William Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and died there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care of his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal education, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly respectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called "The Harp of Renfrewshire," which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish for antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the ballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in two volumes, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." His introduction to this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all future investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually successful in recovering many of the old ballads, which were never committed to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these, though rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely beautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had labored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of both of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad rhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they naturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching style. Soon after the publication of his "Ancient Minstrelsy," Motherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The talent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the occasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial care of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. He conducted this paper with great ability.
Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In mixed society he was rather reserved, "but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul." Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.
In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also associated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and at the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of Tannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest song-writers Scotland has ever produced. "Accompanied by a literary friend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and on his return home, feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he awakened, and complained of a pain in the head, which increased so much as to render him speechless. Medical assistance was speedily obtained; but alas! it was of no avail—the blow was struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell. One universal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet and elegant writer became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of the citizens, by the most eminent and learned of the literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. William Henderson."
Though Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to have had something like a premonition of it. The following touching lines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease:
When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
Life's fever o'er,
Will there for me be any bright eye weeping,
That I'm no more?
Will there be any heart still memory keeping,
Of heretofore?
When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,
Sad music make?
When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
Like full hearts break,
Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing,
Mourn for my sake?
When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,
With purest ray,
And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,
Burst through that clay,
Will there be one still on that spot repining,
Lost hopes all day?
When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
On that low mound,
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,
Its loneness crowned;
Will there be then one versed in misery's story,
Pacing it round?
It may be so,—but this is selfish sorrow,
To ask such meed—
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow
From hearts that bleed,
The waitings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need.
Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart;
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
Let no tear start;
It were in vain—for Time hath long been knelling—
Sad one, depart!