I freely will own I the muffins preferred You may talk what you please; you may search London through; You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too; How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife, So when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast Just to follow the employments and calls of the day; MRS THRALE. MRS THRALE (afterwards Mrs Piozzi), who lived for many years in terms of intimate friendship with Dr Johnson, is authoress of an interesting little moral poem, The Three Warnings, which is so superior to her other compositions, that it has been supposed to have been partly written, or at least corrected, by Johnson. This lady was a native of Wales, being born at Bodville, in Caernarvonshire, in 1740. In 1764 she was married to Mr Henry Thrale, an eminent brewer, who had taste enough to appreciate the rich and varied conversation of Johnson, and whose hospitality and wealth afforded the great moralist an asylum in his house. After the death of this excellent man, his widow married Signior Piozzi, an Italian music-master, a step which Johnson never could forgive. The lively lady proceeded with her husband on a continental tour, and they took up their abode for some time on the banks of the Arno. She afterwards published a volume of miscellaneous pieces, entitled The Florence Miscellany, and afforded a subject for the satire of Gifford, whose 'Baviad and Mæviad' was written to lash the Della Cruscan songsters with whom Mrs Piozzi was associated. The Anecdotes and Letters of Dr Johnson, by Mrs Piozzi, are the only valuable works which proceeded from her pen. She was a minute and clever observer of men and manners, but deficient in judgment, and not particular as to the accuracy of her relations. Mrs Piozzi died at Clifton in 1822. The Three Warnings. The tree of deepest root is found That love of life increased with years When sports went round, and all were gay, And left to live a little longer. To give you time for preparation, And grant a kind reprieve; Well pleased the world will leave.' Nor thought of Death as near: He passed his hours in peace. And now, one night, in musing mood, The unwelcome messenger of Fate Half-killed with anger and surprise, 'So soon returned!' old Dodson cries. 'So soon d'ye call it?' Death replies : 'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest! Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.' 'So much the worse,' the clown rejoined ; 'To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant.* Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.' 'I know,' cries Death,' that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable: Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!' 'Hold,' says the farmer, not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' And no great wonder,' Death replies: 'However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' 'Perhaps,' says Dodson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.' 'This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; The REV. THOMAS MOSS, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Hill, and of Trentham, in Staffordshire, published anonymously, in 1769, a collection of miscellaneous poems, forming a thin quarto, which he had printed at Wolverhampton. One piece was copied by Dodsley into his Annual Register,' and from thence has been transferred (different persons being assigned as the author) into almost every periodical and collection of fugitive verses. This poem is entitled The Beggar (sometimes called The Beggar's Petition), and contains much pathetic and natural sentiment finely expressed. The Beggar. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. * An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was the cause of so much contention in its day. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, Has been the channel to a stream of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, Oh! take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, The child of sorrow, and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter-once the comfort of my age! Lured by a villain from her native home, Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife-sweet soother of my care! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. SCOTTISH POETS. Though most Scottish authors at this time-as Thomson, Mallet, Hamilton, and Beattie-composed in the English language, a few, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue with considerable success. The popularity of Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany' led to other collections and to new contributions to Scottish song. In 1751 appeared 'Yair's Charmer,' and in 1769 David Herd published a more complete collection of Scottish Songs and Ballads,' which he reprinted, with additions, in 1776. ALEXANDER ROSS. ALEXANDER Ross, a schoolmaster in Lochlee, in Angus, when nearly seventy years of age, in 1768 published at Aberdeen, by the advice of Dr Beattie, a volume entitled Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which are added a few Songs by the Author. Ross was a good descriptive poet, and some of his songs -as Woo'd, and Married, and a', The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow-are still popular in Scotland. Being chiefly written in the Kincardineshire dialect (which differs in many expressions, and in pronunciation, from the Lowland Scotch of Burns), Ross is less known out of his native district than he ought to be. Beattie took a warm interest in the 'good humoured, social, happy old man'-who was independent on £20 a-year-and to promote the sale of his volume, he addressed a letter and a poetical epistle in praise of it to the Aberdeen Journal. The epistle is remarkable as Beattie's only attempt in Aberdeenshire Scotch; one verse of it is equal to Burns: O bonny are our greensward hows, Where through the birks the burnie rows, And saft winds rustle, And shepherd lads on sunny knowes Ross died in 1784, at the great age of eighty-six. Woo'd, and Married, and a'. The bride cam' out o' the byre, And have neither blankets nor sheets; Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Woo'd, and married, and a', Married, and woo'd, and a'! That was woo'd, and married, and a'? Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: O, haud your tongue my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yade, Will carry ye hame your cornWhat wad ye be at, ye jade? Out spake the bride's mither, What deil needs a' this pride? * Out spake the bride's brither, Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, And no for a poor man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life. Mary's Dream. The moon had climbed the highest hill Her head, to ask who there might be, Three stormy nights and stormy days So, Mary, weep no more for me! O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!' Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!' JOHN LOWE. JOHN LOWE (1750-1798), a student of divinity, son of the gardener at Kenmore in Galloway, was author of the fine pathetic lyric, Mary's Dream, which he wrote on the death of a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, who was attached to a Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was tutor in the family of the lady's father, and was betrothed to her sister. He emigrated to America, however, where he married another female, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Fredericksburgh. Though Lowe wrote numerous other pieces, prompted by poetical feeling and the romantic scenery of his native glen, his ballad alone is worthy of preservation. Balcarres House, Fifeshire; where Auld Robin Gray' was composed. About the year 1771, Lady Anne composed the ballad to an ancient air. It instantly became po Ipular, but the lady kept the secret of its authorship for the long period of fifty years, when, in 1823, she acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, accompanying the disclosure with a full account of the circumstances under which it was written. At the same time Lady Anne sent two continuations to the ballad, which, like all other continuations (Don Quixote, perhaps, excepted), are greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its parts, that no additions could be made without marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady Anne was daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres; she was born 8th December 1750, married in 1793 to Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III., and died, without issue, on the 8th of May 1825. Auld Robin Gray. When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride; But saving a croun, he had naething else beside : He hadna been awa a week but only twa, stown awa; My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, Said, Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry me! My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck: The ship it was a wreck-why didna Jamie dee? My father argued sair: my mother didna speak; Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he, Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee; And why do I live to say, Wae's me? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. MISS JANE ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN. guage of the heart, ladies have often excelled the lords of the creation,' and in music their triumphs are manifold. The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, sister to 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 Mr Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective. The Flowers of the Forest. [By Miss Jane Elliot.] I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. Why this cruel sporting? Two versions of the national ballad, The Flowers of the Forest, continue to divide the favour of all Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? lovers of song, and both are the composition of ladies. In minute observation of domestic life, traits of character and manners, and the softer lan- For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; JOHN SKINNER. Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tullochgorum, the composition of the Rev. JOHN SKINNER (1721-1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good will among men. Mr Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the Rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons! He died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised his wish of seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.' Besides Tullochgorum,' and other songs, Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises. Tullochgorum. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, For what's been done before them? To drop their Whigmegmorum. To spend this night with mirth and glee, O, Tullochgorum's my delight; And mak' a cheerfu quorum. The reel of Tullochgorum. For half a hundred score o' 'em. Like auld Philosophorum ? And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties, a great store o' 'em! But for the discontented fool, And discontent devour him! And nane say, Wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum ! ROBERT CRAWFORD. ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his 'Tea-Table Miscellany,' and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733. Crawford had genuine poetical fancy and expression. The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people, and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.' The Bush aboon Traquair. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, That day she smiled and made me glad, I thought myself the luckiest lad, I tried to soothe my amorous flame, Yet now she scornful flees the plain, The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, Ye rural powers, who hear |