GAVIN TURNBULL.

Fl. 1788.

One of the lesser lights of Ayrshire song who have suffered neglect in the bright contemporary blaze of Burns was Gavin Turnbull, weaver, poet, and comedian. Not the less, for the truth and ease of more than one of his compositions, he remains entitled to a place in the bead-roll of the singers.

The son of a tippling dyester from Hawick, who dearly loved a gill-stoup, a song, and a roystering company, the poet was born in Kilmarnock, and early apprenticed there to the trade of carpet weaving. He proved but an idle apprentice, however, being fonder of spouting Shakespeare and writing verses than of weaving carpets. For some time, in consequence, his dwelling was a forlorn garret, without furniture, and with only straw for a bed and a stone for a seat. Here, nevertheless, he indulged in all the glow of poetic fancy, describing to David Sillar, a kindred spirit, in all the charms of verse, his " wee housie snug and warm," where he sat spinning rhyme "by the chimla lug."

By and by he migrated, with the rest of his father's family, to Glasgow, and there, in 1788, he published a volume of "Poetical Essays," some of which are of no small merit, though they have been strangely lost sight of. Shortly after this publication he appears to have gone upon the stage, and in the character of comedian, when resident in Dumfries, he became an intimate acquaintance of Burns. By Burns several of Turnbull's songs, not included in his first volume, were sent to Thomson for his collection. In 1794 a further small pamphlet of "Poems, by Gavin Turnbull, comedian," was published. Little more is known of the jovial, luckless poet-comedian. In 1798, when Campbell wrote his History of Poetry in Scotland, Turnbull was still alive, but it is said he emigrated finally to America, and probably he died there. The few particulars extant regarding his life have been preserved in The Ayrshire Contemporaries of Burns.

MAY.

BEGIN, sweet lass, a merry lay,
And sing the bonnie month of May,
When chantin' birds, on ilka spray
And hawthorn sing,

And larks salute the rising day
On restless wing.

And hark, the cuckoo through his throat.
Pours out a sweet but simple note,
The gowdspink, in her painted coat
And trim array,

Gars echo answer, frae the grot,
The praise of May.

Now wha wad tine this joyous hour,
Beneath the drowsy monarch's power,
To snore and sleep in lockit bower,
While, sad to tell,

Terrific dreams our peace devour,
Like hags of hell?

I sighs.

2 diligent.

The sun, emerging frae the sea,

Lifts up his radiant head on hie;
Mirk clouds and dusky shadows flee
Before his beam;

The tap of ilka tower and tree
Like siller gleam.

A' nature blooming charms the view--
The greensward earth, and welkin blue,
The bent, refreshed wi' morning dew,
And spreading thorn,

Gay vernal flowers, of motley hue,
The braes adorn.

The music of the westlin breeze,
That soughs amang the nodding trees,
The drowsy croon of busy bees

In waxen cell,

Can lull the passions into ease,
And cares expel.

Sweet smile the woodland and the plain;

Joy fills the heart of ilka swain,

And rouses up the village train

By creek o' dawn ;

Eident on rustic toils again

They seek the lawn.

Furth frae the theekit cot is seen
The landwart2 lasses, braw and clean,
Skiff lightly o'er the dewy green.
Withouten art,

In native innocence, I ween,

They charm the heart.

I thatched.

2 rustic.

Now come, my pleasure-loving maid,
And tent3 the beauties of the shade-
The thicket gaudily arrayed

In rokelay green,

And burnies hurling through the glade
Their waters sheen 4.

3 note.

4 shining, fair.

Now is the time for those who love
To woo the muses in the grove,

Or wi' the nymph, sweet Fancy, rove
Her flowery way:

Then come, ye tunefu' swains, and prove
The joys of May!

1 Without.

NANCY.

THE fop may praise the city belle
In verse that charms the fancy, O;
Wi' simple croon I'll please mysel',

And praise my bonnie Nancy, O;
Wha, without dress, and foreign aid,
Which at the first alarm ye, O,

In hamely russet weeds arrayed,
Like magic art can charm ye, O.

Sic native dignity and grace,

But other arts, invite ye, O;
Sic modest looks adorn her face,
And gentle smiles delight ye, O.
Her blushing cheeks the crimson scorn;
Her e'en sae clear and glancy, O;
The rose refreshed wi' dews of morn
Is nought compared wi' Nancy, O.

Then cease to muse, ye witless beaux !
Nae mair torment the fancy, O;
But join wi' me, and sing wi' glee
The praise of lovely Nancy, O!