Born, in Glasgow, 13 Oct. 1797. At school in Edinburgh, 1805–08; in Paisley, 1809–14. At Glasgow Univ., 1818–19. Contrib. verses to the Greenock “Visitor,” 1818. In Sheriff-Clerk’s office, Paisley, 1819. Sheriff-Clerk Depute of Renfrewshire, May 1819 to Nov. 1829. Edited “Paisley Mag.,” 1828; “Paisley Advertiser,” 1828–30; “Glasgow Courier,” 1830–35. Contrib. to “The Day,” 1832–35. To London, to give evidence before a Committee of House of Commons, Aug. 1835. Died, in Glasgow, 1 Nov. 1835. Buried in Necropolis, Glasgow. Works: “Renfrewshire Characters and Scenery” (under pseud. “Isaac Brown”), 1824; “Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,” 1827; “Jeanie Morrison” (1832); “Poems, Narrative and Lyrical,” 1832. He edited “The Harp of Renfrewshire,” 1819; A. Henderson’s “Scottish Proverbs,” 1832; Burns’ “Poems” (with Hogg), 1835. Collected Works: ed. by J. M’Conechy, with life, 1846.

Personal

  He was small, well formed, and muscular, with a large head, was an accomplished boxer and fencer, and had a local reputation as an antiquary.

  Motherwell was the most genial creature, with a Conservative craze. In his mind Toryism was bound up with poetry, that is with antiquarian romance and “Bonnie Prince Charlie” rubbish.

  A restrained conversationalist, Motherwell could be eager and even vehement when deeply moved, and with kindred spirits—such as R. A. Smith, the musician, and others of the “Whistle Binkie” circle—he was both easy and affable. His social instinct and public spirit are illustrated in his spirited cavalier lyrics. His essentially superstitious temperament, clinging to the Scottish mythology that amused Burns, specially qualified him for writing weird lyrics like his “Demon Lady” and such a successful fairy ballad as “Elfinland Wud.”

General

  When Aaron’s rod sprang out and budded, those who saw it could not marvel more at the dry timber producing leaf and bloom than we did when Motherwell, an acute and fastidious antiquarian, appeared as a poet, original and vigorous. His lyrics are forceful and flowing—with more of the strength of Burns than of his simplicity and passion.

  All his perceptions are clear, for all his senses are sound; he has fine and strong sensibilities and a powerful intellect…. His style is simple, but, in his tenderest movements, masculine; he strikes a few bold knocks at the door of the heart, which is instantly opened by the master or mistress of the house, or by son or daughter, and the welcome visitor at once becomes one of the family.

  “Jeannie Morison” and “My heid is like to rend, Willie,” are scarcely surpassed for simplicity and tenderness in the whole range of Scottish poetry.

  He was about equally successful in two departments,—the martial and the plaintive; yet stirring as are his “Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi” and his “Battle Flag of Sigurd,” I doubt much whether they are entitled to the same praise, or have gained the same deserved acceptance, as his “Jeanie Morrison,” or his striking stanzas, commencing “My head is like to rend.”… Several of his lyrics also verge on excellence; but it must be acknowledged of his poetry generally, that ingenious although it be, it rather excites expectation than fairly satisfies it.

  Two of the ballads of William Motherwell are among the most beautiful in the Scottish dialect, so full of lyrical beauty; and yet the one which is the most touching is scarcely known, except to a few lovers of poetry. “Jeanie Morrison,” indeed, has an extensive popularity in Scotland, and yet even that charming song is comparatively little known in this country. Burns is the only poet with whom, for tenderness and pathos, Motherwell can be compared…. By touching and retouching, during many years, did “Jeanie Morrison” attain her perfection, and yet how completely has art concealed art! How entirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressible gush of feeling that would find vent. In “My heid is like to rend, Willie,” the appearance of spontaneity is still more striking, as the passion is more intense,—intense, indeed, almost to painfulness.

  His martial lyrics are among the finest ever written.

  As an antiquary, he was shrewd, indefatigable, and truthful. As a poet, he was happiest in pathetic or sentimental lyrics, though his own inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous and martial style of the old minstrels.

  Motherwell’s reputation in his own country as a poet was made by the plaintive song of “Jeanie Morrison,” a sweet and touching reminiscence of pleasant days spent with a school playfellow and child sweetheart. This and another song in the Scotch dialect, “My heid is like to break,” in which a betrayed damsel harrows up the feelings of her seducer with pitiless pathos, may be said to be the only two lyrics of his that have taken any hold of fame. They prove him to have been a man of keen sensibility; he was also a man of vigorous intellect and large culture, more of a student and a scholar than any contemporary Scotch lyrist.

  There are very few Scottish songs of modern date that can equal “Jeanie Morrison” in tenderness and feeling. The heroine was a real schoolmate of Motherwell’s, whose beauty and childish companionship left so indelible an impression on his young heart that he retained his love for her during all the future years of his existence. They never met, however, after separating in childhood.

  Such was William Motherwell, whose poetry I read over and over in my nonage, in summer when the days were long, and my work ended before the setting of the sun, and under my evening lamp, when it was too dark and cold to be out-of-doors. It attracted me, and it repelled me. I knew then why it attracted me, and I know now, what I did not then, why it repelled me. It was because a great deal of it was a forced, not a natural, growth—a simulation of moods and feelings which did not exist in the mind or heart of the poet, a make-believe of love and loss, of sin and sorrow. It was not a creation, but a production, a manufactured melancholy, an elaborated gloom. It is studiedly morbid and predeterminedly unhealthy, darkened with imaginary infamy, convulsive with pretended pangs. It was, in short, merely literary verse, and was, therefore, a sham and a fraud. But this is only one side of it; for there is another side, and that, within the limitations of Motherwell’s genius, is glorious and noble. Many poets have sung of childish love, but none so well as Motherwell in “Jeanie Morrison,” which is full of feeling and pathetic tenderness. Many poets have sung of betrayed womanliness (for lovely woman will stoop to folly), but none so well as Motherwell in “My heid is like to rend, Willie,” the sorrow of which is heartfelt and profound.

  Among the minor poets of Great Britain, Motherwell should maintain a leading position. Without that supreme adaptability to the genius of his countrymen which made Burns facile princeps in their hearts, Motherwell possesses an individuality such as all poets, as distinguished from mere versifiers have. A fondness for archaic words and forms of speech gives an air of affectation to many of his productions; but even this may be forgiven when it has such splendid results as “The Cavalier’s Song,” which, had it been really written by Lovelace or Suckling, would have figured in every anthology. Unfortunately, Motherwell wrote too much—that is, too much in one vein.

  Of his original work, “Jeanie Morrison” is the best known; and those who have read, especially if they have read it in youth, “The Sword Chant of Thorstein Raudi,” will not dismiss it as Wardour Street; while he did some other delightful things.

  He had a taste for research in old popular poetry, but he took such liberties that his versions are not to be trusted. He also allowed the pseudo-antique to mar some of his own work, especially the fine “Cavalier Song.” He is happiest in the vein of pathetic Scotch verse, of which the best specimen he left is his “Jeanie Morrison.” He had the feeling and sensibility of a minor Burns, but not the force.