SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

201

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART.,

OF AUCHINLECK.

IT is rather surprising that none of the literary friends of the late Sir Alexander Boswell have as yet attempted a collection of his writings. Several of his lyrical effusions have been long popular; and he was known to devote no inconsiderable portion of his leisure hours to pursuits of a more erudite description than the occasional cultivation of the muse. It is chiefly in relation to his character as a Poet, however, that he falls within the scope of the present work; yet, limited as the task thus naturally becomes, we are not sure that we possess materials for the proper execution of more than a brief outline of his literary character or history. Indeed, without access to the cabinet of the late Baronet, it would be impossible to do that justice to his reputation which some future and more favoured biographer may have the gratification of performing.

The family of the Boswells is of considerable antiquity in this country, tracing as it does its Norman origin to the days of William the Conqueror. The lands of Balmuto, in Fife, were acquired by Roger de Boswell, or Bosville, in the reign of David I., and it is from this stock that the Auchinleck branch proceeds. Thomas, second son of the eleventh inheritor of Balmuto, having become attached to the Court of James IV., obtained from that monarch the lands of Auchinleck, previously in possession of a family of the " same name, with the lands, but which had become forfeited to the crown."* Thomas, who married a daughter of Sir Hew Campbell of Loudoun, was "slain in battle, fighting along with his sovereign at the fatal field of Flodden."

ALEXANDER BOSWELL, the subject of our memoir, was born on

* Boswell's Life of Johnson. The Laird of Auchinleck (of that Ilk) is mentioned in the wars of Sir William Wallace, as one of the companions in arms of the Scottish patriot.

2 c

202

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

the 9th of October 1775. He was the eldest son of the well known biographer of Dr Johnson, and grandson of Lord Auchinleck,* one of the Senators of the College of Justice. His mother, a daughter of Sir Walter Montgomery, Bart. of Lainshaw,† was a woman in several respects the very opposite of his father, possessing a warmth of feeling and a soundness of judgment which at once rendered her manner dignified and agreeable.‡ Alexander, together with his only brother James, was educated in England, first at Westminster School, and afterwards at the University of Oxford; and, on the death of his father in 1795, succeeded, ere he had completed his twentieth year, to the paternal estate. Having made a tour of Europe about that period, he subsequently resided chiefly at Auchinleck, and was early distinguished in the county of Ayr as a gentleman of much spirit, warmth of heart, and public enterprise. In his character may be said to have been combined the best qualities of his father, without his frivolities. Together with no inconsiderable share of the genius, he inherited his fondness for literature; and, amid the accumulated stores of the “Auchinleck Library”—one of the most valuable private collections in the country—he had ample

* On the authority of Sir Walter Scott, Mr Croker gives the following characteristic anecdote of this eminent lawyer, who appears to have looked upon Dr Johnson and some of the other companions of his son with contempt :—“ Old Lord Auchinleck was an able lawyer and good scholar, after the manner of Scotland, and highly valued, on his own advantages, as a man of good estate and ancient family; and, moreover, as he was a strict Presbyterian, and a Whig of the old Scottish cast. This did not prevent his being a terrible proud aristocrat; and great was the contempt he entertained and expressed for his son James, for the nature of his friendships, and the character of the personages of whom he was engoue one after another. ‘ There’s nae hope for Jamie, man,’ he said to a friend; ‘Jamie has gaen clean gyte. What do you think, man, he’s done wi’ Paoli? He’s off wi’ the land-louping scoundrel of a Corsican; and whose tail do you think he has pinned himsel’ to now, man?’ Here the old judge summed up, with a sneer of most sovereign contempt—‘a dominie, man —an auld dominie; he keeped a schule and called it an academy!’”

† This property was purchased by William Cunningham, father of the present
possessor, from Sir Walter, in 1779.

‡ Mrs Boswell was not without a vein of pleasantry, sarcastic or otherwise, as occasion dictated. In allusion to the influence of Johnson over her husband, she one day remarked, while the Doctor sojourned at Auchinleck, that “she had seen many a bear led by a man, but had never before seen a man led by a bear.”

204

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

personage than the late Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop. "Auld Gude-
man, ye're a Drucken Carle" is another well-known song by Sir
Alexander; and the following version of "Jenny Dang the
Weaver," is also the offspring of his muse :—

"At Willie's wedding o' the green,
The lasses, bonnie witches,
Were busked out in aprons clean,
And sna-white Sunday mutches.
Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent,
But Jock wad na believe her;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For—Jenny dang the weaver.

In ilka country dance and reel
Wi' her he wad be babbin';
When she sat down, then he sat down,
And till her wad be gabbin';
Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben,
The coof wad never leave her,
Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen,
But Jenny dang the weaver.

Quoth he, "My lass, to speak my mind,
Gude haith I needna swither,
Ye've bonnie een, and, gif ye're kind,
I needna court anither.
He humm'd and haw'd—the lass cried pheugh,
And bade the fool no deave her,
Then crack'd her thumb, and lap, and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver."*

* The origin of the air of " Jenny Dang the Weaver, " is somewhat curious :—The Rev. Mr Gardner, minister of the parish of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, well known for his musical talent and for his wit, was one Saturday evening arranging his ideas for the service of the following day in his little study, which looked into the court-yard of the manse, where Mrs Gardner secunda—for he had been twice married—was engaged in the homely task of “beetling” the potatoes for supper. To unbend his mind a little, he took up his Cremona, and began to step over the notes of an air he had previously jotted down, when suddenly an altercation arose between Mrs Gardner and Jock, the “minister’s man”—an idle sort of weaver from the neighbouring village of Marywell, who had lately been engaged as man of all work about the manse. “Here, Jock,” cried the mistress, as he had newly come in from the labours of the field, “gae wipe the minister’s shoon.” “Na,” said the lout, “I’ll do nae sic thing—I cam’ here to be yir ploughman, but no yir flunky ; and I’ll be d—d gif I’ll wipe the minister’s shoon!” “Deil confound yir impudence!” said the enraged Mrs Gardner, as she sprung

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

205

In 1803, he gave to the public, anonymously however, a small volume of lyrics, entitled " Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, " stating, by way of apology in the preface, that as several of the songs had been printed without the author's permission, and with alterations which he did not consider as improvements, he had been induced to present them to the public in a more correct form. In this little volume, besides the popular songs already mentioned, there are several others of no inconsiderable merit. " Taste Life's Glad Moments"* is a well-known convivial song. " The Old Chieftain to his Sons, " in which the following beautiful sentiment occurs, has also appeared in more than one collection :—

" The auld will speak, the young maun hear,
Be canty, but be gude an' leal;
Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,
Anither aye hae heart to feel."

In "The Change of Edinburgh," the regret of the octogenarian
is happily expressed :—

"Hech ! what a change hae we now in this town !
A' now are braw lads, the lasses a' glancin';
Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the round,
For de'il a hact's done now but feastin' and dancin'."

Gowd's no that scanty in ilk siller peck,
When ilka laddie maun hae his bit stagie;
But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock
But trotted about upon honest shanks-nagie.

Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste,
Barely a mulin' for mice or for rattens,
The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced,
Her equipage a'—just a gude pair o' pattens.

Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal,
Though coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin';

at him with the heavy culinary instrument in her hand; and, giving him a hearty beating, compelled him to perform the menial duty required. The minister, highly diverted with the scene, gave the air he had just completed the title of "Jenny Dang the Weaver." This is supposed to have occurred about the year 1746.

* This, as stated by Boswell himself, was translated from the German, while at
Leipsig, on his Continental tour, in 1795.

206

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

Right air we were tel't by the housemaid or chiel,
Sir, an ye please, here's yer lass and a lantern.

The town may be clouted and pieced till it meets
A' neebours benorth and besouth without haltin',
Brigs may be biggit owre lums and owre streets,
The Nor-loch itsel' heaped heigh as the Calton :

But whar is true friendship, and whar will ye see
A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty ?
Tak' gray hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me,
And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty."

To those acquainted with the localities of the Scottish metrop-
olis, the allusions in the song will be perfectly intelligible. The
space formerly occupied by the Nor-loch has been converted into
a beautiful shrubbery; and the Mound—now an important
thoroughfare, whereon stands one of the finest buildings in Edin-
burgh, the Royal Institution of Arts—was scarcely more than
formed when the author wrote. The change which has come over
the town, even since the days of the Poet, are calculated still more
to efface the old-fashioned appearance of the city. The remodel-
ling of the Parliament Square—the removal of the West Bow—
and many other improvements, have no doubt tended to modern-
ize and beautify the ancient part of the metropolis; still there are
few genuine antiquaries but would have preferred the dingy mass
in all its original obliquity and confusion.

Before dismissing the small volume now in our hands, we may
give one other extract from its pages, in a very different style and
spirit from any of the former. It is

“ SHELAH O’NEAL.*

Oft I went to her,
To sigh and to woo her;
Of mighty fine things did I say a great deal;
Above all the rest,
What still pleased her the best,
Was—‘Och! will you marry me, Shelah O’Neal?’

My point I soon carried,
For fast we got married;
The weight o' my bargain I then 'gan to feel ;

* The air composed by the author.

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

207

She scolded and fisted,
O then I enlisted,
Left Ireland, and whisky, and Shelah O'Neal.

But, tired and dull-hearted,
My corps I deserted,
And fled off to regions far distant from home,
To Frederick's army,
Where nought was to harm me,
Not the devil himself in the shape of a bomb.

I fought every battle,
Where cannon did rattle,
Felt sharp-shot, alas! and their sharp-pointed steel;
But in all the wars round,
Thank my stars, I ne'er found
Ought so sharp as thy tongue, O cursed Shelah O'Neal !"

In 1803, soon after the publication of the songs, appeared
from the press of Mundell & Son, Edinburgh, a ballad by Sir
Alexander, entitled " The Spirit of Tintoc ; or, Johnnie Bell
and the Kelpie," with notes, 16 pp. 8vo. In the preface it is
stated that the ballad was " found by accident in his paternal
repository. " There is little doubt, however, that it is one of his
own. The subject is founded on the following nursery rhyme :—

" On Tintoc* tap there is a mist,
And in the mist there is a kist,
And in the kist there is a cap,
And in the cap there is a drap;
Tak' up the cap, sup up the drap,
And set the cap on Tintoc tap."

The story is the adventurous undertaking of a drouthy tailor,
who resolved to quench his thirst from the magic cap :—

" Johnnie Bell was the gudeman's name,
The wife's, I wot, was Kate M'Crae;
He was a tailor, to his shame
A tippling tailor, neebours say."

His guest, auld Robin Scot, having emptied the graybeard at the
first quaff, to the great mortification of the tailor, the latter ex-
claims—

* Tintoc is a mountain in the higher part of Lanarkshire.

P135

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

209

The kist and cap and cantrip spell,
Wi' whizzing birr, in flinders flew;
But what became o' Johnnie Bell,
Gude kons! I ken nae mair than you !"

So much for the tale of Tintoc Tap. In 1810, was published " Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty, a Sketch of former Manners, with Notes, by Simon Gray," in which an old farmer and a city friend discourse on the nature of the changes that have taken place within their remembrance, and which are strikingly contrasted with the existing habits of the modern Athenians. This little work contains some curious memorials of the simple manners of former times, and, like all the former publications of Sir Alexander, it was given to the world anonymously. In 1811, however, there issued from the press of George Ramsay and Company, "Clan-Alpin's Vow: a Fragment,"* with the name of the author prefixed. The story is founded on an incident in the history of the Clan-Alpin, which occurred about 1589. One of that notable sept having killed John Drummond, a forester of Glenartney, while in search of venison for the marriage banquet of James VI., whose Queen was shortly expected from Denmark, the Laird of M'Grigor, and "the hail surname of M'Gragors, purposely conveyed upon the next Sunday yrafter at the Kirk of Buckquidder," where, the head of Drummond having been "pointed to them," each man laid his "hand upon the pow," swearing to defend their companion who had done the deed, equally from the law and against all who might attempt to demand justice. The poem is good, in so far as mere poetry is concerned; but the introductory portion of it is by far too promising for the *denouement*. The reader feels disappointed that the stirring historical incidents with which it opens, have almost no connection whatever with the close. The subject might have been wrought up into a long and interesting romance.

"Sir Albon" is another poetical fragment, privately printed about the same period, and inscribed to Captain, afterwards Colonel Miller, of the 1st regiment of guards. The poem is intended as a satire on Sir Walter Scott's poetical romances, and

* A London edition of this poem was printed by Bentley & Son, in 1817.

2 D

210

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

affords a very fair specimen of the author's talent for light compo-
sition. As the piece is short, and exceedingly scarce, from having
been subsequently suppressed, we shall insert the whole of it :—

" February 27, 1808.

Enough of rain, of hail, and snow,
Has drench'd the regions here below.
The lark soars high, and sings in air;
The thrush begins her tender care;
The soft breeze whispers through the bough;
And busy crows pursue the plough.
When every songster strains its throat,
Shall silent be the minstrel's note?
High swells his soul, so swell his song,
And every rock the strain prolong.

To thee, my M****r, shall I paint,
With willing hand but colours faint,
The joys that crowd our sylvan scene,
The rushing river, laurels green,
The time-worn bridge, romantic mill,
The rocks, and banks, and Lockhart-hill ?—
Or shall I rouse the sportsman's shout
When many a grawl, and many a trout,
By net resistless dragg'd to shore,
Adds to the well-fill'd larder's store ?—
Or when the moorcock skims the heath
On rapid wing, more rapid death
O'ertakes the fugitive—he dies,
And the serf lifts the feather'd prize ?—
Or when September's new-born day
Gives partridges as legal prey,
Shall dogs and hackbuts pass unsung,
The steady point—the covey sprung—
Now right—now left—a brace are down,
With horseshoe breast and scarlet crown ?—
Or shall I mark, on high Stairaird,
The hare steal off from Bauldy Baird,
Just when he meditates the feat
To shoot her cow'ring in her seat ?—
Or when the wintry wind bereaves
The copsewood of its wreck of leaves;
When men and dogs, a busy rout,
Try ev'ry holly-bush about;
When the moon's light conducts the flock,
And ev'ry bank can boast a cock ?—

212

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail ?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skill'd in minstrelsy,
And less I wot in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result ;
And though in head no catapult
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown ;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker and of Dilworth sage ;
His cap could doff, his cap could don.—
But to our tale—Sir Knight prick'd on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To wayworn pilgrim gave the boon ;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst ALBON, dauntless, rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light
Which brightest shines in darkest night :
For, like that emblematic form
Which led to Salem's towers the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of the infidel ?)
The horseshoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.

Far on the circle of the sky
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy ;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave SIR ALBON's eyes ;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.

Fast and more fast his fleet horse flew,
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M****.
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze ;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme ;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G****.
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead !

On, on he spurr'd, and pass'd the while
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
In song renown'd, and then anon
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood ;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away ;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak ;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a boding owl.
SIR ALBON pass'd the rock below ;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
SIR ALBON onward prick'd his steed.

THE BENISON ; OR, P.P.C.

And now, why farther swell my tome ?
Suffice it, ALBON canter'd home.
What rocks it in my simple tale,
That ALBON supp'd and swallow'd ale ;
Or, tired with travel and alone,
Placed on his pate a cotton cone,
And one of tin on candle's head,
Then, peering, groped the way to bed ?

213

214

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

But, reader, ere we part, adieu !
For I would part in peace with you.
Take my potluck, 'tis good hotchpotch,
A mess of Anglo-Gallie Scotch ;
And if this sells, as sell it must,
I soon shall touch, again, your dust.
With wondrous speed, as I'm a sinner
I'll knock you up another dinner ;
For thoughts fall quick from fertile brain,
Like bright prismatic show'rs of rain—
And I can write, with ready pen,
For gentle maids and gentle men.
Though poor the measures from my reed,
Still poorer is your minstrel's meed :
I ask but half-a-crown a line.
The SONG be your's, the DISK* be mine.

In 1812, Sir Alexander gave to the world a fac-simile edition of the disputation between John Knox and Quentin Kennedy, at Maybole, in 1562—the only original copy of which then known to exist, was deposited in the paternal library at Auchinleck.† About the same period, he established a small printing-office at Auchinleck-House, from which he issued a variety of curious and interesting works, chiefly reprints of scarce and valuable tracts, for private circulation amongst his friends. Much of the hon. Baronet's time was in consequence occupied in performing the drudgery of revising and correcting the press. The first we have seen of the poetical productions printed at Auchinleck, is “ The Tyrant's Fall,” ‡ written immediately after the battle of Waterloo, in which he thus bewails the fate of his friend Lieut.-Colonel Miller, son of the venerable Lord Glenlee :—

“ Amidst the brave, whose fall bequeath'd
For Britain's pride a theme so vast;
Shall not a sorrowing sigh be breathed
For thee—a soldier to the last ?

Thee, Miller! lost, lamented, friend!
Whose breast a patriot spirit fired;

* Generally applied to a plant, but here to a half-crown piece.

† Since then another copy has been discovered. Sir Alexander also published an "Oratione of Quentin Kennedy," and "Memoriall of the Lyfe of Dr James Spottiswood, Bishop of Clogher," both from original MSS. Constable was the publisher.

‡ Auchinleck: Printed by A. and J. Boswell, 1815.

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

215

Yes, o'er thy honour'd tomb we bend—
In life beloved, in death admired."

In 1816, Sir Alexander printed at the Auchinleck press a few copies of a poem written by himself, entitled " Skeldon Haughs, or the Sow is Flitted," a tale in rhyme, founded on an Ayrshire tradition of the fifteenth century. Not having seen the piece, we take the following account of it from the Scottish Biographical Dictionary, in which a brief memoir of Sir Alexander Boswell is given :—" Kennedy of Bargeny tethered a sow on the lands of his feudal enemy, Crawford of Kerse, and resolved that the latter gentleman, with all his vassals, should not be permitted to remove or ' flit' the animal. To defeat this bravado at the very first, the adherents of Crawford assembled in great force, and entered into active fight with the Kennedies, who, with their sow, were at length driven back with great slaughter, though not till the son of the Laird of Kerse, who had led his father's forces, was slain. The point of the poem lies in the dialogue which passed between the old man and a messenger who came to apprise him of the event :—

" ' Is the sow flitted ? tell me, loon !
Is auld Kyle up and Carrick down ?'
Mingled wi' sobs, his broken tale
The youth began : ah, Kerse, bewail
This luckless day !—Your blythe son John,
Ah, waes my heart, lies on the loan—
And he could sing like ony merle !
' Is the sow flitted ?' cried the carle ;
' Gie me my answer—short and plain—
Is the sow flitted ? yammerin' wean !'
' The sow (deil tak' her) 's owre the water—
And at their backs the Crawford's batter—
The Carrick couts are cowed and betted !'
' My thumb for Jock ! THE SOW IS FLITTED !' "

Another poetical tale, similar in length and versification, entitled " The Woo'-Creel, or the Bill o' Bashan, " issued from his private press in 1816.* It was inscribed to John Hamilton, Esq. of Sundrum ; the " homely rhymes, " as mentioned by the author,

* Auchinleck: Printed by James Sutherland, 1816. The poem appeared in the Edinburgh Gazette of the 10th December 1823.

216

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

being little more than “the versification of an old story” playfully
related in a social hour by that gentleman. The story unfolds a
rustic intrigue, in which, “auld Lowrie Weir” having returned
unexpectedly from a distant market, the young gudewife is very
much at a loss where to conceal her buirdly paramour; but

"A woman's wit aye stands the test;—
She whipt young Lowrie frae his nest,
And, aye when the auld carle tirl'd,
Nippet the weanock till it skirl'd,
To drown the bustle and the din
Of him without, and them within.
' Doil'd carle!' quoth she, ' back sae soon!
O Dannie, Dannie, we're undone!
Or butt or ben, there's no ac neuk
To hide a chiel o' sic a buik;
For gudesake man, fye, haste ye speel,
And hide up in the big woo'-creel;
My wearied man belyve will snore,
Syne ye may slip out at the door.'—
' Woo'-creel!' quoth Dan, (and swore an aith,)
' The black Mahoun may tak' ye baith;
A bonnie berth for me, I trow,
Aboon the reek, among foul woo',
Foul braxy dirt, 'twad smoor a sow;
Sooner than do sic fool-like biddin'
I'll ding the carle out owre the midden.'—
' O dinna,' quo' she, ' be a fool,
Fye haste, ye maun draw in the stool.'—
The carle roar'd, the carle rappit,
Dan drew the stool and up he stappit;
And clamber'd to the creel, right fain
That he war ance weel out again.

Nanse to the door now glegly ran—
' Hech! safe us a', is't you, gudeman ?
Ye raised up sic an awsome din,
I thought 'twas thieves that would be in.'—
' Thieves!' quotha, ' troth ye are na blate,
Sae lang to gar a body wait,
And thole the rain and bitter blast:
Mair peats upon the ingle cast,
And ripe the ribs, and gie's a low,'—
Syne rubb'd his hands and droukit pow.
The heapet peats began to bleeze
To warm the carle, but Nan to freeze ;

P135

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

225

LOCHSIDE.

Stand on, PEAT-BOG, and gies a *guard*,
I ken ye can play: cowtious, Laird,
Just lie ahint our stane a yard—

*I like thee weel—that's bonnie.*

When snaw lies white, &c.

DAMBACK.

Now, ROB Roy, mind the ice is gleg;
Aim for the guard, and break an egg,
But, O be cowtious, man, I beg—

He's roarin' in the corner.

Soop—gie him heels! he's aff the ice—

The chiels are fou, or else no wise;
For Gude-sake will ye tak' advice,

And play in your auld or'ner.
When snaw lies white, &c.

LOCHSIDE.

Now GEORDIE GOUDIE here's a *port*,
Be cannie, and we'll soop ye for't;

I carena though ye're twa ells short—

Hands up—there's walth o' *pouther*.

DAMBACK.

Now, WILLIE, here's a fine *inring*,
Play straught, and rub him like a king—

He's slipt his foot, and wi' a fling,

The stane's out owre his shouther.
When snaw lies white, &c.

Sin' I was born, and now I'm grey,
I ne'er saw siccan wratched play;
Our fallows a' clean wud the day;

Their stanes, like gowks, are hurlin':
But bring the whisky and the baiks,
Though fortune has play'd us the glaiks,
A bumper to the Land o' Cakes,

An' her ain game o' curlin'.
When snaw lies white,” &c.

The poems of Sir Alexander are still mostly in manuscript,
although several have appeared anonymously in the pages of the
leading Tory journals. One or two of these can still be traced;
amongst which we may notice the exquisite parodies on popular
melodies, subsequently reprinted in the " New Whig Guide."
A few scraps from his pen having come into possession of a liter-

2 F

226

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

ary gentleman now holding an official situation in the Court, he
printed some dozen copies. From these we quote the following
verses on the death of the last Duke of Queensberry, whose pe-
culiarities were for many years a fund upon which the gossips of
London could almost daily draw :—

" VERSES ON A REPORT OF THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY'S DEATH.

Pray, what is all this vast ado
That runs each street and ally through ?
'Tis the departure of the Q,
The star of Piccadilly.

The king, God bless him! gave a whew;
What! two Dukes dead—a third gone too :
What, what! could nothing save old Q?
The star of Piccadilly.

Thank heav'n, he's gone! exclaim'd Miss Prue,
My mother and grandmother too
May now walk safe from that old Q,
The star of Piccadilly.

Poll, Peggy, Patty, Kate, and Sue,
Descendants of old Dames he knew,
Weep for their suitor, rev'rend Q,
The star of Piccadilly.

The jockey club, Newmarket hue,
Who knew a little thing or two,
Cry out, ' He's off; we've done old Q,
The star of Piccadilly !'

The signors and signoras too,
Like cats in love set up their mew;
Ah, morto, morto, povera Q!
The star of Piccadilly.

Townsend, Maemanus, all the hue
And cry of Bow Street, each purlieu
And dirty ally mourn old Q,
The star of Piccadilly.

Old Nick, he whisk'd his tail so blue;
He cock'd his eye, and look'd askew;
Ha, ha! quoth he, I've caught old Q,
The star of Piccadilly.

228

JAMES THOMSON.

JAMES THOMSON.

JAMES THOMSON, the subject of this brief memoir, was born in Kilmarnock on the 9th day of May 1775. His father was a tanner in that town, in circumstances somewhat affluent; for, besides other property, he was proprietor of the large Tan-work in which he carried on his business, and which was reckoned at the time, and is still, perhaps, one of the most convenient and well-designed in Britain. It is now in the possession of James Crooks, Esq.

Intended by his parents for the ministry, young Thomson received, in his earlier years, as liberal an education as could be given him at the schools of his native town; and, when about the age of fourteen, he went to College, where he studied for nine seasons. He was then licensed to preach the gospel, and soon after obtained a call from a congregation of Burghers in Mid-Calder; but his parents, thinking that his health was likely to be impaired by his ministerial duties, made many objections to his accepting of the call with which he had been honoured, and suggested to him the propriety of serving one year's apprenticeship at the trade of his father, and of becoming a partner with him in his business. This he did, and gave up all thoughts of following the clerical profession.

Soon after he engaged in business, he married Helen Bruce, a young lady with whom he became acquainted during the years he attended College, and who was governess in the family of Mungo Fairlie, Esq. of Holmes. She was possessed of little or no fortune, but in personal attractions and graces of mind, she was superior to the generality of her sex. To him she bore five children. It was not his lot, however, to enjoy her society for a very lengthened period; for, while she was yet in the prime of life, she was seized with an illness which occasioned her dissolution. The anguish he felt on being thus prematurely bereaved of the object of his early affection is expressed in one of his poems, en-

JAMES THOMSON.

229

titled "Helen in the Grave;" and in after life, when brooding over the past, he thus speaks of her in another production:—

"Wife of my youth! thy grave is green,
No noxious weed nor nettle seen;
Pure as the flower among the heath,
So once wast thou that lies beneath.

As o'er thy grave I trembling bend
Heav'n knows the pangs my bosom rend."

In the year 1803 or 1804, when Britain was threatened with invasion, the loyal inhabitants of Kilmarnock, like those of many other towns of Scotland, formed themselves into a military body, under the name of the Kilmarnock Sharpshooters, or Rifle Volunteers. In the formation of this corps, which Thomson had the honour of commanding, he evinced considerable activity. The musical instruments and dresses of the band were purchased at his own expense, and he made many other sacrifices in the cause for which they were embodied. About the same time he received an order from the Duke of Kent, authorizing him to enlist local troops. This order he obeyed; and, as we have been told, paid two pounds sterling of bounty to each man from his own purse, until he had expended a great part of his fortune. Whether he intended the money thus laid out as a gift to his country, we have not been informed; at all events, it was never returned to him; and the consequence was, that his own private affairs began to assume an alarming appearance. His friends and relations perceiving this, they frequently cautioned him that he would one day or other involve himself in utter ruin by such conduct; and his brother, who was a partner with him in trade, fearing he might be entangled with his creditors, suddenly withdrew his name from the Company. These circumstances, and some family disputes which occurred about this time, induced his father to dispose of the tan-yard.

Our author then repaired to Edinburgh, where he was some time employed in writing for a periodical work, published under the title of the "Scottish Review." After being about one year in Edinburgh, he obtained a commission in the Argyleshire Militia, and embarked with that regiment for Ireland; but before

230

JAMES THOMSON.

he had been long in that country, a severe malady, which had
been for years gradually impairing his health, now increased to such
a height that he found it necessary to resign his commission. He
then obtained the situation of tutor in the family of Elliot Arm-
strong, Esq. of Donamon Castle, in the county of Roscommon,
in which capacity he acted for two years. He afterwards took up
his residence in the town of Elphin—a bishop's see in the county
above mentioned—where he endeavoured by exercise in the open
air to improve and invigorate his shattered constitution; but the
disease he was afflicted with, which was that of palsy, became
every day worse, and he returned to his native town, probably in
the expectation of deriving from his friends and relations that
consolation and support which he now so much needed. But
Kilmarnock to him was no longer the scene of prosperity. Those
who courted his society in his days of affluence, now looked on
him with indifference. His father was tottering on the brink
of the grave, and soon after died; and his brothers and sisters
secured to themselves all that remained of the family property,
and poor Thomson was left to struggle through the world as he
best could for subsistence. While thus circumstanced, he mar-
ried Widow Lewis, whose care and affection for him in his hours
of trouble, served in some measure to render more cheerful and
comfortable the few remaining years of his unfortunate life.

From his boyish days, Thomson was an occasional wooer of
the Muses; and, during his wanderings in Ireland, he composed
several little poems, which, along with others, he now submit-
ted to the public in a small 18mo volume; and, on the 8th of
August of the same year, (1817,) he issued the first number of
a periodical work, entitled the "Ayrshire Miscellany, or Kil-
marnock Literary Expositor," which continued to appear weekly
till the beginning of May 1822. The price of each number was
twopence, and the circulation, we believe, extended to almost
every town and village in the county of Ayr, and to other places
throughout the country. Kilmarnock at that time had no news-
paper or magazine, and the *Ayrshire Miscellany* was therefore
the only local medium through which the literary aspirants in the
town and its neighbourhood could find publicity for their juve-

232

JAMES THOMSON.

There, we from wo will both be free,
And to oblivion giv'n;

But stay—sweet saint! that is not thee,
'Tis but thy former chains I see;
Thou now art free—in *Heav'n*.

Thou now hast tasted life's pure stream,
That glads the bow'rs above;

Where God's best gifts unnumber'd team,
Where saints in brightest beauty beam,
And sing the song of love.—POLIBUS.”*

In the course of a year or two after the termination of the Kilmarnock Expositor, Thomson collected his poetical pieces, and published them by subscription in a 12mo volume, bearing the title of the “Ayrshire Melodist, or Select Poetical Effusions.”† This work, by which his poetical character may be estimated, contains few poems of a very energetic or powerful description, but there is a harmony and a sweetness in the tones of his lyre, and a touching melancholy in his sentiments, that impart an agreeable charm to his verses; and when we reflect on the many disadvantages under which he laboured, arising from the ruined state of his health, our opinion is, (to use the words of Southey, when speaking of the poems of Ragg,) that “what he has accomplished is surprising; an age ago it would have been wonderful.” He seldom delights us with the mere creations of imagination. His own misfortunes in life, and the painful situation in which he was placed by nerveless debility, are generally the themes of his Muse; and hence the tinge of sadness that pervades the greater part of his effusions. Indeed, his own mournful history may be read in his poetry. In the following extract from “Stanzas on December,” he feelingly alludes to his happier days, and briefly depicts the hapless condition to which he was ultimately reduced :—

* Under this signature a number of pleasing little pieces of prose and poetry appear in the Miscellany. They are the juvenile productions of Mr John Wilson, a native of Kilmarnock, who for some years past has been engaged in Ireland as a teacher of Phrenology.

† A manuscript copy of these poems was sent to his Majesty, King George the Fourth, and was deposited in the Royal Library at Carlton Palace. His Majesty also honoured the author by ordering his name at the head of his subscription list.