Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 120

And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

This unfortunate Scottish bard was born in Edinburgh on the 17th (some say the 5th) of October 1751. His father, who had been an accountant to the British Linen Company's Bank, died early, leaving a widow and four children. Robert spent six years at the grammar schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, went for a short period to Edinburgh College, and then, having obtained a bursary, to St Andrews, where he continued till his seven- teenth year. He was at first designed for the ministry of the Scottish Church. He distinguished himself at college for his mathematical knowledge, and became a favourite of Dr Wilkie, Professor of Natural Philosophy, on whose death he wrote an elegy. He early discovered a pa.s.sion for poetry, and collected materials for a tragedy on the subject of Sir William Wallace, which he never finished. He once thought of studying medicine, but had neither patience nor funds for the needful preliminary studies. He went away to reside with a rich uncle, named John Forbes, in the north, near Aberdeen. This person, however, and poor Fergusson unfortunately quarrelled; and, after residing some months in his house, he left it in disgust, and with a few s.h.i.+llings in his pocket proceeded southwards. He travelled on foot, and such was the effect of his vexation and fatigue, that when he reached his mother's house he fell into a severe fit of illness.

He became, on his recovery, a copying-clerk in a solicitor's, and afterwards in a sheriff-clerk's office, and began to contribute to _Ruddiman's Weekly Magazine_. We remember in boyhood reading some odd volumes of this production, the general matter in which was inconceivably poor, relieved only by Fergusson's racy little Scottish poems. His evenings were spent chiefly in the tavern, amidst the gay and dissipated youth of the metropolis, to whom he was the 'wit, songster, and mimic.'

That his convivial powers were extraordinary, is proved by the fact of one of his contemporaries, who survived to be a correspondent of Burns, doubting if even he equalled the fascination of Fergusson's converse.

Dissipation gradually stole in upon him, in spite of resolutions dictated by remorse. In 1773, he collected his poems into a volume, which was warmly received, but brought him, it is believed, little pecuniary benefit. At last, under the pressure of poverty, toil, and intemperance, his reason gave way, and he was by a stratagem removed to an asylum.

Here, when he found himself and became aware of his situation, he uttered a dismal shriek, and cast a wild and startled look around his cell. The history of his confinement was very similar to that of Nat Lee and Christopher Smart. For instance, a story is told of him which is an exact duplicate of one recorded of Lee. He was writing by the light of the moon, when a thin cloud crossed its disk. 'Jupiter, snuff the moon,'

roared the impatient poet. The cloud thickened, and entirely darkened the light. 'Thou stupid G.o.d,' he exclaimed, 'thou hast snuffed it out.' By and by he became calmer, and had some affecting interviews with his mother and sister. A removal to his mother's house was even contemplated, but his const.i.tution was exhausted, and on the 16th of October 1774, poor Fergusson breathed his last. It is interesting to know that the New Testament was his favourite companion in his cell. A little after his death arrived a letter from an old friend, a Mr Burnet, who had made a fortune in the East Indies, wis.h.i.+ng him to come out to India, and enclosing a remittance of 100 to defray the expenses of the journey.

Thus in his twenty-fourth year perished Robert Fergusson. He was buried in the Canongate churchyard, where Burns afterwards erected a monument to his memory, with an inscription which is familiar to most of our readers.

Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,'

are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Sat.u.r.day Night' springs up aloft to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay.

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, Ante loc.u.m, si frigus erit.--VIRG.

1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1]

Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4]

An' l.u.s.ty la.s.ses at the dightin'[5] tire; What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poort.i.th o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain.

2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift.

The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind; That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean.

3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require A heartsome melt.i.th,[14] an' refres.h.i.+n' synd[15]

O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: Sair wark an' poort.i.th downa[16] weel be joined.

Wi' b.u.t.ter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems.

4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand.

Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pa.s.s the day; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23]

Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.

5 On siccan food has mony a doughty deed By Caledonia's ancestors been done; By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed In brulzies[24]frae the dawn to set o' sun.

'Twas this that braced their gardies[25] stiff an' strang; That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird[26] alang; Garr'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays; For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

6 The couthy cracks[27] begin whan supper's owre; The cheering bicker[28] gars them glibly gash[29]

O' Simmer's showery blinks, an Winter's sour, Whase floods did erst their mailins' produce hash.[30]

'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a b.a.s.t.a.r.d son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.

7 The fient a cheep[31]'s amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: Aye maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou, Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen.[32]

In rangles[33] round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's[34] mouth auld-warld tales they hear, O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow:[35]

O' ghaists, that wine[36] in glen an kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

8 For weel she trows that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch[37] us to our ill; That kye hae tint[38] their milk wi' evil ee; An' corn been scowder'd[39] on the glowin' kiln.

O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild[40] our idle fancies a' return, And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly[41] fear; The mind's aye cradled whan the grave is near.

9 Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; Her e'enin stent[42] reels she as weel's the lave.[43]

On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw, Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;[44]

Careless though death should mak the feast her foy.[45]

10 In its auld lerroch[46] yet the deas[47] remains, Where the gudeman aft streeks[48] him at his ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas.

Round him will baudrins[49] an' the collie come, To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee, To him wha kindly flings them mony a crumb O' kebbuck[50] whang'd, an' dainty fadge[51] to prie;[52]

This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

11 Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till; How big a birn[53] maun lie on ba.s.sie's[54] back, For meal an' mu'ter[55] to the thirlin' mill.

Neist, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids Glower through the byre, an' see the hawkies[56] bound; Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids,[57]

An' ca' the laiglen's[58] treasure on the ground; Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

12 Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,[59]

Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden G.o.d fa's heavy on their een, An hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil: The cruizy,[60] too, can only blink and bleer; The reist.i.t ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod[61] to clear their drumly pow,[62]

Till waukened by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

13 Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!

Lang may his sock[63] and cou'ter turn the gleyb,[64]

An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear!

May Scotia's simmers aye look gay an' green; Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed!

May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,[65]

Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poort.i.th freed; An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

[1] 'Keeks:' peeps.

[2] 'Owsen:' oxen.

[3] 'Sair dung:' fatigued.

[4] 'Steeks:' shuts.

[5] 'Dightin':' winnowing.

[6] 'What bangs fu' leal:' what shuts out most comfortably.

[7] 'Gars:' makes.

[8] 'Fley'd:' frightened.

[9] 'Wi' divots theekit:' thatched with turf.

[10] 'Chimley:' chimney.

[11] 'Smeek:' smoke.

[12] 'Hallan:' the inner wall of a cottage.

[13] 'Cosh:' comfortable.

[14] 'Melt.i.th:' meal.

[15] 'Synd:' drink.

[16] 'Downa:' should not.

[17] 'Girdle:' a flat iron for toasting cakes.

[18] 'Bowie:' beer-barrel.

[19] 'Kail:' broth with greens.

[20] 'Kitchen:' anything eaten with bread.

[21] 'Gabs:' palates.