Macneill's reputation rests chiefly upon his poem of "Will and Jean," first published in 1795. Between this production and Alexander Wilson's "Watty and Meg" it would not perhaps be fair to institute a comparison. Our author acknowledged his obligations to the American ornithologist, and availed himself of all his own advantages. "The Waes o War, or the Upshot o' the History o' Will and Jean," issued in 1796, is also a simple and pathetic strain, which speedily found its way to the hearts of the people of Scotland. Several of Macneill's songs, such as "Saw ye my Wee Thing?" "My Boy Tammy," "Come under my Plaidie," and his touching ballad of Donald and Flora," are well-known favourites, and enjoy a popularity perhaps unsur

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passed by similar productions of any Scottish poet save Burns alone.

An aged man, who in his youth knew Macneill, and frequently heard him sing his own songs during the early years of the present century, described him to the writer as a tall fine-looking old man, of a sallow complexion, fond of dress, with an exceedingly dignified manner on ordinary occasions, but at a dinnertable he would unbend, and become with his songs and stories the gayest spirit of the company. He sang the old Jacobite lays of his native land with deep feeling, and although his voice was somewhat rough, his singing was more admired than that of others possessing more musical voices, but who lacked the poet's pathos and spirit.

Trig her house, and oh! to busk aye Ilk sweet bairn was a' her pride! But at this time NEWS and WHISKY Sprang nae up at ilk roadside.

Luckless was the hour whan Willie,
Hame returning frae the fair
Ow'rtook Tam, a neebor billie,

Sax miles frae their hame and mair.

Simmer's heat had lost its fury;

Calmly smil'd the sober een; Lasses on the bleachfield hurry,

Skelping bare-fit owre the green;

Labour rang wi' laugh and clatter,

Canty hairst was just begun, And on mountain, tree, and water, Glinted saft the setting sun.

Will and Tam, wi' hearts a' lowpin, Markt the hale, but could nae bide; Far frae hame, nae time for stopping,Baith wish'd for their ain fireside.

On they travell'd, warm and drouthy,

Cracking owre the news in town;

The mair they crack'd, the mair ilk youth eye Pray'd for drink to wash news down.

Fortune, wha but seldom listens

To poor merit's modest pray'r, And on fools heaps needless blessings, Harken'd to our drouthy pair.

In a houm, whase bonnie burnie

Whimperin row'd its crystal flood, Near the road whar travellers turn aye, Neat and bield a cot-house stood:

White the wa's, wi' roof new theekit, Window broads just painted red; Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit, Halflins seen and halflins hid.

Up the gavel-end thick spreading
Crap the clasping ivy green,

Back ower, firs the high craigs cleading,
Rais'd a' round a cozy screen.

Down below, a flow'ry meadow

Join'd the burnie's rambling line; Here it was that Howe, the widow,

That same day set up her sign.

Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marv'ling sees, "Porter, Ale, and British Spirits"

Painted bright between twa trees.

"Dear me, Tam! here's walth for drinking! Wha can this new comer be!""Hout!" quo' Tam, "there's drouth in thinking;

Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see."

Nae mair time they took to speak or
Think o' ought but reaming jugs,
Till three times in humming liquor,
Ilk lad deeply laid his lugs.
Slocken'd now, refreshed, and talking,

In cam' Meg (weel skill'd to please): "Sirs, ye're surely tir'd wi' walking—

Ye maun taste my bread and cheese."
"Thanks," quo' Will, “I canna tarry,
Pick-mirk night is setting in;
Jean, poor thing, 's her lane and eerie;
I maun to the road, and rin."

"Hout!" quo' Tam, "what's a' the hurry?
Hame's now scarce a mile o' gate;
Come, sit down, Jean winna weary-
No, I'm sure it's no sae late."

"Will, o'ercome wi' Tam's oration,
Baith fell to and ate their fill:
"Tam," quo' Will, "in mere discretion,
We maun hae the widow's gill."
After ae gill cam' anither-

Meg sat cracking 'tween them twa;
Bang! cam' in Mat Smith and's brither,
Geordie Brown and Sandy Shaw.

Neebors wha ne'er thought to meet here,
Now sat down wi' double glee;
Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter,—

Will gat hame 'tween twa and three.

Jean, poor thing! had lang been greeting; Will, neist morning, blam'd Tam Lowes: But ere lang a weekly meeting

Was set up at Maggie Howe's.

PART II

Maist things hae a sma' beginning, But wha kens how things will end? Weekly clubs are nae great sinning, Gin folk hae enough to spend:

But nae man o' sober thinking

Ere will say that things can thrive, If there's spent in weekly drinking What keeps wife and weans alive. Drink maun aye hae conversation, Ilka social soul allows;

But in this reforming nation

Wha can speak without the news?

News, first meant for state physicians, Deeply skill'd in courtly drugs, Now, when a' are politicians,

Just to set folks by the lugs.

Maggie's club, wha could get nae light
On some things that should be clear,
Found ere lang the fau't, and ae night
Clubb'd and gat the Gazetteer.1

Twice a week to Maggie's cot-house,
Swift by post the papers fled;
Thoughts spring up like plants in hot-house
Every time the news are read.

Ilk ane's wiser than anither,

Things are no ga'en right," quo' Tam; "Let us aftener meet thegither

Hand me bye anither dram."

See them now in grave convention,
To mak a' things "square and even,"
Or at least wi' firm intention

To drink sax nights out o' seven.

'Mid this sitting up and drinkin',

Gathering a' the news that fell, Will, wha was nae yet past thinkin', Had some battles wi' himsel'.

On ae hand, drink's deadly poison
Bare ilk firm resolve awa;
On the ither, Jean's condition
Rave his very heart in twa.

Weel he saw her smother'd sorrow;
Weel he saw her bleaching cheek;
Mark'd the smile she strave to borrow,
Whan, poor thing, she couldna speak.

Jean at first took little heed o'

Weekly clubs 'mang three or four, Thought, kind soul! that Will had need o' Heartsome hours when wark was owre.

But whan now that nightly meetings
Sat and drank frae sax till twa,
When she found that hard-earn'd gettings
Now on drink were thrown awa;

Saw her Will, wha ance sae cheerie
Raise ilk morning wi' the lark,
Now grown mauchless, dowf, and sweer aye
To look near his farm or wark;

1 A violent opposition paper, published in Edinburgh in 1793-4.

Saw him tyne his manly spirit,

Healthy bloom and sprightly ee;
And o' luve and hame grown wearit,
Nightly frae his family flee;

Wha could blame her heart's complaining?
Wha condemn her sorrows meek?
Or the tears that now ilk e'ening

Bleach'd her lately crimson'd cheek?

Will, wha lang had ru'd and swither'd,
(Aye asham'd o' past disgrace)
Mark't the roses as they wither'd
Fast on Jeanie's lovely face.
Mark't-and felt wi' inward racking

A' the wyte lay wi' himsel,-
Swore neist night he'd make a breakin'-
Leave the club at hame to dwell.

But, alas! when habit's rooted,

Few hae pith the root to pu'; Will's resolves were aye nonsuited,Promis'd aye, but aye gat fu';

Aye at first at the convening

Moraliz'd on what was right; Yet o'er clavers entertaining

Doz'd and drank till brade day-light.

Things at length drew near an ending;

Cash rins out; Jean, quite unhappy, Sees that Will is now past mending, Tynes a' heart, and tak's a-drappy. Ilka drink deserves a posey;

Port mak's men rude, claret civil; Beer maks Britons stout and rosy; Whisky mak's ilk wife-a devil.

Jean, wha lately bare affliction

Wi' sae meek and mild an air, School'd by whisky, learns new tricks soon, Flytes and storms and rugs Will's hair.

Jean, sae late the tenderest mither,
Fond o' ilk dear dauted wean;
Now, heart hardened a' thegither,
Skelps them round frae morn till e'en.

Jean, wha, vogie, loo'd to busk aye

In her hame-spun, thrifty wark, Now sells a' her braws for whisky, To her last gown, coat, and sark! Robin Burns, in mony a ditty,

Loudly sings in whisky's praise; Sweet his sang-the mair's the pity E'er on it he wared sic lays.

O' a' the ills poor Caledonia

E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste, Brew'd in hell's black Pandemonia, Whisky's ill will skaith her maist!

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace?

Wha in neeboring town or farm? Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face, Deadly strength was in his arm.

Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller,

Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?
Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But were ony half sae fair?"

See them now! how chang'd wi' drinking!
A' their youthfu' beauty gane!
Daver'd, doited, daiz'd, and blinking-
Worn to perfect skin and bane!

In the cauld month o' November
(Claise and cash and credit out),
Cow'ring owre a dying ember,

Wi' ilk face as white's a clout!

Bond and bill and debts a' stoppit,

Ilka sheaf selt on the bent; Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit, Now to pay the laird his rent.

No anither night to lodge here;

No a friend their cause to plead,— He ta'en on to be a sodger,

She wi' weans to beg her bread!

"O' a' the ills poor Caledonia

E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste, Brew'd in hell's black Pandemonia, Whisky's ill will skaith her maist!"

THE WAES O' WAR,

OR THE UPSHOT O' THE HISTORY O' WILL AND JEAN.

PART I.

Oh! that folk wad weel consider What it is to tyne a-name, What this warld is a' thegither, If bereft o' honest fame!

Poortith ne'er can bring dishonour,
Hardships ne'er breed sorrow's smart,
If bright Conscience tak's upon her
To shed sunshine round the heart:

But, wi' a' that wealth can borrow,

Guilty shame will aye look down; What maun then, shame, want, and sorrow, Wandering sad frae town to town!

Jeanie Miller, ance sae cheerie,

Ance sae happy, good, and fair, Left by Will, neist morning drearie Tak's the road o' black despair.

Cauld the blast!-the day was sleeting;
Pouch and purse without a plack!
In ilk hand a bairnie greeting,

And the third tied on her back!

Wan her face, and lean and haggard!
Ance sae sonsy, ance sae sweet!
What a change!-unhoused and beggar'd,
Starving, without claise or meat!

Far frae ilk kent spot she wandered,
Skulking like a guilty thief;
Here and there, uncertain, daundered,
Stupified wi' shame and grief:

But soon shame for bygane errors Fled ower fast for ee to trace, Whan grim Death, wi' a' his terrors,

Cam' o'er ilk sweet bairnie's face!

Spent wi' toil, and cauld, and hunger, Baith down drapt! and down Jean sat! "Dais'd and doited" now nae langer, Thought, and felt-and, bursting, grat.

Gloaming fast, wi' mirky shadow,

Crap o'er distant hill and plain; Darkened wood, and glen, and meadow, Adding fearfu' thoughts to pain!

Round and round, in wild distraction,
Jeanie turned her tearfu' ee!
Round and round for some protection!
Face nor house she couldna see.

Dark and darker grew the night aye; Loud and sair the cauld winds thud; Jean now spied a sma' bit lightie

Blinking through a distant wood.

Up wi' frantic haste she started;

Cauld nor fear she felt nae mair; Hope for ae bright moment darted Through the gloom o' dark despair!

Fast o'er fallowed lea she brattled;
Deep she wade through bog and burn;
Sair wi' steep and craig she battled,
Till she reached the hoped sojourn.

PART II.

Here, for ae night's kind protection,
Leave we Jean and weans awhile;
Tracing Will in ilk direction,

Far frae Britain's fostering isle.

Far frae scenes o' saft'ning pleasure, Luve's delights and beauty's charms; Far frae friendship's social leisure, Plunged in murdering War's alarms!

Is it nature, vice, or folly,

Or ambition's feverish brain, That sae aft, wi' melancholy,

Turns, sweet Peace! thy joys to pain? Strips thee o' thy robes o' ermin, (Emblems o' thy spotless life,) And in war's grim look alarming, Arms thee with the murd'rer's knife!

A' thy gentle mind upharrows,

Hate, revenge, and rage uprears! And for hope and joy (twin marrows), Leaves the mourner drowned in tears.

Willie Gairlace, without siller,

Credit, claise, or aught beside, Leaves his ance-loo'd Jeanie Miller, And sweet bairns, to warld wide.

Leaves his native, cozy dwellin',

Sheltered haughs and birken braes; Greenswaird hows and dainty mealin,

Ance his profit, pride, and praise.

Deckt wi' scarlet, sword, and musket, Drunk wi' dreams as fause as vain, Fleeched and flattered, roosed and buskit, Wow, but Will was wondrous fain!

Rattling, roaring, swearing, drinking, How could thought her station keep? Drums and drumming (faes to thinking) Dozed reflection fast asleep.

But, in midst o' toils and dangers,

Wi' the cauld ground for his bed-
Compass'd round wi' faes and strangers,
Soon Will's dreams o' fancy fled.
Led to battle's blood-dy'd banners,
Waving to the widow's moan,
Will saw Glory's boasted honours
End in life's expiring groan.

Round Valenciennes' strong-wa'd city,
Thick o'er Dunkirk's fatal plain,
Will (though dauntless) saw wi' pity
Britain's valiant sons lie slain!