Scottish Poetry 1730 – 1830 is the new essential anthology of Scottish poetry produced during the Enlightenment and Romantic periods. As well as covering well-known work by the era’s most famous names, the book’s crowning achievement is its detailed and considerate recovery of women poets who have otherwise been written out of the canon, such as working-class poet Christian Milne and Mary Edgar, author of just one slim collection. Read a few of our favourites from the book below:

Scottish Poetry 1730 – 1830
Edited by Daniel Cook
Published by Oxford University Press

‘Bonny Christy’

Allan Ramsay (1684-1758) 

How sweetly smells the simmer green!
Sweet taste the peach and cherry;
Painting and order please our een,
And claret makes us merry:
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,
And wine, tho’ I be thirsty,
Lose a’ their charms and weaker powers,
Compar’d with those of Chirsty.

When wand’ring o’er the flow’ry park,
No nat’ral beauty wanting,
How lightsome is ‘t to hear the lark,
And birds in concert chanting!
But if my Chirsty tunes her voice,
I ‘m wrapt in admiration,
My thoughts with extasies rejoice,
And drap the hale creation.

Whene’er she smiles a kindly glance,
I take the happy omen,
And aften mint to make advance,
Hoping she ‘ll prove a woman;
But dubious of my ain desert,
My sentiments I smother,
With secret sighs I vex my heart,
For fear she love another.

Thus sang blate Edie by a burn,
His Chirsty did o’erhear him;
She doughtna-let her lover mourn,
But, ere he wist, drew near him.
She spake her favour with a look,
Which left nae room to doubt her:
He wisely this white minute took,
And flang his arms about her.

My Chirsty! — witness, bonny stream,
Sic joys frae tears arising!
I wish this may not be a dream;
O love the maist surprising!
Time was too precious now for tauk;
This point of a’ his wishes
He wad na with set speeches bauk,
But wair’d it a’ on kisses. 

‘To a Gentelman Desirous of Seeing My Manuscript’ 

Christian Milne (1773-1816) 

I’m gratify’d to think that you
Should wish to see my Songs,
As few would read my Book, who knew
To whom this Book belongs. 

My mean estate, and birth obscure,
The ignorant will scorn;
Respect, tho’ distant, from the good,
Makes that more lightly borne. 

Tho’ I could write with Seraph pen–
Tho’ Angels did inspire,
None but the candid and humane
My writings would admire. 

The proud wou’d cry, ‘Such paltry works
‘We will not deign to read;
‘The Author’s but a Shipwright’s Wife,
‘And was a serving Maid.’ 

Inur’d to hardships in my youth,
If want my age should crown,
I’ll never beg the haughty’s bread;
Death’s milder than their frown. 

You’ll think but little of my Songs,
When you have read them o’er;
But say, ‘They’re well enough from her’–
And I expect no more. 

‘Melrose Abbey’ 

John Wilson (1785 – 1854) 

It was not when the sun through the glittering sky,
In summer’s joyful majesty,
Looked from his cloudless height;—
It was not when the sun was sinking down,
And tinging the ruin’s mossy brown
With gleams of ruddy light;—
Nor yet when the moon, like a pilgrim fair,
‘Mid star and planet journeyed slow,
And, mellowing the stillness of the air,
Smiled on the world below;—
That, Melrose! ‘mid thy mouldering pride,
All breathless and alone,
I grasped the dreams to day denied,
High dreams of ages gone!—
Had unshrieved guilt for one moment been there,
His heart had turned to stone!
For oft, though felt no moving gale,
Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud,
Through lofty Oriel opening pale
Was seen the hurrying cloud;
And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall
Frowned black as bier’s mysterious pall
From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer;
It seemed as if sound had ceased to be;
Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree,
Relieved the noiseless ear.
The owl had sailed from her silent tower,
Tweed hushed his weary wave,
The time was midnight’s moonless hour,
My seat a dreaded Douglas’ grave! 

My being was sublimed by joy,
My heart was big, yet I could not weep;
I felt that God would ne’er destroy
The mighty in their trancèd sleep.
Within the pile no common dead
Lay blended with their kindred mould;
Theirs were the hearts that prayed, or bled,
In cloister dim, on death-plain red,
The pious and the bold.
There slept the saint whose holy strains
Brought seraphs round the dying bed;
And there the warrior, who to chains
Ne’er stooped his crested head.
I felt my spirit sink or swell
With patriot rage or lowly fear,
As battle-trump, or convent-bell,
Rung in my trancèd ear.
But dreams prevailed of loftier mood,
When stern beneath the chancel high
My country’s spectre-monarch stood,
All sheathed in glittering panoply;
Then I thought with pride what noble blood
Had flowed for the hills of liberty. 

High the resolves that fill the brain
With transports trembling upon pain,
When the veil of time is rent in twain,
That hides the glory past!
The scene may fade that gave them birth,
But they perish not with the perishing earth;
For ever shall they last.
And higher, I ween, is that mystic might
That comes to the soul from the silent night,
When she walks, like a disembodied spirit,
Through realms her sister shades inherit,
And soft as the breath of those blessèd flowers
That smile in Heaven’s unfading bowers,
With love and awe, a voice she hears
Murmuring assurance of immortal years.
In hours of loneliness and woe
Which even the best and wisest know,
How leaps the lightened heart to seize
On the bliss that comes with dreams like these!
As fair before the mental eye
The pomp and beauty of the dream return,
Dejected virtue calms her sigh,
And leans resigned on memory’s urn.
She feels how weak is mortal pain,
When each thought that starts to life again,
Tells that she hath not lived in vain. 

For Solitude, by Wisdom wooed,
Is ever mistress of delight,
And even in gloom or tumult viewed,
She sanctifies their living blood
Who learn her lore aright.
The dreams her awful face imparts,
Unhallowed mirth destroy;
Her griefs bestow on noble hearts
A nobler power of joy.
While hope and faith the soul thus fill,
We smile at chance distress,
And drink the cup of human ill
In stately happiness.
Thus even where death his empire keeps
Life holds the pageant vain,
And where the lofty spirit sleeps,
There lofty visions reign.
Yea, often to night-wandering man
A power fate’s dim decrees to scan,
In lonely trance by bliss is given;
And midnight’s starless silence rolls
A giant vigour through our souls,
That stamps us sons of Heaven. 

Then, MELROSE! Tomb of heroes old!
Blest be the hour I dwelt with thee;
The visions that can ne’er be told
That only poets in their joy can see,
The glory born above the sky
The deep-felt weight of sanctity!
Thy massy towers I view no more
Through brooding darkness rising hoar,
Like a broad line of light dim seen
Some sable mountain-cleft between!
Since that dread hour, hath human thought
A thousand gay creations brought
Before my earthly eye;
I to the world have lent an ear,
Delighted all the while to hear
The voice of poor mortality.
Yet, not the less doth there abide
Deep in my soul a holy pride,
That knows by whom it was bestowed,
Lofty to man, but low to God;
Such pride as hymning angels cherish,
Blest in the blaze where man would perish. 

‘To the River North Esk’ 

Mary Edgar (FL. 1810 – 1824) 

In museful mood, how frequent here I stray,
When summer smiles illume the lovely scene!
Sweet river! On thy margin soft and green,
I turn, and oft retrace my winding way;
And often on thy changeful surface gaze,
Where the smooth stream reflects an azure sky,
Red rock, green moss, and shrubs of darker dye,—
Or gayly gleams with bright meridian rays.
Here, scarce a zephyr curves the glassy plain,
And scarce a murmur meets the listening ear:
There, white foam swells the wave, and still we hear
The rushing waters tumblind down amain,
Till, softening in their course, the noiseless tide
Within the enchanting mirror gently glide. 

Scottish Poetry 1730 – 1830 edited by Daniel Cook is published by Oxford University Press, priced £12.99.