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"Nasty, gude-for-naething being!
O ye snuffy drucken sow!
Bringin wife and weans to ruin,
Drinkin here wi' sic a crew!
Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel!
Drink's your night and day's desire;
Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll
Fling your whisky i' the fire!'
Watty heard her tongue unhallowed,
Paid his groat wi' little din,
Left the house, while Maggy fallowed,
Flyting a' the road behin'.

Folk frae every door came lampin,
Maggy curst them ane and a',
Clapped wi' her hands, and stampin,
Lost her bauchelsl i' the snaw.

Hame, at length, she turned the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout,
Ragin like a very devil,

Kickin stools and chairs about.
"Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round ye-
Hang you, sir, I'll be your death!
Little hauds my hands, confound you,
But I cleave you to the teeth!'
Watty, wha, 'midst this oration,

Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak, Sat, like patient Resignation,

Trembling by the ingle-cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
(Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell),
Quietly to his bed he slippet,

Sighin aften to himsel

'Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilk ane has his ills to dree;
But through a' the hale creation
Is nae mortal vexed like me.'

[A Pedlar's Story.]

I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat,
Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table;
I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable:
Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.

Ay! thae were days indeed, that gar'd me hope,
Aiblins, through time to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,

I kenned my Kate wad grapple at me than.
Oh, Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks! were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whene'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal day but set;
Stapped her pouches fu' o' preens and laces,
And thought mysel weel paid wi' twa three kisses:
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug would say,
'Ae half-year langer's no nae unco stop,
We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop.'
Oh, sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care:
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he loes?
A lover true minds this in all he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I couldna get her to relent,
There was nought left but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventured there in spite o' wind and weet.
Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the snaw
For three hale days incessantly did fa';

1 Old shoes.

Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Where nought was seen but mountains and the lift,
I lost my road and wandered mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.
Thus wandering, east or west, I kenned na where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe I plunged at ance, forsooth,
Down through a wreath o' snaw up to my mouth-
Clean owre my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens-I never knew!
What great misfortunes are poured down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinder-end was come!
Wi' grief and sorrow was my saul owercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsled roun' and roun',
I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole.

Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wandered up and down,
Till chance at last conveyed me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate,
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon would gather mair,
Wi' whilk I hoped, within a towmont's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.

Fool that I was! how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for faut o' clink!
The loss o' fair-won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this-ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time would bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate! would then be a' mine ain:
Consoled my mind in hopes o' better luck—
But, oh! what sad reverse! how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That Kate was cried and married on anither!

Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet, At ance had drapped cauld dead at my feet; Or though I'd heard the last day's dreadful ca', Nae deeper horror owre my heart could fa': I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate, And grat-and sabbing cried, Oh Kate! oh Kate! Frae that day forth I never mair did weel, But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil! My siller vanished, far frae hame I pined, But Kate for ever ran across my mind; In her were a' my hopes-these hopes were vain, And now I'll never see her like again,

HECTOR MACNEILL.

HECTOR MACNEILL (1746-1818) was brought up to a mercantile life, but was unsuccessful in most of his business affairs. He cultivated in secret an attachment to the muses, which at length brought him fame, though not wealth. In 1789 he published a legendary poem, The Harp, and in 1795 his moral tale, Scotland's Shaith, or the History o' Will and Jean. The object of this production was to depict the evil effects of intemperance. A happy rural pair are reduced to ruin, descending by gradual steps till the husband is obliged to enlist as a soldier, and the wife to beg with her children through the country. The situation of the little ale-house where Will begins his unlucky potations is finely described.

In a howm whose bonny burnie
Whimpering rowed its crystal flood,
Near the road where travellers turn aye,
Neat and beild a cot-house stood:
White the wa's wi' roof new theekit,
Window broads just painted red;
Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit,
Haflins seen and haflins hid.

Up the gavel-end thick spreading
Crap the clasping ivy green,
Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin,
Raised a' round a cosey screen.
Down below a flowery meadow

Joined the burnie's rambling line;
Here it was that Howe the widow

That same day set up her sign. Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marvelling sees 'Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,'

Painted bright between twa trees.

'Godsake, Tam! here's walth for drinking! Wha can this new-comer be?'

'Hout,' quo' Tam, 'there's drouth in thinkingLet's in, Will, and syne we'll see.'

The rustic friends have a jolly meeting, and do not separate till ''tween twa and three' next morning. A weekly club is set up at Maggy Howe's, a newspaper is procured, and poor Will, the hero of the tale, becomes a pot-house politician, and soon goes to ruin. His wife also takes to drinking.

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace?

Wha in neebouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm.

Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?

Thousands had mair braws and siller,

But war ony half sae fair?

See them now!-how changed wi' drinking!
A' their youthfu' beauty gane!

Davered, doited, daized, and blinking-
Worn to perfect skin and bane!
In the cauld month o' November
(Claise and cash and credit out),
Cowering o'er a dying ember,

Wi' ilk face as white's a clout!
Bond and bill and debts a' stoppit,
Ilka sheaf selt on the bent;
Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit
Now to pay the laird his rent.
No anither night to lodge here-

No a friend their cause to plead !
He's ta'en on to be a sodger,

She wi' weans to beg her bread!

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Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',
Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;
On a cart, or in a wagon,
Hirpling aye towards the north.
Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,
Pondering on his thraward fate,
In the bonny month o' July,

Willie, heedless, tint his gate.
Saft the southland breeze was blawing,
Sweetly sughed the green aik wood;
Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,

Strack the ear wi' thundering thud: Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating; Linties chirped on ilka tree; Frae the west the sun, near setting, Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.

Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!
Craigs and water, woods and glen!
Roslin's banks unpeered by ony,

Save the Muses' Hawthornden! Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will (though hardly fit to gang) Wandered on through scenes inviting, Listening to the mavis' sang.

Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapt asleep.

'Soldier, rise!-the dews o' e'ening
Gathering, fa' wi' deadly skaith!-
Wounded soldier! if complaining,

Sleep na here, and catch your death.'

*

*

Silent stept he on, poor fallow!

Listening to his guide before,
O'er green knowe and flowery hallow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.
Laigh it was, yet sweet and humble;
Decked wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.
Melville's towers sae white and stately,
Dim by gloaming glint to view;
Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red and lift sae blue.

Entering now, in transport mingle
Mother fond and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle
Bleezing on a clean hearthstane.
'Soldier welcome! come, be cheerie-
Here ye'se rest and tak' your bed-
Faint, waes me! ye seem, and weary,
Pale's your cheek sae lately red!'

'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till her;
'Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be ;
Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller

Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?'

Hae ye marked the dews o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray?

Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,
Drap when pierced by death mair fleet?
Then see Jean wi' colour deeing,

Senseless drap at Willie's feet.
After three lang years' affliction

(A' their waes now hushed to rest),
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast.

The simple truth and pathos of descriptions like these appealed to the heart, and soon rendered Macneill's poem universally popular in Scotland. Its moral tendency was also a strong recommendation, and the same causes still operate in procuring readers for the tale, especially in that class best fitted to appreciate its rural beauties and homely pictures, and to receive benefit from the lessons it inculcates. Macneill wrote several Scottish lyrics, but he wanted the true genius for song-writing-the pathos, artlessness, and simple gaiety which should accompany the flow of the music. He published a descriptive poem, entitled The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling; and some prose tales, in which he laments the effect of modern

change and improvement. The latter years of the poet were spent in comparative comfort at Edinburgh, where he enjoyed the refined and literary society of the Scottish capital till an advanced age.

Mary of Castle-Cary.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea-
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,

Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature,
She never loved ony till ance she loed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary,
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:
Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your
scorning,

Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie.

Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling-
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

O Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to me,
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.

The Filial Vow.

Why heaves my mother oft the deep-drawn sigh?
Why starts the big tear glistening in her eye?
Why oft retire to hide her bursting grief!
Why seeks she not, nor seems to wish relief?
'Tis for my father, mouldering with the dead,
My brother, in bold manhood, lowly laid,
And for the pains which age is doomed to bear,
She heaves the deep-drawn sigh, and drops the secret

tear.

Yes, partly these her gloomy thoughts employ,
But mostly this o'erclouds her every joy;
She grieves to think she may be burdensome,
Now feeble, old, and tottering to the tomb.
O hear me, Heaven! and record my vow;
Its non-performance let thy wrath pursue!
I swear, of what thy providence may give,
My mother shall her due maintenance have.
'Twas hers to guide me through life's early day,
To point out virtue's paths, and lead the way:
Now, while her powers in frigid languor sleep,
'Tis mine to hand her down life's rugged steep;
With all her little weaknesses to bear,
Attentive, kind, to soothe her every care.
"Tis nature bids, and truest pleasure flows
From lessening an aged parent's woes.

The filial piety of Tannahill is strikingly apparent from this effusion, but the inferiority of the lines to any of his Scottish songs shows how little at home he was in English. His mother outlived him thirteen

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ROBERT TANNAHILL,

ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of a superior order, whose songs rival all but the best of Burns's in popularity, was born in Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His education was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native town until his twenty-sixth year, when, with one of his younger brothers, he removed to Lancashire. There he continued two years, when the declining state of his father's health induced him to return. He arrived in time to receive the dying blessing of his parent, and a short time afterwards we find him writing to a friend-'My brother Hugh and I are all that now remain at home, with our old mother, bending under age and frailty; and but seven years back, nine of us used to sit at dinner together.' Hugh married, and the poet was left alone with his widowed mother. On this occasion he adopted a resolution which he has expressed in the following lines:

Robert Tannahill.

years. Though Tannahill had occasionally composed verses from a very early age, it was not till after this time that he attained to anything beyond mediocrity. Becoming acquainted with Mr R. A. Smith, a musical composer, the poet applied himself sedulously to lyrical composition, aided by the encouragement and the musical taste of his friend. Smith set some of his songs to original and appropriate airs, and in 1807 the poet ventured on the publication of a volume of poems and songs, of which the first impression, consisting of 900 copies, were sold in a few weeks. It is related that in a solitary walk on one occasion, his musings were interrupted

by the voice of a country girl in an adjoining field singing by herself a song of his own— We'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burnside; and he used to say he was more pleased at this evidence of his popularity, than at any tribute which had ever been paid him. He afterwards contributed some songs to Mr George Thomson's Select Melodies, and exerted himself to procure Irish airs, of which he was very fond. Whilst delighting all classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggravated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to consumption. He had prepared a new edition of his poems for the press, and sent the manuscript to Mr Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that gentleman, in consequence of his having more new works on hand than he could undertake that season.

This disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his manuscripts, and sank into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th of May 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but 'suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Search was made in every direction, and by the dawn of the morning, the coat of the poet was discovered lying at the side of the tunnel of a neighbouring brook, pointing out but too surely where his body was to be found.'* Tannahill was a modest and temperate man, devoted to his kindred and friends, and of unblemished purity and correctness of conduct. His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind which at length overthrew his reason. The poems of this ill-starred son of genius are greatly inferior to his songs. They have all a commonplace artificial character. His lyrics, on the other hand, are rich and original both in description and sentiment. His diction is copious and luxuriant, particularly in describing natural objects and the peculiar features of the Scottish landscape. His simplicity is natural and unaffected; and though he appears to have possessed a deeper sympathy with nature than with the workings of human feeling, or even the passion of love, he is often tender and pathetic. His 'Gloomy winter's now awa' is a beautiful concentration of tenderness and melody.

The Braes o' Balquhither.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,

* Memoir prefixed to Tannahill's Works. Glasgow: 1838.

So merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer 's in prime

Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme

A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

The Braes o' Gleniffer.

Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle turrets are covered with snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw!
The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they hae marched my dear Johnie,

And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw;

Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a bare, and the birds mute and dowie ; They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee;

And

chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ;

'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,

And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,

That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e; For O! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan, The dark days o' winter were summer to me.

The Flower o' Dumblane.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin, To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom! And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dum-
blane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening;
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen:
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum-
blane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Gloomy Winter's now Awa.
Gloomy winter's now awa,
Saft the westlin breezes blaw:
'Mang the birks o' Stanley-shaw

The mavis sings fu' cheerie O.
Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',

My young, my artless dearie O. Come, my lassie, let us stray, O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, Blithely spend the gowden day Midst joys that never wearie O. Towering o'er the Newton woods, Lavrocks fan the snaw-white clouds; Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,

Adorn the banks sae brierie O. Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feathery brekans fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheerie O. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie O.

RICHARD GALL.

Contemporary with Tannahill, and possessing a kindred taste in song-writing, was RICHARD GALL (1776-1801), who, whilst employed as a printer in Edinburgh, threw off some Scottish songs that were justly popular. My only jo and dearie Ö,' for pleasing fancy and musical expression, is not unworthy Tannahill. I remember,' says Allan Cunningham, ' when this song was exceedingly popular: its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft schoolgirl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.'

My only Jo and Dearie 0.
Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo and dearie O;
Thy neck is like the siller-dew

Upon the banks sae briery 0;
Thy teeth are o' the ivory,

O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee!
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn
Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie O,
Rejoicing in the summer morn,

Nae care to mak it eerie 0;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,
That gar my restless bosom beat,
My only jo and dearie O.
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,
And youth was blinking bonnie O,
Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0;
Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
And round about the thorny tree,
Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,
My only jo and dearie O.

I hae a wish I canna tine,
'Mang a' the cares that grieve me 0;
I wish thou wert for ever mine,

And never mair to leave me 0:

Then I wad daut thee night and day,
Nor ither warldly care wad hae,
Till life's warm stream forgot to play,
My only jo and dearie O.

Farewell to Ayrshire.

[This song of Gall's has been often printed-in consequence of its locality-as the composition of Burns]

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu !
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming,
Fare thee weel before I gang-
Bonny Doon, where, early roaming,
First I weaved the rustic sang!
Bowers adieu! where love decoying,

First enthralled this heart o' mine;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,
Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine!
Friends so dear my bosom ever,

Ye hae rendered moments dear;
But, alas! when forced to sever,

Then the stroke, oh! how severe !
Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,

How much happier would I be!
Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!

JOHN MAYNE.

JOHN MAYNE, author of the Siller Gun, Glasgow, and other poems, was a native of Dumfries-born in the year 1761-and died in London in 1836. He was brought up to the printing business, and whilst apprentice in the Dumfries Journal office in 1777, in his sixteenth year, he published the germ of his 'Siller Gun' in a quarto page of twelve stanzas. The subject of the poem is an ancient custom in Dumfries, called Shooting for the Siller Gun,' the gun being a small silver tube presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades as a prize to the best marksman. This poem Mr Mayne continued to enlarge and improve up to the time of his death. The twelve stanzas expanded in two years to two cantos; in another year (1780) the poem was published-enlarged to three cantos-in Ruddiman's Magazine; and in 1808 it was published in London in four cantos. This edition was seen by Sir Walter Scott, who said (in one of his notes to the Lady of the Lake) that it surpassed the efforts of Fergusson, and came near to those of Burns.' In 1836 the 'Siller Gun' was again reprinted with the addition of a fifth canto. Mr Mayne was author of a short poem on Halloween, printed in Ruddiman's Magazine in 1780; and in 1781 he published at Glasgow his fine ballad of Logan Braes, which Burns had seen, and two lines of which he copied into his Logan Water. The 'Siller Gun' is humorous and descriptive, and is happy in both. The author is a shrewd and lively observer, full of glee, and also of gentle and affec tionate recollections of his native town and all its people and pastimes. The ballad of 'Logan Braes' is a simple and beautiful lyric, superior to the more elaborate version of Burns. Though long resident in London (as proprietor of the Star newspaper), Mr Mayne retained his Scottish enthusiasm to the last; and to those who, like ourselves, recollect him in advanced life, stopping in the midst of his duties, as a public journalist, to trace some remembrance

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