George Paterson of Castle Huntly

I'm currently preparing for a trip to Scotland with my Dad and my older sister. I've been trying to figure out when the Robertsons left Castle Huntly to go and work for McDonnel of Glengarry. As I was looking around I came across a portrait by Sir Henry Raeburn of George Paterson, Robert Robertson's employer at Castle Huntly in Longforgan. So I thought I'd just park it here for now!

George Paterson died in 1817 - so it maybe that his death prompted Robert Robertson to apply for a new position. The last Robertson child to be born at Longforgan (according to census records) was Thomas who was born in 1820. The next child, George was born in Airlie about 1822 - so the family had definitely moved from Longforgan by then. That would make William around 10 when they moved however he gave his age as about 7.

The Good Grey Poet

Dundee Evening Telegraph - 08 November 1893 p.4

The Good Grey Poet
(Humbly Inscribed to William Robertson, Broughty Ferry, author of "Echoes of the Mountain Muse")

Old, grey poet of the hills!
I have thy verse by heart;
And give to thee the poet's name
As one who sings and doth not shame
The glorious, noble art.

With thee in fancy 'mong the heights,
I stood and watch'd the storm,
And heard the mighty thunders crash,
And saw the vivid lightnings flash
And Nature all transform.

My eye went sweeping down the vales,
And drank their beauty deep;
The streams, the rivers and the bens,
The fields, the forests and the glens,
The scaur, and rocky steep.

With thee I sigh'd for clansmen gone
And lands laid bare and lone,
And marvell'd how it all could be
'Mid freedom and democracy
And hearts not made of stone.

With thee I conjur'd up the past,
The grand historic page,
And heard again the clash of arms,
Beheld the battlefield's alarms
And sturdy warriors rage.

Old poet of the hills and streams,
I love thy manliness,
Thy want of cant, thy words sincere,
Thy pleading for the workers here,
Thy feeling for distress.

The flattering look, the toady smile,
The fawning beck and bow,
They are not thine; thou stand'st erect;
And for thy manhood hath respect,
And for thine aged brow.

The lords and kings, the crowns and thrones,
Whose glories some rehearse,
Are small unto a free-born soul
That soars and grasps the mighty whole
That makes the Universe.

The people for the most are gull'd
By lies and things unreal;
The poet's task's to preach aloud
And send his songs among the crowd,
And make them think and feel.

No sentimental strain we want
To be forgot and die,
But verse of energy and power
That last will longer than an hour
And rouse and edify.

Old poet of the hills and streams,
Thy head is grey with time;
Thine age hath been a blossoming;
A time of youth, a time of spring;
Of thought and song sublime.

Oh! When thou goest to the land
Where sleep so many brave,
May Fame no lasting wreath refuse;
For ever may the mountain muse
Sigh softly round thy grave.

Wormit, Fife        W.D.B

William Robertson - Landscape Gardener

In his interview transcribed from The Inverness Courier - William Robertson describes himself as a "Landscape Gardener" and gives the name and address of the man whom he served during his apprenticeship. He says, "I was trained to be a gardener, and am what is known as a landscape gardener. I got my training at Lindertise, near Kirriemuir, as the servant of Mr. Gilbert Laing Masson (sic) , I have been engaged at Tullymet, Ballechin and lots of other places in Perthshire since then." A quick Google of the name Gilbert Laing Masson brought up Gilbert Laing Meason with the following information on Wikipedia.

"Gilbert Laing Meason - (3 July 1769 - 14 August 1832) a Scottish gentleman, best remembered as the originator of the term 'landscape architecture'. Laing Meason lived on an estate called Lindertis, in Forfar, and was a friend of Sir Walter Scott. He was interested in art history, and in 1828 published a book called On The Landscape Architecture of The Great Painters of Italy (London, 1828). It dealt with the way that buildings and structures were sited within landscapes to produce beautiful compositions. The book sold poorly. Although essentially a work of art criticism, Laing Meason touched on subjects, such as the placing of buildings and their surroundings, which form a central part of the modern landscape architect's work. Laing Meason had no reason to believe that the term he used would become popular. 

The term would probably have died out if it had not been taken up by the horticulturalist and planner John Claudius Loudon. Loudoun thought that the term had a wider application outside art theory, and explained this view in an article in the contemporaryGardener's Magazine. He felt that the phrase aptly described the composition of created landscapes, and cited the gardens of Deepdene as an exemplar.The term was picked up by Loudon's American admirer Andrew Jackson Downing, from whom Frederick Law Olmsted presumably first heard it. Olmsted was the first professional to describe himself as a 'landscape architect', and is considered to be the founder of the modern profession of landscape architecture."

Lindertis House

I found a great contemporary description transcribed on this website which I have copied here as websites come and go... 

Views of the seats of noblemen and gentlemen, in England, Wales ..., Volume 1  By John Preston Neale, Thomas Moule (1822)THE SEAT OF GILBERT LAING MEASON, ESQ.

This Mansion is situated on the rising ground, which forms the northern boundary of the fertile and beautiful Vale of Strathmore, seventy miles west of the county town, Forfar. The building, lately erected under the direction of Mr. Archibald Elliot, is a commodious family House; the material is free stone, that abounds in the Valley. The interior is finished in a handsome, but not florid, Gothic style. In the Ground Floor is comprised the living Rooms, consisting of a Dining Room, 30 feet long, by 21 feet broad; Library, 27 by 24; two Drawing Rooms, 30 by 21, and 21 by 16 feet. These Rooms are well connected, and form the east and west sides, and south front of the building. The Dining Room has a groined ceiling, those of the other Rooms have spandril fans in the corners, and a corresponding drop in the centre. The Gothic Staircase Hall, in particular, does great credit to the taste of the Architect.

The grounds are extensive, and the House, placed on an elevated situation, commands fine views of the Vale, yet is well sheltered by the extended woods to the north, west, and east. The approach to the House from the west, is carried in a direct line, for upwards of a mile, along a closely wooded bank. The approach from the south, winds through an open grove of nearly the same length. The whole domain has the advantage of being well sheltered from the cold northern winds, that sometimes blow from the elevated range of mountains called the Grampians. It is no trifling encouragement to the planters of Larchwood, to be informed, that the greater part of the wood employed in this Mansion is of that Fir, thinned out of the surrounding woods, and planted not more than forty-five years ago. The larchwood on this Estate thrives alike well on good deep arable land, on a dry rocky bank of freestone, on cool moorish ground, and on a gravelly soil. In the neighbourhood of Lindertis, are many interesting objects to the admirers of picturesque scenery: such as the grand fall of the river Isla, or the Reekie Lynn; the tremendous chasm, through which the Isla rushes, called the Slough of Auchraimie; the castle of Airley, a romantic seat of the Earl of Airley; and the venerable castle of Glammis, belonging to the Earl of Strathmore, whose extensive and well managed woods adorn the Vale.

Strathmore, or tbe great Vale, is one of tbe most fertile districts in Scotland, extending above 30 miles in length, and 7 miles in breadth. There is no part in the kingdom, in which the drilled turnip culture is carried on in greater perfection, and consequently the winter stall feeding of Cattle. The farms are large, the farm-buildings of tbe most approved and commodious arrangements, and the country in general well enclosed and wooded. For beauty, the Vale is deficient alone in a fine river or lake ; as its only stream is the Dean river, of no size, which flows through the Vale from the lake of Forfar, till it joins the river Isla.
---
According to a local Westmuir website - the grounds of the house were laid out by Gilbert Laing Meason himself and everything was done on such a grand scale, that when he died in 1832, his son fell into financial difficulties and the property was sold in 1838. Sadly the house fell into disuse and disrepair over the passing years and was demolished in 1987.

Long Interview with William Robertson Inverness Courier 01 September, 1891

The following is a transcription of an interview with William Robertson which gives some really detailed information on his life and movements around the Highlands from childhood to adulthood.
----------------
"A LINK WITH CULLODEN"
One of the most interesting personages in Broughty Ferry is Mr William Robertson, the almost nonogenarian poet, with whom a representative of this journal had an interview the other day. He found William in excellent spirits and hale and hearty in his body, - "all but a bad leg that sometimes troubles me " - was the poet's remark as he alluded to the cause of just a perceptible limp. He bears his age admirably, and is a keen, alert, intelligent, gentlemanly old man with whom a "twa-handed crack"is always interesting. The poetic fire still stirs his heart, poetic images still crowd his active brain, and poetic grace still turns his verse. He has the sturdy, hardy bearing of the country-bred Scot of a bygone generation.
"When were you born?" asked our representative, after William had been comfortably seated, and ready to plunge into reminiscences.
"In 1804," was the reply. "In Edwards' book of Scottish poets," he added, it is wrongly given as 1808, but I am now in my 87th year."
"And which is your 'calf ground?'"
"The Carse of Gowrie - in the Parish of Longforgan. My father was gamekeeper at Castle Huntly, and I was born there."
"Did you stay long in the Carse?"
"No, my father removed when I was a mere child to Invergarry, where he became the servant of Colonel Alexander Macdonell, the chief of Glengarry then. During my boyhood I resided just beside the mansion house close by Loch Oich."
"Were there many more people about Invergarry then than now? "
"Well, it's a long time since I left it ; but I should say that there were many more then than now. And they were a frugal, well-behaved people - although I must say it, a little lazy. "
"What did the common people live on chiefly in your young days?"
"A great dish was brochan, used often for breakfast, and there was often herring for dinner; then they had cakes and bannocks, an' they were awful fond o' whiskey. They considered it a panacea for a' diseases."
"Smuggled whisky, I suppose?"
"Ay, there was smuggling in those days," and there was a merry twinkle in William's eye as he added, "if it could be called smuggling as they did so openly. Man, I've seen a procession of 40 horses - a man attending on each- all carrying smuggled whisky, and all going quite openly along the road. Each man carried a stout cudgel over his shoulder, and all were as jovial as they could be."
"Yes, Glengarry was an ideal Highland Chief. He was one of the last of that grand old kind of men. He kept two bards and a piper, and on all festive occasions the bards chanted the praises of the clan, and narrated the brilliant deeds of the Macdonells. A favourite game in those days was shinty. It was played with great clubs, the men being stripped to shirt and kilt. Sometimes the contest would be between the lower and upper end of the glen, or between two adjacent straths; but whoever were the rivals the game was always fiercely contested. The Highland blood always got on fire, and it was really dangerous for anyone who got in the way of a player. Glengarry himself almost always attended these encounters, as chief of his sept, and it was his custom on such occasions to ride home with the bards chanting before him and the piper playing by turns. His door was always open to the poorest of his people, to whom he acted as patriarch."
"Were the people well off for food in those days?"
"Oh! no' so bad. There was no want of fish; plenty of herring and eggs. Eggs were considered very dear at 4d. a dozen. Oh, yes, there was oatmeal too; but mind you, the Highlandman didn't care so very much for oatmeal. If they took it, they preferred it in the form of brochan or brose.They turned up their nose at oatmeal porridge, and I've heard more than one say - 'What sort of dish is that to go to the hill with?' Potatoes mashed was a favourite dish and there was aye plenty of milk,"
"Yes, it was at Glengarry that I met with a hero of the Forty-Five. His name was Owen Macdonell, an active little man, who always went past at the run, and looked as fleet as a five year old. "
"What age would Owen be?"
"Oh, he was said to be a hundred at that time. The Chief made a great deal of him. Owen was at all the feasts of the Castle, and the Chief always spoke proudly of him as the man who had seen the first blood drawn for Prince Charlie at Prestonpans, and was afterwards present at Falkirk and Culloden."
"Was Macdonell the only Culloden man you knew?"
"No; I've known five altogether. There were two other Macdonells - the Black Forester and the Red Forester they were named, from the colour of their hair. The names of the other two I cannot remember. Owen was the oldest, but there were several who lived as long as he did - for James Grant, in his 'British Battles,' mentions one who died as late as 1830, at the age of 108. I was about sixteen at the time I knew Macdonell, and I believe there are few, if any, alive today who can say they ever met a Culloden hero."
"Had you ever had any particular conversation with him about the battle?"
"Nothing in particular."
"I suppose you know that the Macdonalds did not fight that day?"
"Yes; it was a difference about precedence of position, and they marched off the field without engaging. Owen, I suppose, was among them for the Macdonalds and Macdonells are just the same clan."
"Quite so. Have you ever been at Culloden field?"
"No. I've often wished to see it; but (regretfully) that's past hoping noo, I doot. But I've seen Killiecrankie!"
"Ay, but Killiecrankie's no Culloden!"
"No, no. That was a sorrowfu' day for the Stuarts, and sair, sair suffering it entailed upon many a good Highlander."
"No, I have not been able to do any regular work for some years (he said in answer to another question). I was trained to be a gardener, and am what is known as a landscape gardener. I got my training at Lindertise, near Kirriemuir, as the servant of Mr. Gilbert Laing Masson, I have been engaged at Tullymet, Ballechin and lots of other places in Perthshire since then. Man, I must tell you Invergarry was a bonnie place in my young days. You could have seen the yellow daffodils and columbine growing in acres - the columbine, you know, darts off in every variety of colour." - Dundee Evening Telegraph 

Glengarry and His Family

From the Dundee Evening Telegraph 02 September 1893 (page 2)

In an interesting article on "Glengarry and his Family" in  Blackwood for this month, there appears the following letter from the almost nonogenarian poet of Broughty Ferry - a volume of whose writings and in verse and prose is just now being issued from the press: -

"To Miss Macdonnel of Glengarry. Knight's Land, Church Street, Broughty Ferry, May 6th, '92.

"When your father was returning homeward from deer-hunting; I remember very well in passing my father's door he would pull up his horse, and stop his hunters, and call my mother and all her children to the door, and make mother and family were made to partake of and drink health rounds, your father good-humouredly telling us that 'Our teeth were longer than our beards.' The children were served with bread and cheese, and nothing delighted them more than to see Glengarry coming home and his followers from deer-stalking. My father's house was at the back of the gardens near the old castle. We use to see you all passing every morning with Miss Drysdale, your governess. I think that I can still see in my mind's eye Glengarry passing in full Highland costume. He had a grand stately step and a fine manly bearing, and always had a kindly joke with any of my brothers and myself whenever he happened to meet us.
"When George IV visited Edinburgh Glengarry presented the following gentlemen to the King: - Macdonald jnr of Dalness, Macdonell of Barrisdale, Macdonell Shian, and other gentlemen of the nameof  Macdonell, officers in the army.At banquet given by the Lord Provost and Magistrates in honour to the King, Glengarry made a warm speech, extolling the virtues and patriotism of one who had been the patron of his early life, then gave 'To the memory Henry, Lord Melville.' I find that Miss Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry was presented to the King by her mother and Miss Alpina Macdonell of Glengarry also. I will send other documents soon, Many thanks for the portrait I esteem highly. - I have the honour, Madam, to be your humble servant. "William Robertson".
--------------------------

Reference to William Robertson "Songs And Sayings of Gowrie"

Songs And Sayings of Gowrie pp139-141
"It is but two or three years ago since there passed away, at the ripe age of ninety-seven, a native singer who long served as a link with the distant days of Culloden. Born at Castle Huntly in 1804, William Robertson spent much of his earlier years in the service of Glengarry. Here it was that, in 1820, he met Owen Macdonnell, one of the heroes of 1745, who had been present at the battles of Preston-pans, Falkirk and Culloden. With others, also, who had fought at Culloden, Robertson had the good fortune to converse. Possessed of a vigorous mind, he took kindly to the study of poetry, metaphysics and theology. Comparatively late in life he developed a considerable poetic faculty, the fruit of which is to be seen in two small volumes, The Mountain Muse and Echoes of The Mountain Muse, Dundee 1893. Many of the poems recall, the author tells us, sights and sounds with which he was familiar "when I roved, a young Highlander, o'er the dark heath." Among the more interesting are those that relate to Jacobite times - "A Culloden Jacobite", "Lines on a Culloden Field" (suggested by the remarks of heroes who had fought at the battle), "Culloden Field the Night Before The Battle". The last named piece may be taken as a specimen of Robertson's style."

More about the Macdonells of Glengarry

Further late night ferreting has uncovered a few more gleaned facts about William Robertson. There is a book called Songs and Sayings of Gowrie by Philip Adam written in the early 1900s which mentions William Robertson. It is not available as were the books below - but through sheer dogged determination and compounding search parameters I managed to find out some of what it said. Then I discovered that the University of Queensland had a copy and my sister Ann was able to request a copy as she works in another University. (Ahh - the lengths we'll go to!)

William Robertson is described on p140 as a "native singer who long served as a link with the distant days of Culloden. Born at Castle Huntly in 1804, William Robertson spent several of his earlier years in the service of Glengarry. Here it was that in 1820, he met Owen Macdonell, one of the heroes of 1745, who had been present at the battles of Preston-pans, Falkirk, and Culloden. With others, also, who fought at Culloden, Robertson had the good fortune to converse. Possessed of a vigorous mind, he took kindly to the study of poetry,metaphysics and theology. Comparatively late in life he developed a considerable poetic faculty, the fruit of which is to be seen in two small volumes, The Mountain Muse, and Echoes of the Mountain Muse, Dundee 1893."

So with the information already known from other books, it would appear that William was born at Castle Huntly near Longforgan in the Carse of Gowrie in 1808. At the age of seven (i.e. around 1817) his parents Robert and Elspeth Robertson, took up new situations with the Macdonells at Glengarry, Inverness-shire and it was there that he went to school (as described here). At around the age of 11 to 12 he met Owen Macdonell, the Culloden Jacobite of whom he wrote in his books. This association with the Macdonell's would also explain the number of stories in which members of this family feature.

An entry on Electric Scotland describes the Robertson's employer as "Colonel Alexander Ranaldson MacDonell of Glengarry, who, in January 1822, married Rebecca, second daughter of Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, baronet, was the last genuine specimen of a Highland chief. His character in its more favourable features was drawn by Sir Walter Scott, in his romance of Waverley, as Fergus MacIvor. He always wore the dress and adhered to the style of living of his ancestors, and when away from home in any of the Highland towns, he was followed by a body of retainers, who were regularly posted as sentinels at his door. He revived the claims of his family to the chiefship of the MacDonalds, styling himself also of Clanranald."

It is not hard to imagine the impression this man must have made on the young William Robertson, seeing as this same man was used by Sir Walter Scott as the model for his character, Fergus MacIvor. Combined with the stories of Owen Macdonell, it must have enlivened his love for stories, poetry and singing.

Alexander Ranaldson MacDonell died in January 1828. The same website says "he perished in endeavouring to escape from a steamer which had gone ashore. As his estate was very much mortgaged and encumbered, his son was compelled to dispose of it, and to emigrate to Australia, with his family and clan. The estate was purchased by the Marquis of Huntly from the chief, and in 1840 it was sold to Lord Ward (Earl of Dudley, Feb. 13, 1860,) for £91,000. In 1860 his lordship sold it to Edward Ellice,Esq.q. of Glenquoich, for £120,000. "

Perhaps the Robertsons moved on from Glengarry when the estate was sold. We do know from other sources that the Robertson's eventually went to another situation in the Howe of Strathmore were William was apprenticed (family history says he was apprenticed to his father).
We do know that William was in Dunnichen in 1835 when he married Elisabeth Adam. And later he was in the Airlie district which is where he met his second wife Jean. All of this information gives a good picture of William's early life and explains both his love for Highland scenery and the many stories and tales he had about the Macdonnells of Glengarry.

The Three Wives of William Robertson

According to both oral family history and William's death certificate, William managed to outlive not one, nor two but three wives - quite a feat since he was significantly older than wife #2 and wife #3!

He married his first wife, Elisabeth Adam, at Dunnichen in 1835. She reportedly died soon after they were married - possibly the same year. I am not sure of the cause of death as she died prior to civil registration.
There is a poem in "The Mountain Muse" which I think he wrote about her because of the line "I ne'er can be your wife".

LOVE IN DEATH
A Ballad

Oh, dinna look sae sad, Willie;
The truth I noo maun speak;
See summer roses bloom again,
But none upon my cheek.

I thocht when winter's cauld was gane,
And frost and snaw a' past,
That I wad gather strength again,
But find it ebbin' fast.

Lang you have had my heart, Willie,
Yours has been leal and true;
But, oh, I find mine sinkin' sair -
The grave maun keep it noo.

To me 'tis sad and ill to thole
To ken we sune maun part;
There's flowers and music in the dell,
But nane in my lane heart.

The rosy beams o'morn, Willie,
Bring nae sunshine to me;
The shades o' death are thickening fast
Before my weary e'e.

Tho' sune, sune I maun bid adieu
To a' beneath the sky,
I ken I'll live in ae fond heart
When 'neath the sod I lie.

The thocht o' happy days to come
Made mine a cheery life;
Alas! these days I'll never see -
ne'er can be your wife.

Noo grip my hand ance mair, Willie,
And kiss my burnin' broo;
And the last breath that leaves my lips
Will be a prayer for you.

If that poem was not about Elisabeth it would have been about his second wife Jean Thomson, who died from phthisis (tuberculosis) in 1865. The fact that the wife in the poem is clearly dying a slow death would be make it a little more likely to be about Jean.
Despite the age difference of about fourteen years, it seemed to have been a "love match". There is a rather passionate poem about Jean called "Twa Pawky Een". Twa is Two and Een is eyes (I am guessing). On a tape of Aunty Nell she struggles to translate "Pawky" - it seems to mean sly, double-meaning, teasing, cheeky, shrewd, cunning - in a humorous way - not a word with a direct translation.

TWA PAWKY EEN
A SANG.

It was on Airlie's bonnie braes
Whaur first I met my Jean;
That moment I became the thrall
O' her twa pawky een.

Their glamour made me rin maist wud,
And lanely paths I took;
For aye I thocht to licht on her,
In some sweet fairy nook.

A warmer pulse beat in my heart;
Love a' my views did flush;
Twa roguish een still haunted me,
And glanced from every bush.

I crazy grew, and cudna rest
Frae morn to dewy e'en;
A presence still my fancy thrilled -
The image o' my Jean.

A kingdom for a hinny kiss
Beneath the milk-white thorn,
When moon an' stars are lookin' doun
On fields of yellow corn.

Gang whaur I like, her glances aye
My wand'ring staps pursue;
As if an angel peered at me
Through blobs o' mountain dew.

From Mem'ry Airlie's braes and Den
And Isla's faemy streams
Can never fade; sae fondly yet
I visit them in dreams.

Tho' mony, mony years hae passed
Since first I met my Jean;
I never will nor can forget
Her twa sweet pawky een.



Image of Isla River in Airle - reused under the Creative Common Licence (c) Sylvia Barrow

The reference to Airlie is also picked up in a rather sadder poem which is clearly about Jean.

IN MEMORIAM

Though thou art low in lonesome grave -
That last and gloomy lair -
Thy love-lit eye for ever closed,
And soiled thy golden hair;

Still I can see within the pall
That o'er my soul is flung
The image of thy peerless form -
My beautiful and young.

Pure thou didst seem as liquid gem
That sparkles on the rose,
Or opening flower when vernal dawn
With pearly radiance glows.

Thy voice was like the dulcet tones
That rise on evening air,
Where tiny wavelets wanton round
The water-lilies fair.

I miss thee by the crystal spring
That bubbled up so clear;
The tripping of thy fairy feet,
Alas? no more I'll hear.

No more we'll meet in Airlie Den,
And list the rushing streams
Of Isla's waters flashing past,
Beneath the pale moonbeams.

Gem of my youth! life's morning star!
Thy beauty was it so
That Heaven claimed it as too fair
For mortal gaze below!

A year after Jean died, William married again to Betsy McKenzie. It would seem though that it was more of a marriage of convenience than love as William had small children to be cared for and, for a man of letters, it must have been hard to be married to someone who was illiterate (Betsy signed her mark on her wedding certificate).

According to Aunty Nell she was a "right step-mother" and her (Nell's) father (Thomas - the youngest) didn't like Betsy very much. William outlived Betsy too - she died sometime between 1871 and 1881 (she is in the 71 census but not in the 81 census) - but I have been unable to find her death registration.

I don't think William wrote any poems about poor Betsy but I have a feeling he took up his writing after she died - probably free in the evenings to write and compose his stories and songs.

In honour of all three wives here is another poem written by William:

AS THINGS SHOULD BE

OH! thou art health and wealth to me,
My everything in life,
And I am blessed indeed with thee,
My kind and loving wife.

Thy winsome smile and witchin' e'e,
And gentle words and kind;
In every way thou art to me
A helpmate to my mind.

Since thou wert mine, my pretty dear,
My pleasures hae been rife;
I think I'm younger ilka year
Wi' you, my lovin' wife.

The manly, brave, and kindly heart -
Pity is sae rare;
And mony play a silly part
Though they hae routh o' gear.

Weel may I bless my happy lot,
Frae sorrow free and strife;
Life's cares and troubles are forgot
To feel thou art my wife.

The prudent thocht and modest grace
That sit upon the brow
Did weel become the lassie's face,
The happy mither's now.

Tho' I had wealth and ca'd a lord,
The Kingdom, too, o' Fife,
There's something wad be mair adored -
My ain, my peerless wife.

To keep aglow love's sacred flame,
Still be our aim to fan;
Our pleasures ever be the same
As when they first began.

More Gold

So my googling continues on - and I have found more gold. This book - The Bards of Angus and the Mearns - is also reproduced online and in it we find the following about William Robertson.

WILLIAM ROBERTSON

It will readily be conceded that is a unique experience for a man of over ninety years of age to publish a volume of poems and sketches! In 1893, William Robertson established this record, when he gave us "The Echoes of the Mountain Muse, and Legends of the Past", a book of 106 pages of verse and prose, and the second work of the kind that he had written and published long after he had passed man's allotted span! In company with Mr. John Paul we visited the aged bard at Union Place, Lochee, in August of 1896, and had a most interesting conversation with him. He was confined to bed; but his eye was bright, his voice sonorous, and despite his years, he seemed the very type of an enthusiastic Scot. With wonderful vigour he told us of his meeting with "the Culloden Jacobite" of his poem, and also that he was the only living link between dark Culloden and the present. The accounts of his age, he assured us, were not exaggerated; and on the copies of his 1893 volumes that we took with us, he wrote in legible though tremulous characters, "William Robertson, aged 96". A firm believer in the marvellous and supernatural, William disclaimed all superstition, and vouched for the absolute veracity of several singular experiences narrated in his book. He was thoroughly imbued with the love of nature, legend, clan, and country, that characterizes the true Highlander - due, doubtless, to the fact that his impressionable years were spent in the Highlands - and of these he sings with remarkable vigour and and grace, and the more so, it strikes us, when his years and meagre early education are considered. Mr Robertson was a native of Longforgan, but the major part of his active life was passed in fair Strathmore, and latterly at Broughty Ferry, where he was known to every resident both as bard and a gardener. His death occurred in June of this year, the obituary notice bearing that his age was 97. Our illustrations are taken from the volume of "Echoes," to which reference is made above. "

The following three poems are then transcribed, "A Summer Morning Among the Hills", "A Culloden Jacobite" and "A Song".

I have already transcribed "A Culloden Jacobite" - I will add the other two poems shortly.

An Eureka moment !

"To Google" has become a verb in the English language in just a few short years and I have been doing plenty of that in my research so far. Last night was an absolute eureka moment - I was searching the very helpful function of Google Books and found two books on Scottish poetry that mentioned William Robertson. The first was called The Harp of Perthshire: A Collection of Songs, Ballads and Other Poetical Works by Robert Ford. A search for this book showed me that it was extremely valuable and very rare - not likely to come up on Abebooks or similar any time soon at a price I can afford! The second book was not one book but a volume of 16 books called One Hundred Modern Scottish Poets:With Biographical and Critical Notices by David Herschell Edwards (1880).

The problem with Google books is that it would only show a small snippet of the text. Switching back to "normal" google I found this wonderful site and this wonderful site. I don't personally know the person or people who faithfully scanned all 16 volumes of 100 Modern Scottish Poets or The Harp of Perthshire - but I would love to kiss their feet as I was able to read both books online and here's what they said.

Firstly - The Harp of Perthshire - page 502 (which is part of a list of poets featured in the book)

"William Robertson - page 192

Born in Longforgan, in the Carse of Gowrie, in 1808, has been for many years a working gardener in Broughty Ferry. He was forty years old before he blossomed into verse, but a deal of fragrant bloom has fallen from him in old age. A collection of his poems and songs published a few years ago went speedily out of print. He has long been a frequent and welcome contributor to the Dundee Evening Telegraph and the People's Journal. "

The poem, which I will replicate in a new post, is called Morning Musings in The Highlands.

It's also interesting to note there is another William Robertson, who was born in Dundee and subsequently lived in Bankfoot and who had articles published in the People's Journal too. I guess it is fortunate that my William Robertson published his in book form as a collection - as it would be impossible to distinguish the different William Robertsons in the People's Journal. The other slightly sad thing is that I found Isabella Robertson in 100 Modern Scottish Poets - and she is described as the elder sister of William Robertson. I excitedly thought I'd discovered more gold - but the autobiographical details say that she retired to Bankfoot to live with her brother - making her the sister of the other William Robertson who was featured in Volume 7 (which University of California has not scanned)- and sadly not mine. Which brings me to the gold in 100 Modern Scottish Poets: Volume 1 - p306

" William Robertson

GARDENER, residing in Broughty Ferry, was born at Longforgan, Carse of Gowrie in 1808. When he was seven years old his parents removed to Glengarry, Inverness-shire, where he was put to school. The schoolhouse was built with turf, and thatched with dry ferns, while the seats were also of turf, and a heathery surface formed the cushions. His schoolmaster was tall, and always wore a suit of white moleskin, which gave him a ghostly appearance in the dingy apartment. The amount of learning communicated by this teacher was reading, writing and arithmetic - compound multiplication being generally the farthest rule reached. Robertson's parents ultimately removed to the Howe of Strathmore, where he served his apprenticeship. He was forty years old before he wooed the muse, and he regarded Highland scenery, amidst which he passed the most of his life, as first awakening poetic fancies in his soul. He has contributed numerous thoughtful verses and engaging stories to the press."

How wonderful is that biographical detail - where he lived with his parents as a young man, his education - not through the largess of George Patterson as I'd supposed in this post but rather from the ghostly apparition of a school teacher in a turf schoolhouse!

The poem - which I will replicate in a new post which was used in this book was Moonlit Scenery in The Highlands.

So - I am very happy to have found more poems and more details about the life of William Robertson!

Alisdair Ruadh and Sandy Morrison

" I drink your health, Sassenach, with right goodwill, for you appear to me to be a good-hearted fellow, and I daresay you would not scruple to use your cudgel to some purpose in a good cause."
The speaker was Alisdair Ruadh, a powerful Celt, dressed in full Highland costume, and armed with claymore, dirk, pistols and skean dhu. Leaning against the stump of tree within a yard or so was a target which, judging from its appearance, Alisdair must have had a strong arm before he could use it in battle with that alertness required when engaged in combat, and few could weild their arms in better style than he.
The hopes of Prince Charles Edward had been blasted at Culloden, and Alisdair was now playing at hide-and-seek among the hills with Cumberland's redcoats, and, as a matter of course, leading a life of danger. The individual whom Alisdair had addressed was a sturdy specimen of a Lowlander, about middle-age, with a face unmistakenly expressive of broad, Scottish humour; and the merry twinkle of his light grey eyes showed that Sandy was more given to fun and frolic than to pine in sorrow. Sandy Morrison's lively disposition and generous nature made him a favourite and at all times a welcome guest among the Highlanders. The extraordinary capacity which Sandy possessed for swallowing "great jaws" of whisky, as he expressed it, delighted the hardy mountaineers amazingly.
Sandy's occupation was a strange one, and altogether peculiar, yet the very thing whereby that worthy could indulge in his wandering habits. Sandy had an only brother, who had gone abroad and traded with great success in various parts of the globe. His health giving way, he returned home; and, feeling the hand of death upon him, he bequeathed his whole fortune to Sandy, and shortly thereafter died. Sandy had an excessive fondness for the company of Highlandmen, and after pondering a scheme in his mind, he determined to carry it out, which he did in this wise:- Paying a visit to the Highlands, he succeeded in establishing a trade in buting worsted from the natives, which he managed to sell at a considerable profit among the Lowlanders. The liberal way Sandy dealt with the Highlanders secured their goodwill and friendship. At the time we introduce him to the reader he had accidently met Alisdair Ruadh. After a brief conversation Sandy was satisfied that he was talking to a kindred spirit, and one that had followed Prince Charlie, but now a fugitive and hunted by the redcoats, and he at once determined to befriend him. When we introduced Alisdair to the reader he had just drained a wooden cup of rather formidable dimensions to Sandy's health, and which cup he had just received, filled to the brim, from the jolly Lowlander. In response to his health being drunk, Sandy drew from his pocket a snuff-box, presented it to Alisdair, saying at the same time -
"I maun just thank ye; tak' a sneeshin' an' I'll drink your health in a jolly cupfu', an' you may safely count on me as a frien', true and faithfu' - an' let me add, though a' the diels i' the pit wer' after ye, an' Cumberland houndin' them on."
"For your kind intentions towards me I thank you," replied Alisdair; "I think that we will be true friends indeed, and were powder and bullet out of fashion we would not fear a score of Cumberland's bloodhounds."
"A score o' them!" exclaimed Sandy, "gosh man, giff I had twa fu's o' this same cup I cud wi' this cudgel smash my way through a hale regiment, if pouther and bullet wer' oot o' the way, as ye say."
So saying, Sandy filled his cup a second time, and gulped it over his throat without twisting a feature of his face, and seemingly with no more effort on his part than if it had been milk.
"Noo," continued Sandy, "ye'll just tak' anither cupfu', an' mak' us equal. I sud gien ye ane whan we first met, but, as the sayin' is, 'better late than never,'" and he forthwith presented Alisdair with "anither cupfu'".
Grasping Sandy's hand with a tremendous squeeze, Alisdair exclaimed-"My generous and brave friend, there's the hand of a true man. I drink to our better aquaintance, and I wish better days at hand; I at least need them."
"Squeeze awa', squeeze awa'," Sandy answered briskly; "ye'll no squeeze a hand that can return it better or ony ither friendly compliment."
But Sandy could proceed no further, for both were startled by a loud whistle, and seemingly about two hundred yards from where they sat, and it was evident that someone besides themselves was in the same thicket of hazels on the skirts of which they rested. Both sprang to their feet, and Alisdair, bracing on his target, drew his sword and tood with a defiant air. Sandy hastily wrapped round his left arm an empty bag he kept for carrying worsted in, and stood with as resolute an air as his companion. Sandy spoke first and said -
"If I'm no mista'en there will be a stramash ere mony minutes. It's best to be on oor gaird."
So saying he adjusted his broad Lowland bonnet firmly on his head at the same time.
"We shall not be caight napping, at all events," Alisdair observed, when another whistle was heard, but much nearer, the effect of which was to make our two heroes assume a more determined attitude.
Suddenly a tall man emerged from the bushes, whose air and bearing clearly showed that he was of the military profession. The stranger was buttoned up to the throat in a blue surtout, his nether limbs were encased in light grey trousers; but no weapon other than a cane was visible about his person. Surveying the two individuals before him with a searching glance, he thus addressed Alisdair -
"I presume you lately held the position of an officer in Prince Charles Edward's army. Is it not so?"
"I was an officer," Alisdair replied, "in that army, and a noble body of brave men they were. Better soldiers never marched to battle or carried arms."
"Good," said the stranger, adding - "Will you kindly let me know what particular clan you belong to? My purpose is friendly, and you need have no hesitation to tell me."
"I am, or rather was, an officer among the Macdonnells of Glengarry. I am a Mcdonnell, and I am a relative of the chief of that clan, I am proud to acknowledge," said Alisdair, adding - "You do not, I hope, take my friend and me for wandering vagabonds who cannot give a good account of themselves?"
The stranger turned his glance on Sandy, and observed-
"The person whom you call your friend might easily pass himself off as a vagabond if his fancy inclined him to do so."
At this Sandy bristled up, and answered fiercely - "Tak' care fat you say, my bauld chield. Although you were the Duke himsel' I wadna tak' an insult frae him nor you. I care no a button for ony o' ye."
"Do not speak to me in that sort of way again," the stranger, with a frown, replied, "or I shall chastise you as a stupid, stubborn donkey ought to be when it brays when it is not wanted."
In a moment the point of Sandy's staff passed with lightning speed within an inch or so of the stranger's nose, which sudden movement on Sandy's part threw his opponent off his guard for a second or two. Sandy saw his advantage, rushed in, and butting the stranger in the stomach stretched him at full length across an anthill.
Alisdair and Sandy lost not a moment in raising the fallen stranger, and clearing him of the active and tormenting insects. Sandy's tremendous "butt" had deranged the economy of his inner man. He gradually regained consciousness, however, and, leaning on Alisdair, he briefly addressed him in a low and tremulous tone.
"This has been a most ludicrous and very absurd affair, but in one sense I am pleased that it happened."
"I cannot see," said Alisdair, "how anything pleasant can be associated with such a strange occurrence."
"Listen for a moment or two, and allow me to depart in peace. I am not what I have represented myself to be. I am a traitor, a spy, and a scoundrel of the blackest dye." Pausing a moment, he resumed - "I had hopes that I could decoy you where you would have been pounced upon by soldiers, and borne in triumph to the Duke's presence a relative of Macdonnell of Glengarry, a name to conjure with. A handsome reward and promotion in the Royal Army were the temptations offered, and even a rebel, whose position was that of a gentleman, was eligible to play the traitor and spy, if he could furnish guarantees for his future loyalty."
"Excuse me, sir; but I want to hear no more details of villany. Begone at once, for I see my honest friend's blood is rising; and if you have a second encounter with him, your name and infamous character will perish from the world."
"Flee, you infernal scoundrel," roared Sandy. As the stranger plunged amongst the bushes and disappeared, Sandy filled his black cup, and roared after the traitor at the full pitch of his voice - "Here's to ye, ye black rascal. This black cup has something guid within. You have a blacker heart. May the deil sune ha'e ye in his grips!"
"Noo, Alisdair," Sandy observed in a rather lively mood, "ye maun drink a cupfu' to mair success. We ha'e gotten rid o' yon infernal scoundrel, and we ha'e, o'd kens hoo, mony troubles an' dangers to face ere it can be said we are safe."
Alisdair drank off his cupfu', and on returning it he questioned Sandy as to where and how he came to be in possession of it.
It belangs to the very family ye claim kindred wi' - the MacDonnells o' Glengarry," Sandy answered. It was found on the route maist o' that clan took after Culloden by ane o' thane second -sicht bodies ca'ed seers."
"Give me a few more particulars, Sandy," Alisdair, feeling interested in the cup, somewhat anxiously inquired.
"Sandy Ban Mhor - as the second-sicht body was called- fand it, as I hae said already, amang the heather the very wye the maist o' the Macdonnells took, and coming on a dying clansman, to whom he showed the cup, he learned the following strange particulars:- It was given to one of the chiefs of old by a mountain genius called Boddach Glas, and, it seems, could foretell what evils in the future would befall any of that race. Among others, one particular in connection with the black cup referred specially to the Glengarry family."
"I see something like a crest," observed Alisdair; "it seems the crest of the clan, though somewhat nearly effaced, and it is the craig-na-feaigh, the raven on the rock, I feel quite certain."
"You are quite richt, sir," replied Sandy; "an' fat's mair, the seer body said the family micht lose their lands, but not the title, as lang as that cup remained within the wa's o' the auld castle."
"The cup, then," said Alasdair, "must be restored to the Glengarry family or buried within the walls of the old castle, and if I can I shall see to this."
Our story must now proceed, and the sequel to the legend of the black cup narrated. After various adventures and hair-breadth escapes, the two heroes succeeded in reaching Dunkeld on a dark night, where Sandy was well acquainted, which circumstance enabled them to get safely housed and in comparative safety.
Sandy speedily went to work and procured for Alisdair a suit of clothes to enable him to travel in safety, and at the same time his Highland costume was consigned to the keeping of their host till it could be more conveniently removed. Alisdair and Sandy were so well pleased with each other that they agreed to share each other's fortune. Sandy was wealthy, and our worthies succeeded in purchasing an estate in the lower parts of Perthshire.
In due time Alisdair married a young heiress, as both wished to have a housekeeper to see to their comforts. " As for me," Sandy said on the occasion of the marriage, "I wadna gie the comforts o' a gude punch bowl for a' the wives that ever lived." Two sons were born to Alisdair, and a happier family group could not be found.
Our story now must pass over the years that intervene between 1749 and 1817, a pretty long leap.
In the year of grace 1817 a family group who occupied a house within about 120 yards of the ruins of the old castle were seated round a blazing fire of peats and logs on a clear, frosty, winter night. Footsteps were heard approaching the door, which was pushed open, and two stalwart Highlanders entered in all the glory of tartan array, and two nobler figures, so far as look and bearing go, could not be seen anywhere. The strangers were invited to sit down, and the guidman of the house speedily engaged in a lively conversation with his stately visitors. A black cup was produced by one of the strangers and a flask of whisky by the other, and young and old were invited to drink from the black cup. The strangers told their mission was to restore the cup to the Glengarry family. Further particulars were learned about the black cup, with which the reader is already acquainted; in short, the strangers were regular descendants of Alisdair, who had given instructions on his death-bed that the Glengarry family should be put in possession of the cup by some of his descendants.
Sandy, it seems, had died before Alisdair, leaving all his share of the property to his friend. The guidman showed the strangers the way to Glengarry's house, where they remained for some weeks while a series of games and feasting were got up to do honour to the strangers and celebrate the restoration of the cup.
The writer must now relate what he knows about the final resting place of the cup. One day I was amusing myself chasing butterflies, a kind of fun boys delight in - at least I did so. While so engaged I observed the young chief approaching, a comely boy somewhere about twelve years of age. I also noticed that he carried a small spade in his hand, a rather unusual thing for him to do. Eneas Macdonnell, the young chief, saluted me, and asked me to accompany him to the old castle. We were soon within its grim and storm-battered walls, and the young chief at once drew from his pocket the black cup, politely requesting me to hold it for a few minutes. He then proceeded to dig a hole among the debris, and I really felt that I could not conjecture what he intended to do. Having sunk the hole some sixteen or eighteen inches deep, he asked me to give him the cup, which he dropped into the hole with a very solemn expression on his face. He the addressed me as follows:-
"It may be, in course of events, that the Macdonnells of Glengarry lose their lands, but if this cup is buried within these castle walls, so long as it is undisturbed they will retain the site and the title. I have felt," he continued, "that our ancestral possessions may pass away from us; so you see I have taken this step, without letting my parents know, to secure the title of our brave and ancient race, the Macdonnells of Glengarry."
The young chief's surmises have come to pass. The Glengarry family have no lands there now, but still retain the title and ruins of the old castle.
The young chief's father [pictured left*] was a thorough specimen of a Highland chieftain, and he and his eldest daughter were presented to George the Fourth on his visit to Edinburgh in 1822, and he was gathered to his fathers in 1828. The writer of this story has in his possession a fine view of the ruins of the old castle, which was burned by Cumberland's soldiers in their ruthless and bloodthirsty career through the Highlands after Culloden. Miss Louisa Ranaldson Macdonnell of Glengarry kindly sent me the view of the old castle through a friend; she lives in Rothesay, and is highly esteemed for her benevolent exertions in doing good.
I may add that the writer of the legend of the "Black Cup," once, when a boy, tasted a small drop of the real mountain dew handed to him by the old chief. Of course at that time I was ignorant how the cup had anything to do with the ultimate destiny of the Macdonnells of Glengarry.

Footnote: I have subsequently researched some of the characters mentioned in this story. I found information on Aeneas ("Eneas" in the story) Mcdonnell on a cached page from The Clan Donald Magazine - rather than link to it (because the page has actually gone) I have copied it here.
"Aeneas Ranaldson Macdonell was the only son surviving infancy of Colonel Alastair Ranaldson Macdonell, 15th Chief of Glengarry, and Rebecca, 2nd daughter of Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo. He was born in 1809, almost certainly at Invergarry. On his father's death, from an accident in 1828, when not quite 19 years of age he succeeded as 16th Chief of Glengarry. When Alastair Ranaldson died on 17th January 1828 his estates in Glengarry and Knoydart were heavily encumbered. The trustees sold part of the Glengarry property and the rest was sold in 1837. Only Invergarry Castle, the Well of the Heads (Tobar na Ceann) and the family burying place at Kilfinnan were retained.
Aeneas Ranaldson Macdonell married on 18th December 1833 Josephine, daughter of William Bennet. They had three sons and three daughters.
In 1834 they were living at Inverie in Knoydart. Six years later, in 1840, Aeneas with his wife and young family emigrated to Australia. They sailed from Glasgow in June 1840, taking with them a number of clansmen, shepherds and agriculturists, as well as a splendid stock of Scottish sheep and cattle and farm implements. The Chief's intention was to found a settlement and return to Scotland to arrange for the whole of his Clan and dependants to join him.
Glengarry arrived at Port Phillip in the ship "Perfect" on 8th November 1840 en route for Sydney. The Port Phillip Patriot, 9th November 1840, in the shipping news, lists the passengers of the "Perfect" who were going on to Sydney as Mr and Mrs MacDonnell of Glengarry, Master A. MacDonnell, Miss M. MacDonnell, Miss H.R. MacDonnell, Miss Baird, Messrs McKenzie, Croker, Girdwood, Neish, Wood and Mathew, Mr and Mrs Charles Richards. 44 in steerage: most of these were said to be members of the Glengarry party.
In the leisurely fashion of those days a stay of between five and six weeks was made at Port Phillip, during which time the Scottish residents of Melbourne had the opportunity of entertaining the Chief at a dinner of welcome at the Caledonian Hotel. Newspaper reports describe this as a very successful public function:
"The evening's festivities concluded as they commenced, with the utmost hilarity. Suffice it to say the toast list comprised no fewer than 17 items."
Glengarry and his party went on to Sydney. His first intention was to settle upon the Clarence River, near the Queensland border, but he was induced to accompany Lachlan Macalister on a tour of inspection through the newly opened district of Gippsland and was so favourably impressed that he decided to transfer his little colony there.
Glengarry settled at Greenmount on the banks of the Tarra, not far from the present town of Yarram, and " Glengarry's station" became for a time the first stopping place on the "road to the interior." There is a suggestion, which lacks complete confirmation, that Glengarry first took up Glencoe Station and sold it to John Campbell. The river Glengarry was named after the laird, and although the official name of the Latrobe had already been bestowed on it, the popular name of Glengarry remained. The modern Gippsland township of Glengarry also bears the Chief's name.
A list of Gippsland landholders 1847 mentions the " Glengarry" Station and John MacDonald and Ed. Thomson, whose property, taken up in 1844, was named Glenfalloch or Glenfalaech.
Glengarry appears to have held the lease of "Greenmount" between June 1841 and June 1842, but seems to have spent little time on the property. In mid September 1841 he was in Melbourne and a little later he went to Sydney, leaving his station to the management of others. By July 1842 he had disposed of his stock and discharged his servants. His frame house was moved down to the little village on the beach, subsequently becoming the original Port Albert Hotel, destroyed by fire in the late 1880's.
On 14th June 1842 a public dinner was given to Glengarry in Melbourne prior to his departure for Scotland.
Aeneas Ranaldson Macdonell, 16th Chief of Glengarry, died in January 1852, at Inverie, and is buried at Kilfinnan in Glengarry. His wife, Josephine, died on 5th July 1857, and is buried in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh."
If Aeneas was born in 1809 then William Robertson was probably about 11 when he met him on his way to burying the cup.

*Portrait of Alisdair McDonnell by Sir Henry Raeburn 1812 - held at the National Gallery of Scotland

Thanks to Cheryl and Phil from www.darkisle.com for permission to use their shots of Invergarry Castle

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.