William Sotheby. { Born 1757. Died 1833. CHIEFLY known as a translator from the Latin, Greek, and German poets. He also wrote some original poems, but they are little known. STAFFA. STAFFA, I scaled thy summit hoar, I passed beneath thy arch gigantic, That hour the wind forgot to rave, Then the past age before me came, When 'mid the lightning's sweep, When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile Where Time had strewn each mouldering aisle I hailed the eternal God: Yet, Staffa, more I felt his presence in thy cave Robert Burns. Born 1759. Died 1796. ROBERT BURNS was born on the 25th of January 1759, in a small cottage near the town of Ayr. His father, originally a small farmer, was reduced to humble circumstances, and worked as a common gardener; he was a man of stern and unflinching integrity, and gave his son a good example of religion and virtue. At an early age Burns was sent to school, and his teacher seems to have taken a special delight in imparting to him even more than the usual smattering of knowledge; Burns had, besides, another teacher who busily prepared him for future greatness,-an old woman of the neighbourhood, who was a complete storehouse of old ballads and legendary tales, and who so filled the young mind of the poet with stories of witches, and ghosts, and fairies, that even in after life be could scarcely be out alone after nightfall without uneasiness. After his father's death Burns joined his brother in the small farm of Mossgiel, which will ever be associated with the purest and perhaps brightest period of his poetic development. Circumstances induced Burns to give up the farm entirely, and prepare to leave for the West Indies. To enable him to raise money to pay his passage, he thought of publishing an edition of his poems, which were first issued in 1786. Probably no collection of poems ever excited so instantaneous a sensation over a whole nation. So eagerly was the book sought after, that not a copy could be got; and so impatient was the public, that MS. copies of many of the pieces were passed from hand to hand. Of course the West Indies was no more thought of. Unfortunately for Burns, the age in which he lived was one of extreme conviviality, and the author of such songs was of course quite a prize at convivial parties. Burns fell into the temptation, and to the end of his short, too short career, he never recovered the command of his appetites. The success of his poems made Burns now a comparatively rich man; a new edition of his poems yielded him L.500, and with a generosity which was part of his character, he sent off L.200 of it to help his struggling brother at Mossgiel. With the remainder he stocked the farm of Ellisland, near Dumfries, where he resolved to turn over a new leaf. His resolutions were, however, never put into practice, for, unfortunately, to eke out his income, he had obtained the post of gauger or exciseman for the district. This position necessarily brought him still further into temptation, and was the cause of much of the misery of his after life. In 1788 he was married to Jean Armour, by whom he had several children. In Ellisland his pen was ever busy; and not less beautiful than his songs were his letters, which bear the same stamp of genius as his other productions. There also was composed "Tam O'Shanter," which he himself considered to be his masterpiece. Had Burns lived, he intended to have produced some more enlarged pieces; but his early death, on the 21st July 1796, in his 38th year, put a final period to all these plans. FROM "THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT." THE cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; fire once gray cheeks Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, They chant their artless notes in simple guise; selects Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame, adds fuel to The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The priest-like father reads the sacred page- With Amalek's ungracious progeny; How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; no, have And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then, kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. TO A MOUSE. On turning up her Nest with the Plough. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, not, so hasty clatter I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion would, loath, run I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! ploughstaff sometimes must ear of corn, 24 sheaves small rest little, house Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! weak, walls, winds And naething now to big a new ane O' foggage green, And bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin' fast, build, one rank grass both sharp And cozie here, beneath the blast, comfortable Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed ploughshare That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, stubble many without, hold endure, drizzle hoar-frost, cold alone go oft wrong leave Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! And forward, though I canna see, DEATH AND DR HORNBOOK. I THERE WI' Something did forgather, eye meet with dismal hesitation An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, over one shoulder A three-taed leister on the ither pronged fish-spear, other Its stature seemed lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For NOT a wame it had ava; And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp and sma', As cheeks o' branks.* long two belly, at all legs "Guid e'en," quo' I;" Friend, hae ye been mawin,' When ither folks are busy sawin'?" It seemed to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; [good even, mowing other, sowing At length says I, “Friend, where ye gaun— where, going It spak right howe-" My name is Death, I rede ye weel tak care o' scaith, See, there's a gully!" hollow frightened stop observe, my lad advise, well, harm clasp-knife Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, weapon I'm no designed to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd; I wadna mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard." would, difficult so baulked over A wooden frame, forming, with a rope, a bridle for troublesome cows and horses. |