day that his cousin Colonel George Crawfurd | that formerly adorned the west bank of the was no poet, but a great singer of songs: but that his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) had a great turn that way, having written the words of The Bush aboon Traquair' and 'Tweedside.' That the Mary to whom it was addressed was Mary Stewart, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards wife of Mr. John Belches. The colonel (Edmonston) never saw Robert Crawford, though he was at his burial fifty-five years ago. He was a pretty young man, and lived long in France." According to Sir Walter Scott, the Mary celebrated in "Tweedside" was of the Harden family, a descendant of another famed beauty, Mary Scott of Dryhope, in Selkirkshire, known by the name of the Flower of Yarrow." Harden is an estate on the Tweed, about four miles from Melrose. Mr. Ramsay's letter fixes Crawford's death in the year 1732, while according to information obtained by Robert Burns from another source, he was drowned in coming from France in 1733. Such are the few details we possess concerning one of Scotland's sweetest singers. Quair water, in Peeblesshire, about a mile from Traquair House, the seat of the Earl of Traquair. But only a few spectral-looking remains now denote the spot so long celebrated in the popular poetry of Scotland. Leafless even in summer, and scarcely to be observed upon the bleak hill-side, they form a truly melancholy memorial of what must once have been an object of great pastoral beauty, as well as the scene of many such fond attachments as that delineated in the following verses." Crawford, who has genuine poetical fancy and great sweetness of expression, gives us many beautiful images of domestic life. His pipe, like the pipe of Ramsay, is "A dainty whistle with a pleasant sound," and it summons to modest love and chaste joy. Like the voice of the cuckoo, it calls us to the green hills, the budding trees, and the rivulet bank; to the sound of water and the sight of opening flowers. "The true muse of native pastoral," says Allan Cunningham, "seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornament; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people and the aspect of the soil-and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Of the many beautiful songs written by Crawford the most celebrated are "Tweedside" and The Bush aboon Traquair." Speaking of the last-mentioned lyric, Dr. Robert Chambers, a native of Peebles, says:—"The Bush aboon Traquair' was a small grove of birches | Crawford is a large partaker." THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, That day she smiled, and made me glad, I thought myself the luckiest lad, I tried to soothe my amorous flame If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, Yet now she scornful flees the plain, If e'er we meet, she shows disdain, Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, ONE DAY I HEARD MARY. One day I heard Mary say, How shall I leave thee? Stay, dearest Adonis, stay; why wilt thou grieve me? Alas! my fond heart will break, if thou should leave me: I'll live and die for thy sake, yet never leave thee. Say, lovely Adonis, say, has Mary deceived thee? Did e'er her young heart betray new love, that has grieved thee? My constant mind ne'er shall stray, thou may believe me. I'll love thee, lad, night and day, and never leave thee. Adonis, my charming youth, what can relieve thee? Can Mary thy anguish soothe? This breast shall receive thee. My passion can ne'er decay, never deceive thee; Delight shall drive pain away, pleasure revive thee. But leave thee, leave thee, lad, how shall I leave thee? Oh! that thought makes me sad; I'll never leave thee! Where would my Adonis fly? why does he grieve me? Alas! my poor heart will die, if I should leave thee. LEADER HAUGHS AND YARROW. Ten thousand birds were singing: On Leader Haughs and Yarrow. How sweet her face, where every grace But bless my bonnie marrow: Yet though she's fair, and has full share O, bonnie lass! have but the grace My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest, I'll study to delight ye. Our years around, with love thus crown'd, O, sweetest Sue! 'tis only you TWEEDSIDE. What beauties does Flora disclose! Not all the gay flowers of the field, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant ev'ry bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring: We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day? While happily she lies asleep? 'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces all round her do dwell, She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed? Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? MY DEARIE, IF THOU DEE. Love never more shall give me pain, If fate shall tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray: In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, In sighs the silent day. I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see; Then I'll renounce all womankind, No new-blown beauty fires my heart But thine, which can such sweets impart, 'Twas this, that like the morning sun, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, Oh! never rob them from these arms- DOUN THE BURN, DAVIE. When trees did bud, and fields were green, And love laugh'd in her e'e; Now Davie did each lad surpass That dwelt on this burnside; And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride: Her cheeks were rosie, red, and white; Her een were bonnie blue; Her looks were like the morning bright, Her lips like dropping dew. As doun the burn they took their way, And love was aye the tale; Sic pleasure to renew? Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, WHEN SUMMER COMES. When summer comes, the swains on Tweed But my lov'd song is then the broom Elsewhere there never grows. There Colin tun'd his oaten reed, And won my yielding heart; No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed Could play with half such art. He sung of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, The hills and dales all round, Of Leader-haughs and Leader-sideOh! how I bless'd the sound! Yet more delightful is the broom Not Teviot braes, so green and gay, More pleasing far are Cowdenknowes, The last stanza was added by Burns.--ED. commenced writing verse; a translation from the Latin of Buchanan, composed at that age, having been published by his grandson, the Rev. Alexander Thomson, in a memoir of the poet, prefixed to an edition of his first work ALEXANDER ROSs was born at Torphins, in | poet. So early as his sixteenth year he had the parish of Kincardine O'Neil, Aberdeen shire, April 13, 1699. He was the son of Andrew Ross, a small farmer in easy circumstances, and received his education at Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he took the degree of Master of Arts in 1718. Soon after leaving the university he was engaged as tutor in the family of Sir William Forbes, of Craigievar and Fintray, and then as teacher at the parish school of Aboyne, subsequently at that of Laurencekirk. In 1726 he married Jane Catanach, the daughter of an Aberdeenshire farmer, and descended by her mother from the old family of Duguid of Auchinhove. In 1732 he was appointed schoolmaster of Lochlee, a wild and thinly peopled district in Forfarshire, where he spent the remainder of his simple and uneventful life in the discharge of the duties of his humble office. It was not until he had resided here for thirty-six years, that, in the year 1768, when he was nearly seventy, Ross appeared before the public as a Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess," printed at Dundee in 1812. This beautiful pastoral poem and some songs, among which were "The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow," and "Woo'd and Married and a'," was first published at Aberdeen in 1768. A second edition appeared in 1778, dedicated to the Duchess of Gordon, and the work has since been frequently reprinted. On its first publication a letter highly laudatory of the poem appeared in the Aberdeen Journal, under the fictitious signature of Oliver Oldstile, accompanied by an epistle in verse to the author, from the pen of the poet Dr. Beattie, being the latter's only attempt in the Scots vernacular. We append the first stanza, of which there are sixteen in the epistle: "O Ross, thou wale of hearty cocks, To ape our guid plain countra folks In the north of Scotland, where the Buchan dialect is spoken, The Fortunate Shepherdess" continues to be as popular as the productions of Ramsay and Burns, while some of his lyrics are universal favourites. In 1779, when eighty years of age, he was invited by the Duke and Duchess of Gordon to visit them at Gordon Castle. He accepted the invitation, extended to him through his friend Dr. Beattie, remaining at the castle some days. Says his grandson and biographer, "he was honoured with much attention and kindness both by the duke and duchess, and was presented by the latter with an elegant pocket-book, containing a handsome present, when he returned to Lochlee, in good health and with great satisfaction." The next year he lost his wife, who died at the advanced age of eighty-two, and to whose memory he erected a tombstone with a poetical epitaph. He himself did not long survive her: on May 20th, 1784, "worn out with age and infirmity, being in his eightysixth year, he breathed his last, with the com posure, resignation, and hope becoming a Christian." He left in manuscript eight small volumes of poems and other compositions, an account of which is given in Campbell's Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland. Ross's reputation must, however, rest upon his "Fortunate Shepherdess," and the songs which were published with it, rather than upon his unpublished writings, which his friend Beattie advised should be suppressed. Burns has written of our author, "Our true brother Ross of Lochlee was a wild warlock;" and the celebrated Dr. Blacklock, says Irving, "as I have heard from one of his pupils, regarded it (The Fortunate Shepherdess') as equal to the pastoral of Ramsay." On the first appearance of Ross's principal poem Beattie predicted "And ilka Mearns and Angus bairn Thy tales and sangs by heart shall learn." The prediction has been verified, and a hop which he expressed in one of his unpublishe poems has been fully realized: THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW. There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow, She sat and she grat, and she flat and she flang, and wrang, And she chokit and boakit, and cried like to mang, Alas! for the dreary beginnin' o't. I've wanted a sark for these aught years and ten, But I vow I shall want it for as lang again, For never since ever they ca'd as they ca' me, I've keepit my house now these threescore years, But our women are now-a-days a' grown sae bra That ilk ane maun ha'e a sark, and some ha'e twa The warlds were better where ne'er ane ava Had a rag, but ane at the beginnin' o't. In the days they ca' yore, gin auld fouks had won To a surcoat, hough-syde, for the winnin' Of coat-raips weel cut by the cast o' their bu They never socht mair o' the spinnin' o't. A pair o' gray hoggers weil cluikit benew, Of nae other lit but the hue of the ewe, With a pair o' rough mullions to scuff thro the dew, Was the fee they socht at the beginnin' o' But we maun ha'e linen, and that maun ha'c And how get we that but by spinnin' o't? How can we ha'e face for to seek a great fee Except we can help at the winnin' o't? And we maun ha'e pearlins, and mabbies. cocks, And some other things that the ladies ca' sm |