illustrate, though they may not be found in any glossary of that language. These are, indeed, generally so notoriously deficient and absurd, that it is painful for any one conversant in the genuine old provincial dialect to look into them. Ignorant, however, as I am of every dialect save my mother tongue, I imagine that I understand so much of the English language as to perceive that its muscular strength consists in the energy of its primitive stem-in the trunk from which all its foliage hath sprung, and around which its exuberant tendrils are all entwined and interwoven-I mean the remains of the ancient Teutonic. On the strength of this conceived principle, which may haply be erroneous, I have laid it down as a maxim, that the greater number of these old words and terms that can be introduced with propriety into our language, the better. To this my casual innovations must be attributed. The authority of Grahame and Scott has of late rendered a few of these old terms legitimate. If I had been as much master of the standard language as they, I would have introduced ten times more. NOTE XXXIV. THE following Poem was inserted by the Publisher of the Second Edition, as illustrative of some of the Songs in the Work. It was written and sent to him by B. BARTON, Esq. Woodbridge, Suffolk. SHEPHERD of Ettrick! as of yore To humble swains the Seraphs sung, For O! celestial are the tones The minstrel strikes to Malcolm's sorrow; When Jura, echoing back his moans, Claims the lost maiden of Glen-ora. Soft dies the strain; the cords now ring, And terror chills the listening band. Now from the cliffs of old Cairn-gorm, Dark gathering clouds the tempest bring; He comes, the Spirit of the Storm! And at the rustling of his wing, The harp's wild notes, now high, now low, A wilder strain is wafted near As from the regions of the sky; And where's the mortal that can hear Unmoved the Spectre's lullaby? To weave the due reward of praise For every rival bard were vain; Nor suits an humble poet's lays, Who loves, yet fears a loftier strain. Yet must I pause upon the tale Of that strange bark for Staffa bound; Proudly she greets the morning gale, Proudly she sails from holy ground. O, never yet has ship that traced But who, that sees the morning rise Shall next display its awful power? And who, that sees the floating bark That swell the terror of the tale? That favoured maiden's wondrous doom, Who, 'neath a self-illumined sky, Saw fields and flowers in endless bloom. O Heaven-taught Shepherd! when or where Was that ethereal legend wrought? What urged thee thus a flight to dare Through realms by former bards unsought? Say, hast thou, like Kilmeny, been Transported to the land of thought; And thence, by minstrel vision keen, It must be so in cottage lone, To dreams of poesy resigned, From Ettrick's banks thy soul has flown, And earth-born follies left behind. Then through those scenes Kilmeny saw, O Shepherd! since 'tis thine to boast Far, far above the countless host, Who swell the Muses' suppliant throng, The GIFT OF GOD distrust no more, His inspiration be thy guide; Be heard thy harp from shore to shore, Thy song's reward thy country's pride. WOODBRIDGE, April 21, 1813. THE END. Edinburgh: OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS. |