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quently altogether nugatory and inept. The general strain of Mickle’s poetry and bent of his genius seem to be as directly opposed to the nature of song as what Jean Adam's, from ought that appears, has been. All inferences therefore, drawn from this source on either side, we would deem unsound, and ought to be dismissed. For it frequently happens, that an indifferent writer in other respects, has, by changing his subject, and in a happy moment, produced something that shames, by its excellence, all that he hath written before or will write again. In the same way, an author celebrated for some great performance does not always succeed in every effort he makes, if that be somewhat out of the track he has been accustomed to tread, and a miscarriage and a blot on his genius is the consequence. It may be added, that a large portion of Scotish Song is neither the work of professed and celebrated poets, nor gentlemen, nor scholars, but owes its being to obscure rhymsters, humble individuals, and folks who have lived and died undistinguished by literary acquirements or general talent; and, excepting in one or two solitary instances, have never attempted to versify in the world. Many songs are floating about in the mouths of people, unknown eyond the parish in which they were composed, and many which have gained popularity are without a father, because they may have acquired fame without the author's knowledge; or if he was aware of that circumstance, prudence or modesty may have withheld him from reaping the honour by an avowal; or they may have risen into notice long after their author had ceased to be.
This song, therefore, may as well be considered the production of Mrs. Adam as of Mr. Mickle. It may have been composed in her youth; but the character of piety she had acquired amongst her patrons may have prevented her from being guilty of so much incongruity as publishing so hearty a lilt amongst the meek-faced children of her devotional muse. It is said she recited it in her life time as her own, and from her recitation a copy might have found its way to the streets. Mickle, a man of taste, either hearing it there, or procuring an imperfect copy, might have set to the correction of it. And as no one appeared to claim it, he, on the score of those very corrections and improvements, may have been induced to bring forward his own title of self-appropriation, imagining that in this case, as materiam superabat opus, he was fully authorised to do so. If, however, Mr. M.'s emendations were nothing more than a few orthographical ones, or occasionally the substitution of one phrase for another, few will be inclined to think that his conduct in this matter was either honourable or just. He had obtained enough of celebrity by other performances, without requiring to be indebted to the song of a poor and unassuming woman, composed in the joyous simplicity and fullness of her heart, for any portion of or addition to that fame which he already enjoyed through exertions altogether his own.
The great evidence of the song belonging to Jean Adam, is, however, derived from the song itself.
There are many little indications of its being from a female hand: no man could think in the same way, or rattle orer so volubly the contents of the wardrobe, or arrangements in the kitchen for the gudeman's home coming, as in the song. But the strongest of all arguments in Jean's favour is the local allusion contained in the song itself, which we imagine will sufficiently establish her claims to it, and at the same time prove to the world that our assertion of her right to do so, is neither fanciful nor unfounded. The local allusion that we mean occurs in these lines:
“ Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore."
Now, we submit that none except those who have been bred ap in a seaport, would ever have thought of particularizing so minutely the very spot to which it will be necessary to go for the affectionate purpose of seeing the gudeman come ashore. Those educated in landward towns would have had no specialities whatever, but discoursed loosely in generalities, and talked of the beach or of the seaside, without condescending on any one particular place of it where the gladsome meeting will take place. But the quay to those living in maritime towns is in fact the centre of all interest, and (pardon the pun) is in good verity the master key to many of their most pleasing associations, remembrances, tender affections, regrets or joys. Hence it becomes an object of no little moment in the mind's eye, and more and more assumes the character of a dominant and all-perrading idea one ready to rise uppermost, and engross attention when any of those agitating concerns of life connected with the happiness or wretchedness of the individual are about to happen. Cartsdyke, or Crawfurdsdyke, the place where Jean Adam was born, although now the eastern suburb of Greenock, has still its little quay and fleet of small craft, while its inhabitants are to this day more or less seafaring people. This one little cir. cumstance, trivial as it may appear to many, is nevertheless in our opinion quite decisive of the question at issue, and will also appear so to every one who can rightly decipher the work. ing of the human mind, and estimate the influence which habit, and those associations which grow up from peculiarities of local situations and modes of living, exert over its most intimate ideas, feelings, and opinions. In speaking thus, we do not arrogate to ourselves more discernment than what seems to be the portion of those who have maintained and ably defended a contrary opinion ; they no doubt must have had good grounds to walk on before they advanced it ; and we seek them not to relinquish it until they discard for a moment hearsay stories, of what this old woman said to t'other old woman about what another old one told to nobody knows whom-and throw aside blotted or corrected MSS. at least for a time—and calmly sit down to an investigation and comparison of the intellectual complexions of the two claimants, so far as these may be ascertained from their respective works, or guessed from their condition in life, sex, education, habits and local circumstances. And then let them say in the sincerity of their hearts which of the two is the likelier to be the author. It requires no prophetic powers to predict that a general acquiescence in the decision we have already pronounced must eventually follow.
With the earlier and the later poets of this County, we have now done. It only remains with us, before closing this essay, to notice those of our own day; they are not many, and will not detain us long. It might be more methodical to mention them in their chronological order as hitherto ; but in so abbreviated and imperfect a sketch as is purposed to be given, this is a matter of indifference. Those who again take up the subject, and treat it at more length may, and it is proper and natural they should, do otherwise.
From the time of Jean Adam, to that in which we are made familiar with the names of Wilson and Tannahill, Renfrewshire was without any song writers. It is true there were some songs written by inhabitants of Paisley, which are either forgotten, or if not so, are but seldom, if at all, sung by those who can say anything regarding their authors. There is one we have ourselves heard from John Wilson, late bar-officer of the Sheriff Court, and well known through the town by the title of the Philosopher, which should not be omitted. The subject was quite of a local cast, namely, the prohibition issued by the magistrates against the away-taking of peat, feal, and divot, from the town's moss. It was to the tune of the battle of Sheriffmuir, and was, withal, a thing of some humour. But perhaps it was much indebted to our philosopher for the animated way in which he was wont to sing it, for a blyther old man than he was not to be found in three counties. He died at the advanced age of 87, in April, 1818, and with him was buried the memory of many a good anecdote, and merry scrap of an old catch. According to him, it was a tape weaver and boon companion of his own who composed it. There is another song written, as we have heard, by one John Robertson, in 1793, which still keeps its ground amongst the musical amateurs of Paisley. It is styled the Toom meal pock, and though of a political cast, and homely enough both in sentiment and expression, it is not alto. gether destitute of point, and may be worth while printing were directions at same time given to the singer, when and how he should imitate the shaking of an empty bag.
After merely mentioning the names of Archibald Fyfe and James Scadlock, as versifiers of some little merit, our labours will be aptly terminated with those of Wilson and Tannahill. The poems of Fyfe, and some few critical essays, were pub. lished shortly after his death in 1806 ; those of Scadlock, in the present year. As both of these little volumes have short biographical sketches of their respective authors pre
ted, to which access may easily be had, we shall pass them over without comment.
We ought in this place to have also noticed Ebenezer Picken, a native of Paisley, whose poems were published in Edinburgh, 1813, in two small octavo volumes. Of the author, some particulars will be found in the periodical work mentioned below, * to which it has been out of our power to make any addition. His poetical attempts are on the whole pretty tolerable, though not such as will ever render his name anywise popular, or the events of his life a matter of curiosity and regard to the literary anecdote-monger.
* The Weavers' Magazine and Literary Companion, Vol. II. No. XI. p. 199. Paisley, published and printed by J. Neilson.
The brilliant era—the golden age of Renfrewshire song, now opens upon us in the persons of Wilson and Tannahill. Both have contributed not a little to our stock of native lyric poetry; and while our language lasts, and music hath any charm, their names will be remembered with enthusiasm, and transmitted to ages more remote with the accumulated applauses of time.
Alexander Wilson was born at Paisley on the 6th of July, 1766 ; he landed in America on the 14th of July, 1794 ; and died at Philadelphia, on the 23rd of August, 1813, while on the very eve of completing one of the most splendid undertakings that hath ever been projected, perhaps, by a single, solitary, friendless, poor, and almost destitute individual.
The severe fatigues, both mental and corporeal which he underwent—the many disappointments which he was doomed to suffer—the unceasing labour and unwearied attention he had to bestow in forwarding this great work, were all instrumental in impairing and sapping his constitution, and in depressing, though they could never subdue, his energetic, inflexible, and persevering mind. Nothing could deter him from going on to place the apex on that pyramid, whose basis had been so deeply, broadly, and solidly executed by himself ; but fate arrested his adventurous hand, and blasted the lofty thought--he, like the Egyptian Monarch perished upon, and was sepulchred in, the immense and glorious fabric himself had reared.
Of this celebrated character, almost every incident connected with his history, has long ere now been laid before the public with scrupulous minuteness. To the last volume of the Ornithology of America is prefixed a sketch of his life, by bis friend Mr Ord; and the edition of his poems published at Paisley, in 1816 ; is likewise prefaced with a well written, though diffuse life of the author, interspersed with critical strictures on some of the pieces there inserted. It would be uncandid not to state that we have also seen some interesting