Fergusson may be considered the poetical progenitor of Burns. Meeting with his poems in his youth, the latter 'strung his lyre anew,' and copied

Fergusson's Tomb.

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 Birth-day, 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! Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the glebe,

And banks of corn bend down wi' laded ear! May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green; Her yellow hairsts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien,

Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freedAnd a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

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.

Braid Claith.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote i' the bonny 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,
In guid braid claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl and sleek a pickle hair,

Would be right laith,

When pacin' wi' a gawsy air

In guid braid claith.

If ony mettled stirrah grien
For favour frae a lady's een,
He maunna care for bein' seen
Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean
O' guid braid claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare,
A fig for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou fou sair,
And scauld him baith:
Wooers should aye their travel spare,
Without braid claith.

Braid claith lends fouk an unco heeze;
Maks mony kail-worms butterflees;
Gies mony a doctor his degrees,
For little skaith:

In short, you may be what you please,
Wi' guid braid claith.

For though ye had as wise a snout on,
As Shakspeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,

Till they could see ye wi' a suit on
O' guid braid claith.

To the Tron Kirk Bell. Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing, As e'er was framed to jow or ring! What gared them sic in steeple hing, They ken themsel; But weel wat I, they couldna bring Waur sounds frae hell.

*

Scottish Scenery and Music.
[From Hame Content, a Satire.]

The Arno 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' bonny 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! 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 e'e, 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 bonny 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 sair,

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
Anacreontic,
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
O' aquafont.

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.

1 Mr Hamilton of Bangour, author of the beautiful ballad The Braes of Yarrow.

fortnight's French, and was one summer-quarter at land-surveying. He had a few books, among which upon his new occupation at Whitsunday 1788. He had obtained -what he anxiously desired as an addition to his means as a farmer-an appointment in the Excise; but the duties of this office, and his own convivial habits, interfered with his management of the farm, and he was glad to abandon it. In 1791 he removed to the town of Dumfries, subsisting entirely on his situation in the Excise, which yielded £70 per annum. Here he published, in 1793, a third edition of his poems, with the addition of Tam o' Shanter, and other pieces composed at Ellisland. He died at Dumfries on the 21st of July 1796, aged thirty-seven years and about six months. The story of his life is so well known, that even this brief statement of dates seems unnecessary. In 1798 a fourth edition of his works was published in Edinburgh. Two years afterwards, in 1800, appeared the valuable and complete edition of Dr Currie, in four volumes, containing the correspondence of the poet, and a number of songs, contributed to Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, and Thomson's Select Scottish Melodies. The editions of Burns since 1800 could with difficulty be ascertained; they were reckoned a few years ago at about a hundred. His poems circulate in every shape, and have not yetgathered all their fame.'

were the Spectator, Pope's works, Allan Ramsay, and a collection of English songs. Subsequentlyabout his twenty-third year-his reading was enlarged with the important addition of Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, and Mackenzie. Other standard works soon followed. As the advantages of a liberal education were not within his reach, it is scarcely to be regretted that his library was at first so small. What books he had, he read and studied thoroughly

his attention was not distracted by a multitude of volumes-and his mind grew up with original and robust vigour. It is impossible to contemplate the life of Burns at this time, without a strong feeling of affectionate admiration and respect. His manly integrity of character-which, as a peasant, he guarded with jealous dignity-and his warm and true heart, elevate him, in our conceptions, almost We see him in the veriest shades of obscurity toilas much as the native force and beauty of his poetry. ing, when a mere youth, like a galley-slave,' to support his virtuous parents and their household, yet grasping at every opportunity of acquiring knowledge from men and books-familiar with the