John Mayne.—Born 1759; Died 1
By Logan's streams that rin sae deep
Fu' aft, wi' glee, I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart! thae days are gane,
And fu' o' grief I herd alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Nae mair, at Logan kirk, will he,
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me-
Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane―
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes !
At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dander dowie and forlane,
Or sit beneath the trysting-tree,
Where first he spak o' love to me.
O cou'd I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain ;
Rever'd by friends, and far frae faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.
Mayne was the author of the Siller Gun, a Poem describing the practice of shooting for a little silver gun,
which James VI. had presented to the town of Dumfries, and which was, at stated intervals, for many years competed for by the townspeople. The Poem is witty and clever, in a rather unusual degree; but the allusions being chiefly local and personal, it is now to a great extent forgotten.
Hear me, ye nymphs, and ev'ry swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Tho' thus I languish and complain,
Alas, she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her.
The bonny bush aboon Traquair,
Was where I first did love her.
That day she smiled, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder,
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I tried to soothe my am'rous flame,
In words that I thought tender :
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame
I meant not to offend her.
Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonnie bush bloom'd fair in May,
It's sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay;
It fades as in December.
Ye rural pow'rs who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains;
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.
The 'Bush aboon Traquair' was a plantation, of which, we are told, only a "few solitary ragged trees" now remain, close to Traquair House in Peebleshire.
William Hamilton of Bangour.—Born 1704; Died 1754.
Ah the shepherd's mournful fate,
When doom'd to love and doom'd to languish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish !
Yet eager looks, and dying sighs
My secret soul discover,
While rapture, trembling through mine eyes,
Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the reddening cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak
A thousand various wishes.
For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
That artless blush and modest air,
So fatally beguiling,
Thy every look, and every grace,
So charm, whene'er I view thee,
Till death o'ertake me in the chase
Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Then, when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.
Hamilton was one of the "ingenious young gentlemen" who contributed to Allan Ramsay's Tea Table Miscellany. His songs were at one time popular in Scotland. He became involved in the rebellion of 1745; after lurking for some time in the Highlands, he escaped to France, where, after several years of exile, he died.
William Hamilton of Bangour.
Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,
That beauteous heav'n erewhile serene?
Whence do these storms and tempests flow,
Or what this gust of passion mean?
And must then mankind lose that light
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine,
And lie obscur'd in endless night,
For each poor silly speech of mine?
Dear child, how could I wrong thy name,
Since 'tis acknowledged on all hands,
That could ill tongues abuse thy fame,
Thy beauty would make large amends:
Or if I durst profanely try
Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t' upbraid,
Thy virtue well might give the lie,
Nor call thy beauty to its aid.
For Venus every heart t' ensnare,
With all her charms has deck'd thy face,
And Pallas, with unusual care,
Bids wisdom heighten every grace.
Who can the double pain endure?
Or who must not resign the field
To thee, celestial maid, secure
With Cupid's bow and Pallas' shield?
If then to thee such power is giv'n,
Let not a wretch in torment live,
But smile, and learn to copy Heav'n,
Since we must sin ere it forgive.
Yet pitying Heaven not only does
Forgive th' offender and the offence,
But even itself, appeas'd, bestows,
As the reward of penitence.
Sir Alexander Boswell, Bart.-Born 1775; Died 1822.
Thou art gane awa', thou art gane awa'
Thou art gane awa' frae me, Mary!
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