the most hallowed of all Scottish poems, the "Cottar's Saturday Night," in the light of the "Farmer's Ingle." What can exceed the truthfulness of the following picture? "Grannie" has been telling the "bairns" of stories of ghosts and auld warld tales, "that touzle a' their tap, and gar them shake wi' fear!" for "wi' eild our idle fancies a' return," and most touchingly apologizes the poet, "The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near," and then she is presented to us, 66 Thrift industrious, bides her latest days, Her e'enin' stent reels she as weel's the lave. Careless tho' death should mak' the feast her foy." Mark the concluding stanza, "Peace to the husbandman and a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freed, And a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed! The whole poem is distinguished by that felicity of thought and rhythm, which irresistibly impels one to get it by heart. I have to speak, 3dly, of his 'satirical powers and nationalism.' For illustration of this head, I need only adduce his address to "the Principal and Professors of the University of St. Andrews, on their superb treat to Dr. Samuel Johnson," and "Hame Content." The ludicrous familiarity and ease of the former, and the offhand biting severity of the latter, are alike admirable. Let us read in 'Hame Content.' He has exposed "the weary granes" of those who "rax and gaunt the lee-lang day," from very idleness. He has asked the sages, If man was made, To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade? That daily on his presence ca'; At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine He answers, No; points to the soaring bird,' the 'dewy grass,' the feeding cattle,' "Unyokit frae their winter stent;" and exclaims, "Unyoke thee, man, and binna sweer, Then with inimitable ‘pawkiness,' "Some daft chiel reads, and taks advice; The chaise is yokit in a trice; Awa' drives he like hunted deil, And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel, At Italy, or well o' Spa." With what arch mingling of sarcasm and patriotic sentiment does he follow up this "There rest him weel! for eith can we Spare mony glaikit gowks like he; How different was the poet himself! Truly said he, 66 My muse will nae gae far frae hame, The following is risible enough 66 "O Muse, be kind, an dinna fash us Wi' Highland whisky scour our hausses, Begin then, dame! ye've drunk your fill, You'll trust me, mair would do you ill, Troth, 'twould be sair agains my will His patriotic feeling emerges in the address to the Professors. "Ah! willawin's for Scotland now, How naïvely does he 'sklent his satire' in the "Butterfly." Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring, To light beneath braw Nanny's cap, The furies glancing frae her ein Her Paris artists' finest dye: His "Braid Claith" embodies a melancholy and still patent truth. Beyond all question "Braid Claith lends fock an unco heeze, Maks many kail-worms butterflies, For little skaith: In short, you may be what you please Take the following comment on the whole poem from the 'Essays' of one of the most vigorous and ill understood of modern thinkers, John Sterling. "The English are good friends: yet, so much is the fear of being connected with poverty in the eyes of the world stronger than friendship, that if an Englishman were to appear in the streets of London with an old coat on, I am persuaded that three out of four of his acquaintances would refuse to acknowledge him, unless it were in a very private place indeed: and then they probably would fear the sparrows on the house-tops, lest ‘a bird of the air should carry the matter.' I have thus shortly considered these three things in respect of Robert Fergusson. I. His self-estimation. II. The twofold object-matter of his poems. III. His satirical powers and nationalism. I have left the English poems, as of inferior, nay of lowest merit, unnoticed. "I have long admired Fergusson," wrote the illustrious Wordsworth to the Editor; "several of his pieces I have 1 English Society. Essays and Tales, vol. II. p. 37; edit. 2 vols. 1848. for many years committed to memory; and I have often mourned over his untimely death. He was a great loss to Scotland and the loss would have been greater had he not been followed by his mighty successor Robert Burns." It ought never to be forgotten that it was on meeting with Fergusson's "Scottish Poems," when, in his earlier years, he had given up all poetry, that Burns, (to use his own memorable words), "strung anew his wildly sounding lyre, with emulating vigour:" and that thus, mediately, the world is indebted to Fergusson for many of his "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." Beyond all doubt, aside from the generous exaggerations of the Ayrshire Bard, Robert Fergusson is “worthy to sing aye round his cloudy throne." He may not soar to the "forked height" where our monarch-poet sole sits." His "rhythms" are not, like those of the "high chief of Scottish Song," the surface to a mine of profound thought. There are in him no broad day-break lights, cast on humanity or this mysterious world of ours. His voice is not of Ocean "with all its solemn noise." He should be rather described by Coleridge's -hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night or by Wordsworth's 66 And now Robert Fergusson is a name that Scotland "shall not willingly let die." |