  Robert Hogg was born in the parish of Stobo, about the close of the century. His father was William Hogg, eldest brother of the Ettrick Shepherd. William Hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. Receiving a classical education at the grammar-school of Peebles, Robert proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the Church. Abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press, or reader in the printing-office of Messrs Ballantyne. John Wilson, the future vocalist, was his yoke-fellow in office. His official duties were arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. His literary talents attracted the favourable notice of Mr J. G. Lockhart, who, on being appointed, in 1825, to conduct the Quarterly Review, secured his services as secretary or literary assistant. He therefore proceeded to London, but as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his former situation. For a short period he acted as amanuensis to Sir Walter Scott, while the "Life of Napoleon" was in progress. According to his own account,[16] this must have been no relief from his ordinary toils, for Sir Walter was at his task from early morning till almost evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. When Chambers's Edinburgh Journal was commenced, Hogg was asked by his former schoolfellow, Mr Robert Chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received; but this office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give satisfaction, he was led to decline. He was an extensive contributor, both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular periodical; but before the work had gone further, his health began to give way, and he retired to his father's house in Peeblesshire, where he died in 1834. He left a young wife and one child. Robert Hogg was of low stature and of retiring manners. He was fond of humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of heart. His compositions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary periodical literature. He contributed songs to the "Scottish and Irish Minstrels" and "Select Melodies" of R. A. Smith; and a ballad, entitled "The Tweeddale Raide," composed in his youth, was inserted by his uncle in the "Mountain Bard." Those which appear in the present work are transcribed from a small periodical, entitled "The Rainbow," published at Edinburgh, in 1821, by R. Ireland; and from the Author's Album, in the possession of Mr Henry Scott Riddell, to whom it was presented by his parents after his decease. In the "Rainbow," several of Hogg's poetical pieces are translations from the German, and from the Latin of Buchanan. All his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression, but they are defective in startling originality and power.[17]
QUEEN OF FAIRIE'S SONG. Haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me,
Over the holme so green, over the lea,
Over the corrie, and down by the lake,
Cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake,
Stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea:
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill;
Come at the dead of night when all is still;
Come over mountain steep, come over brae,
Through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray;
Come from the forest glade and greenwood tree;
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae,
Were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray,
Were ye by sunny dell up in the ben,
Or by the braken howe far down the glen,
Or by the river side; where'er ye be,
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night,
Haste to your revel sports gleesome and light,
To bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the Leven,
And dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven,
Then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea;
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
WHEN AUTUMN COMES. When autumn comes an' heather bells
Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells,
An' corn that waves on lowland dales
Is yellow ripe appearing;
Bonnie lassie will ye gang
Shear wi' me the hale day lang;
An' love will mak' us eithly bang
The weary toil o' shearing?
An' if the lasses should envy,
Or say we love, then you an' I
Will pass ilk ither slyly by,
As if we werena caring.
But aye I wi' my heuk will whang
The thistles, if in prickles strang
Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang,
When we gang to the shearing.
An' aye we'll haud our rig afore,
An' ply to hae the shearing o'er,
Syne you will soon forget you bore
Your neighbours' jibes and jeering.
For then, my lassie, we'll be wed,
When we hae proof o' ither had,
An' nae mair need to mind what's said
When we're thegither shearing.
BONNIE PEGGIE, O! Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
Down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie Peggie, O!
When the siller burn rins clear,
When the rose blooms on the brier,
An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, O!
I hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, O!
You hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, O!
My heart's been sick and sair,
But it shall be sae nae mair,
I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, O!
You hae said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, O!
An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, O!
Let the world gae as it will,
Be it weel or be it ill,
Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, O!
Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, O!
Nae mair my love is cross'd,
Sorrow's sairest pang is past,
I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, O!
A WISH BURST. Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea,
With the winds and waves for guides,
From all the wants of Nature free
And all her ties besides.
Beyond where footstep ever trode
Would I hold my onward way,
As wild as the waves on which I rode,
And fearless too as they.
The angry winds with lengthen'd sweep
Were music to mine ear;
I'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep
Close round me without fear.
When winter storms burst from the cloud
And trouble the ocean's breast,
I'd joy me in their roaring loud,
And mid their war find rest.
By islands fair in the ocean placed,
With waves all murmuring round,
My wayward course should still be traced,
And still no home be found.
When calm and peaceful sleeps the tide,
And men look out to sea,
My bark in silence by should glide,
Their wonder and awe to be.
When sultry summer suns prevail,
And rest on the parching land,
The cool sea breeze would I inhale,
O'er the ocean breathing bland.
A restless sprite, that likes delight,
In calm and tempest found,
'Twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea
For ever and aye to bound.
I LOVE THE MERRY MOONLIGHT.[18] I love the merry moonlight,
So wooingly it dances,
At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers,
On which the fresh dew glances.
I love the merry moonlight,
On lake and pool so brightly
It pours its beams, and in the stream's
Rough current leaps so lightly.
I love the merry moonlight,
It ever shines so cheerily
When night clouds flit, that, but for it,
Would cast a shade so drearily.
I love the merry moonlight,
For when it gleams so mildly
The passions rest that rule the breast
At other times so wildly.
I love the merry moonlight,
For 'neath it I can borrow
Such blissful dreams, that this world seems
Without a sin or sorrow.
OH, WHAT ARE THE CHAINS OF LOVE MADE OF?[19] Oh, what are the chains of Love made of,
The only bonds that can,
As iron gyves the body, thrall
The free-born soul of man?
Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun,
Or have you power to seize,
And round your hand, like threads of silk,
Wind up the wandering breeze?
Can you collect the morning dew
And, with the greatest pains,
Beat every drop into a link,
And of these links make chains?
More fleeting in their nature still,
And less substantial are
Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew,
Smile, sigh, and tear—by far.
And yet of these Love's chains are made,
The only bonds that can,
As iron gyves the body, thrall
The free-born soul of man.
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