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plough, or scattered the seed along the furrows, he was at liberty to "mutter his wayward fancies," and shape them into verse. It was thus that he composed his "Mountain Daisy" and the "Mouse's Nest." Even "Tam o' Shanter," which would seem to have been the inspiration of flowing cups and merry nights, was written, as we have seen, out of doors, to the murmurs of the Nith and the waving of the woods at Ellisland. His solitary rides, as an exciseman, were converted to the same service, and if he crooned over a song, or conceived a happy idea in his elbow-chair, he was never satisfied till he had sallied out, stick in hand, and completed the sketch in the true study of nature.

"The muse, nae poet ever fand her
Till by himsel' he learned to wander
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
An' no think lang;

O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!"

Hence, Burns's rural and woodland descriptions are true as nature itself. Such images were ever present to his mind, and rose unbidden to his tongue and pen. When he commemorates the death of a friend, he indulges in no undertaker-like catalogue of mourning weeds and trappings of woe he does not call on the Sisters of the Sacred Well, from the seat of Jove, to join in his grief: but he invokes all nature-the rivers, forests, hills, and plains-and all the

seasons.

"Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear

Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear

Shoots up its head,

Thy gay green flowery tresses shear
For him that's dead!

"Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air
The roaring blast,

Wide o'er the naked world declare

The worth we've lost."

Nor, in this exquisite elegy, are the humbler objects of external nature, so well known to the poet, overlooked

"Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens !
Ye burnies, wimpling down your glens,
Wi' toddlin' din,

Or foaming strong, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!

"Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o' flowers!

"At dawn, when every glassy blade
Droops with a diamond at its head,
At even, when beans their fragrance shed,
I' th' rustling gale

Ye maukins whidding through the glade,
Come join my wail."

These were the tools with which the poet worked-the authorities he consulted-the pandects he followed and obeyed. We have sometimes marvelled what sort of a poet Cowper would have been, if his lot had been cast in Scotland. Would the northern burns have inspired a different strain from the brooks of England? Would he have sung of Bruce, and Wallace, and Scotch drink, as he sang of Wolfe,

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and Chatham, and ladies' employments, and sober tea-parties? Thomson did not wholly forget Scotland in England -Campbell is still full of it. James Montgomery was born in Ayrshire, but he owes nothing to Scotland but his birth: he had not time to inhale the spirit of the mountains, and his muse is wholly English. Wordsworth would have been a sort of Ossian, if born in the Highlands-wandering up and down, lamenting the decay of chiefs and clans, a firm believer in the second sight, and celebrating solitary mountains and valleys, overhung by mists, roaring waterfalls, and the mournful dashing of waves along the friths and lakes!

Having, at the commencement of this sketch, alluded to Burns's eldest son, we shall here subjoin a pleasing and spirited copy of verses by that gentleman, on the accession of Queen Victoria. Poetical talent is seldom hereditary; but we believe our readers will admit that a portion of Burns's lyrical genius has descended to his son :

THE GATHERING OF SCOTLAND.

AIR-" The Campbells are coming."

Oh, come ye to welcome our gallant young queen!
Oh, come ye to welcome our gallant young queen!
Of the blue-bell and gowan, and thistle so green,
Oh, twine ye a wreath for our gallant young queen!

Let the lion of Scotland wave bright in the gale,
With the cross of her glory all stainless and pale;
Let them shine o'er our hills and our valleys so green,
As they shone o'er the sires of our gallant young queen.
Oh, come ye, &c.

With the spear of his fathers the Johnstone shall ride,
The spears of the Border shall gleam at his side;
The Flowers of the Forest in pride shall be seen,
The men of Buccleuch, round our gallant young queen,
Oh, come ye, &c.

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The Gordon shall march through the mist and the dew;
And Douglas, the noble, the tender, and true;

The Græme and the Ramsay the battle shall glean
With the swords of their fame, for our gallant young queen.
Oh, come ye, &c.

Macgardh his banner with pride shall display,
With its well-crimson'd buckler of Luncarty's day;
Argyle and Breadalbane in might shall convene
Clan-Dermid's bold race round our gallant young queen.
Oh, come ye, &c.

Like the mist of Ben Nevis, that darkens the glen,
The clansmen shall shadow the heather again;
The swords of their chieftains in light shall be seen,
Like the sunbeams of war, round our gallant young queen.
Oh, come ye, &c.

The fir on our mountains in triumph shall wave-
Our mountains where wander the free and the brave-
With the oak of Old England, majestic and green,
True Liberty's tree, o'er our gallant young queen!
Oh, come ye, &c.

*Hay, Earl of Errol. "Macgardh, son of the hedge," afterwards changed into the more courtly and Norman appellative"De la Haye, of the hedge." Macgardh, the husbandman, and his two sons, stopped the flight of the Scottish army at the battle of Luncarty, and led them back to a glorious victory over their Danish invaders. After the battle, the gallant husbandman and his two sons were brought to the Scottish king, with their shields covered with blood. In memory of their ancestor, the Earls of Errol bear a bloody shield in their coat of arms. It is worthy of remark that this romantic incident was one of the subjects which Milton, in his early days, considered worthy of forming a drama.— See his manuscripts in Trinity College Library, Cambridge.

278

A TOUR FROM INVERNESS TO DUNROBIN

CASTLE, SUTHERLANDSHIRE.

CROSSING the ferry at Kessock, a bare bleak table-land leads on to Dingwall. As the road ascends, a fine view is obtained, by looking backwards, on the frith, the town, and the neighbouring scenery; but in front all is dark, rugged, and uninviting, till, at the distance of about nine miles, we survey the vale of the Conon, the woods of Brahan, and the fertile slopes waving with grain, or studded with green fields and pastures. The scene is extensive and picturesque.

Descending to Conon Bridge, we advise the tourist to proceed to Brahan Castle, though it lead him a few miles out of his direct course. Nature has done much for Brahan, and man but little. The last Earl of Seaforth stultified the old castle by modernising it, and divesting it of its castellated appearance, like an old knight or baron stript of his armour and set down, his huge bulk and grizzled aspect looking bleak and bare. In the court-yard of the castle, the poor Highlanders, pursuant to the orders of Government, surrendered up their arms to General Wade-a bitter pill for many a proud spirit. The castle contains some valuable original paintings, by Salvator Rosa and other masters -a large family piece, by West, which cost £3000-and

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