is hair a light-brown. In person,
he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he
confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are much inferior to
his songs; of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish
language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and
graceful simplicity, they are pervaded by the gentlest pathos. Rich in
description of beautiful landscapes, they softly tell the tale of man's
affection and woman's love.[76]

[75] See Semple's "Continuation of Crawford's History of Renfrewshire,"
p. 116.

[76] Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular
affection towards any of the fair sex. We have ascertained that, at
different periods, he paid court to two females of his own rank. The
first of these was Jean King, sister of his friend John King, one of the
minor poets of Paisley; she afterwards married a person of the name of
Pinkerton; and her son, Mr James Pinkerton, printer, Paisley, has
frequently heard her refer to the fear she had entertained lest "Rob
would write a song about her." His next sweetheart was Mary Allan,
sister of the poet Robert Allan. This estimable woman was a sad mourner
on the poet's death, and for many years wept aloud when her deceased
lover was made the subject of conversation in her presence. She still
survives, and a few years since, to join some relations, she emigrated
to America. Some verses addressed to her by the poet she continues to
retain with the fondest affection.

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.[77]

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I