ran high, he unfortunately wrote some personal satires, for one of which he received a challenge from Mr Stuart of Dunearn. The parties met at Auchtertool, in Fifeshire: conscious of his error, Sir Alexander resolved not to fire at his opponent; but Mr Stuart's shot took effect, and the unfortunate baronet fell. He died from the wound on the following day, the 26th of March 1822. He had been elevated to the baronetcy only the year previous. His brother, JAMES BOSWELL (1779-1822), an accomplished scholar and student of our early literature, edited Malone's edition of Shakspeare, 21 vols. 8vo, 1821. Sir Alexander had just returned

from the funeral of his brother when he engaged in the fatal duel.

Jenny Dang the Weaver. At Willie's wedding on the green, The lasses, bonny witches! Were a' dressed out in aprons clean,

And braw white Sunday mutches: Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent,

But Jock would not believe her; But soon the fool his folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver. And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Jenny dang the weaver; But soon the fool his folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver.

At ilka country-dance or reel,
Wi' her he would be bobbing;
When she sat down, he sat down,
And to her would be gabbing;
Where'er she gaed, baith butt and ben,
The coof would never leave her;
Aye keckling like a clocking hen,
But Jenny dang the weaver.
Jenny dang, &c.

Quo' he 'My lass, to speak my mind,
In troth I needna swither;
You've bonny een, and if you're kind,
I'll never seek anither:"

He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, 'Peugh,'
And bade the coof no deave her;

Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver.

And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,
Jenny dang the weaver;

Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver.

Jenny's Bawbee.

I met four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hingin' lugs, and faces lang;
I speered at neibour Bauldy Strang,
Wha's thae I see?

Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel,
Thought himsel' cunnin' as the de'il,
And here they cam, awa' to steal
Jenny's bawbee.

The first, a captain till his trade,
Wi' skull ill lined, and back weel clad,
Marched round the barn, and by the shed,
And pappit on his knee.

Quo' he 'My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een;'
But de'il a beauty he had seen
But-Jenny's bawbee.

A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee:

Accounts he had through a' the town,
And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;
Haith now he thought to clout his gown
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsened naig and siller whup,
Cried: There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
Or tie 't till a tree.

'What's gowd to me?-I've walth o' lan';
Bestow on ane o' worth your han';'
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's baw bee.

A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs,
A Thing cam neist-but life has rubs-
Foul were the roads, and fou the dubs,
Ah! waes me!

A' clatty, squintin' through a glass, He girned, 'I' faith a bonny lass!' He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, Jenny's bawbee.

She bade the laird gang comb his wig,
The sodger no to strut sae big,
The lawyer no to be a prig,

The fool cried: "Tehee,

'I kent that I could never fail !' She preened the dish-clout till his tail, And cooled him wi' a water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.

Good-Night, and Joy be wi ye a'.

[This song is supposed to proceed from the mouth of an aged chieftain.]

Good-night, and joy be wi' ye a';

Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart;
May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw!
In sorrow may ye never part!
My spirit lives, but strength is gone;

The mountain-fires now blaze in vain:
Remember, sons, the deeds I've done,

And in your deeds I'll live again!

When on yon muir our gallant clan

Frae boasting foes their banners tore, Wha shewed himself a better man,

Or fiercer waved the red claymore? But when in peace-then mark me there— When through the glen the wanderer came, I gave him of our lordly fare,

I gave him here a welcome hame.

The auld will speak, the young maun hear;
Be cantie, but be good and leal;
Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,
Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,

I'll see you triumph ere I fa';

My parting breath shall boast you mineGood-night, and joy be wi' you a'.

[The High Street of Edinburgh.] [From Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty.] Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise, Whose azure summits mingle with the skies ;* There, from the earth the labouring porters bear The elements of fire and water high in air; There, as you scale the steps with toilsome tread, The dripping barrel madifies your head; Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel, A rising porter greets you with his creel!

*Sir Alexander seems to have remembered the fourth line in Campbell's Pleasures of Hope:

Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky. But Campbell used to confess that he stole his line from Telford's forgotten poem on Eskdale:

Here lofty hills in varied prospect rise, Whose airy summits mingle with the skies. 428

Here, in these chambers, ever dull and dark,
The lady gay received her gayer spark,
Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread,
Trembled at opening casements overhead;
But when in safety at her porch he trod,
He seized the ring, and rasped the twisted rod.
No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet,
Linked, six a-row, six hours in Princes Street;
But, one by one, they panted up the hill,
And picked their steps with most uncommon skill;
Then, at the Cross, each joined the motley mob-
'How are ye, Tam? and how's a' wi' ye, Bob?'
Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired,

And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired.
O'er draughts of wine the beau would moan his love;
O'er draughts of wine the cit his bargain drove :
O'er draughts of wine the writer penned the will;
And legal wisdom counselled o'er a gill.

Yes, mark the street, for youth the great resort,

Its spacious width the theatre of sport.
There, midst the crowd, the jingling hoop is driven;
Full many a leg is hit, and curse is given.

There, on the pavement, mystic forms are chalked,
Defaced, renewed, delayed-but never balked;
There romping Miss the rounded slate may drop,
And kick it out with persevering hop.
There, in the dirty current of the strand,
Boys drop the rival corks with ready hand,
And, wading through the puddle with slow pace,
Watch in solicitude the doubtful race!

And there, an active band, with frequent boast,
Vault in succession o'er each wooden post.
Or a bold stripling, noted for his might,
Heads the array, and rules the mimic fight.
From hand and sling now fly the whizzing stones,
Unheeded broken heads and broken bones.
The rival hosts in close engagement mix,
Drive and are driven by the dint of sticks.
The bicker rages, till some mother's fears
Ring a sad story in a bailie's ears.

Her prayer is heard; the order quick is sped,
And, from that corps which hapless Porteous led,
A brave detachment, probably of two,
Rush, like two kites, upon the warlike crew,
Who, struggling, like the fabled frogs and mice,
Are pounced upon, and carried in a trice.
But, mark that motley group, in various garb-
There vice begins to form her rankling barb;
The germ of gambling sprouts in pitch-and-toss,
And brawl, successive, tells disputed loss.
From hand to hand the whirling halfpence pass,
And, every copper gone, they fly to brass.
Those polished rounds which decorate the coat,
And brilliant shine upon some youth of note,
Offspring of Birmingham's creative art,
Now from the faithful button-holes depart.
To sudden twitch the rending stitches yield,
And Enterprise again essays the field.
So, when a few fleet years of his short span
Have ripened this dire passion in the man,
When thousand after thousand takes its flight
In the short circuit of one wretched night,
Next shall the honours of the forest fall,
And ruin desolate the chieftain's hall;
Hill after hill some cunning clerk shall gain;
Then in a mendicant behold a thane!

JAMES HOGG.

JAMES HOGG, generally known by his poetical name of 'The Ettrick Shepherd,' was perhaps the most creative and imaginative of the uneducated poets. His fancy had a wide range, picturing in its flights scenes of wild aërial magnificence and beauty. His taste was very defective, though he had done

When by myself I 'gan to play,
He tried to wile my harp away.
Just when her notes began with skill,
To sound beneath the southern hill,
And twine around my bosom's core,
How could we part for evermore?
'Twas kindness all-I cannot blame-
For bootless is the minstrel flame:

But sure a bard might well have known

Another's feelings by his own!

Scott was grieved at this allusion to his friendly counsel, as it was given at a time when no one dreamed of the shepherd possessing the powers that he displayed in The Queen's Wake. Various works now proceeded from his pen-Mador of the Moor, a poem in the Spenserian stanza; The Pilgrims of the Sun, in blank verse; The Hunting of Badlewe, The Poetic Mirror, Queen Hynde, Dramatic Tales, &c. Also several novels, as Winter Evening Tales, The Brownie of Bodsbeck, The Three Perils of Man, The Three Perils of Woman, The Confessions of a Sinner, &c. Hogg's prose is very unequal. He had no skill in arranging incidents or delineating character. He is often coarse and extravagant; yet some of his stories have much of the literal truth and happy minute painting of De Foe. The worldly schemes of the shepherd were seldom successful. Though he had failed as a sheep-farmer, he ventured again, and took a large farm, Mount Benger, from the Duke of Buccleuch. Here he also was unsuccessful; and his sole support, for the latter years of his life, was the remuneration afforded by his literary labours. He lived in a cottage which he had built at Altrive, on a piece of moorland-seventy acres-presented to him by the Duchess of Buccleuch. His love of angling and field-sports amounted to a passion, and when he could no longer fish or hunt, he declared his belief that his death was near. In the autumn of 1835 he was attacked with a dropsical complaint; and on the 21st of November of that year, after some days of insensibility, he breathed his last as calmly, and with as little pain, as he ever fell asleep in his gray plaid on the hillside. His death was deeply mourned in the vale of Ettrick, for all rejoiced in his fame; and, notwithstanding his personal foibles, the shepherd was generous, kind-hearted, and charitable far beyond his means.

In the activity and versatility of his powers, Hogg resembled Allan Ramsay more than he did Burns. Neither of them had the strength of passion or the grasp of intellect peculiar to Burns; but, on the other hand, their style was more discursive, playful, and fanciful. Burns seldom projects himself, as it were, out of his own feelings and situation, whereas both Ramsay and Hogg are happiest when they soar into the world of fancy or the scenes of antiquity. The Ettrick Shepherd abandoned himself entirely to the genius of old romance and legendary story. He loved, like Spenser, to luxuriate in fairy visions, and to picture scenes of supernatural splendour and beauty, where

The emerald fields are of dazzling glow,
And the flowers of everlasting blow.

His Kilmeny is one of the finest fairy tales that ever was conceived by poet or painter; and passages in the Pilgrims of the Sun have the same abstract remote beauty and lofty imagination. Burns would have scrupled to commit himself to these aërial phantoms. His visions were more material, and linked to the joys and sorrows of actual existence. Akin to this peculiar feature in Hogg's poetry is the spirit of most of his songs-a wild lyrical flow

of fancy, that is sometimes inexpressibly sweet and musical. He wanted art to construct a fable, and taste to give due effect to his imagery and conceptions; but there are few poets who impress us so much with the idea of direct inspiration, and that poetry is indeed an art 'unteachable and untaught.'

Bonny Kilmeny.

[From The Queen's Wake.]
Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the yorlin sing,
And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;
The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,
And the nut that hang frae the hazel-tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',
And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw;
Lang the laird of Duneira blame,

And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled,
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,
When the beadsman had prayed, and the dead-bell rung,
Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,
The reek o' the cot hung over the plain
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;
When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame!
'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean;
By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat ye that joup o' the lily sheen?
That bonny snood of the birk sae green?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?'

Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
As still was her look, and as still was her e'e,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew,
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been. . . .

In yon greenwood there is a waik,
And in that waik there is a wene,

And in that wene there is a maike
That neither hath flesh, blood, nor bane;
And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane!
In that green wene Kilmeny lay,

Her bosom happed wi' the flowrets gay;
But the air was soft, and the silence deep,
And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep;
She kend nae mair, nor opened her e'e,
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye,
She wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim,
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;
And lovely beings round were rife,
Who erst had travelled mortal life. . . .
They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,
They kissed her cheek, and they kamed her hair,
And round came many a blooming fere,
Saying: Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!'

*