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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 income 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. It was 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 :—

I wish I had a cottage snug and neat
Upon the top of many fountained Ide,

That I might thence, in holy fervour, greet
The bright-gowned Morning tripping up her side:

And when the low Sun's glory-buskined feet
Walk on the blue wave of the AEgean tide,

Oh! I would kneel me down, and worship there

The § who garnished out a world so bright and

all I

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,

Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair Earth


The fair Earth laughs through all her boundless range,
Heaving her green hills high to greet the beam;

City and village, steeple, cot, and grange,
Gilt as with Nature's purest leaf-gold seem :

The heaths and upland muirs, and fallows, change
Their barren brown into a ruddy gleam,

And, on ten thousand dew-bent leaves and sprays,

Twinkle ten thousand suns, and fling their petty


Up from their nests and fields of tender corn
Full merrily the little skylarks spring,

And on their dew-bedabbled pinions borne,
Mount to the heaven's blue key-stone flickering;

They turn their plume-soft bosoms to the morn,
And hail the genial light, and cheerly sing;

Echo the gladsome hills and valleys round,

As half * bells of Fife ring loud and swell the


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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-à-Becket. Tollowing verses describe the men from the north :—

Comes next from Ross-shire and from Sutherland The horny-knuckled kilted Highlandman:

| From where upon the rocky Caithness strand
Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began,

And where Lochfine from her prolific sand
Her herrings gives to feed each bordering clan,

Arrive the brogue-shod men of generous eye,

Plaided and breechless all, with Esau’s hairy thigh.

They come not now to fire the Lowland stacks,
Or foray on the banks of Fortha's firth;

Claymore and broadsword, and Lochaber axe,
Are left to rust above the smoky hearth;

Their only arms are bagpipes now and sacks;
Their teeth are set most desperately for mirth;

And at their broad and sturdy backs are hung

Great wallets, crammed . 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


Next from the far-famed ancient town of Ayr,
(Sweet Ayrs with crops of ruddy damsels blest,
That, shooting up, and waxing fat and fair,
Shine on thy braes, the lilies of the west 1)
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 Fair– Sagacious fellows all, who well may brag Of virtuous industry and talents rare; The accomplished men o' the counting-room confest, | And fit to crack a joke or argue with the best.

Nor keep their homes the Borderers, that stay Where purls the Jed, and Esk, and little Liddel, Men that can rarely on the bagpipe play, | "And wake the unsober spirit of the fiddle; Avowed freebooters, that have many a day Stolen sheep and cow, yet never owned they did ill; Great rogues, for sure that wight is but a rogue That blots the eighth command from Moses’ decalogue.

| 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 (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 suppose—

divided 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 tradition 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,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The luve of life's young day!
The fire that’s blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;

But blacker fa’awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

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The smile of a maiden's eye soon may depart; | And light is the faith of fair woman's heart;. | Changeful as light clouds, and wayward as wind, | Be the passions that govern weak woman's mind. | But thy metal's as true as its polish is bright:

When ills wax in number,

| Thy love will not slumber; But, starlike, burns fiercer the darker the night. HEART GLADDENER I kiss thee.

My kindred have perished by war or by wave;
Now, childless * sireless, I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory is shadowed in death,
With me thou wilt slumber below the brown heath;
Thou wilt rest on my bosom, and with it decay;
While harps shall be ringing,
And Scalds shall be singing
The deeds we have done in our old fearless day.
SoNG Giver ! I kiss thee.


RoBERT NIcoli, (1814-1837) was a young man of high promise and amiable dispositions, who culti

vated 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 Thermopylae, 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.

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High thoughts'
They are with me,
When, deep within the bosom of the forest,
Thy morning melody
Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest.
When the young sunbeams glance among the trees—
When on the ear comes the soft song of bees—
When every branch has its own favourite bird
And songs of summer, from each thicket heard –
Where the owl flitteth,
Where the roe sitteth,
And holiness
Seems sleeping there;
While nature's prayer
Goes up to heaven
In purity,
Till all is glory
And joy, to me !
High thoughts! |
They are my own
When I am resting on a mountain's bosom,
And see below me strown
The huts and homes where humble virtues blos.
som ; |
When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow—
When I can follow every fitful shadow— -
When I can watch the winds among the corn,
And see the waves along the forest borne ;
Where blue-bell and heather
Are blooming together,
And far doth come
The Sabbath bell,
O'er wood and fell;
I hear the beating
Of nature's heart;
Heaven is before me—
God | Thou art!

High thoughts!
They visit us
In moments when the soul is dim and darkened;
They come to bless,
After the vanities to which we hearkened:
When weariness hath come upon the spirit—
(Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)—
Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine,
A winged thought, which bids us not repine?

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