For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o’er, GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA. GLOOMY winter's now awa, My young, my artless dearie, O. * BURNS, in a letter to Mr. THOMSON, inclosing the above song, observes, "a great critic, Aikin, on songs, says, that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The inclosed is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme." It is flattering to our nature, that almost all those men who have any title to be considered its ornaments, have ever been distinguished for their liberality of sentiment and independence of mind. BURNS, in this spirited piece, has nicely drawn and appreciated the character of an honest and self-acting being, in opposition to the puny sycophantical reptile who sacrifices the really dignifying qualities of humanity, we will not say of his mind, to the baser insinuations of interest; whose heart heaves only in the smile of a capricious master; and should this toyloving idol of his worship withdraw this benign influence, he is at once plunged into the gulf of insignificant despair; nay, he has sometimes the courage, although this is rather a phenomenon, to deprive the world of a life which he (for his self-conceit is equal to his insignificance,) thinks of some importance to it. Come, my lassie, let us stray, Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods, ROBERT TANNAHILL, the author of this song, used to say, that BURNS" had licked the cream of our Scottish airs;" yet he has himself served up many delicious treats of this kind to his countrymen, sufficient proofs of which will be found in other parts of this work. His songs are worthy of the Scottish muse. The language is beautifully natural, and some of the imagery may rank among the finest flowers of Scottish poetry. If his lyrics do not entitle him to the fame of a RAMSAY or a BURNS, candour must at least allow him to rank among the first of the minor Bards of his country. The following short sketch of his life will not, we presume, be unacceptable to our Readers. "ROBERT TANNAHILL, the son of an operative weaver, was born at Paisley, on the 3d of June, 1774. The infancy of his life was spent in sickness and pain, from a complaint which nature imposed upon him from his birth, and which must have remained with him to the last hour of his life, but for the unremitting attention of a careful mother, whose maternal solicitude counteracted the defects of nature. At an early part of his life he was sent to an English school, where it is not known that he distinguished himself in any particular manner, so as to deserve either the censure or applause of those under whose charge he was placed. When he had gained sufficient strength to follow a mechanical employment, he was destined to his father's humble profession, to whom he was apprenticed for five years. Long before the expiration of this term, he gave considerable indications of a talent for poetical composition, by a little ludicrous piece, descriptive of the foolish eccentricities of a drunken fellow, who had, by his folly, become an object of ridicule, in the neighbourhood where ROBERT lived. So limited was our Bard's education at this period, that he was incapable of committing this first offering of his infant muse to writing. His youthful companions used to gather round him, listening with gaping attention while he recited his little poem, envying him the possession of those talents which they were willing to admire, but durst not hope to imitate. ROBERT now became Poet in earnest -read, with avidity and attention, almost every poetical composition that fell into his hands-again wrote-recited-was listened to and admired. These rude efforts of his infant muse fastening on the memories of his youthful auditors, were again repeated in other circles, till he became an object of admiration and esteem wherever he was known: and to the applause bestowed on him at that time, we are probably indebted for the more finished productions of his riper years. When the term of his servitude had expired, and he was left uncontrolled master of his own affairs, he had many opportunities of enlarging the limited circle of his familiar friends. As his songs had heightened the convivial enjoyment of many a merry night, frequent and importunate were the visits which, from friendship or curiosity, he received. But possessing no fortune but health and industry, and spurning with proud independence the hated idea of being supported in his amusements by the wealth of others, he carefully courted obscurity, and shunned observation, till reluctantly forced into notice by the superior strength of his own genius. Such was the extreme modesty of his nature, that though the qualities of his mind had ripened into superior excellence, it was with difficulty that his friends could persuade him to offer any of his early pieces for publication. With doubtful hesitation, a copy of his verses were however prepared for a periodical work then publishing in Edinburgh; but whether from that modesty, for which he was conspicuous, or from a dread that his name might swell the list of disgraced correspondents, they appeared under a fictitious character. The fears of the Bard were vain. His verses appeared in the first Number, accompanied by a flattering compliment to the Author, soliciting a continuance of his correspondence-an invitation which he showed no great anxiety to refuse. Thus flattered by the commendation of one whom he considered capable of appreciating the value of his performances, he became a constant correspondent, and, by his verses, adorned the pages of many a succeeding Number. The life of the Bard now rolled on for some time in joyful felicity, unruffled by any accident to excite curiosity, censure, or applause. He had long sung, with careless vivacity, the loves of others, unconscious that the dreaded dart was sharpening for himself. It was customary for the young people of both sexes, in the town where he lived, to meet at particular times, in little convivial bands, where the song, the banter, and the jest, wore away the tedious winter night. At one of those meetings, ROBERT first saw her who afterwards became the subject of so many of his songs. His rank in life being equal to hers, he found no difficulty in communicating to her the wishes of his heart, and felt with rapturous exultation that he needed no advocate in his favour, but the warm emotions of her own soul. A mutual flame was quickly caught, That virtue wants conceal'd.' Often when the labours of the day were done, and the planting taps were ting'd wi' goud,' by the glimmering rays of the setting sun, the happy lovers wandered in mutual bliss, through those delicious scenes which the poet has himself so beautifully described. With hearts beating with fond and endearing affection, they proudly anticipated the joyous days when, undisturbed by jealous doubts and fears, they would be for ever united in the tender ties of conjugal bliss. In the ardour of youthful imagination, the enraptured Bard pictured the joys of other times, when, loving and beloved, they would steal through life without one care to wrinkle their brows-without one sorrow to sadden their hearts. Prophetic imagination, wandering through the mists of futurity, guided them in unrepining felicity to the winter of life, where, weary with age, and withered with decay, they would sink into the same grave, lamented and esteemed by a crowd of weeping friends. Such were the dreams that delighted the fancy of the Bard. But the lady seeing nothing done to promote the consummation of these wishes, began to repine. She was wise enough to know that the brightest face is subject to decay, and that time plants wrinkles on the smoothest brow. Youth may be the season of love, but it is likewise that delicious period, on the judicious management of which, frequently depends the happiness or misery of our future lives. Another suitor came, whose addresses were not rejected. The pride of the Bard was stung, and spoke in loud and angry reproach. The fair began to relent, but it was too late. The vulture jealousy had fixed her talons so firmly in her injured lover's heart, that promises were vain, and repentance useless. Although a man of no resentment, he was equally jealous of his honour and his fame, and any thing which he considered injurious to either, was calculated to make a strong and lasting impression on his imagination. His bosom was long the centre of contending passions, but the pride of his soul rose superior to every other emotion, and after a few extravagant follies, he sought refuge for his distempered imagination in song, and with these beautiful verses, he sent her an eternal farewell. Accuse me not, inconstant fair, For I was true, would still been so, The fairest flow'r in Nature's field So thou, sweet flow'r! as false as fair, |