How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring While o'er their heads the hazels hing, LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fasht eneugh; A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, And when they meet wi' sair disasters, CÆSAR. But then to see how ye're neglectit, LUATH. They're no sae wretched's ane wad think, Though constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, The dearest comfort o' their lives, That merry day the year begins, My heart has been sae fain to see them, Still it's ower true that ye hae said, on Highland tradition. It was acted at Edinburgh, through the influence, and under the oversight, of her friend Sir Walter Scott. The only other of her plays that was put upon the stage was "De Montfort," which was brought out at Drury Lane in 1800. Clyde, her father, Dr James Baillie, being minister of that parish. He was afterwards professor of divinity in the University of Glasgow. Her mother was a sister of the celebrated anatomists, Drs John and William Hunter, after the former of whom Joanna was named. Few places in Scotland are a meeter On the marriage of Dr Baillie, his "nurse for a poetic child" than the mother and sisters went for some time romantic surroundings of Bothwell to Colchester; but about 1801, they Castle, the once famous stronghold of fixed their abode permanently at Hampthe Douglasses; and here and at Hamil- stead Heath. Here their mother died ton, about three miles distant, Joanna in 1806, and here the two affectionate Baillie spent the first ten years of her sisters continued to reside and receive life. In 1778, her father died at Glas- the visits of almost all their contemgow; and in 1784, she went with her porary celebrities till Joanna's death, mother and her sister Agnes to live on the 23d February 1851. Agnes with her brother, Dr Mathew Baillie, lived for other ten years, dying in 1861, who succeeded to the London house and in the hundredth year of her age. the practice of his uncle, Dr William | Joanna's Address to Agnes on her Hunter, on the death of that well-known Birthday is one of the most simply physician. Here, in 1790, she published | beautiful pictures of sisterly affection anonymously her first volume of poems, which met with a very indifferent reception. In 1798, she published her first series of dramas, with the view of illustrating her theory of the action of the passions, each passion being the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. Her theory, which advocates stricter adherence to nature in the dramatic art, she maintains in a lengthy introduction, which shows her to have been an original and vigorous thinker. This venture, which was also anonymous, created an immediate impression, and a second edition was required in a short time. In 1802, she continued the subject in a second volume; and in a third, in 1812. In 1804, she produced a volume of miscellaneous dramas, and in 1810 the "Family Legend," a tragedy founded extant. LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears, O'er us have glided almost sixty years Since we on Bothwell's bonnie braes were seen, By those whose eyes long closed in death have been Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather The slender harebell or the purple heather; No taller than the foxglove's spinky stem, gem. LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY. 661 Then every butterfly that crossed our view With joyous shout was greeted as it flew; And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright, In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight. Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side, Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde, Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin, Swimming in mazy rings the pool within, A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent, Seen in the power of early wonderment. A long perspective to my mind appears, Looking behind me to that line of years; And yet through every stage I still can trace Thy visioned form, from childhood's morning grace To woman's early bloom-changing, how soon! To the expressive glow of woman's noon; And now to what thou art, in comely age, Active and ardent. Let what will engage Thy present moment-whether hopeful seeds In garden plat thou sow, or noxious weeds From the fair flower remove; or ancient lore In chronicle or legend rare explore, Well may it please me, in life's latter scene, To think what now thou art and long to me hast been. "Twas thou who wooedst me first to look Upon the page of printed book, That thing by me abhorred, and with address Didst win me from my thoughtless idle ness, When all too old become with_bootless haste, In fitful sports the precious time to waste, Thy love of tale and story was the stroke At which my dormant fancy first awoke, And ghosts and witches in my busy brain Arose in sombre show, a motley train. This new-found path attempting, proud was I Lurking approval on thy face to spy, Or hear thee say, as grew they roused attention, "What is this story all thine own invention !" Then, as advancing through this mortal span, Our intercourse with the mixed world began; Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy- Where'er we went, the greater favour gain; While but for thee, vexed with its tossing tide, I from the busy world had shrunk aside. On helpful errand to the neighbouring And now, in later years, with better grace, poor Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by. Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place With those whom nearer neighbourhood has made Though oft of patience brief, and temper The friendly cheerers of our evening Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall Is no like a chap that's heard at e'en. mourn? And if I should be fated first to leave This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve, And he above them all, so truly proved A friend and brother, long and justly loved, There is no living wight, of woman born, Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn. Thou ardent, liberal spirit ! quickly feeling The touch of sympathy and kindly dealing But the docksie auld laird of the Warlock Glen, Wha waited without, half-blate, half cheery, And lang'd for a sight o' his winsome dearie, Raised up the latch, and cam crousely ben. His coat it was new, and his o'erlay was white, His mittins and hose were cozie and bein; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day, Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed, The latest spoken still are deemed the best : Few are the measured rhymes I now may write; These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite. He greeted the carlins and lasses sae braw, And his bare lyart pow sae smoothly he straikit, And he looked about, like a body halfglaikit, On bonnie sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'. |