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N mony a foreign pairt I've been,


An' mony an unco ferlie seen,
Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I
Last walkit upon Cocklerye.
Wi' gleg, observant een, I pass't
By sea an' land, through East an' Wast.
And still in ilka age an' station
Saw naething but abomination.
In these uncovenanted lands
The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands
At lack of a' sectarian füsh'n,
An' cauld religious destitution.
He rins, puir man, frae place to place,
Tries a' their graceless means o' grace,
Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk,—
This yin a stot an' thon a stirk,—
A bletherin' clan, no worth a preen,—
As bad as Smith of Aberdeen!

At last, across the weary faem,
Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.
On ilka side o' me I fand

Fresh tokens o' my native land.
Wi' whatna joy I hailed them a'-
The hilltaps standin' raw by raw,
The public hoose, the Hielan' birks,
And a' the bonny U. P. kirks!

But maistly thee, the blude o' Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to John o' Grots,
The king o' drinks, as I conceive it,
Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!

For after years wi' a pockmantie
Frae Zanzibar to Alicante,
In mony a fash and sair affliction
I gie't as my sincere conviction-

Ferlie-a strange sight.
Cocklerye a hill in the Lothians.
Gleg-quick, bright.



Talisker, Isla, Glenlivet -three well-
known brands of whisky.
Fash-annoyance (Fr. fâcher).


Of a' their foreign tricks an' pliskies,
I maist abominate their whiskies.
Nae doot, themsels, they ken it weel,
An' wi' a hash o' leemon peel,
And ice an' siccan filth, they ettle
The stawsome kind o' goo to settle;
Sic wersh apothecary's broos wi’

As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo's wi'.

An', man, I was a blythe hame-comer
When first I synded out my rummer.
Ye should hae seen me then, wi' care
The less important pairts prepare ;
Syne, weel contentit wi' it a',
Pour in the speerits wi' a jaw!
I didnae drink, I didnae speak,-
I only snowkit up the reek.

I was sae pleased therein to paidle,
I sat an' plowtered wi'



An' blythe was I, the morrow's morn,
To daunder through the stookit corn,
And after a' my strange mishanters,
Sit doun amang my ain dissenters.
An', man, it was a joy to me
The pu'pit an' the pews to see,
The pennies dirlin' in the plate,
The elders lookin' on in state;
An' 'mang the first, as it befell,
Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel' !

I was, and I will no deny it,
At the first gliff a hantle tryit
To see yoursel' in sic a station-
It seemed a doubtfu' dispensation.
The feelin' was a mere digression,
For soon I understood the session,
An' mindin' Aiken an' McNeil,
I wondered they had done sae weel.

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I saw I had mysel' to blame;

For had I but remained at hame,
Aiblins-though no ava' deservin' 't-
They micht hae named your humble servant.

The kirk was filled, the door was steeked ;

Up to the pu'pit ance I keeked;

I was mair pleased than I can tell

It was the minister himsel'!

Prood, prood was I to see his face,
After sae lang awa frae grace.
Pleased as I was, I'm no denyin'
Some maitters were not edifyin';
For first I fand-an' here was news!-
Mere hymnbooks cockin' in the pews-
A humanised abomination,

Unfit for ony congregation.

Syne, while I still was on the tenter,
I scunnered at the new prezentor;
I thocht him gesterin' an' cauld—
A sair declension frae the auld.

Syne, as though a' the faith was wreckit,
The prayer was not what I'd exspeckit.
Himsel', as it appeared to me,

Was no the man he used to be.
But just as I was growin' vext
He waled a maist judeecious text,
An', launchin' into his prelections,
Swoopt, wi' a skirl, on a' defections.

O what a gale was on my speerit
To hear the points o' doctrine clearit,
And a' the horrors o' damnation
Set furth wi' faithfu' ministration !
Nae shauchlin' testimony here,-

We were a' damned, an' that was clear.
I owned, wi' gratitude an' wonder,
He was a pleesure to sit under.

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S modern dramatic poetry is largely composed without reference to the stage, so a wide latitude is now assumed in the application of the title lyric poetry. While a certain regard must still be had to the outward appearance of that form of verse which originally implied the accompaniment of appropriate music, it is the case that anything approaching the twanging of the actual lyre is not in the thoughts of many modern lyrists. The instrumental part of lyric poetry-and sometimes, indeed, all that implies actual musical expression-is frequently quite subordinate to the development of judgment, or passion, or sentiment, or reflection.

The three writers to be considered here-Mr. E. W. Gosse, Dr. T. G. Hake, and Mr. A. Lang-write lyric poetry in the wider acceptation of the term, though one and all of them are possible lyrists in the strict sense. That is, they might, if they chose, write on the prescribed themes-Devotion, Loyalty, Patriotism, Love, Revelry, War -and, by strict attention to rule, satisfy the demands of the rhetoricians. Indeed, in a certain sense, they have all done as much. Of the three, perhaps Mr. Gosse comes nearest the popular estimate of the lyrist, having in his verse not only poetic quality but spontaneous and captivating musical expression. He is a singer whose note and melody give him the prerogative of the sentimental songster. Delicate instinct and rich penetrative feeling predominate in his best verse over intellectual subtlety and grave judgment, and not seldom he approaches that lyrical climax which gives the impression that the poetsings because he must.' In versification like Mr. Lang's, such an influence is hardly possible. Every separate Ballade' suggests the resolution to oppose Sterne's injunction, 'Let no man say to himself Come, I will write a duodecimo.' These lyrics will not be read for their purely poetical qualities, so much as for their lithe and nimble movement, their imitative cleverness, and their sage trickery. On the other hand, the melody of his verse is probably a secondary consideration with Dr. Hake, and yet it is the case that his versification is fluent and melodious, and his imagery frequently rich, apt, and beautiful. In contrast to the method of Mr. Lang, Dr. Hake has an eloquence of earnestness, and a melodious movement that does not merely trip under the sway of his bow-hand, but comes of his fine sympathetic sense of fitness. In contradistinction, moreover, to Mr. Gosse, Dr. Hake impresses first by the reach and massive quality of his thought rather than by the richness of his note and his mellifluous cadences.

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What these three lyrists, then, present for consideration may be broadly stated as sentimental, artificial, and philosophical lyric

poetry. In Mr. Gosse the predominant feature is feeling, in Mr. Lang it is form, while in Dr. Hake it is insight. All three are observers, but while in Mr. Lang observation is playful, in Mr. Gosse it is sympathetic, and in Dr. Hake judicial. Dr. Hake concerns himself with problems that are psychological or spiritual, Mr. Gosse has a quick sense of emotion and of touching incident, and Mr. Lang dallies with intellectual puzzles and social oddities. There is room for Mr. Lang's attitude, and reason in his treatment, just because the world is always young and cleverness cannot fail of admiration; there is a distinct sphere and a cordial welcome therein for Dr. Hake, for he is a prophet that speaks with the authority and the versatile interest that come of much shrewd introspection; and it is impossible that there should ever be too much of that pure sentiment, that limpid melodious utterance, so eminently characteristic of Mr. Gosse.

There was a certain sensuousness, and as it were a straining after glow and warmth of colour, in Mr. Gosse's earlier volume of lyricsOn Viol and Flute'-and it is pleasing to note that this is less prominent in his recently published volume of 'New Poems.' In his introductory address Ad Auditorem he declared his function to be, With colour, verse, and harmony to frame A house of beautiful delights, whose name

May stir the world with pleasure like fine pearls,
Strung on a gold thread gleaming as a flame.

There is no necessity for entering here upon the vexed questions that are implied in the well-known expression Art for Art's sake;' but what has just been referred to as a tendency to overdo emotional feeling by a certain lingering wantonness of expression may be illustrated by two stanzas from a poem entitled 'Sunshine before Sunrise':

My arm was round her small head sweetly fashioned,
Her bright head shapely as a hyacinth-bell;

So silent were we that our hearts' impassioned
Twin throb was audible.

Oh! how the tender throbbing of her bosom

Beat, bird-like, crushed to mine in that embrace,
While blushes, like the light through some red blossom,
Dyed all her dewy face.

This is beautifully expressed, and probably the details are fairly accurate, but then it is questionable whether there is anything sufficiently interesting in such proceedings to warrant unreserved publication. In a word, Mr. Gosse had to come through his period of admiration, practice, imitation, and nobody who carefully considers these earlier poems will deny that he bore himself well. Perhaps it was inevitable that, under certain potent influences, in or about 1870, the poet should talk of the faint gray grass,' of one girl's 'wonderful hair,' and the bodice' silken stir' of another, of one

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