A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, And bends the gallant mast, my boys, O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; While the hollow oak our palace is, My Nanie O. Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, In preaching time sae meek she stands, The world's in love with Nanie 0; My breast can scarce contain my heart, I guess what heaven is by her eyes, My Nanie O, my Nanie O; The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie 0; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, Nane ken o' me and Nanie 0; The Poet's Bridal-Day Song. O! my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tearsNor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vainNor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. Even while I muse, I see thee sit We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few. Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet; And time, and care, and birth-time woes Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose; To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong When words come down like dews unsought, With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, And fancy in her heaven flies free- What things should deck our humble bower! A mother's heart shine in thine eye; I think the wedded wife of mine WILLIAM TENNANT. In 1812 appeared a singular mock heroic poem, Anster Fair, written in the ottava rima stanza, since made so popular by Byron in his Beppo and Don Juan. The subject was the marriage of Maggie Lauder, the famous heroine of Scottish song, but the author wrote not for the multitude familiar with Maggie's rustic glory. He aimed at pleasing the admirers of that refined conventional poetry, half serious and sentimental, and half ludicrous and satirical, which was cultivated by Berni, Ariosto, and the lighter poets of Italy. There was classic imagery on familiar subjects-supernatural machinery (as in the Rape of the Lock) blended with the ordinary details of domestic life, and with lively and fanciful description. An exuberance of animal spirits seemed to carry the author over the most perilous ascents, and his wit and fancy were rarely at fault. Such a pleasant sparkling volume, in a style then unhackneyed, was sure of success. 'Anster Fair' sold rapidly, and has since been often republished. The author, WILLIAM TENNANT, is a native of Anstruther, or Anster, who, whilst filling the situation of clerk in a mercantile establishment, studied ancient and modern literature, and taught himself Hebrew. His attainments were rewarded in 1813 with an appointment as parish schoolmaster, to which was attached a salary of L.40 per annum -a reward not unlike that conferred on Mr Abraham Adams in Joseph Andrews, who being a scholar and man of virtue, was 'provided with a handsome in It was come of L.23 a-year, which, however, he could not make a great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children.' The author of Anster Fair' has since been appointed to a more eligible and becoming situation-teacher of classical and oriental languages in Dollar Institution, and, more recently, a professor in St Mary's college, St Andrews. He has published some other poetical works-a tragedy on the story of Cardinal Beaton, and two poems, the Thane of Fife, and the Dinging Down of the Cathedral. said of Sir David Wilkie that he took most of the figures in his pictures from living characters in the county of Fife, familiar to him in his youth: it is more certain that Mr Tennant's poems are all on native subjects in the same district. Indeed, their strict locality has been against their popularity; but Anster Fair' is the most diversified and richly humorous of them all, and besides being an animated, witty, and agreeable poem, it has the merit of being the first work of the kind in our language. The Monks and Giants of Mr Frere (published under the assumed name of Whistlecraft), from which Byron avowedly drew his Beppo, did not appear till some time after Mr Tennant's poem. Of the higher and more poetical parts of Anster Fair,' we subjoin a specimen : The saffron-elbowed Morning up the slope Of heaven canaries in her jewelled shoes, And throws o'er Kelly-law's sheep-nibbled top Her golden apron dripping kindly dews; And never, since she first began to hop Up heaven's blue causeway, of her beams profuse, Shone there a dawn so glorious and so gay, As shines the merry dawn of Anster market-day. Round through the vast circumference of sky One speck of small cloud cannot eye behold, Save in the east some fleeces bright of dye, That stripe the hem of heaven with woolly gold, Whereon are happy angels wont to lie Lolling, in amaranthine flowers enrolled, That they may spy the precious light of God, For when the first upsloping ray was flung The town's long colours flare and flap on high, Her form was as the Morning's blithesome star, And on his knees adores her as she gleams; Each little step her trampling palfrey took, Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm! The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown With flaunting roses, had resigned its praise; For why? Her face with heaven's own roses shone, Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze; And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, That blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked beneath the Pole. Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling, And on each hair, so harmless to behold, A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling; The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold The tresses in their arms so slim and tangling, Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair Earth And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares, abroad. Up from their nests and fields of tender corn And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden hairs. Her eye was as an honoured palace, where A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance; What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, Got dignity and honour from the glance; Wo to the man on whom she unaware Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regardMay Heaven from such a look preserve each tender bard! So on she rode in virgin majesty, Charming the thin dead air to kiss her lips, As half the bells of Fife ring loud and swell the Attended knights, and lairds, and clowns with horny sound. knuckles. 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 Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan, 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 FairSagacious fellows all, who well may brag Of virtuous industry and talents rare ; The accomplished men o' the counting-room confest, And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle; 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, But never, never can forget The luve of life's young day! O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 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, I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. O mind ye how we hung our heads, And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, As ane by ane the thochts rush back When hinnied hopes around our hearts, O mind ye, luve, how aft we left To wander by the green burnside, And hear its water croon ? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wud, The burn sung to the trees, And on the knowe abune the burn, Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, When hearts were fresh and young, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wandered east, I've wandered west, But in my wanderings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 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 dieOf sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie! The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart; My kindred have perished by war or by wave; The deeds we have done in our old fearless day. ROBERT NICOLL. ROBERT NICOLL (1814-1837) was a young man of high promise and amiable dispositions, who cultivated literature amidst many discouragements. He was a native of Auchtergaven, in Perthshire. After passing through a series of humble employments, during which he steadily cultivated his mind by reading and writing, he assumed the editorship of the Leeds Times, a weekly paper representing the extreme of the liberal class of opinions. He wrote as one of the three hundred might be supposed to have fought at Thermopyla, animated by the pure love of his species, and zeal for what he thought their interests; but, amidst a struggle which scarcely admitted of a moment for reflection on his own position, the springs of a naturally weak constitution were rapidly giving way, and symptoms of consumption became gradually apparent. The poet died in his twenty-fourth year, deeply regretted by the numerous friends whom his talents and virtues had drawn around him. Nicoll's poems are short occasional pieces and songs-the latter much inferior to his serious poems, yet displaying happy rural imagery and fancy. We are Brethren a’. A happy bit hame this auld world would be, If men, when they're here, could make shift to agrec, I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight, My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine, The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride; Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or man ; We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair; |