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, Had Geordie come friendless among us, 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; Nor half the cause I hae to grieve me. There first my infant mind unfurled; I thought the hills were sharp as knives, Her heroes, hills, and verdant groves; Her shepherds' and her maidens' loves. I'm forced to turn my back upon her. My parents crazy grown wi' eild, O' friends sae tender and sincere. It winna do; I maun away To yon rough isle, sae bleak and dun: him 66 Fareweel, green Ettrick! fare-thee-weel! 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 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 reverse. 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 ningham. In general, they are not good; but the worst of them are all mine, for I inserted every ranting rhyme that I had made in my youth, to please the circles about the firesides in the country; and all this time I had never been once in any polished society had read next to nothing-was now in the thirty-eighth year of my age, and knew no more of human life or manners than a child." The Forest Minstrel did not add to the reputation of the Shepherd, and is a work now all but forgotten. The most beautiful song in the volume is "Lucy's Flittin'," the production of Mr William Laidlaw. This much-admired lyric, which is sung to the plaintive air of Bonnie Dundee, is as follows: * LUCY'S FLITTIN'.* "Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', She cam there afore the flower bloomed on the pea: The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I fear I hae left my bit heart a'thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up the ribbon, Though now he said naething but 'Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' He couldna say mair but just 'Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' Flittin', in the Scottish dialect, signifies removal from one place to another. The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit; Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! Discouraged from any further attempt in the meanwhile to write poetry, the Shepherd resolved to commence a literary paper, of a small size, to be published weekly. Being considered far from competent to take the charge of such an undertaking, he had great difficulty in obtaining a publisher; but at length this desideratum was found, and accordingly the first number of "The Spy," as it was termed, made its appearance on the 1st of September 1810: it was in the form of a sheet, quarto, and was sold for fourpence. The Spy continued for a whole year, and increased the editor's literary reputation, but did little for the improvement of his circumstances; which may be in some measure accounted for by the manner in which the work was prepared and issued. The publisher was one of the old class of printers, steady frequenters of the public-house, or, as Hogg describes him, "a kind-hearted, confused body, who loved a joke and a dram. He sent for me every day about one o'clock, to consult about the publication; and then we uniformly went down to a dark house in the Cowgate, where we drank whisky and ate rolls with a number of printers, the dirtiest and leanest-looking men I had ever seen. My youthful habits having been so regular, I could not stand this; and though I took care, as I thought, to drink very little, yet when I went out I was at times so dizzy I could scarcely walk; and the worst thing of all was, I felt that I was beginning to relish it. Whenever a man thinks seriously of a thing, he generally thinks aright. I thought frequently of these habits and connexions, and found that they never would do; and that, instead of pushing myself forward as I wished, I was going straight to the mischief. I said nothing about this to my respectable acquaintances, nor do I know if they ever knew or suspected what was going on; but, on some pretence or other, I resolved to cut all connexion with Robertson; and, sorely against his will, gave the printing to the Messrs Aikman, then proprietors of the Star newspaper, showing them the list of subscribers, of which they took their chance, and promised me half the profits. At the conclusion of the year, instead of granting me any profits, they complained of being minus, and charged me with the half of the loss. This I refused to pay, unless they could give me an account of all the numbers published, on the sale of which there should have been a good profit. This they could not do; so I paid nothing, and received as little. I had, however, a good |