THE SPECTATORS LIBRARY.

MR. HOGG is the only one of the old-established bards that perseveres in song: he is never tired: he sings from a full heart. Like

Anacreon, we love to see an old man merry—it is one of the most consolatory of pleasant sights. This collection is not only remarkable for its excellence (and it contains some songs of extraordinary spirit, some of extreme beauty), but for the introductions in prose with which the author has graced most of his pieces. The biographers of other poets have had the laborious task of hunting out the occasion of the productions of their bards, and have employed toilsome investigations upon their chronology. Mr. Hooa saves his life-writer all these pains : in the prefixes (they are hardly prefaces) he tells us the when and whereabouts of each individual copy of verse, and, furthermore, favours us with his own criticism upon it; thus forestalling the critic as well as the biographer. Many of these little pieces of prose are pleasant, and contain anecdotes of himself and friends, of a piquant description. Such is the character of the pleasant prefix to the "0, weel befit' the maiden

gay," which describes the way in which the Shepherd and WILSON used to run verses against one another. We may as well quote it as a specimen of these running commentaries.

"This song was written at Ellery, Mr. Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr. Wilson and I had a Queen's Wake every wet day—a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner ; and if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if

not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr. Wilson, as .well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out

their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but per fectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry, by going over it in that sounding strain ; and in our daily competitions, al though our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my liands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, ' Gudefaitn, Its a' ower wi' me for this day I' When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.

" There was anther symptom. When we met at dinner-time, if Mr. Wilson had not been successful in pleasing himself, he Was desperate

sulky for a while, though he never once missed brightening up, and making the most of the subject. I never saw better sport than we had in comparing these poems. How manfully each stood out for the merits of his own I But Mrs. Wilson generally leaned to my side, nominally at least.

1.wrote the Ode to Superstition' there, which, to give Mr. Wilson justice, he approved of most unequivocally. He wrote "The Ship of the

Desert' against it—a thing of far greater splendour, but exceedingly ex travagant. I likewise wrote The Stranger' and Isabelle' there, both to be found in the Poetic Mirror ; and I know some of the poems that Mr.

'Wilson wrote against these two, if I were at liberty to tell. The one he wrote that day on which I composed the following song, was not a song, but a little poem in his best style. What with sailing, climbing the moons

taMs, driving with Bob to all the fine scenery, dining with poets and great men, jymnastics (as Wilson spells it in the Noctes), and, going to tell our friends that we were not coming to dine with them—these were halcyon days, which we shall never see again !"

HoGG is (which, we dare say, has been said a hundred times) a not unworthy successor of BURNS. He has not the fervent passion of BURNS, nor the exquisiteness of fancy with which the Bard of Coila adorned some of his songs ; but he does possess both feeling and fancy, and that in profusion, if not in intensity. There are some dozen of songs in this book which no living bard could match: there is one which may be compared with any even of Bums. We allude to the one beginning

"1 hae naebody now, I hae naebody now, To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,

An' joy in her deep blue een."

After this one, our favourites are " Gang to the brakens wi' me," and" 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye !" With the last we shall be glad to adorn our pages.

" 0, my lassie, out joy to complete again,

Meet me again i' the gloaming, my dearie; Low down ill the dell let us meet again 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye !

Come, when the wee hat flits silent and eiry, Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary ; Love be thy sure defence, Beauty and 1000cence 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye I Sweetly blows the haw an' the rowan-tree, Wild rose.; speck our thicket sae breery ; Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be 0, Jeanie. there's naething to fear ye !

List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary, List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye, Then come with fairy haste, Light foot, an' beating breast 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye !

Far, far will the bogie an' brownie be, Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it ; Kind love is the tie of our unity, A' m un love it, an' a' maun revere it.

'Tis love makes the sang o' the woodland sae cheery, Love gars a' nature look bonny that's near ye; That makes the rose sae sweet, Cowslip an' violet 0, Jeanie, there's naething, to fear ye I"