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; I will twine thee a bower Wi' the flowers of the mountain; 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, Now the summer 's in prime 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 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Johnie; 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; Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Gloomy Winter's now Awa. Gloomy winter's now awa, The mavis sings fu' cheerie O. 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, Adorn the banks sae brierie O. 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 О. 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 O,' 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 attach ment-a sunny bank, and some sweet soft schoolgirl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung.' My only Jo and Dearie O. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, My only jo and dearie O. 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 O; I hae a wish I canna tine, Then I wad daut thee night and day, Farewell to Ayrshire. [This song of Gall's has been often printed-in consequence How much happier would I be! 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 affeetionate 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 - of his native Dumfries and the banks of the Nith, or to hum over some rural or pastoral song which he had heard forty or fifty years before, his name, as well as his poetry, recalls the strength and permanency of early feelings and associations. Logan Braes. By Logan streams that rin sae deep, Nae mair at Logan kirk will he At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, Helen of Kirkconnel. [Helen Irving, a young lady of exquisite beauty and accomplishments, daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of rank and fortune in that neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the sweet banks of the Kirtle, she was murdered by a disappointed and sanguinary rival. This catastrophe took place during the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, and is the subject of three different ballads: the first two are old, the third is the composition of the author of the 'Siller Gun.' It was first inserted in the Edinburgh Annual Register (1815) by Sir Walter Scott.] I wish I were where Helen lies, Where Kirtle-waters gently wind, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Though heaven forbids my wrath to swell, And tore my love from me! They centered all in thee! Ah! what avails it that, amain, No resting-place for me: I see her spirit in the airI hear the shriek of wild despair, When Murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! Oh! when I'm sleeping in my grave, Then from this world of doubts and sighs, To the River Nith. Hail, gentle stream! for ever dear Blithe on thy banks, thou sweetest stream [Mustering of the Trades to Shoot for the Siller Gun.] The lift was clear, the morn serene, To beat to arms, Frae far and near the country lads And mony a beau and belle were there, Or miss the sight, Wi' hats as black as ony raven, Sae trim and gay, Forth cam our Trades, some ora saving To wair that day. Fair fa' ilk canny, caidgy carl, Weel may he bruik his new apparel! And never dree the bitter snarl Hech, sirs! what crowds cam into town, To see them mustering up and down! Lasses and lads, sun-burnt and brown Women and weans, Gentle and semple, mingling, crown The gladsome scenes! At first, forenent ilk Deacon's hallan, Broiled kipper, cheese, and bread, and ham, O! weel ken they wha lo'e their chappin, The blate look spruce And even the thowless cock their tappin, The muster owre, the different bands Where, 'mid loud laughs and clapping hands, Gley'd Geordy Smith But ne'er, for uniform or air, As to their guns-thae fell engines, Lang fowling-pieces, carabines, And blunderbusses! SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL (1775-1822), the eldest son of Johnson's biographer, was author of some amusing songs, which are still very popular. Auld Gudeman, ye're a Drucken Carle, Jenny's Bawbee, Jenny Dang the Weaver, &c. display considerable comic humour, and coarse but characteristic painting. The higher qualities of simple rustic grace and elegance he seems never to have attempted. In 1803 Sir Alexander collected his fugitive pieces, and published them under the title of Songs chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. In 1810 he published a Scottish dialogue, in the style of Fergusson, called Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty; a Sketch of Manners, by Simon Gray. This Sketch is greatly overcharged. Sir Alexander was an ardent lover of our early literature, and reprinted several works at his private printing-press at Auchinleck. When politics ran high, he unfortunately wrote some personal satires, for one of which he received a challenge from Mr Stuart of Dunearn. The parties met at Auchtertool, in Fifeshire: conscious of his error, Sir Alexander resolved not to fire at his opponent; but Mr Stuart's shot took effect, and the unfortunate baronet fell. He died from the wound on the following day, the 26th of March 1822. He had been elevated to the baronetcy only the year previous. Jenny Dang the Weaver. At Willie's wedding on the green, But soon the fool his folly kent, At ilka country dance or reel, The coof would never leave her; Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind, You've bonny een, and if you're kind, I'll never seek anither: He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, Peugh, And bade the coof no deave her; Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, And dang the silly weaver. And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, Jenny dang the weaver; Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh, And dang the silly weaver. Jenny's Bawbee. I met four chaps yon birks amang, Quo' he, ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel, The first, a captain till his trade, Quo' he, 'My goddess, nymph, and queen, But-Jenny's bawbee. A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, Accounts he had through a' the town, Wi' Jenny's bawbee. A Norland laird neist trotted up, Cried, 'There's my beast, lad, haud the grup, Or tie't till a tree. She bade the laird gang comb his wig, The lawyer no to be a prig, The fool cried, 'Tehee, I kent that I could never fail!" Good Night, and Joy be wi' ye a'. [This song is supposed to proceed from the mouth of an aged chieftain.] Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'; Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart; Or fiercer waved the red claymore? I gave him here a welcome hame. The auld will speak, the young maun hear; [The High Street of Edinburgh.] [From 'Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty.'"] Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise, And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired. Yes, mark the street, for youth the great resort, And there, an active band, with frequent boast, |