ROBERT TANNAHILL.

1774—1810.

ROBERT TANNAHILL, a lyrical poet of superior order, whose songs rival all but Burns' best in popularity, was a native of Paisley. His education was limited, but he was a diligent reader and student. He was early sent to the loom, weaving being the staple trade of Paisley, and continued to follow his occupation in his native village until his twenty-sixth year, when he removed to Lancashire. There he remained two years, till the declining state of his father's health induced him to return home.

Whilst delighting all classes of his countrymen with his native songs, the poet fell into a state of morbid despondency, aggravated by bodily weakness, and a tendency to consumption. He had prepared a new edition of his poems for the press, and sent the MS. to Mr. Constable the publisher; but it was returned by that gentleman, in consequence of his having more new works on hand than he could undertake that season. His disappointment preyed on the spirits of the sensitive poet, and his melancholy became deep and habitual. He burned all his MS. and sunk into a state of mental derangement. Returning from a visit to Glasgow on the 17th May, 1810, the unhappy poet retired to rest; but suspicion having been excited, in about an hour afterwards it was discovered that he had stolen out unperceived. Search was made in every direction, and by the dawn of the morning the coat of the poet was discovered lying at the side of a neighboring stream, pointing out too surely where his body was to be found.

His lamentable death arose from no want or irregularity, but was solely caused by that morbid disease of the mind, which at last overthrew his reason.

KEEN blaws the wind o'er the Braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;
How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw:
The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree:
But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;

Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,

And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie,

They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,— "Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae,
While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,
That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin',
'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,
For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scotch callan,
The dark days o' winter were simmer to me!

JESSIE, THE FLOW'R O' DUMBLAKE.

THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;

Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days 'till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain,
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
"Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblanc.