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Tot laureas, nec si per æthram
Pegaseâ veherere penna.

Cossere saltus ninguidi, et Alpium
Inserta cœlo culmina, cum pater
Romanus oraret, propinquæ ut
Subjiceres humeros ruinæ.

Defensa Roma, et capta Valentia,
Coacta pacem Parthenope pati,
Fama tui Segusianus

Barbarica face liberatus.

Equor procellis, terra paludibus,
Armis BRITANNUS, moenia sæculis
Invicta longis insolentes

Munierant animos Caletum

Loræna virtus, sueta per invia
Non usitatum carpere tramitem,
Invicta devincendo, famam

Laude nova veterem refellit.

Ferox BRITANNUS viribus antehac
Gallisque semper cladibus imminens,
Vix se putat securum ab hoste
Fluctibus Oceani diremptus.

Regina, pacem nescia perpeti
Jam spreta moret foedera: Jam Dei
Iram timet mox imminentem
Vindicis et furiæ flagellum.

Huic luce terror Martius assonat,
Diræque cædis mens sibi conscia,
Umbræque nocturnæ, quietem
Terrificis agitant figuris.

Fame in her narrative should give
Thee magic pinions

To range, with free prerogative,
All earth's dominions.

What were the year's achievements? first,
Yon Alps their barrier saw thee burst,
To bruise a reptile's head, who durst,
With viper sting,
Assail (ingratitude accurst!)
Rome's Pontiff King.

To rescue Rome, capture Plaisance,
Make Naples yield the claims of France,
While the mere shadow of thy lance
O'erawed the Turk :-

Such was, within the year's expanse,
Thy journey-work.

But Calais yet remained unwon-
Calais, stronghold of Albion,
Her zone begirt with blade and gun,
In all the pomp

And pride of war; fierce Amazon!
Queen of a swamp!

But even she hath proven frail,
Her walls and swamps of no avail;
What citadel may Guise not scale,

Climb, storm, and seize?
What foe before thee may not quail,
O gallant Guise!

Thee let the men of England dread,
Whom Edward erst victorious led,
Right joyful now that ocean's bed
Between them rolls

And thee!-that thy triumphant tread
Yon wave controls.

Let ruthless MARY learn from hence
That Perfidy's a foul offence;
That falsehood hath its recompense
That treaties broken,
The anger of Omnipotence

At length have woken.

May evil counsels prove the bane
And curse of her unballowed reign;
Remorse, with its disastrous train,

Infest her palace;

And may she of God's vengeance drain
The brimming chalice!

Every schoolboy knows that this event broke Queen Mary's heart, so inconsolable was she for the loss of those "keys of France" which the monarchs of England, from Edward to the bluff Harry, had gloried in wearing suspended to the royal girdle.

* Buchanan appears to have the following verse of Hesiod in view: Την μεν Πήγασος εελε καί εσθλος Βελλεροφωντης.-Theog.

Of Buchanan's career on his return to Scotland, and his ronduct as a politician and courtier, I shall say nothing. As a poet, his career terminated when the gates of state intrigue were thrown open to him, so I bid him farewell on the threshold. His Maia Calenda, his “Epicædium on the death of John Calvin," his poem De Sphærd, his translations from Euripides, his elegiac poetry, all his titles to renown were already won. By the way, John Milton has translated his tragedy of Baptistes, if we are to credit Peck. Certain it is that Buchanan's De Jure Regni apud Scotos, a wonderful step in radicalism for that day, was the prototype of the Cromwellian secretary's Defensio pro Populo Anglicano. It appears that Buchanan had some share in the education of Michel Montaigne,-a glorious feather in his cap. Crichton was certainly his scholar: and no better proof of the fact can be afforded than the following lyric (from the MS. in my possession), a copy of which I fancy got abroad in Burns's time, for he has somehow transferred the sentiments it expresses, most literally. However, it is clear that Crichton's claim cannot be invalidated by any ex post facto concern. The thing speaks for itself.

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Jam te senilem, jam veterem vocant;
Verum nec illis credula, nec tibi,
Oblita vel menses, vel annos,
Haurio perpetuos amores.

Propago nobis orta parentibus,
Crevit remotis aucta nepotibus,
At nos in amborum calentes

Usque sinu recreamur ambo;
Hyems amori nulla supervenit-
Verisque nostri floret adhuc rosa,
Tibique perduro superstes

Qualis eram nitidâ juventâ.

Patris voluptas quanta domesticam (Dum corde mater palpitat intimo) Videre natorum coronam

Divitias humilis tabernæ! Videre natos reddere moribus Mores parentum, reddere vultibus Vultus, et exemplo fideles

Scandere cum proavis Olympum. Heu! mi Joannes, Temporis alite Penna quot anni, quotque boni dies Utrumque fugerunt! suprema

Jamque brevi properabit hora.Mortis prehendit dextera conjuges Non imparatos, non timidos mori, Vitâque functos innocenti,

Nec sine spe melioris ævi!
Vita labores consociavimus,
Montana juncti vicimus ardua,
Et nunc potiti gaudiorum

Culmine quid remoramur ultrà?
Dextris revinctis, perque vias retrò
Lenes, petamus vallis iter senex!
Quâ vir et uxor dormiamus
Unius in gremio sepulchri.

Though some folks say you're old, John,
I never think ye so,

But I think you're aye the same to me,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We've seen our bairnie's bairns
And yet, my dear John Anderson
I'm happy in your arms;

And so are ye in mine, John-
I'm sure you'll ne'er say no,
Though the days are gane that ye have seen,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
What pleasure does it gie
To see sae many sprouts, John,
Spring up 'tween you and me!
And ilka lad and lass, John,

In our footsteps to go,
Make perfect heaven here on earth,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

Frae year to year we've past,
And soon that year maun come, John,
Will bring us to our last;
But let not that affright us, John,
Our hearts were ne'er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We've clambed the hill togither,
And monie a cantie day, ohn,
We've had wi' ane aniti.er.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And we'll sleep togither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

When Harrison Ainsworth, then a young writer of promise, took up James Crichton in place of Dick Turpin, a noble field lay before him. I sketched the plan, and pointed out to him that the story, in all biographies, of Crichton's having been killed in a drunken brawl at Mantua, by Duke Gonzaga, on the 3rd July, 1583, was manifestly untrue, as there was, to my knowledge, at Paris, in the Bibliothèque du Roi, a printed broadsheet of verses by him, on the death of St. Carlo Borromeo, who died on the 4th November, 1584 (a fact he was able to verify by getting another copy from Milan). From other sources I showed that there were secret reasons for his reported death, that he lay concealed at Venice as

corrector of the press for Aldus Manutius,* up to 1585 was made private secretary at Rome to Pope Peretti when "Sixtus Quintus" became monarch in central Italy, and that he was the life and soul of that great man's short reign; I had proof that he was at Lisbon in 1587, and that, in 1588, he sailed thence with his friend Lope de Vega on board the Invincible Armada, to avenge the death of Mary, Queen of Scots. That his galleon, driven up the German sea and rounding Scotland, was wrecked in the winter of that year on the coast of Ayrshire.

That disgusted with the triumphant reign of Elizabeth, the revolt of the Low Countries from Spain, the edict of Nantes granted to the Huguenots by Henri Quatre, and the general aspect of Europe, he gave up continental affairs, settled down as a tranquil farmer, married a highland lassie, and lived to a good old age, as evidenced by his well-authenticated song of John Anderson my jo.

This startling narrative of what was in some sort the posthumous history of his hero, Ainsworth did not grapple with, but stopped at Paris, making him a kind of fencing-master, rope-dancer, and court dandy, marrying him to some incredible princess of the blood, and so forth.

That Crichton, during his long life in Ayrshire, under an humbler name, was author of most of the popular songs and tunes that have enriched the Land o' Cakes is known to a few only; but Robert Burns was in the secret, as the reader has already discovered.

In 1841, on returning from Hungary and Asia Minor by the south of France, I learnt that Ainsworth had left the tale of Crichton half told, and had taken up with Blueskin and Jack Sheppard, Flitches of Bacon and Lancashire Witches, and thought such things were "literature." Hence this ballad, in which I have endeavoured to express what I know would have been the sentiments of old Prout, in language as near his own as I can command.

Paris, Nov. 1, 1859.

F. M.

* The presses of Aldus, and Crichton's share in their efficiency, suggest to me the propriety of acknowledging the debt due by the defunct Prout to the keen and accurate supervision of Mr. W. S. Bohn while these sheets were in progress. Quick perception, and intimate acquaintance with the several languages used by Prout, rectified many errors, and happy tact restored his text in many passages.

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