An Eclogue to the Memory of Dr. William Wilkie, late Professor of Natural Philosophy in the Elegy on the Death of Mr. David Gregory, late Professor of Mathematics in the University Epigram on a Lawyer's desiring one of the Tribe to look with respect to a Gibbet, Character of a Friend in an Epitaph which he Epigram on the numerous Epitaphs for General Wolfe; for the best of which a Premium of Epigram on James Boswell, Esq., and Dr. Samuel Johnson being confined to the Isle of Skye, On the Music Bells playing Yesterday Forenoon, prior to Brown's and Wilson's Execution, on the Deacons being presented to Council, On Seeing a Lady Paint Herself, Extempore on seeing Stanzas addressed to Mrs. Hartley, the Actress, wherein she is described as resembling Mary Queen of Scots, Epigram on seeing Scales used in a Mason Lodge, Epigram on the Author's intention of going to Sea, Epigram written Extempore, at the desire of a BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. IT has been frequently complained-Robert Louis Stevenson and Andrew Lang being amongst the complainants-that the youthful composer of "The Farmer's Ingle," "The Daft Days," and "Leith Races," has never at any time received the meed of popular appreciation to which, as a Nature poet, glowing with original fancy and humour set forth in the richest ore of the ruggedly-grand vernacular of his country, he is in all respects entitled. That the complaint is a just one, loudly calling for expression, every intimate and discerning student of Scottish poetical letters has continually been ready to admit. The fact that such has been the case, too, has been roundly and justly deplored. They have been over-zealous admirers, doubtless, and poor critics, who have attempted to set FERGUSSON up as an equal, or nearly equal, light to Robert Burns. He had neither the all-captivating song-gift, the variety, the grit, nor the grasp of life and its issues to render his comparison with Burns tolerable. This admitted, it is yet true that while his Scottish poems are pregnant with the same popular elements, often as happily and seldom less graphically expressed, ROBERT FERGUSSON has never attained to a height in the popular estimation anything like duly proportionate to that occupied by his later "brother in the muse." Our "wondrous boy," indeed, who gave Burns ever so many hints, in subject no less than form, making the greater, to the day of his death, the 66 eloquently-grateful debtor of the less, has in large measure been a neglected poet. The specialists have all the time, no doubt, been conscious of his true and rare value. But the misfortune that dogged every step of his sadly tragic and all too brief life has persistently dogged every step of his fame; and if the full harvest of ROBERT FERGUSSON is ever to be stored, it has yet to be reaped. Edinburgh, whose gifted child he was, and whose life and manners in his time he caught as they rose and set in verse more graphic and true than ever before or since has emanated from within her walls, has never condescended, as she ought, to welcome her "prodigal son," so-called, and kill 'fatted calf" in his honour. She has published no really choice edition of his poems. Amongst so many statues that adorn her streets and squares-some of which might not be sorely missed-no monument stands within her "causey" erected, as consistency demands, to the memory of poor ROBERT FERGUSSON. Some day the defect will be remedied, perhaps: by stimulus from without, let us hope, if not by impulse from within. But, come when or how it may, the setting up of a statue in honour of the author of "Auld Reekie,” near by that of the author of The Gentle Shepherd," will be no more than a simple act of corresponding justice already too long delayed. When the ruck of Burns clubites all over the world are able to understand, as Burns might desire, the spirit of the Bard under whose name and for the honour of whose memory they periodically combine, something really worthy in this way may be done. When the votaries of the Master-singer generally-and the clubites here are but a fraction-come in the quiet of their bosoms |