Aytoun was a man of great charm and geniality in society; even to Americans, though he detested America with the energy of fear—­the fear of all who see its prosperity sapping the foundations of their class society.  He died in 1865; and in 1867 his biography was published by Sir Theodore Martin, his collaborator.  Martin’s definition of Aytoun’s place in literature is felicitous:—­

* * * * *

“Fashions in poetry may alter, but so long as the themes with which they deal have an interest for his countrymen, his ‘Lays’ will find, as they do now, a wide circle of admirers.  His powers as a humorist were perhaps greater than as a poet.  They have certainly been more widely appreciated.  His immediate contemporaries owe him much, for he has contributed largely to that kindly mirth without which the strain and struggle of modern life would be intolerable.  Much that is excellent in his humorous writings may very possibly cease to retain a place in literature from the circumstance that he deals with characters and peculiarities which are in some measure local, and phases of life and feeling and literature which are more or less ephemeral.  But much will certainly continue to be read and enjoyed by the sons and grandsons of those for whom it was originally written; and his name will be coupled with those of Wilson, Lockhart, Sydney Smith, Peacock, Jerrold, Mahony, and Hood, as that of a man gifted with humor as genuine and original as theirs, however opinions may vary as to the order of their relative merits.”

‘The Modern Endymion,’ from which an extract is given, is a parody on Disraeli’s earlier manner.

     THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE

     From the ‘Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers’

          I

     Sound the fife and cry the slogan;
       Let the pibroch shake the air
     With its wild, triumphant music,
       Worthy of the freight we bear. 
     Let the ancient hills of Scotland
       Hear once more the battle-song
     Swell within their glens and valleys
       As the clansmen march along! 
     Never from the field of combat,
       Never from the deadly fray,
     Was a nobler trophy carried
       Than we bring with us to-day;
     Never since the valiant Douglas
       On his dauntless bosom bore
     Good King Robert’s heart—­the priceless—­
       To our dear Redeemer’s shore! 
     Lo! we bring with us the hero—­
       Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme,
     Crowned as best beseems a victor
       From the altar of his fame;
     Fresh and bleeding from the battle
       Whence his spirit took its flight,
     ’Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
       And the thunder of the fight! 
     Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
       As we march o’er moor and lea! 
     Is there any here will venture
       To bewail our dead Dundee?