William Duncan Latto aka Tammas Bodkin

William Duncan Latto was born in the parish of Ceres in Fife in 1823. He started life as a weaver, then became a schoolmaster, and finally a journalist. He was editor of the People's Journal from 1861 to 1898, and under his pen-name, 'Tammas Bodkin', the most famous vernacular essayist in Victorian Scotland. He had a life-long struggle to improve the condition of the common people of Scotland which sprang from personal experience of poverty, and many years in the editorial chair of a crusading popular newspaper. He also had a role as a political commentator at the forefront of Scottish advanced Liberal opinion throughout the period, giving memorable voice to its characteristic anti-Imperialist fervour. He also had a gift as a humorous observer of men and manners whose sparkling comic talent delighted two generations of Victorian Scots.

Clearly one of those Scots delighted by him was William Robertson. His delight was no doubt in the stories of Tammas and his formidable wife Tibbie as well as the fact that Mr Latto published his own poems and stories in the People's Journal too.

Bodkin, the central character of the column, is a manufacturing tailor in Dundee with an apprentice called Willie Clippins who later becomes his partner, and a varied career which includes foreign travel and the inheritance of great wealth. He is elderly, childless, and married to a headstrong wife called Tibbie with whom he has an affectionate if stormy relationship. Between them Bodkin and Tibbie provide comment on a whole range of contemporary issues as seen by a couple of shrewd well-informed upper-working class Scots.

This no doubt explains the following poem from The Mountain Muse.

AN EPISTLE FRAE GLENWHUSKY TO TAMMAS BODKIN

Dear Tammas, honest man and wise,

Your hamely sense I highly prize,

And racy gude braid Scotch;

The humour o' thy facile pen

Mak's muckle mirth baith but and ben,

And gars us lauch and hotch.

I like your queer auld-farran stories

Better than I like the Tories;

That crew I do denounce.

Your Tory member mak's pretense

To liberal be in every sense,

But that is only bounce.

If you should mak' a pair o' breeks

To me, be sure and mind the steeks,

And see and gar them stand;

For breeks that's shoo'd wi' the machine

Are no sae gude, my dainty freen',

As when done by the hand.

I like to see your honest face,

Blythe, pawky, yet sae fu' o' grace,

Our norlan' lairds may dread your pen,

Wha turn awa' oor Hielan' men,

They ken how you can hit.

Thus far I ha'e forgot mysel'.

Losh! how is Tibbie, is she well?

She is a noble wife,

And been to you companion meet,
Frae tap to tae a' sae complete,

To mak' your pleasures rife.

Whan to Glenwhusky you gang back,

Wi' Hielan' men to snuff and crack,

I'll gie you my advice;

Be bauld and stoot, screw up a peg,

And don the tartan philabeg;

Man, it wad set you nice.

A chiel' like you, sae straucht and tall,

Altho' you're maybe gettin' aul',

Micht dance the Hielan' fling.

Tak' tent and mind a' fat I say,

Before the fiddler starts to play,

Mind Devlinside's the spring.

When you return I'll on you ca',

And if you've only time ava',

We baith maun taste a drap.

Yes, Tammas, man, we'll hae a dram,

And finish aff wi' egg and ham -

'Tis richt to fill the crap.

Cud you but learn a Gaelic sang,

And gie the tune the proper twang,

Losh, man, how that wad charm's;

I think we'd maybe a' get fou',

The lasses wad salute your mou',

And hug you in their arms.

I think I've nearly said my say,

And when we meet some ither day

We'll hae a couthie crack.

Tell Tibbie you hae heard frae me,

Turn up her chin and freely gie

A rousin', hearty smack.

I've written this wi' railway speed,

Ye'll fint but a hamely screed,

Yet I hae done my best.

A gude fat soo lang may ye hae

To kill upon a Christmas Day,

And cosy keep your nest.

For further information see The Language of the People: Scots Prose from the Victorian Revival, by William Donaldson (Aberdeen University Press, 1989) and Popular Literature in Victorian Scotland: Language, Fiction and the Press (also AUP).

The following was also published in the Aberdeen People's Journal 24 November, 1894 in a column published by "Tammas Bodkin"

"Frae Mr. William Robertson, the octogenarian poet o' Broughty Ferry, wha describes himsel' as an 'auld acquaintance an' sincere weel-wisher,' I've received the followin' poem, which I prize very highly, an' for which I thank its venerable author frae the very benmost neuk o' my heart. I was to see frae his "graphology" that his haun', like my ain, is growin' a wee shaky. Lang may he be able to lilt a sang an' wield a pen, say I. The poem he sends reads thusly: -

LINES TO TAMMAS BODKIN

Dear Tammas: -
You truly seem a wonderous man,
An' hands your place still in the van
'Mang bricht an' witty chaps;
You are a genial, happy soul.
An' may you never ken the want
Of butter to your baps.

Like me you hae, nae doot,  been tauld,
That there are hearts that ne'er grow auld,
An' truth I think it true;
A healthy stamach a may find
Can comfort an' cheer up the mind,
Sae may it fare wi' you.

Nae gloomy pall thy thoughts enshroud;
The silver linin' a' the cloud
Thy bosom still can warm;
The torrent's roar, the whispering rills,
The bass and tenor o' the hills
Hae to your heart a charm.

I think you lo'e a body weel,
To stan' between them and the de'il,
That is at fat you ettle.
As lang as you the pen can wield
Nae doot you'll bauldly keep the field,
Juist to keep's a in fettle.

A gran' auld man an' nae mistak',
A body likes your genial crack
An' strong an' pithy sense;
Sae Tammas Bodkin is a name
Kent far abroad as weel's a t hame,
An' never gi'es offense.

An' noo that I hae had my say,
My earnest wish is that you may
Amang us still remain,
A stalwart man 'mang sturdy men,
Wi' heart an' hand to wield the pen
An' healthy workin' brain.

Broughty Ferry - William Robertson

A Morning Rose

A Morning Rose - from The Mountain Muse


Forth she came from a rosy bower;
Light and lithe she moved with matchless grace,
Gliding o'er the smooth and sunlit sward;
Beautiful she looked, as if her robes
Were a part of heaven's lovely bow;
Fresh she seem'd as when the dewy leaves,
Winnowing the balmy breath of morn,
Waft upon the early beams of day
The sweet perfumes of the op'ning flowers;
Fair her form, with beauty all aglow,
Dazzling the rapt gaze with loveliness,
Which to the eye melody reveal'd,
Thrilling the soul with speechless bliss,
Dearer far than words can syllable.
Near a forest warbler trill'd his song,
And the echo of his sweetest note
In passing stole from a rose a kiss,
And softly whisper'd, "That is Mary."

A Joy For Ever

A Joy For Ever - from The Mountain Muse



Gouden locks an' launchin' een,
Rosy cheeks an' cherry mou',
Neck an' shoulders whiter far
Than the whitest lily's hue.



What an' ankle! what a foot!
Fair proportion in each line.
What an arm, an' what a voice!
Surely - surely she's divine.


Look an' mark the comely grace
O' her licht step when she walks;
List an' hear the dulcet tones
That thrill the bosom when she talks.


There she sits within her bower,
Kaimin' down her yellow hair;
Sweeter is her hinny breath
Than the lowin' mornin' air.


Pure and fresh as dewy rose
Opening to the early beam;
Glowin' like the warm sunshine
Flashin' on the river faem.


She seems to move amid such light
As star within the Milky Way-
A gem of heaven's heraldry,
On earth a breathin', warmin' ray.


The very spirit o' sweet sounds -
A livin' melody to sight;
See, there, she's trippin' o'er the sward -
Say, could an angel be mair bright?

The Blighted One

Social observation of the exploitation of the less fortunate by the upper classes was a favourite theme for William Robertson. In the following poem his scorn is not for the "fallen woman" but rather the man who has abused his power and position to seduce her. He is not interested in moralising against her but rather him and sees her justice being delivered in the next world by God against the man who has seduced her.

This was a fairly unusual position to hold at the time as there was little charitable effort directed towards "fallen women" who were unable to secure any social standing or acceptance as they had lost their reputation for being "respectable". Once having lost respectability a woman was not considered "redeemable". As a result they were often forced to work as prostitutes to earn a living - thus confirming society's suspicions of their lack of respectability and sentencing them to a life of poverty and additional children born out of wedlock.


The Blighted One

See yonder comes a sorry sight,
And sad it is to know
The fate of that poor stricken one-
Her's is a tale of woe.

Now of her youth, once warm and bright,
There is not left one trace,
When purity and innocence
Shone through her ev'ry grace.

No semblance of the peerless charms
The village minstrel sung
Remains to tell what she was once-
The beautiful and young.

Of wrongs and years of with'ring grief
To speak were idle now,
The sufferings of the sufferer
Are written on her brow.

There's one that lives in lordly state,
The flattered, the caressed;
His victim is that blighted one-
The loathed, the distressed.

Foul rags and vile unseemly weeds,
Poor wanderer forlorn,
But serve to point you out the more
To cold unpitying scorn;

Whilst still with wealth and power begirt
The spoiler hides his shame
Amid his servile worshippers,
Where non may dare to blame.

Though thou art crushed, and he still laughs
'Mid ribald jests and songs,
Kind heaven, just an merciful,
Shall yet avenge your wrongs.

An hour will come- 'tis on the wing-
When wealth will may not avail,
For scourged beneath the eye of God
The villain's heart shall quail.

A Legend of The Past

A Legend of the Past

The night lours dark on hill and glen;
And Lora's streams sound sad and drear;
From Arlo's grim and hoary towers
There comes no voice of festive cheer.

Dark is the brow of Arlo's lord,
His heart is wrung with madd'ning grief;
With iron grasp his sword is drawn -
ow heed theyself, Dunallan's chief!

And who is she, so fair in death?
How lovely in their calm repose
Those features are, where blended once
The water-lily and the rose.

To pierce that gentle lady's heart,
With ruthless aim an arrow sped;
Cursed be his hands that bent the bow,
Then, like a coward, trembling fled.

In vain Dunallan's cruel chief
In forest deep may try to hide;
Lord Arlo's sword can find him our,
And will avenge his murdered bride.

How could'st thou think, dark gloomy chief
In such a deed there was no sin? -
Oh! hardened and remorseless fiend,
To murder when thou could'st not win.

Fair dawned the morn on Cona's heath,
And flashed the early golden beams
ON mountain crest and forest green,
On waterfalls and crystal streams.

And who is he, with hasty step,
With target braced and brandished sword?
Now hide thee deep, Dunallan's chief,
No match art thou for Arlo's lord.

Why from yon rugged wild ravine
Rise yellow footed birds of prey? -
With rapid flight they cleave the air,
Scared at the sound of mortal fray.

The strife has ceased. A head is cleft-
Down in that slimy pool so deep
There lies Dunallan's bloody chief,
And none for him did sigh or weep.

Deserted now, Lord Arlo's home,
A lonely ruin grey it stands;
For gone to distant shores is he,
To fight for fame in foreign lands.

No one comes near these hoary towers,
For legends say at dead of night
Lord Arlo's bride keeps watch and ward,
Still in her bridal robes of white.

William Robertson's Grave

I mentioned previously in this post where William was buried. This is a picture of the spot - but it is unmarked - none of the stones here are markers for the Robertson family - but they at least helped find the very spot!

I have done further research (funded by good old Dad) on the other occupants of the leir.

As stated previously it was purchased by William's son, Charles Neaves Robertson, when his daughter Lizzie died in 1887. She is the first burial. William followed next in 1897. Next was Jane Jackson Dorward - daughter of George Dorward and Jane Ogilvie Robertson (whom I presume is the daughter of Charles and his wife Jane Jackson). Next is Jane Ogilvie Robertson, aged 3, buried in 1926 - she was the daughter of Alexander L Robertson and Margaret Petrie (I presume Alexander was a son of Charles etc).

1931 saw the burial of Jane Jackson Robertson the wife of Charles Neaves Robertson and daughter of Alexander Jackson and Jane Ogilivie.


The next burial was in 1942 - Jennifer Robertson Smith, the daughter of Alexander Smith and Winifred Robertson. The final burial was William Low Robertson in 1951 aged 76, the son of Charles Neaves Robertson and Jane Jackson and husband of Isabella Adam Henderson.


Interestingly Charles Neaves Robertson is not buried in the leir. I am unsure at this point where he died. He is often described as a "power loom tenter" but oral history suggests that he spent some time in India - perhaps he died overseas? According to this website a power loom tenter was a mechanic who fixed the mechanical looms in the mills.

Longforgan Parish Church

This is a photo of the church at Longforgan, Perthshire in 2008 taken by my Dad.

This is where William and his three brothers were baptised.

Finding William

It was a little hard to find William's records through the years as many of the records had him at different ages. With the combination of family oral history, details of his parents from the Death Certificate and FamilySearch I was able to locate four baptisms in Longforgan where Robert Robertson and Elspeth Hall were the parents (you've got to love the fact that the Scots also preserved the woman's maiden name throughout - such a bonus for confirming you've got the right record).




So I found William Mather Robertson - born 1810. But where did the name "Mather" come from? It didn't seem to be a family name at all. Dad went to Scotland this year and found an interesting tombstone in Longforgan cemetery. It reads:
Sacred to the memory of William Mather who was many years a Farmer upon the Estate of Castle Huntly and died at North Mains upon the 20th day of October 1815 years aged 74 years, 2 months and 1 day and also to that of his wife Elisabeth (the rest is unreadable but looks like the surname ends in "MON" my guess would be "Salmon").

I found another website which gives the following details "Elisabeth Salmon, Widow of the late William Mather, Farmer in North Mains, aged 80, was buried March 3" it appears to have compiled information from an AOL Hometown site which has since been shut down.

The dates make William a contemporary of Robert Robertson - so the supposition is that he named his young son after his friend, who lived on the same estate at the same time. Interestingly this is the only time William's name is given as William Mather Robertson - from then on every document simply gives his name as William Robertson.

So - William Mather - Farmer at Castle Huntly appears to have been his namesake.

Dorothea M. Ogilvy

When William Robertson started to write poetry and stories - it brought him into a circle of minor scottish poets. One poem he wrote was about Dorathea Ogilvy. According to the Angus Council pages , "Dorothea Maria Ogilvy (1823-1895) resided at Balnaboth, Glen Prosen. She was daughter of Donald Ogilvy, MP for the county, and was deeply attached to Prosen and Clova. Her greatest success was Willie Wabster's Wooing and Wedding on the Braes of Angus (1868), a glorious farcical poem in dense Angus Scots describing the misadventures of a drunken Kirriemuir cattle-drover pursued up and down Clova by an amorous witch. By contrast, her poetry in English is undistinguished. She is buried in Cortachy kirkyard."

It is difficult to discern whether William Robertson actually knew Dorothea Maria Ogilvy or not - I like to think so - even though they were in entirely different social strata. Clearly - he was an admirer.

TO MISS DORATHEA M. OGILIVY

Ever soaring on Fancy's wing,
In bright and polished verse,
That has the true poetic ring,
Sublime or smooth and terse.

Thy muse can chant still blithesome lays,
With sparkling gems profuse -
All radiant as the morning rays,
When streaming o'er the dews.

And on the starry heights of song,
We still can hear thy lyre;
It's melody thou dost prolong,
With unabated fire.

Now like the dawning's golden beams
On grove of apple blooms,
Or mavis' lay from forest green,
When gentle twilight looms.

A lively charm shines through thy lays,
And thoughts which are profound;
And bright and pleasant winning ways
In all thy lines abound.

Long may'st thou cull the fairest flow'rs
Where Fancy loves to stray,
And revel in the rosy bow'rs
That charm'd in life's young day.

The People's Journal Dundee

Well my last post highlighted the fact that William Robertson had many of his stories and poems published in The People's Journal. Here is what I found out about that publication.

According to The Oxford Handbook of British and Irish War Poetry by Tim Kendall, The People's Journal "had for a long time been a radical liberal newspaper that had, especially in the 1870s and 1880s, promoted an extensive use of dialect Scots. By the 1890s it was claiming a weekly readership of one million, making it not only Scotland's best-selling paper, but one of the United Kingdom's most popular weeklies. The People's Journal had a long tradition of reader participation and, unlike the Scotsman, had been in the habit of publishing verse regularly before the war [WW1]. "

The footnote to this section of his book states that the 1 million readership would have meant that the People's Journal would have been read by 1 in 4 adults in Scotland.

Oral history on William Robertson

My dad interviewed his Aunty Nell (Helen (Nell) Smart - nee Robertson in 1989 about various family details. This is part of that interview where she gives details about William Robertson. I couldn't upload just the audio so made a little movie in Windows Movie Maker so I could upload it. Enjoy!

And yes Dad - apparently I do have the aptitude! (Sorry - in joke!)

A Witch and Her Ghost

The following story appeared in "Echoes of the Mountain Muse". About forty-six years ago I was employed as gardener to a gentleman in the Highlands of Perthshire, where the incidents occurred which I am about to relate.
Being a single man, I occupied a small room, distant fully a quarter of a mile from my work, and where, I might say, I acted as "guide, philosopher, and friend" to myself.
A woman, to all appearance very old, was my next-door neighbour. She had a wild and weird-like look, and the expression of her eyes was simply appalling. A thin partition separated her apartment from mine, and I could hear her spinning-wheel going every Sunday, herself at the same time humming a mournful Gaelic air, as an accompaniment to the birr of her wheel.
By the natives all round she was regarded with superstitious dread and the boldest would not venture to incur her displeasure. So great was the awe she inspired that she could enter houses, and, unchallenged, take from the press or cupboard bread, butter, or cheese, whilst none of the cowed inmates would dare to interfere.
It seemed to be an understood thing among the natives that should anyone be unfortunate enough, by any means whatever, to incur her displeasure, a terrible calamity would soon overtake them.
The reader will perhaps be surprised when I state that I was rash enough to somewhat rudely dispute her right to pillage my press, seeing I am alive, and unscathed by devilry or witchcraft of any kind. I am impelled, however to confess, that had I not been a man of more than ordinary nerve, I would most assuredly have been frightened out of my wits by this same witch, six years after she was dead and buried.
The startling statement I have now made, and the incidents that follow, I solemnly declare were witnessed by me.
Before proceeding further with my story I wish to state that I am very far from being superstitious, and I am equally free from slavish fears, and have, since I arrived at manhood, been an independent and, I may I add, a fearless thinker. My courage however, was put to the test that

"Might have strewed the snows of age

on youth's auburn ringlets, or blighted

Beauty's rosy cheek for ever.

How I had nerve sufficient to brave the appalling sight I was doomed to witness I have never been able to satisfy myself, and it remains an unexplained puzzle to me to this day.

Gardners during winter, when the weather is too cold and stormy for work out of doors, generally take to the house, and emply themselves in making baskets to carry fruit or vegetables to the great man's house.

On a very cold and tempestuous day I sat in my apartment engaged at basket-making, and listening to the spinning wheel, and the low, wailing notes of the so-called witch's Gaelic air. Bye-and-by the wheel, and the sad music that accompanied it, ceased, and in less than five minutes my door was opened, and in entered the old hag for the first time, "withered, wild and ragged in her attire." I was honoured with a glance that seemely to me absolutely infernal in its expression, and hideous in its wrinkled deformity. From what I had heard of her I expected my press would be laid under contribution; and so it was, for, with a look of resolute determination, thither she went, and at once commenced to pillage its contents. Not relishing such familiarity, I rose and stepped towards her, and laying my hands on her shoulders, wheeled her round and pushed her out, barring the door behind her. Just as the door closed, she turned round and give vent to a shriek so frightful as to ring in my ears like a howl from the damned.

Next day, in connversation with the Grieve, I told him wht I had done, seeming, at the same time, to treat the affair lightly. He shook his head, and said, "Man, I would not have done what you say for fifty pounds!"

I replied, "I would do it again for far less;" adding, "I am not afraid of witches."

"You will break your neck, or leg, or be drowned some of these days," he replied.; adding, as he moved off, "Mind what I say!"

When six months had nearly expired, the old lady died and was buried, the neighbours wondering all the while why I had escaped unharmed from the vengeance of this terrible witch. I was careful to take a note of the year and day of the month on which she was buried; this I jotted down on the fly-leaf of a favourite book.

Before proceeding further with my story, I wish it to be distinctly understood that I have no intention to magnify my own courage and resolute bearing under the frightful ordeal I was doomed to encounter. I can only say that I was sustained in a mysterious way beyond my comprehension. Let me explain how I felt. I felt my muscles tighten, and a strength and firmness of body and limb, as if I had been a man of iron. In short, I stood boldly convinced that my right of way upon earth was a good as any ghost's could be, and it is questionable whether a psychologist could give a better reason. Why this strange old creature should always regard me with a look of intense hatred, which she did every time she met me, I cannot explain; at all events, I would have rendered her all the kindness in my power, had not her deportment towards me made that impossible.

Some four or five months after her death I removed to a situation in Forfarshire, a distance from my Highland abode of about thirty-five miles as the crow flies. It was here I met the ghost of the witch - a pretty long distance from the spot where her bones were mingling with the clods of the valley. I had been married, and had settled down in my new abode for some years, when I got leave of absence for two or three days to go and see a friend who had returned from abroad in bad health. I was on my return home when I met the witch, enveloped in horrors - a veritable embodiment of all imagination can conceive of the terrible in the world unseen.

It was late in the day when I started on my journey, and, being winter, darkness soon set in; but in other respects it was a pleasant night for the season. Between one and two o'clock in the morning I had reached within a mile or so of my home, and having nothing to hurry me, was walking leisurely along. On my right hand was a lea field, which terminated at a thick belt of young fir trees about 150 yards in advance of where I was walking. At that moment I happened to look forward to the dreary-looking line of trees, and then it was I saw a dark-looking ill-defined figure move out on the lea about fifteen feet or thereby from the road, and approaching rapidly in a straight line down the field. Owing to the darkness, I should not have seen the figure till it came nearer; but, at all events, I did see it the moment it emerged on the field. When opposite me, I saw it kneel in a halo of intense light, which shot out tremulous rays into the darkness, with a low spluttering noise, in all directions. My astonishment knew no bounds the moment I discovered that the figure kneeling before me was the witch, grasping her staff with her skinny hands, and holding it upright in front of her. I recognised every patch on her tattered cloak, her staff, the terrible expression of her eyes, more frightful now than ever; and I could see her toothless gums when she opened her thin lips, from which proceeded horrid mutterings, seemingly devilish in their import.

"If this is not a ghost, there never was one," I thought to myself.

Horror upon horrors! looking into her eyes, which blazed like two furnaces, I could see in their far depths a tiny image of myself, standing, as it were, in a sea of flame. So intensely awful was the sight that it made me instinctively utter, "Merciful God, support and protect me at this moment." A sound like the flap of a bird's wing made me lok up, and there I saw, above the kneeling figure, a ring of lurid red colour, about five feet in diameter, and stationary. So threatening in their expression were the features of the apparition, that every moment I expected it would spring at me. I was about to move away, when I observed the ring slowly descending, whilst the figure, at the same time, rose slowly, as if to meet it; and when the head and shoulders of this frightful phantom rose above the ring and stood at its centre, the spectacle was appalling in a terrible degree. Suddenly the ring again began to descend, and the wild glaring eyes all the while fixed on me, fierce and undefinable in their hate. No sooner had the ring reached the ground than the fiend-like features relaxed, the eyes grew dimmer, the ring seemed to sink into the earth, the halo of light vanished, and a dark form stood a few moments in gloomy stillness, then slowly melted into the shades of night.

In passing the wood from which I first noticed my unearthly visitor emerge, I felt a shock rattle through my brain like a shower of icicles and on raising my hand to my head I found my hair drenched with a cold, clammy sweat, and a momentary giddiness came over me, but soon passed away. On my return home I looked up the book in which I had noted the witch's death and found, curiously enough, that it was exactly six years since the witch died and was buried. Though it is now well-nigh fifty years since the occurrence of the event which I have related in my story, I have still a most vivid recollection of all the incidents of which, improbable as it may seem, I was an unharmed eye-witness.

Vanity - Thy Name is Woman

William Robertson had a rather scathing tongue for those who liked to elevate themselves artificially above their fellow man or to abuse the natural world that he loved so much (hmm - a family trait perhaps?)

Often times the poetry spoke of men in this way - but I rather like the following poem which pays homage to a poor little "Ox-eye" bird (pictured) which has been killed and stuffed as an ornament on a lady's hat. Apparently the issue of bird plumage used in fashions in the late 1800s was a real concern - with thousands of birds slaughtered to feed the clothing industry.

This engraving came from an 1892 edition of Punch and was entitled "Bird of Prey". The issue was clearly a serious one - similar to the outcry today over the use of furs in fashion. Further details on the wholesale slaughter that went into maintaining this sorry fashion can be found here.

LINES

ON SEEING THAT BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BIRD, THE "OX-EYE", STUFFED AND STUCK ON A LADY'S BONNET BY WAY OF ORNAMENT.

Bird of surpassing loveliness,

A little perfect gem,

A bloom thou seem'st kiss'd by sunbeams

Just parted from its stem!

Lively, breathing thing of beauty,

Painted with skill devine;

What dearer fav'rite, sweet and winsome,

Could any heart enshrine?

Like the sparkling sunlit rain-drops,

When hopping to and fro,

Thy robe seemed culled from meadow flow'rs

Spann'd by the mystic bow.

Dear tiny thing of beauty,

Limn'd by a master hand,

All art and skill surpassing

That mortals can command.

And are their hearts so pitiless,

So hardened and so cruel,

That can with senseless brutishness

Smite down this living jewel?

Bird of surpassing loveliness,

Thy fate may well give pain,

A victim to the foolish pride

Of silly heads and vain.

The wretched shifts and pompous airs

That vanity assumes,

Why should Eve's lovely daughters aye.

Thus walk in borrow'd plumes?

A Loved One Gone

William Robertson is buried in a "leir" grave in the Eastern Cemetery in Arbroath Road, Dundee. The people buried there are Lizzie Robertson, aged 4 months on 27 September 1887, William himself 28 June 1897, Jane Dorward aged 6 weeks buried 10 July 1911, Jane Robertson, aged 3, buried 20 March 1926, Jean Jackson Robertson, aged 79, buried 16 February 1931, Jennifer Smith aged 2 1/2 years on 11 April, 1942 and William Low Robertson, aged 76, buried 22 June 1951.

The leir was purchased by William's son, Charles Neaves Robertson , in 1887 while he was living at 10 Peddie Street, Dundee. The purchase was sadly due to the need to bury his (Charles's) daughter - Lizzie Jackson Robertson who died aged 4 months in the early hours of the morning on 25th September 1887, having been sick for 1 month from diarrohea.

William wrote a poem for Lizzie:

A Loved One Gone.

We miss our bairnie very sair;
Her cherry mou' her bonnie hair,
And winning smile we'll see nae mair,
O 'oor ain darling Lizzie.

Lang will affection dearly prize
Her dearly lov'd and winsome wyes,
And mem'ry will recall wi' sighs
The bonnie dace o' Lizzie.

Yon dearly lov'd wee grassy mound,
To us a sacred spot o' ground,
Affection loves to hover round
Whaur sleeps oor dearest Lizzie.

Nor can the sun nor sunny shower,
That cleid wi' bloom the dell and bower,
Bring back to us that precious flower -
Oor Op'ning rosebud - Lizzie.

That time will soothe oor sorrows yet,
Twin'd round oor hearts we can't forget,
The lov'd the smiling, pretty pet,
Alas! we've lost in Lizzie.

Noo, sleepin' in her lowly bed
Upon the turf that haps her head,
Sweet memories, like fragrance shed,
Cling to the grave o' Lizzie.

Nae langer we they presence see,
And hush'd the tones of childhood glee;
An angel heaven saw in thee,
And took awa' oor Lizzie.

Image: http://www.deathonline.net/ (website by the Australian museum).

Ebenezer Elliot, The Corn Law Rhymer

Ebenezer Elliott was born at Masbrough, Rotherham (UK) in 1781. Early on, he developed an interest in nature & poetry. While working in a Masbrough iron foundry, he started to get the odd poem published & began a long correspondence with Robert Southey, the eminent poet. In politics & religion, he was a non-conformist who hated injustice & had an interest in the condition of the working man & poor people in general. After going bankrupt in Rotherham, he moved to Sheffield where he did well as an iron & steel merchant. The greatest interest of Elliott's life was in bringing attention to the Corn Laws & getting them repealed. His fierce indignation against the Bread Tax (as he called the Corn Laws) inspired his "Corn Law Rhymes" which made him nationally & internationally famous after their publication in 1831. He died in 1849 & was buried at Darfield Churchyard in the Barnsley area.



William Robertson wrote the following poem about this radical reformer.



LINES TO THE MEMORY OF EBENEZER ELLIOT, THE CORN LAW RHYMER.



'Mong men he stood a hero strong,

A bold, determined foe to wrong,

A wrestler for the right;

Of noble port - his place the van,

When men for freedom fight.



His noble thoughts that seemed in kind

The everlasting hills of mind

No selfish motives stain;

No titled, useless cipher he,

His claims to think unfetter'd, free,

Were muscle, bone, and brain.



Why those by whom all wealth is made

Should toil and moil on stinted bread,

He boldly did examine:

To his strong sense it did seem odd

That man did father it on God,

When man was pinched with famine.

All honour to his daring muse -

In spirit strong, in gems profuse,

And grand without pretence;

Nor tyrant's frown nor threats of hell

The ardour of his soul could quell

And strongly-worded sense.



The sneers of those deem'd highly born

He could repel with with'ring scorn,

And stand erect and free;

While bravest moods pervade his verse

Now rolls sublime or stern or terse,

No nobler man than he.



Nature, not wealth, enobled him,

He stood upon the rainbow's rim

That circles mental power,

Where he the Corn Laws did brand,

And poured his song throughout the land,

The poet of the hour.

The Battle of Culloden (Part 3)

THE HIGHLAND BRIGADE

See there they charge, each rugged form

Sweeps o'er the field a battle storm -

Our Highland brave brigade.

The bravest foemen break and reel

Before their line of flashing steel,

And stately martial tread.



A noble tale of martial dash

Where steel on steel ring our and clash,

Each honest Scot, thank Willie Grahame*

His book no feeble scroll of fame,

But fame that cannot die.



A mystic charm the tartan holds;

We love its waving, graceful folds

In kilt or belted plaid.

The stirring peal of Piob Mhor**

And grand romance of Highland lore

From mem'ry cannot fade.



* The author's nom de plume.

** Great pipe

Battle of Culloden - Flora MacDonald

From "Echoes of the Mountain Muse"

AN EPISODE OF THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN.

Drumossie Moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day ye was tae me,
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear an' bretheren three. - Burns

That portion of the Highland army which had marched of the previous evening towards Nairn, their object being to make a night attack on the Royal army encamped there, returned about six o'clock in the morning without effecting their object, they having been too late. The army of Cumberland was "sounding the note of preparation," and to suprise them was impossible; so after due deliberation the leaders of the clansmen deemed it prudent to return, though the men under their command would have rather tried their steel on the "Sidier Ruagh." Returning by the Church of Croy, the disappointed Highlanders, hungry and disheartened, arrived about six o'clock in the morning, weary and footsore, and in a very poor condition to face a well-disciplined and powerful enemy. Many lay down to snatch a few hours' sleep, while hundreds wandered about in search of food to allay the cravings of hunger, but, alas for the sorely tried Gael, with little success - a thing only to be expected.
By this time, while things did not look promising for the Highlanders, four stalwart clansmen could be seen advancing rapidly towards a broad-set, powerful-looking old Celtic warrior carrying under his arm a small bundle, which he seemed to regard as something most valuable, as he hurried to meet his advancing kinsmen. Three of the approaching clansmen were sons of the old Highlander, whilst the fourth was the sweetheart of his only daughter, "the bonnie lass o' Inverness." Dugald Macintosh and his three sons were determined Jacobites, and at once joined the standard of Prince Charles Edward. Allan Stewart, who aspired to the hand of the bonnie lass o' Inverness, was coolly told that if he did not join the cause her father and brothers had espoused, he would have no chance of winning the hand of the daughter, as father and brothers would sternly oppose it if he did not buckle on his sword and follow Prince Charlie. Dugald Macintosh's three sons were named respectively Roderick (the eldest), then Murdoch, while Kenneth (the youngest) was only eighteen, but was, nevertheless, to all appearance, one who could give a good account of himself "in the strife of swords" as Ossian, the Fingallian bard "of the days of other years" puts it. Allan Stewart, the aspirant to the hand of Flora Macintosh, was a tall, fine looking Highlander, somewhat grave of aspect, and carried himself in a dignified manner.
Old Dugald's three sons and Allan Stewart had just returned from that boldly contrived but unsuccessful night march, and, being famished with hunger, were delighted to find that the old man during their absence had managed - he being well acquainted in the neighbourhood - to get possession of some two or three bannocks and a piece of cheese, so very hard that none but strong men, possessed of first-class grinders, and nearly mad with hunger, could have had any effect upon it. After mutually saluting each other by a hearty shake of the hand and a warm expression of good wishes, old Dugald's bundle soon became beautifully less by the vigorous charge of the hungry Celts.
Having hastily despatched their scanty and not very toothsome refreshments, they were suddenly made aware that Cumberland's army was on the march to attack them. The Prince, who slept all night in Culloden House, was quickly on the field, and conjointly with the chiefs proceeded with all haste to marshal the clans in battle array. The front line was entirely composed of the clans - the Macdonnels of Glengarry, Keppoch and Clanranald; the Macintoshes; and other distinguished tribes. The second line was made up of horseguards, Irish pickets, Duke of Perth's regiment, Lord Ogilvie, Lord Drummond, and other enthusiastic parties all ready to do battle for the Prince. A not very formidable body with respect to numbers formed the reserve. The Athole men formed the right wing of the front line, which included the Macintoshes, Stewarts of Appin, Fraser, and Lochiel. The Clan Donnachie or Robertsons of Struan, the Macdonnels of Glengarry, Keppoch, Clanranald; Macleans, and Maclachlans, and others formed the left, which, for want of space, we must omit. Let it be borne in mind that all these men were weak with hunger, weary and sorely exhausted for want of sleep. Never were men in worse condition for fighting a highly disciplined and well appointed enemy. Hundreds of the clansmen were nodding with sleep in the ranks, and it seemed a rash venture to hazard a battle in a position where the Royal army would have every advantage, not only in superiority of numbers, but in having a field where dragoons, artillery, and every branch of the service could act without hinderance.
After some preliminary manoeuvring on both sides the battle commenced with a cannonade a little after one o'clock, but the ordnance of the Highlanders was of small calibre, not exceeding four pounders, and was poorly served, and did little or no execution. And to make things worse, most of the men that should have managed the artillery were wandering about in search of provisions, while the clansmen were getting furious and impatient to be led to action, as Cumberland's cannon were making fearful havoc in their ranks, while theirs might be said to do little or nothing to annoy the Royal army.
We must now narrate the fate of old Dugald Macintosh and his three sons, as well as Allan Stewart, the suitor for the hand of Flora, the daughter. The fate of these devoted clansmen the writer learned from an eyewitness, who was more fortunate and escaped with his life, although he fought in that terrible melee in which the others perished. Just as Lord George Murray was about to lead the right wing in to the attack, the Macintosh regiment rushed forward with tremendous impetuosity, and at once the whole right wing followed suit and rapidly swept over the intervening space that lay between the two armies. The onset of the Highlanders was simply indescribable. The portentous roar of the cannon, and the deafening rattle of musketry, and the ominous crash of steel, and last but not least, the fierce energy and desperate valour of the Highlanders, formed a scene of the most appalling character. Munro's and Barrel's regiments were swept aside broken and cut up, and in a confused mass were fain to seek shelter behind the second line. Still the desperate valour of the Highlanders carried them headlong forward, notwithstanding that they were rent and torn and broken up into bleeding groups, with hideous gaps between them, wherein lay mangled heaps of dead and wounded - a convulsive mass of groaning humanity.
At this moment old Dugald Macintosh, his three sons, and Allan Stewart had urged their way to the very front of the melee - rage and fury glowing in every face, and beneath their knitted brows stern defiance flashing from their eyes. On reaching the second line these dauntless warriors, in their reckless daring, plunged among their foes, and for a brief period struggled in a seething scene of blood and slaughter. In less than a minute old Macintosh emerged from the carnage; his time-worn features were seamed with streaks of blood, his trusty claymore red to the hilt, while he, with evidently a painful effort, turned round as if to look whether any of those near and dear to him were following. He suddenly fell forward on his face; the vital spark had fled, and at the moment his eldest son appeared wounded and bleeding, while his aspect was appalling and terrible to behold. Glancing at his prostrate father, he at once wheeled round and slit to the collar-bone the head of the first foeman whom he met. He then fell from a pistol shot, and, like his father, with his face to the foe. Needless to say, the other three lay rigid in the cold sleep of death, ghastly and gory specimens of what erewhile were noble and grand figures of a vigorous humanity.
A perfect storm of grape shot, an incessant roll of musketry, and a galling flank fire from Wolfe's regiment had so torn and mauled the ranks of the Highlanders, that nothing else remained but to retire as best they could. They had done all that human strength and courage could have done, and it is questionable whether any other troops in Europe, under the circumstances, could have achieved so much.
The above particulars, so far as they relate to the fate of Dugald Macintosh, his three sons, and Allan Stewart, were gathered from recital of an eye-witness who was present at the battle.
When the shattered ranks of the right wing began to give way many a terrible glance was thrown towards the left. And the same eye-witness was of the opinion that had the Macdonnels charged at the moment the sorely cut-up heroes of the right would have turned, and with renewed vigour charged their foes with their usual impetuosity. It is hard to say, however, what might have been the result.
When the sad news reached Flora Macintosh, the beloved sweetheart of Allan Stewart, her grief was terrible to behold - all those nearest and dearest to her at "one fell swoop" had perished. With the poor stricken maiden all the beautiful colours of youth, beauty and romance suddenly faded into darkness and desolation. Before poor Flora's grief had somewhat abated nearly three months had passed away. When Flora was able to bear the fatigue, kind friends carried her to the field where slept those whose memory she could never forget, and the lines of that very tender and pathetic ballad may be appropriately quoted, as Flora was really "the bonnie lass o' Inverness."

Their windin' sheet's the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growin' green to see;
And near them lies the bonniest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e.

The lines of Burns seem to relate to the main incidents of our story. The grass has long been green where sleep the lovely and the brave.

The Battle of Culloden

According to William Robertson's obituary, published in the Pall Mall Gazette (and picked up in The Bristol Times and Mirror), he had "in his youth met and conversed with Highlanders who were "out" and who took part in that disastrous battle on Culloden Moor on April 16, 1846."

There are both stories and poems in his two books about this seminal event in Scotland's history. The following one has the following footnote, "the Author had the pleasure of meeting the 'hero of Culloden field' (who was then about 100 years old), of whom mention is made above."

A Culloden Jacobite

The thoucts o'bygane years

Still fling their shadows o'er my path -

A blink o'langsyne. - Motherwell

It happened ance upon a time

Whan' Donal' Gow was in his prime,

An' fou' o' fun an' glee,

He met a wheen o' Hielan' chiels -

A' rantin', roarin', reckless chiels,

An' bent upon a spree.

They marshall'd were by Donal' Gow

An' landed in the Tallysow*

Then kept by ane Macphee,

An' there they met, uncow'd by eild,

A hero of Culloden field -

Nae brisker man than he.

When sappit wi' the mountain dew

The fun an' mirth stil louder grew -

An' wild the soun' did swell.

They sang, they reel wi' mad delight,

Still the Culloden Jacobite

Among them bore the bell.

Wi' staff an' potlid for a targe,

He show'd hoo clansmen fiercely charge

Sae fiercely grew his martial rage

He fairly seemed ance mair to wage

The battle wi' his foes.

***************

From mem'ry's roll I canna tyne

The stalwart clansmen o' langsyne;

They were a noble race -

Brave heroes of the hill an' glen,

Ance nursing-ground o' gallant men -

Ye gods! what fills their place?

The hero of the forty-five,

I see him yet as when alive,

The brave auld Jacobite,

Wha that day in the Tallysow

Did show, though hoary was his pow,

He still was fu' o' fight.

Peace to his manes, now lang since gane,

An' I am left, the only ane

That saw him in his glee.

His banes are mixed wi' kindred dust,

His fiery saul is noo, I trust,

Frae strife an' battle free.

* a public-house near Invergarry.

The Mountain Muse

Who was "The Mountain Muse"?

William Mather Robertson - born in Longforgan, Scotland on 3rd January, 1810 the 3rd son of Robert Robertson and Elspeth Hall.

His father Robert was the Gamekeeper at nearby Castle Huntly and his mother was the hen-wife. The Robertsons were employed by George Paterson who had bought Castle Lyon and renamed it Castle Huntly in honour of his wife's family as they were previously connected with the property.

"He [George Paterson] was greatly interested in education and gave a yearly allowance of £30 to increase the salary of the local schoolmaster to £50 per annum; made an allowance to pay the fees of poor scholars; presented Bibles, Testaments and prizes to poor scholars and in 1825 set up a new school. He was good to the tenants in the village and the workers on his estate." 1

William may have benefited from George Paterson's interest in education in his early years but certainly when he was aged around 7 his parents took up another position in Glengarry, Inverness-shire where was put to school and recieved a basic education.
His education stood William in good stead, allowing him to become a poet in the latter years of his life and to self-publish two books of poetry, "The Mountain Muse" published in 1884 (printed by John Leng & Co of Bank Street, Dundee and "The Echoes of the Mountain Muse" published in 1893 and printed by R. S. Barrie of 16 Panmure Street Dundee. Many of the poems included in the two books had also been printed in the local newspaper.

1 http://www.electricscotland.com/history/kenneill/huntly/the_people.htm