Robert Fergusson, the Scottish poet, was born in Edinburgh on September 5, 1750, and died in the same city on October 16, 1774; a brief life, yet worthy of long remembrance. His parents, William Fergusson and Elizabeth Forbes, both children of the farm-house, in 1746 left Tarland in Aberdeenshire, and settled in the metropolis, where William Fergusson showed considerable business capacity, and, after a hard struggle with poverty, obtained a good and permanent position with the British Linen Company. Young Robert early displayed an aptitude for letters, and in 1758 joined the High School. In 1762 he was appointed to the Fergusson Bursary, which provided 'maintenance and education' for two poor children at the Grammar School of Dundee and the College of St. Andrews. So selected, he received his schooling in Dundee from 1762 to 1764, and from 1765 to 1768 was a redgowned student at St. Andrews University.

Of these, his boyish years, few memorials remain, yet enough to reveal, that in his case, as in others, the boy was father to the man. His mother, always described as 'a woman of great worth and piety,' was wont to call him 'our darling gentle Robert,' just as Miss Ruddiman, the last survivor of his friends, loved in her old age to name him 'a dear, modest, gentle creature.' Taught by his mother to read, he was quick to envisage the meaning of the printed page. One day he burst into his mother's room in tears, exclaiming 'Oh, mother, whip me! whip me!' Astonished by the request, his mother asked his reason, and found that he had just read the words 'He that spareth the rod, hateth the child.'

In 1764, before joining the University, in company with his mother he paid a visit to Mr. John Forbes, his maternal uncle, at Round Lichnot, in Aberdeenshire, where Mr. Forbes was factor to the Earl of Finlater, and, undoubtedly, in good circumstances. This visit was of importance to the future poet. His poems fall into two classes, those of the city and those of country life. While the poems on city life are more numerous, more humorous also, and witty, those of the country display a higher imaginative power, and more intimately reveal the poet's heart. Whence came the first impressions which gave birth to these poems, unless from this visit to Round Lichnot?

With the life of St. Andrews the report of the young lad becomes clearer; he was a competent Latin scholar—usually with a Virgil or Horace in his pocket; 'a considerable proficient,' also, 'in mathematics.' His biographer possessed a copy of the 'Anabasis,' with 'Ex libris Rob. Fergusson ' written on the fly-leaf, and a rude drawing of a harp sketched below. Three traditions from this time are constant: first, that he began to write verses at St. Andrews, vers d'occasion, playful skits on a professor or other celebrity—fugitive pieces, of which none have been preserved; secondly, he was much esteemed by Dr. William Wilkie, the able though eccentric Professor of Natural Philosophy, in whose house he was a frequent guest, and, during one summer, was engaged by the Professor to copy out his lectures; thirdly, his genial and friendly disposition made him beloved by some of his fellow-students, while his wit and gaiety brought general popularity. Young men at Scottish Universities are entirely left to themselves at an age when the judicious guidance of an elder friend or tutor is peculiarly helpful. Hence popularity is apt to be a path to regrettable indiscretions, and it was so with Fergusson. An incident which occurred in his fourth year may be narrated. He had a beautiful voice, so noticeable in the College Services that he was frequently asked to officiate as Precentor, or leader of the singing. Far from regarding the selection as an honour, the boy considered that he was too often called upon to perform another's duty. It was then customary in Scotland for persons, prevented by illness or other necessary cause from attending public worship, to give in a line, to be read by the Precentor, asking for the prayers of the congregation on their behalf. Fergusson, rising in the desk, with assumed nasal whine and ultra solemnity of voice—his powers of mimicry were great—pronounced the words: 'Remember in prayer John Adamson, for whom, from the sudden effects of inebriety, there appears but small hope of recovery.' An ill-repressed titter arose from the many students present, John Adamson among them, and Fergusson was justly and severely reprimanded. Yet not repressed, for shortly afterwards another incident occurred, of which details are not given, but Fergusson was extruded from the College for four days, after which he was 'received in again,' Professor Wilkie speaking warmly in his cause.

Hardly had he left College, when, by similar folly, he damaged his prospects in the home circle. His father had died in 1767, and, from lack of means, the son could not continue his education at the University. His mother's brother invited his fatherless nephew to Round Lichnot, presumably with the intention of lending him a helping hand. One day, Lord Finlater, through whose good word Fergusson had received his bursary, was expected to dinner, Mr. Forbes asked the Laird of Meldown to meet him, and young Robert was to be of the party. The guests were late in arriving, the boy slipped off to a neighbouring wood, climbed trees birdnesting, and finally came in late for dinner, his clothes torn and ruffled, and green with tree-dust. His uncle, in great anger, ordered him from the room, the boy, in as deep dudgeon, went to his bedroom, packed up his little bundle, and started for Aberdeen, without bidding his uncle, or any inmate of the house, farewell. The two stories reveal an excess of boyish thoughtlessness, and may easily be exaggerated in malam partem; juster criticism of this part of his life may be found in the words of the College janitor: 'Remember Bob Fergusson? that I do! Many a time I've put him to the door. Ah! he was a tricky callant, but a fine laddie for a' that.'

With his return, in 1769, to his widowed mother in Edinburgh, his real difficulties and his real life began. Further study was impossible, whether for the Church, Medicine, or Law; for the profession of a 'Dominie' he felt no call; yet something he must do, both to maintain himself and, if possible, to aid his mother. After some delay he was offered a copying-clerkship in the office of the Deputy Commissary-clerk; the duties were irksome, copying legal documents, and the emolument was small—one penny per page copied. Yet he accepted the post with gladness, rejoiced to secure the prospect of subsistence, however humble. Whatever the income which he received, possibly £25 or £30 a year, he never, until his death in 1774, had any other regular employment. Evidence that with his appointment his mind was more at ease is visible in this, that his first published verses appeared in the winter of 1769. A year, however, elapsed before he began to write frequently.

In 1770 Edinburgh society was acting on the resolution no longer to speak, much less to write, in the Scots tongue which they had learned from their fathers. Fergusson accepted the ruling, and his first essays were written in classical English, his models being the smart couplets of Pope, and the flowing quatrain of Shenstone; and, be it said, he did no dishonour to either of his originals. In 1768 the brothers, Walter and Thomas Ruddiman, had started the Weekly Magazine, or Edinburgh Amusement, and early in 1771 Fergusson began to be one of their regular contributors. His first published poems were pastorals, where Corydon sings to Timanthes of Delia's virtues, and one only wonders why both editors and public found reason to praise them as they did. One early poem, however, is of a different stamp, it is an 'Ode to Hope,' and was probably written in 1770, and reflects a manly resolve to exercise his powers to the full.

O smiling Hope! in adverse hour
I feel thy influencing power;
Though frowning fortune fix my lot
In some defenceless lonely cot,
Where Poverty, with empty hands,
In pallid, meagre aspect stands,
Thou canst enrobe me, 'midst the great,
With all the crimson pomp of state;
What cave so dark, what gloom so drear,
So black with horror, dead with fear,
But thou canst dart thy streaming ray,
And change close night to open day?

Towards the close of 1771 he made the discovery that he could express his thoughts more naturally, with fresher humour and more lively verve, in the old dialect, which still persisted throughout Scotland. Among the first 'hameil' (homely) poems so published was "The Daft Days," or Holidays of Christmas and New Year; it has these verses:

In a few weeks followed "The King's Birthday," a favourite poem of Sir Walter Scott; it tells, inter alia, how Mons Meg, the great cannon of Edinburgh Castle, was burst in the rejoicings, and thus describes her:

The City Guard of Edinburgh, now best remembered from The Heart of Midlothian, as the Porteous Riot was directed against their captain, are so well described by Fergusson, that Scott calls him their Poet-Laureate. He begs them to be gentle:

The poem ends with a stanza prompted by the writer's gentler genius; his Muse refuses to record the evening misdeeds, of which some of the holiday-makers were proud; she

Is there not an inbred quality, what Johnson called race, in these verses? Do they not evince descriptive powers, quaint humour, captivating rhymes, and a higher strain of poetic feeling? His contemporaries thought so, for the poem from which the quotations are taken was read with delight from one end of Scotland to the other, and the author was hailed as a welcome successor to Allan Ramsay.

The result was natural, and for two reasons. First, for the merit of the verse. The stanza employed was familiar to Scottish readers from Allan Ramsay, as it is familiar now from Burns. It has great capacity for picturesque description, humorous phrasing, and rhyme-surprises, and, in the writer's judgment, Fergusson's chief success in the technique of poetry is his use of this stanza, in which he is not surpassed either by his predecessor or by his successor. The stanza is an old one, and, like many other good things, entered Scotland from the south. It is frequently employed in the Yorkshire Mystery Plays, written in the fourteenth century, though with this difference: the religious writers used it as a medium for the expression of pathos, whereas the Scottish writers look to it for humour. The second reason for approval lay with the audience. Eighteenth-century Scotland is ill conceived as a land of sour faces and cold hearts; far rather was it a land of music and song. A lyric inspiration yet hung over the country, like a refreshing dew, ready to fall on all homely things, and clothe them in new and bright shapes. Had the housewife too much on her hands? She went on with her duties, singing 'Women's wark will ne'er be dune.' Was she overburdened by sorrows? She did not give way, but sang 'Werena my heart licht, I wad die.' Did a lazy maid stickle over the allotted 'stent' of wool to be carded? She did not down tools, but changed her grievance into song: 'The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow.' Was there a lazy hind who would rather lie abed on a wintry morning than be up at his work! He too found solace with the verse:

These rural singers were under no compact to speak or write in southern English, and Fergusson's verses at once reached their hearts.

In Edinburgh society also the young poet quickly became popular. 'For social life,' his friend Ruddiman wrote, 'he possessed an amazing variety of qualifications. He was always sprightly, always entertaining. His powers of song were very great. When seated with some select companions, over a friendly bowl, his wit flashed like lightning, striking the hearers irresistibly.' The Cape Club was a famous convivial, at times high-spirited, society of the time: the name was taken from the Cape, or head-dress, worn by the president, or 'sovereign,' on state occasions. Thomas Lancashire, a famous actor, was the first sovereign; David Herd, editor of 'Old Ballads,' was the second; other members were Alexander Runciman and Henry Raeburn, the artists. Each member received a club name, with a knightly addition: Herd was Sir Scrope; Runciman, Sir Brimstone. On October 10, 1772, Fergusson, under the sobriquet Sir Precentor, was admitted as a member of the Club, and touching the mace, or 'Holy Poker,' with his right hand, took the oath of allegiance:

He was then touched thrice by the royal hand, and the sovereign, uttering the letters C. F. D., explained that they stood for Concordici Fratrum Decus, the motto of the Club.

Admitted a member, 'Sir Precentor' was a popular knight, and much taken out in society. These acquaintanceships unfortunately led him into convivialities, too much alike for his purse and his constitution. Amid many an evening spent in gaiety, his heart was ill at ease, as his thoughts returned to his mother, working at her needle with aching fingers. Nevertheless, his industry was great and unbroken; rarely a week passed without some contribution to the Magazine; and the pieces sent were of high quality. It has been said that he received no remuneration for his poems: it was not so; the brothers Ruddiman gave him a small sum for each contribution, and, such was the simplicity of the times, two suits of clothes annually, 'one for week-day, the other for Sabbath wear.'

At the close of 1772 he was encouraged, by subscriptions of many friends, to publish a small volume, containing nine of his Scottish poems; the edition sold rapidly, and the author, £50 in pocket, sang with unwonted joy that

Damon was master of gold.

Nor was his vein dulled, for in 1773 some of his best verses followed in quick succession. Among them was "The Farmer's Ingle," justly considered his best composition. It consists of thirteen nine-lined stanzas, and contains a lively description of an autumn evening in the farm-house, the occupations of Gudeman and Gudewife, Granny, Oë (grandchild), and servants being touched upon with singular sympathy and felicity:

The poem, confessedly, suggested to Burns the "Cottar's Saturday Night," and, though not framed in so lofty a strain, is yet free from an affectation which mars some lines in Burns' masterpiece.

Another poem of the year, set in a merrier key, is "Caller Water," which enjoins the pussy-foot practice, with quaint humour, and no little good sense.

On the contrary,

He closed with praise of the fair damsels of Edinburgh:

To the same year belong two poems, the Odes to the Gowdspink (Goldfinch) and the Bee, both dear to lovers of the poet. They were written in the country, the second at least, when Fergusson was staying at Broomhouse, a guest of the Laird; and, while both are attractive, the "Ode to the Gowdspink" is of a slightly melancholy cast, as, undoubtedly, in the caged bird,

steekit [barred] frae the gowany field,
Frae ilka fav'rite howff and bield [lodging and shelter],

the poet sees an image of himself, condemned to sit at the desk and drudge over dreary documents. The "Ode to the Bee" has no such note of sadness; it describes brightly the Bee's habits and haunts, and this brief account of Fergusson's poetry may well close with a quotation which reflects his naturally joyous spirit, and also records his claim to be, as in truth he was, one of the sweet singers of his native land.

Like thee,—[the Bee],—by fancy wing'd, the Muse
Scuds ear' [early] and heartsome o'er the dews,
Fu' vogie [delighted] and fu' blythe to crap
The winsome flowers frae Nature's lap;
Twining her living garlands there,
That lyart [greyhaired] Time shall ne'er impair.

He was indeed on the verge of what might have been a prosperous life, had he but known it. [In a footnote, the critic adds: "A few days after the poet's death, a letter addressed to him reached his mother. Enclosed was a note for £100, and the request that Fergusson would join the writer in India, where a suitable appointment awaited him. The donor, on bearing the truth, gave the money to Mrs. Fergusson."] He also had the wish, and on one occasion made a strong resolution, to flee from the temptations which the convivial habits of the time threw in his way. The resolution was not kept; he returned to his previous mode of life and paid the severest penalty—the loss of reason and of life. In 1774 his physical strength was already affected, when his mind, now over-sensitive, was well-nigh unhinged by an accidental circumstance. A favourite starling, caged in his bedroom, was one night worried by a cat, which had crept down the chimney. The poet at once saw in the fate of the bird an image of what might befall himself: as suddenly might he be called away. He rose with the morning, resolved to alter his course of life; never again to write verses, never to associate with the thoughtless and the gay. Like Collins, whose end was similar, and due to the same cause, he took the Bible for his only book; and his constant companion was the Rev. Dr. Erskine, of the Grey Friars' Church. The words, that he was to blame for something, 'And for many, many other follies,' were often on his lips. His mental balance was indeed shaken; still, with the quieter regimen, there was improvement and hope, when an untimely accident hastened the close. He fell from the head of a staircase, striking his head severely at the bottom, and was carried home insensible, to awake raving. His poor mother had no resource save to take him to the public asylum; as he entered, his mind returned, and he raised a piteous cry of anguish. With morning he was calmer, his mother and sister came to see him; he thanked them for their affection, and besought his sister to 'bring her seam, and sit beside him.' As they replied with tears, he sought to console them, saying that he hoped ere long to be restored to them. He was in the institution for two months, daily visited by his mother and sister; at times his mind wandered; at others he would sing Scottish melodies, especially his old favourite, the 'Birds of Endermay,' and he sang with a pathos which he had never reached before.

On the day after his death he was buried in the Canongate Churchyard, and many mourners were present. Thirteen years later, Robert Burns, in his visit to Edinburgh, sought out the grave, and found it but 'a green mound and scattered gowans.' Uncovering his head, he shed tears, and obtained leave from the Managers of the Kirk and Kirkyard to raise a headstone over the grave, on which he had this inscription engraved, which, the writer can testify, is still legible, and eloquent of the poet: