The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume I Part 35

VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST, WHICH VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.

Welcome, pretty little stranger!

Welcome to my lone retreat!

Here, secure from every danger, Hop about, and chirp, and eat: Robin! how I envy thee, Happy child of Liberty!

Now, though tyrant Winter, howling, Shakes the world with tempests round, Heaven above with vapours scowling, Frost imprisons all the ground: Robin! what are these to thee?

Thou art bless'd with liberty.

Though yon fair majestic river[70]

Mourns in solid icy chains, Though yon flocks and cattle s.h.i.+ver On the desolated plains: Robin! thou art gay and free, Happy in thy liberty.

Hunger never shall disturb thee, While my rates one crumb afford; Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee; Come and share my humble board: Robin! come and live with me-- Live, yet still at liberty.

Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes, Steal upon the blooming year; Then, amid the enamour'd bushes, Thy sweet song shall warble clear: Then shall I, too, join with thee-- Swell the hymn of Liberty.

Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin, In this iron-hearted age, Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin, And confine thee in a cage, Then, poor prisoner! think of me-- Think, and sigh for liberty.

[70] The Ouse.

SLAVERY THAT WAS.

Ages, ages have departed, Since the first dark vessel bore Afric's children, broken-hearted, To the Caribbean sh.o.r.e; She, like Rachel, Weeping, for they were no more.

Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd, In the fight and on the deep; Millions, millions more have water'd, With such tears as captives weep, Fields of travail, Where their bones till doomsday sleep.

Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading, Rent her garments, smote her breast, Till a voice from Heaven proceeding, Gladden'd all the gloomy west,-- "Come, ye weary, Come, and I will give you rest!"

Tidings, tidings of salvation!

Britons rose with one accord, Purged the plague-spot from our nation, Negroes to their rights restored; Slaves no longer, _Freemen,--freemen_ of the _Lord_.

ANDREW SCOTT.

Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghs.h.i.+re, in the year 1757. He was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing verses, which he read for the amus.e.m.e.nt of his comrades. At the conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, a.s.siduously applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication--a counsel which induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in 1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work, ent.i.tled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last volume was inscribed, with permission, to the d.u.c.h.ess of Roxburghe.

The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills, the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however, experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence, extended towards him countenance and a.s.sistance.

Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle, or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the office of schoolmaster of that parish.

The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing: his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden, and has been p.r.o.nounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was modest and una.s.suming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable specimens of his muse.[71]

[71] We have to acknowledge our obligations for several particulars of this sketch to Mr Robert Bower, Melrose, the author of a volume of "Ballads and Lyrics," published at Edinburgh in 1853.

RURAL CONTENT; OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_

I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land, And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't, And I hae servants at my command, And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.

My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muirc.o.c.ks and plivers aft skirl at my door, And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r, To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.

Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share, It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't; I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair, And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.

A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies, I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please, Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas, And they 'll soon can a.s.sist at the plowin' o't.

My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill, And the sun s.h.i.+nes sae bonnily beamin' on 't, And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill, Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't; And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days, My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes, And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze, While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride, But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't, How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride, Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.

In blue worset boots that my auld mither span, I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan, And my wifie ne'er grudged me a s.h.i.+llin' o't.

Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae-- My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?-- In braw leather boots s.h.i.+nin' black as the slae, I d.i.n.k me to try the ridin' o't.

Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear, And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear, And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels s.h.i.+nin' clear, I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.

Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird, My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't; My fields are a' bare, and my c.r.a.p 's in the yard, And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.

Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, Nae mair can he draigle my c.r.a.p 'mang his feet, Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.

And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw, Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't, And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha', Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.

My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me, The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phbus shall be, Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee, And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.

And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing, My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't; He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring, And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.

And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw, The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw, Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa, Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.

And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn, My new c.r.a.p I 'll keek at the growin' o't; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn, And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't, On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply, And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye, Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy, Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.

Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks, Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't, Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks, Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't: For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent, The seasons row round us in rural content; We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent, And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

SYMON AND JANET.

AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_