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Ir might be a mistake to say that the poetic instinct is less generally diffused among the natives of the north of Scotland than among those of the south; but it is no mistake, however it may be accounted for, that it has produced fewer poets than the south. Yet at the period at which we have arrived, Ross, Skinner, Beattie, Geddes, and M'Pherson, all natives of the north, were contemporaries.

John Skinner, best known as the author of the national song "Tullochgorum," named after a famous strathspey, was born in 1721, at Balfour, in Aberdeenshire. His father was schoolmaster of the parish of Birse. Young Skinner was sent to Aberdeen University at the age of thirteen, and distinguished himself as a student. After graduating, he became an assistant teacher for some time, and in 1740 I went to Shetland as a tutor. On his return he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal Church, and became a pastor of that communion at Longside. In 1745, he was imprisoned for six months, for refusing to take the oath of allegiance.

Burns, on his tour to the north of Scotland, was anxious to meet Skinner, whose "Tullochgorum" he considered one of the best songs in Scottish literature; but having omitted to get its author's address he returned without seeing him, though he was in his immediate neighbourhood. This cir

cumstance led to some complimentary correspondence between the poets, from which it appears that Skinner had a very modest opinion of his own verses, which he says he composed to please his daughters, who were well acquainted with the native airs.

After ministering at Longside for sixty-five years, he went to live with his son, the Bishop of Aberdeen, and died in that city a few days after his arrival, in his eighty-sixth year.

Skinner resembles Ross in many points, as a man and as a poet. Both were of equally happy and contented dispositions, fond of the native manners and music; and both were skilful players on the violin. They both excelled in Latin composition, and lived to about the same age, in the same spot to which they had been appointed in youth. Skinner, though devout, was devoid of either political or ecclesiastical narrowness; and the same may be said of Ross, whose wife was of the Roman Catholic persuasion; and lastly, each of them is best known by a single contribution to our song literature, which excited the admiration of the greatest master of the lyre which our own or any country has yet produced.

Besides his poems, which were pub lished in a collected form, and entitled Amusements of Leisure Hours, &c., Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, as well as several theological treatises.

TULLOCHGORUM.

COME, gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folk to chide

For what's been done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whig-mig-morum.

Let Whig and Tory all agree

To spend this night in mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,

The reel of Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,

In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.

There needna be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,

Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum :
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like auld Philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest open-hearted friend;
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' 'em! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstained by any vicious blot; And may he never want a groat,

That's fond of Tullochgorum!

But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say, Wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum!

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKED
HORN.

O, WERE I able to rehearse,
My ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw.
My ewie wi' the crookit horn!
A' that kenn'd her would ha'e sworn,
Sic a ewie ne'er was born,

Hereabouts nor far awa'.

She neither needed tar nor keel,
To mark her upon hip or heel;
Her crookit hornie did as weel

To ken her by amang them a'.
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot;
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,

Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.

A better nor a thriftier beast,
Nae honest man need e'er ha'e wish'd ;
For, silly thing, she never miss'd

To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa.
The first she had I ga'e to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock;
And now the laddie has a flock

Of mair than thretty head and twa.

The neist I ga'e to Jean; and now
The bairn's sae braw, has faulds sae fu',
That lads sae thick come her to woo,
They're fain to sleep on hay or straw.

Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind or rain could never wrang her;
Ance she lay an ouk and langer

Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw.

When other ewies lap the dyke,
And ate the kale for a' the tyke,
My ewie never play'd the like,

But teezed about the barn wa'.

I lookit aye at even for her,

Lest mishanter should come ower her,
Or the foumart micht devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa'.

Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can tell o't without greeting?)
A villain cam', when I was sleeping,
Staw my ewie, horn and a.'

I socht her sair upon the morn,
And down aneath a bush o' thorn,
There I fand her crookit horn,
But my ewie was awa'.

But gin I had the loon that did it,
I ha'e sworn as weel as said it,
Although the laird himsell forbid it,
I sall gi'e his neck a thraw.

I never met wi' sic a turn:
At e'en I had baith ewe and horn
Safe steekit up; but, 'gain the morn,
Baith ewe and horn were stown awa'.
A' the claes that we ha'e worn,
Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn;
The loss o' her we could ha'e borne,

Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa'.
O, had she died o' croup or cauld,
As ewies die when they grow auld,
It hadna been, by mony fauld,

Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'.

But thus, puir thing, to lose her life,
Beneath a bluidy villain's knife;
In troth, I fear that our gudewife
Will never get abune 't ava.

O, all ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call up your muses, let them mourn
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Frae us stown, and fell'd and a'!

OLD AGE.

O! WHY should old age so much wound
us, O?
There is nothing in't all to confound us,
O?

For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oyes all around
us, O.

We began in the world wi' naething, O, And we've jogged on and toiled for the ae thing, O;

We made use of what we had, And our thankfu' hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O.

We have lived all our lifetime contented, Then why should people brag of prosO,

perity, O?

Sinee the day we became first acquainted, A straitened life, we see, is no rarity, O;

0 ;

It's true we've been but poor,
And we are so to this hour,

Yet we never pined nor lamented, O.
We ne'er thought o' schemes to be
wealthy, O,

By ways that were cunning or stealthie, O;

But we always had the bliss

And what farther could we wiss?

To be pleased wi' ourselves and be healthy, O.

Indeed, we've been in want,

And our living been but scant, Yet we never were reduced to neel

charity, O.

In this house we first came together, O, Where we've long been a father and mother, O;

And though not of stone and lime,
It will last us a' our time;

And I hope we shall never need anither, O.

And when we leave this poor habitation, O,

What though we canna boast of our We'll depart with a good commendation,

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was educated at the University of Edinburgh for the ministry of the Church of Scotland; and while a probationer, took part as a volunteer, in the rebellion of 1745-6, on the royal side. He was present at the Battle of Falkirk, and, being taken prisoner, was confined in Doune Castle, from which however he contrived to make his escape with some others, by means of their blankets used as ropes.

In 1746, he was appointed parish minister of Athelstaneford, as the successor of Blair, the author of The Grave.

His first attempt in literature was a tragedy entitled Agis, written in 1749, with which he proceeded to London, in the hope of getting Garrick to produce it at Drury Lane Theatre. In this he was not successful; yet though temporarily discouraged, he did not despair; and, having in 1755 produced Douglas, he again repaired to London, but met with a similar reception from Garrick, who pronounced his tragedy unfit for the stage.

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presented at Drury Lane, where it met with such a hearty reception that Garrick now consented to produce Agis— himself and Mrs Cibber taking the chief characters. The Siege of Aquileia was Home's next production for the stage, but it failed to interest the public.

In 1760, he published his tragedies, in a volume dedicated to the Prince of Wales, to whom he was introduced by his friend Lord Bute; and through the same medium he obtained a pension of £300 a-year, besides the office of conservator of Scots privileges at Campvere, with a salary of £300 per annum.

In 1779, he returned to Edinburgh, where he mixed in the best society, and enjoyed the friendship of the distinguished literary men who then adorned the Scottish capital. The History of the Rebellion was his last work. Having outlived all his literary associates, he died in 1808, at the ripe age of eighty-six, and was buried at Leith.

Douglas, on which Home's literary fame alone depends, is founded on the In 1756, he got it produced in the ballad of "Gil Morice," and when first Canongate theatre, Edinburgh, and it acted in the Canongate theatre, what became immensely popular. Yet the is now Lady Randolph, was then Lady production of a play for the theatre Barnard. The change had been made reckoned by the religious community of on its production at Drury Lane. As a Scotland as the "Synagogue of Satan" dramatic performance it is of little -however harmless, or even pure, was account, being properly a poem in a too much for the temper of the Presby- | dramatized form, and fitter for recitatery, and Home was obliged to resign | tion than for being acted; indeed, its his charge, while some of his ministerial declamatory speeches, viewed as a poem, friends, who had gone to see Douglas are its chief beauties; but their oratoriacted, incurred the censure of the cal tendency, due to the prevailing style Church. of the times, is a weakness. We give an analysis of the story, and favourable specimens of the poetry; and add the ballad of "Gil Morice," of which Home

Deprived of his living, Home again repaired to London, and, through the influence of Lord Bute, got Douglas re

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