THIS simple poet of nature, who is better known by the title of the Ettrick Shepherd, was born on the banks of the Ettrick, in Selkirkshire, on the 25th of January, 1772. The parents of the future poet were so poor, hat they were unable to afford him even that measure of education which, in Scotland, is common to the most indigent; but the mother of James, a woman of strong natural understanding and enthusiastic spirit, inspired him, in early life, with those tastes and intellectual hab.ts which afterwards burst upon the world in the beautiful poetry of The Queen's Wake. As he was sent from home in the capacity of a cow-herd at the age of seven, and continued to labour as a shepherd till the period of manhood, his education was carried on by his own industry, and at brief intervals, so that he never learned any language but his own. He also taught himself a rough sort of penmanship while employed in feeding his flocks. But the beautiful border ballads with which his mother had stored his mind, continued to operate upon his faculties with a slow and silent but steady progress, and when he had reached the age of twenty-four, he attempted to express his feelings in numbers. These efforts of his rustic muse were sufficiently humble, consisting of songs and ballads, to be sung by the neighbouring lasses in chorus; but the artless approbation of these his rural friends, and the title which they gave him of Jamie the Poeter, were sufficient to repay his labours, and stimulate him to higher efforts; but, above all, the example of Burns fired his imagination, and became the mark of his ambition and his hope. The Ayrshire ploughman, indeed, had given an impulse to the lower classes both in England and Scotland, which manifested itself in poetical blacksmiths, shoemakers, and peasants, who startled society with the new character they had assumed. The first attempt of Hogg in authorship was characteristic of that whimsical thoughtlessness of the common rules of prudence, by which the whole of his succeeding life was distinguished. Having driven a flock of sheep into Edinburgh for sale, and having failed in disposing of the whole, he put the remainder into a park, and resolved to spend the few days of interval before next market-day in preparing a volume for the press. He wrote several poems from memory, and put them into the hands of a printer; but when the work was finished and sent to him, after he had almost forgotten the circumstance, he found it so crowded with typographical errors, as would have extinguished the vanity of authorship in most young poets. Hogg, however, was not to be so daunted, and he continued to write on. In 1801, he was so fortunate as to obtain the acquaintanceship of Sir Walter Scott, who kindly interested himself in the success of the poetical shepherd; the consequence of which was, that Hogg soon after published his Mountain Bard,-a collection of poems written in imitation of the old border ballads. This work was so successful, that, after having tried farming without success, he threw his plaid about his shoulders and came to Edinburgh, resolving to place his dependance on literature alone. His first attempt in this capacity was the Forest Minstrel, which procured him nothing but a little poetical reputation. He then attempted a periodical, called, The Spy; but a twelvemonth sufficed to finish its career. But in 1813 appeared his best work, The Queen's Wake, the success of which consoled him for all his previous disappointments. The public were delighted with the genuine poetry it displayed, as well as the interest of the tales, and fresh editions were called for in rapid succession. He had now acquired such a literary reputation as encouraged him to continue the labours of his pen, and he was not only a frequent contributor to Blackwood's Magazine and the Annuals, but he wrote numerous poems and novels, none of which, however, have equalled the interest and talent of The Queen's Wake. This work, and a few of his songs, will always constitute the chief ground of his poetical distinction. It was among fairies and phantoms, and the deeds of past ages, that he found the real world of his affections; so that when he de scended to common events and every-day characters, his delineations were generally unnatural or tame. Having reached his sixty-fourth year, with a hale and vigorous constitution that promised a much longer life, his health suddenly declined, and he died on the 21st of November, 1835. 'Twas late, late on a Sabbath night! At the hour of the ghost, and the restless sprite! The mass at Carelha' had been read, And all the mourners were bound to bed, When a foot was heard on the paved floor, O God! that such a rap should be So fraught with ambiguity! A dim haze clouded every sight; Each hair had life and stood upright; No sound was heard throughout the hall, But the beat of the heart and the cricket's call; So deep the silence imposed by fear, That a vacant buzz sang in the ear. The lady of Carelha' first broke The breathless hush, and thus she spoke : "Christ be our shield! who walks so late, And knocks so gently at my gate? I felt a pang-it was not dread- He took the key with an eye of doubt, He wrench'd the bolt with grating din, He thrust out his lamp, and he thrust out his head, But he sank on the earth, and the form came by. She enter'd the hall, she stood in the door, "O! lady mother, thy fears forego; "I saw thee dead and cold as clay; O'er Mary's face amazement spread; She knew not that she had been dead; She gazed in mood irresolute: Both stood aghast, and both were mute. From The Pilgrims of the Sun. INVOCATION. Thou holy harp of Judah's land, That I may sound thy sacred string, Pour forth the tracing notes again, In tabernacles of the plain, Or heights of Zion's holy hill. O come, ethereal timbrel meet, In shepherd's hand thou dost delight; And when thy tones the land shall hear, From The Pilgrims of the Sun. DONALD MACDONALD. My name it is Donald Macdonald, When rankit amang the blue bonnets, Wha has brogs an' brochen an' a'? Short syne we war wonderfu' canty, Our friends an' our country to see, Wherever our king has a foe, He'll quickly see Donald Macdonald What though we befriendit young Charlie? To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he came to us but barely, An' reckon'd our mountains his hame: Had Geordie come friendless amang us, For George we 'll encounter the devil, An' O I wad eagerly press him |