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Of Buchanan's career on his return to Scotland, and his conduct 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 Maiæ Calendæ, 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. 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

The thing speaks for itself.

concern.

Joannem Andreæ filium anus uxor

alloquitur.

The old Housewife's Address lo her

Gudeman,

(From the unpublished MSS. of the "ada

mirable" CRICHTON.)

(Tra

into broad Scotch by ROBERT UAT, of the Excise.)

Senex Joannes ! dulcis amor tuæ
Anilis æquè conjugis! integrå
Cùm nos juventa jungeremur,

Quàm bene cæsaries nitebat!
Frontis marito qualis erat decor!
Nunc, heu! nivalis canities premit,
Nullæ sed his canis capillis

Illecebræ mihi cariores i

John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonni row was brent;
But now your nead's turn'd bald, John,

Your locks are like the snow,
But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo,

qnando, Joannes mi bone! primitus atura rerum finxit imagines Formam elaboravit virilem,

Hoc ut opus fieret magistrum. Sed, inter omnes quas opifex pia Struxit figuras artifici manu, Curavit ut membris et ore

Nulla foret tibi par, Joannes !

John Anderson my jo, John,

When Nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,

Her master-work was nian;
And you amang them all, John,

Sae trig frae top to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-wark,

John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,

Ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na think it strange, Jolicy

That I ca' ge trim aud neat:

Tibi rosarum primitias dedi,
Vernosque virgo candida flosculos,
Nec fonte miraris quod illo

Delicias repetam perennes :

Jam te senilem, jam veterem vocant; Though some folks say you're old, John,
Verum nec illis credula, nec tibi,

I never think ye so,
Oblita vel menses, vel annos, But I think you're aye the same to me,
Haurio perpetuos amores.

John Anderson my jo.
Propago nobis orta parentibus, John Anderson my jo, John,
Crevit remotis aucta nepotibus,

We've seen our bairnie's bairns At nos in amborum calentes

And yet, my dear John Anderson Usque sinu recreamur ambo; I'm happy in your arms; Hyems amori nulla supervenit, And so are ye in mine, JohnVerisque nostri floret adhùc rosa, I'm sure you'll ne'er say no, Tibique perduro superstes

Though the days are gane that ye have seen, Qualis eram nitidă juventa.

John Anderson my jo. Patris voluptas quanta domesticam John Anderson my jo, John, (Dum corde mater palpitat intimo) What pleasure does it gie Videre patorum coronam

To see sae many sprouts, John, Divitias humilis taberna!

Spring up 'tween you and me! Videre natos reddere moribus

And ilka lad and lass, John, Mores parentum, reddere vultibus In our footsteps to go, Vultus, et exemplo fideles

Make perfect heaven here on earth,
Scandere cum proavis Olympum,

John Anderson my jo.
Heu! mi Joannes, Temporis alite John Anderson my jo, John,
Pennå quot anni, quotque boni dies Frae year to year we've past,
Utrumque fugerunt! fuprema And soon that year maun come, John,

Jamque brevi properabit hora.- W bring us to our last;
Mortis prehendit dextera conjuges But let not that affright us, John,
Non imparatos, non timidos mori, Our hearts were ne'er our foe,
Vitâque functos innocenti,

While in innocent delight we lived, Nec sine spe melioris ævi!

John Anderson my jo. Vitve labores consociavimus,

John Anderson my jo, John, Montana juncti vicimus ardua,

We've ciambed the hill togither,
Et nunc potiti gaudiorum

And monie a cantie day, ban,
Culmine quid remoramur ultrà ? We've had wi' ane anit:er.
Dextris revinctis, perque vias retro Now we maun totter down, John,
Lenes, petamus vallis iter senex! But hand in hand we'll go,
Quâ vir et uxor dormiamus

And we'll sleep togither at the foot,
Unius in gremio sepulchri.

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, be gave up continental affairs, settled down as a tranquil farmer, married a highlard 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 ať 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 sharn 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. Bobn while these sheets were in progress. Quick perception, and intimata acquaintance with the several languages used by Prout, rectified many errors, and happy tact restored his text in many passages.

THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA.

AN HUMPLE BALLAD.

Not ye

famous alba

louse to Bourdeaux

aincient ma.
riner olde

ter at 0. Snow 1 foot

but a poore
robin.

of wooden shoes,

farmer hieth

tage, and

" Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing ? yet not one of them shall fall to the ground without your Father.—ST. MATTHEW, 3. 29.

“Gallos ab Aquitariis Garumna Aumen.”—JULIUS CÆSAR.
“Sermons in stones, and good in everything."--SHAKSPERE.

“ Genius, left to shiver

On the bank, 'tis said,

Died of that cold river." -TOM MOORE. River trip. OH, 'twas bitter cold

'Twas a stranger drest As our steam-boat roll'd tross of that In a downy vest, Thermome. Down the pathway old

'Twas a wee Red-breast, Of the deep Garonne,— Coleridge, (Not an Albatross,") and a half And the peasant lank,

But a wanderer meek, deep. Use While his sabot sank

Who fain would seek
In the snow-clad bank,

O'er the bosom bleak
Saw it roll on, on.

Of that flood to cross. Ye Gascon. And he hied him home Ye sparrow And we watch'd him oft to his cot- To his toit de chaume; river maketh As he soar'd aloft drinketh a

And for those who roam house of the On his pinions soft, flaggonae.

On the broad bleak flood fire-ship. Poor wee weak thing, Cared he? Not a thought;

And we soon could mark For his beldame brought

That he sought our bark,
His wine-flask fraught

As a resting ark
With the grape's red

For his weary wing.
blood.
He warmeth And the wood-block blaze Delusive, But the bark, fire-fed,
Fed his vacant gaze fire-ship

On her pathway sped,

runneth 10 Good bye to As we trod the maze

And shot far a-head
Of the river down.

Of the tiny bird,
Soon we left behind

DOA POWI ye And quicker in the van
On the frozen wind

Her swift wheels ran,
All farther mind

As the quickening fan
Of that vacant clown.

Of his winglets stirr’d. Ye Father But there came anon,

Ye byrde 18 Vain, vain pursuit !
As we journey'd on goose chace Toil without fruit!

adown ye quaintance Down the deep Garonne, river.

For his forked foot
An acquaintancy,

Shall not anchor there,
Which we deem'd, Icount,

Tho' the boat meanwhile Of more high amount,

Down the stream beguile
For it oped the fount

For a bootless mile
Or sweet sympathy.

The poor child of ajr!

shins at a wooden fire.

bim.

knots an
hour: 'tis

meeteth a stray ac

bird.

2 stools.

ject calleth

ye naine
chaunce.

Symptomes And 'twas plain at last

Ye Streame And well would it seern

of Lyfe. A "Tis melan. He was flagging fast,

younge man That o'er Life's dark cholie to fall

of fayre probetween That his hour had past mise.

stream,
In that effort vain;

Easy task for Him
Far from either bank,

In his flight of Fame,
Sans a saving plank,

Was the Skyward Path Slow, slow he sank,

O'er the billow's wrath, Nor uprose again.

That for Genius hath

Ever been the same. Mort of yo And the cheerless wave

Hys earlie And I saw him soar birde.

flyght across Just one ripple gave ye screame. From the morning shore, As it oped him a grave

While his fresh wings bore In its bosom cold,

Him athwart the tide, And he sank alone,

Soon with powers unspent
With a feeble moan,

As he forward went,
In that deep Garonne,

His wings he had bent
And then all was told.

On the sought-for side, Ye old man But our pilot grey

A newe ob. But while thus he flew, weepeth for Wiped a tear away ;

his eye from Lo! a vision new in ye bay of In the broad Biscaye

Caught his wayward view Biscaye. He had lost his boy!

With a semblance fair, That sight brought back

And that new-found wooer
On its furrow'd track

Could, alas! allure
The remember'd wreck

From his pathway sure
Of long perish'd joy!

The bright child of air, And the tear half hid Instabilitie For he turn'd aside, ance of ye

of purpose a ladyes; eke In soft Beauty's lid fatall evyll And adown the tide of 1 chasseur

in lyse. Stole forth unbid

For a brief hour plied d'infanterie legere. For that red - breast

His yet unspent force.

And to gain that goal And the feeling crept,

Gave the powers of soul For a Warrior wept;

Which, unwasted, whole, And the silence kept

Hadachieved his course. Found no fitting word.

This is je Olde Father But I mused alone,

A bright Spirit, young, morall of

Condole

bird ;

Father sadly mo- For I thought of one

Unwept, unsung,

Prout's
Whom I well had known humble

Sank thus among

ballade, In my earlier days,

The drifts of the stream;
Of a gentle mind,

Not a record left, -
Of a soul refined,

Of renown bereft,
Of deserts design'd

By thy cruel theft,
For the Palm of Praise.

O DELUSIVE DREAM.

Proutte

ralizeth anent ye birde.

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