The Sun.
London, England, 1849-04-13 00:00:00

FRIDAY

LITERATURE.

LAYS OF THE Z3"COTTISH CAVALIERS;
and Other Poems. By William Edrnandstoune
Aytoun.
The genius of the old Ballad Literature has in-
spired the Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres
in the University of Edinburgh. With the subtle
discrimination of a scholar, and the exquisite instinct
of a poet, Mr. Aytoun has imbibed from his childhood
a devotion for that rude but impassioned song which
has consecrated Wallace to the affections of Scotland
and Robin Hood the Outlaw to the admiration of
England. He has here paid the tribute of his homage
to the memory of the patriot bards from the apochry-
phal era of Blind Harry to the almost contemporary
days of the Ettrick Shepherd. The elegant volume
of his " Lays to the Scottish Cavaliers," reprinted in
a collected form from the pages of Blackwood's Ma-
gazine, is honourable alike to his ability and his en-
thusiasm. The Lays themselves are impregnated
throughout with that masculine sensibility which
finds its passage at once to the core of the heart, and
through the heart in tears gushing to the eyes.
Best of all amongst them, "The Execution of Mon-
trose," reminds us of that glorious Ballad of Sir
Charles Bawdin, otherwise known at the "Bristowe
Tragedie"—that masterpiece among the acknow-
ledged poems of the incomparable stripling Chatter-
ton. That is a noble picture of the great Marquis on
his road to execution :
" He is coming ! he is coming !
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison,
To the scaffold and the doom :
" There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye,
And he never walk'd to battle,
More proudly than to die.
" There was colour in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvell'd as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man."
Again, in "Edinburgh after Flodden," the descrip-
tion of the Knight telling the tidings of the disaster
to the magistrates of the capital is infinitely touching.
There is genius in the lines we have printed in italics
in the following quotation :
" Then in came Randolph Murray—
His step was slow and weak,
And as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
" They fell upon his corslet,
And on his maid hand,
As ho gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.
" And none who then beheld him,
But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear.
" They knew so sad a messenger
Some ghastly news must bring:
And all of them were fathers,
And their sons were with the King."

That is an heroic portraiture moreover—that of the
chivalrous James IY. guarded by a human rampart
of his defenders—
" Every atone a Scottish body
Every step a corpse in mail!"
And remembering the matchless bravery shown by
that unfortunate monarch on the day of his over-
throw and destruction, it is scarcely possible to read
that exclamation of Randolph Murray without a
thrill, when he " lifts his riven banner," crying out—
" Never was a royal banner
Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom
Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy,
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain you see upon it
Is the life-blood of your King!"
The whole of this chaunt of lamentation is filled with
a nervous eloquence that commands the emotions of the
reader. In " The Heart of the Bruce" we have a
reminiscence of the chivalrous incidents celebrated by
the inimitable translations of Mr. Lockhart.
" Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight,
Sir Simon of the Lee"—
is too much like the stanza in the first canto of
" Childe Harold :"
" Come hither, hither my staunch yeoman,
Why
os thou ds
t But that is a noble outburst of the Spanish Sovereign,
when he finds the Douglas dead upon the field of
Or dthoudrea
d look
a so
Frenchpalfe?
eman? u
Or shiver at the gale?"
victory :
raued
niinhoefaoms;:eirnigmihsetee
" The King he lighted from his horse,
So stately as he lay.
" God give thee rest, thou valiant soul,
AnHdetofloank gthheiDs bornagnladsabwyaythe hand,
That fought so well for Spain;
I'd rather half my land were you,
So thou wert here again l"
Lockhart could not have penned it better. " The
Burial March of Dundee" is preceded by an impas-
sioned vindication of the famous Claverhouse, who
has been caricatured into a monster by a succession
of illustrious writers, from Walter Scott down to
Babington Macaulay. The ballad is a lament for
that heroic and faithful adherent of King James, call-
ing to mind the fatal field of Killiecrankie, where—
" amidst the battle's thunder,
Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood
Grain!"
" The Widow of Glencoe" would be interesting if
only as affording us in the introduction incontestable
ewviidneinamceoftohartantghet
himself. The "Lay "- is inspired by trwhs'eubsuattmtefeWwfeoeillrliktigmosf
which affected Mr. Sergeant Talfourd in the composi-
tion of his fine drama of Glencoe—feelings of horror,
pity, and indignation. " The Island of the Scots"
commemorates a striking instance of bravery on
the part of the exiled Scottish gentlemen who had
followed the unfortunate King James into banishment
—reminding us of the capture of the island near
Wagram, just anterior to that extraordinary
victory ofthce:omfpethroer NCCaptain--«
Roveeturemthbeer Aus-
trians.ur
dead Claverhouse ! "—calls to our recollection that
glorious signal with which Sir William Hoste com-
menced the battle of Lissa—" Remember Nelson I" Of
all these noble ballads, however, the most affecting,
and for that reason the most fascinating to us, is the
one entitled " Charles Edward at Versailles." It is
inexpressibly melancholy. well may the ill-fated
Prince—one of the bravest heroes that ever trod the
earth—exclaim in his exiled pomp—
" Take away that star and garter,
Hide them from my aching sight."
And how natural the feverish remembrance of his
last fatal battle—
" Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet
Call the riders of Fitsjames ;
Let Lord Lewis head the column I
Valiant chiefs of mighty names--
Trusty Keppoch stout Glengarry I
Gallant Gordon . wise Tiochiell !
&c. &c. &c.
But the sudden dissipation of his illusion is mournful :

" Ah, my God I where am I now? "
We coincide fully with Mr. Aytoun in anticipating
a very different close to the expedition of Prince
Charles Edward, if bis advice had been listened to
before the council-board at Derby. We look forward
with eager expectation to the narrative of this royal
enterprise of the last century by the pen of Mr.
Macaulay. " The Old Scottish Cavalier' gives—first
an entertaining biography of Lord Pitsligo, and of
his hair-breadth 'stapes when a venerable man past
eighty years of age ; and secondly, an ingenious
adaptation of the metre and music of the " Old Cour-
tier of the Queen—the Queen's Old Courtier 1"
After the more prominent productions in the volume,
are grouped together nine miscellaneous pieces, upon
several of which we have commented as they appeared
from month to month in Blackwood. We have a
marvellous liking for that version of the " Scheik of
Sinai in MO, from the German of Freiligrath—
where the Scheik hearing that the Franks are again
in Africa, imagining it to be Napoleon, and demand-
ing in explanation to see a coin of the invader, sighs
and speaks thus—
"'Tis not his eye—'tis not his brow—
Another face is there;
I never saw this matt before—
Hisespei
chaeladfaivs
favourite
rk
ietea Pear
isat t that charming latnent
!
But our
for " the merry days when we were young., " The
Buried Flower" is the name of this tender, gentle,
natural effusion of the heart. A mere fragment will
reveal its sweetness of melody and its sadness
of
sentiment.

_ .
" Early wort thou taken, Mary I
In thy fair and glorious prime,
Ere the bees had ceased to murmur
Thro' the umbrage of the lime.
" Buds were blowing, waters flowing,
Birds were singing in the tree,
Everything was bright and glowing
When the angels came for thee.
" Death bad laid aside his terror,
And he found thee calm and mild,
Laying in thy robes of whiteness,
Like a pure and stainless child.
" Hardly had the mountain violet
Spread its blossoms on the sod,
Ere they laid the turf above thee,
And thy spirit rose to God.
" Early wert thou taken, Mary!
And I know 'tie vain to weep—
Tears of mine can never wake thee
From thy sad and silent sleep."
We cannot close our notice of Mr. Aytoun's beatt—
tiful contribution to our poetic literature more appro►
priately than with these sweet but mournful lines of
lamentation. They are enough to prove the writeer.!