Admirers of the ancient ballad—what do you say to that? There is the fine old Scots dialect in all its purity with a vengeance! In what part of the island such a jargon is spoken, we are fortunately at present unaware. Certain we are that our fathers never heard it; and as for ourselves, though reasonably cognizant of the varieties of speech which are current in Gilmerton, Aberdeen, the Crosscauseway and the Gorbals, we protest that we never yet met with any thing so cacophonous as this. It is impossible, however, to deny Mr Sheldon the merit of pure originality. Nobody but himself could have written the first glorious stanza, which embodies so perfect a picture of despair, or the second, in which the old familiar phrase of "blawing intill his lug" is so appositely adapted to verse, and put into the mouth of a knightly Scottish commander. Lady Seton, too, is exquisite in her way. The "slibbering" reminiscence—which, we presume, is equivalent to slobbering—is one of those natural touches which, once uttered, can never be forgotten.
It will, we opine, be sufficient to quench the curiosity of our readers, when we state that the above is a fair average specimen of Mr Sheldon's original productions. We presume that few will thirst for another draught from this pitcherful of the Border Helicon; and—as time presses—we shall now push forward to the consideration of the remodelled poetry. The first of these is called "Halidon Hill," and, as we are informed in the notes, it dates back to the respectable antiquity of 1827. The following magnificent stanzas will convey some idea of the spirit and style of that production.
Glower'd the Scot down on his foe:
'Ye coof, I cam not here to ride;
But syne it is so, give me a horse,
I'll curry thee thine English hide.'
Quod Benhal, 'I cam to fight a man
And not a blude mastyff,—
Were ye a man and no a pup,
Saint Bride I had as lief.'
'Foam not, or fret, thou baby knicht,
Put some food in thy wame,
For thou art but the champion
Of some fond Norfolk dame.
'My dog shall shake thy silken hide,
Thy brainis prove his fee,
Gif in that bagie skull of thine
There any brainis be.'
'Thou art a bragging piece of clay,
Sae fyrst wise prove thy threat;'
Loud geckit Trummall as he cried,
'I'll mak' thee haggish meat!!'"
Yes, reader—you may well stare! but such is absolutely the rubbish which has been shot from the Chiswick Press. Next—hear it, ye powers of impudence!—Allan Cunningham's beautiful ballad of Lady Anne, makes its appearance as "Lady Nell." We need scarcely add that in such hands the virgin degenerates into a drab. The other remodelments are trash. The "Merchant's Garland" is a new version by Sheldon of a street ditty called the "Factor's Garland," of which we happen to have a copy in a collection of penny histories. It is as much an ancient ballad as the Murder of William Weare—is dear at the ransom of a brass farthing—and commences thus:
Behold, here's a ditty that's new, and no jest,
Concerning a young gentleman in the East,
Who, by his great gaming came to poverty,
And afterwards went many voyages to sea.
Being well educated, and one of great wit,
Three merchants of London, they all thought it fit,
To make him their captain, and factor also,
And for them to Turkey a voyage he did go."