Nearer and dearer [than Lord Byron and other poets] to hearts like ours was the Ettrick Shepherd, then in his full tide of song and story; but nearer and dearer still than he, or any living songster—to us dearer—was our ill-fated fellow-craftsman, [Robert] Tannahill, who had just taken himself from a neglecting world, while yet that world waxed mellow in his lay. Poor weaver chiel [child]! What we owe to thee! Your “Braes o’ Balquidder,” and “Yon Burnside,” and “Gloomy Winter,” and the “Minstrel’s’’ wailing ditty, and the noble “Gleneiffer.” Oh! how they did ring above the rattling of a hundred shuttles! Let me again proclaim the debt we owe those Song Spirits, as they walked in melody from loom to loom, ministering to the low-hearted; and when the breast was filled with everything but hope and happiness, and all but seared, let only break forth the healthy and vigorous chorus [of Robert Burns] “A man’s a man for a’ that,” the fagged weaver brightens up. His very shuttle skytes boldly along, and clatters through in faithful time to the tune of his merrier shopmates!

 Who dare measure in doubt the restraining influences of these very Songs? To us they were all instead of sermons […] Church bells rang not for us. Poets were indeed our Priests.