To this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that Mr Riddell is possessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the Scottish lyre. He has viewed the national character where it is to be seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most favourable to its development. He has lived, too, among scenes the best calculated to foster the poetic temperament. "He has got," wrote Professor Wilson, "a poet's education: he has lived the greater part of his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and beautiful solitudes of nature." Sufficiently imaginative, he does not, like his minstrel predecessor the Ettrick Shepherd, soar into the regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless world. He sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of Caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life. His style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to nature. Several of his songs, such as "Scotland Yet," "The Wild Glen sae Green," "The Land of Gallant Hearts," and "The Crook and Plaid," will find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is read or sung.
In 1855, Mr Riddell executed a translation of the Gospel of Matthew into the Scottish language by command of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a performance of which only a limited number of copies have been printed under the Prince's auspices. At present, he is engaged in preparing a romance connected with Border history.
[3] "Songs of the Ark, with other Poems." Edin. 1831. 8vo.
[4] "The Christian Politician, or the Right Way of Thinking." Edinburgh, 1844, 8vo. This work, now nearly out of print, we would especially commend to the favourable attention of the Religious Tract Society.--ED.
[5] "Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.
When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.
I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane, Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane, There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.