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struck me than it was put in practice; and I was obliged to select, not the best poems, but those that I remembered best. I wrote several of these during my short stay, and gave them all to a person to print at my expense; and having sold off my sheep on Wednesday morning, I returned to the Forest. I saw no more of my poems until I received word that there were one thousand copies thrown off. I knew no more about publishing than the man of the moon; and the only motive that influenced me was the gratification of my vanity by seeing my works in print. But no sooner did the first copy come to hand, than my eyes were open to the folly of my conduct; for, on comparing it with the manuscript which I had at home, I found many of the stanzas omitted, others misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page. Thus were my first productions pushed headlong into the world without either patron or preface, or even apprising the public that such a thing was coming, and "unhousell’d, unanointed, unaneled, and with all their imperfections on their heads.. Will and Keatie,' however, had the honour of being copied into some periodical publications of the time, as a favourable specimen of the work. Indeed all of them were sad stuff, although I judged them to be exceedingly good.”

The first song which he published—we presume in the volume above alluded to—was, he says, one entitled “Donald Macdonald,” written for the purpose of stirring up the martial ardour of the country on the threatened invasion of Bonaparte. This song was, for a number of years, exceedingly popular in Scotland; and some of the lines possess a beauty worthy of something better than a ranting ditty calculated to inspire vengeful emotions. The following, in allusion to the reception given by the Highlanders to the unfortunate Charles Stuart, are worthy of being quoted for their sentiment :“ What thoug

we befriended young Charlie ?
To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad, he came to us but barely,

And reckoned our mountains his hame.
'Twas true that our reason forbade us,

But tenderness carried the day;
Had Geordie come friendless among us,

Wi' him we had a' gane away.” Encouraged with the approbation of Scott, and introduced by that amiable and gifted individual to Mr Archibald Constable

, publisher in Edinburgh, Hogg conceived the idea of writing some imitations of ancient ballads; and this being put in execution, “The Mountain Bard” was the result. It was published by Constable in 1801, and, consisting chiefly of pieces in the old ballad style, proved the first of the Shepherd's respectable works

, Tried by the test of time, however, few of the poems have retained any degree of popularity, and we can only instance one that obtains a place in modern selections—" The Author's Address to

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his auld Dog Hector," of which a copy will be found in the thirtieth number of the present series of Tracts. A few of the verses of the piece entitled “ Farewell to Ettrick” are here worthy of quotation, as illustrating the state of the writer's feeling's.

FAREWELL TO ETTRICK.
Fareweel, green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel!

I own I'm unco laith to leave thee;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,

Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me.
There first I saw the rising morn;

There first my infant mind unfurled ;
To ween that spot where I was born,

The very centre of the world.
I thought the hills were sharp as knives,

An' the braid lift lay whomeled on them,
An' glowred wi’ wonder at the wives

That spak o'ither hills ayon' them.
As ilka year gae something new

Addition to my mind or stature,
So fast my love for Ettrick grew,

Implanted in my very nature.
I've sung, in mony a rustic lay,

Her heroes, hills, and verdant groves ;
Her wilds and valleys, fresh and gay;

Her shepherds' and her maidens' loves.
I had a thought-a poor, vain thought !--

That some time I might do her honour;
But a' my hopes are come to nought,

I'm forced to turn my back upon her.
She's thrown me out o' house and hauld,

My heart got never sic a thrust!
And my poor parents, frail and auld,

Are forced to leave their kindred dust.
But fare-ye-weel, my native stream,

Frae a' regret be ye preserved!
Ye'll maybe cherish some at hame,

Wha dinna just sae weel deserve 't.

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My parents crazy grown wi' eild,

How I rejoice to stand their stay!
I thought to be their help and shield,

And comfort till their hindmost day;
Wi' gentle hand to close their een,

And weet the yird wi' mony a tear,
That held the dust o’ilka frien'-

O' friends sae tender and sincere.
It winna do; I maun away

To yon rough isle, sae bleak and dun:
Lang will they mourn, baith night and day,

The absence o' their darling son,

struck me than it was put in practice; and I was obliged to select, not the best poems, but those that I remembered best. I wrote several of these during my short stay, and gave them all to a person to print at my expense; and having sold off my sheep on Wednesday morning, I returned to the Forest. I saw no more of my poems until I received word that there were one thousand copies thrown off. I knew no more about publishing than the man of the moon; and the only motive that influenced me was the gratification of my vanity by seeing my works in print. But no sooner did the first copy come to hand, than my eyes were open to the folly of my conduct; for, on comparing it with the manuscript which I had at home, I found many of the stanzas omitted, others misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page. Thus were my first productions pushed headlong into the world without either patron or preface, or even apprising the public that such a thing was coming, and 'unhousell’d, unanointed, unaneled, and with all their imperfections on their heads.. Will and Keatie, however, had the honour of being copied into some periodical publications of the time, as a favourable specimen of the work. Indeed all of them were sad stuff, although I judged them to be exceedingly good.”

The first song which he published- - we presume in the volume above alluded to—was, he says, one entitled “Donald Macdonald," written for the purpose of stirring up the martial ardour of the country on the threatened invasion of Bonaparte. This song was, for a number of years, exceedingly popular in Scotland; and some of the lines possess a beauty worthy of something better than a ranting ditty calculated to inspire vengeful emotions. The following, in allusion to the reception given by the Highlanders to the unfortunate Charles Stuart, are worthy of being quoted for their sentiment:

“What though we befriended young Charlie ?

To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad, he came to us but barely,

And reckoned our mountains his hame.
'Twas true that our reason forbade us,

But tenderness carried the day;
Had Geordie come friendless among us,

Wi' him we had a' gane away.” Encouraged with the approbation of Scott, and introduced by that amiable and gifted individual to Mr Archibald Constable

, publisher in Edinburgh, Hogg conceived the idea of writing some imitations of ancient ballads; and this being put in execution, “ The Mountain Bard” was the result. It was published by Constable in 1801, and, consisting chiefly of pieces in the old ballad style, proved the first of the Shepherd's respectable works. Tried by the test of time, however, few of the poems have retained any degree of popularity, and we can only instance one that obtains a place in modern selections—"The Author's Address to

his auld Dog Hector," of which a copy will be found in the thirtieth number of the present series of Tracts. A few of the verses of the piece entitled “ Farewell to Ettrick" are here worthy of quotation, as illustrating the state of the writer's feelings.

FAREWELL TO ETTRICK.

Fareweel, green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel !

I own I'm unco laith to leave thee;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,

Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me.
There first I saw the rising morn;

There first my infant mind unfurled ;
To ween that spot where I was born,

The very centre of the world.
I thought the hills were sharp as knives,

An' the braid lift lay whomeled on them,
An' glowred wi' wonder at the wives

That spak o'ither hills ayon' them.
As ilka year gae something new

Addition to my mind or stature,
So fast my love for Ettrick grew,

Implanted in my very nature.
I've sung, in mony a rustic lay,

Her heroes, hills, and verdant groves ;
Her wilds and valleys, fresh and gay ;

Her shepherds' and her maidens’ loves.
I had a thought-a poor, vain thought !--

That some time I might do her honour;
But a' my hopes are come to nought,

I'm forced to turn my back upon her.
She's thrown me out o’house and hauld,

My heart got never sic a thrust!
And my poor parents, frail and auld,

Are forced to leave their kindred ust.
But fare-ye-weel, my native stream,

Frae a' regret be ye preserved !
Ye'll may be cherish some at hame,

Wha dinna just sae weel deserve't.

My parents crazy grown wi' eild,

How I rejoice to stand their stay!
I thought to be their help and shield,

And comfort till their hindmost day;
Wi' gentle hand to close their een,

And weet the yird wi' mony a tear,
That held the dust o’ilka frien'-

O’ friends sae tender and sincere.
It winna do; I maun away

To yon rough isle, sae bleak and dun :
Lang will they mourn, baith night and day,

The absence o' their darling son.

And my dear Will! how will I fen",

Without thy kind and ardent care?
Without thy verse-inspiring pen,

My muse will sleep, an' sing nae mair.
Fareweel to a' my kith and kin!

To ilka friend I held sae dear!
How happy hae we often been,

Wi' music, mirth, and hamely cheer!

Fareweel, green Ettrick ! fare-thee-weel!

I own I'm something wae to leave thee;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,

Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me. From the publication of the Mountain Bard Hogg realised nearly three hundred pounds—a sum which, he tells us, drove him “perfectly mad.” Without experience or prudence, he plunged into the business of sheep-farming on his own account, and soon found himself involved in a series of misfortunes which · would have depressed any less imaginative and buoyant mind. Giving up his rash undertakings, he attempted to procure employment once more as a shepherd; but his reputation of being a poet and a ruined farmer prevented any one from trusting him, and thus he spent the winter of 1809–10 in a state of idleness in his native district. “In utter desperation," he proceeds to tell us in his memoirs, “in February 1810 I took my plaid about my shoulders, and marched away to Edinburgh, determined, since no better could be, to push my fortune as a literary man. It is true I had estimated my poetical talent high enough, but I had resolved to use it only as a staff, never as a crutch; and would have kept that resolve, had I not been driven to the re

On going to Edinburgh, I found that my poetical talents were rated nearly as low there as my shepherd qualities were in Ettrick. It was in vain that I applied to newsmongers, booksellers, editors of magazines, &c. for employment. Any of these were willing enough to accept of my lucubrations, and give them publicity, but then there was no money going—not a farthing; and this suited me very ill. I again applied to Mr Constable to publish a volume of songs for me; for I had nothing else by me but the songs of my youth, having given up all these exercises so long. He was rather averse to the expedient; but he had a sort of kindness for me, and did not like to refuse; so, after waiting on him three or four times, he agreed to print an edition, and give me half the profits. He published one thousand copies, at five shillings each; but he never gave me anything; and 'as I feared the concern might not have proved a good one, I never asked any remuneration. The name of this work was The Forest Minstrel;' of which about twothirds of the songs were my own, the rest furnished by correspondents; a number of them by the ingenious Mr T. M. Cun

verse.

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