Fare thee weel before I gang—
Bonnie Doon where early roaming,
First I weaved the rustic sang"—
has been often printed, on account of its locality and associations, as the composition of Burns. He is doubtless greatly inferior to Burns, and not quite equal to Bruce or even Tannahill, but his verses possess great sweetness, and contain some graphic and beautiful descriptions. This is the case especially, with "Arthur's Seat," his longest and most elaborate poem. As its sketches of scenery in and around Edinburgh, are at once accurate and pleasing, and as it is entirely unknown in America, we will take the liberty of quoting some of its finest passages.
Gazing from Arthur's Seat, the poet invokes the genius of Burns—
"To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,
Adorned with many a wild-born flower;
Ilk burnie singing through the vale,
Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale;
And ilka sweet that nature yields,
In meadow wild or cultur'd fields;
The cultur'd fields where towering strang
The sturdy aik his shadows flang;
Where lonely Druids wont to rove,
The mystic tenants of the grove."
He aptly and strikingly interweaves historical and poetical allusions. The following contains a fine contrast, and a striking description of the ruins of Craigmillar Castle, in the vicinity of Edinburgh.
"Yes, Arthur, round thy velvet chair,
Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,
And mixed with nature's landscape green,
The varied works o' art are seen.
Here starts the splendid dome to view,
Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;
There some auld lanely pile appears,
The mouldering wreck o' former years,
Whose tottering wa' nae mair can stand
Before fell Time's resistless hand;
Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,
That now fa's crumbling to decay,
A prey to ilka blast that blaws
An' whistles through its royal ha's—
Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' sound
And melting music rang around,
Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns,
The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,
And howlets loud at e'enin's fa',
Rejoice upon the ruined wa'."
Craigmillar Castle naturally suggests the name of the beautiful and unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who once resided within its lordly but now forsaken halls. The poet therefore breaks out into the following animated and pathetic strains, which, it has been said, will bear a comparison with Mr. Burke's celebrated rhapsody on the unfortunate Queen of France.
"There was a time when woman's charms
Could fire the warlike world of arms,
And breed sic wae to auld and young,
As Helen wept and Homer sung,
But Mary o' ilk stay bereft,
Misfortune's luckless child was left;
Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,
The bursting sigh her whole relief.—
O ye whose brave forefathers bled,
And oft the rage of battle led,
Wha rushing o'er the crimson field,
At Bannockburn made Edward yield;
Ye wha still led by glory's flame,
Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name—
Where slept your dauntless valor keen
When danger met your injured Queen?"
His descriptions of the Forth and the neighboring regions, of the Pentland hills, and the scenery of the Esk, are strikingly beautiful.
"What varied scenes, what prospects dear
In chequer'd landscape still appear!
What rural sweets profusely thrang
The flowery Links of Forth alang,
O'er whose proud shivering surface blue
Fife's woods and spires begirt the view;
Where Ceres gilds the fertile plain
An' richly waves the yellow grain,
An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers,
Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers,
Nor distant far, upon the ear
The popling Leven wimples clear,
Whose ruined pile and glassy lake
Shall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]
Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair,
To Lothian's shore return ance mair,
And let thy lyre be sweetly strung,
For peerless Esk remains unsung.
Romantic stream, what sweets combine
To deck ilk bank and bower o' thine!
For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' rays
Glows soft o'er a' thy woody braes,
Where mony a native wild flower's seen,
Mang birks and briars, and ivy green,
An' a' the woodland chorists sing
Or gleesome flit on wanton wing,
Save where the lintie mournfully
Sabs sair 'aneath the rowan tree,
To see her nest and young ones a'
By thoughtless reaver borne awa.'
What saftening thoughts resistless start,
And pour their influence o'er the heart;
What mingling scenes around appear
To musing meditation dear,
When wae we tent fair grandeur fa'
By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'![8] O what is pomp? and what is power? The silly phantoms of an hour! Sae loudly ance from Roslin's brow[9] The martial trump of grandeur blew, While steel-clad vassals wont to wait Their chieftain at the portalled gate; And maidens fair, in vestments gay, Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way. But now, ah me! how changed the scene! Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain; Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light, A guiding star in dead o' night; Nae voice is heard, save tinkling rill, That echoes from the distant hill."
How exquisite, and how entirely and peculiarly Scottish is the following:
"Now tent the Pentlands westlin's seen,
O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;
Where, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes[10] Run bleating round the sunny knowes, And mony a little silver rill Steals gurgling down its mossy hill; And vernal green is ilka tree On bonny braes o' Woodhouselee."
The genius of Scotland is one of freedom, of independent thought, and unfettered action in matters civil and religious. This produced the Reformation; this generated the recent secession from the 'Kirk;' this characterizes the literature of the nation. We cannot, therefore, refrain from making one more quotation, which breathes the lofty spirit of freedom:
"Alas! sic objects to behold,
Brings back the glorious days of old,