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[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.

VOL. IV.


CAMPBELL


EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Henry Scott Riddell.

Lithographed for the Modern Scottish Minstrel, by Schenck & McFarlane.]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL IV.

EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.

MDCCCLVII.


EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.




TO

FRANCIS BENNOCH, ESQ., F.S.A.,

ONE OF THE MOST ACCOMPLISHED OF LIVING SCOTTISH SONG-WRITERS,
AND THE MUNIFICENT PATRON OF MEN OF LETTERS,

THIS FOURTH VOLUME

OF

The Modern Scottish Minstrel

IS DEDICATED,

WITH SINCERE REGARD AND ESTEEM,

BY

HIS VERY FAITHFUL SERVANT,

CHARLES ROGERS.




THE INFLUENCE OF BURNS

ON

SCOTTISH POETRY AND SONG:

An Essay.

BY THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.


It is exceedingly difficult to settle the exact place of, as well as to
compute the varied influences wielded by, a great original genius. Every
such mind borrows so much from his age and from the past, as well as
communicates so much from his own native stores, that it is difficult to
determine whether he be more the creature or the creator of his period.
But, ere determining the influence exerted by Burns on Scottish song and
poetry, it is necessary first to inquire what he owed to his
predecessors in the art, as well as to the general Scottish atmosphere
of thought, feeling, scenery and manners.

First of all, Burns felt, in common with his _forbears_ in the genealogy
of Scottish song, the inspiring influences breathing from our
mountain-land, and from the peculiar habits and customs of a "people
dwelling alone, and not reckoned among the nations." He was not born in
a district peculiarly distinguished for romantic beauty--we mean, in
comparison with some other regions of Scotland. The whole course of the
Ayr, as Currie remarks, is beautiful; and beautiful exceedingly the Brig
of Doon, especially as it now shines through the magic of the Master's
poetry. But it yields to many other parts of Scotland, some of which
Burns indeed afterwards saw, although his matured genius was not much
profited by the sight. Ayrshire--even with the peaks of Arran bounding
the view seaward--cannot vie with the scenery around Edinburgh; with
Stirling--its links and blue mountains; with "Gowrie's Carse, beloved of
Ceres, and Clydesdale to Pomona dear;" with Straths Tay and Earn, with
their two fine rivers flowing from finer lakes, through corn-fields,
woods, and rocks, to melt into each other's arms in music, near the fair
city of Perth; with the wilder and stormier courses of the Spey, the
Findhorn, and the Dee; with the romantic and song-consecrated precincts
of the Border; with the "bonnie hills o' Gallowa" and Dumfriesshire; or
with that transcendent mountain region stretching up along Lochs Linnhe,
Etive, and Leven--between the wild, torn ridges of Morven and
Appin--uniting Ben Cruachan to Ben Nevis, and including in its sweep the
lonely and magnificent Glencoe--a region unparalleled in wide Britain
for its quantity and variety of desolate grandeur, where every shape is
bold, every shape blasted, but all blasted at such different angles as
to produce endless diversity, and yet where the whole seems twisted into
a certain terrible harmony; not to speak of the glorious isles

    "Placed far amid the melancholy main,"

Iona, which, being interpreted, means the "Island of the Waves," the
rocky cradle of Scotland's Christianity; Staffa with grass growing above
the unspeakable grandeur which lurks in the cathedral-cave below, and
cows peacefully feeding over the tumultuous surge which forms the organ
of the eternal service; and Skye, with its Loch Coriskin, piercing like
a bright arrow the black breast of the shaggy hills of Cuchullin. Burns
had around him only the features of ordinary Scottish scenery, but from
these he drank in no common draught of inspiration; and how admirably
has he reproduced such simple objects as the "burn stealing under the
lang yellow broom," and the "milk-white thorn that scents the evening
gale," the "burnie wimplin' in its glen," and the

    "Rough bur-thistle spreadin' wide
    Amang the bearded bear."

These objects constituted the poetry of his own fields; they were linked
with his own joys, loves, memories, and sorrows, and these he felt
impelled to enshrine in song. It may, indeed, be doubted if his cast of
mind would have led him to sympathise with bold and savage scenery. In
proof of this, we remember that, although he often had seen the gigantic
ridges of Arran looming through the purple evening air, or with the
"morning suddenly spread" upon their summer summits, or with premature
snow tinging their autumnal tops, he never once alludes to them, so far
as we remember, either in his poetry or prose; and that although he
spent a part of his youth on the wild smuggling coast of Carrick, he has
borrowed little of his imagery from the sea--none, we think, except the
two lines in the "Vision"--

    "I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
    Delighted with the dashing roar."

His descriptions are almost all of inland scenery. Yet, that there was a
strong sense of the sublime in his mind is manifest from the lines
succeeding the above--

    "And when the North his fleecy store
      Drove through the sky,
    I saw grim Nature's visage hoar
      Struck thy young eye;"

as well as from the delight he expresses in walking beside a planting in
a windy day, and listening to the blast howling through the trees and
raving over the plain. Perhaps his mind was most alive to the sublimity
of _motion_, of agitation, of tumultuous energy, as exhibited in a
snow-storm, or in the "torrent rapture" of winds and waters, because
they seemed to sympathise with his own tempestuous passions, even as the
fierce Zanga, in the "Revenge," during a storm, exclaims---

    "I like this rocking of the battlements.
    Rage on, ye winds; burst clouds, and waters roar!
    You bear a just resemblance of my fortune,
    And suit the gloomy habit of my soul."

Probably Burns felt little admiration of the calm, colossal grandeur of
mountain-scenery, where there are indeed vestiges of convulsion and
agony, but where age has softened the storm into stillness, and where
the memory of former strife and upheaving only serves to deepen the
feeling of repose--vestiges which, like the wrinkles on the stern brow
of the Corsair,

    "Speak of passion, but of passion past."

With these records of bygone "majestic pains," on the other hand, the
genius of Milton and Wordsworth seemed made to sympathise; and the
former is never greater than standing on Niphates Mount with Satan, or
upon the "hill of Paradise the highest" with Michael, or upon the
"Specular Mount" with the Tempter and the Saviour; and the latter is
always most himself beside Skiddaw or Helvellyn. Byron professes vast
admiration for Lochnagar and the Alps; but the former is seen through
the enchanting medium of distance and childish memory; and among the
latter, his rhapsodies on Mont Blanc, and the cold "thrones of eternity"
around him, are nothing to his pictures of torrents, cataracts,
thunderstorms; in short, of all objects where unrest--the leading
feeling in _his_ bosom--constitutes the principal element in _their_
grandeur. It is curious, by the way, how few good descriptions there
exist in poetry of views _from_ mountains. Milton has, indeed, some
incomparable ones, but all imaginary--such, at least, as no actual
mountain on earth can command; but, in other poets, we at this moment
remember no good one. They seem always looking up _to_, not down from,
mountains. Wordsworth has given us, for example, no description of the
view from Skiddaw; and there does not exist, in any Scottish poetical
author, a first-rate picture of the view either from Ben Lomond,
Schehallion, Ben Cruachan, or Ben Nevis.

After all, Burns was more influenced by some other characteristics of
Scotland than he was by its scenery. There was, first, its romantic
history. _That_ had not then been separated, as it has since been, from
the mists of fable, but lay exactly in that twilight point of view best
adapted for arousing the imagination. To the eye of Burns, as it glared
back into the past, the history of his country seemed intensely
poetical--including the line of early kings who pass over the stage of
Boece' and Buchanan's story as their brethren over the magic glass of
Macbeth's witches--equally fantastic and equally false--the dark
tragedy of that terrible thane of Glammis and Cawdor--the deeds of
Wallace and Bruce--the battle of Flodden--and the sad fate of Queen
Mary; and from most of these themes he drew an inspiration which could
scarcely have been conceived to reside even in them. On Wallace, Bruce,
and Queen Mary, his mind seems to have brooded with peculiar
intensity--on the two former, because they were patriots; and on the
latter, because she was a beautiful woman; and his allusions to them
rank with the finest parts in his or any poetry. He seemed especially
adapted to be the poet-laureate of Wallace--a modern edition, somewhat
improved, of the broad, brawny, ragged bard who actually, it is
probable, attended in the train of Scotland's patriot hero, and whose
constant occupation it was to change the gold of his achievements into
the silver of song. Scottish manners, too, as well as history, exerted a
powerful influence on Scotland's peasant-poet. They were then far more
peculiar than now, and had only been faintly or partially represented by
previous poets. Thus, the christening of the _wean_, with all its
ceremony and all its mirth--Hallowe'en, with its "rude awe and
laughter"--the "Rockin'"--the "Brooze"--the Bridal--and a hundred other
intensely Scottish and very old customs, were all ripe and ready for the
poet, and many of them he has treated, accordingly, with consummate
felicity and genius. It seems almost as if the _final cause_ of their
long-continued existence were connected with the appearance, in due
time, of one who was to extract their finest essence, and to embalm them
for ever in his own form of ideal representation.

Burns, too, doubtless derived much from previous poets. This is a common
case, as we have before hinted, with even the most original. Had not
Shakspeare and Milton been "celestial thieves," their writings would
have been far less rich and brilliant than they are; although, had they
not possessed true originality, they would not have taken their present
lofty position in the world of letters. So, to say that Burns was much
indebted to his predecessors, and that he often imitated Ramsay and
Fergusson, and borrowed liberally from the old ballads, is by no means
to derogate from his genius. If he took, he gave with interest. The most
commonplace songs, after they had, as he said, "got a brushing" from his
hands, assumed a totally different aspect. Each ballad was merely a
piece of canvas, on which he inscribed his inimitable paintings.
Sometimes even by a single word he proclaimed the presence of the
master-poet, and by a single stroke exalted a daub into a picture. His
imitations of Ramsay and Fergusson far surpass the originals, and remind
you of Landseer's dogs, which seem better than the models from which he
drew. When a king accepts a fashion from a subject, he glorifies it, and
renders it the rage. It was in this royal style that Burns treated the
inferior writers who had gone before him; and although he highly admired
and warmly praised them, he must have felt a secret sense of his own
vast superiority.

We come now shortly to speak of the influence he has exerted on Scottish
poetry. This was manifold. In the first place, a number were encouraged
by his success to collect and publish their poems, although few of them
possessed much merit; and he complained that some were a wretched
"spawn" of mediocrity, which the sunshine of his fame had warmed and
brought forth prematurely. Lapraik, for instance, was induced by the
praise of Burns to print an edition of his poems, which turned out a
total failure. There was only one good piece in it all, and _that_ was
pilfered from an old magazine. Secondly, Burns exerted an inspiring
influence on some men of real genius, who, we verily believe, would, but
for Burns, have never written, or, at least, written so well--such as
Alexander Wilson, Tannahill, Macneil, Hogg, and the numerous members of
the "Whistle-Binkie" school. In all these writers we trace the influence
of the large "lingering star" of the genius of Burns. "Wattie and Meg,"
by Wilson, when it first appeared anonymously, was attributed to Burns.
Tannahill is, in much of his poetry, an echo of Burns, although in
song-writing he is a real original. Macneil was roused by Burns' praises
of whisky to give a _per contra_, in his "Scotland's Scaith; or, the
History of Will and Jean." And although the most of Hogg's poetry is
entirely original, we find the influence of Burns distinctly marked in
some of his songs--such as the "Kye come Hame."

But there is a wider and more important light in which to regard the
influence of our great national Bard. He first fully revealed the
interest and the beauty which lie in the simpler forms of Scottish
scenery, he darted light upon the peculiarities of Scottish manners, and
he opened the warm heart of his native land. Scotland, previous to
Burns' poetry, was a spring shut up and a fountain sealed.

    "She lay like some unkenned-of isle
      Ayont New Holland."

The glories of her lakes, her glens, her streams, her mountains, the
hardy courage, the burning patriotism, the trusty attachments, the
loves, the games, the superstitions, and the devotion of her
inhabitants, were all unknown and unsuspected as themes for song till
Burns took them up, and less added glory than shewed the glory that was
in them, and shewed also that they opened up a field nearly
inexhaustible. Writers of a very high order were thus attracted to
Scotland, not merely as their native country, but as a theme for poetry;
and, while disdaining to imitate Burns' poetry slavishly, and some of
them not writing in verse at all, they found in Scottish subjects ample
scope for the exercise of their genius; and in some measure to his
influence we may attribute the fictions of Mrs Hamilton and Miss
Ferrier, Scott's poems and novels, Galt's, Lockhart's, Wilson's,
Delta's, and Aird's tales and poetry, and much of the poetry of
Campbell, who, although he never writes in Scotch, has embalmed, in his
"Lochiel's Warning," "Glenara," "Lord Ullin's Daughter," some
interesting subjects connected with Scotland, and has, in "Gertrude of
Wyoming," and in the "Pilgrim of Glencoe," made striking allusions to
Scottish scenery. That the progress of civilisation, apart from Burns,
would have ultimately directed the attention of cultivated men to a
country so peculiar and poetical as Scotland cannot be doubted; but the
rise of Burns hastened the result, as being itself a main element in
propelling civilisation and diffusing genuine taste. His dazzling
success, too, excited emulation in the breasts of our men of genius, as
well as tended to exalt in their eyes a country which had produced such
a stalwart and gifted son. We may, indeed, apply to the feeling of pride
which animates Scotchmen, and particularly Scotchmen in other lands, at
the thought of Burns being their countryman, the famous lines of
Dryden--

    "Men met each other with erected look,
    The steps were higher that they took;
    Each to congratulate his friends made haste,
    And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd."

The poor man, says Wilson, as he speaks of Burns, always holds up his
head and regards you with an elated look. Scotland has become more
venerable, more beautiful, more glorious in the eyes of her children,
and a fitter theme for poetry, since the feet of Burns rested on her
fields, and since his ardent eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he saw her
scenery, and as he sung her praise; while to many in foreign parts she
is chiefly interesting as being (what a portion of her has long been
called) the Land of Burns.

The real successors of Burns, it is thus manifest, were not Tannahill or
Macneil, but Sir Walter Scott, Campbell, Aird, Delta, Galt, Allan
Cunningham, and Professor Wilson. To all of these, Burns, along with
Nature, united in teaching the lessons of simplicity, of brawny
strength, of clear common sense, and of the propriety of staying at home
instead of gadding abroad in search of inspiration. All of these have
been, like Burns, more or less intensely Scottish in their subjects and
in their spirit.

That Burns' errors as a man have exerted a pernicious influence on many
since, is, we fear, undeniable. He had been taught, by the lives of the
"wits," to consider aberration, eccentricity, and "devil-may-careism" as
prime badges of genius, and he proceeded accordingly to astonish the
natives, many of whom, in their turn, set themselves to copy his faults.
But when we subtract some half-dozen pieces, either coarse in language
or equivocal in purpose, the influence of his poetry may be considered
good. (We of course say nothing here of the volume called the "Merry
Muses," still extant to disgrace his memory.) It is doubtful if his
"Willie brew'd a peck o' Maut" ever made a drunkard, but it is certain
that his "Cottar's Saturday Night" has converted sinners, edified the
godly, and made some erect family altars. It has been worth a thousand
homilies. And, taking his songs as a whole, they have done much to stir
the flames of pure love, of patriotism, of genuine sentiment, and of a
taste for the beauties of nature. And it is remarkable that all his
followers and imitators have, almost without exception, avoided his
faults while emulating his beauties; and there is not a sentence in
Scott, or Campbell, or Aird, or Delta, and not many in Wilson or Galt,
that can be charged with indelicacy, or even coarseness. So that, on the
whole, we may assert that, whatever evil he did by the example of his
life, he has done very little--but, on the contrary, much good, both
artistically and morally, by the influence of his poetry.




CONTENTS.

                                                                    PAGE
HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL,                                                   1
  The wild glen sae green,                                            49
  Scotia's thistle,                                                   50
  The land of gallant hearts,                                         51
  The yellow locks o' Charlie,                                        52
  We 'll meet yet again,                                              53
  Our ain native land,                                                54
  The Grecian war-song,                                               56
  Flora's lament,                                                     57
  When the glen all is still,                                         58
  Scotland yet,                                                       58
  The minstrel's grave,                                               60
  My own land and loved one,                                          61
  The bower of the wild,                                              62
  The crook and plaid,                                                63
  The minstrel's bower,                                               65
  When the star of the morning,                                       66
  Though all fair was that bosom,                                     67
  Would that I were where wild-woods wave,                            68
  O tell me what sound,                                               69
  Our Mary,                                                           70

MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS,                                               73
  Sweet bard of Ettrick's Glen,                                       75
  Young Jamie,                                                        76
  Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,                                    77
  Heard ye the bagpipe?                                               78
  Bruce's address,                                                    79
  Removed from vain fashion,                                          80
  When shall we meet again?                                           81

JAMES KING,                                                           83
  The lake is at rest,                                                85
  Life 's like the dew,                                               86

ISOBEL PAGAN,                                                         88
  Ca' the yowes to the knowes,                                        89

JOHN MITCHELL,                                                        90
  Beauty,                                                             91
  To the evening star,                                                92
  O waft me to the fairy clime,                                       92
  The love-sick maid,                                                 93

ALEXANDER JAMIESON,                                                   95
  The maid who wove,                                                  96
  A sigh and a smile,                                                 97

JOHN GOLDIE,                                                          98
  And can thy bosom,                                                 100
  Sweet 's the dew,                                                  101

ROBERT POLLOK,                                                       103
  The African maid,                                                  105

J. C. DENOVAN,                                                       106
  Oh! Dermot, dear loved one,                                        107

JOHN IMLAH,                                                          108
  Kathleen,                                                          109
  Hielan' heather,                                                   110
  Farewell to Scotland,                                              111
  The rose of Seaton Vale,                                           112
  Katherine and Donald,                                              113
  Guid nicht, and joy be wi' you a',                                 114
  The gathering,                                                     115
  Mary,                                                              116
  Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,                                   117

JOHN TWEEDIE,                                                        120
  Saw ye my Annie?                                                   121

THOMAS ATKINSON,                                                     122
  Mary Shearer,                                                      124

WILLIAM GARDINER,                                                    126
  Oh! Scotland's hills for me,                                       127

ROBERT HOGG,                                                         129
  Queen of fairy's song,                                             131
  When autumn comes,                                                 132
  Bonnie Peggie, O!                                                  133
  A wish burst,                                                      133
  I love the merry moonlight,                                        135
  Oh, what are the chains of love made of?                           136

JOHN WRIGHT,                                                         137
  An autumnal cloud,                                                 139
  The maiden fair,                                                   140
  The old blighted thorn,                                            141
  The wrecked mariner,                                               141

JOSEPH GRANT,                                                        143
  The blackbird's hymn is sweet,                                     145
  Love's adieu,                                                      146

DUGALD MOORE,                                                        147
  Rise, my love,                                                     149
  Julia,                                                             150
  Lucy's grave,                                                      152
  The forgotten brave,                                               153
  The first ship,                                                    154
  Weep not,                                                          155
  To the Clyde,                                                      156

REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON,                                           158
  The Araby maid,                                                    160
  The maiden's vow,                                                  160
  I love the sea,                                                    162

GEORGE ALLAN,                                                        163
  Is your war-pipe asleep?                                           166
  I will think of thee yet,                                          167
  Lassie, dear lassie,                                               168
  When I look far down on the valley below me,                       169
  I will wake my harp when the shades of even,                       170

THOMAS BRYDSON,                                                      172
  All lovely and bright,                                             173

CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY,                                               174
  She died in beauty,                                                177
  The Scottish blue bells,                                           177

ROBERT MILLER,                                                       179
  Where are they?                                                    179
  Lay of the hopeless,                                               180

ALEXANDER HUME,                                                      182
  My wee, wee wife,                                                  187
  O, poverty!                                                        187
  Nanny,                                                             188
  My Bessie,                                                         189
  Menie Hay,                                                         190
  I 've wander'd on the sunny hill,                                  192
  Oh! years hae come,                                                193
  My mountain hame,                                                  194

THOMAS SMIBERT,                                                      195
  The Scottish widow's lament,                                       197
  The hero of St. John D'Acre,                                       199
  Oh! bonnie are the howes,                                          200
  Oh! say na you maun gang awa,                                      201

JOHN BETHUNE,                                                        203
  Withered flowers,                                                  207
  A spring song,                                                     208

ALLAN STEWART,                                                       211
  The sea boy,                                                       212
  Menie Lorn,                                                        213
  The young soldier,                                                 214
  The land I love,                                                   215

ROBERT L. MALONE,                                                    216
  The thistle of Scotland,                                           217
  Hame is aye hamely,                                                218

PETER STILL,                                                         220
  Jeanie's lament,                                                   221
  Ye needna be courtin' at me,                                       222
  The bucket for me,                                                 223

ROBERT NICOLL,                                                       225
  Ordé Braes,                                                        228
  The Muir o' Gorse and Broom,                                       229
  The bonnie Hieland hills,                                          230
  The bonnie rowan bush,                                             231
  Bonnie Bessie Lee,                                                 233

ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING,                                           235
  The wild rose blooms,                                              236

ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE,                                                237
  The Wells o' Wearie,                                               239

ALEXANDER LAING,                                                     241
  Ae happy hour,                                                     243
  Lass gin ye wad lo'e me,                                           244
  Lass of Logie,                                                     245
  My ain wife,                                                       246
  The maid o' Montrose,                                              247
  Jean of Aberdeen,                                                  249
  The hopeless exile,                                                250
  Glen-na-H'Albyn,                                                   250

ALEXANDER CARLILE,                                                   252
  Wha 's at the window,                                              253
  My brothers are the stately trees,                                 254
  The Vale of Killean,                                               255

JOHN NEVAY,                                                          257
  The emigrant's love-letter,                                        259

THOMAS LYLE,                                                         261
  Kelvin Grove,                                                      264
  The trysting hour,                                                 265
  Harvest song,                                                      266

JAMES HOME,                                                          267
  Mary Steel,                                                        268
  Oh, hast thou forgotten?                                           269
  The maid of my heart,                                              270
  Song of the emigrant,                                              271
  This lassie o' mine,                                               272

JAMES TELFER,                                                        273
  Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?                                  273
  I maun gae over the sea,                                           275


METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

                                                                    PAGE

EVAN MACLACHLAN,                                                     279
  A melody of love,                                                  281
  The mavis of the clan,                                             282

JOHN BROWN,                                                          286
  The sisters of Dunolly,                                            287

CHARLES STEWART, D.D.,                                               289
  Luineag--a love carol,                                             290

ANGUS FLETCHER,                                                      292
  The Clachan of Glendaruel,                                         292
  The lassie of the glen,                                            294

       *       *       *       *       *

GLOSSARY,                                                            295




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.




HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.


Henry Scott Riddell, one of the most powerful and pleasing of the living
national song-writers, was born on the 23d September 1798, at Sorbie, in
the Vale of Ewes--a valley remarkable for its pastoral beauty, lying in
the south-east of Dumfriesshire. His father was a shepherd, well
acquainted with the duties of his profession, and a man of strong though
uneducated mind. "My father, while I was yet a child," writes Mr
Riddell, in a MS. autobiography, "left Sorbie; but when I had become
able to traverse both _burn_ and _brae_, hill and glen, I frequently
returned to, and spent many weeks together in, the vale of my nativity.
We had gone, under the same employer, to what pastoral phraseology terms
'_an out-bye herding_,' in the wilds of Eskdalemuir, called
Langshawburn. Here we continued for a number of years, and had, in this
remote, but most friendly and hospitable district, many visitors,
ranging from Sir Pulteney Malcolm down to Jock Gray, whom Sir Walter
Scott, through one of his strange mistakes, called Davy Gellatly....
Among others who constituted a part of the company of these days, was
one whom I have good reason to remember--the Ettrick Shepherd. Nor can I
forbear observing that his seemed one of those hearts that do not become
older in proportion as the head grows gray. Cheerful as the splendour of
heaven, he carried the feelings, and, it may be said, the simplicity and
pursuits of youth, into his maturer years; and if few of the sons of men
naturally possessed such generous influence in promoting, so likewise
few enjoyed so much pleasure in participating in the expedients of
recreation, and the harmless glee of those who meet under the rural
roof--the shepherd's _bien_ and happy home. This was about the time when
Hogg began to write, or at least to publish: as I can remember from the
circumstance of my being able to repeat the most part of the pieces in
his first publication by hearing them read by others before I could read
them myself. It may, perhaps, be worth while to state that at these
meetings the sons of farmers, and even of lairds, did not disdain to
make their appearance, and mingle delightedly with the lads that wore
the crook and plaid. Where pride does not come to chill nor foppery to
deform homely and open-hearted kindness, yet where native modesty and
self-respect induce propriety of conduct, society possesses its own
attractions, and can subsist on its own resources.

"At these happy meetings I treasured up a goodly store of old Border
ballads, as well as modern songs; for in those years of unencumbered and
careless existence, I could, on hearing a song, or even a ballad, sung
twice, have fixed it on my mind word for word. My father, with his
family, leaving Langshawburn, went to Capplefoot, on the Water of Milk,
and there for one year occupied a farm belonging to Thomas Beattie, Esq.
of Muckledale, and who, when my father was in Ewes, had been his
friend. My employment here was, along with a younger brother, to tend
the cows. In the winter season we entered the Corrie school, but had
only attended a short while when we both took fever, and our attendance
was not resumed. At Langshawburn, my father for several winters hired a
person into his house, who taught his family and that of a neighbouring
shepherd. In consequence of our distance from any place of regular
education, I had also been boarded at several schools--at Devington in
Eskdale, Roberton on Borthwick Water, and Newmill on the Teviot, at each
of which, however, I only remained a short time, making, I suppose, such
progress as do other boys who love the football better than the
spelling-book.

"At the Whitsunday term my father relinquished his farm, and returned to
his former employment in the Forest of Ettrick, under Mr Scott of
Deloraine, to whom he had been a shepherd in his younger days. With this
family, indeed, and that of Mr Borthwick, then of Sorbie, and late of
Hopesrigg, all his years since he could wear the plaid were passed, with
the exception of the one just mentioned. It was at Deloraine that I
commenced the shepherd's life in good earnest. Through the friendly
partiality of our employer, I was made principal shepherd at an age
considerably younger than it is usual for most others to be intrusted
with so extensive a _hirsel_[1] as was committed to my care. I had by
this time, however, served what might be regarded as a regular
apprenticeship to the employment, which almost all sons of shepherds do,
whether they adhere to herding sheep in after-life or not. Seasons and
emergencies not seldom occur when the aid which the little boy can lend
often proves not much less availing than that of the grown-up man.
Education in this line consequently commences early. A knowledge of the
habits, together with the proper treatment of sheep, and therefore of
pastoral affairs in general, 'grows with the growth' of the individual,
and becomes, as it were, a portion of his nature. I had thus assisted my
father more or less all along; and when a little older, though still a
mere boy, I went for a year to a friend at Glencotha, in Holmswater, as
assistant shepherd or lamb-herd. Another year in the same capacity I was
with a shepherd in Wester Buccleuch. It was at Glencotha that I first
made a sustained attempt to compose in rhyme. When in Wester Buccleuch
my life was much more lonely, and became more tinged with thoughts and
feelings of a romantic cast. Owing to the nature of the stock kept on
the farm, it was my destiny day after day to be out among the mountains
during the whole summer season from early morn till the fall of even.
But the long summer days, whether clear or cloudy, never seemed long to
me--I never wearied among the wilds. My flocks being _hirsled_, as it is
expressed, required vigilance: but, if this was judiciously maintained,
the task was for the most part an easy and pleasant one. I know not if
it be worth while to mention that the hills and glens on which my charge
pastured at this period formed a portion of what in ancient times was
termed the Forest of Rankleburn. The names of places in the district,
though there were no other more intelligible traditions, might serve to
shew that it is a range of country to which both kings and nobles had
resorted. If from morning to night I was away far from the homes of
living men, I was not so in regard to those of the dead. Where a lesser
stream from the wild uplands comes down and meets the Rankleburn, a
church or chapel once stood, surrounded, like most other consecrated
places of the kind, by a burial-ground. There tradition says that five
dukes, some say kings, lie buried under a marble stone. I had heard that
Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, had, a number of years previously, made a
pilgrimage to this place, for the purpose of discovering the sepulchres
of the great and nearly forgotten dead, but without success. This,
however, tended, in my estimation, to confirm the truth of the
tradition; and having enough of time and opportunity, I made many a
toilsome effort of a similar nature, with the same result. With hills
around, wild and rarely trodden, and the ceaseless yet ever-varying
tinkling of its streams, together with the mysterious echoes which the
least stir seemed to awaken, the place was not only lonely, but also
creative of strange apprehensions, even in the hours of open day. It is
strange that the heart will fear the dead, which, perhaps, never feared
the living. Though I could muster and maintain courage to dig
perseveringly among the dust of the long-departed when the sun shone in
the sky, yet when the shadow of night was coming, or had come down upon
the earth, the scene was sacredly secure from all inroad on my part: and
to make the matter sufficiently intelligible, I may further mention
that, some years afterwards, when I took a fancy one evening to travel
eight miles to meet some friends in a shepherd's lone muirland dwelling,
I made the way somewhat longer for the sake of evading the impressive
loneliness of this locality. I had no belief that I should meet accusing
spirits of the dead; but I disliked to be troubled in waging war with
those _eery_ feelings which are the offspring of superstitious
associations.

"While a lamb-herd at Buccleuch, I read when I could get a book which
was not already threadbare. I had a few chisels, and files, and other
tools, with which I took pleasure in constructing, of wood or bone,
pieces of mechanism; and I kept a diary in which I wrote many minute and
trivial matters, as well, no doubt as I then thought, many a sage
observation. In this, likewise, I wrote rude rhymes on local
occurrences. But I have anticipated a little. On returning home from
Glencotha, and two years before I went to Buccleuch, a younger brother
and I had still another round at herding cattle, which pastured in a
park near by my father's cottage. Our part was to protect a meadow which
formed a portion of it; and the task being easy to protect that for
which the cattle did not much care, nor yet could skaithe greatly though
they should trespass upon it, we were far too idle not to enter upon and
prosecute many a wayward and unprofitable ploy. Our predilections for
taming wild birds--the wilder by nature the better--seemed boundless;
and our family of hawks, and owls, and ravens was too large not to cost
us much toil, anxiety, and even sorrow. We fished in the Ettrick and the
lesser streams. These last suited our way of it best, since we generally
fished with staves and plough-spades--thus far, at least, honourably
giving the objects of our pursuit a fair chance of escape. When the hay
had been won, we went to Ettrick school, at which we continued
throughout the winter, travelling to and from it daily, though it lay at
the distance of five miles. This we, in good weather, accomplished
conveniently enough; but it proved occasionally a serious and toilsome
task through wind and rain, or keen frost and deep snow, when winter
days and the mountain blasts came on.

"My father after being three years in Stanhopefoot, on the banks of the
Ettrick, went to Deloraineshiels, an _out-bye herding_, under the same
employer. In the winter season either I or some other of the family
assisted him; but so often as the weather was fine, we went to a school
instituted by a farmer in the neighbourhood for behoof of his own
family. When by and by I went to herd the _hirsel_ which my father
formerly tended, like most other regular shepherds I delighted in and
was proud of the employment. A considerable portion of another _hirsel_
lying contiguous, and which my elder brother herded, was for the summer
season of the year added to mine, so that this already large was made
larger; but exempted as I was from attending to aught else but my flock,
I had pleasant days, for I loved the wilds among which it had become
alike my destiny and duty to walk at will, and 'view the sheep thrive
bonnie.' The hills of Ettrick are generally wild and green, and those of
them on which I daily wandered, musing much and writing often, were as
high, green, and wild, as any of them all.... It may be the partiality
arising from early habit which induces me to think that a man gets the
most comprehensive and distinct view of any subject which may occupy
thought when he is walking, provided fatigue has not overtaken him.
Mental confidence awake amid the stir seems increased by the exercise of
bodily power, and becomes free and fearless as the step rejoicing in the
ample scope afforded by the broad green earth and circumambient sky. On
the same grounds, I have sometimes marvelled if it might not be the
majesty of motion, as one may say, reigning around the seaman's soul,
that made his heart so frank in communication, and in action his arm so
vigorously energetic. At all events, there was in these days always
enough around one to keep interest more or less ardent awake--

    "'Prompting the heart to pour the impassion'd strain
    Afar 'mid solitude's eternal reign,
    In numbers fearless all as unconfined,
    And wild as wailings of the desert wind.'

"According to my ability I studied while wandering among the mountains,
and at intervals, adopting my knee for my desk, wrote down the results
of my musing. Let not the shepherd ever forget his dog--his constant
companion and best friend, and without which all his efforts would
little avail! Mine knew well the places where in my rounds I was wont to
pause, and especially the majestic seat which I occupied so often on the
loftiest peak of Stanhopelaw. It had also an adopted spot of rest the
while, and, confident of my habits, would fold itself down upon it ere I
came forward; and would linger still, look wistful, and marvel why if at
any time I passed on without making my wonted delay. I did not follow
these practices only 'when summer days were fine.' The lines of an
epistle written subsequently will convey some idea of my habits:--

    "'My early years were pass'd far on
    The hills of Ettrick wild and lone;
    Through summer sheen and winter shade
    Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd.
    In bold enthusiastic glee
    I sung rude strains of minstrelsy,
    Which mingling with died o'er the dale,
    Unheeded as the plover's wail.
    Oft where the waving rushes shed
    A shelter frail around my head,
    Weening, though not through hopes of fame,
    To fix on these more lasting claim,
    I'd there secure in rustic scroll
    The wayward fancies of the soul.
    Even where yon lofty rocks arise,
    Hoar as the clouds on wintry skies,
    Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath
    The colder cone of drifted wreath,
    I noted them afar from ken,
    Till ink would freeze within the pen;
    So deep the spell which bound the heart
    Unto the bard's undying art--
    So rapt the charm that still beguiled
    The minstrel of the mountains wild.'

"The ancients had a maxim--'Revenge is sweet.' In rural, as well as in
other life, there are things said and done which are more or less
ungenerous. These, if at any time they came my way, I repelled as best I
might. But I did not stop here; whether such matters, when occurring,
might concern myself as an individual or not, I took it upon me, as if I
had been a 'learned judge,' to write satires upon such persons as I knew
or conceived to have spoken or acted in aught contrary to good manners.
These squibs were written through the impulse of offended feeling, or
the stirrings of that injudicious spirit which sometimes prompts a man
to exercise a power merely because he possesses it. They were still,
after all, only as things of private experiment, and not intended ever
to go forth to the world--though it happened otherwise. I usually
carried a lot of these writings in my hat, and by and by, unlike most
other young authors, I got a publisher unsought for. This was the wind,
which, on a wild day, swept my hat from my head, and tattering its
contents asunder from their fold, sent them away over hill and dale like
a flock of wild fowl. I recovered some where they had halted in bieldy
places; others of them went further, and fell into other hands, and
particularly into those of a neighbour, who, a short while previously,
had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the march which ran
between us. He found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an
epistle which, I daresay, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to
him but the unblushing mountain blast. He complained to others, whom he
found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went
disagreeably abroad. My master, through good taste and feeling, was
vexed, as I understood, that I should have done anything that gave
ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself;
but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me
upon the hill, and not in very good humour, disapproved of my imprudent
conduct. As for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the
mean of revealing what I had hitherto concealed--procuring for me a sort
of local popularity little to be envied. I made the best improvement of
it, as I then thought, that lay in my power--by writing a satire upon
myself.

"I continued shepherd at Deloraine two years, and then went in the same
capacity to the late Mr Knox of Todrigg; and if at the former place I
had been well and happy, here I was still more so. His son William, the
poet of 'The Lonely Hearth,' paid me much friendly attention. He
commended my verses, and augured my success as one of the song-writers
of my native land. In those days, I did not write with the most remote
view to publication. My aim did not extend beyond the gratification of
hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or lass, as time and place might
favour. And when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home
from the hill, and 'the kye were in the loan,' I did hear this much, I
thought, no doubt, that

    "'The swell and fall of these wild tones
    Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.'

"William Crozier, author of 'The Cottage Muse,' was also my neighbour
and friend at Todrigg, during the summer part of the year; and even at
this hour I feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of
thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial sunshine
of those departed days. I rejoice to dwell upon those remote and
rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years
of life was so continually cast; few may well conceive how distinctly I
can recall them. Memory, which seems often to constitute the mind
itself, more, perhaps, than any other faculty, can set them so brightly
before me, as if they were painted on a dark midnight sky with brushes
dipped in the essence of living light. To appreciate thoroughly the
grandeur of the mountain solitudes, it is necessary to have dwelt among
the scenes, and to have looked upon them at every season of the
ever-changing year. They are fresh with solemn beauty, when bathed in
the deep dews of a summer morning; or in autumn, if you have attained to
the border of the mystery which has overhung your path, and therefore to
a station high enough for the survey, all that meets the eye shall be as
a dream of poetry itself. The deep folds of white vapour fill up glen
and hollow, till the summit of the mountains, near and far away--far as
sight itself can penetrate--are only seen tinged with the early radiance
of the sun, the whole so combined as to appear a limitless plain of
variegated marble, peaceful as heaven, and solemnly serene as eternity.
What Winter writes with his frozen finger I need not state. When the
venerable old man, Gladstanes, perished among the stormy blasts of these
wilds, I was one of about threescore of men who for three days traversed
them in search of the dead. Then was the scenery of the mountains
impressive, much beyond what can well be spoken. The bridal that loses
the bride through some wayward freak of the fair may be sad enough; so
also the train, in its dark array, that conveys the familiar friend to
the chamber where the light of nature cannot come. But in this latter
case, the hearts that still beat, necessarily know that their part is
resignation, and suspense and anxiety mingle not in the mood of the
living, as it relates to the dead; but otherwise is it with those who
seem already constituting the funeral train of one who should have
been--yet who is not there to be buried.

    "'The feeling is nameless that makes us unglad,
      And a strange, wild dismayment it brings;
    Which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad
      Desolation of men and of things.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "'The hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way,
      When his aim and his pathway were lost;
    And effort has then oft too much of dismay
      To pay well the toil it may cost.
    If fate has its privilege, death has its power,
      And is fearful where'er it may fall,
    But worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor,
    Where all that approaches portends to devour,
      Nor fixes till first it appal.

    "'No mercy obtains in the tempests that rave,
      By the sky-frozen elements fed,
    And there comes no hand that is willing to save,
      And soothe, till the spirit be fled;
    But the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break
      O'er the frail in the solitude cast,
    And howl in their strength and impatience to take
    Their course to commix with the roar of the lake
      Where it flings forth its foam on the blast.

    "'Lo! 'neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak,
      Another of Adam lay lone,
    Where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak,
      By the strife of the tempest o'erthrown.
    No raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled,
      If there he had yet come abroad,
    And the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed,
    Which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead
      When the spirit return'd to its God.'

       *       *       *       *       *

These are a few out of many more lines written on this subject, which at
the time was so deeply interesting to mind and heart."

Mr Riddell here states that his poetical style of composition about this
period underwent a considerable change. He laid aside his wayward wit
for serious sentiment, an improvement which he ascribes to his
admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young Knox.

"My fortune in life," he proceeds, "had not placed me within the reach
of a library, and I had read almost none; and although I had attempted
to write, I merely followed the course which instinct pointed out. Need
I state further, that if in these days I employed my mind and pen among
the mountains as much as possible, my thoughts also often continued to
pursue the same practice, even when among others, by the 'farmer's
ingle.' I retired to rest when others retired, but if not outworn by
matters of extra toil, the ardour of thought, through love of the poet's
undying art, would, night after night for many hours, debar the inroads
of sleep. The number of schools which I have particularised as having
attended may occasion some surprise at the deficiency of my scholarship.
For this, various reasons are assignable, all of which, however, hinge
upon these two formidable obstacles--the inconveniency of local
position, and the thoughtless inattention of youth. In remote country
places, long and rough ways, conjoined not unfrequently with wild
weather, require that children, before they can enter school, be pretty
well grown up; consequently, they quit it the sooner. They are often
useful at home in the summer season, or circumstances may destine them
to hire away. Among these inconveniences, one serious drawback is, that
the little education they do get is rarely obtained continuously, and
regular progress is interrupted. Much of what has been gained is lost
during the intervals of non-attendance, and every new return to the book
is little else than a new beginning. So was it with me. At the time when
my father hired a teacher into his house, it was for what is termed the
winter quarter, and I was then somewhat too young to be tied down to the
regular routine of school discipline; and if older when boarded away,
the other obstruction to salutary progress began to operate grievously
against me. I acquired bit by bit the common education--reading,
writing, and arithmetic. So far as I remember, grammar was not much
taught at any of these schools, and the spelling of words was very
nearly as little attended to as the meaning which they are appointed to
convey was explained or sought after.

"But the non-understanding of words is less to be marvelled at than that
a man should not understand himself. At this hour I cannot conceive how
I should have been so recklessly careless about learning and books when
at school, and yet so soon after leaving it seriously inclined towards
them. I see little else for it than to suppose that boys who are bred
where they have no companions are prone to make the most of
companionship when once attained to. And then, in regard to books, as of
these I rarely got more than what might serve as a whet to the appetite,
I might have the desire of those whose longings after what they would
obtain are increased by the difficulties which interpose between them
and the possession. One book which in school I sometimes got a glance
of, I would have given anything to possess: this was a small volume
entitled, 'The Three Hundred Animals.'

"I cannot forbear mentioning that, when at Deloraine, I was greatly
advantaged by an old woman, called Mary Hogg, whose cottage stood on an
isolated corner of the lands on which my flock pastured. Her husband had
been a shepherd, who, many years previous to this period, perished in a
snow-storm. In her youth she had opportunities of reading history, and
other literature, and she did not only remember well what she had read,
but could give a distinct and interesting account of it. In going my
wonted rounds, few days there were on which I did not call and listen to
her intelligent conversation. She was a singularly good woman--a sincere
Christian; and the books which she lent me were generally of a religious
kind, such as the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the 'Holy War;' but here I
also discovered a romance, the first which I had ever seen. It was
printed in the Gothic letter, and entitled 'Prissimus, the Renowned
Prince of Bohemia.' Particular scenes and characters in 'Ivanhoe'
reminded me strikingly of those which I had formerly met with in this
old book of black print. And I must mention that few books interested me
more than 'Bailey's Dictionary.' Day after day I bore it to the
mountains, and I have an impression that it was a more comprehensive
edition of the work than I have ever since been able to meet with.

"At Todrigg my reading was extended; and having begun more correctly to
appreciate what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes
entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a
regular education. The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had
hitherto bridled my ambition; but having herded as a regular shepherd
nearly three years, during which I had no occasion to spend much of my
income, my prospects behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in
this year that the severest trial which had yet crossed my path had to
be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the
same time, instead of subduing my secret aim, the event rather
strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects
added something considerable to my own gainings; and, resigning my
situation, I bade farewell to the crook and plaid. I went to Biggar, in
Clydesdale, where I knew the schoolmaster was an approved classical
scholar. Besides, my Glencotha reminiscences tended to render me partial
to this part of the world, and in the village I had friends with whom I
could suitably reside. The better to insure attention to what I was
undertaking, I judged it best to attend school during the usual hours. A
learner was already there as old in years, and nearly as stout in form,
as myself, so that I escaped from the wonderment which usually attaches
to singularity much more comfortably than I anticipated. There were also
two others in the school, who had formerly gone a considerable way in
the path of classic lore, and had turned aside, but who, now repenting
of their apostasy, returned to their former faith. These were likewise
well grown up, and I may state that they are now both eminent as
scholars and public men. The individual first mentioned and I sat in the
master's desk, which he rarely, if ever, occupied himself; and although
we were diligent upon the whole, yet occasionally our industry and
conduct as learners were far from deserving approbation. To me the
confinement was frequently irksome and oppressive, especially when the
days were bright with the beauty of sunshine. There were ways, woods,
and even wilds, not far apart from the village, which seemed eternally
wooing the step to retirement, and the mind to solitary contemplation.
Some verses written in this school have been preserved, which will
convey an idea of the cast of feeling which produced them:--

    "Discontented and uncheery,
    Of this noise and learning weary,
    Half my mind, to madness driven,
    Woos the lore by nature given;
    'Mong fair fields and flowing fountains,
    Lonely glens and lofty mountains,
    Charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur,
    Lately wont was I to wander,
    Wheresoever fancy led me,
    Came no barrier to impede me;
    Still from early morn till even,
    In the light of earth and heaven,
    Musing on whatever graces,
    Livelier scenes or lonelier places,
    Till a nameless pleasure found me
    Living, like a dream, around me,--
    How, then, may I be contented,
    Thus confined and thus tormented!

    "'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather
    To be roaming through the heather;
    And where flow'd the stream so glassy,
    'Mong its flowers and margins mossy,
    Where the flocks at noon their path on
    Came to feed by birk and hawthorn;
    Or upon the mountain lofty,
    Seated where the wind blew softly,
    With my faithful friend beside me,
    And my plaid from sun to hide me,
    And the volume oped before me,
    I would trace the minstrel's story,
    Or mine own wild harp awaken,
    'Mid the deep green glens of braken,
    Free and fearlessly revealing
    All the soul of native feeling.

    "''Stead of that eternal humming,
    To the ear for ever coming--
    Humming of these thoughtless beings,
    In their restless pranks and pleaings;
    And the sore-provoked preceptor
    Roaring, "Silence!"--O'er each quarter
    Silence comes, as o'er the valley,
    Where all rioted so gaily,
    When the sudden bursting thunder
    Overpowers with awe and wonder--
    Till again begins the fuss--
    'Master, Jock's aye nippin' us!'
    I could hear the fountains flowing,
    Where the light hill-breeze was blowing,
    And the wild-wing'd plover wailing,
    Round the brow of heaven sailing;
    Bleating flocks and skylarks singing,
    Echo still to echo ringing--
    Sounds still, still so wont to waken
    That no note of them is taken,
    Yet which seem to lend assistance
    To the blessing of existence.

    "'Who shall trow thee wise or witty,
    Lore of "the Eternal City,"
    Or derive delight and pleasure
    From the blood-stain'd deeds of Cæsar,
    Thus bewildering his senses
    'Mong these cases, moods, and tenses?
    Still the wrong-placed words arranging,
    Ever in their finals changing;
    Out and in with hic and hockings,
    Like a loom for working stockings.
    Latin lords and Grecian heroes--
    Oh, ye gods, in mercy spare us!
    How may mortals be contented,
    Thus confined and thus tormented!'

"My teacher, the late Richard Scott, was an accurate classical scholar,
which perhaps accounts for his being, unlike some others of his
profession, free from pedantry. He was kind-hearted and somewhat
disposed to indolence, loving more to converse with one of my years than
to instruct him in languages. He had seen a good deal of the world and
its ways, and I learned much from him besides Greek and Latin. We were
great friends and companions, and rarely separate when both of us were
unengaged otherwise.

"I bore aloof from making many acquaintances; yet, ere long, I became
pretty extensively acquainted with the people of the place. It went
abroad that I was a bard from the mountains, and the rumour affixed to
me a popularity which I did not enjoy. A party of young men in the
village had prepared themselves to act 'the Douglas Tragedy,' and wished
a song, which was to be sung between this and the farce. The air was of
their own fixing, and which, in itself, was wild and beautiful; but,
unfortunately, like many others of our national airs possessed of these
qualities, it was of a measure such as rendered it difficult to write
words for. Since precluded from introducing poetic sentiment, I
substituted a dramatic plot, and being well sung by alternate voices,
the song was well received, and so my fame was enhanced.

"It was about this time that I wrote 'The Crook and Plaid'--not by
request, but with the intention of supplanting a song, I think of
English origin, called 'The Plough-boy,' and of a somewhat questionable
character. 'The Crook and Plaid' accomplished the end intended, and soon
became popular throughout the land. So soon as I got a glimpse of the
Roman language, I began to make satisfactory progress in its
acquisition. But I daily wrote more or less in my old way--now also
embracing in my attempts prose as well as verse. I wrote a Border
Romance. This was more strongly than correctly expressed. Hogg, who took
the trouble of reading it, gave me his opinion, by saying that there
were more rawness and more genius in it than in any work he had seen.
It, sometime afterwards, had also the honour of being read--for I never
offered it for publication--by one who felt much interest in the
characters and plot--Professor Wilson's lady--who, alas! went too early
to where he himself also now is; lost, though not to fond recollection,
yet to love and life below. I contributed some papers to the _Clydesdale
Magazine_, and I sent a sort of poetic tale to the editor, telling him
to do with it whatever he might think proper. He published it
anonymously, and it was sold about Clydesdale.

"My intention had been to qualify myself for the University, and,
perhaps in regard to Latin and Greek acquirements, I might have
proceeded thither earlier than I ventured to do; but having now made
myself master of my more immediate tasks, I took more liberty. A
gentleman, who, on coming home after having made his fortune abroad,
took up his residence at Biggar. I had, in these days, an aversion to
coming into contact with rich strangers, and although he lived with a
family which I was accustomed to visit, I bore aloof from being
introduced to him. But he came to me one day on the hill of
Bizzie-berry, and frankly told me that he wished to be acquainted with
me, and therefore had taken the liberty of introducing himself. I found
excuse for not dining with him on that day, but not so the next, nor for
many days afterwards. He was intellectual--and his intelligence was only
surpassed by his generosity. He gave me to understand that his horse was
as much at my service as his own; and one learned, by and by, to keep
all wishes and wants as much out of view as possible, in case that they
should be attended to when you yourself had forgotten them. When he
began to rally me about my limited knowledge of the world, I knew that
some excursion was in contemplation. We, on one occasion, rode down the
Clyde, finding out, so far as we might, all things, both natural and
artificial, worthy of being seen; and when at Greenock, he was anxious
that we should have gone into the Highlands, but I resisted; for
although not so much as a shade of the expenses was allowed to fall on
me, I felt only the more ashamed of the extent of them.

"I had become acquainted with a number of people whom I delighted to
visit occasionally; one family in particular, who lived amid the beauty
of 'the wild glen sae green.' The song now widely known by this name I
wrote for a member of this delightful family, who at that time herded
one of the _hirsels_ of his father's flocks on 'the heathy hill.' With
the greater number of persons in the district possessing literary tastes
I became more or less intimate. The schoolmasters I found friendly and
obliging; one of these, in particular (now holding a higher office in
the same locality), I often visited. His high poetic taste convinced me
more and more of the value of mental culture, and tended to subdue me
from those more rugged modes of expression in which I took a pride in
conveying my conceptions. With this interesting friend I sometimes took
excursions into rural regions more or less remote, and once we journeyed
to the south, when I had the pleasure of introducing him to the Ettrick
Shepherd. But of my acquaintances, I valued few more than my modest and
poetic friend, the late James Brown of Symington.[2] Though humble in
station, he was high in virtuous worth. His mind, imbued with and
regulated by sound religious and moral principle, was as ingenious and
powerful as his heart was 'leal, warm, and kind.'

"Entering the University of Edinburgh, I took for the first session the
Greek and Latin classes. Attending them regularly, I performed the
incumbent exercises much after the manner that others did--only, as I
have always understood it to be a rare thing with the late Mr Dunbar,
the Greek Professor, to give much praise to anything in the shape of
poetry, I may mention that marked merit was ascribed to me in his class
for a poetical translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. I had laid
the translation on his desk, in an anonymous state, one day before the
assembling of the class. He read it and praised it, expressing at the
same time his anxiety to know who was the translator; but the translator
having intended not to acknowledge it, kept quiet. He returned to it,
and praising it anew, expressed still more earnestly his desire to know
the author; and so I made myself known, as all _great unknowns_ I think,
with the exception of Junius, are sooner or later destined to do.

"Of the philosophical classes, those that I liked best were the Logic
and Moral Philosophy--particularly the latter. I have often thought that
it is desirable, could it be possibly found practicable, to have all the
teachers of the higher departments of education not merely of high
scholastic acquirements, but of acknowledged genius. Youth reveres
genius, and delights to be influenced by it; heart and spirit are kept
awake and refreshed by it, and everything connected with its
forthgivings is rendered doubly memorable. It fixes, in a certain sense,
the limit of expectation, and the prevailing sentiment is--we are under
the tuition of the highest among those on earth who teach; if we do not
profit here, we may not hope to do so elsewhere. These remarks I make
with a particular reference to the late Professor Wilson, under the
influence of whose genius and generous warmth of heart many have felt as
I was wont to feel. If it brings hope and gladness to love and esteem
the living, it also yields a satisfaction, though mingled with regret,
to venerate the dead; and now that he is no more, I cannot forbear
recording how he treated a man from the mountains who possessed no
previous claim upon his attention. I had no introduction to him, but he
said that he had heard of me, and would accept of no fee for his class
when I joined it; at least he would not do so, he said, till I should be
able to inform him whether or not I had been pleased with his lectures.
But it proved all the same in this respect at the close as it was at the
commencement of the session. He invited me frequently to his house as a
friend, when other friends were to meet him there, besides requesting me
to come and see him and his family whenever I could make it convenient.
He said that his servant John was very perverse, and would be sure to
drive me by like all others, if he possibly could; so he gave me a
watchword, which he thought John, perverse as he was, would not venture
to resist. I thus became possessed of a privilege of which I did not
fail to avail myself frequently--a privilege which might well have been
gratifying to such as were much less enthusiastic with regard to
literary men and things than I was. To share in the conversation of
those possessed of high literary taste and talent, and, above all, of
poetic genius, is the highest enjoyment afforded by society; and if it
be thus gratifying, it is almost unnecessary to add that it is also
advantageous in no ordinary degree, if, indeed, properly appreciated
and improved. Any one who ever met the late Professor in the midst of
his own happy family, constituted as it was when I had this pleasure,
was not likely soon to forget a scene wherein so much genius, kindness,
loveliness, and worth were blended. If the world does not think with a
deep and undying regret of what once adorned it, and it has now lost,
through the intervention of those shadows which no morning but the
eternal one can remove, I am one, at least, who in this respect cannot
follow its example.

"Edinburgh, with its 'palaces and towers,' and its many crowded ways,
was at first strangely new to me, being as different, in almost all
respects, to what I had been accustomed as it might seem possible for
contrariety to make earthly things. Though I had friends in it, and
therefore was not solitary, yet its tendency, like that of the noisy and
restless sea, was to render me melancholy. Some features which the
congregated condition of mankind exhibited penetrated my heart with
something like actual dismay. I had seen nothing of the sort, nor yet
even so much as a semblance of it, and therefore I had no idea that
there existed such a miserable shred of degradation, for example, as a
cinder-woman--desolate and dirty as her employment--bowed down--a shadow
among shadows--busily prone, beneath the sheety night sky, to find out
and fasten upon the crumb, whose pilgrimage certainly had not improved
it since falling from the rich man's table. Compassion, though not
naturally so, becomes painful when entertained towards those whom we
believe labouring under suffering which we fain would but cannot
alleviate.

"I had enough of curiosity for wishing to see all those things which
others spoke of, and characterised as worthy of being seen; but I
contented myself meanwhile with a survey of the city's external
attributes. In a week or two, however, my friend A. F. Harrower,
formerly mentioned, having come into town from Clydesdale, took pleasure
in finding out whatever could interest or gratify me, and of conveying
me thither. With very few exceptions, every forenoon he called at my
lodgings, leaving a note requesting me to meet him at some specified
time and place. I sometimes sent apologies, and at other times went
personally to apologise; but neither of these methods answered well.
Through his persevering attentions towards me, I met with much agreeable
society, and saw much above as well as somewhat below the earth, which I
might never otherwise have seen. In illustration of the latter fact, I
may state that, having gone to London, he returned with two Englishmen,
when he invited me to assist them in exploring the battle-field of
Pinkie. We terminated our excursion by descending one of Sir John Hope's
coal-pits. These humorous and frank English associates amused themselves
by bantering my friend and myself about the chastisement which Scotland
received from the sister kingdom at Pinkie. As did the young rustic
countryman--or, at least, was admonished to do--so did I. When going
away to reside in England, he asked his father if he had any advice to
give him. 'Nane, Jock, nane but this,' he said; 'dinna forget to avenge
the battle o' Pinkie on them.' Ere I slept I wrote, in support of our
native land, the song--'Ours is the land of gallant hearts;' and thus,
in my own way, 'avenged the battle of Pinkie.'

"One of two other friends with whom I delighted to associate was R. B.,
an early school companion, who, having left the mountains earlier than I
did, had now been a number of years in Edinburgh. Of excellent head and
generous heart, he loved the wild, green, and deep solitudes of nature.
The other--G. M'D.--was of powerful and bold intellect, and remarkable
for a retentive memory. Each of us, partial to those regions where
nature strives to maintain her own undisturbed dominion, on all holidays
hied away from the city, to the woodland and mountainous haunts, or the
loneliness of the least frequented shores of the sea. The spirit of our
philosophy varied much--sometimes profound and solemn, and sometimes
humorous; but still we philosophised, wandering on. They were members of
a literary society which met once a week, and which I joined. My
propensity to study character and note its varieties was here afforded a
field opening close upon me; but I was also much profited by performing
my part in carrying forward the business of the institution. During all
the sessions that I attended the University, but especially as these
advanced toward their termination, I entered into society beyond that
which might be regarded as professionally literary. I had an idea then,
as I still have, that, in every process of improvement, care should be
taken that one department of our nature is not cultivated to the neglect
of another. There are two departments--the intellectual and the
moral;--the one implying all that is rational, the other comprising
whatever pertains to feeling and passion, or, more simply, there are the
head and the heart; and if the intellect is to be cultivated, the heart
is not to be allowed to run into wild waste, nor to sink into systematic
apathy. Lore-lighted pages and unremitting abstract studies will make a
man learned; but knowledge is not wisdom; and to know much is not so
desirable, because it is not so beneficial, either to ourselves or
others, as to understand, through the more generous and active
sympathies of our nature, how the information which we possess may be
best applied to useful purposes. This we shall not well know, if the
head be allowed or encouraged to leave the heart behind. If we forget
society it will forget us, and, through this estrangement, a sympathetic
knowledge of human nature may be lost. Thus, in the haunts of seclusion
and solitary thought our acquirements may only prove availing to
ourselves as matters of self-gratification. The benevolent affections,
which ought not merely to be allowed, but taught to expand, may thus not
only be permitted but encouraged to contract, and the exercise of that
studious ingenuity, which perhaps leads the world to admire the
achievements of learning, thus deceive us into a state of existence
little better than cold selfishness itself. Sir Isaac Newton, who soared
so high and travelled so far on the wing of abstract thought, gathering
light from the stars that he might convey it in intelligible shape to
the world, seems to have thought, high as the employment was, that it
was not good, either for the heart or mind of man, to be always away
from that intercourse with humanity and its affairs which is calculated
to awaken and sustain the sympathies of life; and therefore turned to
the contemplation of Him who was _meek and lowly_. And no countenance
has been afforded to monks and hermits who retired from the world,
though it even was to spend their lives in meditation and prayer; for
Heaven had warned man, at an early date, not to withhold the
compassionate feelings of the heart, and the helping-hand, from any in
whom he recognised the attributes of a common nature, saying to him,
'See that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh.'

"My last year's attendance at the College Philosophical Classes was at
St Andrews. I had a craving to acquaint myself with a city noted in
story, and I could not, under the canopy of my native sky, have planted
the step among scenes more closely interwoven with past national
transactions, or fraught with more interesting associations. In
attending the Natural Philosophy Class, not being proficient in
mathematic lore, I derived less advantage than had otherwise been the
case with me. Yet I did not sit wholly in the shade, notwithstanding
that the light which shone upon me did not come from that which Campbell
says yielded 'the lyre of Heaven another string.' A man almost always
finds some excuse for deficiency; and I have one involving a philosophy
which I think few will be disposed to do otherwise than acquiesce
in--namely, that it is a happy arrangement in the creation and history
of man, that all minds are not so constituted as to have the same
predilections, or to follow the same bent. Considering that I had
started at a rather late hour of life to travel in the paths of
learning, and having so many things, interesting and important, to
attend to by the way, it was perhaps less remarkable that I should be
one who 'neither kenn'd nor cared' much about lines that had no breadth,
and points which were without either breadth or length, than that I
should have felt gratified to find on my arrival some of my simple
strains sung in a city famed for its scientific acquirements.

"The ruins which intermingle with the scenery and happy homes of St
Andrews, like gray hairs among those of another hue, rendered venerable
the general aspect of the place. But I did not feel only the city
interesting, but the whole of Fifeshire. By excursions made on the
monthly holidays then as well as subsequently, when in after-years I
returned to visit friends in the royal realm, I acquainted myself with a
goodly number of those haunts and scenes which history and tradition
have rendered attractive. A land, however, or any department of it,
whatever may be its other advantages, is most to be valued in respect of
the intelligence or worth of its inhabitants. And if so, then I am proud
to aver that in Fife I came to possess many intelligent and excellent
friends. Many of these have gone to another land--'the land o' the
leal,' leaving the places which now know them no more, the more
regretfully endeared to recollection. Of those friends who survive, I
cannot forbear an especial mention of one, who is now a professor in the
college in which he was then only a student. A man cannot be truly great
unless he also be good, and I do not alone value him on the colder and
statelier eminence of high intellectual powers and scientific
acquirements, but also, if not much rather, for his generous worth and
his benevolent feeling. My friend is one in whom these qualities are
combined, and as I sincerely think, I will likewise freely say, that
those will assuredly find a time, sooner or later, greatly to rejoice,
whose fate has been so favourable as to place them under the range and
influence of his tuition.

"I studied at St Andrews College under the late Dr Jackson, who was an
eminent philosopher and friendly man; also under Mr Duncan, of the
Mathematical Chair, whom I regarded as a personification of unworldly
simplicity, clothed in high and pure thought; and I regularly attended,
though not enrolled as a regular student, the Moral Philosophy Class of
Dr Chalmers. Returning to Edinburgh and its university, I became
acquainted, through my friend and countryman, Robert Hogg, with R. A.
Smith, who was desirous that I should assist him with the works in which
he was engaged, particularly 'The Irish Minstrel,' and 'Select
Melodies.' Smith was a man of modest worth and superior intelligence;
peculiarly delicate in his taste and feeling in everything pertaining to
lyric poetry as well as music; his criticisms were strict, and, as some
thought, unnecessarily minute. Diffident and retiring, he was not got
acquainted with at once, but when he gave his confidence, he was found a
pleasant companion and warm-hearted friend. If, as he had sought my
acquaintance, I might have expected more frankness on our meeting, I
soon became convinced that his shyer cast arose alone from excess of
modesty, combined with a remarkable sensitiveness of feeling. Proudly
honourable, he seemed more susceptible of the influences of all sorts
that affect life than any man I ever knew; and, indeed, a little
acquaintance with him was only required to shew that his harp was strung
too delicately for standing long the tear and wear of this world. He had
done much for Scottish melody, both by fixing the old airs in as pure a
state as possible, and by adding to the vast number of these national
treasures some exquisite airs of his own. For a number of the airs in
the works just mentioned, but particularly in the 'Select Melodies,' he
had experienced difficulty in procuring suitable words, owing chiefly to
the crampness of the measures--a serious drawback which appears to
pervade, more or less, the sweetest melodies of other nations as well as
those of our own. A number of these I supplied as well as I could.

"About this time the native taste for Scottish song in city society
seemed nearly, if not altogether lost, and a kind of songs, such as
'I've been roaming,' 'I'd be a butterfly,' 'Buy a broom,' 'Cherry-ripe,'
&c. (in which if the head contrived to find a meaning, it was still such
as the heart could understand nothing about), seemed alone to be
popular, and to prevail. R. A. Smith disliked this state of things, but,
perhaps, few more so than Mr P. M'Leod, who gave a most splendid
evidence of his taste in his 'Original National Melodies.' Both Smith
and M'Leod were very particular about the quality of the poetry which
they honoured with their music. M'Leod was especially careful in this
respect. He loved the lay of lofty and undaunted feeling as well as of
love and friendship; for his genius is of a manly tone, and has a bold
and liberal flow. And popular as some of the effusions in his work have
become, such as 'Oh! why left I my hame?' and 'Scotland yet!' many
others of them, I am convinced, will yet be popular likewise. When the
intelligence of due appreciation draws towards them, it will take them
up and delight to fling them upon the breezes that blow over the hills
and glens, and among the haunts and homes of the isle of unconquerable
men. To Mr M'Leod's 'National Melodies' I contributed a number of songs.
In the composition of these I found it desirable to lay aside, in some
considerable degree, my pastoral phraseology, for, as conveyed in such
productions, I observed that city society cared little about rural
scenery and sentiment. It was different with my kind and gifted friend
Professor Wilson. He was wont to say that he would not have given the
education, as he was pleased to term it, which I had received afar in
the green bosom of mountain solitude, and among the haunts and homes of
the shepherd--meaning the thing as applicable to poetry--for all that he
had received at colleges. Wilson had introduced my song, 'When the glen
all is still,' into the _Noctes_, and La Sapio composed music for it;
and not only was it sung in Drury-lane, but published in a sheet as the
production of a real shepherd; yet it did not become popular in city
life. In the country it had been popular previous to this, where it is
so still, and where no effort whatever had been made to introduce it.

"About the time when I had concluded the whole of my college course, the
'Songs of the Ark,'[3] were published by Blackwood. These, as published,
are not what they were at first, and were intended only to be short
songs of a sacred nature, unconnected by intervening narrative, for
which R. A. Smith wished to compose music. Unfortunately, his other
manifold engagements never permitted him to carry his intention into
practice; and seeing no likelihood of any decrease of these engagements,
I gave scope to my thoughts on the subject, and the work became what it
now is. But I ought to mention that this was not my first poetic
publication in palpable shape. Some years previously I published
stanzas, or a monody, on the death of Lord Byron. I had all along
thought much, and with something like mysterious awe, upon the eccentric
temperament, character and history of that great poet, and the tidings
which told the event of his demise impressed me deeply. Being in the
country, and remote from those who could exchange thoughts with me on
the occurrence, I resorted to writing. That which I advanced was much
mixed up with the result, if I may not say of former experience, yet of
former reflection, for I had entertained many conjectures concerning
what this powerful personage would or might yet do; and, indeed, his
wilful waywardness, together with the misery which he represented as
continually haunting him, constituted an impressive advertisement to the
world, and served to keep human attention awake towards him.

"Those who write because it brings a relief to feeling, will write
rapidly: likely, too, they will write with energy, because not only the
head but also the heart is engaged. 'The Monody,' which is of a goodly
length, I finished in a few days; and though I felt a desire of having
it published, yet it lay over for a time, till, being in Edinburgh, a
friend shewed it to Dr Robert Anderson. I had been well satisfied with
the result, had the production accomplished nothing more than procured
me, as it did, the friendly acquaintance of this excellent, venerable
man. He knew more of the minutiæ of literature, together with the
character and habits of the literary men of his day, and of other days
also, than any I had then or have since met with; and he seemed to take
great pleasure in communicating his knowledge to others. He thought well
of 'The Monody,' and warmly advised me to publish it. It was published
accordingly by Mr John Anderson, bookseller, North Bridge, Edinburgh.

"Some of the reviewers, in regard to the 'Songs of the Ark,' seemed to
think that a sufficiency of eastern scenery did not obtain in them.
Doubtless this was correct; but I remark, that if my object in the
undertaking had been to delineate scenery, I would not have turned my
attention to the East, the scenes of which I never saw. Human nature
being radically the same everywhere, a man, through the sympathies of
that nature, can know to a certain extent what are likely to be the
thoughts and feelings of his fellow-kind in any particular
circumstances--therefore he has data upon which he can venture to give a
representation of them; but it is very different from this in regard to
topographical phenomena. It was therefore not the natural, but, if I may
so call it, the moral scenery in which I was interested, more
particularly since the whole scene of nature here below was, shortly
after the period at which the poem commences, to become a blank of
desolate uniformity, as overwhelmed beneath a waste of waters.

"At the risk of incurring the charge of vanity, I would venture to
adduce one or two of the favourable opinions entertained in regard to
some of the miscellaneous pieces which went to make up the volume of the
'Songs of the Ark.' Of the piece entitled 'Apathy,' Allan Cunningham
thus wrote:--'Although sufficiently distressful, it is a very bold and
original poem, such as few men, except Byron, would have conceived or
could have written.' Motherwell said of the 'Sea-gray Man,' that it was
'the best of all modern ballads.' This ballad, shortly after I had
composed it, I repeated to the Ettrick Shepherd walking on the banks of
the Yarrow, and he was fully more pleased with it than with anything of
mine I had made him acquainted with. He was wont to call me his
'assistant and successor;' and although this was done humorously, it yet
seemed to furnish him with a privilege on which he proceeded to approve
or disapprove very frankly, that in either case I might profit by his
remarks. He was pleased especially with the half mysterious way in which
I contrived to get quit of the poor old man at last. This, indeed, was a
contrivance; but the idea of the rest of the ballad was taken from an
old man, who had once been a sailor, and who was wont to come to my
mother's, in the rounds which he took in pursuit of charity at regular
periods of the year, so that we called him her pensioner.

"The summer vacations of college years I passed in the country,
sometimes residing with my mother, and eldest brother, at a small farm
which he had taken at the foot of the Lammermuir hills, in East-Lothian,
called Brookside, and sometimes, when I wished a variety, with another
brother, at Dryden, in Selkirkshire. At both places I had enough of
time, not only for study, but also for what I may call amusement. The
latter consisted in various literary projects which I entered upon, but
particularly those of a poetic kind, and the writing of letters to
friends with whom I regularly, and I may say also copiously
corresponded; for in these we did not merely express immediate thoughts
and feelings of a more personal nature, but remarked with vigorous
frankness upon many standard affairs of this scene of things. To this
general rule of the manner of my life at this time, however, I must
mention an exception. A college companion and I, thinking to advantage
ourselves, and perhaps others, took a school at Fisherrow. The
speculation in the end, as to money matters, served us nothing. It was
easier to get scholars than to get much if anything for teaching them.
Yet neither was the former, in some respects, so easy as might have been
expected. The offspring of man, in that locality, may be regarded as in
some measure amphibious. Boys and girls equally, if not already in the
sea, were, like young turtles, sure to be pointing towards it with an
instinct too intense to err. I never met, indeed, with a race of beings
believed, or even suspected to be rational, that, provided immediate
impulses and inclinations could be gratified, cared so thoroughly little
for consequences. On warm summer days, when we caused the school door to
stand open, it is not easy to say how much of intense interest this
simple circumstance drew towards it. The squint of the unsettled eye was
on the door, out at which the heart and all its inheritance was off and
away long previously, and the more than ordinarily propitious moment for
the limbs following was only as yet not arrived. When that moment came,
off went one, followed by another; and down the narrow and dark lanes
of sooty houses. As well might the steps have proposed to pursue meteors
playing at hide-and-seek among the clouds of a midnight sky that the
tempest was troubling. Nevertheless, Colin Bell, who by virtue of his
ceaseless stir in the exercise of his heathen-god-like abilities, had
constituted himself captain of the detective band, would be up and at
hand immediately, and would say 'Master--sir, Young an' me will bring
them, sir, if ye'll let's.' It was just as good to 'let' as to hinder,
for, for others to be out thus, and he in, seemed to be an advantage
gained over Colin to which he could never be rightly reconciled. He was
bold and frank, and full of expedients in cases of emergency; especially
he appeared capable of rendering more reasons for an error in his
conduct than one could well have imagined could have been rendered for
anything done in life below. Another drawback in the case was, that one
could never be very seriously angry with him. If more real than
pretended at any time, his broad bright eye and bluff face,
magnificently lifted up, like the sun on frost-work, melted down
displeasure and threatened to betray all the policy depending on it; for
in the main never a bit of ill heart had Colin, though doubtlessly he
had in him, deeply established, a trim of rebellion against education
that seemed ever on the alert, and which repulsed even its portended
approach with a vigour resembling the electric energy of the torpedo.

"As we did not much like this place, we did not remain long in it. I had
meanwhile, however, resources which brought relief. Those friends whose
society I most enjoyed occasionally paid us a visit from Edinburgh; and
in leisure hours I haunted the banks of the Esk, which, with wood, and
especially with wild-roses, are very beautiful around the church of
Inveresk. This beauty was heightened by contrast--for I have ever hated
the scenery of, and the effect produced by, sunny days and dirty
streets. Nor do the scenes where mankind congregate to create bustle,
'dirdum and deray,' often fail of making me more or less melancholy. In
the week of the Musselburgh Races, I only went out one day to toss about
for a few hours in the complicated and unmeaning crowd. I insert the
protest which I entered against it on my return:--

    "'What boots this turmoil
      Of uproar and folly--
    That renders the smile
      Of creation unholy?
    If that which we love
      Is life's best assistant,
    The thought still must rove
      To the dear and the distant.
    Would, then, that I were
      'Mid nature's wild grandeur--
    From this folly afar,
      As I wont was to wander;
    Where the pale cloudlets fly,
      By the soft breezes driven,
    And the mountains on high
      Kiss the azure of heaven.
    Where down the deep glen
      The rivulet is rolling,
    And few, few of men
      Through the solitudes strolling.
    Oh! bliss I could reap,
      When day was returning;
    O'er the wild-flowers asleep,
      'Mong the dews of the morning;
    And there were it joy,
      When the shades of the gloaming,
    With the night's lullaby,
      O'er the world were coming--
    To roam through the brake,
      In the paths long forsaken;
    My hill-harp retake,
      And its warblings awaken.
    The heart is in pain,
      And the mind is in sadness--
    And when comes, oh! when,
      The return of its gladness?
    The forest shall fade
      At the winter's returning,
    And the voice of the shade
      Shall be sorrow and mourning.
    Man's vigour shall fail
      As his locks shall grow hoary,
    And where is the tale
      Of his youth and his glory?
    My life is a dream--
      My fate darkly furl'd;
    I a hermit would seem
      'Mid the crowd of the world.
    Oh! let me be free
      Of these scenes that encumber,
    And enjoy what may be
      Of my days yet to number!'

"I have dwelt at the greater length on these matters, trivial though
they be, in consequence of my non-intention of tracing minutely the
steps and stages of my probationary career. These, with me, I suppose,
were much like what they are and have been with others. My acquaintance
was a little extended with those that inhabit the land, and in some
cases a closer intimacy than mere acquaintance took place, and more
lasting friendships were formed.

"My brother having taken a farm near Teviothead, I left Brookside, and
as all the members of the family were wont to account that in which my
mother lived their home, it of course was mine. But, notwithstanding
that the change brought me almost to the very border of the vale of my
nativity, I regretted to leave Brookside. It was a beautiful and
interesting place, and the remembrance of it is like what Ossian says of
joys that are past--'sweet and mournful to the soul.' I loved the place,
was partial to the peacefulness of its retirement, its solitude, and the
intelligence of its society. I was near the laird's library, and I had a
garden in the glen. The latter was formed that I might gather home to
it, when in musing moods among the mountains, the wild-flowers, in order
to their cultivation, and my having something more of a possessory right
over them. It formed a contrast to the scenery around, and lured to
relaxation. Occasionally 'the lovely of the land' brought, with
industrious delight, plants and flowers, that they might have a share in
adorning it. Even when I was from home it was, upon the whole, well
attended to; for although, according to taste or caprice, changes were
made, yet I readily forgave the annoyances that might attend alteration,
and especially those by the hands that sometimes printed me pleasing
compliments on the clay with the little stones lifted from the walks. If
the things which I have written and given to the world, or may yet give,
continue to be cared for, these details may not be wholly without use,
inasmuch as they will serve to explain frequent allusions which might
otherwise seem introduced at capricious random, or made without a
meaning.

"Shortly after becoming a probationer, I came to reside in this
district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the
preaching-station here died. The people connected with it wished me to
become his successor, which, after some difficulties on their part had
been surmounted, I became. I had other views at the time which were
promising and important; but as there had been untoward disturbances in
the place, owing to the lack of defined rights and privileges, I had it
in my power to become a peacemaker, and, besides, I felt it my duty to
comply with a call which was both cordial and unanimous. I now laid
wholly aside those things which pertain to the pursuits of romantic
literature, and devoted myself to the performance of incumbent duties.
In consequence of no house having been provided for the preacher, and no
one to be obtained but at a very inconvenient distance, I was in this
respect very inconveniently situated. Travelling nine miles to the scene
of my official duties, it was frequently my hap to preach in a very
uncomfortable condition, when, indeed, the wet would be pouring from my
arms on the Bible before me, and oozing over my shoes when the foot was
stirred on the pulpit floor. But, by and by, the Duke of Buccleuch built
a dwelling-house for me, the same which I still occupy."

To the ministerial charge of the then preaching station of Teviothead Mr
Riddell was about to receive ordination, at the united solicitation of
his hearers, when he was suddenly visited with severe affliction. Unable
to discharge pulpit duty for a period of years, the pastoral
superintendence of the district was devolved on another; and on his
recovery, with commendable forbearance, he did not seek to interfere
with the new ecclesiastical arrangement. This procedure was generously
approved of by the Duke of Buccleuch, who conferred upon him the right
to occupy the manse cottage, along with a grant of land, and a small
annuity.

Mr Riddell's autobiography proceeds:--"In the hope of soon obtaining a
permanent and comfortable settlement at Teviothead, I had ventured to
make my own, by marriage, her who had in heart been mine through all my
college years, and who for my sake had, in the course of these, rejected
wealth and high standing in life. The heart that, for the sake of leal
faith and love, could despise wealth and its concomitants, and brave the
risk of embracing comparative poverty, even at its best estate, was not
one likely overmuch to fear that poverty when it appeared, nor flinch
with an altered tone from the position which it had adopted, when it
actually came. This, much rather, fell to my part. It preyed upon my
mind too deeply not to prove injurious in its effects; and it did this
all the more, that the voice of love, true to its own law, had the words
of hope and consolation in it, but never those of complaint. It appeared
the _acmé_ of the severity of fate itself to have lived to be the mean
of placing a heart and mind so rich in disinterested affection on so
wild and waste a scene of trial.

"From an experience of fourteen years, in which there were changes in
almost all things except in the affection which bound two hearts in one,
before the hands were united, it might be expected that I should give
some eminent admonitions concerning the imprudence of men, and
particularly of students, allowing their hearts to become interested in,
and the remembrance of their minds more fraught with the rich beauty of
auburn ringlets than in the untoward confusion, for example, of
irregular Greek verbs; yet I much fear that admonition would be of no
use. If their fate be woven of a texture similar to that of mine, how
can they help it? A man may have an idea that to cling to the shelter
which he has found, and indulge in the sleep that has overtaken him amid
the stormy blasts of the waste mountains, may be little else than
opening for himself the gates of death, yet the toils of the way through
which he has already passed may also have rendered him incapable of
resisting the dangerous rest and repose of his immediate accommodation.
In regard to my own love affairs, I, throughout all these long years
which I have specified, might well have adopted, as the motto of both
mind and heart, these lines--

    "'Oh, poortith cauld and restless love,
      Ye wreck my peace between ye.'

I had, as has already been hinted, a rival, who, if not so devotedly
attached as I, nevertheless was by far too much so for any one who is
destined to love without encouragement. He was as rich in proportion as
I was poor. The gifts of love, called the gifts of friendship, which he
contrived to bestow were costly; mine, as fashioned forth by a higher
hand than that of art, might be equally rich and beautiful in the main,
yet wild-flowers, though yellow as the gold, and though wrapped in
rhymes, are light ware when weighed against the solid material. He, in
personal appearance, manners, and generosity of heart, was one with whom
it was impossible to be acquainted and not to esteem; and another
feature of this affair was, that we were friends, and almost constant
companions for some years. When in the country I had to be with him as
continually as possible; and when I went to the city, it was his wont to
follow me. Here, then, was a web strangely woven by the fingers of a
wayward fate. Feelings were brought into daily exercise which might seem
the least compatible with being brought into contact and maintained in
harmony. And these things, which are strictly true, if set forth in the
contrivances of romance might, or in all likelihood would, be pronounced
unnatural or overstrained. The worth and truth of the heart to which
these fond anxieties related left me no ground to fear for losing that
regard which I valued as 'light and life' itself; but in another way
there reached me a matchless misery, and which haunted me almost as
constantly as my own shadow when the sun shone. Considering the dark
uncertainty of my future prospects in life, that regard I felt it
fearful almost beyond measure even to seek to retain, incurring the
responsibility of marring the fortune of one whom nevertheless I could
not bear the thought of another than myself having the bliss of
rendering blessed. If selfishness be thus seen to exist even in love
itself, I would fain hope that it is of an elevated and peculiar kind,
and not that which grovels, dragging downwards, and therefore justly
deserving of the name. I am the more anxious in regard to this on
account of its being in my own case felt so deeply. It maintained its
ground with more or less firmness at all times, and ultimately
triumphed, in despite of all efforts made to the contrary over the
suggestions of prudence and even the sterner reasonings of the sense of
justice. In times of sadness and melancholy, which, like the preacher's
days of darkness, were many, when hope scarcely lit the gloom of the
heart on which it sat though the band of love was about its brow, I
busied myself in endeavouring to form resolutions to resign my
pretensions to the warmer regard of her who was the object of all this
serious solicitude; but neither she herself, nor time and place seemed,
so far as I could see, disposed in the least to aid me in these efforts
of self-control and denial; and, indeed, even at best, I much suspect
that the resolutions of lovers in such cases are only like the little
dams which the rivulet forms in itself by the frail material of stray
grass-piles, and wild-rose leaves, easily overturned by the next slight
impulse that the wave receives. In a ballad called 'Lanazine,' written
somewhat in the old irregular style, sentiments relating to this matter,
a little--and only a little--disguised, are set forth. The following is
a portion of these records, written from time to time for the sake of
preserving to the memory what might once be deeply interesting to the
heart:--

    "'O who may love with warm true heart,
      And then from love refrain?
    Who say 'tis fit we now should part
      And never meet again?

    "'The heart once broken bleeds no more,
      And a deep sound sleep it hath,
    Where the stir of pain ne'er travels o'er
      The solitude of death.

    "'The moon is set, and the star is gone,
      And the cure, though cruel, cures,
    But the heart left lone must sorrow on,
      While the tie of life endures.

    "'He had nor gold nor land, and trow'd
      Himself unworthy all,
    And sternly in his soul had vow'd
      His fond love to recall.

    "'For her he loved he would not wrong,
      Since fate would ne'er agree,
    And went to part with a sore, sore heart,
      In the bower of the greenwood tree.

    "'The dews were deep, and the leaves were green,
      And the eve was soft and still;
    But strife may reach the vale I ween,
      Though no blasts be on the hill.

    "'The leaves were green, and the dews were deep,
      And the foot was light upon
    The grass and flowers, round the bower asleep;
      But parting there could be none.

    "'He spoke the word with a struggle hard,
      And the fair one forward sprung,
    Nor ever wist, till like one too blest,
      Her arms were round him flung.

    "'For the fair one whom he'd woo'd before,
      While the chill night breezes sigh'd,
    Could wot not why she loved him more
      Than ere she thus was tried.

    "'A red--not weak--came o'er her cheek,
      And she turn'd away anon;
    But since nor he nor she could speak,
      Still parting there could be none.

    "'I could have lived alone for thee,'
      He said; 'So lived could I,'
    She answer'd, while it seem'd as she
      Had wish'd even then to die.

    "'For pale, pale grew her cheek I ween,
      While his arms, around her thrown,
    Left space no plea to come between,
      So parting there could be none.

    "'She cool'd his brow with the heart's own drop,
      While the brain seem'd burning there,
    And her whisper reach'd the realm of hope
      Through the darkness of despair.

    "'She bade his soul be still and free,
      In the light of love to live,
    And soothed it with the sympathy
      Which a woman's heart can give.

    "'And it seem'd more than all before
      E'er given to mortal man,
    The radiance came, and with it bore
      The angel of the dawn.

    "'For ever since Eve her love-bower would weave,
      As the first of all her line,
    No one on earth had had more of worth
      Than the lovely Lanazine.

    "'And if Fortune's frown would o'er him come down,
      Less marvel it may be,
    Since he woo'd all while to make his own
      A lovelier far than she.'

       *       *       *       *       *

"Notwithstanding the ever-living solicitude and sad suffering
constituting the keen and trying experience of many years, as arising in
consequence of this attachment and untoward circumstances, it has
brought more than a sufficient compensation; and were it possible, and
the choice given, I would assuredly follow the same course, and suffer
it all over again, rather than be without 'that treasure of departed
sorrow' that is even now at my right hand as I write these lines.

"'The Christian Politician'[4] was published during the time of my
indisposition. This work I had written at leisure hours, with the hopes
of its being beneficial to the people placed under my care, by giving
them a general and connected view of the principles and philosophical
bearing of the Christian religion. In exhorting them privately, I
discovered that many of them understood that religion better in itself,
than they appeared to comprehend the manner in which it stood in
connexion with the surrounding circumstances of this life. In other
words, they were acquainted with doctrines and principles whose
application and use, whether in regard to thought, or feeling, or daily
practice, they did not so clearly recognise. To remedy this state of
things, I wrote 'The Christian Politician' in a style as simple as the
subjects treated of in it would well admit of, giving it a
conversational cast, instead of systematic arrangement, that it might
be the less forbidding to those for whom it was principally intended.
Being published, however, at the time when, through my indisposition, I
could take no interest in it, it was sent forth in a somewhat more
costly shape than rightly suited the original design; and although
extensively introduced and well received, it was in society of a higher
order than that which it was its object chiefly to benefit.

"My latest publication is a volume of 'Poems and Songs,'[5] published by
Messrs Sutherland and Knox of Edinburgh. 'The Cottagers of Glendale,'
the 'Lay of Life,' and some others of the compositions in this volume,
were written during the period of my convalescence; the songs are, for
the greater part, the production of 'the days of other years.' Many of
the latter had been already sung in every district of the kingdom, but
had been much corrupted in the course of oral transmission. These
wanderers of the hill-harp are now secured in a permanent form."

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.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A flock of sheep.

[2] See Minstrel, vol. iii. p. 186.

[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.




THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

AIR--_"The Posy, or Roslin Castle."_


    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.

    Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share
    The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care,
    And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene,
    While I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

    My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale;
    The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale--
    Our simple tale o' tender love--that tauld sae oft has been
    To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

    It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day,
    To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay;
    But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en,
    Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

    O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss,
    If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this;
    And I could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen,
    For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green!




SCOTIA'S THISTLE.


    Scotia's thistle guards the grave,
    Where repose her dauntless brave;
    Never yet the foot of slave
      Has trode the wilds of Scotia.
    Free from tyrant's dark control--
    Free as waves of ocean roll--
    Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul,
      Still roam the sons of Scotia.

    Scotia's hills of hoary hue,
    Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
    Watering with its dearest dew
      The heathy locks of Scotia.
    Down each green-wood skirted vale,
    Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
    Many a minstrel's melting tale,
      As told of ancient Scotia.

    When the shades of eve invest
    Nature's dew-bespangled breast,
    How supremely man is blest
      In the glens of Scotia!
    There no dark alarms convey
    Aught to chase life's charms away;
    There they live, and live for aye,
      Round the homes of Scotia.

    Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!
    Sound by lee and lonely lake,
    Never shall this heart forsake
      The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
    Others o'er the ocean's foam
    Far to other lands may roam,
    But for ever be my home
      Beneath the sky of Scotia!




THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.


    Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
      The land of lovely forms,
    The island of the mountain-harp,
      The torrents and the storms;
    The land that blooms with freeman's tread,
      And withers with the slave's,
    Where far and deep the green woods spread,
      And wild the thistle waves.

    Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice
      Had told of Fingal's fame,
    Ere ever from their native clime
      The Roman eagles came,
    Our land had given heroes birth,
      That durst the boldest brave,
    And taught above tyrannic dust,
      The thistle tufts to wave.

    What need we say how Wallace fought,
      And how his foemen fell?
    Or how on glorious Bannockburn
      The work went wild and well?
    Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
      The land of honour'd graves,
    Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart
      While yet the thistle waves.




THE YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.


    The gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens,
      Wi' martial steps are bounding,
    And loud and lang, the wilds amang,
      The war pipe's strains are sounding;
    The sky and stream reflect the gleam
      Of broadswords glancing rarely,
    To guard till death the hills of heath
      Against the foes o' Charlie.

    Then let on high the banners fly,
      And hearts and hands rise prouder,
    And wake amain the warlike strain
      Still louder, and still louder;
    For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn
      O'er Appin's mountains early,
    Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon
      The yellow locks o' Charlie.

    While banners wave aboon the brave
      Our foemen vainly gather,
    And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame,
      Our hills and glens o' heather.
    For seas shall swell to wild and fell,
      And crown green Appin fairly,
    Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield
      The rights o' royal Charlie.

    Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud,
      And let the mountains hoary
    Re-echo round the warlike sound
      That speaks of Highland glory.
    For strains sublime, through future time,
      Shall tell the tale unsparely,
    How Scotland's crown was placed aboon
      The yellow locks o' Charlie.




WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN.


    We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us
      The sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green,
    And the visions of life shall be lovely before us
      As the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene.
    The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading,
      And sorrow is deep when the dearest must part,
    But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading
      A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart.

    We'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting
      The peace of our minds in a moment like this,
    Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting,
      Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss.
    We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us;
      We've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all,
    And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us,
      When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral.

    We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness
      Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers,
    And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness
      Shall gather delight from the transport of ours;
    Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish,
      And thine is the star that my guide still shall be,
    Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish
      Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee.




OUR AIN NATIVE LAND.


    Our ain native land! our ain native land!
    There's a charm in the words that we a' understand,
    That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell,
    And makes us love mair what we a' love so well.
    The heart may have feelings it canna conceal,
    As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal,
    But alike he the feelings and thought can command
    Who names but the name o' our ain native land.

    Our ain native land! our ain native land!
    Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand,
    The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea,
    When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free.
    Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld,
    But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld
    As those that unite, and uniting expand,
    When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?

    Our ain native land! our ain native land!
    To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand,
    For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove
    To name but the names that we honour and love.
    The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still,
    And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill,
    And songster and sage can alike still command
    A garland of fame from our ain native land.

    Our ain native land! our ain native land!
    Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand,
    And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen,
    The charms of her maids and the worth of her men.
    Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave,
    And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave,
    Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand,
    The freedom and faith of our ain native land.




THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.


    On! on to the fields, where of old
      The laurels of freedom were won;
    Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold,
    Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd,
      And the deeds by our forefathers done!
    O yet, if there's aught that is dear,
      Let bravery's arm be its shield;
    Let love of our country give power to each spear,
    And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear
      In the light of the weapons we wield.
    Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be
    The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

    Rear! rear the proud trophies once more,
      Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown;
    Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore,
    Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore,
      To the fields where our foemen lie strewn!
    Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease
      Till the garlands of freedom shall wave
    In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace,
    Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece,
      And cool not the lip of a slave;
    Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be
    The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!




FLORA'S LAMENT.


    More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands,
      Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore;
    For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands
      'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more.
    Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee
      Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast;
    Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee,
    But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee,
      That she--only she--should be true to the last?

    The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters,
      That now should have been on the floor of a throne;
    And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters!
      Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own.
    But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken,
      And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam,
    And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken;
    Thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken,
      And more--never more will it yield thee a home.

    Oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger,
      If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be
    Of her who was true in these moments of danger,
      Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee.
    The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow
      A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew,
    But Charlie, ah! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora
    Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow
      Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.




WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_


    When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain,
      When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam,
    And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,
      Inviting her mate to return to his home--
    Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood,
      Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew,
    And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
      And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue.

    Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming,
      And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn;
    The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming,
      And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn.
    No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing,
      Of the past and the future my dreams may not be,
    For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being,
      And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.




SCOTLAND YET.[6]


    Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,--
      Gae, bring it free and fast,--
    For I maun sing another sang
      Ere a' my glee be past;
    And trow ye as I sing, my lads,
      The burden o't shall be
    Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,
      And Scotland's hills for me--
    I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
      Wi' a' the honours three.

    The heath waves wild upon her hills,
      And foaming frae the fells,
    Her fountains sing o' freedom still,
      As they dance down the dells;
    And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,
      That's girded by the sea;
    Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales,
      And Scotland's hills for me--
    I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
      Wi' a' the honours three.

    The thistle wags upon the fields
      Where Wallace bore his blade,
    That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
      To dye her auld gray plaid;
    And looking to the lift, my lads,
      He sang this doughty glee--
    Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
      And Scotland's hills for me--
    I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
      Wi' a' the honours three.

    They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
      Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
    Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
      And Coila's minstrel sang;
    For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
      That ken nae to be free;
    Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
      And Scotland's hills for me--
    I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
      Wi' a' the honours three.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a
separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum,
given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the
monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh.




THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.


    I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary,
      And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade,
    For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story,
      That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid:
    I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me,
      I heard not its anthems the mountains among;
    But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely
      Than others would seem to the earth that belong.

    "Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber
      Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away;
    For the lips of the living the ages shall number
      That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay:
    Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood,
      Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen,
    Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood,
      And the worm only living where rapture hath been.

    "Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking,
      No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come,
    To break the repose that thy ashes are taking,
      And call them to life from their chamber of gloom:
    Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever,
      Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung;
    No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever
      The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."




OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_


    No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread
      O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew--
    Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid
      That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.

    With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,
      'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;
    And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,
      Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.

    Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,
      Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,
    And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,
      Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

    My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,
      Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,
    But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles
      With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

    The anthems of music delightful may roll,
      Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,
    But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul
      Are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free!




THE BOWER OF THE WILD.


    I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,
    Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;
    Where still I might linger in many a dream,
    And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.
    From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,
    Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,
    I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,
    And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

    But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,
    And sought my lone grotto still day after day,
    And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn
    That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.
    Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair
    Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;
    And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,
    She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.

    The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,
    And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,
    And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,
    Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.
    Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,
    I sing in my sorrow still day after day.
    The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled,
    And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!




THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_


    I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,
    Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;
    For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,
    Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie,
              Who wears the crook and plaid.

    At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,
    While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;
    His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,
    Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;
              And he's aye true, &c.

    At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,
    And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;
    And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;
    O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
              And he's aye true, &c.

    He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,
    Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;
    His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;
    And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

    When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on,
    When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan,
    He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made
    To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

    Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,
    He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,
    To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,
    He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

    The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,
    And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;
    But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,
    Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid;
              And he's aye true, &c.

    To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,
    Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?
    If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;
    And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.




THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_


    Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,
    I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;
    I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,
    And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.

    When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,
    In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;
    I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell
    Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.

    Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,
    As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;
    There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,
    But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

    Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love
    As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;
    In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,
    And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.

    When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,
    Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;
    For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,
    Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!




WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.


    When the star of the morning is set,
      And the heavens are beauteous and blue,
    And the bells of the heather are wet
      With the drops of the deep-lying dew;
    'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,
      'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,
    When these all my thoughts would employ;
      But now I must think upon thee.

    When noontide displays all its powers,
      And the flocks to the valley return,
    To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers
      That bloom on the banks of the burn;
    O sweet, sweet it was to recline
      'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,
    And think on the charge that was mine;
      But now I must think upon thee.

    When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,
      With her fingers of shadowy light,
    And the dews of the eve in her locks,
      To spread down a couch for the night;
    'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,
      That border the brook and the lea;
    But now, 'tis a wearisome way,
      Unless it were travell'd with thee.

    All lovely and pure as thou art,
      And generous of thought and of will,
    Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,
      And bid its wild beating be still;
    I'd give all the ewes in the fold--
      I'd give all the lambs on the lea,
    By night or by day to behold
      One look of true kindness from thee.




THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.


    Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,
      While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;
    And though that eye, with beauty's light,
      Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;
    Oh! charms there were still more divine,
    When woke that melting voice of thine,
    The charms that caught this soul of mine,
      And taught it to adore thee.

    Then died the woes of the heart away
      With the thoughts of joys departed;
    For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,
      While it told of the faithful-hearted.
    Methought how sweet it were to be
    Far in some wild green glen with thee;
    From all of life and of longing free,
      Save what pure love imparted.

    Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew
      Never fell on the desert round me,
    And dwell where the fair flowers never grew
      If the hymns of thy voice still found me.
    Thy smile itself could the soul invest
    With all that here makes mortals bless'd;
    While every thought thy lips express'd
      In deeper love still bound me.




WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.


    Would that I were where wild woods wave
    Aboon the beds where sleep the brave;
    And where the streams o' Scotia lave
      Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

    Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,
    Bright as the sun upon the fells,
    When autumn brings the heather-bells
      In all their native splendour.
    The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,
    The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,
    And heart with dauntless heart combines
      For ever to defend her.
        Then would I were, &c.

    There roam the kind, and live the leal,
    By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;
    And she for whom the heart must feel
      A kindness still mair tender.
    Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,
    The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;
    But she is fairer than them a',
      Wherever she may wander.
        Then would I were, &c.

    Still, far or near, by wild or wood,
    I'll love the generous, wise, and good;
    But she shall share the dearest mood
      That Heaven to life may render.
    What boots it then thus on to stir,
    And still from love's enjoyment err,
    When I to Scotland and to her
      Must all this heart surrender.
        Then would I were, &c.




OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_"Paddy's Resource."_


    Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear--
      The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?
    'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,
      When chanting the songs of her own native vale.
    More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,
      Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;
    More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,
      When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

    Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,
      Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?
    'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye
      Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.
    More charming is this than the glory of art,
      More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;
    It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,
      Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

    Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek
      That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?
    'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek
      When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!
    More tender is this--more celestial and fair--
      Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;
    A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,
      And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.




OUR MARY.[7]


    Our Mary liket weel to stray
      Where clear the burn was rowin',
    And trouth she was, though I say sae,
      As fair as ought ere made o' clay,
        And pure as ony gowan.

    And happy, too, as ony lark
      The clud might ever carry;
    She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,
      E'en mair than weel was understood;
        And a' fouk liket Mary.

    But she fell sick wi' some decay,
      When she was but eleven;
    And as she pined frae day to day,
      We grudged to see her gaun away,
        Though she was gaun to Heaven.

    There's fears for them that's far awa',
      And fykes for them are flitting,
    But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
      We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';
        But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

    And nature's bands are hard to break,
      When thus they maun be broken;
    And e'en the form we loved to see,
      We canna lang, dear though it be,
        Preserve it as a token.

    But Mary had a gentle heart--
      Heaven did as gently free her;
    Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,
      Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start
        Had ye been there to see her.

    Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,
      And growing meek and meeker,
    Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
      She wore a little angel's air,
        Ere angels cam to seek her.

    And when she couldna stray out by,
      The wee wild-flowers to gather;
    She oft her household plays wad try,
      To hide her illness frae our eye,
        Lest she should grieve us farther.

    But ilka thing we said or did,
      Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;
    Indeed ye wad hae thought she had
      A something in her made her glad
        Ayont the course o' nature.

    For though disease, beyont remeed,
      Was in her frame indented,
    Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,
      She grew and grew the lovelier still,
        And mair and mair contented.

    But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,
      As it to a' is comin';
    And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
      Nae waur to others than it was
        To Mary, sweet wee woman!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cottagers of Glendale,"
Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem.




MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.


The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis
was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner,
who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of
Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October
1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a
subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took
place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her
family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of
John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of
Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her
second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which
her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her
widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in
prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends,
a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly
Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are
several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of
elegant fancy.

Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted
as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet
Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own
songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in
general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in
estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded
cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and
songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the
present work.




SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

AIR--_"Banks of the Devon."_


      Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
      Where art thou wandering?
    Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.
      Why round yon craggy rocks
      Wander thy heedless flocks,
    While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?
      Cold as the mountain stream,
      Pale as the moonlight beam,
    Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
      Wild may the tempest's wave
      Sweep o'er thy lonely grave;
    Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.

      Like a meteor's brief light,
      Like the breath of the morning,
    Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;
      Till thy soft numbers stealing
      O'er mem'ry's warm feeling,
    Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.
      Sweet was thy melody,
      Rich as the rose's dye,
    Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;
      Love laugh'd on golden wing,
      Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,
    All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.

      Cold on Benlomond's brow
      Flickers the drifted snow,
    While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
      Winter's mad winds may sweep
      Fierce o'er each glen and steep,
    Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
      And when on dewy wing
      Comes the sweet bird of spring,
    Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;
      The Bird of the Wilderness,
      Low in the waving grass,
    Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick
Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.




YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_


    Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,
    Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,
    But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,
    Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.
    O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,
    The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,
    But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,
    And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.

    Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,
    Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,
    Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see
    The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.
    Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,
    And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,
    And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,
    Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

    Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,
    Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,
    He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;
    Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.
    Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,
    And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;
    Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,
    But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.




CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR--_"Tullymet."_


    Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,
    And bonnets blue and white cockades,
    Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,
      And conquest fell begin;
    And let the word be Scotland's heir:
    And when their swords can do nae mair,
    Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair
      Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie.
        Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
        Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;
        Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
          Draw yer dirk and rin.

    Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,
    And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,
    And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,
      And Ruthven light and trim--
    Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack
    Laid Cressingham upon his back,
    Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,
      And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.
        Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.




HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE?


    Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners
    That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;
    Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,
    Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?
    Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,
    Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;
    Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,
    Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?

    Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,
    Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;
    Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,
    Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
    But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,
    Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;
    Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,
    That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.

    Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,
    Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;
    Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,
    Borne down by lawless might--gallant Prince Charlie?
    Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,
    Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;
    But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart--
    Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?




BRUCE'S ADDRESS.


    When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,
      And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,
    And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms
      Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;
    The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,
      And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,
    In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,
      And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.

    O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,
      And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,
    While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--Do not spare,
      Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;
    For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,
      Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;
    Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,
      And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.

    To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,
      Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;
    Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,
      Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;
    Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,
      For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,
    While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors
      Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.




REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION.


    Removed from vain fashion,
      From title's proud ken,
    In a straw-cover'd cottage,
      Deep hid in yon glen,
    There dwells a sweet flow'ret,
      Pure, lovely, and fair,
    Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,
      'Midst hardships' chill air.

    No soft voice of kindred,
      Or parent she knows--
    In the desert she blooms,
      Like the sweet mountain rose,
    Like the little stray'd lammie
      That bleats on the lea;
    She's soft, kind, and gentle,
      And dear, dear to me.

    Though the rich dews of fortune
      Ne'er water'd this stem,
    Nor one fostering sunbeam
      Matured the rich gem--
    Oh! give me that pure bosom,
      Her lot let me share,
    I'll laugh at distinction,
      And smile away care.




WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?


    When shall we meet again,
      Meet ne'er to sever?
    When shall Peace wreath her chain
      Round us for ever?
    When shall our hearts repose,
    Safe from each breath that blows,
    In this dark world of woes?
      Never! oh, never!

    Fate's unrelenting hand
      Long may divide us,
    Yet in one holy land
      One God shall guide us.
    Then, on that happy shore,
    Care ne'er shall reach us more,
    Earth's vain delusions o'er,
      Angels beside us.

    There, where no storms can chill,
      False friends deceive us,
    Where, with protracted thrill,
      Hope cannot grieve us;
    There with the pure in heart,
    Far from fate's venom'd dart,
    There shall we meet to part
      Never! oh, never!




JAMES KING.


James King was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a
course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes.
Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight,
required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a
circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he
early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who
has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his
fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards
stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to
the loom at Paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a
recruit in the Renfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment
to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and London, and subsequently to
Leith, the French prisoners' depôt at Penicuick, and the Castle of
Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some
attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several
others of the poets of the capital.

Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a
portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment
was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge,
fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived
to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the
vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of
Galloway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural
labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when,
on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the
charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. He now settled
as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and
Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 27th September
1849, in his seventy-third year.

Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the
humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his
own. His mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical
compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and
sentiment.




THE LAKE IS AT REST.


      The lake is at rest, love,
      The sun's on its breast, love,
    How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;
      Its verdant banks shewing
      The richest flowers blowing,
    A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!

      Then, O fairest maiden!
      When earth is array'd in
    The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,
      Let me still delight in
      The glories that brighten,
    For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.

      But, Anna, why redden?
      I would not, fair maiden,
    My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;
      The traitor, the demon,
      That could deceive woman,
    His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.

      Believe me then, fairest,
      To me thou art dearest;
    And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,
      With flower blooming mountains,
      And crystalline fountains,
    I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.




LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR--_"Scott's Boat Song."_


    No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,
    Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,
    Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,
    That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.
      At length from the hill I heard,
      Plaintively wild, a bard,
    Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;
      "Remember what Morard says,
      Morard of many days,
    Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.

    "Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,
    Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;
    Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,
    Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.
      Hard are the laws that bind
      Poor foolish man and blind;
    But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,
      Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,
      Till time clothes with snow thy head,
    Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.

    "Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,
    Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;
    Innocence leads to the summit of glory,
    Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.
      The tyrant, whose hands are red,
      Trembles alone in bed;
    But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,
      No horror fiends haunt his rest,
      Hope fills his placid breast,
    Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."

    Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,
    Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,
    The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,
    Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,
      Yet still from the hoary bard,
      Methought the sweet song I heard,
    Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;
      And oft as I pass along,
      Chimes in mine ear his song,
    "Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."




ISOBEL PAGAN.


The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by
Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical
notice. She was born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, about the
year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an
imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which
an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and
singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her
chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a
mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel
rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had
offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her
name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on
the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were
interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.




CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]


    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them where the heather grows,
    Ca' them where the burnie rows,
      My bonnie dearie.

    As I gaed down the water-side,
    There I met my shepherd lad,
    He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
      An' he ca'd me his dearie.

    "Will ye gang down the water-side,
    And see the waves sae sweetly glide
    Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
      The moon it shines fu' clearly.

    "Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
    Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,
    And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
      And ye shall be my dearie."

    "If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
    I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
    And ye may row me in your plaid,
      And I shall be your dearie."

    "While water wimples to the sea,
    While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
    Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
      Ye shall be my dearie."


FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original
chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis'
evening sang."




JOHN MITCHELL.


John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August
1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour
of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He
contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary
Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he
was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the
Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840
by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter
being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise
produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a
work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His
next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original
Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs,"
was published in 1852.

Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his
publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable
maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with
considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present
work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had
Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche
in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was
not unconscious of his poetical endowments.




BEAUTY.


    What wakes the Poet's lyre?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What kindles his poetic fire?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What makes him seek, at evening's hour,
    The lonely glen, the leafy bower,
    When dew hangs on each little flower?
      Oh! it is Beauty.

    What melts the soldier's soul?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What can his love of fame control?
      'Tis Beauty;
    For oft, amid the battle's rage,
    Some lovely vision will engage
    His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:
      Such power has Beauty.

    What tames the savage mood?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What gives a polish to the rude?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What gives the peasant's lowly state
    A charm which wealth cannot create,
    And on the good alone will wait?
      'Tis faithful Beauty.

    Then let our favourite toast
      Be Beauty;
    Is it not king and peasant's boast?
      Yes, Beauty;
    Then let us guard with tender care
    The gentle, th' inspiring fair,
    And Love will a diviner air
      Impart to Beauty.




TO THE EVENING STAR.


      Star of descending Night!
        Lovely and fair,
      Robed in thy mellow light,
        Subtle and rare;
    Whence are thy silvery beams,
    That o'er lone ocean gleams,
    And in our crystal streams
        Dip their bright hair?

      Far in yon liquid sky,
        Where streamers play
      And the red lightnings fly,
        Hold'st thou thy way;
    Clouds may envelop thee,
    Winds rave o'er land and sea,
    O'er them thy march is free
        As thine own ray.




OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.


    Oh! waft me to the fairy clime
      Where Fancy loves to roam,
    Where Hope is ever in her prime,
      And Friendship has a home;
    There will I wander by the streams
      Where Song and Dance combine,
    Around my rosy waking dreams
      Ecstatic joys to twine.

    On Music's swell my thoughts will soar
      Above created things,
    And revel on the boundless shore
      Of rapt imaginings.
    The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken
      My fancy will explore,
    And seek, far from the haunts of men,
      The Poet's mystic lore.

    Love will add gladness to the scene,
      And strew my path with flowers;
    And Joy with Innocence will lean
      Amid my rosy bowers.
    Then waft me to the fairy clime
      Where Fancy loves to roam,
    Where Hope is ever in her prime,
      And Friendship has a home.




THE LOVE-SICK MAID.


    The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,
    Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?
      Can the doctor cure her woe
      When she will not let him know
      Why the tears incessant flow
        From the love-sick maid?

    The flaunting day, the flaunting day,
    She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!
      For she sits and pines alone,
      And will comfort take from none;
      Nay, the very colour's gone
        From the love-sick maid.

    The secret 's out, the secret 's out,
    A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!
      For she finds at e'ening's hour,
      In a rosy woodland bower,
      Charms worth a prince's dower
        To a love-sick maid.




ALEXANDER JAMIESON.


Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire,
on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of
Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he
settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful
mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he
was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses
with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the _Stirling
Journal_ newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed
one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of
Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit
a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated
about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next
morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours
afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of
varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply
regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in
Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford
evidence of power.




THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

_"Russian Air."_


    The maid who wove the rosy wreath
    With every flower--hath wrought a spell,
    And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
    And balmy sweets--I know full well,
    'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,
    There lurks a chain--Love's tyranny.

    Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,
    Sits stillness, soft as evening skies--
    Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,
    Or glances from her downcast eyes--
    There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,
    Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.

    O trust not to her silent tongue;
    Her settled calm, or absent smile;
    Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,
    May not enchain in Love's soft guile;
    For where Love is--or what's Love's spell--
    No mortal knows--no tongue can tell.


FOOTNOTES:

[11] This song was addressed by Mr Jamieson to Miss Jane Morrison of
Alloa, the heroine of Motherwell's popular ballad of "Jeanie Morrison,"
and who had thus the singular good fortune to be celebrated by two
different poets. For some account of Miss Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, see
vol. iii. p. 233.




A SIGH AND A SMILE.

WELSH AIR--_"Sir William Watkin Wynne."_


    From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,
    Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;
    Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes
    The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.

    But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,
    His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,
    Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,
    Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.

    They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,
    At random the shafts from his silken string fly,
    But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,
    Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.

    O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;
    There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;
    A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,
    The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."




JOHN GOLDIE.


A short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born
at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian
name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the
academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant
to a grocer in Paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a
stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own
account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr; but proving unfortunate in
business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being
devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of
support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and
verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant
editor of the _Ayr Courier_, and shortly after obtained the entire
literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he published a
pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as
the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he
inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter
publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were
composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and
twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is
altogether creditable to his genius and taste.

Deprived of the editorship of the _Courier_, in consequence of a change
in the proprietary, Goldie proceeded to London, in the hope of forming
a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis.
Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing _The
London Scotsman_, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration
of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the
ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the
third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to
Scotland. He now projected the _Paisley Advertiser_, of which the first
number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this
newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the
27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year.

Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste,
Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet
and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his
compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. Of
sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of
admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his
countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.




AND CAN THY BOSOM?

AIR--_"Loudon's Bonnie Woods and Braes."_


    And can thy bosom bear the thought
      To part frae love and me, laddie?
    Are all those plighted vows forgot,
      Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?
    Canst thou forget the midnight hour,
    When in yon love-inspiring bower,
    You vow'd by every heavenly power
      You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?
    Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--
    Win my heart and then deceive me?
    Oh! that heart will break, believe me,
      Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.

    Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek,
      Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie,
    Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,
      But love and live wi' me, laddie.
    But soon those cheeks will lose their red,
    Those eyes in endless sleep be hid,
    And 'neath the turf the heart be laid
      That beats for love and thee, laddie.
    Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--
    Win my heart and then deceive me?
    Oh! that heart will break, believe me,
      Gin ye part frae me, laddie.

    You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,
      Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,
    But, oh! the heart can never bear
      A love sae true as mine, laddie.
    But when that heart is laid at rest--
    That heart that lo'ed ye last and best--
    Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast
      Will sharper be than mine, laddie.
    Broken vows will vex and grieve me,
    Till a broken heart relieve me--
    Yet its latest thought, believe me,
      Will be love an' thine, laddie.




SWEET'S THE DEW.


    Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June
      And lily fair to see, Annie,
    But there's ne'er a flower that blooms
      Is half so fair as thee, Annie.
    Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine
    The opening rose its beauties tine,
    Thy lips the rubies far outshine,
      Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.

    The snaw that decks yon mountain top
      Nae purer is than thee, Annie;
    The haughty mien and pridefu' look
      Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie.
    And in thy sweet angelic face
    Triumphant beams each modest grace;
    And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
      A form sae bright as thine, Annie.

    Wha could behold thy rosy cheek
      And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie;
    What heart could view thy smiling looks,
      And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?
    Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,
    My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave,
    And never, till I cease to breathe,
      I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.




ROBERT POLLOK.


Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, "The Course of Time," was
the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,
where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of
employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his
seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to
prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in
classical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrshire, and in
twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the
literary and philosophical classes in Glasgow College, during five
sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United
Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year
composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable
translations from the Classics as college exercises. His great poem,
"The Course of Time," was commenced in December 1824, and finished
within the space of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem
was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the
author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success
of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his
professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok
only preached four times. His constitution, originally robust, had
suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course
of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production
of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was
necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only
reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the
18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where
his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.

Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative
to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work
respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon
literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen
have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he
was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was
pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "He
was," writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain
simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took
pleasure in good-humoured controversy." The copyright of "The Course of
Time" continues to produce emolument to the family.




THE AFRICAN MAID.


    On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood,
      Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste,
    All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,
      Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.

    A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,
      And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;
    Ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side,
      Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.

    Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,
      Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,
    Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;
      Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:--

    "O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?
      Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!
    Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow
      To waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,
      When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?
    Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?
      Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?

    "Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,
      And sleep never visit the place of their bed!
    On their children and wives, on their life and their death,
      Abide still the curse of an African maid!"




J. C. DENOVAN.


J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a
predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of
war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a
single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to
abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh.
He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he
subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He
died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and
unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours
of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of
Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.




OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!


    Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,
    And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,
    She laments and looks back on the past happy days
    When thy presence had left her no object to mourn
             Those days that are past,
             Too joyous to last,
    A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;
             No joy now is mine,
             In sadness I pine,
    Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.

    O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leave
    The girl who holds thee so dear in her heart?
    Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve,
    Or think for one moment from Norah to part?
             Couldst thou reconcile
             To leave this dear isle,
    In a far unknown country, where dangers there be?
             Oh! for thy dear sake
             This poor heart will break,
    If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.

    In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come,
    Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night,
    Still praying of Heaven to send him safe home
    To her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight.
             Then come, like a dove,
             To thy faithful love,
    Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free;
             From danger's alarms
             Speed to her open arms,
    O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.




JOHN IMLAH.


John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish
song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the
year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his
father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in
succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an
ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a
pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this
capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an
engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the
year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during
the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached
to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He
composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a
duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he
followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed
to Macleod's "National Melodies" and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.
On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had
gone on a visit to one of his brothers.

Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his
numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of
his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.




KATHLEEN.

AIR--_"The Humours of Glen."_


    O distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein
      My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;
    And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!
      No space can the links of my love-chain divide.
    Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!
      How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!
    While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,
      Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

    The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,
      The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;
    What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?
      What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?
    Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,
      And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;
    Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,
      Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

    Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!
      As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,
    Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,
      Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;
    While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,
      That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;
    And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon
      And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!




HIELAN' HEATHER.

AIR--_"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."_


      Hey for the Hielan' heather!
      Hey for the Hielan' heather!
    Dear to me, an' aye shall be,
      The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!

    The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,
      Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;
    The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,
      Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,
      Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;
    While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,
      Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,
      Young lads and lasses trip thegither;
    The native Norlan rant and reel
      Amang the halesome Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,
      Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;
    How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair
      The purple bells o' Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,
      My fancy fondly travels thither;
    Nae countrie charms, nae customs change
      My feelings frae the Hielan' heather!
        Hey, for the Hielan' heather!




FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Kinloch."_


    Loved land of my kindred, farewell--and for ever!
      Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;
    When fated with each fond endearment to sever,
      And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!
    Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,
      Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,
    Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish
      The dearest regard and the deepest regret.

    Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!
      Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;
    Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones--where have rested
      The snow-falls of ages--eternally white.
    Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains
      Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;
    No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,
      I'll pore on with pleasure--deep, lonely, yet dear.

    Yet--yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,
      Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;
    But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,
      To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.
    Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,
      Where yet my heart dwells--where it ever shall dwell,
    While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,
      My country--my kindred--farewell, oh farewell!




THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.


    A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,
      As sweet a bud I trow
    As ever breathed the morning air,
      Or drank the evening dew.
    A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,
      With sigh and fond love tale;
    It woo'd within its briery bower
      The rose of Seaton Vale.

    With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd
      This bud at morning light;
    At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,
      And nestled there at night.
    But other flowers sprung up thereby,
      And lured the roving gale;
    The Zephyr left to droop and die
      The Rose of Seaton Vale.

    A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,
      Loved by as fair a youth;
    Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one
      Wi' tenderness and truth.
    Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour--
      For Ellen's type and tale
    Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower,
      The Rose of Seaton Vale.




KATHERINE AND DONALD.


    Young Donald dearer loved than life
      The proud Dunallan's daughter;
    But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,
      In vain he loved and sought her.
    She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,
      The chieftain of Clanronald;
    A thousand plaided Highlandmen
      Clasp'd the claymore for Donald.

    On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,
      Dunallan met his foemen;
    Beneath him bared ten thousand swords
      Of vassal, serf, and yeomen.
    The fray was fierce--and at its height
      Was seen a visor'd stranger,
    With red lance foremost in the fight,
      Unfearing Dane and danger.

    "Be praised--brave knight! thy steel hath striven
      The sharpest in the slaughter;
    Crave what thou wilt of me--though even
      My fair--my darling daughter!"
    He lifts the visor from his face--
      The chieftain of Clanronald!
    And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,
      Dunallan and young Donald.

    Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee--
      The feast-cup glads Glengarry;
    The joy that should for ever be
      When mutual lovers marry.
    The shout and shell the revellers raise,
      Dunallan and Clanronald;
    And minstrel measures pour to praise
      Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!




GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'.


    Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!
      Since it is sae that I maun gang;
    Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!
      To gang again as wearie lang.
      Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang
    That I sae sune sou'd haste awa';
      But since it's sae that I maun gae,
    Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!

    This night I ween we've had the heart
      To gar auld Time tak' to his feet;
    That makes us a' fu' laith to part,
      But aye mair fain again to meet!
      To dree the winter's drift and weet
    For sic a night is nocht ava,
      For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;
    Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

    Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,
      In younker revels fidgin' fain;
    Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,
      Like daffin hizzies, young again!
      To mony a merrie auld Scot's strain
    We've deftly danced the time awa':
      We met in mirth--we part wi' pain,
    Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

    My nimble gray neighs at the yett,
      My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;
    I've clapt the spur upon my buit,
      The guid braid bonnet on my brow!
      Then night is wearing late I trow--
    My hame lies mony a mile awa';
      The mair's my need to mount and go,
    Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!




THE GATHERING.[12]


    Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,
      Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;
    Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,
      Belt on your broad claymores--fight for Prince Charlie;
            Down from the mountain steep,
            Up from the valley deep,
    Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,
            Bugle and battle-drum
            Bid chief and vassal come,
    Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.

    Men of the mountains--descendants of heroes!
      Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;
    Say, shall the Southern--the Sassenach fear us
      When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
            Too long on the trophied walls
            Of your ancestral halls,
    Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;
            Seize then, ye mountain Macs,
            Buckler and battle-axe,
    Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!

    When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
      When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?
    Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,
      Follow your leader--the rightful--the royal!
            Chief of Clanronald,
            Donald Macdonald!
    Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!
            Rouse every kilted clan,
            Rouse every loyal man,
    Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!

FOOTNOTES:

[12] A MS. copy of this song had been sent by the author to the Ettrick
Shepherd. Having been found among the Shepherd's papers after his
decease, it was regarded as his own composition, and has consequently
been included in the posthumous edition of his songs, published by the
Messrs Blackie. The song appears in Imlah's "May Flowers," published in
1827.




MARY.

AIR--_"The Dawtie."_

    There lives a young lassie
      Far down yon lang glen,
    How I lo'e that lassie
      There's nae ane can ken!
    Oh! a saint's faith may vary,
      But faithfu' I'll be--
    For weel I lo'e Mary,
      And Mary lo'es me.

    Red, red as the rowan
      Her smiling wee mou,
    An' white as the gowan
      Her breast and her brow;
    Wi' the foot o' a fairy
      She links o'er the lea--
    Oh! weel I lo'e Mary,
      An' Mary lo'es me.

    Where yon tall forest timmer,
      An' lowly broom bower,
    To the sunshine o' simmer,
      Spread verdure an' flower;
    There, when night clouds the cary,
      Beside her I'll be--
    For weel I lo'e Mary,
      An' Mary lo'es me!




OH! GIN I WERE WHERE GADIE RINS.[13]


    Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,
    Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
    Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
        By the foot o' Bennachie.

    I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd by Tay,
    By Border Nith, and Highland Spey,
    But dearer far to me than they
        The braes o' Bennachie.

    When blade and blossoms sprout in spring,
    And bid the burdies wag the wing,
    They blithely bob, and soar, and sing
        By the foot o' Bennachie.

    When simmer cleeds the varied scene
    Wi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green,
    I fain would be where aft I've been
        At the foot o' Bennachie.

    When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn,
    And barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' corn,
    'Tis blithe to toom the clyack horn
        At the foot o' Bennachie.

    When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill
    O'er icy burn and sheeted hill,
    The ingle neuk is gleesome still
        At the foot o' Bennachie.

    Though few to welcome me remain,
    Though a' I loved be dead and gane,
    I'll back, though I should live alane,
        To the foot o' Bennachie.

    Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins,
    Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
    Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
        By the foot o' Bennachie.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] The chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally
connected with a plaintive Jacobite ditty, now lost, has suggested
several modern songs similar in manner and sentiment. Imlah composed two
songs with this chorus. The earlier of these compositions appears in the
"May Flowers." It is evidently founded upon a rumour, which prevailed in
Aberdeenshire during the first quarter of the century, to the effect,
that a Scottish officer, serving in Egypt, had been much affected on
hearing a soldier's wife _crooning_ to herself the original words of the
air. We have inserted in the text Imlah's second version, as being
somewhat smoother in versification. It is the only song which we have
transcribed from his volume, published in 1841. But the most popular
words which have been attached to the air and chorus were the
composition of a student in one of the colleges of Aberdeen, nearly
thirty years since, who is now an able and accomplished clergyman of the
Scottish Church. Having received the chorus and heard the air from a
comrade, he immediately composed the following verses, here printed from
the author's MS.:--

        Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,
        Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins,
        Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,
          At the back o' Bennachie!

    I wish I were where Gadie rins,
    'Mong fragrant heath and yellow whins,
    Or, brawlin' doun the bosky lins
        At the back o' Bennachie;

    To hear ance mair the blackbird's sang,
    To wander birks and braes amang,
    Wi' friens and fav'rites, left sae lang,
        At the back o' Bennachie.

    How mony a day, in blithe spring-time,
    How mony a day, in summer's prime,
    I wil'd awa' my careless time
        On the heights o' Bennachie.

    Ah! Fortune's flowers wi' thorns are rife,
    And walth is won wi' grief and strife--
    Ae day gie me o' youthfu' life
        At the back o' Bennachie.

    Oh, Mary! there, on ilka nicht,
    When baith our hearts were young and licht,
    We've wander'd whan the moon was bricht
        Wi' speeches fond and free.

    Oh! ance, ance mair where Gadie rins,
    Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
    Oh! micht I dee where Gadie rins
        At the back o' Bennachie.

"The air," communicates the reverend author of this song, "is
undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several Gaelic and Irish airs.
'Cuir's chiste moir me,' and several others, might be thought to have
been originally the same _in the first part_. The second part of the air
is, I think, modern." The Gadie is a rivulet, and Bennachie a mountain,
in Aberdeenshire.




JOHN TWEEDIE.


John Tweedie was born in the year 1800, in the vicinity of Peebles,
where his father was a shepherd. Obtaining a classical education, he
proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for
the Established Church. By acting as a tutor during the summer months,
he was enabled to support himself at the university, and after the usual
curriculum, he was licensed as a probationer. Though possessed of
popular talents as a preacher, he was not successful in obtaining a
living in the Church. During his probationary career, he was employed as
a tutor in the family of the minister of Newbattle, assisted in the
parish of Eddleston, and ultimately became missionary at Stockbridge,
Edinburgh. He died at Linkfieldhall, Musselburgh, on the 29th February
1844. Tweedie was a person of amiable dispositions and unaffected piety;
he did not much cultivate his gifts as a poet, but the following song
from his pen, to the old air, "Saw ye my Maggie," has received a
considerable measure of popularity.[14]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the "Cottagers of Glendale," Mr H. S. Riddell alludes to two of
Tweedie's brothers, who perished among the snow in the manner described
in that poem. The present memoir is prepared from materials chiefly
supplied by Mr Riddell.




SAW YE MY ANNIE?


    Saw ye my Annie,
    Saw ye my Annie,
    Saw ye my Annie,
            Wading 'mang the dew?
    My Annie walks as light
    As shadow in the night
    Or downy cloudlet light
            Alang the fields o' blue.

    What like is your Annie,
    What like is your Annie,
    What like is your Annie,
            That we may ken her be?
    She's fair as nature's flush,
    Blithe as dawning's blush,
    And gentle as the hush
            When e'ening faulds her e'e.

    Yonder comes my Annie,
    Yonder comes my Annie,
    Yonder comes my Annie,
            Bounding o'er the lea.
    Lammies play before her,
    Birdies whistle o'er her,
    I mysell adore her,
            In heavenly ecstasy.

    Come to my arms, my Annie,
    Come to my arms, my Annie,
    Come to my arms, my Annie,
            Speed, speed, like winged day.
    My Annie's rosy cheek
    Smiled fair as morning's streak,
    We felt, but couldna speak,
            'Neath love's enraptured sway.




THOMAS ATKINSON.


Thomas Atkinson, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at
Glasgow about the year 1800. Having completed an apprenticeship to Mr
Turnbull, bookseller, Trongate, he entered into copartnership with Mr
David Robertson, subsequently King's publisher in the city. Of active
business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive
bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant
literature. At an early age he published "The Sextuple Alliance," a
series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, which afforded
considerable promise, and received the commendation of Sir Walter Scott.
In 1827, he published "The Ant," a work in two volumes, one of which
consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. "The
Chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, commenced in 1831,
and extended to three octavo volumes. Of this work, a _melange_ of prose
and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own
composition. The last volume appeared in September 1833, shortly before
his death.

Deeply interested in the public affairs, Atkinson was distinguished as a
public speaker. At the general election, subsequent to the passing of
the Reform Bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal
interest for the parliamentary representation of the Stirling burghs, in
opposition to Lord Dalmeny, who was returned. Naturally of a sound
constitution, the exertions of his political canvass superinduced an
illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. During a voyage he
had undertaken to Barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at
sea on the 10th October 1833. His remains, placed in an oaken coffin,
which he had taken along with him, were buried in the deep. He
bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after accumulation, in erecting a
building in Glasgow for scientific purposes. A monument to his memory
has been erected in the Glasgow Necropolis. The following stanzas were
composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than
three weeks prior to his decease; they are dated the "River Mersey,"
21st September 1833:--

    I could not, as I gazed my last--there was on me a spell,
    In all its simple agony--breathe that lone word--"Farewell,"
    Which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies,
    In song alone 'twould pass the lips that loved the dear disguise.

    I go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark,
    As forth the dove went trembling--but to my Father's ark
    Shall I return? I may not ask my doubting heart, but yet
    To hope and wish in one--how hard the lesson to forget.

       *       *       *       *       *

    But drooping head and feeble limbs--and, oh! a beating heart,
    Remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part;
    Yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell,
    In this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe--"Farewell."

In the "Chameleon" several of Mr Atkinson's songs are set to music, but,
with the exception of "Mary Shearer," none of them are likely to obtain
popularity.




MARY SHEARER.


    She's aff and awa', like the lang summer-day,
      And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary;
    The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae,
      But lang for blithe Mary fu' mony may weary.
          For mair hearts than mine
            Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer;
          But nane mair will pine
            For the sweet Mary Shearer!

    She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers,
      And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither;
    The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours,
      But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither.
          Their sweet breath is fled--
            Her kind looks still endear her;
          For the heart maun be dead
            That forgets Mary Shearer!

    Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung;
      An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover;
    Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue,
      Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.
          Oh! he maun be bless'd
            Wha's allow'd to be near her;
          For the fairest and best
            O' her kind 's Mary Shearer!

    But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven,
      My country and kin,--since I 've sae lov'd the stranger;
    Whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven--
      Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger.
           Though I try to forget,
             In my heart still I 'll wear her,
           For mine may be yet--
             Name and a'--Mary Shearer!




WILLIAM GARDINER.


William Gardiner, the author of "Scotland's Hills," was born at Perth
about the year 1800. He established himself as a bookseller in
Cupar-Fife. During a period of residence in Dundee, in acquiring a
knowledge of his trade, he formed the acquaintance of the poet Vedder.
With the assistance of this gifted individual, he composed his popular
song of "Scotland's Hills." Introduced at a theatre in Dundee, it was
received with marked approbation. It was first printed, in January 1829,
in the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, with a humorous preface by Vedder, and
was afterwards copied into the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_. It has
since found a place in many of the collections of Scottish song, and has
three different times been set to music.

Gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained
employment in the publishing office of the _Fife Herald_. He died at
Perth on the 4th July 1845. Some years before his death, he published a
volume of original and selected compositions, under the title of
"Gardiner's Miscellany." He was a person of amiable dispositions; and to
other good qualities of a personal character, added considerable skill
in music.




O SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME![15]


    O these are not my country's hills,
      Though they seem bright and fair;
    Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides,
      The heather blooms not there.
    Let me behold the mountain steep,
      And wild deer roaming free--
    The heathy glen, the ravine deep--
      O Scotland's hills for me!

    The rose, through all this garden-land,
      May shed its rich perfume,
    But I would rather wander 'mong
      My country's bonnie broom.
    There sings the shepherd on the hill,
      The ploughman on the lea;
    There lives my blithesome mountain maid,
      O Scotland's hills for me!

    The throstle and the nightingale
      May warble sweeter strains
    Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour
      O'er Scotland's daisied plains;
    Give me the merle's mellow note,
      The linnet's liquid lay;
    The laverocks on the roseate cloud--
      O Scotland's hills for me!

    And I would rather roam beneath
      Thy scowling winter skies,
    Than listlessly attune my lyre
      Where sun-bright flowers arise.
    The baron's hall, the peasant's cot
      Protect alike the free;
    The tyrant dies who breathes thine air;
      O Scotland's hills for me!

FOOTNOTES:

[15] At the request of one Roger, a music-master in Edinburgh, who had
obtained a copy of the first two stanzas, a third was added by Mr Robert
Chambers, and in this form the song appears in some of the collections.
Mr Chambers's stanza proceeds thus:--

    In southern climes the radiant sun
      A brighter light displays;
    But I love best his milder beams
      That shine on Scotland's braes.
    Then dear, romantic native land
      If e'er I roam from thee,
    I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay;
      O Scotland's hills for me!





ROBERT HOGG.


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]

FOOTNOTES:

[16] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

[17] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr Robert Chambers for
many of the particulars contained in this memoir.




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.


FOOTNOTES:

[18] Printed from the author's MS., in the possession of Mr H. S.
Riddell.




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.


FOOTNOTES:

[19] Printed for the first time from the original MS.




JOHN WRIGHT.


A son of genius and of misfortune, John Wright was born on the 1st
September 1805, at the farm-house of Auchincloigh, in the parish of
Sorn, Ayrshire. From his mother, a woman of much originality and
shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclination towards intellectual
culture. His school education was circumscribed, but he experienced
delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities
of the vicinity of Galston, a village to which his father had removed.
At the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of
a coal driver; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the
loom. His master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity,
and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for
mutual literary improvement; but his chief happiness was still
experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the
neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially
calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. He fell in love,
was accepted, and ultimately cast off--incidents which afforded him
opportunities of celebrating the charms, and deploring the inconstancy
of the fair. He composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled
"Mahomet, or the Hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort
of retaining the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to
write. "The Retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in
1824. At the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to Edinburgh to
seek the counsel of men of letters, he submitted the MS. of his poem to
Professor Wilson, Dr M'Crie, Mr Glassford Bell, and others, who
severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. "The
Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers,
and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang,
near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving.
He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a
young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes.
The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife,
who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second
edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course
of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance
which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning
to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the
family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated
from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. In
1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical
works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of
extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed.
He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance.
As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive
powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of
his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive.




AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.


    Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud,
    Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud,
            Floating o'er the sky
            Like a spirit, to descry
            Each bright realm,--and, when I die,
                May it be my shroud!

    I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill,
    O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,--
            With rising rainbows wreathed,
            In mist and darkness sheathed,
            Where nought but spirits breathed
                Around me the while.

    Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god
    Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode.
            There, where Nature lowers more wild
            Than her most uncultured child,
            Revels beauty--as one smiled
                O'er life's darkest mood.

    Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been,
    O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen,
            Where Death sits, crested high,
            As he would invade the sky,
            Whilst the living valleys lie
                In their beautiful green!

    Spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve!
    Child of enchantment! behind thee leave
            Thy semblance mantled o'er me;
            Too full thy tide of glory
            For Fancy to restore thee,
                Or Memory give!




THE MAIDEN FAIR.


    The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood,
      The greenwood o'er the mossy stream,
    That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood,
      And flutter'd in the fairy beam.
    Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam
      O'er hill and dell,--all Nature lay
    Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream
      Of her that charm'd my homeward way!

    Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair!
      And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye,
    And still, to feed my fond despair,
      Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by,
    I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh,
      In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine,
    On that fair breast to live and die,
      O'er-power'd with transport so divine!

    Still sacred be that hour to love,
      And dear the season of its birth,
    And fair the glade, and green the grove,
      Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth
    Of melody and woodland mirth!--
      The hour, the spot, so dear to me!
    That wean'd my soul from all on earth,
      To be for ever bless'd in thee.




THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.


    All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor,
      I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
    Yet thought her not false--she had ever been true
      To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.

    I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart,
      Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
    Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
      And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.

    The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread,
      I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn;
    I sped to the valley--I found her deep sunk,
      On her way to the old blighted thorn!

    I whisper'd, "My Mary!"--she spoke not: I caught
      Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold;
    Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er--
      Nor knew how I quitted my hold.




THE WRECKED MARINER.


    Stay, proud bird of the shore!
      Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,
      Where waits our shatter'd skiff--
    One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.

    Fan with thy plumage bright
      Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine;
      And, gently to divine
    The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.

    Again swoop out to sea,
      With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head,
      As thou thyself wert dead,
    Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.

    Now let her bid false Hope
      For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
      The peace-bereaving strain--
    Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.

    Oh! bid not her repine,
      And deem my loss too bitter to be borne,
      Yet all of passion scorn
    But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.

    Thou art away, sweet wind!
      Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing,
      And o'er her bosom fling
    The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!




JOSEPH GRANT.


Joseph Grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm
of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardineshire, on the 26th of
May 1805. He was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish
school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's
farm. From boyhood he cherished a passionate love for reading, and was
no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in
nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some
merit. In 1828, he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems and
songs; and in 1830, "Kincardineshire Traditions"--a small volume of
ballads--both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of
emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in
1831, the situation of assistant to a shop-keeper in Stonehaven, and
soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office
of the _Dundee Guardian_ newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a
respectable writer.

Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_. In 1834, he published a second small volume of "Poems and
Songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a
prose work, entitled "Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however,
survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary
complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His
remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire,
where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected
to his memory. The "Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his
decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of
Dundee, editor of the _Northern Warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an
edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a
biographical preface by the poet Nicol.

Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian
sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of
becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his
elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing--

    "A kinder, warmer heart than his
      Was ne'er to minstrel given;
    And kinder, holier sympathies
      Ne'er sought their native heaven."




THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.


    The blackbird's hymn is sweet
      At fall of gloaming,
    When slow, o'er grove and hill,
      Night's shades are coming;
    But there is a sound that far
      More deeply moves us--
    The low sweet voice of her
      Who truly loves us.

    Fair is the evening star
      Rising in glory,
    O'er the dark hill's brow,
      Where mists are hoary;
    But the star whose rays
      The heart falls nearest,
    Is the love-speaking eye
      Of our heart's dearest.

    Oh, lonely, lonely is
      The human bosom,
    That ne'er has nursed the sweets
      Of young Love's blossom!
    The loveliest breast is like
      A starless morning,
    When clouds frown dark and cold,
      And storms are forming.




LOVE'S ADIEU.


    The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,
      Blinks over the dark green sea,
    An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap,
      Richt dim and drowsilie.
    An' the music o' the mornin'
      Is murmurin' alang the air;
    Yet still my dowie heart lingers
      To catch one sweet throb mair.

    We've been as blest, Eliza,
      As children o' earth can be,
    Though my fondest wish has been knit by
      The bonds of povertie;
    An' through life's misty sojourn,
      That still may be our fa',
    But hearts that are link'd for ever
      Ha'e strength to bear it a'.

    The cot by the mutterin' burnie,
      Its wee bit garden an' field,
    May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven
      Than lichts o' the lordliest bield;
    There 's many a young brow braided
      Wi' jewels o' far-off isles,
    But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs,
      While we see nought but smiles.

    But adieu, my ain Eliza!
      Where'er my wanderin's be,
    Undyin' remembrance will make thee
      The star o' my destinie;
    An' well I ken, thou loved one,
      That aye, till I return,
    Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom,
      Like a gem in a gowden urn.




DUGALD MOORE.


A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in
Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private
soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving
his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private
tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a
child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of
wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of
the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen
Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his
compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that
benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution
of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in
procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a
volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this
work a second edition was required in the following year, when he
likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "Scenes from
the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and
other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared
from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to
commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city.
His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters,
and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of
their custom.

In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical
Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The
Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One,
and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d
January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the
support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a
massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal
friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore
is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets.
Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of
feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is
everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has
chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest
illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his
Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary
popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.




RISE, MY LOVE.


    Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,
      Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;
    Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,
      Hynda comes to set thee free!
    Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,
      On the long and dreaming deep;
    A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,
      Where our eyes may cease to weep.

    Oh! some little isle of gladness,
      Smiling in the waters clear,
    Where the dreary tone of sadness
      Never smote the lonely ear--
    Soon will greet us, and deliver
      Souls so true, to freedom's plan;
    Death may sunder us, but never
      Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.

    Then our lute's exulting numbers,
      Unrestrain'd will wander on,
    While the night has seal'd in slumbers,
      Fair creation, all her own.
    And we'll wed, while music stealeth
      Through the starry fields above,
    While each bounding spirit feeleth
      All the luxury of love.

    Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,
      All the despot's bolts and powers;
    While Time wreathes his heavy pinions
      With love's brightest passion-flowers.
    Rise, then! let us fly together,
      Now the moon laughs on the sea;
    East or west, I care not whither,
      When with love and liberty!




JULIA.


    Born where the glorious star-lights trace
    In mountain snows their silver face,
      Where Nature, vast and rude,
    Looks as if by her God design'd
    To fill the bright eternal mind,
      With her fair magnitude.

    Hers was a face, to which was given
    Less portion of the earth than heaven,
      As if each trait had stole
    Its hue from Nature's shapes of light;
    As if stars, flowers, and all things bright
      Had join'd to form her soul.

    Her heart was young--she loved to breathe
    The air which spins the mountain's wreath,
      To wander o'er the wild,
    To list the music of the deep,
    To see the round stars on it sleep,
      For she was Nature's child!

    Nursed where the soul imbibes the print
    Of freedom--where nought comes to taint,
      Or its warm feelings quell:
    She felt love o'er her spirit driven,
    Such as the angels felt in heaven,
      Before they sinn'd and fell.

    Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,
    From all that's beautiful on earth--
      Lights which cannot expire--
    From all their glory, she had caught
    A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught
      With heaven's celestial fire.

    The desert streams familiar grown,
    The stars had language of their own,
      The hills contain'd a voice
    With which she could converse, and bring
    A charm from each insensate thing,
      Which bade her soul rejoice.

    She had the feeling and the fire,
    That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,
      Though delicate and young;
    Her bosom was not formed to bend--
    Adversity, that firmest friend,
      Had all its fibres strung.

    Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide
    A passion which she deem'd a pride!
      Oft have we sat and view'd
    The beauteous stars walk through the night,
    And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,
      To curb old Ocean's mood.

    She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,
    That I might feel her beating heart--
      Might read her living eye;
    Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll
    Through every vein, which to my soul,
      Said--Nature could not lie.




LUCY'S GRAVE.


    My spirit could its vigil hold
      For ever at this silent spot;
    But, ah! the heart within is cold,
      The sleeper heeds me not:
    The fairy scenes of love and youth,
    The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,
      By her are all forgot:
    Her spirit with my bliss is fled--
    I only weep above the dead!

    I need not view the grassy swell,
      Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;
    I need no monument to tell
      That thou art lying there:
    I feel within, a world like this,
    A fearful blank in all my bliss--
      An agonized despair,
    Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,
    But tells me, thou art in the tomb!

    I knew Death's fatal power, alas
      Could doom man's hopes to pine,
    But thought that many a year would pass
      Before he scatter'd mine!
    Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,
    Brief were our loves of early days--
      Brief as those bolts that shine
    With beautiful yet transient form,
    Round the dark fringes of the storm!

    I little thought, when first we met,
      A few short months would see
    Thy sun, before its noontide, set
      In dark eternity!
    While love was beaming from thy face,
    A lover's eye but ill could trace
      Aught that obscured its ray;
    So calm its pain thy bosom bore,
    I thought not death was at its core!

    The silver moon is shining now
      Upon thy lonely bed,
    Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,
      Cold as thy virgin head;
    She seems to breathe of many a day
    Now shrouded with thee in the clay,
      Of visions that have fled,
    When we beneath her holy flame,
    Dream'd over hopes that never came!

    Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,
      It mars the hallow'd scene;
    And must we bid again--farewell!
      Must life still intervene?
    Its charms are vain! my heart is laid
    E'en with thine own, celestial maid!
      A few short days have been
    An age of pain--a few may be
    A welcome passport, love! to thee.




THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.


    'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,
      As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,
    With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,
      On the heath of the desert they lie.
    Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,
      Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;
    Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,
      But red when the battle was past.

    They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met
      The foes of their country in battle array;
    But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,
      And the flowers of the forest are faded away!
    Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,
      No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,
    To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,
      Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.




THE FIRST SHIP.


        The sky in beauty arch'd
          The wide and weltering flood,
        While the winds in triumph march'd
          Through their pathless solitude--
    Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,
        That like space in darkness slept,
        When his watch old Silence kept,
        Ere the earliest planet leapt
            From its breast.

        A speck is on the deeps,
          Like a spirit in her flight;
        How beautiful she keeps
          Her stately path in light!
    She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee--
        The sun has on her smiled,
        And the waves, no longer wild,
        Sing in glory round that child
            Of the sea.

        'Twas at the set of sun
          That she tilted o'er the flood,
        Moving like God alone
          O'er the glorious solitude--
    The billows crouch around her as her slaves.
        How exulting are her crew--
        Each sight to them is new,
        As they sweep along the blue
            Of the waves!

        Fair herald of the fleets
          That yet shall cross the wave,
        Till the earth with ocean meets
          One universal grave,
    What armaments shall follow thee in joy!
        Linking each distant land
        With trade's harmonious band,
        Or bearing havoc's brand
            To destroy!




WEEP NOT.


    Though this wild brain is aching,
      Spill not thy tears with mine;
    Come to my heart, though breaking,
      Its firmest half is thine.
    Thou wert not made for sorrow,
      Then do not weep with me;
    There is a lovely morrow,
      That yet will dawn on thee.

    When I am all forgotten--
      When in the grave I lie--
    When the heart that loved thee 's broken,
      And closed the sparkling eye;
    Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,
      Unsullied, pure, and deep;
    For the God who 's ever near thee,
      Will never see thee weep.




TO THE CLYDE.


    When cities of old days
    But meet the savage gaze,
    Stream of my early ways
            Thou wilt roll.
    Though fleets forsake thy breast,
    And millions sink to rest--
    Of the bright and glorious west
            Still the soul.

    When the porch and stately arch,
    Which now so proudly perch
    O'er thy billows, on their march
            To the sea,
    Are but ashes in the shower;
    Still the jocund summer hour,
    From his cloud will weave a bower
            Over thee.

    When the voice of human power
    Has ceased in mart and bower,
    Still the broom and mountain flower
            Will thee bless.
    And the mists that love to stray
    O'er the Highlands, far away,
    Will come down their deserts gray
            To thy kiss.

    And the stranger, brown with toil,
    From the far Atlantic soil,
    Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
            Yet may come
    To search the solemn heaps
    That moulder by thy deeps,
    Where desolation sleeps,
            Ever dumb.

    Though fetters yet should clank
    O'er the gay and princely rank
    Of cities on thy bank,
            All sublime;
    Still thou wilt wander on,
    Till eternity has gone,
    And broke the dial stone
            Of old Time.




REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.


The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid,"
Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry,
D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother,
Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde,
Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his
elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently
prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the
University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was
admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He
subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church,
Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's
Episcopal Church, Dundee.

Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry
Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music
and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in
1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a
wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The
Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854,
respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms,"
published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of
1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency.
He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had
succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at
Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three
times married--first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw,
whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly,
he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter,
R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he
married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.




THE ARABY MAID.


    Away on the wings of the wind she flies,
      Like a thing of life and light--
    And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,
      And the beauty of eastern night.

    Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,
      Why wings it so speedy a flight?
    'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,
      To fly with her Christian knight.

    She hath left her sire and her native land,
      The land which from childhood she trode,
    And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,
      To worship the Christian's God.

    Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,
      It were death one moment's delay;
    For behind there is many a blade glancing bright--
      Then away--away--away!

    They are safe in the land where love is divine,
      In the land of the free and the brave--
    They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,
      Nought can sever them now but the grave.




THE MAIDEN'S VOW.


    The maid is at the altar kneeling,
    Hark the chant is loudly pealing--
      Now it dies away!

    Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,
    No other thought but thought divine
      Doth her sad bosom fill.

    The world to her is nothing now,
    For she hath ta'en a solemn vow
      To do her father's will.

    But why hath one so fair, so young,
    The joys of life thus from her flung--
      Why hath she ta'en the veil?

    Her lover fell where the brave should fall,
    Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call
      Proclaim'd the victory.

    He fought, he fell, a hero brave--
    And though he fill a lowly grave,
      His name can never die.

    The victory's news to the maiden came--
    They loudly breathed her lover's name,
      Who for his country fell.

    But vain the loudest trumpet tone
    Of fame to her, when he was gone
      To whom the praise was given!

    Her sun of life had set in gloom--
    Its joys were withered in his tomb--
      She vow'd herself to Heaven.




I LOVE THE SEA.


    I love the sea, I love the sea,
      My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,
    My cradle in my infancy--
      The only bosom I have press'd.
    I cannot breathe upon the land,
      Its manners are as bonds to me,
    Till on the deck again I stand,
      I cannot feel that I am free.

    Then tell me not of stormy graves--
      Though winds be high, there let them roar;
    I 'd rather perish on the waves
      Than pine by inches on the shore.
    I ask no willow where I lie,
      My mourner let the mermaid be,
    My only knell the sea-bird's cry,
      My winding-sheet the boundless sea!




GEORGE ALLAN.


George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes,
near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had
completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both
his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served
an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a
member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished
legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career
of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were
encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he
accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the
climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly
after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the
editorship of the _Dumfries Journal_, a respectable Conservative
newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for
three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in
the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan
Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor,
is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:--

     "Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with
     such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure
     readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant
     paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free
     and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the
     district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land.
     These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and
     these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs
     you can easily scatter about; these attract
     booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements
     where they find their works are noticed. Above all
     things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if
     you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are
     severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake
     the head. You will have friends on one side of the
     water desiring one thing, friends on the other side
     desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you
     vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good
     conscience, will enable you to get well through all."

On terminating his connexion with the _Dumfries Journal_, Allan
proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs
Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend,
about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising
employers:--

   "They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive
   to their business, and they go through their labours with a
   spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with
   their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most
   mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly
   uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The
   interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond
   everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way
   in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable
   at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of
   anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks
   for."

Besides contributing many interesting articles to _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_, and furnishing numerous communications to the _Scotsman_
newspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo
volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the
public press. In preparing that elegant work, the "Original National
Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was
favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that
publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives
succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate
situation in the Stamp Office,--one which at once afforded him a certain
subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his
literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system
did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died
suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his
thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow,
eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan
Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a
man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion,
and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a
handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of
literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by
overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are
largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]

FOOTNOTES:

[20] We are indebted to William Pagan, Esq. of Clayton, author of "Road
Reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Pagan
kindly procured for our use the whole of Mr Allan's papers and MSS.




IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]


    Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?
    Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
    Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,
    Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,
    To give back our wrongs to the giver?
    To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,
    Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,
    With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them,
    And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them;
    Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
    Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,
    Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
    Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!


II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)

    Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom
    As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,
    But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
    And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;
    Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,
    And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,
    But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never--
                Never! Never! Never!


III.--(CLANSMEN.)

    Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?
    Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
    If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
    That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
    Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
    Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
    And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
    There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
    'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,
    Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
    Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;
    Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
    Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to
the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the
Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is
accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the
Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical
talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This
song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National
Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.




I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.


    I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
    In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
    Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
    And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
    I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
    Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
    And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
    A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

    I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
    O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
    And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
    While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
    Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
    'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
    But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
    And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

    I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
    The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
    'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
    Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
    But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
    Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;
    And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,
    A light to my soul when no other is seen.




LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.


    Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,
    And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',
    But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,
    Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!

    I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,
    And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;
    But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover
    Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!

    The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,
    And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,
    Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!
    But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!

    Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing
    Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,
    For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,
    And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.




WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]


    When I look far down on the valley below me,
      Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,
    While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me
      How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,
    How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted
      My hours in such spot to have peacefully run,
    Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,
      And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.

    I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,
      Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;
    I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd
      Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!
    Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd,
      As the senses might sway or the passions command;
    That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,
      Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.

    Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice
      And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,
    To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise
      Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?
    Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,
      Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,
    And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,
      Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Printed, for the first time, from the author's MS.




I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]


    I will wake my harp when the shades of even
      Are closing around the dying day,
    When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven
      Are weaning my heart from the world away;
    And my strain will tell of a land and home
      Which my wand'ring steps have left behind,
    Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam
      Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.

    I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper
      Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,
    When not a leaf is heard to whisper
      That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.
    And you, dear friends of my youthful years,
      Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,
    And a smile for the past will gild the tears
      That tell how my heart is far away.

    I will wake my harp when the moon is holding
      Her star-tent court in the midnight sky,
    When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,
      Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.
    And well may I hail that blissful hour,
      For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free,
    Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower,
      And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.

    Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing
      The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell,
    I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing
      Of all I have left and lov'd so well.
    Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease,
      But the dearest hope we on earth can gain
    Is to come, after long sad years, in peace,
      And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Printed for the first time.




THOMAS BRYDSON.


Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual
course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became
a licentiate of the Established Church. He assisted in the Middle
Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, and
was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842,
he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued
to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place
suddenly on the 28th January 1855.

A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life,
much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo
volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces
in 1832, under the title of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in
prose and verse, to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; the _Republic of
Letters_, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though
fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly
hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great
measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among
his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour
which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the
gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic
animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and
in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance
of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.




ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.


    All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time,
      Seem the days when I wander'd with you,
    Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime,
      On the deeps that are trackless and blue.

    And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill,
      And the howl of the forest is drear,
    I think of the lapse of our own native rill--
      I think of thy voice with a tear.

    The light of my taper is fading away,
      It hovers, and trembles, and dies;
    The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray,
      But sleep will not come to mine eyes.

    Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieve
      O'er the joys that my childhood has known?
    We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve,
      As we met in the days that are gone.




CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.


Though a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to
enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a
Scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He
was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March 1807. His father,
who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Royal
Artillery.[24] He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera
on the 27th and 28th of July 1809; but from his fatigues died soon
after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr
Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of
James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire.

Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much
advantage from scholastic training. His favourite themes were poetry and
music, and these he assiduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of
other important studies. At a subsequent period he devoted himself with
ardour to his improvement in general knowledge. He read extensively, and
became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages.
Disappointed in obtaining a commission in the Royal Artillery, on which
he had calculated, he proceeded to India as midshipman in a merchant
vessel. Conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage,
he entered on the study of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. From
early youth he composed verses. In 1829, while only in his twenty-second
year, he published, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, entitled
"Vallery; or, the Citadel of the Lake." This production, which refers to
the times of Chivalry, was well received; and, in the following year,
the author ventured on the publication of a second poem, in two books,
entitled "Eldred of Erin." In the latter composition, which is pervaded
by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal
experiences. In 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, "The
Exiles of Chamouni; a Drama," a production which received only a limited
circulation. About the same period, he became a contributor of verses to
the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. He ultimately undertook the editorial
superintendence of a religious periodical.

Delicate in constitution, and of a highly nervous temperament, Sillery
found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the
intention of qualifying himself for the Church. He calculated on early
ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of Her Majesty Queen
Adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some
interest on his behalf. But his prospects were soon clouded by the slow
but certain progress of an insidious malady. He was seized with
pulmonary consumption, and died at Edinburgh on the 16th May 1836, in
his twenty-ninth year.

Of sprightly and winning manners, Sillery was much cherished in the
literary circles of the capital. He was of the ordinary height, and of
an extremely slender figure; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing,
was singularly indicative of power. Poetry, in its every department, he
cherished with the devotion of an enthusiast; and though sufficiently
modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in
singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he
had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his
views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before
his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the
proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more
advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. With
occasional defects, the poem of "Vallery" is possessed of much boldness
of imagery, and force and elegance of expression.

FOOTNOTES:

[24] Captain Doyne Sillery was born in Drogheda, Ireland, of which place
his father was mayor during the Rebellion of 1798, and where he
possessed considerable property. He was descended from one of the most
ancient and illustrious families in France, of which the representative
took refuge in England during the infamous persecution of the
Protestants in the sixteenth century. On the reduction of priestly power
in Ireland by Cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the United
Kingdom. The family name was originally Brulart. Nicolas Brulart,
Marquis de Sillery, Lord de Pinsieux, de Marinis, and de Berny, acquired
much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in France.
(See "L'Histoire Généalogique et Chronologique des Chanceliers de
France," tom. vi. p. 524). On the maternal side Captain Sillery was
lineally descended from Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the famous
chancellor.




SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.


    She died in beauty! like a rose
      Blown from its parent stem;
    She died in beauty! like a pearl
      Dropp'd from some diadem.

    She died in beauty! like a lay
      Along a moonlit lake;
    She died in beauty! like the song
      Of birds amid the brake.

    She died in beauty! like the snow
      On flowers dissolved away;
    She died in beauty! like a star
      Lost on the brow of day.

    She _lives_ in glory! like night's gems
      Set round the silver moon;
    She lives in glory! like the sun
      Amid the blue of June!




THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.


    Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,
      His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;
    While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers--
      The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

    Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,
      For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,
    And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain,
      That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.

    Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
      The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
    And shout in the chorus for ever and ever--
      The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

    Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,
      And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells,
    And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming
      On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.

    Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather,
      Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells--
    Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together--
      The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.

    Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
      The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
    And shout in the chorus for ever and ever--
      The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.




ROBERT MILLER.


Robert Miller, the author of the two following songs, was a native of
Glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. He contributed
verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate
publication. He died at Glasgow, in September 1834, at the early age of
twenty-four. His "Lay of the Hopeless" was written within a few days of
his decease.




WHERE ARE THEY?


    The loved of early days!
      Where are they?--where?
    Not on the shining braes,
      The mountains bare;--
    Not where the regal streams
      Their foam-bells cast--
    Where childhood's time of dreams
      And sunshine pass'd.

    Some in the mart, and some
      In stately halls,
    With the ancestral gloom
      Of ancient walls;
    Some where the tempest sweeps
      The desert waves;
    Some where the myrtle weeps
      On Roman graves.

    And pale young faces gleam
      With solemn eyes;
    Like a remember'd dream
      The dead arise;
    In the red track of war
      The restless sweep;
    In sunlit graves afar
      The loved ones sleep.

    The braes are dight with flowers,
      The mountain streams
    Foam past me in the showers
      Of sunny gleams;
    But the light hearts that cast
      A glory there,
    In the rejoicing past,
      Where are they?--where?




LAY OF THE HOPELESS.


    Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now
      O'er the restless and weary wave,
    Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough
      O'er the calm of my early grave--
    And my heart with its pulses of fire and life,
      Oh! would it were still as stone.
    I am weary, weary, of all the strife,
      And the selfish world I 've known.

    I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup,
      When youth and joy were mine;
    But the cold black dregs are floating up,
      Instead of the laughing wine;
    And life hath lost its loveliness,
      And youth hath spent its hour,
    And pleasure palls like bitterness,
      And hope hath not a flower.

    And love! was it not a glorious eye
      That smiled on my early dream?
    It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh,
      In the churchyard by the stream:
    And fame--oh! mine were gorgeous hopes
      Of a flashing and young renown:
    But early, early the flower-leaf drops
      From the withering seed-cup down.

    And beauty! have I not worshipp'd all
      Her shining creations well?
    The rock--the wood--the waterfall,
      Where light or where love might dwell.
    But over all, and on my heart,
      The mildew hath fallen sadly,
    I have no spirit, I have no part
      In the earth that smiles so gladly!

    I only sigh for a quiet bright spot
      In the churchyard by the stream,
    Whereon the morning sunbeams float,
      And the stars at midnight dream;
    Where only Nature's sounds may wake
      The sacred and silent air,
    And only her beautiful things may break
      Through the long grass gathering there.




ALEXANDER HUME.


Alexander Hume was born at Kelso on the 1st of February 1809. His
father, Walter Hume, occupied a respectable position as a retail trader
in that town. Of the early history of our author little has been
ascertained. His first teacher was Mr Ballantyne of Kelso, a man
somewhat celebrated in his vocation. To his early preceptor's kindness
of heart, Hume frequently referred with tears. While under Mr
Ballantyne's scholastic superintendence, his love of nature first became
apparent. After school hours it was his delight to wander by the banks
of the Tweed, or reclining on its brink, to listen to the music of its
waters. From circumstances into which we need not inquire, his family
was induced to remove from Kelso to London. The position they occupied
we have not learned; but young Hume is remembered as being a quick,
intelligent, and most affectionate boy, eager, industrious,
self-reliant, and with an occasional dash of independence that made him
both feared and loved. He might have been persuaded to adopt almost any
view, but an attempt at coercion only excited a spirit of antagonism. To
use an old and familiar phrase, "he might break, but he would not bend."

About this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had
authority over him, he suddenly disappeared from home, and allied
himself to a company of strolling players, with whom he associated for
several months. He had an exquisite natural voice, and sung the melting
melodies of Scotland in a manner seldom equalled. With the itinerant
manager he was a favourite, because he was fit for anything--tragedy,
comedy, farce, a hornpipe, and, if need be, a comic song, in which
making faces at the audience was an indispensable accomplishment. His
greatest hit, we are told, was in the absurdly extravagant song, "I am
such a Beautiful Boy;" when he used to say that in singing one verse, he
opened his mouth so wide that he had difficulty in closing it; but it
appears he had neither difficulty nor reluctance in closing his
engagement. Getting tired of his new profession, and disgusted with his
associates, poorly clad and badly fed, he slipped away when his
companions were fast asleep, and returned to London. Here, weary and
footsore, he presented himself to a relative, who received him kindly,
and placed him in a position where by industry he might provide for his
necessities.

In 1827, he obtained a situation with Forbes & Co. of Mark Lane, the
highly respectable agents for Berwick & Co. of Edinburgh, the celebrated
brewers of Scotch ale. His position being one of considerable
responsibility, he was obliged to find security in the sum of £500,
which he obtained from the relative who had always stood his friend. But
such was his probity and general good conduct, that his employers
cancelled the security, and returned the bond as a mark of their
appreciation of his integrity and worth.

About this period it was that he first gave utterance to his feelings in
verse. Impulsive and impassioned naturally, his first strong attachment
roused the deepest feelings of the man, and awoke the dormant passion of
the poet. The non-success of his first wooing only made his song the
more vehement for a while, but as no flame can burn intensely for ever,
his love became more subdued, and his song gradually assumed that
touching pathos which has ever characterised the best lyrics of
Scotland.

Some time between the years 1830 and 1833, he became a member of the
Literary and Scientific Institution, Aldersgate Street, where he made
the acquaintance of many kindred spirits, young men of the same standing
as himself, chiefly occupied in the banks, offices, and warehouses of
the city of London. There they had classes established for the study of
history, for the discussion of philosophical and literary subjects, and
for the practice of elocution. The recitations of the several members
awoke the embers that smouldered in his heart from the time he had left
the stage. His early experience had made him acquainted with the manner
in which the voice ought to be modulated to make the utterance
effective; and although he seldom ventured to recite, he was always a
fair critic and a deeply interested auditor. The young ambition of a few
had led them to aspire to authorship, and they established a monthly
magazine. Although the several articles were not of the highest order,
they were, nevertheless, quite equal to the average periodical writings
of the day. In this magazine it is believed that Hume published his
first song. It had been sent in the ordinary way, signed _Daft Wattie_,
and the editor, not appreciating the northern dialect in which it was
written, had tossed it aside. Shortly afterwards, one of the managers on
turning over the rejected papers was attracted by the verses, read them,
and was charmed. He placed them back in the editor's box, certifying
them as fit for publication by writing across them,

    "Musical as is Apollo's lute,"

to which he signed his name, William Raine. This circumstance soon led
to an intimate acquaintance with Mr Raine, who was a man of considerable
original power, excellent education, and of a social and right manly
nature. This new acquaintance coloured the whole of Hume's future life.
They became fast friends, and were inseparable. The imagination of Hume
was restrained by the acute judgment and critical ability of Mr Raine.
When Hume published his first volume of "Songs," it would perhaps be
difficult to determine whether their great success and general
popularity resulted from the poet whose name they bore, or from the
friend who weighed and suggested corrections in almost every song, until
they finally came before the public in a collected form. The volume was
dedicated to Allan Cunningham, and in the preface he says: "I composed
them by no rules excepting those which my own observation and feelings
formed; I knew no other. As I thought and felt, so have I written. Of
all poetical compositions, songs, especially those of the affections,
should be natural, warm gushes of feeling--brief, simple, and condensed.
As soon as they have left the singer's lips, they should be fast around
the hearer's heart."

In 1837, Hume married Miss Scott, a lady well calculated to attract the
eye and win the heart of a poet. He remained connected with the house of
Berwick & Co. until 1840, when, to recover his health, which had been
failing for some time, he was advised to visit America, where he
travelled for several months. On his return to England, he entered into
an engagement with the Messrs Lane of Cork, then the most eminent
brewers in the south of Ireland. To this work he devoted himself with
great energy, and was duly rewarded for his labour by almost immediate
success. The article he sold became exceedingly popular in the
metropolis; nor was he disappointed in the hope of realising
considerable pecuniary advantages.

For several years he had written very little. The necessity to make
provision for a rapidly increasing family, and the ambition to take a
high position in the business he had chosen, occupied his every hour,
and became with him a passion as strong as had ever moved him in works
of the imagination.

In 1847 there were slight indications of a return of the complaint from
which he had suffered in 1840, and he again crossed the Atlantic.
Although he returned considerably improved in health, he was by no means
well. Fortunately he had secured the services of a Mr Macdonald as an
assistant in his business, whose exertions in his interest were
unremitting. Mr Hume's health gradually declined, and ultimately
incapacitated him for the performance of any commercial duty. In May
1851 he died at Northampton, leaving a widow and six children.

As a song writer, Hume is entitled to an honourable place among those
authors whose writings have been technically called "the Untutored Muse
of Scotland." His style is eminently graceful, and a deep and genuine
pathos pervades his compositions. We confidently predict that some of
his lyrics are destined to obtain a lasting popularity. In 1845, a
complete edition of his "Songs and Poems" was published at London in a
thin octavo volume.




MY WEE, WEE WIFE.

AIR--_"The Boatie Rows."_


    My wee wife dwells in yonder cot,
    My bonnie bairnies three;
    Oh! happy is the husband's lot,
    Wi' bairnies on his knee.
    My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
    My bonnie bairnies three;
    How bright is day how sweet is life!
    When love lights up the e'e.

    The king o'er me may wear a crown,
    Have millions bow the knee,
    But lacks he love to share his throne,
    How poor a king is he!
    My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
    My bonnie bairnies three,
    Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife,
    Your hearts are thrones to me.

    I 've felt oppression's galling chain,
    I 've shed the tear o' care,
    But feeling aye lost a' its pain,
    When my wee wife was near.
    My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
    My bonnie bairnies three,
    The chains we wear are sweet to bear,
    How sad could we go free!




O POVERTY!

AIR--_"The Posie."_


    Eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel,
    Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;
    But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me;
    O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

    I went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd,
    I spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd;
    But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me;
    O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

    I next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain,
    I told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain;
    Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me;
    O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

    Oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,
    And canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan';
    To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e;
    O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

    But wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay,
    It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way;
    In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be;
    O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.




NANNY.

AIR--_"Fee him, Father."_


    There 's mony a flower beside the rose,
      And sweets beside the honey;
    But laws maun change ere life disclose
      A flower or sweet like Nanny.
    Her e'e is like the summer sun,
      When clouds can no conceal it,
    Ye 're blind if it ye look upon,
      Oh! mad if ere ye feel it.

    I 've mony bonnie lassies seen,
      Baith blithesome, kind, an' canny;
    But oh! the day has never been
      I 've seen another Nanny!
    She 's like the mavis in her sang,
      Amang the brakens bloomin',
    Her lips ope to an angel's tongue,
      But kiss her, oh! she's woman.




MY BESSIE.

AIR--_"The Posie."_


    My Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers,
    Oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours,
    When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play,
    An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day?

    The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem,
    An' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them,
    To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me,
    I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee.

    Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew,
    An' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you;
    How aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck,
    An' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak!

    We 'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays,
    An' sing that tearfu' tale about Doon's bonnie banks and braes;
    But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet,
    Like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet.

    Oh! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth,
    In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth?
    The linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree,
    Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me!




MENIE HAY.

AIR--_"Heigh-ho! for Somebody."_


    A wee bird sits upon a spray,
    And aye it sings o' Menie Hay,
    The burthen o' its cheery lay
    Is "Come away, dear Menie Hay!
    Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
    Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!
    There 's not a bonnie flower in May
    Shows a bloom wi' Menie Hay."

    A light in yonder window 's seen,
    And wi' it seen is Menie Hay;
    Wha gazes on the dewy green,
    Where sits the bird upon the spray?
    "Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
    Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!
    At sic a time, in sic a way,
    What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"

    "What seek ye there, my daughter dear?
    What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"
    "Dear mother, but the stars sae clear
    Around the bonnie Milky Way."
    "Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay!
    Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
    Ye something see ye daurna say,
    Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"

    The window 's shut, the light is gane,
    And wi' it gane is Menie Hay;
    But wha is seen upon the green,
    Kissing sweetly Menie Hay?
    "Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
    Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
    For ane sae young ye ken the way,
    And far from blate, O Menie Hay!"

    "Gae scour the country, hill and dale;
    Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay?
    Search ilka nook, in town or vale,
    For my daughter, Menie Hay."
    "Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
    Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
    I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay,
    O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."




I 'VE WANDER'D ON THE SUNNY HILL.


    I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale,
    Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale;
    But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me--
    The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee.

    The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom--
    The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom;
    But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea,
    Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee.

    I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand,
    When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand;
    The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free,
    Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee.

    I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun,
    I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone;
    Ye smiled in look, but no in heart--your heart was no for me;
    Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee.




OH! YEARS HAE COME.


    Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane,
    Sin' first I sought the warld alane,
    Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain
        On the hills o' Caledonia.
    But oh! behold the present gloom,
    My early friends are in the tomb,
    And nourish now the heather bloom
        On the hills o' Caledonia.

    My father's name, my father's lot,
    Is now a tale that 's heeded not,
    Or sang unsung, if no forgot
        On the hills o' Caledonia.
    O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane--
    A' swept away, like snaw lang gane;
    Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain
        On the hills o' Caledonia.

    The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high,
    The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,
    Like some sad heart maist grutten dry
        On the hills o' Caledonia.
    The wee birds sing no frae the tree,
    The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea,
    As if the kind things pitied me
        On the hills o' Caledonia.

    But friends can live, though cold they lie,
    An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh,
    When we forget them, then they die
        On the hills o' Caledonia.
    An' howsoever changed the scene,
    While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green,
    Still green to my auld heart an' e'en
        Are the hills o' Caledonia.




MY MOUNTAIN HAME.

AIR--_"Gala Water."_

    My mountain hame, my mountain hame!
      My kind, my independent mother;
    While thought and feeling rule my frame,
      Can I forget the mountain heather?
                              Scotland dear!

    I love to hear your daughters dear
      The simple tale in song revealing,
    Whene'er your music greets my ear
      My bosom swells wi' joyous feeling--
                              Scotland dear!

    Though I to other lands may gae,
      Should Fortune's smile attend me thither,
    I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may,
      And look again on the mountain heather--
                              Scotland dear!

    When I maun die, oh! I would lie
      Where life and me first met together;
    That my cauld clay, through its decay,
      Might bloom again in the mountain heather--
                              Scotland dear!




THOMAS SMIBERT.


A poet and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in
Peebles on the 8th February 1810. Of his native town his father held for
a period the office of chief magistrate. With a view of qualifying
himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an
apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in
the University of Edinburgh. Obtaining licence as a surgeon, he
commenced practice in the village of Inverleithen, situated within six
miles of his native town. He was induced to adopt this sphere of
professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young
lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness,
but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. Disappointed in love,
and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the
annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left Inverleithen after the
lapse of a year, and returned to Peebles. He now began to turn his
attention to literature, and was fortunate in procuring congenial
employment from the Messrs Chambers, as a contributor to their popular
_Journal_. Of this periodical he soon attained the position of
sub-editor; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services
in this literary connexion, it is worthy of record that, during the
period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he contributed to the
_Journal_ no fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and
about fifty biographical sketches. Within the same period he edited a
new edition of Paley's "Natural Theology," with scientific notes, and
wrote extensively for a work of the Messrs Chambers, entitled
"Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the
sub-editorship of the _Scotsman_ newspaper. The bequest of a relative
afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he
continued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and
industry. He became a frequent contributor to _Hogg's Instructor_, an
Edinburgh weekly periodical; produced a work on "Greek History;" and
collated a "Rhyming Dictionary." A large, magnificently illustrated
volume, the "Clans of the Highlands of Scotland," was his most ambitious
and successful effort as a prose-writer. His poetical compositions,
which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced
to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, "Io Anche! Poems
chiefly Lyrical;" Edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. An historical play from his
pen, entitled "Condé's Wife," founded on the love of Henri Quatre for
Marguerite de Montmorency, whom the young Prince of Condé had wedded,
was produced in 1842 by Mr Murray in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and
during a run of nine nights was received with applause.

Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth
year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions,
and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation.
In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He
was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and
has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent
periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment,
and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs
indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.




THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.


    Afore the Lammas tide
      Had dun'd the birken-tree,
    In a' our water side
      Nae wife was bless'd like me.
    A kind gudeman, and twa
      Sweet bairns were 'round me here,
    But they're a' ta'en awa'
      Sin' the fa' o' the year.

    Sair trouble cam' our gate,
      And made me, when it cam',
    A bird without a mate,
      A ewe without a lamb.
    Our hay was yet to maw,
      And our corn was to shear,
    When they a' dwined awa'
      In the fa' o' the year.

    I downa look a-field,
      For aye I trow I see
    The form that was a bield
      To my wee bairns and me;
    But wind, and weet, and snaw,
      They never mair can fear,
    Sin' they a' got the ca'
      In the fa' o' the year.

    Aft on the hill at e'ens,
      I see him 'mang the ferns--
    The lover o' my teens,
      The faither o' my bairns;
    For there his plaid I saw,
      As gloamin' aye drew near,
    But my a's now awa'
      Sin' the fa' o' the year.

    Our bonnie rigs theirsel',
      Reca' my waes to mind;
    Our puir dumb beasties tell
      O' a' that I hae tyned;
    For wha our wheat will saw,
      And wha our sheep will shear,
    Sin' my a' gaed awa'
      In the fa' o' the year?

    My hearth is growing cauld,
      And will be caulder still,
    And sair, sair in the fauld
      Will be the winter's chill;
    For peats were yet to ca',
      Our sheep they were to smear,
    When my a' passed awa'
      In the fa' o' the year.

    I ettle whiles to spin,
      But wee, wee patterin' feet
    Come rinnin' out and in,
      And then I just maun greet;
    I ken it 's fancy a',
      And faster rows the tear,
    That my a' dwined awa'
      In the fa' o' the year.

    Be kind, O Heaven abune!
      To ane sae wae and lane,
    And tak' her hamewards sune
      In pity o' her maen.
    Lang ere the March winds blaw,
      May she, far far frae here,
    Meet them a' that's awa
      Sin' the fa' o' the year!




THE HERO OF ST JOHN D'ACRE.[25]


    Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing
      The banner of England is spread to the breeze,
    And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing
      Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.
            No tempest shall daunt her,
            No victor-foe taunt her,
    What manhood can do in her cause shall be done--
            Britannia's best seaman,
            The boast of her freemen,
    Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.

    On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying,
      Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold;
    And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying,
      When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.
            But lo! in the offing,
            To punish their scoffing,
    Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done;
            No danger can stay him,
            No foeman dismay him,
    He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

    Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled,
      Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone;
    The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled,
      And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John.
            But Napier now tenders
            To Acre's defenders
    The aid of a friend when the combat is won;
            For mercy's sweet blossom
            Blooms fresh in his bosom,
    Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.

    "All hail to the hero!" his country is calling,
      And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave,
    They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling,
      But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave.
            And long may the ocean,
            In calm and commotion,
    Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won,
            And when foes would wound us
            May Napier be round us,
    To conquer or die by their colours and gun!

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Admiral Sir Charles Napier.




OH! BONNIE ARE THE HOWES.


    Oh! bonnie are the howes
    And sunny are the knowes
    That feed the kye and yowes
      Where my life's morn dawn'd;
    And brightly glance the rills
    That spring amang the hills
    And ca' the merry mills
      In my ain dear land.

    But now I canna see
    The lammies on the lea,
    Nor hear the heather bee
      On this far, far strand.
    I see nae father's ha',
    Nae burnie's waterfa',
    But wander far awa'
      Frae my ain dear land.

    My heart was free and light,
    My ingle burning bright,
    When ruin cam' by night
      Through a foe's fell hand.
    I left my native air,
    I gaed to come nae mair;
    And now I sorrow sair
      For my ain dear land.

    But blithely will I bide
    Whate'er may yet betide
    When ane is by my side
      On this far, far strand.
    My Jean will soon be here
    This waefu' heart to cheer,
    And dry the fa'ing tear
      For my ain dear land.




OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.


    Oh! say na you maun gang awa',
      Oh! say na you maun leave me;
    The dreaded hour that parts us twa
      Of peace and hope will reave me.

    When you to distant shores are gane
      How could I bear to tarry,
    Where ilka tree and ilka stane
      Would mind me o' my Mary?

    I couldna wander near yon woods
      That saw us oft caressing,
    And on our heads let fa' their buds
      In earnest o' their blessing.

    Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd
      Its half-o'erspreading heather,
    And how we lo'ed the least the best
      That made us creep thegither.

    I couldna bide, when you are gane,
      My ain, my winsome dearie,
    I couldna stay to pine my lane--
      I live but when I 'm near ye.

    Then say na you maun gang awa',
      Oh! say na you maun leave me;
    For ah! the hour that parts us twa
      Of life itself will reave me.




JOHN BETHUNE.


The younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled
to remembrance, John Bethune, was born at the Mount, in the parish of
Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his
parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught
reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother
Alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. After some years'
employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to
break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade,
he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring
village. In his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that,
at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of
fifteen shillings. Desirous of assisting his aged parents, he now
purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his
elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarrassments
which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed
heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to
six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the
shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of
his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical
composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825
that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of
literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued
labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and
composition. Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced
upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length,
and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till
considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only
known to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "Up to
the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch,
"the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had
been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apartment in the
house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book,
upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life,
was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old
newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any
one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand
were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had,
in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading."

For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the
grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the death of
the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering
on the duties at the term of Martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying
him as his assistant. The appointment yielded £26 yearly, with the right
of a cow's pasturage--emoluments which considerably exceeded the average
of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied
himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his
evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his
comparative prosperity was of short duration. During the summer
following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the
new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another
year the landlord required the little cottage at Lochend, occupied by
his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother
summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near
Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future
career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He
became a contributor to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, _Wilson's Tales
of the Borders_, and other serial publications. In 1838 appeared "Tales
and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the
poet and his brother--a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well
received. A work on "Practical Economy," on which the brothers had
bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of
persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to
attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health
of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by
repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved
the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the
1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year.

With a more lengthened career, John Bethune would have attained a high
reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. His
genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its
important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was
practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of
industry. His tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and
contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model
of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were
published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a
second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been
erected over his grave in the churchyard of Abdie.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Alexander Bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant
companion and coadjutor in literary work, was born at Upper Rankeillor,
in the parish of Monimail, in July 1804. His education was limited to a
few months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with
occasional lessons from his parents. Like his younger brother, he
followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry
or breaking stones on the public road. Early contracting a taste for
literature, his leisure hours were devoted to reading and composition.
In 1835, several of his productions appeared in _Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal_. "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," a volume by
the brothers, of which the greater portion was written by Alexander, was
published in 1838; their joint-treatise on "Practical Economy" in the
year following. In 1843, Alexander published a small volume of tales,
entitled "The Scottish Peasant's Fireside," which was favourably
received. During the same year he was offered the editorship of the
_Dumfries Standard_ newspaper, with a salary of £100 a-year, but he was
unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. He died at Mount
Pleasant, near Newburgh, on the 13th June 1843, and his remains were
interred in his brother's grave in Abdie churchyard. An interesting
volume of his Memoirs, "embracing Selections from his Correspondence and
Literary Memoirs," was published in 1845 by Mr William M'Combie.




WITHER'D FLOWERS.


    Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets!
      Your day of glory's past;
    But your latest smile was loveliest,
      For we knew it was your last.
    No more the sweet aroma
      Of your golden cups shall rise,
    To scent the morning's stilly breath,
      Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.

    Ye were the sweetest offerings
      Which Friendship could bestow--
    A token of devoted love
      In pleasure or in woe!
    Ye graced the head of infancy,
      By soft affection twined
    Into a fairy coronal
      Its sunny brows to bind.

       *       *       *       *       *

    But ah! a dreary blast hath blown
      Athwart you in your bloom,
    And, pale and sickly, now your leaves
      The hues of death assume.
    We mourn your vanish'd loveliness,
      Ye sweet departed flowers;
    For ah! the fate which blighted you
      An emblem is of ours.

       *       *       *       *       *
    And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth,
      We wither and depart,
    And leave behind, to mourn our loss,
      Full many an aching heart;
    Yet when the winter of the grave
      Is past, we hope to rise,
    Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
      To blossom in the skies.




A SPRING SONG.


    There is a concert in the trees,
      There is a concert on the hill,
    There 's melody in every breeze,
      And music in the murmuring rill.
      The shower is past, the winds are still,
    The fields are green, the flow'rets spring,
      The birds, and bees, and beetles fill
    The air with harmony, and fling
      The rosied moisture of the leaves
    In frolic flight from wing to wing,
      Fretting the spider as he weaves
    His airy web from bough to bough;
      In vain the little artist grieves
    Their joy in his destruction now.

    Alas! that, in a scene so fair,
      The meanest being e'er should feel
    The gloomy shadow of despair
      Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
      But in a world where woe is real,
    Each rank in life, and every day,
      Must pain and suffering reveal,
    And wretched mourners in decay--
      When nations smile o'er battles won,
    When banners wave and streamers play,
      The lonely mother mourns her son
    Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
      And the poor widow, all undone,
    Sees the wild revel with dismay.

    Even in the happiest scenes of earth,
      When swell'd the bridal-song on high,
    When every voice was tuned to mirth,
      And joy was shot from eye to eye,
      I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh;
    And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair,
      I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie
    In beauty with the fairest there,
      Grown deadly pale, although a smile
    Was worn above to cloak despair.
      Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
    Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love
      To hide a heart, which broke the while
    With pangs no lighter heart could prove.

    The joyous spring and summer gay
      With perfumed gifts together meet,
    And from the rosy lips of May
      Breathe music soft and odours sweet;
      And still my eyes delay my feet
    To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
      And hear the happy birds repeat
    Their anthems to the coming even;
      Yet is my pleasure incomplete;
    I grieve to think how few are given
      To feel the pleasures I possess,
    While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
      Must pine in utter loneliness,
    Or be to desperation driven.

    Oh! could we find some happy land,
      Some Eden of the deep blue sea,
    By gentle breezes only fann'd,
      Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
      Grew only pure felicity!
    Who would not brave the stormiest main
      Within that blissful isle to be,
    Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
      There is a land we cannot see,
    Whose joys no pen can e'er portray;
      And yet, so narrow is the road,
    From it our spirits ever stray--
      Shed light upon that path, O God!
    And lead us in the appointed way.

    There only joy shall be complete,
      More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
    For there the just and good shall meet,
      Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
      No jealousy shall make a breach,
    Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy;
      There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
    And there the very air is joy.
      There shall the faithful, who relied
    On faithless love till life would cloy,
      And those who sorrow'd till they died
    O'er earthly pain and earthly woe,
      See Pleasure, like a whelming tide,
    From an unbounded ocean flow.




ALLAN STEWART.


Allan Stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born
in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His
father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his
mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind
attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious
subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education at school,
he followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were
employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus
fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year.
His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo
volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his
friend, Mr Charles Fleming.

Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and
somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order;
his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment.




THE SEA-BOY.

AIR--_"The Soldier's Tear."_


    The storm grew faint as daylight tinged
      The lofty billows' crest;
    And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed,
      Danced in the sea-boy's breast.
    And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung
      To the billows' less'ning roar--
    "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
      I 'll see thee yet once more!"

    And O what joy beam'd in his eye,
      When, o'er the dusky foam,
    He saw, beneath the northern sky,
      The hills that mark'd his home!
    His heart with double ardour strung,
      He sung this ditty o'er--
    "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
      I 'll see thee yet once more!"

    Now towers and trees rise on his sight,
      And many a dear-loved spot;
    And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright,
      He saw young Ellen's cot.
    The scenes on which his memory hung
      A cheerful aspect wore;
    He then, with joyous feeling, sung,
      "I 'll see her yet once more!"

    The land they near'd, and on the beach
      Stood many a female form;
    But ah! his eye it could not reach
      His hope in many a storm.
    He through the spray impatient sprung,
      And gain'd the wish'd-for shore;
    But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young,
      Was gone for evermore!




MENIE LORN.


    While beaus and belles parade the streets
      On summer gloamings gay,
    And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets,
      And all such vain display;
    My walks are where the bean-field's breath
      On evening's breeze is borne,
    With her, the angel of my heart--
      My lovely Menie Lorn.

    Love's ambuscades her auburn hair,
      Love's throne her azure eye,
    Where peerless charms and virtues rare
      In blended beauty lie.
    The rose is fair at break of day,
      And sweet the blushing thorn,
    But sweeter, fairer far than they,
      The smile of Menie Lorn.

    O tell me not of olive groves,
      Where gold and gems abound;
    Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves,
      With every virtue crown'd.
    I ask no other ray of joy
      Life's desert to adorn,
    Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy--
      The love of Menie Lorn.




THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

AIR--_"The Banks of the Devon."_


    O say not o' war the young soldier is weary,
      Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame;
    Remember his daring when danger was near ye,
      Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame.
    Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming,
      Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free;
    But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming;
      He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.

    'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted,
      'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear;
    The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted,
      He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear.
    An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie,
      Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day;
    Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey
      'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.

    An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing,
      In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea;
    His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing--
      'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e.
    The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit,
      As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a';
    But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit,
      Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.

    Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them,
      Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream;
    Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them,
      Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream.
    An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing
      The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame?
    The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling
      His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.




THE LAND I LOVE.


    The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e,
    Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue,
    Of the gallant heart, the firm and true,
        The land of the hardy thistle.

    Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest,
    Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd,
    The loveliest star on ocean's breast
        Is the land of the hardy thistle.

    Fair are those isles of Indian bloom,
    Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume;
    But dearer far are the braes o' broom
        Where blooms the hardy thistle.

    No luscious fig-tree blossoms there,
    No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear;
    Her sons are free as the mountain air
        That shakes the hardy thistle.

    Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky,
    And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie;
    But I wish to live, and I wish to die
        In the land of the hardy thistle!




ROBERT L. MALONE.


Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born
in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was
employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute.
Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his
fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig _Marshall_, which
attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean
ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health,
to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he
returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town
of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs
at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of
his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of
sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a
duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other
Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock
on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and
retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet.
His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince
considerable power.




THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Humours o' Glen."_


    Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers,
      And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea,
    The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers,
      Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

    Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning,
      And breathing perfume over moorland and lea,
    But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning
      Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

    What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken,
      Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free,
    And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken;
      The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!

    Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers,
      And cold as the grave my affections must be,
    Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers;
      The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

    On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers,
      Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e,
    Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers;
      The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!




HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

AIR--_"Love's Young Dream."_


    Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be,
    An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea;
    Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
    There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
      Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

    There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand,
    Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?
    I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name,
    And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.

    'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream,
    And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream;
    His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim,
    But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.

    No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still,
    For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill;
    And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game,
    As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.

    Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw;
    He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa';
    And her he loved--his Hieland girl--there 's magic in the name--
    They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.

    He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands,
    And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands;
    And with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame--
    'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.

    Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be,
    Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea;
    Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
    But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
      Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.




PETER STILL.


Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the
1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a
farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of
his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the
parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject
of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When
somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having
married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more
precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he
suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months
together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of
convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the
world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's
Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo
volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead,
on the 21st March 1848.

Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still
meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate
in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his
wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his
reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and
religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In
person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark
blue eyes, and curling black hair.




JEANIE'S LAMENT.

AIR--_"Lord Gregory."_


    I never thocht to thole the waes
      It 's been my lot to dree;
    I never thocht to sigh sae sad
      Whan first I sigh'd for thee.
    I thocht your heart was like mine ain,
      As true as true could be;
    I couldna think there was a stain
      In ane sae dear to me.

    Whan first amang the dewy flowers,
      Aside yon siller stream,
    My lowin' heart was press'd to yours,
      Nae purer did they seem;
    Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew,
      The flowers on whilk they hung,
    Than seem'd the heart I felt in you
      As to that heart I clung.

    But I was young an' thochtless then,
      An' easy to beguile;
    My mither's warnin's had nae weight
      'Bout man's deceitfu' smile.
    But noo, alas! whan she is dead,
      I 've shed the sad, saut tear,
    And hung my heavy, heavy head
      Aboon my father's bier!

    They saw their earthly hope betray'd,
      They saw their Jeanie fade;
    They couldna thole the heavy stroke,
      An' baith are lowly laid!
    Oh, Jamie! but thy name again
      Shall ne'er be breathed by me,
    For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen,
      I 'll wander till I die.




YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.

AIR--_"John Todd."_


    "Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
      Ye needna' be courtin' at me;
    Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e,
      Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
        Ye needna' be courtin' at me.

    "Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man,
      Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be;
    Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald,
      An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man,
        Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."

    "Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass,
      Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee;
    I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd,
      An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass,
        A heart that lo'es nane but thee.

    "I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass,
      I 'll busk you as braw as a queen;
    I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair,
      I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass,
        Only twa score an' fifteen."

    "Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man,
      Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear;
    There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain,
      An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man,
        To me he shall ever be dear.

    "Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man,
      Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair;
    There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move--
      I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man,
        I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."




THE BUCKET FOR ME.


      The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
      Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree;
      Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it--
      The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
    There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket,
      There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see;
    An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't
      That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.

    Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit,
      An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e;
    But noo--wad you think it?--whan water I drink it
      Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me.
    The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure,
      It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me;
    An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle,
      I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.

    The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker,
      The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me;
    In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter,
      But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.

    Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo--
      Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me;
    Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water,"
      Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!




ROBERT NICOLL.


One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers,
Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of
Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine
children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian
name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years
afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to
the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the
rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior
shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended
cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the
parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood
fond of reading, books were his constant companions--in the field, on
the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's
cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the
correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant
in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine
o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual
hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to
_Johnstone's Magazine_, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and
attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious
proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made
to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm
interest in his career.

In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying
his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in
public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal
opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent
contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author
of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed
by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning
business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated
proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr
Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in
Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he
was appointed editor of the _Leeds Times_ newspaper, with a salary of
£100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition
and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and
success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon
began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which,
never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary
occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a
general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of
the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to
Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone.
His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of
entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his
twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were
consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.

Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a
conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy.
Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Ordé Braes,"
have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since
the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have
been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs
Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting
memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many
of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his
revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he
portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he
depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted
and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was
rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance,
which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his
eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was
modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the
maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the
belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the
aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music
of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not
long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which
nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the
Ordé Braes, in his native parish.




ORDÉ BRAES.


    There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,
      Nae ither spot sae fair;
    Nae ither faces look sae kind
      As the smilin' faces there.
    An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,
      Ha'e travell'd mony ways;
    But the fairest spot on the earth to me
      Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.

    An ell-lang wee thing then I ran
      Wi' the ither neeber bairns,
    To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,
      An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
    An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
      An' gather the glossy slaes,
    By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne
      I ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.

    The memories o' my father's hame,
      An' its kindly dwellers a',
    O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love
      Ere care that heart could thraw,
    Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
      An' its fairy crooks an' bays,
    That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
      Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.

    Aince in a day there were happy hames
      By the bonnie Ordé's side:
    Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
      In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
    But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time
      The roofless wa's doth raze;
    Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand
      Gang ower the Ordé Braes.

    Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,
      An', oh! an' I were there,
    Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,
      My wanderin' joy to share.
    For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
      The flock o' the hills doth graze,
    Some kind hearts live to love me yet
      Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.




THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.


    I winna bide in your castle ha's,
      Nor yet in your lofty towers;
    My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
      An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
    An' oh! I wish I were far awa'
      Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
    Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang
      On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

    Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,
      That blaws fu' kindly there,
    An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell
      That wave on the muirland bare;
    An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
      An' the little lochs that toom
    Their gushing burns to the distant sea
      O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.

    Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,
      Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
    Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,
      Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;
    Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
      As blithe as a young bridegroom;
    For dearer than palaces to me
      Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!

    In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
      My mither nurtured me;
    O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
      An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.
    An', oh! if I were far awa'
      Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
    Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,
      On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.




THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.


              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
              The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
              The bonnie Hieland hills.

    There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,
    Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
    But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills
    As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.
              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

    There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
    But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;
    Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
    Our hearts to the burstin'--our ain Hieland hills.
              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

    In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
    Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
    O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
    As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.

    On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,
    To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;
    A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,
    That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.
              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
              Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;
              The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
              The bonnie Hieland hills.




THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.


    The bonnie rowan bush
      In yon lane glen,
    Where the burnie clear doth gush
      In yon lane glen;
    My head is white and auld,
    An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;
    But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
      In yon lane glen.

    My Jeanie first I met
      In yon lane glen,
    When the grass wi' dew was wet
      In yon lane glen;
    The moon was shining sweet,
    An' our hearts wi' love did beat,
    By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
      In yon lane glen.

    Oh! she promised to be mine,
      In yon lane glen;
    Her heart she did resign,
      In yon lane glen;
    An' mony a happy day
    Did o'er us pass away,
    Beside the bonnie rowan bush
      In yon lane glen.

    Sax bonnie bairns had we
      In yon lane glen--
    Lads an' lassies young an' spree,
      In yon lane glen;
    An' a blither family
    Than ours there cou'dna be,
    Beside the bonnie rowan bush
      In yon lane glen.

    Now my auld wife's gane awa'
      Frae yon lane glen,
    An' though summer sweet doth fa'
      On yon lane glen--
    To me its beauty's gane,
    For, alake! I sit alane
    Beside the bonnie rowan bush
      In yon lane glen.




BONNIE BESSIE LEE.


    Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,
      And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;
    And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,
      O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!
    Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,
      And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,
    Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake--
      There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!

    She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,
      And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;
    And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,
      Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!
    She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,
      An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee--
    It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,
      Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]

    And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,
      A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,
    Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',
      Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.
    But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last--
      For ten years had parted my auld hame and me--
    And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,
      Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?

    But Time changes a' thing--the ill-natured loon!
      Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;
    And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,
      How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!
    The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,
      Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,
    She was douce too, and wise-like--and wisdom's sae cauld;
      I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.


FOOTNOTES:

[27] The last four lines of this stanza are not the production of
Nicoll, but have been contributed for the present work by Mr Alexander
Wilson, of Perth. The insertion of the lines prevents the occurrence of
a half stanza, which has hitherto interfered with the singing of this
popular song.




ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING.


Archibald Stirling Irving was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December
1816. His father, John Irving, Writer to the Signet, was the intimate
early friend of Sir Walter Scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman"
referred to in the general Introduction to the Waverley Novels. Having a
delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular
profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns
of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin
classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished
British poets. Possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could
repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome
annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting
localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He
published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "Original Songs," of
which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a
favourable specimen. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th
September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he
exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural
reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives.




THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS.

TUNE--_"Caledonia."_


    The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,
      The trees are blossom'd fair,
    The lake is smiling to the sun,
      And Mary wand'ring there.
    The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth
      Did nature's charms despoil;
    They stole for her the rose's blush,
      The sweet lake's dimpled smile.

    The lily for her breast they took,
      Nut-brown her locks appear;
    But when they came to make her eyes,
      They robb'd the starry sphere.
    But cruel sure was their design,
      Or mad-like their device--
    For while they filled her eyes with fire,
      They made her heart of ice.




ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE.[28]


Alexander Abernethy Ritchie, author of "The Wells o' Wearie," was born
in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively
appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable
artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His
parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a
house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the
decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his
apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the
art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual
exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became
favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church
Road," "The Gaberlunzie," "Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and "The
Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's
works, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of
some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of
character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more
picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh; and
contributed to the _Illustrated London News_ representations of
remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottish capital. He died
suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the
thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of
humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners
and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether
dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He
lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and
who survives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed
the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:--

      Father of blissfulness,
      Grant me a resting-place
    Now my sad spirit is longing for rest.
      Lord, I beseech Thee,
      Deign Thou to teach me
    Which path to heaven is surest and best:
      Lonely and dreary,
      Laden and weary,
    Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!

      Father of holiness,
      Look on my lowliness;
    From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;
      Grant that, 'mid love and peace,
      Sorrow and sin may cease,
    While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.
      When Death's sleep comes o'er me,
      On waking--before me
    The portals of glory all open I 'll see.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] We are indebted to Mr James Ballantine, of Edinburgh, for the
particulars contained in this memoir.




THE WELLS O' WEARIE.

AIR--_"Bonnie House o' Airlie."_


    Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,
      And mak's her look young and cheerie;
    Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon
      At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

    And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,
      There 's nought in the world to fear ye;
    For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave
      To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.

    Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,
      Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,
    For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green
      By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

    But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower
      At your form in the water sae clearly,
    Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,
      And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.

    Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,
      I felt unco douf and drearie,
    For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain
      At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.

    Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,
      Let fate look gruesome and eerie;
    True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,
      When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.

    Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,
      Nae danger will daur to come near ye;
    For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,
      To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.




ALEXANDER LAING.


One of the simplest and most popular of the living national
song-writers, Alexander Laing, was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787.
His father, James Laing, was an agricultural labourer. With the
exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to
tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and
writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the
careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of
his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business
of a flax-dresser, in his native town--an occupation in which he was
employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in
mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. He now
resides at Upper Tenements, Brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned
competency.

Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen
appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"--a respectable collection of
minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a
contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the "Scottish Minstrel,"
edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of
Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He
published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a
duodecimo volume, under the designation of "Wayside Flowers." A second
edition appeared in 1850. He has been an occasional contributor to the
local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "Laird of
Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland; and has compiled
some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics
are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of
his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled "My Ain
Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless
Exile" is the perfection of tenderness.




AE HAPPY HOUR.

AIR--_"The Cock Laird."_


    The dark gray o' gloamin',
      The lone leafy shaw,
    The coo o' the cushat,
      The scent o' the haw;
    The brae o' the burnie,
      A' bloomin' in flower,
    An' twa' faithfu' lovers,
      Make ae happy hour.

    A kind winsome wifie,
      A clean canty hame,
    An' smilin' sweet babies
      To lisp the dear name;
    Wi' plenty o' labour,
      An' health to endure,
    Make time to row round aye
      The ae happy hour.

    Ye lost to affection,
      Whom avarice can move
    To woo an' to marry
      For a' thing but love;
    Awa' wi' your sorrows,
      Awa' wi' your store,
    Ye ken na the pleasure
      O' ae happy hour.




LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME.

AIR--_"Lass, gin I come near you."_


    "Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
      Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
    Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',
      Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
    A canty but, a cosie ben,
      Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;
    A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman--
      Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"

    "Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,
      An' bidin' bein an' easy;
    But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,
      An' you sae auld an' crazy.
    Wad marriage mak' you young again?
      Wad woman's love renew you?
    Awa', ye silly doitet man,
      I canna, winna lo'e you!"

    "Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,
      The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';
    But men maun be the first to speak,
      An' wanters maun be speerin'.
    Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,
      An' now I'm come to woo you;
    I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
      I think you 'd better lo'e me."

    "Doitet bodie! auld or young,
      Ye needna langer tarry,
    Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,
      He 's no for me to marry.
    Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'
      How ye wad come to woo me,
    An' mind me i' your latter-will,
      Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"




LASS OF LOGIE.

AIR--_"Lass of Arranteenie."_


    I 've seen the smiling summer flower
      Amang the braes of Yarrow;
    I 've heard the raving winter wind
      Amang the hills of Barra;
    I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,
      Frae Teviot to Strathbogie;
    But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen
      Is bonnie Jean of Logie.

    Her lips were like the heather bloom,
      In meekest dewy morning;
    Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,
      The bloomy brier adorning;
    Her brow was like the milky flower
      That blossoms in the bogie;
    And love was laughing in her een--
      The bonnie lass of Logie.

    I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,
      My hand, my hame are ready;
    I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,
      And ye shall be my ladye.
    I 've ilka thing baith out and in,
      To make you blithe and vogie;"
    She hung her head and sweetly smiled--
      The bonnie lass of Logie!

    But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,
      And wrung my heart with sorrow;
    The bonnie lass sae dear to me
      Can never be my marrow.
    For, ah! she loves another lad--
      The ploughman wi' his cogie;
    Yet happy, happy may she be,
      The bonnie lass of Logie!




MY AIN WIFE.

AIR--_"John Anderson, my Jo."_


    I wadna gi'e my ain wife
      For ony wife I see;
    For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,
      She 's aye sae dear to me.
    A bonnier yet I 've never seen,
      A better canna be;
    I wadna gi'e my ain wife
      For ony wife I see.

    Though beauty is a fadin' flower,
      As fadin' as it 's fair,
    It looks fu' well in ony wife,
      An' mine has a' her share.
    She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass--
      She 's bonnie aye to me;
    I wadna gi'e my ain wife
      For ony wife I see.

    Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,
      An' cheery is my Jean;
    I never see her angry look,
      Nor hear her word on ane.
    She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',
      An' aye gude wi' me;
    I wadna gi'e my ain wife
      For ony wife I see.

    But Oh, her looks sae kindly,
      They melt my heart outright,
    When ower the baby at her breast
      She hangs wi' fond delight.
    She looks intill its bonnie face,
      An' syne looks to me;
    I wadna gi'e my ain wife
      For ony wife I see.




THE MAID O' MONTROSE.

AIR--_"O tell me the Way for to Woo."_


        O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,
          When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,
        The merle an' mavis are hymning
          The e'en o' the lang summer's day!
    An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,
      The full moon arising in majesty glows;
    An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,
      Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

        The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,
          Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',
        Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,
          To shine at the fair an' the ball;
    But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom
      Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,
    An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom--
      My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

        O what is the haill warld's treasure,
          Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?
        An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,
          Gin no wi' the lassie we love?
    O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,
      Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;
    An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,
      But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.

        O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
          Though few are sae bonnie as thee;
        O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
          Though handsome as woman can be.
    The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;
      The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;
    But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring--
      These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.




JEAN OF ABERDEEN.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."_


    Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,
      On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;
    Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,
      In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:
    An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,
      Amang their banks and braes sae green--
    These borrow a' their finest hues
      Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

    Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,
      When morning gilds the welkin high;
    Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,
      When e'ening steals alang the sky.
    But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,
      When we 're amang the braes alane,
    An' softer is the bosom-sigh
      Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen.

    Though I had a' the valleys gay,
      Around the airy Bennochie;
    An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray
      Amang the lofty hills o' Dee;
    While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,
      An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,
    My heart wi' them I'd freely gie
      To lovely Jean of Aberdeen.




THE HOPELESS EXILE.

AIR--_"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."_


    Oh! where has the exile his home?
    Oh! where has the exile his home?
      Where the mountain is steep,
      Where the valley is deep,
    Where the waves of the Ohio foam;
      Where no cheering smile
      His woes may beguile--
    Oh! there has the exile his home.

    Oh! when will the exile return?
    Oh! when will the exile return?
      When our hearts heave no sigh,
      When our tears shall be dry,
    When Erin no longer shall mourn;
      When his name we disown,
      When his mem'ry is gone--
    Oh! then will the exile return!




GLEN-NA-H'ALBYN.[29]

AIR--_"O rest thee, my Darling."_


    On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,
    The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;
    Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;
    The next I am far away--far on the wave!
    Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
    Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

    I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,
    And to build up his House was the aim of my life;
    And now in his greatness he turns me away,
    When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.
           Oh! fare thee well!

    Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,
    I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;
    Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,
    Where none of my fathers were gathered before!
    Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
    Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!

FOOTNOTES:

[29] "Glen-na-h'Albyn, or Glen-more-na-h'Albyn, the great Glen of
Caledonia, is a name applied to the valley which runs in a direction
from north-east to south-west, the whole breadth of the kingdom, from
the Moray Firth at Inverness to the Sound of Mull below Fort-William,
and is almost filled with lakes."




ALEXANDER CARLILE.


Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors
are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts,
and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr
Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an
accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at
the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of
Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his
native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has
been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the
more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the
national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and
popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has
since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate
publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has
been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of
his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and
social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant
accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His
latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious
sentiment.




WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30]


    Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
    Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
        Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,
        He 's come sax miles and ten,
    To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,
    To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.

    He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',
    Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',
        And sae has she dune,
        By a' that 's abune,
    For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',
    He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.

    Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
    Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
        But the bride's modest e'e,
        And warm cheek are to me
    'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a',
    'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.

    It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',
    It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';
        There 's quaffing and laughing,
        There 's dancing and daffing,
    And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',
    The bride's father 's blithest of a'.

    It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
    It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
        That my heart is sae eerie
        When a' the lave 's cheerie,
    But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,
    It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.

FOOTNOTES:

[30] The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a
ballad recovered by Cromek, and published in his "Remains of Nithsdale
and Galloway Song," p. 219. The first line of the old ballad runs thus:
"Oh, who is this under my window."--ED.




MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES.


    My brothers are the stately trees
      That in the forests grow;
    The simple flowers my sisters are,
      That on the green bank blow.
    With them, with them, I am a child
    Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.

    The daisy, with its tear of joy,
      Gay greets me as I stray;
    How sweet a voice of welcome comes
      From every trembling spray!
    How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours
    I spend among those songs and flowers!

    I love the Spirit of the Wind,
      His varied tones I know;
    His voice of soothing majesty,
      Of love and sobbing woe;
    Whate'er his varied theme may be,
    With his my spirit mingles free.

    I love to tread the grass-green path,
      Far up the winding stream;
    For there in nature's loneliness,
      The day is one bright dream.
    And still the pilgrim waters tell
    Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.

    Or up the mountain's brow I toil
      Beneath a wid'ning sky,
    Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,
      Crowding the wondering eye.
    Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,
    To cloudless regions upwards springs!

    The stars--the stars! I know each one,
      With all its soul of love,
    They beckon me to come and live
      In their tearless homes above;
    And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,
      And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.




THE VALE OF KILLEAN.


    O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet
    As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
    So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,
    'Mid Scotia's dark mountains--the Vale of Killean.

    The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,
    The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,
    That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,
    Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.

    How solemn the broad hills that curtain around
    This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,
    Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,
    And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"

    Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,
    'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,
    And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,
    Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.

    Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,
    Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;
    And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart
    To the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart.

    The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,
    As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;
    And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,
    Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.




JOHN NEVAY.


John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of
January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and
considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age,
under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh
School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary
rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in
verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of
surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near
the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of
the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he
was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to
the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced
him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an
interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the
author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one
volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature,
and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by
subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans,
and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by
the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production--"The Fountain of the
Rock, a Poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly
written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to
_Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is
now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses
with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press.
He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his
prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical
pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production--"The Emigrant's
Love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was
composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which
it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.




THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.


    My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been
      A century to me;
    I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard
      Thy voice's melodie.
    The mony hardships I ha'e tholed
      Sin' I left Larocklea,
    I maun na tell, for it would bring
      The saut tear in thine e'e.

    But I ha'e news, an' happy news,
      To tell unto my love--
    What I ha'e won, to me mair dear
      That it my heart can prove.
    Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,
      An' surely sae is thine;
    Thou never, never canst forget
      That twa waur ane langsyne.

    The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,
      An' on the primrose brae,
    Where we, in days o' innocence,
      Waur wont to daff an' play;
    An' I amang the mossy springs
      Wade for the hinny blooms--
    To thee the rush tiara wove,
      Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.

    When on the ferny knowe we sat,
      A happy, happy pair--
    Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,
      I plaited thy gowden hair.
    Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht
      That e'er enter'd my mind--
    It, Mary, was to be to thee
      For ever true an' kind.

    Though fair the flowers that bloom around
      My dwallin' owre the sea--
    Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,
      They are na _sae_ to me.
    I hear the bulbul's mellow leed
      Upo' the gorgeous paum--
    The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee
      Amang the fields o' baum.

    But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,
      Sae dear to childhood's days--
    The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,
      That taught us luve's sweet lays.
    Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think
      On him that's owre the sea,
    Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell
      My heart's luve-thochts to thee.

    Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,
      An' bricht smile in thine e'e--
    The bonnie bark is in the bay,
      I 'm coming hame to thee;
    I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,
      Wi' mony a pearl fine,
    An' I will lay them in thy lap,
      For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.




THOMAS LYLE.


Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a
native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in
the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the
year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained
till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The
latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his
favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to
great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his
peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession,
or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life,
having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the
habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly
passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these
airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which
it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his
botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin,
about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was
led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song,
"Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of
being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his
college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he
contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song
appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised
alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr
John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did
not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr
Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to
the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the
index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33]
and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie,
music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his
representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the
piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the
authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being
submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his
claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after
invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of
his numerous musical publications.

In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song
literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient
Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce
Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the
more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir
William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of
various merit by the editor.

Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of
twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow,
where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of
the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present
time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring
dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written
verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will,
however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and
simple lyrics.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] The former words to this air commenced, "Oh, the shearing's no for
you, bonnie lassie, O!"

[32] The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included
within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a
very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song.

[33] See vol. iii., p. 226.




KELVIN GROVE.


    Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!
    Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!
      Where the rose in all her pride,
      Paints the hollow dingle side,
    Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!

    Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!
    To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!
      Where the glens rebound the call
      Of the roaring water's fall,
    Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!

    O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!
    When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!
      There the May pink's crimson plume
      Throws a soft but sweet perfume
    Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!

    Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!
    As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!
      Yet with fortune on my side,
      I could stay thy father's pride,
    And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!

    But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!
    On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!
      Ere yon golden orb of day
      Wake the warblers on the spray,
    From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!

    Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!
    And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!
      To the river winding clear,
      To the fragrant-scented breer,
    Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!

    When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!
    Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!
      Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear
      Of thy lover on his bier,
    To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!




THE TRYSTING HOUR.


    The night-wind's Eolian breezes,
      Chase melody over the grove,
    The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
      Float rosy the woodlands above;
    Then tarry no longer, my true love,
      The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
    'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
      When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

    So stilly the evening is closing,
      Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
    Eolian whispers reposing
      Breathe softly, I hear my love call;
    Yes, the light fairy step of my true love
      The night breeze is wafting to me;
    Over heathbell and violet blue, love,
      Perfuming the shadowy lea.




HARVEST SONG.[34]


    The harvest morning breaks
      Breathing balm, and the lawn
    Through the mist in rosy streaks
      Gilds the dawn,
    While fairy troops descend,
    With the rolling clouds that bend
    O'er the forest as they wend
      Fast away, when the day
      Chases cloudy wreaths away
        From the land.

    The harvest breezes swell,
      And the song pours along,
    From the reapers in the dell,
      Joyous throng!
    The tiny gleaners come,
    Picking up their harvest home,
    As they o'er the stubble roam,
      Dancing here, sporting there,
      All the balmy sunny air
        Is full of song.

    The harvest evening falls,
      While each flower round the bower,
    Breathing odour, now recalls
      The lover's hour.
    The moon enthroned in blue
    Lights the rippling lake anew,
    And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!
      From the glen again, again,
      Wakes the stillness of the scene
        On my adieu.


FOOTNOTES:

[34] Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.




JAMES HOME.


James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was
born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south
of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been
engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He
resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition
to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.

Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the
composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an
enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and
poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been
popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o'
Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His
compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's
tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and
fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown
Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,--a work which only reached a single
number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits,
Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine
complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He
enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected
office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.




MARY STEEL.


    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When the lark begins to sing,
    And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts
      Are welcoming the spring:
    When the merle and the blackbird build their nest
      In the bushy forest tree,
    And a' things under the sky seem blest,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee.

    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When the simmer spreads her flowers,
    And the lily blooms and the ivy twines
      In beauty round the bowers;
    When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,
      And the lambs sport o'er the lea,
    And every heart 's in its happiest mood,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee.

    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When har'st blithe days begin,
    And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,
      The foremost rig to win;
    When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,
      Where light-hair'd lasses be,
    And mony a tale o' love is tauld,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee.

    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When the winter winds rave high,
    And the tempest wild is pourin' doun
      Frae the dark and troubled sky:
    When a hopeless wail is heard on land,
      And shrieks frae the roaring sea,
    And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee!




OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?


    Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,
      And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?
    Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,
      When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?

    Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,
      The hours we have spent together?
    Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet
      Shine on as brightly as ever!

    Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,
      So fraught with the heart's full feeling?
    As we clung to each other in the last embrace,
      The soul of love revealing!

    Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,
      Where the farewell word was spoken?
    Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,
      The vow and the promise broken?

    Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;
      Though other arms caress thee,
    Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,
      And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--

    Yet never again on thy warm young cheek
      Will breathe a soul more warm than mine,
    And never again will a lover speak
      Of love more pure to thine.




THE MAID OF MY HEART.

AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_


    When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,
    The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,
    I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
    Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

    When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,
    But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,
    And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,
    Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.

    Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,
    Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;
    Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
    Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.




SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.


    Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,
    Where the maiden's step is light and free;
    Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,
    Awake the joys of the rosy morn.

    There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,
    That tells how the foamy billows break;
    There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,
    That tells of dreary solitude.

    But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,
    Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,
    Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain
    I ne'er in this world can wake again.

    The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,
    And fresh tears gush from their briny source,
    As if I had hail'd in the passing wind
    The all I have loved and left behind.




THIS LASSIE O' MINE.[35]

TUNE--_"Wattie's Ramble."_


    O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?
    Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
    Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
    Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.

    It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
    It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien--
    But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e
    That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.

    To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
    When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
    To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss--
    On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

    I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
    When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;
    I have felt every joy which illumines the breast
    When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.

    But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
    In life's early day, when the bosom is warm,
    When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,
    On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as
the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found
the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p.
201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the
authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having
been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles,
Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author,
introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianæ_, in the
"Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this
periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that
the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as
to the authorship of our best songs!




JAMES TELFER.


James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born
about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed,
in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Passionate in his
admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some
of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at
Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he
inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose
tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected
edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at
London in 1852, with the title of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been
a contributor to the provincial journals.

Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of
compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the
narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years
he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with
emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to
support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with
his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters,
some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting
speculations.




OH, WILL YE WALK THE WOOD WI' ME?[36]


    "Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?
      Oh, will ye walk the green?
    Or will ye sit within mine arms,
      My ain kind Jean?"

    "It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee,
      Nor yet will I the green;
    And as for sitting in your arms,
      It 's what I dinna mean."

    "Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,
      And weel may I compleen;
    But since that better mayna be,
      I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."

    "Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh,
      Ye saw her late yestreen;
    Ye'll find in her a lightsome love
      Ye winna find in Jean."

    "Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh
      I carena to be seen;
    Her lightsome love I'd freely gie
      For half a blink frae Jean."

    "Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,
      I ken for her ye green;
    Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd--
      Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."

    "For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds
      I dinna care a preen;
    The purse o' gowd I weel could want,
      If I could hae my Jean."

    "Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee;
      Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green;
    But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk,
      And mak' me aye your Jean."

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments
of an older ditty.--_Note by the Author._




I MAUN GAE OVER THE SEA.


    "Sweet summer now is by,
    And cauld winter is nigh,
      The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree;
    The hills are white wi' snaw,
    And the frosty winds blaw,
      And I maun gie over the sea, Mary,
      And I maun gie over the sea.

    "But winter will gang by,
    And summer come wi' joy,
      And Nature again will be free;
    And wooers you will find,
    And mair ye 'll never mind
      The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary,
      The laddie that 's over the sea."

    "Oh, Willie, since it 's sae,
    My heart is very wae
      To leave a' my friends and countrie;
    But wi' thee I will gang,
    Though the way it be lang,
      And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie,
      And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."

    "The way is vera far,
    And terrible is war,
      And great are the hardships to dree;
    And if I should be slain,
    Or a prisoner ta'en,
      My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary?
      My jewel, what would come o' thee?

    "Sae at hame ye maun bide,
    And should it sae betide
      That a bride to another ye be,
    For ane that lo'ed ye dear
    Ye 'll whiles drap a tear;
      I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary,
      I 'll aften do the same for thee."

    The rowan tear down fell,
    Her bosom wasna well,
      For she sabbit most wofullie;
    "Oure the yirth I wad gang,
    And never count it lang,
      But I fear ye carena for me, Willie,
      But I fear ye carena for me."

    Nae langer could he thole,
    She tore his vera soul,
      He dighted her bonnie blue e'e;
    "Oh, what was it you said,
    Oh my ain loving maid?
      I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary,
      I 'll never love a woman but thee!"

    The fae is forced to yield,
    And freedom has the field;
      "Away I will ne'er gang frae thee;
    Only death shall us part,
    Keep sic thoughts frae my heart,
      But never shall part us the sea, Mary,
      But never shall part us the sea."





METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




EVAN MACLACHLAN.


One of the most learned of the modern Gaelic song-writers, Evan
Maclachlan, was born in 1775, in a small hut called Torracaltuin, in the
district of Lochaber. After struggling with many difficulties in
obtaining the means of education, he qualified himself for the duties of
an itinerating tutor. In this capacity it was his good fortune to live
in the families of the substantial tenantry of the district, two of
whom, the farmers at Clunes and Glen Pean, were led to evince an
especial interest in his welfare. The localities of those early patrons
he has celebrated in his poetry. Another patron, the Chief of Glengarry,
supplied funds to enable him to proceed to the university, and he was
fortunate in gaining, by competition, a bursary or exhibition at King's
College, Aberdeen. For a Greek ode, on the generation of light, he
gained the prize granted for competition to the King's College by the
celebrated Dr Claudius Buchanan. Having held, during a period of years,
the office of librarian in King's College, he was in 1819 elected
master of the grammar school of Old Aberdeen. His death took place on
the 29th March 1822. To the preparation of a Gaelic dictionary he
devoted the most important part of his life. Subsequent to his decease,
the work was published in two quarto volumes, by the Highland Society,
under the editorial care of Dr Mackay, formerly of Dunoon. The chief
amusement of Maclachlan's leisure hours was executing translations of
Homer into Gaelic. His translation of the third book of the Iliad has
been printed. Of his powers as a Gaelic poet, an estimate may be formed
from the following specimens in English verse.




A MELODY OF LOVE.

     The first stanza of this song was the composition of a
     lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic,
     and afterwards produced the following version of the
     whole in English.


    Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,
    Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore:
    Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,
    Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.

    As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow,
    The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
    Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display
    When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.

    As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove,
    Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love:
    Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,
    Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.

    The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,
    Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn:
    But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain,
    When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.

    When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,
    While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,
    Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove,
    And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.




THE MAVIS OF THE CLAN.

     These verses are allegorical. In the character of a
     song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his
     nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his
     own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving
     the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds
     to give an account of his flight to a strange but
     hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs
     among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and
     cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This
     piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic
     bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character
     of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the
     Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister--of
     Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum--of Macleod, and
     many others.


    Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early,
    And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely;
    No raven I, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak,
    No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek.
    I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have fared
    For ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared:
    Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn,
    And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn;
    Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care,
    And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.

    When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's[37] silver stream
    Glanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam,
    The flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd,
    As in a cradle-bed I lay, and all my woes were still'd.
    But changes will come over us, and now a stranger I
    Among the glades of Cluaran[38] must imp my wings and fly;
    Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove,
    Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.

    By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day,
    Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray,
    The comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure,
    And I, can I refrain to swell their diapason's measure?
    With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd,
    Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd,
    While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir,
    That in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire.
    O happy tribe of choristers! no interruption mars
    The concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jars
    A string of all your harping, nor of your voices trill
    Notes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.

    The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad,
    It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd,
    Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads
    (A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads.
    Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather,
    Whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither;
    Dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the side
    Of my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.

    Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son--
    I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run,
    I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece,
    Defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze.
    The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well,
    Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell!
    The flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far,
    As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star!
    I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I see
    The beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.

    Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine,
    The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine;
    And, 'mid the Highlands rude, I see the frequent furrows swell,
    With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.

       *       *       *       *       *

    And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shade
    That bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd;
    The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather,
    Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;
    For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;
    'T is time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wild-wood strain.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] The stream that flows through Glen Pean.

[38] The Gaelic name of Clunes, where the bard was entertained for many
years of his tutor life.




THE THREE BARDS OF COWAL.[39]




JOHN BROWN.


One of the bards of Cowal is believed to have been born in the parish of
Inverchaolain about 1750; his family name was Brun or Broun, as
distinguished from the Lowland Brown, which he assumed. He first
appeared as a poet by the publication, at Perth, in 1786, of a small
volume of Gaelic poetry, dedicated to the Duke of Montrose. The
subsequent portion of his career seems to have been chiefly occupied in
genealogical researches. In 1792 he completed, in two large sheets, his
"Historical and Genealogical Tree of the Royal Family of Scotland;" of
which the second edition bears the date 1811. This was followed by
similar genealogical trees of the illustrious family of Graham, of the
noble house of Elphinstone, and other families. In these productions he
uniformly styles himself, "Genealogist to his R. H. the Prince of Wales,
for Scotland." Brown died at Edinburgh in the beginning of the year
1821. He had formed a respectable connexion by marriage, under
circumstances which he has commemorated in the annexed specimen of his
poetry, but his latter years were somewhat clouded by misfortune. He is
remembered as a solicitor for subscriptions to his genealogical
publications.

FOOTNOTES:

[39] Cowal is that portion of Argyllshire bordering the Frith of Clyde,
and extending inland to the margin of Lochfine.




THE SISTERS OF DUNOLLY.

     The poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters,
     but without the consent of her relatives, who
     ultimately induced her to wed another. After a lapse of
     time the bard transferred his affection to another
     daughter of the same distinguished family, and being
     successful, was compensated for his former trials.


    The sundown had mantled Ben Nevis with night,
    And the stars were attired in the glory of light,
    And the hope of the lover was shining as day,
    When Dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away.

    Away she has gone at the touch of the helm,
    And the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm--
    But, would that his strength as his purpose was true,
    At Dunolly, Culloden were battled anew!

    Yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time,
    The kindred of Cowal would meet at the prime,
    And the _Brunach_[40] would joy, in the succour they gave,
    To win him a bride, or to win him a grave.

    My lost one! I'm not like the laggard thou'st found,
    Whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound;
    In the flush of my health and my penniless youth,
    I could well have rewarded thine honour and truth.

    Five years they have pass'd, and the Brunach has shaken
    The burden of woe that his spirit was breaking;
    A sister is salving a sister's annoy,
    And the eyes of the Brunach are treasured with joy.

    A bride worth the princesses England is rearing,
    Comes forth from Dunolly, a star reappearing;
    If my heart in Dunolly was garner'd before,
    In Dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more.

    The lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mild
    That in friendship or charity never beguiled,
    She is mine--to Dunduala[41] that traces her stem,
    As for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them,
    Though Donald[42] the gracious be head of her line,
    And "our exiled and dear"[43] in her pedigree shine.

    Then hearken, ye men of the country I love!
    Despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love,
    Ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly,
    May ye find, like the Brunach, another Dunolly.

FOOTNOTES:

[40] Brunach--The Brown, viz., the poet himself.

[41] The Macdougalls of Dunolly claim descent from the Scoto-Irish kings
who reigned in Dunstaffnage.

[42] Supposed to be the first of our Christian kings.

[43] Prince Charles Edward.




CHARLES STEWART, D.D.


The Rev. Dr Stewart was born at Appin, Argyllshire, in 1751. His mother
was a daughter of Edmonstone of Cambuswallace, the representative of an
old and distinguished family in the counties of Perth and Stirling; and
his father was brother of Stewart of Invernachoil, who was actively
engaged in the cause of Prince Charles Edward, and has been
distinguished in the romance of Waverley as the Baron of Bradwardine.
This daring Argyllshire chief, whom Scott represents as being fed in the
cave by "Davie Gellatly," was actually tended in such a place of
concealment by his own daughter, a child about ten years old.

On receiving license, Dr Stewart soon attained popularity as a preacher.
In 1779, being in his twenty-eighth year, he was ordained to the
pastoral charge of the parish of Strachur, Argyllshire. He died in the
manse of Strachur on the 24th of May 1826, in the seventy-fifth year of
his age, and the forty-seventh of his ministry. A tombstone was erected
to his memory in the parochial burying-ground, by the members of the
kirk-session. Possessed of superior talents, a vast fund of humour, and
a delightful store of traditional information, he was much cherished by
a wide circle of admiring friends. Faithful in the discharge of the
public duties of his office, he was distinguished among his parishioners
for his private amenities and acts of benevolence. He was the author
only of one song, but this has attained much favour among the Gael.




LUINEAG--A LOVE CAROL.


    No homeward scene near me,
    No comrade to cheer me,
    I cling to my dearie,
      And sigh till I marry.
        Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
          Ra-ill O,
        Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
          Was ever a May like my fairy?

    My youth with the stranger,[44]
    Next on mountains a ranger,
    I pass'd--but no change, here,
      Will sever from Mary.

    What ringlets discover
    Their gloss thy brows over--
    Forget thee! thy lover,
      Ah, first shall they bury.

    Thy aspect of kindness,
    Thy graces they bind us,
    And, like Feili,[45] remind us
      Of a heaven undreary.

    Than the treasures of Spain
    I would toil more to gain
    Thy love--but my pain,
      Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!

    When the shell is o'erflowing,
    And its dew-drops are glowing,
    No, never, thy snow on
      A slander shall tarry.

    When viols are playing,
    And dancers are Maying,
    My eyes may be straying,
      But my soul is with Mary.

    That white hand of thine
    Might I take into mine,
    Could I ever repine,
      Or from tenderness vary?

    No, never! no, never!
    My troth on 't for ever,
    Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
      My being to Mary.

FOOTNOTES:

[44] Invernahyle removed with his family to Edinburgh, and became very
intimate with the father of Sir Walter Scott. He seems to have made a
great impression on the future poet.

[45] Festivals, saint-days.




ANGUS FLETCHER.


Angus Fletcher was born at Coirinti, a wild and romantic spot on the
west bank of Loch Eck, in June 1776. His education was chiefly conducted
at the parish school of Kilmodan, Glendaruel. From Glendaruel he went to
Bute, in 1791, where he was variously employed till May 1804, when he
was elected schoolmaster of Dunoon, his native parish. His death took
place at Dunoon in 1852. The first of the two following songs was
contributed anonymously to the _Weekly Journal_ newspaper, whence it was
transferred by Turner into his Gaelic collection. It soon became popular
in the Highlands, and the authorship came to be assigned to different
individuals. Fletcher afterwards announced himself as the author, and
completely established his claim. He was the author of various metrical
compositions both in Gaelic and English.




THE CLACHAN OF GLENDARUEL.


        Thy wily eyes, my darling,
          Thy graces bright, my jewel,
        Have grieved me since our parting
          At the kirk of Glendaruel.

    'Twas to the Kirkton wending
      Bright eyes encounter'd duty,
    And mavis' notes were blending
      With the rosy cheeks of beauty.

    Oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist,
      Her arms, her instep queenly;
    And her sweet parting lips are graced
      With rows of ivory inly.

    When busy tongues are railing,
      Lown is her word unsaucy,
    And with modest grace unfailing
      She trips it o'er the causey.

    Should royalty prefer me,
      Preferment none I crave,
    But to live a shepherd near thee,
      On the howes of Corrichnaive.

    Would fortune crown my wishes--
      The shealing of the hill,
    With my darling, and the rushes
      To couch on, were my will.

    I hear, but not instruction,
      Though faithful lips are pleading--
    I read thy eyes' perfection,
      On their dew of mildness feeding.

    My hand is swiftly scrolling,
      In the courts of reverend men;[46]
    But, ah! my restless soul in
      Is triumphing my Jean.

    I fear, I fear their frowning--
      But though they chased me over
    Where Holland's flats[47] are drowning,
      I 'll live and die thy lover.

FOOTNOTES:

[46] The poet waxes professional. He was session-clerk and clerk-depute
of presbytery.

[47] The war was raging in Holland, under the command of the Duke of
York. The bard threatens to exchange the pen for the sword.




THE LASSIE OF THE GLEN.

     Versified from the Gaelic Original by the Author.


    Beneath a hill 'mang birken bushes,
      By a burnie's dimplit linn,
    I told my love with artless blushes
      To the lassie o' the glen.

        Oh! the birken bank sae grassy,
          Hey! the burnie's dimplit linn;
        Dear to me 's the bonnie lassie
          Living in yon rashy glen!

    Lanely Ruail! thy stream sae glassy
      Shall be aye my fav'rite theme,
    For on thy banks my Highland lassie
      First confess'd a mutual flame.

    What bliss to sit, and nane to fash us,
      In some sweet wee bow'ry den!
    Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
      Wi' the lassie o' the glen!

    And though I wander now unhappy,
      Far frae scenes we haunted then,
    I'll ne'er forget the bank sae grassy,
      Nor the lassie o' the glen.




GLOSSARY.


_Aboon_, above.

_Aumry_, a store-place.

_Baum_, balm.

_Beuk_, book.

_Bicker_, a drinking vessel.

_Burnie_, a small stream.

_Caller_, cool.

_Cled_, clad.

_Clud_, cloud.

_Couthy_, frank.

_Daffin'_, merry-making.

_Dighted_, wiped.

_Doit_, a small coin.

_Doitet_, dotard.

_Douf_, sad.

_Dree_, endure.

_Dwine_, dwindle.

_Fauld_, fold.

_Fleechit_, cajoled.

_Fykes_, troubles, anxieties.

_Gaed_, went.

_Gar_, compel.

_Gate_, way.

_Glour_, look earnestly.

_Grannie_, grandmother.

_Grat_, wept.

_Grit_, great.

_Haill_, whole.

_Haud_, hold, keep.

_Heuk_, reaping-hook.

_Hie_, high.

_Hinny_, honey.

_Hizzie_, _Hussy_, a thoughtless girl.

_Ken_, know.

_Knows_, knolls, hillocks.

_Laith_, loth.

_Lift_, firmament.

_Lowin'_, burning.

_Minnie_, mother.

_Parochin'_, parish.

_Pu'_, pull.

_Roos'd_, praised.

_Sabbit_, sobbed.

_Scour_, search.

_Slee_, sly.

_Speerin'_, inquiring.

_Swiggit_, swallowed.

_Syne_, then.

_Thole_, endure.

_Toom_, empty.

_Troth_, truth, vow.

_Trow_, believe.

_Tyne_, lose.

_Unco_, uncommon.

_Wag_, shake.

_Waur_, worse.

_Ween_, guess.

_Yirth_, earth.

_Yowes_, ewes.


END OF VOL. IV.

BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.