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[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

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

VOL. VI.


PAISLEY
Birth Place of Tannahill, Alexander Wilson, John Wilson, &c.


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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: [Handwritten: Ever yours truly,

Chas. Mackay.]]

       *       *       *       *       *




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 VI.

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

MDCCCLVII.


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




TO

CHARLES BAILLIE, ESQ.,

SHERIFF OF STIRLINGSHIRE,

CONVENER OF THE ACTING COMMITTEE FOR REARING

A NATIONAL MONUMENT

TO THE

ILLUSTRIOUS DEFENDER OF SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE,

THIS SIXTH VOLUME

OF

The Modern Scottish Minstrel

IS DEDICATED,

WITH SENTIMENTS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT AND ESTEEM,

BY

HIS VERY OBEDIENT FAITHFUL SERVANT,

CHARLES ROGERS.




CONTENTS.


INTRODUCTION,                                                         xi

OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG. BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL,                xx

CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D.,                                                 1
  Love aweary of the world,                                            8
  The lover's second thoughts on world weariness,                      9
  A candid wooing,                                                    11
  Procrastinations,                                                   12
  Remembrances of nature,                                             13
  Believe, if you can,                                                15
  Oh, the happy time departed,                                        17
  Come back! come back!                                               17
  Tears,                                                              18
  Cheer, boys, cheer,                                                 20
  Mourn for the mighty dead,                                          21
  A plain man's philosophy,                                           22
  The secrets of the hawthorn,                                        24
  A cry from the deep waters,                                         25
  The return home,                                                    26
  The men of the North,                                               28
  The lover's dream of the wind,                                      29

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD,                                                   31
  Bonnie Mary Hay,                                                    33
  Scotland, I have no home but thee,                                  33

GEORGE DONALD,                                                        35
  The spring time o' life,                                            36
  The scarlet rose-bush,                                              37

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL,                                                 39
  My life is one long thought of thee,                                40
  Why is my spirit sad?                                               41
  Geordie Young,                                                      42
  My fairy Ellen,                                                     44
  A bachelor's complaint,                                             45

WILLIAM BENNET,                                                       47
  Blest be the hour of night,                                         48
  The rose of beauty,                                                 49
  I 'll think on thee, love,                                          50
  There 's music in a mother's voice,                                 51
  The brig of Allan,                                                  52

GEORGE OUTRAM,                                                        54
  Charge on a bond of annuity,                                        55

HENRY INGLIS,                                                         59
  Weep away,                                                          59

JAMES MANSON,                                                         61
  Ocean,                                                              61
  The hunter's daughter,                                              63
  An invitation,                                                      63
  Cupid and the rose-bud,                                             64
  Robin Goodheart's carol,                                            65

JAMES HEDDERWICK,                                                     67
  My bark at sea,                                                     68
  Sorrow and song,                                                    69
  The land for me,                                                    70
  The emigrants,                                                      72
  First grief,                                                        73
  The linnet,                                                         76

WILLIAM BROCKIE,                                                      78
  Ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair,                      78

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN,                                                  80
  The lang winter e'en,                                               80

THOMAS YOUNG,                                                         81
  Antoinette; or, The Falls,                                          81

ROBERT WILSON,                                                        84
  Away, away, my gallant bark,                                        84
  Love,                                                               85

EDWARD POLIN,                                                         87
  A good old song,                                                    88

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN,                                                   89
  I wander'd alane,                                                   89
  Katie Blair,                                                        91

DAVID TAYLOR,                                                         92
  My ain gudeman,                                                     92

ROBERT CATHCART,                                                      94
  Mary,                                                               94

WILLIAM JAMIE,                                                        96
  Auld Scotia's sangs,                                                96

JOHN CRAWFORD,                                                        98
  My auld wifie Jean,                                                102
  The land o' the bonnet and plaid,                                  103
  Sing on, fairy Devon,                                              104
  Ann o' Cornylee,                                                   105
  My Mary dear,                                                      106
  The waes o' eild,                                                  107

JOHN STUART BLACKIE,                                                 109
  Song of Ben Cruachan,                                              115
  The braes of Mar,                                                  117
  My loves,                                                          118
  Liking and loving,                                                 120

WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.,                                              121
  Ruth,                                                              122
  Shallum,                                                           126

THOMAS C. LATTO,                                                     127
  The kiss ahint the door,                                           128
  The widow's ae bit lassie,                                         129
  The yellow hair'd laddie,                                          130
  Tell me, dear,                                                     131

WILLIAM CADENHEAD,                                                   133
  Do you know what the birds are singing,                            134
  An hour with an old love,                                          135

ALLAN GIBSON,                                                        137
  The lane auld man,                                                 138
  The wanderer's return,                                             139

THOMAS ELLIOTT,                                                      141
  Up with the dawn,                                                  142
  Clyde boat song,                                                   143
  Dimples and a',                                                    144
  Bubbles on the blast,                                              145
  A serenade,                                                        146
  A song of little things,                                           147
  My ain mountain land,                                              148
  When I come hame at e'en,                                          149

WILLIAM LOGAN,                                                       151
  Jeanie Gow,                                                        151

JAMES LITTLE,                                                        153
  Our native hills again,                                            154
  Here 's a health to Scotia's shore,                                155
  The days when we were young,                                       156
  Lizzy Frew,                                                        158

COLIN RAE BROWN,                                                     159
  Charlie 's comin',                                                 160
  The widow's daughter,                                              161

ROBERT LEIGHTON,                                                     163
  My muckle meal-pock,                                               163

JAMES HENDERSON,                                                     165
  The wanderer's deathbed,                                           165
  The song of Time,                                                  167
  The Highland hills,                                                168
  My native land,                                                    169

JAMES MACLARDY,                                                      171
  The sunny days are come, my love,                                  172
  Oh, my love was fair,                                              173

ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON,                                              176
  Day dream,                                                         177
  Fair as a star of light,                                           179
  Nature musical,                                                    180

ISABELLA CRAIG,                                                      182
  Our Helen,                                                         182
  Going out and coming in,                                           184
  My Mary an' me,                                                    185
  A song of summer,                                                  186

ROBERT DUTHIE,                                                       187
  Song of the old rover,                                             187
  Boatman's song,                                                    189
  Lisette,                                                           190

ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON,                                            192
  Things must mend,                                                  193
  The wee blink that shines in a tear,                               194
  Flowers of my own loved clime,                                     195

JAMES MACFARLAN,                                                     196
  Isabelle,                                                          197
  Household gods,                                                    198
  Poor companions,                                                   199

WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL,                                               201
  Lament of Wallace,                                                 202
  Oh! what is in this flaunting town,                                203

MARGARET CRAWFORD,                                                   205
  My native land,                                                    206
  The emigrant's farewell,                                           207
  The stream of life,                                                207
  Day-dreams of other years,                                         209
  Affection's faith,                                                 211

GEORGE DONALD, JUN.,                                                 212
  Our ain green shaw,                                                212
  Eliza,                                                             213

JOHN JEFFREY,                                                        215
  War-cry of the Roman insurrectionists,                             216

PATRICK SCOTT,                                                       218
  The exile,                                                         218

JOHN BATHURST DICKSON,                                               220
  The American flag,                                                 221

EVAN M'COLL,                                                         222
  The hills of the heather,                                          223

JAMES D. BURNS,                                                      224
  Rise, little star,                                                 224
  Though long the wanderer may depart,                               225

GEORGE HENDERSON,                                                    227
  I canna leave my native land,                                      228

HORATIUS BONAR, D.D.,                                                229
  The meeting-place,                                                 230
  Trust not these seas again,                                        233

JOHN HALLIDAY,                                                       234
  The auld kirk bell,                                                234
  The auld aik-tree,                                                 236

JAMES DODDS,                                                         238
  Trial and death of Robert Baillie of Jervieswoode,                 239


METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.


DUNCAN MACFARLAN,                                                    249
  The beauty of the shieling,                                        250

JOHN MUNRO,                                                          251
  The Highland welcome,                                              252

JOHN MACDONALD, JUN.,                                                254
  Mary, the fair of Glensmole,                                       254

EVAN M'COLL,                                                         256
  The child of promise,                                              256

INDEX,                                                               257




INTRODUCTION.


As if pointing to a condition of primeval happiness, Poetry has been the
first language of nations. The Lyric Muse has especially chosen the land
of natural sublimity, of mountain and of flood; and such scenes she has
only abandoned when the inhabitants have sacrificed their national
liberties. Edward I., who massacred the Minstrels of Wales, might have
spared the butchery, as their strains were likely to fall unheeded on
the ears of their subjugated countrymen. The martial music of Ireland is
a matter of tradition; on the first step of the invader the genius of
chivalric song and melody departed from Erin. Scotland retains her
independence, and those strains which are known in northern Europe as
the most inspiriting and delightful, are recognised as the native
minstrelsy of Caledonia. The origin of Scottish song and melody is as
difficult of settlement as is the era or the genuineness of Ossian.
There probably were songs and music in Scotland in ages long prior to
the period of written history. Preserved and transmitted through many
generations of men, stern and defiant as the mountains amidst which it
was produced, the Minstrelsy of the North has, in the course of
centuries, continued steadily to increase alike in aspiration of
sentiment and harmony of numbers.

The spirit of the national lyre seems to have been aroused during the
war of independence,[1] and the ardour of the strain has not since
diminished. The metrical chronicler, Wyntoun, has preserved a stanza,
lamenting the calamitous death of Alexander III., an event which proved
the commencement of the national struggle.

    "Quhen Alysandyr oure kyng wes dede,
      That Scotland led in luve and le,
    Away wes sons of ale and brede,
      Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle:
    Oure gold wes changyd into lede.
      Cryst, borne in-to virgynyté
    Succour Scotland and remede,
      That stad is in perplexyté."

The antiquity of these lines has been questioned, and it must be
admitted that the strain is somewhat too dolorous for the times. Stung
as they were by the perfidious dealings of their own nobility, and the
ruthless oppression of a neighbouring monarch, the Minstrels sought
every opportunity of astirring the patriotic feelings of their
countrymen, while they despised the efforts of the enemy, and
anticipated in enraptured pæans their defeat. At the siege of Berwick in
1296, when Edward I. began his first expedition against Scotland, the
Scottish Minstrels ridiculed the attempt of the English monarch to
capture the place in some lines which have been preserved. The ballad of
"Gude Wallace" has been ascribed to this age; and if scarcely bearing
the impress of such antiquity, it may have had its prototype in another
of similar strain. Many songs, according to the elder Scottish
historians, were composed and sung among the common people both in
celebration of Wallace and King Robert Bruce.

The battle of Bannockburn was an event peculiarly adapted for the
strains of the native lyre. The following Bardic numbers commemorating
the victory have been preserved by Fabyan, the English chronicler:--

    "Maydens of Englande,
      Sore may ye morne,
    For your lemmans, ye
      Haue lost at Bannockysburne.
        With heue-a-lowe,
    What weneth the king of England,
    So soon to have won Scotland?
        Wyth rumbylowe."

Rhymes in similar pasquinade against the south were composed on the
occasion of the nuptials of the young Prince, David Bruce, with the
daughter of Edward II., which were entered into as a mean of cementing
the alliance between the two kingdoms.

After the oblivion of a century, the Scottish Muse experienced a revival
on the return, in 1424, of James I. from his English captivity to occupy
the throne. Of strong native genius, and possessed of all the learning
which could be obtained at the period, this chivalric sovereign was
especially distinguished for his skill in music and poetry. By Tassoni,
the Italian writer, he has been designated a composer of sacred music,
and the inventor of a new kind of music of a plaintive character. His
poetical works which are extant--"The King's Quair," and "Peblis to the
Play"--abound not only in traits of lively humour, but in singular
gracefulness. To his pen "Christ's Kirk on the Green" may also be
ascribed. The native minstrelsy was fostered and promoted by many of his
royal successors. James III., a lover of the arts and sciences,
delighted in the society of Roger, a musician; James IV. gave frequent
grants to Henry the Minstrel, cherished the poet Dunbar, and himself
wrote verses; James V. composed "The Gaberlunzie Man" and "The Jollie
Beggar," ballads which are still sung; Queen Mary loved music, and wrote
verses in French; and James VI., the last occupant of the Scottish
throne, sought reputation as a writer both of Latin and English poetry.
Under the patronage of the Royal House of Stewart, epic and lyric poetry
flourished in Scotland. The poetical chroniclers Barbour, Henry the
Minstrel, and Wyntoun, are familiar names, as are likewise the poets
Henryson, Dunbar, Gavin Douglas, and Sir David Lyndsay. But the authors
of the songs of the people have been forgotten. In a droll poem entitled
"Cockelby's Sow," ascribed to the reign of James I., is enumerated a
considerable catalogue of contemporary lyrics. In the prologue to Gavin
Douglas' translation of the Æneid of Virgil, written not later than
1513, and in the celebrated "Complaynt of Scotland," published in 1549,
further catalogues of the popular songs have been preserved.

The poetic gift had an influence upon the Reformation both of a
favourable and an unfavourable character. By exposing the vices of the
Popish clergy, Sir David Lyndsay and the Earl of Glencairn essentially
tended to promote the interests of the new faith; while, on the event of
the Reformation being accomplished, the degraded condition of the Muse
was calculated to undo the beneficial results of the ecclesiastical
change. The Church early attempted to remedy the evil by sanctioning the
replacement of profane ditties with words of religious import. Of this
nature the most conspicuous effort was Wedderburne's "Book of Godly and
Spiritual Ballads," a work more calculated to provoke merriment than to
excite any other feeling.

On the union of the Crowns a new era arose in the history of the
Scottish Muse. The national spirit abated, and the poets rejoiced to
write in the language of their southern neighbours. In the time of
Barbour, the Scottish and English languages were almost the same; they
were now widely dissimilar, and the Scottish poets, by writing English
verse, required to translate their sentiments into a new tongue. Their
poetry thus became more the expression of the head than the utterance of
the heart. The national bards of this period, the Earl of Stirling, Sir
Robert Aytoun, and Drummond of Hawthornden, have, amidst much elegant
versification, left no impression on the popular mind. Other poets of
that and the succeeding age imitated Buchanan, by writing in Latin
verse. Though a considerable portion of our elder popular songs may be
fairly ascribed to the seventeenth century, the names of only a few of
the writers have been preserved. The more conspicuous song writers of
this century are Francis Semple, Lord Yester, Lady Grizzel Baillie, and
Lady Wardlaw.

The taste for national song was much on the wane, when it was restored
by the successful efforts of Allan Ramsay. He revived the elder ballads
in his "Evergreen," and introduced contemporary poets in his "Tea Table
Miscellany." The latter obtained a place on the tea table of every lady
of quality, and soon became eminently popular. Among the more
conspicuous promoters of Scottish song, about the middle of last
century, were Mrs Alison Cockburn, Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, Sir
Gilbert Elliot, Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik, Dr Austin, Dr Alexander
Geddes, Alexander Ross, James Tytler, and the Rev. Dr Blacklock. The
poet Robert Fergusson, though peculiarly fond of music, did not write
songs. Scottish song reached its climax on the appearance of Robert
Burns, whose genius burst forth meteor-like amidst circumstances the
most untoward. He so struck the chord of the Scottish lyre, that its
vibrations were felt in every bosom. The songs of Caledonia, under the
influence of his matchless power, became celebrated throughout the
world. He purified the elder minstrelsy, and by a few gentle, but
effective touches, completely renovated its fading aspects. "He could
glide like dew," writes Allan Cunningham, "into the fading bloom of
departing song, and refresh it into beauty and fragrance." Contemporary
with Burns, being only seven years his junior, though upwards of half a
century later in becoming known, Carolina Oliphant, afterwards Baroness
Nairn, proved a noble coadjutor and successor to the rustic bard in
renovating the national minstrelsy. Possessing a fine musical ear, she
adapted her lyrics with singular success to the precise sentiments of
the older airs, and in this happy manner was enabled rapidly to
supersede many ribald and vulgar ditties, which, associated with
stirring and inspiring music, had long maintained a noxious popularity
among the peasantry. Of Burns' immediate contemporaries, the more
conspicuous were, John Skinner, Hector Macneill, John Mayne, and Richard
Gall. Grave as a pastor, Skinner revelled in drollery as a versifier;
Macneill loved sweetness and simplicity; Mayne, with a perception of the
ludicrous, was plaintive and sentimental; Gall was patriotic and
graceful.

Sir Walter Scott, the great poet of the past half century, if his
literary qualifications had not been so varied, had obtained renown as a
writer of Scottish songs; he was thoroughly imbued with the martial
spirit of the old times, and keenly alive to those touches of nature
which give point and force to the productions of the national lyre.
Joanna Baillie sung effectively the joys of rustic social life, and
gained admission to the cottage hearth. Lady Anne Barnard aroused the
nation to admiration by one plaintive lay. Allan Cunningham wrote the
Scottish ballad in the peculiar rhythm and with the power of the older
minstrels. Alike in mirth and tenderness, Sir Alexander Boswell was
exquisitely happy. Tannahill gave forth strains of bewitching sweetness;
Hogg, whose ballads abound with supernatural imagery, evinced in song
the utmost pastoral simplicity; Motherwell was a master of the
plaintive; Robert Nicoll rejoiced in rural loves. Among living
song-writers, Charles Mackay holds the first place in general
estimation--his songs glow with patriotic sentiment, and are redolent in
beauties; in pastoral scenes, Henry Scott Riddell is without a
competitor; James Ballantine and Francis Bennoch have wedded to
heart-stirring strains those maxims which conduce to virtue. The
Scottish Harp vibrates to sentiments of chivalric nationality in the
hands of Alexander Maclagan, Andrew Park, Robert White, and William
Sinclair. Eminent lyrical simplicity is depicted in the strains of
Alexander Laing, James Home, Archibald Mackay, John Crawford, and Thomas
C. Latto. The best ballad writers introduced in the present work are
Robert Chambers, John S. Blackie, William Stirling, M.P., Mrs Ogilvy,
and James Dodds.[2] Amply sustained is the national reputation in female
lyric poets, by the compositions of Mrs Simpson, Marion Paul Aird,
Isabella Craig, and Margaret Crawford. The national sports are
celebrated with stirring effect by Thomas T. Stoddart, William A.
Foster, and John Finlay. Sacred poetry is admirably represented by such
lyrical writers as Horatius Bonar, D.D., and James D. Burns. Many
thrilling verses, suitable for music, though not strictly claiming the
character of lyrics, have been produced by Thomas Aird, so distinguished
in the higher walks of Poetry, Henry Glassford Bell, James Hedderwick,
Andrew J. Symington, and James Macfarlan.

Of the collections of the elder Scottish Minstrelsy, the best catalogue
is supplied by Mr David Laing in the latest edition of Johnson's Musical
Museum. Of the modern collections we would honourably mention, "The Harp
of Caledonia," edited by John Struthers (3 vols. 12mo); "The Songs of
Scotland, Ancient and Modern" (4 vols. 8vo), edited by Allan Cunningham;
"The Scottish Songs" (2 vols. 12mo), edited by Robert Chambers; and,
"The Book of Scottish Song," edited by Alexander Whitelaw. Most of these
works contain original songs, but the amplest collections of these are
M'Leod's "Original National Melodies," and the several small volumes of
"Whistle Binkie."[3] The more esteemed modern collections with music are
"The Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith[4] (6 vols. 8vo); "The
Songs of Scotland, adapted to their appropriate Melodies arranged with
Pianoforte Accompaniments," edited by G. F. Graham, Edinburgh: 1848 (3
vols. royal 8vo); "The Select Songs of Scotland, with Melodies, &c."
Glasgow: W. Hamilton, 1855 (1 vol. 4to); "The Lyric Gems of Scotland, a
Collection of Scottish Songs, Original and Selected, with Music,"
Glasgow: 1856 (12mo). Of district collections of Minstrelsy, "The Harp
of Renfrewshire," published in 1820, under the editorship of Motherwell,
and "The Contemporaries of Burns," containing interesting biographical
sketches and specimens of the Ayrshire bards, claim special
commendation.

The present collection proceeds on the plan not hitherto attempted in
this country, of presenting memoirs of the song writers in connexion
with their compositions, thus making the reader acquainted with the
condition of every writer, and with the circumstances in which his
minstrelsy was given forth. In this manner, too, many popular songs, of
which the origin was generally unknown, have been permanently connected
with the names of their authors. In the preparation of the work,
especially in procuring materials for the memoirs and biographical
notices, the editor has been much occupied during a period of four
years. The translations from the Gaelic Minstrelsy have been supplied,
with scarcely an exception, by a gentleman, a native of the Highlands,
who is well qualified to excel in various departments of literature.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as the Rhymer, lived in the reign
of Alexander III. No lyric of his composition has been preserved.

[2] The ballads of Professor Aytoun, it is hardly necessary to remark,
would have been an ornament to any age.

[3] The publisher of this meritorious little work, Mr David Robertson of
Glasgow, was a native of Port of Menteith, Perthshire; he died at
Glasgow on the 6th of October 1854. Mr Robertson maintained an extensive
correspondence with the humbler bards, and succeeded in recovering many
interesting lyrics, which would otherwise have perished. He was also
reputed as the publisher of the facetious collection of anecdotes which
appeared under the title of the "Laird of Logan."

[4] Robert Archibald Smith, so justly celebrated in connexion with the
modern history of Scottish Music, was born at Reading, Berkshire, on the
16th November 1780. In his twentieth year he settled in Paisley, where
he formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, whose best songs he
subsequently set to music. In 1823, he became precentor in St George's
Church, Edinburgh, on the recommendation of its celebrated pastor, the
late Dr Andrew Thomson. His numerous musical works continue to be held
in high estimation. His death took place at Edinburgh on the 3d January
1829.




OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG:

WITH

REMARKS ON THE GENIUS

OF

LADY NAIRN, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, AND ROBERT TANNAHILL.

BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.


Songs are the household literature of the Scottish people; they are
especially so as regards the rural portion of the population. Till of
late years, when collections of song have become numerous, and can be
procured at a limited price, a considerable trade was carried on by
itinerant venders of halfpenny ballads. Children who were distant from
school, learned to read on these; and the aged experienced satisfaction
in listening to words and sentiments familiar to them from boyhood. That
the Scots, a thoughtful and earnest people, should have evinced such a
deep interest in minstrelsy, is explained in the observation of Mr
Carlyle, that "serious nations--all nations that can still listen to the
mandates of Nature--have prized song and music as the highest." Deep
feeling, like powerful thought, seeks and finds relief in expression;
the wisdom of Divine benevolence has so arranged, that what brings
relief to one, generally affords peace or pleasure to another. And,
further, where there is a susceptibility, a capacity of enjoyment, there
will be efforts made in order to its gratification. The human heart
loves the things of romance, and in the exercise of its native
privilege, delights to feel. Scottish song has been written in harmony
with nature, scenery, and circumstances; and fledged in its own
melodies, which seem no less the outpouring of native sensibility, has
borne itself onward from generation to generation.

Respecting these airs or melodies, a few remarks may be offered. The
genius of our mountain land, as if prompted alike by thought and
feeling, has in these wrought a spell of matchless power--a fascination,
which, reaching the hearts both of old and young, maintains an
imperishable sway over them. One has said,--

    "'Tis not alone the scenes of glen and hill,
    And haunts and homes beside the murmuring rill;
    Nor all the varied beauties of the year,
    That so can Scotland to our hearts endear--
    The merry both and melancholy strain,
    Their power assert, and o'er the spirit reign;
    Indebted more to nature than to art,
    They reach the ear to fascinate the heart;
    And waken hope that, animating, cheers,
    Or bathe our being in the flow of tears."

Native, as well as foreign writers, assert that King James the First was
the inventor of a new kind of music, which they further characterise as
being sweet and plaintive. These terms certainly indicate the leading
features of Scottish music. There is something not only of wild
sweetness, but touches of pathos even in its merriest measures. Though
termed a new kind of music, however, it was not new. The king took up
the key-note of the human heart--the primitive scale, or what has been
defined the scale of nature, and produced some of those wild and
plaintive strains which we now call Scottish melodies. His poetry was
descriptive of, and adapted to the feelings, customs, and manners of his
countrymen; and he followed, doubtless, the same course in the music
which he composed. By his skill and education, he rendered his
compositions more regular and palpable, than those songs and their airs
which had been framed and sung by the sad-hearted swain on the hill, or
the love-lorn maiden in the green wood.

Not in music only, but in the words of song, some of the Scottish kings
had such a share as to stamp the art and practice of song-writing with
royal sanction. Thus encouraged, the native minstrelsy was fostered by
the whole community, receiving accessions from succeeding generations. A
people who, along with their heroic leader, possessed sufficient courage
to face, with such appalling odds, the foe at Bannockburn--who, at an
after date, fought at Flodden against both their better wit and will,
rather than gainsay their king--and who, in more recent times, protected
him whom they regarded as their rightful prince, at the risk of life and
fortune, were not likely to fail in advancing what royalty had loved,
especially when it was deemed so essential to their happiness. The
poetic spirit entered in and arose out of the heart of the people. The
song and air produced in the court, represented the sentiment of the
cottage. It is still the same. Rights and privileges have been lost,
manners and customs have changed, but song, the forthgiving of the
heart, does not on the heart quit its claim.

Within the modern period, the harp of Caledonia gives forth similar
utterances in the hands of Lady Nairn, the Ettrick Shepherd, and Robert
Tannahill. Different in station and occupations--even in motives to
composition--these three great lyrists were each deeply influenced by
that peculiar acquaintance with Scottish feeling which, brilliantly
illustrated by their genius, has deeply impressed their names on the
national heart.

Lady Nairn, highly born and educated, delighted to sympathise with the
people. If among these she found the forthgivings of human nature less
sophisticated, the principles upon which she proceeded impelled her to
write for the humbler classes of society, and the result has been that
she has written for all. In every class human nature is essentially the
same; and though hearts may have wandered far from the primitive truths
which belong to the life and character of mankind in common, they may
yet be brought back by that which tells winningly upon them--by that
which awakens native feeling and early associations. There is much of
this kind of efficiency in song, when song is what it ought to be. If,
when the true standard is adhered to by those who exercise their powers
in producing it, and who have been born and bred in circumstances of
life so different, it can establish a unity of sentiment--it must
necessarily effect, in a greater or less degree, the same thing among
those who learn and sing the lays which they produce. And, indeed, it
would seem a truth that, by the congenial influences of song, the hearts
of a nation are more united--more willing to be subdued into
acquiescence and equality, than by any other merely human
instrumentality.

If, in Scotland till of late years, writing for fortune was rather than
otherwise regarded as disreputable, writing for fame was never so
accounted. But even than for fame Lady Nairn had a higher motive. She
knew that the minstrels of ruder times had composed, and, through the
aid of the national melodies, transmitted to posterity strains ill
fitted to promote the interests of sound morality, yet that the love of
these sweet and wild airs made the people tenacious of the words to
which they were wedded. Her principal, if not her sole object, was to
disjoin these, and to supplant the impurer strains. Doubtless that
capacity of genius, which enabled her to write as she has done, might,
as an inherent stimulus, urge her to seek gratification in the exercise
of it; but, even in this case, the virtue of her main motive underwent
no diminution. She was well aware how deeply the Scottish heart imbibed
the sentiments of song, so that these became a portion of its nature, or
of the principles upon which the individuals acted, however
unconsciously, amid the intercourse of life. Lessons could thus be
taught, which could not, perhaps, be communicated with the same effect
by any other means. This pleasing agency of education in the school of
moral refinement Lady Nairn has exercised with genial tact and great
beauty; and, liberally as she bestowed benefactions on her fellow-kind
in many other respects, it may be said no gifts conferred could bear in
their beneficial effects a comparison to the songs which she has
written. Her strains thrilled along the chords of a common nature,
beguiling ruder thought into a more tender and generous tone, and
lifting up the lower towards the loftier feeling. If feeling constitutes
the nursery of much that is desirable in national character, it is no
less true that well assorted and confirmed nationality will always prove
the most trustworthy and lasting safeguard of freedom. It is the
combination of heart--the universal unity of sentiment--which renders a
people powerful in the preservation of right and privilege, home and
hearth; and few things of merely human origin will serve more thoroughly
to promote such unity, than the songs of a song-loving people. The
continual tendency of these is to imbue all with the same sentiment, and
to awaken, and keep awake, those sympathies which lead mankind to a
knowledge of themselves individually, and of one another in general,
thus preventing the different grades of society from diverging into
undue extremes of distinction. Nor ought the observation to be omitted,
that if a lady of high standing in society, of genius, refined taste and
feeling, and withal of singular purity of heart, could write songs that
the inhabitants of her native land could so warmly appreciate as by
their singing to render them popular, it would evince no inconsiderable
worth in that people that she could so sympathise and so identify
herself with them.

From the position and circumstances of Lady Nairn, those of the Ettrick
Shepherd were entirely different. Hogg was one of the people. To write
songs calculated to be popular, he needed only to embody forth in poetic
shape what he felt and understood from the actual experiences of life
amid the scenes and circumstances in which he had been born and bred;
his compeers, forming that class of society in which it has been thought
the nature of man wears least disguise, were his first patrons. He
required, therefore, less than Lady Nairn the exercise of that sympathy
by which we place ourselves in the circumstances of others, and know how
in these, others think and feel. His poetic effusions were homely and
graphic, both in their sprightful humour and more tender sentiment. They
were sung by the shepherd on the hill, and the maiden at the hay-field,
or when the _kye cam' hame_ at "the farmer's ingle," and in the _bien_
cottage of the _but_ and _ben_, where at eventide the rustics delighted
to meet. As experience gave him increased command over the hill harp,
his ambition to produce strains of greater beauty and refinement also
increased. By and by his minstrel numbers manifested a vigour and
perfection which rendered them the admiration of persons of higher rank,
and more competent powers of judgment.

If, with the very simple and seemingly insignificant weapon of Scottish
song, the Baroness Nairn "stooped," the Shepherd stood up "to conquer."
Both adhered to the dictates of nature, and in both cases the result was
the same; nor could the most marked inconveniences which circumstances
imposed hinder that result. A time comes when false things shew their
futility, and things depending upon truth assert their supremacy. The
difference between the authoress and the author lay in those external
circumstances of station and position which could not long, much less
always, be of avail. Their minds were directed by a power of nature to
do essentially the same thing; the difference only being that each did
it in her and his own way. We may suppose that while Lady Nairn in her
baronial hall wrote--

    "Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
      Safely ower the friendly main,
    Mony a heart will break in twa
      Should he ne'er come back again;"

the Ettrick Shepherd seated on "a moss-gray stane," or a heather-bush,
and substituting his knee for his writing desk, might be furnishing
forth for the world's entertainment the lament, commencing--

    "Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
      And down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
    The bonnie young Flora sat sighing alane,
      Wi' the dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e."

Or when the lady was producing "The land o' the leal," a lay which has
reached and sunk so deeply into all hearts, the Shepherd might be
singing among the wild mountains the affecting and popular ditty, the
truth of which touched his own heart so powerfully, of "The moon was a'
waning," or saying to the skylark--

          "Bird of the wilderness,
          Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea;
          Emblem of happiness,
          Blest is thy dwelling-place,
    Oh! to abide in the desert with thee!"

Tannahill has likewise written a number of songs which have been
deservedly admired, loved, and sung. Allan Cunningham used to say, that
if he could only succeed in writing two songs which the inhabitants of
his native land would continue to sing, he would account it sufficient
fame. Tannahill has accomplished this, and much more. In temperament, as
well as circumstances, he differed widely both from Lady Nairn and the
Ettrick Shepherd. Amiable and good in all her ways, Lady Nairn's career
appears to have been lovely and alluring as the serene summer eve; the
Shepherd was rich as autumn, in the enjoyment of life itself, and all
that life could bring; but Tannahill's nature was cloudy, sensitive, and
uncertain as the April day. Lady Nairn, ambitious of doing good and
promoting happiness, dwelt, in heart at least, "among her own people,"
giving and receiving alike those charms of unbroken delight which spring
from the kindness of the kind, and fearing nothing so much as public
notoriety. Hogg loved fame, yet took no pains to secure it. Fame,
nevertheless, reached him; but when found, it was with him a possession
much resembling the child's toy. His heart to the last appeared too
deeply imbued with the unsuspicious simplicity and carelessness of the
boy to have much concern about it. On this point Tannahill was morbidly
sensitive; his was an unfortunate cast of temperament, which, deepening
more and more, surrounded him with imaginary evils, and rendered life
insupportable. Lady Nairn was too modest not to be distrustful of the
extent of her genius, and presumed only to exercise it in composing
words to favourite melodies. The genius of Tannahill was more
circumscribed, and he was consequently more timid and painstaking. Hogg,
ambitious of originality, was bold and reckless. He had the power of
assuming many distinct varieties of style, his mind, taking the tone of
the subject entered upon, as easily as the musician passes from one note
to another. In education, Tannahill had the advantage over the Shepherd,
but in nothing else. The Shepherd's occupation was much more calculated
to inspire him with the feelings, and more fitted in everything to urge
to the cultivation of poetry, than the employment at which Tannahill was
doomed to labour. The beauty and grandeur of nature, solemn and sublime,
surround the path of him who tends the flocks. Though occasionally
called upon to face the blast, and wrestle with the storm, he still
experiences a charm. But when the broad earth is green below, and the
wide bending sky blue above, the voice of nature in the sounding of
streams, the song of birds, and the bleating of sheep differ widely from
what the susceptible and poetic mind is destined to experience amidst
the clanking din of shuttles in the dingy, narrow workshop of the
handloom weaver. Here the breath of the light hill breeze cannot come;
the form is bowed down, and the cheek is pale. Life, however buoyant and
aspiring at first, necessarily ere long becomes saddened and subdued. To
poor Tannahill it became a burden--more than he could bear. Yet it was
among these circumstances that he contrived to compose those chaste and
beautiful songs which have delighted, and still continue to delight, the
hearts of so many. Though not marked with much that can be termed
strikingly original, this, instead of militating against them, may have
told in their favour. Wayward conceits, fanciful thoughts and
expressions in songs, are like the hectic hue on the cheek of the
unhealthy; it may appear to give a surpassing beauty, but it is a beauty
which forebodes decay. "Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie?" may be regarded as
the most original of Tannahill's songs. It is more ardent in tone, and
in every respect more poetic, than his other lyrics. The imagery is not
only striking, but true to nature, though in maintaining the simple and
tender, it does more than approach the sublime. His style is uniformly
distinguished by a chaste simplicity, and well sustained power.

In these observations, we have pointed to that affinity of mind which
unites in sentiment those possessing it, in spite of worldly
distinctions. And song, too, we have found, is a prevalent and
far-pervading agency, which become the mean of binding together a
nation's population on the ground of that which is true to nature. It,
therefore, does so in a manner more congenial and pleasurable than most
other ties which bind; those of interest and necessity may be stronger,
indeed, but these ties being much more selfish, are also, in most
instances, much less harmonious. Song-writing is the highest attribute
of poetic genius. The epic poet has to do with the exercise of energies,
which produce deeds that are decided, together with the operation of
passions and feelings which are borne into excess. These are more easily
depicted than the gentler sentiments and feelings, together with the
lights and shades of national character which constitute the materials
of song. Nor will strains which set forth the actions of mankind as
operating in excess, ever be so popular as simple song. Though
communities are liable to periods of excitement, this is not their
natural condition. Songs founded upon such, may be popular while the
excitement lasts, but not much longer. Philosophers and inquiring
individuals may revert to and dwell upon them, but the generality of the
people will renounce them. Those who linger over them, will do so
through a disposition to ascertain the causes which gave them birth, and
how far these were natural in the circumstances. He who sings, feels
that the same ardour cannot be re-awakened; and the sentiments which the
poet has expressed become as things that are false and foolish.

Nearly all the poems of Burns proceed on the same principles upon which
popular song proceeds. He approved himself considerably original and
singularly interesting, by taking up and saying, in the language best
suited for the purpose, what his countrymen had either already, to one
extent or other, thought and felt, or were, at his suggestion, fully
prepared to think and feel. It is thus that song becomes the truest
history of a people; they, properly speaking, have rarely any other
historian than the poet. History, in its stateliness, does not deign to
dwell upon their habits, their customs and manners, and, therefore,
cannot unfold their usual modes of thinking and feeling; it only notices
those more anomalous emergencies when the ebullitions of high passion
and excitement prevail; and such not being the natural condition of any
people, a true representation of their real character is not given. If
song equally tends to strengthen the bonds of nationality, it is also
that from which the true cast of a land's inhabitants can be gathered.
From habits and training, together with the native shades of peculiar
character, there is in human nature great variety; so, consequently, is
there also in song, for perhaps it might be difficult to fix upon one of
these peculiarities, whether of outward manner or inward disposition,
which song has not taken up and illustrated in its own way. Every song,
of course, has an aim or leading sentiment pervading it. It either tells
a tale calculated to interest human nature and revive feeling, or sets
forth a sentiment which human nature entertains, so that it shall be
turned to better account. This involves the field which song has it in
its power to cultivate and improve. But neither the pure moralist, nor
the accomplished critic, must expect a very great deal to be done on
this field at once. The song-writer has difficulties to contend with,
both in regard to those by whom he would have his songs sung, and the
airs to which he writes them. If in the latter case he would willingly
substitute classical and sounding language for monosyllables and
contracted words, the measures which the air require will not allow him;
and should he suddenly lift up and bear high the standard of moral
refinement, those who should attend may fail to appreciate the movement,
and refuse to follow him. If he can contrive, therefore, to interest and
entertain with what is at least harmless, it is much, considering how
wide a field even one popular song occupies, and how many of an
undesirable kind it may meanwhile displace and eventually supersede. The
tide of evil communications cannot be barred back at once, and song
remedy the evil which song in its impurer state has done. Nor is the
critic, who weighs these disadvantages, likely to pronounce a very
decided judgment upon the superiority and inferiority of songs, whether
in general or individually.

Few of the different classes of society may view them in the same light,
and estimate them on the same grounds that he does. If he _thinks_, the
people _feel_; and they overturn his decisions by the songs which they
adopt and render popular. It is by no means so much the correct beauty
of the composition, as the suitableness of the sentiment, which insures
their patronage. Few of the songs of Burns are so correctly and
elegantly composed as "The lass of Ballochmyle;" yet few of his songs
have been more rarely sung.




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.




CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D.[5]


Our first volume contained the portrait of Sir Walter Scott; our sixth
and concluding volume is adorned by the portrait of Charles Mackay. In
these distinguished men there is not only a strong mental similarity,
but also a striking physical resemblance. Those who are curious in such
matters will do well to compare the two portraits. The one was the most
prolific and popular writer at the commencement of the century; the
other is the most prolific and popular song-writer of the present day.
Wherever the English language is heard and patriotic songs are sung,
Charles Mackay will be present in his verse. He rejoices in his English
songs; but Scotland claims him as a son.

Charles Mackay is of ancient and honourable extraction. His paternal
ancestors were the Mackays of Strathnaver, in Sutherlandshire; while, on
the mother's side, he is descended from the Roses of Kilravock, near
Inverness, for many centuries the proprietors of one of the most
interesting feudal strongholds in the Highlands. The Mrs Rose of
Kilravock, whose name appears in the "Correspondence" of Burns, was
Charles Mackay's maternal grandmother.

He was born at Perth in 1814; but his early years were spent in London,
his parents having removed to the metropolis during his infancy. There
he received the rudiments of an education which was completed in the
schools of Belgium and Germany. His relation, General Mackay, intended
that he should adopt the military profession; but family arrangements
and other circumstances prevented the fulfilment of that intention.

The poetical faculty cannot be acquired; it must be born with a man,
growing with his growth, and strengthening with his strength, until
developed by the first great impulse that agitates his being, and
generally that is love. There are versifiers innumerable who are not
poets, but there are no poets whose hearts remain unstirred by the
exciting passion of irrepressible love, when song becomes the written
testimony of the inner life. Whether it was so with Charles Mackay we
have not ascertained, nor have we cared to inquire. His love-songs,
however, are exquisitely touching, and among the purest compositions in
the language. Certain it is that the poetical power was early
manifested; for we find that, in 1836, he gave his first poems to the
public. The unpretending volume attracted the attention of John Black,
who was then the distinguished editor of the _Morning Chronicle_. Ever
ready to recognise genius wherever it could be found, and always
prepared to lend a hand to lift into light the unobtrusive author who
laboured in the shade, he offered young Mackay a place on the paper,
which was accepted, and filled with such ability that he was rapidly
promoted to the responsible position of sub-editor. He soon became one
of the marked men of the time in connexion with the press; and, in 1844,
he undertook the editorship of the _Glasgow Argus_, a journal devoted to
the advocacy of advanced liberal opinions.

This paper he conducted for three years, and returned to London, where
he received the appointment of editor of the _Illustrated London News_,
a situation which, considering the peculiar character of the paper, he
fills with consummate tact. Some of the great organs of public opinion
may thunder forth embittered denunciations, others, in the silkiest
tone, will admonish so gently that they half approve the misconduct of
people in power if their birth happens to have been sufficiently
elevated. The distinguishing characteristics of the political articles
written by Charles Mackay are their manly and thoroughly independent
spirit, avoiding alike fulsome adulation and indiscriminate abuse. His
censure and his praise are always governed by strictest impartiality.
Whether he condemns or whether he applauds he secures the respect even
of those from whom he differs the most. It is no small merit to possess
such a power in the conflict and strife of politics. We happen to know a
circumstance which speaks volumes on this subject. The peculiarities of
the press of England were being discussed in the presence of a foreign
nobleman, of high rank and political influence, who expressed himself to
this effect:--"Some of your newspapers are _feared_, some simply
tolerated, some detested, and some merit our contempt, but the
_Illustrated London News_ is respected. It is admitted everywhere, it is
read everywhere; and, although it is sometimes severe, its very severity
is appreciated, because it is the expression of earnest conviction and
sterling good sense; the result is, that it has, on the Continent, a
wider influence than any paper published in England."

Mackay's works have been numerous and various. Without presuming to be
perfectly accurate, we shall attempt a list of his several publications.
His first, as we have already stated, was a small volume of "Poems,"
published in 1836. This was followed by the "Hope of the World," a poem,
in heroic verse, published in 1839. Soon afterwards appeared "The Thames
and its Tributaries," a most suggestive, agreeable, and gossiping book.
In 1841 appeared his "Popular Delusions," a work of considerable merit;
and next came, in 1842, his romance of "Longbeard, Lord of London," so
well conceived and cleverly executed, that an archæologist of
considerable pretensions mistook it for a genuine historical record of
the place on which it was written. His next work, and up till that
period his noblest poem, "The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality,"
appeared in 1843. As there is no hesitation in his thought, there is no
vagueness in his language; it is terse, clear, and direct in every
utterance. An enemy to spasms in every form, he abhors the Spasmodic
School of Poets. If the true poet be the seer--the far seer into
futurity--he should see his way clear before him. He should write
because he has a thought to utter, and ought to utter it in the clearest
and the fittest language, and this is the principle which manifestly
governs the compositions of Charles Mackay. The "Salamandrine" lifted
his works high in the poetic scale, and permanently fixed him, not only
in the ranks, but marked him as a leader of the host of eminent British
poets. His residence in Scotland enabled him to visit many places famous
in Scottish history. The results were his "Legends of the Isles,"
published in 1845 and his "Voices from the Mountains" in 1846. A few
months before the publication of the last named volume, the University
of Glasgow conferred upon him the degree of LL.D.

When the London _Daily News_ was started, he contributed some stirring
lyrics, under the title of "Voices from the Crowd." They arrested the
attention of the public, and tended greatly to popularise and establish
the reputation of that journal. In 1847 appeared his "Town Lyrics," a
series of ballads which harrowed the soul by laying bare many of the
secret miseries of the town. In 1850 was published his exquisite poem of
"Egeria," probably the most refined and artistic of all his productions;
and in 1856 he gave to the world "The Lump of Gold," and "Under Green
Leaves," two volumes of charming poetry; the first tracing the evils
that flow from unrestrained cupidity; the second the delights of the
country, under every circumstance that can or does occur. Latterly he
has composed some popular airs, set to his own lyrics; thus giving to
the melody he has conceived the immortality of his verse. With the late
Sir Henry Bishop he was associated in re-arranging a hundred of the
choicest old English melodies. The music has been re-arranged; and many
a lovely air, inadmissible to cultivated society from its being
associated with vulgar or debasing words, has been re-admitted to the
social circle, and is fast floating into public favour in union with the
words composed by Mackay.

Here we stop. This is not the time, nor is it the place, to discuss,
with any great elaboration, the merits or peculiarities of Charles
Mackay as an author. We have to do with him as the most successful of
song-writers. Two of his songs, perhaps not among his best, have
obtained a world-wide popularity. His "Good Time Coming," and his
"Cheer, Boys, Cheer," have been ground to death by barrel-organs, but
only to experience a resurrection to immortality. On the wide sea, amid
the desert, across the prairies, in burning India, in far Australia, and
along the frozen steppes of Russia are floating those imperishable airs
suggested by the "Lyrics" whose names they bear. The soldier and the
sailor, conscious of impending danger, think of beloved ones at home;
unconsciously they hum a melody, and comfort is restored. The emigrant,
forced by various circumstances to leave his native land, where, instead
of inheriting food and raiment, he had experienced hunger, nakedness,
and cold, endeavours to express his feelings, and is discovered crooning
over the tune that correctly interprets his emotions, and thrills his
heart with gladness. The poet's song has become incorporated with the
poor man's nature. You may see that it fills his eyes with tears; but
they are not of sorrow. His cheek is flushed with hope, and a radiant
expectation, founded on experience, which seems to illuminate and gild
his future destiny. Marvellous, indeed, are the influences of a true
song; and while they are rare, they are by fashion rarely appreciated.
In it are embodied the best thoughts in the best language. By it the
best of every class in every clime are swayed. In it they find
expression for sensations, which, but for the poet, might have slumbered
unexpressed till the day of doom.

Whether we think of Charles Mackay as a journalist, as a novelist, as a
poet, or as a musician, he wins our admiration in all. Possessing, as he
does in a high degree, a fine imagination, allied to the kindliest
feelings springing from a sensitive and considerate heart, he is beloved
by his friends, and cares little for the vulgar admiration of the
crowd. The pomp, and circumstance, and self-exaltation, so current
now-a-days, he utterly despises. But the kindliness, the glowing
sympathies of a few kindred spirits gladden him and make him happy.
Though modest and retiring in his disposition, he has no shamefacedness.
His conversation is like his verse; there is neither tinsel nor glitter,
but genuine, solid stuff. Something that bears examination; something
you can take up and handle; something to brood over and reflect upon;
something that wins its way by its truthfulness, and compels you to
accept it as a principle; something that sticks close, and springs up in
the future a very fountain of pure and unadulterated joy; from all this
it will be inferred that no man can remain long in his company without
feeling that he is not only a wiser, but a better man for the privilege
enjoyed. He is still in the prime of life and the maturity of his
intellect. May we not, in concluding this slight notice of his life and
character, express a hope which we know to be a general one--that he may
yet live to write many more poems and many more songs, as good or better
than those which he has already given to the world?

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The present Memoir has been prepared, at our request, by Francis
Bennoch, Esq.




LOVE AWEARY OF THE WORLD.


    Oh! my love is very lovely,
      In her mind all beauties dwell;
    She, robed in living splendour,
    Grace and modesty attend her,
      And I love her more than well.
    But I 'm weary, weary, weary,
      To despair my soul is hurl'd;
    I am weary, weary, weary,
      I am weary of the world!

    She is kind to all about her,
      For her heart is pity's throne;
    She has smiles for all men's gladness,
    She has tears for every sadness,
      She is hard to me alone.
    And I 'm weary, weary, weary,
      From a love-lit summit hurl'd;
    I am weary, weary, weary,
      I am weary of the world!

    When my words are words of wisdom
      All her spirit I can move,
    At my wit her eyes will glisten,
    But she flies and will not listen
      If I dare to speak of love.
    Oh! I 'm weary, weary, weary,
      By a storm of passions whirl'd;
    I am weary, weary, weary,
      I am weary of the world!

    True, that there are others fairer--
      Fairer?--No, that cannot be--
    Yet some maids of equal beauty,
    High in soul and firm in duty,
      May have kinder hearts than she.
    Why, by heart, so weary, weary,
      To and fro by passion whirl'd?--
    Why so weary, weary, weary,
      Why so weary of the world?

    Were my love but passing fancy,
      To another I might turn;
    But I 'm doom'd to love unduly
    One who will not answer truly,
      And who freezes when I burn.
    And I 'm weary, weary, weary,
      To despair my soul is hurl'd;
    I am weary, weary, weary,
      I am weary of the world!




THE LOVER'S SECOND THOUGHTS ON WORLD WEARINESS.


    Heart! take courage! 'tis not worthy
      For a woman's scorn to pine,
    If her cold indifference wound thee,
    There are remedies around thee
      For such malady as thine.
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      From thy love-lit summits hurl'd;
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      Weary, weary of the world!

    If thou must be loved by woman,
      Seek again--the world is wide;
    It is full of loving creatures,
    Fair in form, and mind, and features--
      Choose among them for thy bride.
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      To and fro by passion whirl'd;
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      Weary, weary of the world!

    Or if Love should lose thy favour,
      Try the paths of honest fame,
    Climb Parnassus' summit hoary,
    Carve thy way by deeds of glory,
      Write on History's page thy name.
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      To the depth of sorrow hurl'd;
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      Weary, weary of the world!

    Or if these shall fail to move thee,
      Be the phantoms unpursued,
    Try a charm that will not fail thee
    When old age and grief assail thee--
      Try the charm of doing good.
    Be no longer weak and weary,
      By the storms of passion whirl'd;
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      Weary, weary of the world!

    Love is fleeting and uncertain,
      And can bate where it adored,
    Chase of glory wears the spirit,
    Fame not always follows merit,
      Goodness is its own reward.
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      From thine happy summit hurl'd;
    Be no longer weary, weary,
      Weary, weary of the world!




A CANDID WOOING.


    I cannot give thee all my heart,
          Lady, lady,
    My faith and country claim a part,
          My sweet lady;
    But yet I 'll pledge thee word of mine
    That all the rest is truly thine;--
    The raving passion of a boy,
    Warm though it be, will quickly cloy--
    Confide thou rather in the man
    Who vows to love thee all he can,
          My sweet lady.

    Affection, founded on respect,
          Lady, lady,
    Can never dwindle to neglect,
          My sweet lady;
    And, while thy gentle virtues live,
    Such is the love that I will give.
    The torrent leaves its channel dry,
    The brook runs on incessantly;
    The storm of passion lasts a day,
    But deep, true love endures alway,
          My sweet lady.

    Accept then a divided heart,
          Lady, lady,
    _Faith_, _Friendship_, _Honour_, each have part,
          My sweet lady.
    While at one altar we adore,
    _Faith_ shall but make us love the more;
    And _Friendship_, true to all beside,
    Will ne'er be fickle to a bride;
    And _Honour_, based on manly truth,
    Shall love in age as well as youth,
          My sweet lady.




PROCRASTINATIONS.


    If Fortune with a smiling face
      Strew roses on our way,
    When shall we stoop to pick them up?
      To-day, my love, to-day.
    But should she frown with face of care,
      And talk of coming sorrow,
    When shall we grieve--if grieve we must?
      To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

    If those who 've wrong'd us own their faults
      And kindly pity pray,
    When shall we listen and forgive?
      To-day, my love, to-day.
    But if stern Justice urge rebuke,
      And warmth from memory borrow,
    When shall we chide--if chide we dare?
      To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

    If those to whom we owe a debt
      Are harm'd unless we pay,
    When shall we struggle to be just?
      To-day, my love, to-day.
    But if our debtor fail our hope,
      And plead his ruin thorough,
    When shall we weigh his breach of faith?
      To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

    If Love, estranged, should once again
      His genial smile display,
    When shall we kiss his proffer'd lips?
      To-day, my love, to-day,
    But, if he would indulge regret,
      Or dwell with bygone sorrow,
    When shall we weep--if weep we must?
      To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

    For virtuous acts and harmless joys
      The minutes will not stay;
    We 've always time to welcome them
      To-day, my love, to-day.
    But care, resentment, angry words,
      And unavailing sorrow
    Come far too soon, if they appear
      To-morrow, love, to-morrow.




REMEMBRANCES OF NATURE.


    I remember the time, thou roaring sea,
    When thy voice was the voice of Infinity--
    A joy, and a dread, and a mystery.

    I remember the time, ye young May flowers,
    When your odours and hues in the fields and bowers
    Fell on my soul as on grass the showers.

    I remember the time, thou blustering wind,
    When thy voice in the woods, to my youthful mind,
    Seem'd the sigh of the earth for human kind.

    I remember the time, ye suns and stars,
    When ye raised my soul from its mortal bars
    And bore it through heaven on your golden cars.

    And has it then vanish'd, that happy time?
    Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime
    Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime?

    Ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain,
    When the world and its facts oppress my brain,
    In the world of spirit I rove--I reign.

    I feel a deep and a pure delight
    In the luxuries of sound and sight--
    In the opening day, in the closing night.

    The voices of youth go with me still,
    Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill,
    In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill.

    Every flower is a lover of mine,
    Every star is a friend divine:
    For me they blossom, for me they shine.

    To give me joy the oceans roll,
    They breathe their secrets to my soul,
    With me they sing, with me condole.

    Man cannot harm me if he would,
    I have such friends for my every mood
    In the overflowing solitude.

    Fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir
    To put disunion or hate of her
    'Twixt Nature and her worshipper.

    Sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies!
    Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes!
    Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries!

    Sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod!
    Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod!
    Ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of God.




BELIEVE IF YOU CAN.

_Music by the Author._


    Hope cannot cheat us,
      Or Fancy betray;
    Tempests ne'er scatter
      The blossoms of May;
    The wild winds are constant,
      By method and plan;
    Oh! believe me, believe me,
      Believe if you can!

    Young Love, who shews us
      His midsummer light,
    Spreads the same halo
      O'er Winter's dark night;
    And Fame never dazzles
      To lure and trepan;
    Oh! believe me, believe me,
      Believe if you can!

    Friends of the sunshine
      Endure in the storm;
    Never they promise
      And fail to perform.
    And the night ever ends
      As the morning began;
    Oh! believe me, believe me,
      Believe if you can!

    Words softly spoken
      No guile ever bore;
    Peaches ne'er harbour
      A worm at the core;
    And the ground never slipp'd
      Under high-reaching man;
    Oh! believe me, believe me,
      Believe if you can!

    Seas undeceitful,
      Calm smiling at morn,
    Wreck not ere midnight
      The sailor forlorn.
    And gold makes a bridge
      Every evil to span;
    Oh! believe me, believe me,
      Believe if you can.




OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED!

_Air by Sir H. R. Bishop._


    Oh, the happy time departed!
      In its smile the world was fair;
    We believed in all men's goodness;
      Joy and hope were gems to wear;
    Angel visitants were with us,
      There was music in the air.

    Oh, the happy time departed!
      Change came o'er it all too soon;
    In a cold and drear November
      Died the leafy wealth of June;
    Winter kill'd our summer roses;
      Discord marr'd a heavenly tune.

    Let them pass--the days departed--
      What befell may ne'er befall;
    Why should we with vain lamenting
      Seek a shadow to recall?
    Great the sorrows we have suffer'd--
      Hope is greater than them all.




COME BACK! COME BACK!


    Come back! come back! thou youthful Time,
      When joy and innocence were ours,
    When life was in its vernal prime,
      And redolent of sweets and flowers.
    Come back--and let us roam once more,
      Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways,
    And gather garlands as of yore--
      Come back--come back--ye happy days!

    Come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then
      To cherish faith in love and truth,
    For nothing in dispraise of men
      Had sour'd the temper of our youth.
    Come back--and let us still believe
      The gorgeous dream romance displays,
    Nor trust the tale that men deceive--
      Come back--come back--ye happy days!

    Come back!--oh, freshness of the past,
      When every face seem'd fair and kind,
    When sunward every eye was cast,
      And all the shadows fell behind.
    Come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn
      Their own Decembers into Mays;
    The secret be it ours to learn--
      Come back--come back--ye happy days!




TEARS.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._


    O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,
    Ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow;
    I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring,
    And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

    O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;
    Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun;
    The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,
    And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

    O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,
    I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.
    Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,
    And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

    O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain;
    The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;
    Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand,
    It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

    There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,
    And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.
    Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago--
    O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.




CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!


    Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow;
      Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!
    Hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow--
      Let us forget the darkness of to-day!
    So farewell, England! much as we may love thee,
      We 'll dry the tears that we have shed before;
    Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?
      So farewell, England! farewell evermore!
        Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
          Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand;
        Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour,
          Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

    Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing,
      To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast;
    The world shall follow in the track we 're going,
      The star of empire glitters in the west.
    Here we had toil and little to reward it,
      But there shall plenty smile upon our pain;
    And ours shall be the mountain and the forest,
      And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain.
        Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
          Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand!
        Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour,
          Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!




MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._


    Mourn for the mighty dead,
    Mourn for the spirit fled,
    Mourn for the lofty head--
      Low in the grave.
    Tears such as nations weep
    Hallow the hero's sleep;
    Calm be his rest, and deep--
      Arthur the brave!

    Nobly his work was done;
    England's most glorious son,
    True-hearted Wellington,
      Shield of our laws.
    Ever in peril's night
    Heaven send such arm of might--
    Guardian of truth and right--
      Raised in their cause!

    Dried be the tears that fall;
    Love bears the warrior's pall,
    Fame shall his deeds recall--
      Britain's right hand!
    Bright shall his memory be!
    Star of supremacy!
    Banner of victory!
      Pride of our land.




A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

_Music by the Author._


            I 've a guinea I can spend,
            I 've a wife, and I 've a friend,
    And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
            I 've a cottage of my own,
            With the ivy overgrown,
    And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
            I can sit at my door
            By my shady sycamore,
    Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
            So come and drain a glass
            In my arbour as you pass,
    And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

            I love the song of birds,
            And the children's early words,
    And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
            And I hate a false pretence,
            And the want of common sense,
    And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
            I love the meadow flowers,
            And the brier in the bowers,
    And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
            And I hate a selfish knave,
            And a proud, contented slave,
    And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

            I love a simple song
            That awakes emotions strong,
    And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
            And I hate the constant whine
            Of the foolish who repine,
    And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
            But ever when I hate,
            If I seek my garden gate,
    And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown,
            The hatred flies my mind,
            And I sigh for human kind,
    And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

            So, if you like my ways,
            And the comfort of my days,
    I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;
            I never scorn my health,
            Nor sell my soul for wealth,
    Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
            I 've parted with my pride,
            And I take the sunny side,
    For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
            I keep a conscience clear,
            I 've a hundred pounds a-year,
    And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.




THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._


    No one knows what silent secrets
      Quiver from thy tender leaves;
    No one knows what thoughts between us
      Pass in dewy moonlight eves.
    Roving memories and fancies,
      Travellers upon Thought's deep sea,
    Haunt the gay time of our May-time,
      O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

    Lovely was she, bright as sunlight,
      Pure and kind, and good and fair,
    When she laugh'd the ringing music
      Rippled through the summer air.
    "If you love me--shake the blossoms!"
      Thus I said, too bold and free;
    Down they came in showers of beauty,
      Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

    Sitting on the grass, the maiden
      Vow'd the vow to love me well;
    Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly,
      No one but myself can tell.
    Widely spreads the smiling woodland,
      Elm and beech are fair to see;
    But thy charms they cannot equal,
      O thou happy hawthorn-tree!




A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.


    From the deep and troubled waters
          Comes the cry;
    Wild are the waves around me--
          Dark the sky:
    There is no hand to pluck me
      From the sad death I die.

    To one small plank, that fails me,
          Clinging low,
    I am dash'd by angry billows
          To and fro;
    I hear death-anthems ringing
      In all the winds that blow.

    A cry of suffering gushes
          From my lips
    As I behold the distant
          White-sail'd ships
    O'er the white waters gleaming
      Where the horizon dips.

    They pass; they are too lofty
          And remote,
    They cannot see the spaces
          Where I float.
    The last hope dies within me,
      With the gasping in my throat.

    Through dim cloud-vistas looking,
          I can see
    The new moon's crescent sailing
          Pallidly:
    And one star coldly shining
      Upon my misery.

    There are no sounds in nature
          But my moan,
    The shriek of the wild petrel
          All alone,
    And roar of waves exulting
      To make my flesh their own.

    Billow with billow rages,
          Tempest trod;
    Strength fails me; coldness gathers
          On this clod;
    From the deep and troubled waters
      I cry to _Thee_, my God!




THE RETURN HOME.


    The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds,
    And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds;
    The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky,
    And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,--
                  And faintly stealing,
                  Booming, pealing,
    Chime from the city the echoing bells;
                  And louder, clearer,
                  Softer, nearer,
    Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells;
    And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--
    We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

    How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain,
    In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again,
    Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn,
    And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn;
                  And 'mid the wild wood,
                  Dear to childhood,
    Gather'd the berries that grew by the way;
                  But all our gladness
                  Died in sadness,
    Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;--
    But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past--
    We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

    We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now
    With a deeper emotion than words can avow;
    Wherever in absence our feet might delay,
    We had never a joy like the joy of to-day;
                  And home returning,
                  Fondly yearning,
    Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore--
                  England! England!
                  Beautiful England!
    Peace be around thee, and joy evermore!
    And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--
    We are home in the land of our fathers at last.




THE MEN OF THE NORTH.


    Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud
    Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud;
    Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West
    May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast;
    The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,
    In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm:
                    Fair though they be,
                    There 's an isle in the sea,
    The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
    Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth--
    The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

    Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
    There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes;
    Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do--
    Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!"
    Winter and storm only nerve us the more,
    And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door:
                    Strong shall we be
                    In our isle of the sea,
    The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
    Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth,
    We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!

    Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,
    In the face of the slave and the coward may shine;
    Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,
    And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.
    Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,
    Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil:
                    Proud let us be
                    Of our isle of the sea,
    The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
    Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth--
    Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!




THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.


    I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp
      Untouch'd by mortal hand,
    And I the voiceless, sweet west wind,
      A roamer through the land.
    I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings,
      And lo! my common air,
    Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee,
      And turn'd to music rare.

    I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom,
      And I the gale of spring,
    That sought the odours of thy breath,
      And bore them on my wing.
    No poorer thou, but richer I--
      So rich, that far at sea,
    The grateful mariners were glad,
      And bless'd both thee and me.

    I dream'd thou wert the evening star,
      And I a lake at rest,
    That saw thine image all the night
      Reflected on my breast.
    Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth!
      Be Harp and Rose of May;--
    I need thy music in my heart,
      Thy fragrance on my way.




ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.


Archibald Crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit,
was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was
placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With no
greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given
to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of
literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the
works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best
translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned
to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of
Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In
honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness
during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "Bonnie Mary
Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become
extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of
Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period
he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the
Honourable East India Company, which, however, he respectfully declined.
In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with
less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of
the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this
business for that of auctioneer and general merchant.

The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up,
and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every
opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite
studies. With the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however
seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled
"St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This
composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in
vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was
attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the
printer. To the columns of the _Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier_ he now
began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the
West of Scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with
the title, "Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by
subscription. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were
published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable and Co.; but the
subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the
profits of the sale. Crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next
started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled _The Correspondent_, but the
publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar
periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under
his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly
contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a
weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on
the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty,
social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as
a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong
intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second
son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.




BONNIE MARY HAY.


    Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet,
    For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet;
    The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek;
    O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.

    Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me,
    When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree;
    To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den,
    And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?

    Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me,
    When thou art couthie, kind, and free;
    There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky,
    My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.

    Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay,
    But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae;
    But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true,
    How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.




SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!


    Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains,
      Are famous in story--the birth-place of song;
    Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest,
      Well may thy pilgrims long for their home.
    Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
      The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
    Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
      Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

    Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes
      To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave;
    Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime,
      For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave.
    Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
      The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
    Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
      Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!




GEORGE DONALD.


George Donald was born at Glasgow on the 19th January 1800. His parents
being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory
so early as his eighth year. A limited attendance at school he
supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. He
began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth
year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the
Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of
extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of
satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading
dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most
unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to
engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of
young children without any means of support, he became a reckless
wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the
expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady;
and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of
sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon
returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he
supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He
contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in
America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of
the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently
printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was
fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the
_Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor.
After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of
Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for
the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson
of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he
composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five
books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a
sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life,
he died in Christian hope.




THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.

AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_


    The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,
      And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,
    While furthy autumn plenty breathes,
      And blessings in abundance showers.
    E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,
      Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,
    But there's a season worth them a',
      And that's the spring-time o' the year.

    In spring the farmer ploughs the field
      That yet will wave wi' yellow corn,
    In spring the birdie bigs its bield
      In foggy bank or budding thorn;
    The burn and brae, the hill and dell,
      A song of hope are heard to sing,
    And summer, autumn, winter, tell,
      Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.

    Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life,
      When seed is sown wi' care and toil,
    And hopes are high, and fears are rife,
      Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.
    I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,
      By precept and example baith,
    And may the hand that guides us here
      Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!

    But soon the time may come when you
      Shall miss a mother's tender care,
    A sinfu' world to wander through,
      Wi' a' its stormy strife to share;
    Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang,
      Let fortune smile or thrawart be,
    Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang--
      If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.




THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.

AIR--_"There grows a bonnie brier bush."_


    Come see my scarlet rose-bush
      My father gied to me,
    That's growing in our window-sill
      Sae fresh and bonnilie;
    I wadna gie my rose-bush
      For a' the flowers I see,
    Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd,
      Sae dear it is to me.

    I set it in the best o' mould
      Ta'en frae the moudie's hill,
    And covered a' the yird wi' moss
      I gather'd on the hill;
    I saw the blue-bell blooming,
      And the gowan wat wi' dew,
    But my heart was on my rose-bush set,
      I left them where they grew.

    I water 't ilka morning
      Wi' meikle pride and care,
    And no a wither'd leaf I leave
      Upon its branches fair;
    Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,
      And four are on the stem,
    Three rosebuds and six roses blawn--
      'Tis just a perfect gem!

    Come, see my bonnie, blooming bush
      My father gied to me,
    Wi' roses to the very top,
      And branches like a tree.
    It grows upon our window-sill,
      I watch it tentilie;
    O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bush
      For a' the flowers I see.




HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.


Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His
mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart.
He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in
Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied
at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his
commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary
pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of
Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions
have since appeared. About the same time he established the _Edinburgh
Literary Journal_, which he conducted for several years with much
acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old
Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and
Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are
out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and
associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has
resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of
Lanarkshire.




MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE.


    Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone,
      Remember days of bliss gone by?
    Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone,
      E'er for our distant streamlets sigh?
    Beneath thy own glad sun and sky,
      Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me?
    She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply,
      "My life is one long thought of thee."

    Sweet girl! I would not have it so;
      My destiny must not be thine,
    For wildly as the wild waves flow,
      Will pass this fleeting life of mine.
    "And let thy fate be weal or woe,
      My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free;
    And well the watchful angels know
      My life is one long thought of thee."

    Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers
      Be with me in my hour of need,
    When round me throng the cold world's cares,
      And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed!
    "Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed?
      For full of joy thy years shall be;
    And mine shall share the blissful meed,
      For life is one long thought of thee."




WHY IS MY SPIRIT SAD?


        Why is my spirit sad?
    Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year,
    With something that it used to hold more dear
        Than aught that now remains;
    Because the past, like a receding sail,
    Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale
        O'er vacant waters reigns!

        Why is my spirit sad?
    Because no more within my soul there dwell
    Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell
        With innocent delight;
    Because I am aweary of the strife
    That with hot fever taints the springs of life,
        Making the day seem night!

        Why is my spirit sad?
    Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,
    Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread--
        The paths of young romance;
    Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,
    Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes--
        The Eden of their glance.

        Why is my spirit sad?
    Have not the beautiful been ta'en away--
    Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay--
        Wither'd in root and stem?
    I see that others, in whose looks are lit
    The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,
        But not--but not like them!

        I would not be less sad;
    My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow
    The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;
        The present is around me;
    Would that the future were both come and gone,
    And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,
        Crush'd feelings could not wound me!




GEORDIE YOUNG.


    I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
      I 'll no walk by the manse;
    I aye meet wi' the minister,
      Wha looks at me askance.

    What ails ye at the minister?--
      A douce and sober lad;
    I trow it is na every day
      That siclike can be had.

    I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
      Nor yet his pawkie face;
    I dinna like a preacher, mother,
      But in a preaching place.

    Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee--
      Ye needna look sae scared--
    For wha kens but at Holylee
      Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

    I canna bide the Laird, mother,
      He says sic things to me;
    Ae half he says wi' wily words,
      And ae half wi' his e'e.

    Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
      It 's a' that Geordie Young;
    The Laird has no an e'e like him,
      Nor the minister a tongue!

    He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,
      For nane but him ye care;
    But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
      That aye gangs cauld and bare.

    The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
      Put trust in ane above,
    And how can folks gang bare, mother,
      Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

    Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
      And walk ye slow and sly;
    My certie! weel ye ken the gate
      That Geordie Young comes by!

    His plighted troth is mine, mother,
      And lang afore the spring
    I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,
      And wear the gowden ring.




MY FAIRY ELLEN.


    Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where
      Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming?
    Is it on some rich bank of flowers
      Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?
    Or is it on yonder silver lake
      Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling?
    Or is it among those ancient trees
      Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?
    Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,
      The best of my beams are for ever dwelling
    In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,
      And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.

    Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how
      Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning,
    When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,
      And violets wild each glade adorning?
    Is it in kissing the glittering stream,
      O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?
    Is it in sipping the nectar that lies
      In the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling?
    Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,
      His voice with a musical melody swelling,
    All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play
      That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.

    White little lily! pray tell me when
      Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee?
    Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,
      And all the boys and butterflies know thee;
    Is it at dawn or at sunset hour
      That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?
    One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,
      Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?
    Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,
      My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,
    To live in the sight, and to die on the breast
      Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.

    Oh! would that I were the moon myself,
      Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;
    Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem
      Slily around that dear neck wreathing!
    Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,
      Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,
    My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,
      For merely the smallest of all her kisses!
    And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!
      I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,
    Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both
      In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!




A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.


    They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,
      They 're going one by one;
    They 're taking wives to tame their lives,
      Their jovial days are done;
    I can't get one old crony now
      To join me in a spree;
    They've all grown grave, domestic men,
      They look askance on me.

    I hate to see them sober'd down,
      The merry boys and true,
    I hate to hear them sneering now
      At pictures fancy drew;
    I care not for their married cheer,
      Their puddings and their soups,
    And middle-aged relations round,
      In formidable groups.

    And though their wife perchance may have
      A comely sort of face,
    And at the table's upper end
      Conduct herself with grace,
    I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
      The caution and the state,
    I hate to see my friend grow vain
      Of furniture and plate.

    Oh, give me back the days again,
      When we have wander'd free,
    And stole the dew from every flower,
      The fruit from every tree;
    The friends I loved they will not come,
      They've all deserted me;
    They sit at home and toast their toes,
      Look stupid and sip tea.

    Alas! alas! for years gone by,
      And for the friends I've lost;
    When no warm feeling of the heart
      Was chill'd by early frost.
    If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
      I'd have him shun my door,
    Unless he quench his torch, and live
      Henceforth a bachelor.




WILLIAM BENNET.


William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of
Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while
apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth
year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and
led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular
contributor to the _Dumfries Courier_, edited by the ingenious John
M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _Dumfries
Magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In
December 1826, he became editor of the _Glasgow Free Press_, which
supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill
struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from
the Whig party, and established the _Glasgow Constitutional_, the
editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a
periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write
verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title,
"Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish
Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;"
and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of
Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.

Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in
Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and
has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is
understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.




BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.


    Blest be the hour of night,
      When, his toils over,
    The swain, with a heart so light,
      Meets with his lover!
    Sweet the moon gilds their path,
      Arm in arm straying;
    Clouds never rise in wrath,
      Chiding their staying.

    Gently they whisper low:
      Unseen beside them,
    Good angels watch, that no
      Ill may betide them.
    Silence is everywhere,
      Save when the sighing
    Is heard, of the breeze's fall,
      Fitfully dying.

    How the maid's bosom glows,
      While her swain 's telling
    The love, that 's been long, she knows,
      In his heart swelling!
    How, when his arms are thrown
      Tenderly round her,
    Fears she, in words to own
      What he hath found her!

    When the first peep of dawn
      Warns them of parting,
    And from each dewy lawn
      Blythe birds are starting,
    Fondly she hears her swain
      Vow, though they sever,
    Soon they shall meet again,
      Mated for ever.




THE ROSE OF BEAUTY.


    Amang the breezy heights and howes
      Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly,
    A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,
      A Rose I lo'e most dearly.

    Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun
      How blooms my Rose divinely!
    And lang ere blaws the winter wun',
      This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.

    May heaven's dew aye freshly weet
      My Rose at ilka gloamin',
    And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet
      Be near it ever roamin'!

    I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,
      And hae my Rose brought thither;
    And then, in that lowne sunny spot,
      We'll bloom and fade thegither.


FOOTNOTES:

[6] A beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the Annan,
between Ecclefechan and Lockerbie.




I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE.


    I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark
    Hath borne thee far across the deep;
    And, as the sky is bright or dark,
    'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;
    For oh, when winds and waters keep
    In trust so dear a charge as thee,
    My anxious fears can never sleep
    Till thou again art safe with me!

    I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour
    Of twilight comes, with pensive mood,
    And silence, like a spell of power,
    Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;
    And as the mingling shadows brood
    Still closer o'er the lonely sea,
    Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,
    I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.

    Then haply on the breeze's wing,
    That to me steals across the wave,
    Some angel's voice may answer bring
    That list'ning heaven consents to save.
    And oh, the further boon I crave
    Perchance may also granted be,
    That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave
    The wanderer's perils on the sea!




THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.


    There 's music in a mother's voice,
      More sweet than breezes sighing;
    There 's kindness in a mother's glance,
      Too pure for ever dying.

    There 's love within a mother's breast,
      So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,
    And for her own a tender care,
      That 's ever, ever growing.

    And when a mother kneels to heaven,
      And for her child is praying,
    Oh, who shall half the fervour tell
      That burns in all she 's saying!

    A mother, when she, like a star,
      Sets into heaven before us,
    From that bright home of love, all pure,
      Still minds and watches o'er us.




THE BRIG OF ALLAN.


    Come, memory, paint, though far away,
    The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,
    The upland wood, the hill-top gray,
        Whereon the sky seems fallin';
    Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row
    Of shelter'd cots, the woods below,
    Where Airthrie's healing waters flow
        By bonny Brig of Allan.

    Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,
    The Roman eagles could not climb,
    And Stirling, crown'd in after time
        With Royalty's proud dwallin';
    These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,
    Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,
    Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep
        At bonny Brig of Allan.

    Oh, lovely, when the rising sun
    Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,
    And silver Forth's calm breast upon
        The golden beams are fallin'!
    Then, trotting down to join his flood,
    Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,
    How bright, in morning's joyous mood,
        Appears the stream of Allan!

    Upon its banks how sweet to stray,
    With rod and line, the livelong day,
    Or trace each rural charm, away
        From cark of every callin'!
    There dove-like, o'er my path would brood
    The spirit pure of solitude;
    For native each rapt, genial mood
        Is to the beauteous Allan.

    Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright
    As is its cloudless summer light,
    Be still its maids, the soul's delight
        Of every truthful callan'!
    Be health around it ever spread,
    To light the eye, to lift the head,
    And joy on every heart be shed
        That beats by Brig of Allan!




GEORGE OUTRAM.


The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed
for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of
Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and
manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish
bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an
orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber
counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _Glasgow Herald_,
and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of
his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the
16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred
in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.

Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a
limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth
and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was
especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which
are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General
Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.




CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY.[7]

AIR--_"Duncan Davidson."_


    I gaed to spend a week in Fife,
      An unco week it proved to be,
    For there I met a waesome wife,
      Lamenting her viduity.
    Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell,
    I thought her heart wad burst the shell;
    And, I was sae left to mysel,
      I sell't her an annuity.

    The bargain lookit fair eneugh,
      She just was turned o' saxty-three;
    I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh
      By human ingenuity.
    But years have come, and years have gane,
    And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane;
    The auld wife 's growing young again
      Since she got her annuity.

    She 's crined awa to bane an' skin,
      But that it seems is nought to me;
    She 's like to live, although she 's in
      The last stage o' tenuity.
    She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,
    An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,
    But comes--as sure as Christmas comes--
      To ca' for her annuity.

    She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,
      As spunkie as a growin' flea;
    An' there she sits upon my back
      A livin' perpetuity.
    She hurkles by her ingle side,
    An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide;
    Lord kens how lang she yet may bide
      To ca' for her annuity.

    I read the tables drawn wi' care
      For an Insurance Company;
    Her chance o' life was stated there
      Wi' perfect perspicuity.
    But tables here, or tables there,
    She 's lived ten years beyond her share;
    An 's like to live a dozen mair
      To ca' for her annuity.

    I gat the loon that drew the deed,
      We spell'd it ower richt carefully;
    In vain he yerk'd his souple head
      To find an ambiguity.
    It 's dated, tested, a' complete;
    The proper stamp, nae word delete;
    And diligence, as on decreet,
      May pass for her annuity.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I thought that grief might gar her quit,
      Her only son was lost at sea;
    But aff her wits behuved to flit
      An' leave her in fatuity.
    She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet
    For a' the tellin' she can get;
    But catch the doited wife forget
      To ca' for her annuity.

    If there 's a sough o' cholera
      Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she!
    She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',
      In siccan superfluity!
    She doesna need--she's fever proof--
    The pest walked o'er her very roof;
    She tauld me sae, and then her loof
      Held out for her annuity.

    Ae day she fell, her arm she brak,
      A compound fracture as could be;
    Nae leech the cure wad undertak,
      Whate'er was the gratuity.
    It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail,
    It does as weel in bits as hale;
    But I 'm a broken man mysel'
      Wi' her and her annuity.

    Her broozled flesh and broken banes
      Are weel as flesh and banes can be,
    She beats the taeds that live in stanes
      An' fatten in vacuity!
    They die when they 're exposed to air,
    They canna thole the atmosphere;
    But her! expose her onywhere,
      She lives for her annuity.

           *       *       *       *       *

    The water-drap wears out the rock
      As this eternal jade wears me;
    I could withstand the single shock,
      But not the continuity.
    It 's pay me here, an' pay me there,
    An' pay me, pay me evermair;
    I 'll gang demented wi' despair;
      I 'm _charged_ for her annuity.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This facetious composition, in the original form, extends to
considerably greater length.




HENRY INGLIS.


Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and
was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were
spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire.
Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the
High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the
close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal
pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published
"Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work,
entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr
Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of
the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.

The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr
Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on
the field of Preston in 1745.




WEEP AWAY.


    Weep away, heart, weep away!
      Let no muleteer
        Be afraid
    To weep; for a brave heart may
      Lament for a dear,
        Fickle maid.

    The lofty sky weeps in cloud,
      The earth weeps in dews
        From its core;
    The diamond brooks weep aloud,
      The flowers change the hues
        Which they wore.

    The grass mourns in the sunbeam,
      In gums weep the trees
        And in dye;
    And if mourn meadow and stream--
      Inanimate these--
        May not I?

    The wood-pigeon mourns his mate,
      The caged birds bewail
        Freedom gone;
    Shall not man mourn over fate?
      Dumb sorrow assail
        Him alone?

    Then weep on, heart, weep away!
      Let no muleteer
        Be afraid
    To weep; for a brave heart may
      Lament for a dear,
        Fickle maid.




JAMES MANSON.


James Manson, one of the conductors of the _Glasgow Herald_, has
composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr
Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year
1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he
wrought industriously during a course of years.




OCEAN.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._


ON SHORE--CALM.

        Summer Ocean,
        Placid Ocean,
    Soft and sweet thy lullaby;
        Shadows lightly,
        Sunbeams brightly,
    Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.

    Resting gently on thy bosom,
    Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings,
    While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom,
    Float around the strain the skylark sings.

        Love's emotion,
        Summer Ocean,
    Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies,
        Glances brightly,
        Dances lightly
    Till the fond illusion flies.


AT SEA--STORM.

        Winter Ocean,
        Furious Ocean,
    Fierce and loud thy choral lay:
        Storm-clouds soaring,
        Whirlwinds roaring
    O'er thy breast in madness play.

    Homeless petrels shriek their omen
    Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar;
    Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen
    Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.

        War's commotion,
        Winter Ocean,
    Like thyself, when tempest driven,
        By passion hurl'd,
        Would wreck the world,
    And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.




THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

_Set to Music by Herr Kücken._


    When loud the horn is sounding
      Along the distant hills,
    Then would I rove, ne'er weary,
    The Hunter's Daughter near me,
      By flowery margin'd rills.

    'Mid stately pines embosom'd
      There stands the Hunter's cot,
    From which this maiden daily
    At morning peeps so gaily,
      Contented with her lot.

    This Hunter and his Daughter
      Make everything their prey;
    He slays the wild roe bounding,
    Her eyes young hearts are wounding--
      No shafts so sure as they!




AN INVITATION.

_Music arranged by Julius Siligmann._


      The skylark sings his matin lay,
      The waking flowers at dawning day,
    With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come!
      Oh, haste, Love, come with me,
        To the wild wood come with me.
    Hark, the wing'd warblers singing,
        Come with me;
    Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging,
        Wait for thee!

      The sunlight sleeps upon the lea,
      And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea,
    The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come!
      Oh, haste, Love, come with me,
      To the wild wood come with me--
    Come and gather luscious berries,
        Come with me;
    Clustering grapes and melting cherries
        Wait for thee!

      My bird of love, my beauteous flower,
      Come, reign the queen of yonder bower,
    'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come!
      Oh, haste, then, come with me,
      To the wild wood come with me.
    Life's first fairest hours are fleeting--
        Come with me;
    Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting
        Wait for thee!




CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._


    Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose,
      (_Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._)
    With fond delight his bosom glows,
      (_How softly fall the flakes of snow._)
    Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips
    Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips,
    Then nearer to the Rose he trips;
      (_The stately oak will soon lie low._)

    Young Love was fond and bashful too,
      (_Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._)
    He sigh'd and knew not what to do;
      (_Life like an arrow flies away._)
    Then whispering low his cherish'd wish,
    The Rose-bud trembled on her bush,
    While redder grew her maiden blush;
      (_Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._)

    To pull this Rose young Love then tried;
      (_'Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._)
    Her blush of hope she strove to hide;
      (_Joy soars aloft on painted wing._)
    Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast,
    He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd
    Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest;
      (_'Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._)




ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.

TUNE--_"The Brave Old Oak."_


    'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,
      And joyous songs abound;
    Our log burns high, but it glows less bright
      Than the eyes which sparkle round.
    The merry laugh, and the jocund tale,
      And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe,
    Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale
      That wreaths the new fallen snow.
        'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,
          And joyous thoughts abound;
        The log burns high, but it glows less bright
          Than the eyes which sparkle round.

    'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire
      Forgets his weight of years;
    He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire
      Beams through his unbidden tears.
    With tremulous tenor he joins the strain--
      The song of his manhood's prime;
    For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again,
      While his aged head nods time.
                 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

    'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart
      Beats high with a new delight,
    And youths and maidens, with guileless art,
      Make merry the livelong night.
    The time flies on with gladsome cheer,
      And welcomes pass around--
    'Tis the warmest night of all the year,
      Though winter hath chain'd the ground.
                 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.




JAMES HEDDERWICK.


James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_, was
born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same
Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early
age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his
father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than
mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and
occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to
sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London,
in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London
University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than
twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the
_Scotsman_ newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political
writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those
lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his
personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the
_Scotsman_, were copied into _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_, and have
since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these,
entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a
writer in _Fraser's Magazine_. Others have found their way, in an
anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry."
In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the
_Glasgow Citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an
honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at
a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading
individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick
little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in
Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the
Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844
he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for
general circulation.




MY BARK AT SEA.


    Away, away, like a child at play,
      Like a living ocean-child,
    Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way
      To the billows' music wild;
    The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,
      And the waves around her leap,
    As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,
      She dances o'er the deep!

    Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,
      She lies with folded wing,
    But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,
      She moves a joyous thing!
    And away she flies all gleaming bright,
      While a wave in lofty pride,
    Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,
      Is bounding by her side!

    For her glorious path the sea she hath,
      And she wanders bold and free,
    And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath
      Are her mighty minstrelsy!
    A queen the crested waves among,
      A light and graceful form,
    She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,
      Like the genius of the storm!




SORROW AND SONG.


    Weep not over poet's wrong,
      Mourn not his mischances;
    Sorrow is the source of song,
      And of gentle fancies.

    Rills o'er rocky beds are borne
      Ere they gush in whiteness;
    Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn
      Ere they shew their brightness.

    Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
      When in tears they waken;
    Earth enjoys refreshing showers
      When the boughs are shaken.

    Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
      In its deepest waters;
    From the darkest mines are brought
      Gems for beauty's daughters.

    Through the rent and shiver'd rock
      Limpid water breaketh;
    'Tis but when the chords are struck
      That their music waketh.

    Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,
      All their sweets surrender;
    Gold must brook the fiery test
      Ere it shew its splendour.

    When the twilight, cold and damp,
      Gloom and silence bringeth,
    Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,
      And the night-bird singeth.

    Stars come forth when Night her shroud
      Draws as Daylight fainteth;
    Only on the tearful cloud
      God his rainbow painteth.

    Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,
      Mourn not his mischances;
    Sorrow is the source of song
      And of gentle fancies.




THE LAND FOR ME.


    I 've been upon the moonlit deep
      When the wind had died away,
    And like an Ocean-god asleep
      The bark majestic lay;
    But lovelier is the varied scene,
      The hill, the lake, the tree,
    When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen;
      The land! the land! for me.

    The glancing waves I 've glided o'er
      When gently blew the breeze;
    But sweeter was the distant shore,
      The zephyr 'mong the trees.
    The murmur of the mountain rill,
      The blossoms waving free,
    The song of birds on every hill;
      The land! the land! for me.

    The billows I have been among
      When they roll'd in mountains dark,
    And Night her blackest curtain hung
      Around our heaving bark;
    But give me, when the storm is fierce,
      My home and fireside glee,
    Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce;
      The land! the land! for me.

    And when around the lightning flash'd
      I 've been upon the deep,
    And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd
      Adown the liquid steep;
    But now that I am safe on shore,
      There let me ever be;
    The sea let others wander o'er;
      The land! the land! for me.




THE EMIGRANTS.


    The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary,
      And eerie the face of the fast-falling night,
    But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery
      With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

    When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!
      We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;
    Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish
      The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

    Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,
      Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell;
    From kindred and friends they had parted for ever,
      But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

    We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;
      We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers,
    But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking,
      A past of delight and a future of tears.

    And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,
      On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell,
    Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas,
      And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

    More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,
      As we shut out the night and its darkness once more;
    But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy,
      Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.

    So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender,
      Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea,
    Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,
      To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

    In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,
      Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep!
    But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming,
      And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

    And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever,
      A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell;
    'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river,
      And startling the night with their cries of farewell.




FIRST GRIEF.


    They tell me first and early love
      Outlives all after dreams;
    But the memory of a first great grief
      To me more lasting seems;
    The grief that marks our dawning youth
      To memory ever clings,
    And o'er the path of future years
      A lengthen'd shadow flings.

    Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour
      When to my father's home
    Death came--an uninvited guest--
      From his dwelling in the tomb!
    I had not seen his face before,
      I shudder'd at the sight,
    And I shudder still to think upon
      The anguish of that night!

    A youthful brow and ruddy cheek
      Became all cold and wan;
    An eye grew dim in which the light
      Of radiant fancy shone.
    Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,
      The eye was fix'd and dim;
    And one there mourn'd a brother dead
      Who would have died for him!

    I know not if 'twas summer then,
      I know not if 'twas spring,
    But if the birds sang on the trees
      I did not hear them sing!
    If flowers came forth to deck the earth
      Their bloom I did not see;
    I look'd upon one wither'd flower,
      And none else bloom'd for me!

    A sad and silent time it was
      Within that house of woe,
    All eyes were dull and overcast,
      And every voice was low!
    And from each cheek at intervals
      The blood appear'd to start,
    As if recall'd in sudden haste
      To aid the sinking heart!

    Softly we trod, as if afraid
      To mar the sleeper's sleep,
    And stole last looks of his pale face
      For memory to keep!
    With him the agony was o'er,
      And now the pain was ours,
    As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose
      Like odour from dead flowers!

    And when at last he was borne afar
      From the world's weary strife,
    How oft in thought did we again
      Live o'er his little life!
    His every look--his every word--
      His very voice's tone--
    Came back to us like things whose worth
      Is only prized when gone!

    The grief has pass'd with years away
      And joy has been my lot;
    But the one is oft remember'd,
      And the other soon forgot.
    The gayest hours trip lightest by,
      And leave the faintest trace;
    But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears
      Time never can efface!




THE LINNET.


    Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves;
      Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat;
    How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,
    While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,
      And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

    Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings;
      Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills!
    In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,
    As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,
      Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

    Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound;
      Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day!
    There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,
    Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,
      And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

    Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!
      Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while?
    Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,
    To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,
      Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

    Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary?
      Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows?
    The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,
    Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,
      With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!




WILLIAM BROCKIE.


William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He
entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small
periodical, entitled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently
edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of
the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a
short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the
_Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from
impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy
at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in
fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety
of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem,
entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."




YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.


    What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain?
    I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.
    There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie;
    I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.
    We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair;
    Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare;
    In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain,
    An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

    We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung;
    The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young;
    An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind--
    Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung.
    Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share,
    But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair;
    Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part,
    An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

    While we live for each other, our lot will be blest;
    An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd;
    We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien,
    An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.
    A couple that strive to be honest and fair
    May be rich without siller, and guid without lear;
    Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue,
    Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.




ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.


Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall,
in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825,
at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.




THE LANG WINTER E'EN.


    Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair;
    The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare;
    To the cot wee robin returns for a screen
    Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

    But charms there are still, though nature has nane,
    When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane,
    Then round the fireside social hearts do convene,
    And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.

    O' warldly wealth I hae got little share,
    Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care;
    Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien',
    To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

    The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear,
    Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear,
    But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean
    In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.




THOMAS YOUNG.


The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems,"
a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas
Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven,
Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he
accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the
_Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change
occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he
remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable
appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to
proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with
an annual salary of £300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he
afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at
Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.




ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.


        By Niagara's flood
        Antoinette stood,
    And watch'd the wild waves rush on,
        As they leapt below
        Into vapoury snow,
        Or fell into flakes of foam.

        The sun's last beams
        Fell in golden gleams
    On water and wave-girt isle,
        And in tinge all fair
        Dipp'd the girl's bright hair
    And heighten'd her happy smile.

        Away--away!
        In wild ecstasy
    She threads the abyss's brink,
        Where waters--black--
        Of the cataract
    Into drifted snow-waves sink.

        A father's eye
        Looketh anxiously
    On the freaks of his favour'd child,
        Till her spirit appals
        His soul, and he calls
    "Antoinette" in accents wild.

        A bolder heart
        Loves the girl's free sport,
    And he grasps her by the gown,
        Then tosseth her high
        In the twilight sky--
    But, heavens! she falleth down!

        She sinks in the wave;
        He swimmeth to save!
    Oh, never was mortal arm
        More manfully braced,
        As it grasps her slim waist,
    And struggles in frantic alarm!

        In vain does he strike--
        The fresh waves break,
    And the doom'd ones are downward borne!
        Yet the swimmer's eye
        Seemeth still to defy
    The might of the merciless storm.

        More loud than before
        Is the cataract's roar,
    And the furrow'd wave is bright
        With many a pearl
        From the shining swirl
    Of the water's lucid light.

        And down below
        Is the woolly snow
    Of Niagara's wrathful bed,
        But the lip of the bold
        Hath never told
    The secrets that there lie hid.

        A strong arm, press'd
        Round a maiden's waist
    On the doleful morrow is seen,
        And her oozy hair
        Laves his forehead bare
    With the waft of the wavy stream.




ROBERT WILSON.


Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He
practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed
many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a
duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S.
His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of
France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on
subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at
Aberdour, Fifeshire.




AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.


    Away, away, my gallant bark!
      The waves are white and high;
    And fast the long becalmèd clouds
      Are sailing in the sky.
    The merry breeze which wafts them on,
      And chafes the billow's spray,
    Will urge thee in thy watery flight:
      My gallant bark, away!

    Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,
      Are spread thy wingèd sails,
    To soar above the mountain waves,
      And scoop their glassy vales;
    And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,
      Thy azure journey o'er,
    The shadow of thy folded wings
      Upon the sunny shore.

    Away, away, my gallant bark!
      Across the billow's foam;
    I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,
      The quiet haunts of home;
    The green fields of my fatherland
      For many a stormy bay;
    The blazing hearth for beacon-light:
      My gallant bark, away!




LOVE.


    What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!
    Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,
    Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,
    That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

    And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,
    Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;
    And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,
    And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

    With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,
    And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;
    And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,
    And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

    And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;
    But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?
    Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,
    And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.




EDWARD POLIN.


A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the
29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a
pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he
extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became
sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the
editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving
unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the
literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The
vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain
to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were
observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended
with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to
restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a
hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had
attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's
churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of
speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was
intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his
MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to
the world.




A GOOD OLD SONG.


    I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies,
      And have revell'd amid their flowers;
    I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,
      And dream'd in Italian bowers,
    While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime
      Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears,
    But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time
      When my heart could respond with its tears.
        Then sing me a song, a good old song--
          Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand--
        But a simple song, a good old song
          Of my own dear fatherland.

    I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay
      All, all they would have me adore
    Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say
      Can be equall'd on earth never more.
    And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,
      Though they move not my heart through mine ears,
    But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"
      Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

    I have come from a far and a foreign clime
      To mine own loved haunts once more,
    With a yearning for all of my childhood's time
      And the dear home-sounds of yore;
    And here, if there yet be love for me,
      Oh, away with those stranger lays,
    And now let my only welcome be
      An old song of my boyhood's days.




ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.


Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie,
Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in
Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses,
and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on
business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise,
he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on
the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been
celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication,
entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS.
in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.




I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_


    I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',
    The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';
    The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',
    A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;
    Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,
    While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,
    An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',
    Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

    I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',
    An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,
    I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'--
    Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;
    I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,
    I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;
    My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,
    An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

    The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,
    The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,
    An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,
    It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.
    I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,
    An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life--
    For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me
    As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

    Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,
    Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;
    Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me--
    I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.
    I wander me aften to break melancholy,
    On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,
    Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;
    Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.




KATIE BLAIR.[8]


    I 've met wi' mony maidens fair
      In kintras far awa,
    I 've met wi' mony here at hame,
      Baith bonny dames an' braw;
    But nane e'er had the power to charm
      My love into a snare
    Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e
      An' smile o' Katie Blair.

    She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,
      Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,
    Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves
      While merrily they row.
    They drouk the lily an' the rose,
      An' mony flowerets fair,
    Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet
      As winsome Katie Blair.

    She is a queen owre a' the flowers
      O' garden an' o' lea--
    Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is
      Than a' their balms to me.
    As licht to morn she's a' to me,
      My bosom's only care;
    An' worthy o' the truest love
      Is winsome Katie Blair.


FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.




DAVID TAYLOR.


David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and
county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the
village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a
tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has
been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems
and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs.
Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.




MY AIN GUDEMAN.


    O dear, dear to me
      Is my ain gudeman,
    For kindly, frank, an' free
      Is my ain gudeman.
    An' though thretty years ha'e fled,
    An' five sin' we were wed,
    Nae bitter words I 've had
      Wi' my ain gudeman.

    I 've had seven bonnie bairns
      To my ain gudeman,
    An' I 've nursed them i' their turns
      For my ain gudeman;
    An' ane did early dee,
    But the lave frae skaith are free,
    An' a blessin' they 're to me
      An' my ain gudeman.

    I cheerie clamb the hill
      Wi' my ain gudeman;
    An', if it 's Heaven's will,
      Wi' my ain gudeman,
    In life's calm afternoon,
    I wad toddle cannie doun,
    Syne at the foot sleep soun'
      Wi' my ain gudeman.




ROBERT CATHCART.


Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver
in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he
published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early
Blossom."




MARY


    Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,
      Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;
    Sweeter far thy love in bloom,
      Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.
    When the woods in silence sleep,
    And is hid in dusk the steep,
    When the flowers in sorrow weep
      I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

    When love plays in rosy beams
      Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,
    Then thine e'e a language gleams
      Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary.
    When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,
    Silence reigns o'er us the while,
    Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,
      Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

    When our hands are join'd in love,
      Ne'er to part again, Mary,
    Till death ance mair his arrows prove
      And tak us for his ain, Mary;
    Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!
      In a hallow'd hour like this,
    We in rapture join to kiss
      And taste o' heaven again, Mary.




WILLIAM JAMIE.


William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of
Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish
school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during
his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a
blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From
early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at
Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the
Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent
publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other
Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The
Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly
dependent for subsistence.




AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.


    Although the lays o' ither lands
      Ha'e mony an artfu' air,
    They want the stirrin' melody
      An auld man lo'es to hear.
    Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms
      Which maks the bosom fain;
    And to her sons, that 's far awa',
      Wi' thochts o' hame again.

    Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,
      They fondly bring to min'
    The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,
      Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.
    Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,
      For weel I lo'e to hear--
    Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"
      And "Bush aboon Traquair."

    Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"
      Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;
    And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's--
      Oh! sing, and I'll admire!
    For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs
      Sung owre and owre wi' glee;
    And the mair I hear their artless strains
      They dearer grow to me.

    Enchanting strains again they bring,
      Fond memory glints alang
    To humble bards wha woke the lyre,
      And wove the patriot's sang.
    Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,
      The sangs o' youth and glee;
    They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,
      Which made our country free.




JOHN CRAWFORD.


A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and
power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at
Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had
witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With
only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on
his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a
house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since
prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius,
he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has
sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a
small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches
of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord
Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss
Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an
originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is
the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and
stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has
given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at
present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled,
"Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical
epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

    The days, when write wad minstrel men
      To ane anither thus, are gone,
    And days ha'e come upon us when
      Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
    But I will love the fashion old
      While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
    And joy when I my tale have told
      Anent the Bard of Alloa.

    Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
      Far mair through nature's power than art's,
    Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
      Might reach and gladden other hearts;
    Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
      And say't alike in cot and ha'--
    Sublime thro' pure simplicity
      Is he--the Bard of Alloa.

    Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
      And make to mankind their appeal;
    'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
      While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
    The swains shall sing them on the hill,
      The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
    And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
      The gifted Bard of Alloa.

    E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
      And clouted hose, and pinafores,
    Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
      As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
    Sae shall they sing anent themsells
      To nature true, as its ain law;
    For minstrel nane on earth excels
      In this the Bard of Alloa.

    Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
      And glowing as the woodland rose,
    Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
      As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
    With me, my native land, rejoice,
      And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
    As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
      Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

    Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
      And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
    I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
      Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
    'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--
      But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
    When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
      Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

    Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
      And glory shall your brows adorn,
    And else than this, by none or few,
      The poet's wreath will long be worn.
    Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
      O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--
    Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
      Your strains like him of Alloa.

    Possess maun he a poet's heart,
      And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
    Wha deftly plays the generous part
      That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
    Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
      Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
    Into a sordid sink--like yours--
      But bless the Bard of Alloa.

    Ah! little ye may trow or ken
      The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
    'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
      Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
    It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
      When she begins her face to thraw,
    That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
      As his that sounds frae Alloa.

    And as for me, ere this I'd lain
      Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
    Had it not made the joys my ain
      When a' life's other joys were gane.
    If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
      Unknown, my early joys I sung,
    When cares and woes wad life belay,
      How could my harp away be flung?

    The dearest power in life below,
      Is life's ain native power of song,
    As he alone can truly know,
      To whom it truly may belong.
    Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
      And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
    And lighted up the rays o' hope,
      Ay, and it up shall light them still.

    Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,
      Ambition win the wreath o' fame,
    Wealth gies reputed wit and power,
      And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.
    But be my meed the generous heart,
      For nought can charm this heart o' mine,
    Like those who own the undying art
      That gies a claim to Ossian's line.

    Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale
      Be every heart belonging thee,--
    The day whan fortune gies ye kale
      Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.
    Ilk son o' song is dear to me;
      And though thy face I never saw,
    I'll honour till the day I dee
      The gifted Bard o' Alloa.




MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.

AIR--_"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."_


    My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,
    As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;
    For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen
    When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.

    The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,
    And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;
    For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen
    When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.

    A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,
    Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,
    When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.
    An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.

    Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,
    Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,
    When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,
    Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.

    Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain
    That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;
    But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween
    The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.

    I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,
    The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;
    But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,
    And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.

    Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,
    A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,
    A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',
    Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.

    The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,
    'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,
    An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,
    He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.

    Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;
    Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;
    The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,
    And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.

    The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,
    Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;
    And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',
    And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.




THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.


    Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,
    The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;
    Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade--
    The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.

    Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,
    Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;
    There Freedom in triumph an altar has made
    For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.

    A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,
    To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:
    Shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade
    Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?

    Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!
    The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;
    And honour'd forever be matron and maid
    In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.

    Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,
    O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,
    Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade--
    Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.




SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]


    Sing on, fairy Devon,
    'Mong gardens and bowers,
    Where love's feast lies spread
    In an Eden o' flowers.
    What visions o' beauty
    My mind has possess'd,
    In thy gowany dell
    Where a seraph might rest.

    Sing on, lovely river,
    To hillock and tree
    A lay o' the loves
    O' my Jessie and me;
    For nae angel lightin',
    A posie to pu',
    Can match the fair form
    O' the lassie I lo'e.

    Sweet river, dear river,
    Sing on in your glee,
    In thy pure breast the mind
    O' my Jessie I see.
    How aft ha'e I wander'd,
    As gray gloamin' fell,
    Rare dreamin's o' heaven
    My lassie to tell.

    Sing on, lovely Devon,
    The sang that ye sung
    When earth in her beauty
    Frae night's bosom sprung,
    For lanesome and eerie
    This warld aye would be
    Did clouds ever fa'
    Atween Jessie and me.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Written for the present work.




ANN O' CORNYLEE.

GAELIC AIR--_"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."_


    I 'll twine a gowany garland
      Wi' lilies frae the spring;
    The fairest flowers by Clutha's side
      In a' their bloom I 'll bring.
    I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade
      My lassie's scornfu' e'e--
    For oh, I canna bide the frown
      O' Ann o' Cornylee.

    Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed
      My lowly lot maun cheer,
    A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe
      Is a' my worldly gear;
    A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,
      Is a' I ha'e to gie;
    A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn
      O' Ann o' Cornylee.

    The linty 'mang the yellow broom,
      The laverock in the lift
    Ha'e never sang the waes o' love
      O' hope and joy bereft;
    Nor has the mavis ever sang
      The ills I ha'e to dree,
    For lovin' o' a paughty maid,
      Fair Ann o' Cornylee.




MY MARY DEAR.[10]

TUNE--_"Annie Laurie."_


    The gloamin' star was showerin'
    Its siller glories doun,
    And nestled in its mossy lair
    The lintie sleepit soun';
    The lintie sleepit soun',
    And the starnies sparklet clear,
    When on a gowany bank I sat
    Aside my Mary dear.

    The burnie wanders eerie
    Roun' rock and ruin'd tower,
    By mony a fairy hillock
    And mony a lanely bower;
    Roun' mony a lanely bower,
    Love's tender tale to hear,
    Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd
    And won my Mary dear.

    Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness
    Frae me for ever ta'en!
    Wi' summer's flowery loveliness
    Ye come na back again!
    Ye come na back again,
    The waefu' heart to cheer,
    For lang the greedy grave has closed
    Aboon my Mary dear.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Written for the present work.




THE WAES O' EILD.

(_For an old Gaelic air._)


    The cranreuch 's on my heid,
    The mist 's now on my een,
    A lanesome life I lead,
    I'm no what I ha'e been.
    Ther 're runkles on my broo,
    Ther 're furrows on my cheek,
    My wither'd heart fills fu'
    Whan o' bygane days I speak.
          For I 'm weary,
          I 'm weary,
          I 'm weary o' care--
          Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,
          Oh, let me gang there.

    I ance was fu' o' glee,
    And wha was then sae gay,
    Whan dreamin' life wad be
    But ae lang simmer day?
    My feet, like lichtnin', flew
    Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring,
    They gimply staucher noo
    Aneath a feckless thing.
          For I 'm weary,
          I 'm weary,
          I 'm weary o' care--
          Whare my first luve lies cauld,
          Oh, let me lie there.

    The ourie breath o' eild
    Has blown ilk frien' frae me;
    They comena near my beild
    I ha'e dauted on my knee;
    They hand awa their heids,
    My frailties no to see;
    My blessing on them, ane and a'--
    I 've naething else to gie.
          For I 'm weary,
          I 'm weary,
          I 'm weary and worn--
          To the friens o' my youth
          I maun soon, soon return.




JOHN STUART BLACKIE.[11]


John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh,
was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally
come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the
Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the
grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the
boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the
ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to
expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College.
He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh--and
then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he
proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where
he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of
German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen
months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to
the study of archæology. His first publication testifies to his success
in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico
sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in the _Annali del
Instituto Archæologico, Roma_, 1831.

Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his
return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The
study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the
profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied
himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at
this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled,
"Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with
Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the
Society for Archæological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken
upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work
of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed
entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of
this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible
only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully
succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface,
"The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation
depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere _transposing_, but a
_re-casting_, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first
and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited--to seize, if
possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to
give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or
every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there
can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be
desired--full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and
reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that
Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of
the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are
very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still
animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious
information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages,
gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates'
Library.

The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a
German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied
in reviewing German books for the _Foreign Quarterly Review_. He was
also a contributor to _Blackwood_, _Tait_, and the _Westminster Review_.
The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or
religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on
Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems
to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of
Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as
almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is
reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig
campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been
written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and
Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves
especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of
Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse
of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor--asserting that he was a
bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his
stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the _Westminster_,
on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness.
The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way
very satisfactory to an English reader.

In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal
College, Aberdeen--a post which he held for eleven years. To this new
labour he gave himself with all his heart, and was eminently
successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate
knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under
the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and
general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses.
Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his
students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of
the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he
formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all
its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this
period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in
educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced
his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and
he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of
his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and
he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he
advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first
met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he
has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several
Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he
then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no
longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His
principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish
people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical
institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities;
3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.

Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh,
Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the
newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of
education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his
review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in the _Foreign
Quarterly_, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of
Languages."

During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin
and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published
in the _Classical Museum_. One of the contributions to that journal was
published separately--"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients."
It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing
accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the
accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It
is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article,
"On Prometheus," clears Æschylus from the charge of impiety, because he
appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the
"Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical
studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek
literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time
were translations of Horace and Æschylus. Translations of several odes
of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all
the dramas of Æschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the
Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archæologist, "the friends of
his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now
universally admitted to be the best complete translation of Æschylus in
English.

In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University.
In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of
educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in
Aberdeen. His last _brochure_ on the subject is a letter to the Town
Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland."
Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity
to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous
rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or
speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that
assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in the
_North British Review_.

His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was
"The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological
Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is
for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the
reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one
known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is
consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in
Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a
fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the
results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the
_North British_ on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the
_Westminster_ on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an
introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time
he has written principally in _Blackwood_ and the _North British_,
discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new
German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers
may be mentioned his reviews, in the _North British_, of his friend
Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos' Life. His articles more
especially relating to his own department are Æschylus and Homer, in the
_Encyclopædia Britannica_, an article on accents in the _Cambridge
Philological_, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."

In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of
Scottish poets--"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems."
The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse
to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths,
gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about
them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his
other works--deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and
manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything
that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all
falsehood.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq.,
Edinburgh.




SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.


    Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains
      That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
    Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
      By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
             With his peak so high
             He cleaves the sky
      That smiles on his old gray crown,
             While the mantle green,
             On his shoulders seen,
      In many a fold flows down.

    He looks to the north, and he renders
      A greeting to Nevis Ben;
    And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,
      Gives Cruachan greeting again.
             O'er dread Glencoe
             The greeting doth go
      And where Etive winds fair in the glen;
             And he hears the call
             In his steep north wall,
      "God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."

    When the north winds their forces muster,
      And ruin rides high on the storm,
    All calm, in the midst of their bluster,
      He stands with his forehead enorm.
             When block on block,
             With thundering shock,
      Comes hurtled confusedly down,
             No whit recks he,
             But laughs to shake free
      The dust from his old gray crown.

    And while torrents on torrents are pouring
      Down his sides with a wild, savage glee,
    And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,
      And the soft lake swells to a sea,
             He smiles through the storm,
             And his heart grows warm
      As he thinks how his streams feed the plains
             And the brave old Ben
             Grows young again,
      And swells with his lusty veins.

    For Cruachan is king of the mountains
      That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
    Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
      By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
             Ere Adam was made
             He rear'd his head
      Sublime o'er the green winding glen;
             And when flame wraps the sphere,
             O'er earth's ashes shall peer
      The peak of the old granite Ben.




THE BRAES OF MAR.


    Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
    From you my feet must travel far,
    Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,
      Farewell, farewell for ever!
    Thou lone green glen where I was born,
    Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.
    From thee my heart is rudely torn,
      And I shall see thee never!

    The braes of Mar with heather glow,
    The healthful breezes o'er them blow,
    The gushing torrents from them flow,
      That swell the rolling river.
    Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,
    On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,
    My widow'd eyne no more shall see
      Your birchen bowers for ever!

    Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui
    Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,
    Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,
        Farewell, farewell for ever!
    In you the rich may stalk the deer,
    Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;
    But oh, the poor man's heart is drear
        To part from you for ever!

    May God forgive our haughty lords,
    For whom our fathers drew their swords;
    No tear for us their pride affords,
        No bond of love they sever.
    Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
    From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar--
    The friendless poor is banished far
        From your green glens for ever!




MY LOVES.


    Name the leaves on all the trees,
    Name the waves on all the seas,
    Name the notes of all the groves--
    Thus thou namest all my loves.

    I do love the dark, the fair,
    Golden ringlets, raven hair,
    Eye that swims in sunny light,
    Glance that shoots like lightning bright.

    I do love the stately dame
    And the sportive girl the same;
    Every changeful phase between
    Blooming cheek and brow serene.

    I do love the young, the old,
    Maiden modest, virgin bold,
    Tiny beauties, and the tall--
    Earth has room enough for all.

    Which is better--who can say?--
    Lucy grave or Mary gay?
    She who half her charms conceals?
    She who sparkles while she feels?

    Why should I confine my love?
    Nature bids us freely rove;
    God hath scatter'd wide the fair,
    Blooms and beauties everywhere.

    Paris was a pedant fool,
    Meting beauty by a rule:
    Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he
    Should have chosen all the three.

    I am wise, life's every bliss
    Thankful tasting; and a kiss
    Is a sweet thing, I declare,
    From a dark maid or a fair.




LIKING AND LOVING.


    Liking is a little boy
    Dreaming of a sea employ,
    Sitting by the stream, with joy
      Paper frigates sailing:
    Love 's an earnest-hearted man,
    Champion of beauty's clan,
    Fighting bravely in the van,
      Pushing and prevailing.

    Liking hovers round and round,
    Capers with a nimble bound,
    Plants his foot on easy ground,
      Through the glass to view it:
    Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
    Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,
    With a brisk and bold advance,
      Sworn to die or do it.

    Liking 's ever on the wing,
    From new blooms new sweets to bring;
    Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
      From the hook is free still:
    Love 's a tar of British blue,
    Let mad winds their maddest do,
    To his haven carded true,
      As I am to thee still.




WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.


William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of
Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of
Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been
extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The
representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous
supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother,
who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is
descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution
of 1688.

Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College,
Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he
afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical
_brochure_. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a
visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but
were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume
in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present
work with the author's permission.

During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention
to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a
work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of
Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of
the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several
editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His
latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.

In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of
Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the
general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest
in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering
lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.




RUTH.


    The golden smile of morning
      On the hills of Moab play'd,
    When at the city's western gate
      Their steps three women stay'd.
    One laden was with years and care,
      A gray and faded dame,
    Of Judah's ancient lineage,
      And Naomi her name;
    And two were daughters of the land,
      Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,
    Their faces wearing still the bloom,
      Their eyes the light of youth;
    But all were childless widows,
      And garb'd in weeds of woe,
    And their hearts were full of sorrow,
      And fast their tears did flow.

    For the Lord God from Naomi
      Her spouse and sons had taken,
    And she and these that were their wives,
      Are widow'd and forsaken;
    And wish or hope her bosom knows
      None other but to die,
    And lay her bones in Bethlehem,
      Where all her kindred lie.
    So gives she now upon the way
      To Jordan's western waters
    Her farewell kisses and her tears
      Unto her weeping daughters:
    "Sweet daughters mine, now turn again
      Unto your homes," she said,
    "And for the love ye bear to me,
      The love ye bear the dead,
    The Lord with you deal kindly,
      And give you joy and rest
    And send to each a faithful mate
      To cheer her widow'd breast."

    Then long and loud their weeping was,
      And sore was their lament,
    And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,
      And back to Moab went;
    But gentle Ruth to Naomi
      Did cleave with close embrace,
    And earnest spoke, with loving eyes
      Up-gazing in her face--
    "Entreat me not to leave thee,
      Nor sever from thy side,
    For where thou goest I will go,
      Where thou bidest I will bide,
    Thy people still my people,
      And thy God my God shall be,
    And where thou diest I will die,
      And make my grave with thee."

    So Naomi, not loath, was won
      Unto her gentle will;
    And thence, with faces westward set,
      They fared o'er plain and hill;
    The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem
      Rose fair upon their sight,
    A rock-built town with towery crown,
      In evening's purple light,
    Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,
      And spread along the brook,
    White fields, with barley waving,
      That woo'd the reaper's hook.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Now for the sunny harvest field
      Sweet Ruth her mother leaves,
    And goes a-gleaning after
      The maids that bind the sheaves.
    And the great lord of the harvest
      Is of her husband's race,
    And looks upon the lonely one
      With gentleness and grace;
    And he loves her for the brightness
      And freshness of her youth,
    And for her unforgetting love,
      Her firm enduring truth--
    The love and truth that guided Ruth
      The border mountains o'er,
    Where her people and her own land
      She left for evermore.

    So he took her to his home and heart,
      And years of soft repose
    Did recompense her patient faith,
      Her meekly-suffer'd woes;
    And she became the noblest dame
      Of palmy Palestine,
    And the stranger was the mother
      Of that grand and glorious line
    Whence sprang our royal David,
      In the tide of generations,
    The anointed king of Israel,
      The terror of the nations:
    Of whose pure seed hath God decreed
      Messiah shall be born,
    When the day-spring from on high shall light
      The golden lands of morn;
    Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale
      Of tenderness and truth--
    Of the gentle deed of Boaz
      And the tender love of Ruth.




SHALLUM.


    Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him
      Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;
    Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him
      Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

    But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,
      Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;
    His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,
      No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

    And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,
      King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;
    For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,
      Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.




THOMAS C. LATTO.


A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in
1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the
elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his
fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during
five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the
writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the
Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William
E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a
period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the
situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered
into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating
to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile
concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of
"Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's
Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition,
appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made
several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in
_Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.




THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_


        There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,
          Whiles mair than in a score;
        But wae betak' the stouin smack
          I took ahint the door.

    O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht
      I ne'er was in afore;
    Fou brawly did my mither hear
      The kiss ahint the door.
    The wa's are thick--ye needna fear;
      But, gin they jeer and mock,
    I 'll swear it was a startit cork,
      Or wyte the rusty lock.
            There 's meikle bliss, &c.

    We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
      Was like a lowin' coal;
    An' as for me, I could hae crept
      Into a mouse's hole.
    The mither look't--saffs how she look't!--
      Thae mithers are a bore,
    An' gleg as ony cat to hear
      A kiss ahint the door.
            Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

    The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,
      As weel micht been in Rome,
    For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,
      An' never fash'd his thumb;
    But, titterin' in a corner, stood
      The gawky sisters four--
    A winter's nicht for me they micht
      Hae stood ahint the door.
          There 's meikle bliss, &c.

    "How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"
      The bauld gudewife began;
    Wi' that a foursome yell got up--
      I to my heels and ran.
    A besom whiskit by my lug,
      An' dishclouts half-a-score:
    Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,
      At kissin 'hint the door.
          There 's meikle bliss, &c.




THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.

TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_


    Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen
      On Kenly banks sae grassy, O!
    Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?--
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
    She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,
    Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;
    The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

    They glintit slee--the moon and she--
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!--
    On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:
      She is a dear wee lassie, O!
    How rapture's pulse was beating fast
    As Mary to my heart I claspt!
    Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last--
      I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!

    She nestled close, like croodlin' doo--
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
    My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'--
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
    Unto my breast again, again,
    I prest her guileless heart sae fain;
    Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain,
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

    Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine--
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
    My heart wad break gin I should tyne
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
    Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;
    The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright
    On me and her, my soul's delight,
      The widow's ae bit lassie, O!




THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.


    The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,
    The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;
    Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,
    The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.

    The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,
    The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;
    They close for the struggle where many shall fall,
    But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.

    He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,
    No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;
    The Camerons gather around him alone--
    He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.

    The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight--
    A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;
    But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust!
    The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.

    The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe--
    The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe;
    But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,
    For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.

    The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,
    From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;
    They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?
    The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.

    The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe--
    There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;
    But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away--
    The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.




TELL ME, DEAR.

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


    Tell me dear! in mercy speak,
      Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?
    Faint the rose is on thy cheek,
      But still the rose is there, lassie!
    Away, away each dark foreboding,
    Heavy days with anguish clouding,
    Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,
      Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!
    Day and night I've tended thee,
    Watching, love, thy changing e'e;
    Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,
      Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!

    Willie, lay thy cheek to mine--
      Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!
    Never mair may lip o' thine
      Press where it hath lain, laddie!
    Hark! I hear the angels calling,
    Heavenly strains are round me falling,
    But the stroke--thy soul appalling--
      'Tis my only pain, laddie!
    Yet the love I bear to thee
    Shall follow where I soon maun be;
    I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me--
      We part to meet again, laddie!

    Lay thine arm beneath my head--
      Grieve na sae for me, laddie!
    I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,
      But no a tear frae thee, laddie!
    Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,
    When the sun's last beam is shedding,
    Where no earthly foot is treading,
      By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!
    Though my sleep be wi' the dead,
    Frae on high my soul shall speed,
    And hover nightly round thy head,
      Although thou wilt na see, laddie.




WILLIAM CADENHEAD.


William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a
limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in
his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and
ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired
him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in
verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In
1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which,
affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation.
Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the
local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the
title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of
Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan,
appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable
and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his
native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.




DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?


    Do you know what the birds are singing?
      Can you tell their sweet refrains,
    When the green arch'd woods are ringing
      With a thousand swelling strains?
    To the sad they sing of sadness,
      To the blythe, of mirth and glee,
    And to me, in my fond love's gladness,
      They sing alone of thee!
    They sing alone of thee, love,
      Of thee, through the whole day long,
    And each its own dear charm extols,
      And each with its own sweet song!

    Do you know what the soft winds whisper
      When they sigh through blooming trees--
    When each bough is a choral lisper
      Of the woodland melodies?
    To some they seem to be grieving
      For the summer's short-lived glee;
    But to me they are always weaving
      Sweet songs in praise of thee!
    Sweet songs in praise of thee, love,
      And telling the flowers below,
    How far thy charms outshine them all,
      Though brightly their soft leaves glow!

    Do you know what the streamlet trilleth
      As it glides or leaps along,
    While the cool green nook it filleth
      With the gushes of its song?
    Do you think it sings its dreaming
      Of its distant home, the sea?
    Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming
      Is still of thee, of thee!
    Is still of thee, of thee, love,
      Till echoes and woodland fays--
    Yea, Nature all is eloquent
      And vocal in thy praise.




AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.


    Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie,
      As I 've look'd in days gane by,
    When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie,
      And answer'd sigh for sigh;
    When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie,
      Although poor and lane together,
    We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie,
      And were a' to ane anither!

    Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie,
      They ance were dear to me,
    As the honey-savour'd blossoms
      To the nectar-hunting bee!
    It kens whar dwalls the banquets
      O' the sweetest dewy wine--
    And as the chosen flower to it,
      Sae were thy lips to mine.

    I see thy very thochts, Jeanie,
      Deep in thy clear blue e'e,
    As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash,
      When ye sail the midnicht sea;
    And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie,
      Though the thochts they are nae mine,
    For I see there 's nae repentant ane,
      That they ance were sae langsyne.

    Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie--
      Ay, that 's the very chime,
    Whase silver echoes haunted me
      Through a' my youthfu' prime.
    Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie,
      Awake a blessed train
    Of memories that I thocht had slept
      To never wake again!

    God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie,
      And your face sae angel fair!
    May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,
      Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;
    And he wha has your love, Jeanie,
      May he be dear to thee,
    As I may aiblins ance have been--
      And as thou 'rt still to me!




ALLAN GIBSON.


A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the
scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on
the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of
works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the
more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst
rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature.
His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose
reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several
detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He
followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business.
After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the
early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was
fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public
speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four
children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in
1850, for the benefit of his family.




THE LANE AULD MAN.


    He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,
    Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,
    For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet
                By the side o' the lane auld man.

    To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung
    When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;
    But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung
                The heart o' the lane auld man.

    A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,
    He stood alane o' his kin the last,
    For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,
                An' left him a lane auld man.

    His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,
    Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,
    Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;
                Alack for the lane auld man!

    The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,
    Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,
    Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,
                An' heeds na her lane auld man.

    Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,
    And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet,
    Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep,
                The een o' the lane auld man.

    Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard,
    An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward,
    The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard
                The last o' the lane auld man.




THE WANDERER'S RETURN.


    Shadows of glory the twilight is parting,
      The day-star is seeking its home in the west,
    The herd from the field to the fold is departing,
      As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.
    And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling
      Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea,
    On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing,
      To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

    But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander,
      The faces are gone I have panted to see,
    And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger,
      Which once had a seat in its circle for me.
    Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd,
      When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay;
    If care on the light of my happiness linger'd,
      Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

    Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future
      Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way,
    And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her,
      And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.
    While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting,
      I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see
    The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains,
      And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

    Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd
      The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes,
    And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd
      But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.
    The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure
      Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind,
    Restore me the ties which are parted for ever,
      And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

    The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling,
      It came like the sun when unclouded and gay;
    Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling,
      But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.
    Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover
      Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu;
    Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover,
      And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.




THOMAS ELLIOTT.


The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics,
Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of
that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the
Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in
county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d
December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not
removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the
ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he
apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in
1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in
extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory
employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his
original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year
1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had
given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic
Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his
lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a
collection of songs published at Glasgow.




UP WITH THE DAWN.


    Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,
      And bare the brawny arm,
    To drive the harness'd team afield,
      And till the fruitful farm;
    To dig the mine for hidden wealth,
      Or make the woods to ring
    With swinging axe and sturdy stroke,
      To fell the forest king.

    With ocean car and iron steed
      Traverse the land and sea,
    And spread our commerce round the globe
      As winds that wander free.
    Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,
      Outspeed the flight of time;
    Old earth is rich, and man is young,
      Nor near his jocund prime.

    Work, and the clouds of care will fly,
      Pale want will pass away;
    Work, and the leprosy of crime
      And tyrants must decay.
    Leave the dead ages in their urns;
      The present time be ours,
    To grapple bravely with our lot,
      And strew our path with flowers.




CLYDE BOAT SONG.

_Music by A. Hume._


    Leave the city's busy throng--
    Dip the oar, and wake the song,
    While on Cathkin Braes the moon
    Rises with a star aboon:
    Hark! the boom of evening bells
    Trembles through the dewy dells.
          Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
        While the golden eventide
        Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde,
          Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
        O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
          Row, lads, row.

    Life 's a river, deep and old,
    Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;
    Now in shadow, then in light,
    Onward aye, a thing of might;
    Sons of Albyn's ancient land,
    Row with strong and steady hand,
          Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
        Gaily row, and cheery sing,
        Till the woodland echoes ring;
          Row, lads, row; row lads, row,
        O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
          Row, lads, row.

    Hammers on the anvil rest,
    Dews upon the gowan's breast;
    Young hearts heave with tender thought,
    Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,
    Stars bedeck the blue above,
    Earth is full of joy and love;
          Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
        Let your oars in concert beat
        Merry time, like dancers' feet;
          Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
        With the tide, down the Clyde,
          Row, lads, row.




DIMPLES AND A'.


    I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true
    Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;
    Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',
    She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'--
      Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
    That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.

    Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,
    Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,
    Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',
    Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'--
      Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'--
    And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

    I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,
    I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;
    When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,
    She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'--
      Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
    My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

    When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,
    I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;
    She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'
    Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
      Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
    Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.




BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.


    A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees,
    And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze;
    Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair,
    To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.
    Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind,
    And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind;
    And such are human pomp and ambition at the last--
    The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

    How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng,
    To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along!
    'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar--
    Now a revolution, and again a woeful war;
    A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might;
    A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light;
    Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast--
    All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

    Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage
    As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age;
    This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay--
    Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.
    We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things,
    That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings;
    And others yet may rise from the future, like the past,
    The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.




A SERENADE.


    The shadows of evening fall silent around,
    The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd;
    While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse,
    With your love at my heart, your name on my lips;
    Your name on my lips, like a melody rare--
    Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

    The birds by the river sing plaintive and low,
    They seem to be breathing a burden of woe;
    They seem to be asking, why am I alone?
    And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?
    The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air,
    And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

    The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide,
    Recall your sweet image again to my side--
    Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute;
    Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot;
    Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair,
    And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

    Come love, to the bank where the violets blow,
    Beside the calm waters that slumber below,
    While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom,
    Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume;
    Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care,
    When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!




A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.


    I 'm a very little man,
      And I earn a little wage,
    And I have a little wife,
      In a little hermitage,
    Up a quiet little stair,
      Where the creeping ivy clings;
    In a mansion near the stars
      Is my home of little things.

    I 've two bonnie little bairns,
      Full of prattle and of glee,
    And our little dwelling rings
      With their laughter, wild and free.
    Of the greenwoods, all the day,
      I 've a little bird that sings;
    It reminds me of my youth,
      And the age of little things.

    I 've no money in the funds,
      And no steamers on the sea;
    But my busy little hands
      Are a treasure unto me.
    I can work, and I can sing,
      With a joy unknown to kings;
    While peace and plenty smile
      On my bonnie little things.

    And when my work is done,
      In my cosie ingle nook,
    With my little ones around,
      I can read a little book.
    And I thank my lucky stars
      For whatever fortune brings;
    I 'm richer than a lord--
      I 'm content with little things.




MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.


    Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame,
    It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame,
    Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand,
    And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

    I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells,
    The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells,
    The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand,
    That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

    I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow,
    The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow;
    But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd,
    And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

    I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea,
    Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me;
    Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand,
    Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.




WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.


    Give me the hour when bells are rung,
      And dinsome wheels are still,
    When engines rest, and toilers leave
      The workshop, forge, and mill;
    With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e,
      My gudewife welcomes me;
    Our bairnies clap their wee white hands,
      And speel upon my knee.
          When I come hame at e'en,
          When I come hame at e'en,
      How dear to me the bairnies' glee,
          When I come hame at e'en.

    Our lowly bield is neat and clean,
      And bright the ingle's glow,
    The table 's spread with halesome fare,
      The teapot simmers low.
    How sweet to toil for joys like these
      With strong and eydent hand,
    To nurture noble hearts to love,
      And guard our fatherland.
          When I come hame at e'en, &c.

    Let revellers sing of wassail bowls,
      Their wines and barley bree;
    My ain wee house and winsome wife
      Are dearer far to me.
    To crack with her of joys to come,
      Of days departed long,
    When she was like a wee wild rose,
      And I a bird of song.
          When I come hame at e'en,
          When I come hame at e'en,
      How dear to me these memories
          When I come hame at e'en.




WILLIAM LOGAN.


William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th
February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended
by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of
a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a
respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in
his native place.




JEANIE GOW.


    Ye hameless glens and waving woods,
      Where Garnock winds alang,
    How aft, in youth's unclouded morn,
      Your wilds I 've roved amang.
    There ha'e I heard the wanton birds
      Sing blythe on every bough,
    There first I met, and woo'd the heart
      O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

    Dear Jeanie then was fair and young,
      And bloom'd as sweet a flower
    As ever deck'd the garden gay
      Or lonely wild wood bower.
    The warbling lark at early dawn,
      The lamb on mountain brow,
    Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart
      Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.

    Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot
      Rose by Glengarnock side,
    And Jeanie was his only stay,
      His darling and his pride.
    Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town,
      To which I ne'er could bow,
    And stray'd amang the ferny knowes
      Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

    But, ah! these fondly treasured joys
      Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast,
    For Jeanie dear was torn awa'
      By death's untimely blast.
    Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds,
      Ye canna cheer me now,
    Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes
      Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.




JAMES LITTLE.


James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a
respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother,
of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very
limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early
age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he
enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life,
chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his
discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he
proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In
1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with
the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have
been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."




OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.


    Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark
      Across the ocean drear,
    While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief,
      And wet wi' sorrow's tear.
    The flowers that spring upon the Clyde
      Will bloom for us in vain;
    Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb
      Our native hills again.

    Amang their glens our fathers sleep,
      Where mony a thistle waves;
    And roses fair and gowans meek
      Bloom owre their lowly graves.
    But we maun dree a sadder fate
      Far owre the stormy main;
    We lang may look, but never see
      Our native hills again.

    Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west,
      When starnies light the sky,
    We'll gather round the ingle's side,
      And sing o' days gane by;
    And sunny blinks o' joy will come
      To soothe us when alane,
    And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb
      Our native hills again.




HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

_Music by Alexander Hume._


    Sing not to me of sunny shores
      Or verdant climes where olives bloom,
    Where, still and calm, the river pours
      Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume;
    Give me the land where torrents flash,
      Where loud the angry cat'racts roar,
    As wildly on their course they dash--
      Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

    Sing not to me of sunny isles,
      Though there eternal summers reign,
    Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles,
      And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain;
    Give me the land of mountains steep,
      Where wild and free the eagles soar,
    The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep--
      Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

    Sing not to me of sunny lands,
      For there full often tyrants sway
    Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands,
      While crouching, trembling slaves obey;
    Give me the land unconquer'd still,
      Though often tried in days of yore,
    Where freedom reigns from plain to hill--
      Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.




THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.


    The happy days of yore!
      Will they ever come again,
    To shed a gleam of joy on us,
      And win the heart from pain?
    Or will they only come in dreams,
      When nicht's black curtain 's hung?
    Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind
      The days when we were young.

    Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power,
      Brings early scenes to view--
    Again we roam among the hills,
      Sae wat wi' morning dew--
    Again we climb the broomy knowes,
      And sing wi' prattlin' tongue,
    For we had nae cares to fash us
      In the days when we were young.

    How aft, when we were callants,
      Hae we sought the ocean's shore,
    And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats,
      And heard the billows roar?
    And aft amang the glancin' waves
      In daring sport we 've sprung,
    And swam till we were wearied,
      In the days when we were young.

    In winter, round the ingle side,
      We 've read wi' kindling e'e,
    How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold,
      Aft made the southrons flee;
    Or listen'd to some bonnie sang,
      By bonnie lassie sung:
    Oh! love and happiness were ours,
      In days when we were young.

    Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart
      That has nae sunny gleams
    Of by-gane joys in early days,
      Though it be but in dreams:
    Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms,
      Sae aft around him flung,
    To shield him safe frae earthly harms,
      In days when he was young:

    Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair,
      That toddled out and in,
    And ran about the braes wi' him,
      And play'd wi' meikle din;
    And his maun be a barren heart,
      Where love has never sprung,
    Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by
      The days when he was young.




LIZZIE FREW.


    'Twas a balmy summer gloamin',
      When the sun had gane to rest,
    And his gowden beams were glintin'
      Owre the hills far in the west;
    And upon the snawy gowan
      Saftly fell the pearly dew,
    When I met my heart's best treasure,
      Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.

    Light she tripp'd amang the bracken,
      While her glossy waving hair
    Play'd around her gentle bosom,
      Dancing in the summer air.
    Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie,
      Smiles play'd round her rosy mou',
    And my heart was led a captive
      By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.

    Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie,
      As I toil the lee-lang day;
    And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie,
      Gladly out wi' her I stray.
    I ask nae for a greater pleasure,
      Than to ken her heart is true--
    I ask nae for a greater treasure,
      Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.




COLIN RAE BROWN.


The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service,
Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821.
Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in
1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion
with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and
undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the
establishment in Glasgow of the _North British Daily Mail_, he accepted
an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper.
When the _Mail_ passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown
established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St
Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he
published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical
work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and
Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both
volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of
the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the _Bulletin_
and _Workman_, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in
Glasgow.




CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.


    Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea,
    Soon, he 'll set the country free
    From those that bear the rule and gree
      In bonnie Caledonia!

    Gentle breezes, softly blow,
    We burn until we meet the foe,
    And strike the bold decisive blow
      For king and Caledonia!

    Noble hearts are beating high,
    All will fight, none basely fly,
    For if they conquer not, they 'll die
      For ancient Caledonia!

    Oh, that Charlie were but here!
    The base usurper then might fear--
    As loud the din fell on his ear
      Of joy in Caledonia!

    Heard ye not that distant hum?
    And now the pipe, and now the drum,
    Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come
      To gladden Caledonia!

    Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here!
    Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear;
    Hielan' hearts be of good cheer,
      And on for Caledonia!




THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.


    Why gaze on that pale face,
      Childless one, childless one?
    Why seek this lonely place?
      She hath gone, she hath gone.

    Thy daughter is not here,
      Widow'd one, widow'd one--
    Nay, wipe away that tear,
      She hath won, she hath won!

    Her home is far away,
      She 's at rest, she 's at rest,
    In everlasting day,
      With the blest, with the blest.

    No pains, no sorrows there,
      All are past, all are past;
    That sigh summ'd up her care,
      'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

    'Tis not her there you see,
      Sister dear, sister dear;
    That earth holds nought for thee,
      Draw not near, draw not near.

    The place is cold and dark,
      Haste away, haste away;
    Corruption is at work--
      Soulless clay! soulless clay!

    The lamp hath ceased to burn,
      Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame;
    Let dust to dust return,
      Whence it came, whence it came.

    To thy chamber, sister dear;
      There to God, there to God,
    Bend humble and sincere,
      'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.

    Prayer heals the broken heart--
      He is kind, He is kind;
    Each bruised and bleeding part
      He will bind, He will bind.

    Weep not for her that 's gone--
      Time will fly, time will fly--
    Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one
      'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!




ROBERT LEIGHTON.


Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo
volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has
been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which
has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts,
being composed in his sixteenth year.




MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.


    There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are,
    There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far;
    But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock,
    While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

    Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht,
    Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht,
    Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock--
    I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.

    Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through,
    And when at the end I begin it anew;
    There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock,
    To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.

    There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame,
    There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame,
    Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock,
    And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.

    As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed,
    And better, say some, for they hinna to read;
    The lads and the lasses around me a' flock,
    And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.

    The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan',
    "Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en?
    Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?"
    But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.

    To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire,
    Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre,
    She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock,
    And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.

    Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang,
    And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang,
    Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke,
    For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.




JAMES HENDERSON.


A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d
November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny
and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow,
where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by
sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in
its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the
composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume,
entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much
commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to
India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited
Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently
returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an
East India merchant.




THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.


    Afar from the home where his youthful prime
      And his happy hours were pass'd,
    On the distant shore of a foreign clime
      The wanderer breathed his last.
    And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
      By the brooklet's glassy brim;
    And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
      And the dirge of its evening hymn.

    He left the land of his childhood fair,
      With hope in his glowing breast,
    With visions bright as the summer's light,
      And dreams by his fancy blest.
    But death look'd down with a chilling frown
      As he stood on that distant shore,
    And he leant his head on the stranger's bed,
      Till the last sad pang was o'er.

    Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look,
      O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung;
    And the words were cold as the wintry wold,
      That fell from each heedless tongue.
    Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye
      The solace of pity gave,
    While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last,
      To sleep in the silent grave.

    Afar from the home where his youthful prime
      And his happy hours were pass'd,
    On the distant shore of a foreign clime
      The wanderer breathed his last.
    And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
      By the brooklet's glassy brim;
    And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
      And the dirge of its evening hymn.




THE SONG OF TIME.


    I fleet along, and the empires fall,
      And the nations pass away,
    Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
      That die with the dawning day.
    The lordly tower, and the battled wall,
      The hall, and the holy fane,
    In ruin lie while I wander by,
      Nor rise from their wreck again.

    I light the rays of the orient blaze,
      The glow of the radiant noon;
    I wing my flight with the sapphire night,
      And glide with the gentle moon.
    O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse
      Where the proud bark bounds away;
    And I join the stars in their choral dance
      Round the golden orb of day.

    I fleet along, and the empires fall,
      And the nations pass away,
    Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
      That die with the dawning day.
    The sceptre sinks in the regal hall,
      And still'd is the monarch's tread,
    The mighty stoop as the meanest droop,
      And sleep with the nameless dead.




THE HIGHLAND HILLS.


    The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth,
    And joy, and love on the gladsome earth;
    For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled
    In the forest glade and the woodland wild.
    Then come with me from the haunts of men
    To the glassy lake in the mountain glen,
    Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills
    That chainless leap from the Highland hills.

    The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays
    Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze,
    When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow,
    While the fountains leap and the rivers flow,
    Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls
    Bid echo wake in the rocky halls,
    Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils
    A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.

    The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles
    On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles,
    We 'll clamber high where the heather waves
    By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves;
    And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime,"
    Of the days of old and of ancient time,
    And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills,
    Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.

    The Highland hills! in the twilight dim
    To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb,
    And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far,
    Till the beacon blaze of the evening star,
    And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams,
    Look down on the deep and the shining streams,
    Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills
    With joy and love in the Highland hills.




MY NATIVE LAND.


    Sublime is Scotia's mountain land,
      And beautiful and wild;
    By tyranny's unhallow'd hand
      Unsullied, undefiled.
    The free and fearless are her sons,
      The good and brave her sires;
    And, oh! her every spirit glows
      With freedom's festal fires!

    When dark oppression far and wide
      Its gory deluge spread,
    While nations, ere they pass'd away,
      For hope and vengeance bled,
    She from her rocky bulwarks high
      The banner'd eagle hurl'd,
    And trampled on triumphant Rome,
      The empress of the world.

    She gave the Danish wolf a grave
      Deep in her darkest glens,
    And chased the vaunting Norman hound
      Back to his lowland dens;
    And though the craven Saxon strove
      Her regal lord to be,
    Her hills were homes to nurse the brave,
      The fetterless, and free.

    Peace to the spirits of the dead,
      The noble, and the brave;
    Peace to the mighty who have bled
      Our Fatherland to save!
    We revel in the pure delight
      Of deeds achieved by them,
    To crown their worth and valour bright
      With glory's diadem.




JAMES MACLARDY.


The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on
the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was
a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty
rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world.
For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly
betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being
dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his
father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in
improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of
the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has
latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable
emolument.




THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.


    The sunny days are come, my love,
      The gowan 's on the lea,
    And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips,
      Invite the early bee;
    The scented winds are whisp'ring by,
      The lav'rock 's on the wing,
    The lintie on the dewy spray
      Gars glen and woodland ring.

    The sunny days are come, my love,
      The primrose decks the brae,
    The vi'let in its rainbow robe
      Bends to the noontide ray;
    The cuckoo in her trackless bower
      Has waken'd from her dream;
    The shadows o' the new-born leaves
      Are waving in the stream.

    The sunny days are come, my love,
      The swallow skims the lake,
    As o'er its glassy bosom clear
      The insect cloudlets shake.
    The heart of nature throbs with joy
      At love and beauty's sway;
    The meanest creeping thing of earth
      Shares in her ecstasy.

    Then come wi' me my bonny Bell,
      And rove Gleniffer o'er,
    And ye shall lend a brighter tint
      To sunshine and to flower;
    And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won
      A blessing or a wae--
    Awake a summer in my breast,
      Or bid hope's flowers decay.

    For spring may spread her mantle green,
      O'er mountain, dell, and lea,
    And summer burst in every hue
      Wi' smiles and melody,
    To me the sun were beamless, love,
      And scentless ilka flower,
    Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun,
      Its music and its bower.




OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.


    Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud
      That sleeps in the smile o' dawn;
    An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells
      That spangle the blossom'd lawn:
    An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart,
      That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea;
    But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice,
      That my love was nae for me.

    Oh, my love was gay as the summer time,
      When the earth is bricht an' gled,
    An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw,
      In their sparkling pearl-draps cled:
    An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen
      That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea;
    But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face,
      That my love was nae for me.

    Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower
      That waves by the moss-grown stane,
    An' her lips were rich as the rowans red
      That hang in forest lane;
    An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht,
      That struck ane dumb to see;
    But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named,
      That my love was nae for me.

    Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale
      That fans the temples o' toil,
    An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam'
      On her breath an' sunny smile:
    An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth,
      O' a mortal blemish free,
    While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy,
      That my love was nae for me.

    Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss
      Was reaming to the brim,
    When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower
      Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim,
    Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips
      Wi' a wild, unearthly glee;
    Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd,
      That my love was nae for me.

    Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl
      Held her fast in his cauld embrace,
    An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou',
      An' the blush frae her peachy face:
    He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat,
      An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e;
    But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower,
      For my love was nae for me.

    Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart,
      An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame;
    Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht,
      Wi' the cauld warld for my hame.
    Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay,
      My wealth my aumous fee;
    Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl,
      For this warld is nae for me.




ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.


The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew
James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His
father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed
descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of
his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered
the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin
manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along
with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848
the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it
continues to be prosperously carried on.

Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has
cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He
has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of
"Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order;
it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the
author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume
entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for
circulation among his friends.




DAY DREAM.


    Close by the marge of Leman's lake,
      Upon a thymy plot,
    In blissful rev'rie, half awake,
      Earth's follies all forgot,
    I conjured up a faery isle
      Where sorrow enter'd not,
    Withouten shade of sin or guile--
      A lovely Eden spot.

    With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade,
      And leaves of tender green,
    All trembling in the light and shade,
      As sunbeams glanced between:
    The mossy turf, bespangled gay
      With fragrant flowery sheen--
    Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May--
      The fairest ever seen.

    Near where a crystal river ran
      Into the rich, warm light,
    A domèd palace fair began
      To rise in marble white.
    'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet,
      With mirrors dazzling bright--
    With antique vase and statuette,
      A palace of delight.

    And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress,
      With circlet on her hair,
    Appear'd in all her loveliness,
      Like angel standing there.
    She struck the cithern in her hand,
      And sang with 'witching air
    Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?"
      To music wild and rare.

    It died away--the palace changed,
      Dream-like, into a bower!
    Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged,
      Secure from hunter's power.
    Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground,
      With daisy, starry flower,
    While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round
      The rose-twined faery bower.

    Therein "Undine," lovely sprite!
      Sat gazing on sunrise,
    And sang of "morning, clear and bright"--
      The tears came in her eyes:
    She look'd upon the lovely isle,
      And now up to the skies,
    Then in a silv'ry misty veil
      She vanish'd from mine eyes.

    A music, as of forest trees
      Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway,
    Rose swelling--dying in the breeze,
      A strange, wild lullaby.
    The islet with its flowery turf
      Then waxèd dim and gray;
    I look'd--no islet gemm'd the surf--
      The dream had fled away.




FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.


    Fair as a star of light,
    Like diamond gleaming bright,
    Through darkness of the night,
      Is my love to me.
    As bell of lily white,
    In streamlet mirror'd bright,
    All quiv'ring with delight,
      Is my love to me--
        My love to me.

    A flowing magic thrill
    Which floodeth heart and will
    With gushes musical,
      Is my love to me.
    Bright as the trancèd dream,
    Which flitteth in a gleam,
    Before morn's golden beam,
      Is my love to me--
        My love to me.

    Like living crystal well,
    In cool and shady dell,
    Unto the parch'd gazelle,
      Is my love to me.
    And dearer than things fair,
    However rich and rare,
    In earth, or sea, or air,
      Is my love to me--
        My love to me.




NATURE MUSICAL.


    There is music in the storm, love,
      When the tempest rages high;
    It whispers in the summer breeze
      A soft, sweet lullaby.
    There is music in the night,
      When the joyous nightingale,
    Clear warbling, filleth with his song
      The hillside and the vale.
        Then sing, sing, sing,
        For music breathes in everything.

    There is music by the shore, love,
      When foaming billows dash;
    It echoes in the thunder peal,
      When vivid lightnings flash.
    There is music by the shore,
      In the stilly noon of night,
    When the murmurs of the ocean fade
      In the clear moonlight.

    There is music in the soul, love,
      When it hears the gushing swell,
    Which, like a dream intensely soft,
      Peals from the lily-bell.
    There is music--music deep
      In the soul that looks on high,
    When myriad sparkling stars sing out
      Their pure sphere harmony.

    There is music in the glance, love,
      Which speaketh from the heart,
    Of a sympathy in souls
      That never more would part.
    There is music in the note
      Of the cooing turtle-dove;
    There is music in the voice
      Of dear ones whom we love.

    There is music everywhere, love,
      To the pure of spirit given;
    And sweetest music heard on earth
      But whispers that of heaven.
    Oh, all is music there--
      'Tis the language of the sky--
    Sweet hallelujahs there resound
      Eternal harmony.
        Then sing, sing, sing,
        For music breathes in everything.




ISABELLA CRAIG.


Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to
reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the
_Scotsman_ newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In
1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a
duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the
periodicals.




OUR HELEN.


    Is our Helen very fair?
      If you only knew her
    You would doubt it not, howe'er
      Stranger eyes may view her.
    We who see her day by day
      Through our household moving,
    Whether she be fair or nay
      Cannot see for loving.

    O'er our gentle Helen's face
      No rich hues are bright'ning,
    And no smiles of feignèd grace
      From her lips are light'ning;
    She hath quiet, smiling eyes,
      Fair hair simply braided,
    All as mild as evening skies
      Ere sunlight hath faded.

    Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves
      Our approving praises,
    But her eye that never roves
      Shrinks from other gazes.
    She, so late within her home
      But a child caressing,
    Now a woman hath become,
      Ministering, blessing.

    All her duty, all her bliss,
      In her home she findeth,
    Nor too narrow deemeth this--
      Lowly things she mindeth;
    Yet when deeper cares distress,
      She is our adviser;
    Reason's rules she needeth less,
      For her heart is wiser.

    For the sorrows of the poor
      Her kind spirit bleedeth,
    And, because so good and pure,
      For the erring pleadeth.
    Is our Helen very fair?
      If you only knew her
    You would doubt it not, howe'er
      Stranger eyes may view her.




GOING OUT AND COMING IN.


    In that home was joy and sorrow
      Where an infant first drew breath,
    While an aged sire was drawing
      Near unto the gate of death.
    His feeble pulse was failing,
      And his eye was growing dim;
    He was standing on the threshold
      When they brought the babe to him.

    While to murmur forth a blessing
      On the little one he tried,
    In his trembling arms he raised it,
      Press'd it to his lips and died.
    An awful darkness resteth
      On the path they both begin,
    Who thus met upon the threshold,
      Going out and coming in.

    Going out unto the triumph,
      Coming in unto the fight--
    Coming in unto the darkness,
      Going out unto the light;
    Although the shadow deepen'd
      In the moment of eclipse,
    When he pass'd through the dread portal
      With the blessing on his lips.

    And to him who bravely conquers,
      As he conquer'd in the strife,
    Life is but the way of dying--
      Death is but the gate of life;
    Yet awful darkness resteth
      On the path we all begin,
    Where we meet upon the threshold,
      Going out and coming in.




MY MARY AN' ME.


    We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd,
    We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd;
    When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie,
    We promised to wait for each ither a wee.

    My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed,
    An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed,
    He charged me a husband and father to be,
    While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.

    I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine,
    Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine,
    Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me,
    "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."

    An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care,
    But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear,
    She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong,
    'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.

    Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now,
    Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow,
    A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see,
    They tell me how lang she has waited on me.

    Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil,
    Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile;
    She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee,
    She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.




A SONG OF SUMMER.


    I will sing a song of summer,
      Of bright summer as it dwells,
    Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine,
      In lone haunts and grassy dells.
    Lo! the hill encircled valley
      Is like an emerald cup,
    To its inmost depths all glowing,
      With sunlight brimming up.
    Here I 'd dream away the day time,
      And let happy thoughts have birth,
    And forget there 's aught but glory,
      Aught but beauty on the earth.

    Not a speck of cloud is floating
      In the deep blue overhead,
    'Neath the trees the daisied verdure
      Like a broider'd couch is spread.
    The rustling leaves are dancing
      With the light wind's music stirr'd,
    And in gushes through the stillness
      Comes the song of woodland bird.
    Here I 'd dream away the day-time,
      And let gentlest thoughts have birth,
    And forget there 's aught but gladness,
      Aught but peace upon the earth.




ROBERT DUTHIE.


The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven
on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary
education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father,
who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school
in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed
his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the
younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature
and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and
some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended
reputation.




SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.


    I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves,
      And the tempest around me is swelling;
    The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves,
      And the waves from their rocky dwelling;
          But my trim-built bark
          O'er the waters dark
          Bounds lightly along,
    And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.
    Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave
    In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!

    I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep,
      And the storm-bird above me is screaming;
    While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep
      The lightning is fearfully gleaming;
          But onward I dash,
          For the fitful flash
          Illumes me along,
    And the thunders chorus my echoing song.
    Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave
    The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!

    I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot
      Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me;
    But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field
      Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me;
          Then I, a true child
          Of the ocean wild,
          With a tuneful tongue
    Bear away with my prize and my conquering song.
    Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave--
    I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!

    I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home--
      The home of the hurrying billow;
    But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam,
      But in peace lay me down on its pillow:
          The petrel will scream
          My requiem hymn,
          And the thunders prolong
    The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song,
    As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave
    That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.




BOATMAN'S SONG.


    Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea,
    The home of the rover, the bold and free;
    Land hath its charms, but those be mine,
    To row my boat through the sparkling brine--
    To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow
    Of the bounding thing as we onward go--
    To nerve the arm and bend the oar,
    Bearing away from the vacant shore.
      Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea--
      'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
      Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine:
      Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.

    Gloomily creeping the mists appear
    In denser shade on the mountains drear;
    And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep,
    By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep;
    Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest,
    To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast;
    But all is still, save the lisping waves
    Washing the shells in the distant caves.
      Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea--
      'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me--
      'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!
      Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.

    Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar,
    And I love the splash of the bending oar,
    Playing amid the phosphoric fire,
    Seen as the eddying sparks retire.
    'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam
    Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam.
    The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more;
    Then away let us row from the vacant shore.
      Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea--
      'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
      'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free:
      Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.




LISETTE.


    When we meet again, Lisette,
      Let the sun be sunk to rest
    Beneath the glowing wavelets
      Of the widely spreading west;
    Let half the world be hush'd
      In the drowsiness of sleep,
    And howlets scream the music
      Of the revels that they keep.

    Let the gentle lady-moon,
      With her coldly drooping beams,
    Be dancing in the ripple
      Of the ever-laughing streams,
    Where the little elves disport
      In the stilly noon of night,
    And lave their limbs of ether
      In the mellow flood of light.

    When we meet again, Lisette,
      Let it be in yonder pile,
    Beneath the massy fretting
      Of its darkly-shaded aisle,
    Where, through the crumbling arches
      The quaint old carvings loom,
    And saint and seraph keep their watch
      O'er many an ancient tomb.




ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.


Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish
of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been
killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought
up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his
boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as
a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor,
with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he
early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals.
At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among
the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on
the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled _The Rural
Echo_, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own
compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide
circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly
turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been
ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from
his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no
inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He
has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant
civil engineer.




THINGS MUST MEND.


    The gloom of dark despondency
      At times will cloud the breast;
    Hope's eagle eye may shaded be,
      'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd;
    But while we nurse an honest aim
      We shall not break nor bend,
    For when things are at the worst
      They must mend.

    The gentle heart by hardship crush'd
      Will sing amid its tears,
    And though its voice awhile be hush'd,
      'Tis tuned for coming years;
    A light from out the future shines
      With hope's tear-drops to blend,
    And when things are at the worst
      They must mend.

    Amid life's danger and despair
      Still let our deeds be true,
    For nought but what is right and fair
      Can heal our hopeless view.
    The beautiful will soothe us, like
      The sunshine of a friend,
    And when things are at the worst
      They must mend.

    Oh, never leave life's morning dream,
      'Tis whisper'd down from heaven,
    But trace its maze, though sorrow seem
      The sole reward that 's given;
    The joy is there, or not on earth,
      Which with our souls may blend,
    And when things are at the worst
      They must mend.




THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR.


    Life's pleasure seems sadness and care,
      When dark is the bosom that feels,
    Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair
      Is the ray which our sorrow reveals;
    Though darkly at times flows the stream,
      It rows till its waters are clear--
    And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream
      Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

    Afar in the wilderness blooms
      The flower that spreads beauty around,
    And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs
      And softens with balm every wound.
    Oh, call not our life sad nor vain,
      Wi' its joys that can ever endear,
    There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain,
      Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

    Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe
      And fair is the lone desert isle;
    Young Flora peeps gay from the snow;
      And dearest in grief is a smile;
    The dew-drop is bright with a star;
      Age glows when young memories appear;
    But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far
      Is the wee blink that shines in a tear.




FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.


    Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved,
      When my wild heart was careless and free,
    But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved,
      Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.
    Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves,
      Like songs of the dear olden time;
    Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves,
      Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

    Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast
      Of the home and the friends that were mine,
    In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest,
      Nor deem'd it should ever repine.
    I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been,
      And the spell brings the dear olden time
    When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green,
      Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

    Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see,
      I treasure a life all my own,
    And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee,
      For like thine half its beauty hath flown.
    I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again,
      And snatch back the dear olden time,
    When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain,
      Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!




JAMES MACFARLAN.


A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree
unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in
Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of
a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his
wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in
Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an
intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more
methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of
poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest
encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications
of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and
"The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical _brochure_, entitled, "The
Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.

Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the
Glasgow Athenæum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with
the _Bulletin_, a daily journal published in Glasgow.




ISABELLE.


    Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
      Oh, beautiful and bright!
    Thy voice is music of the heart--
      Thy looks are rarest light!
    What time the silver dawn of dreams
      Lights up the dark of sleep,
    As yon pale moon lights up the heaven
      With beauty clear and deep,
    I see thee in the ebbing stars,
      I hear quaint voices swell,
    And dim and phantom winds that come
      And whisper, Isabelle.

    Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
      Oh, beautiful and bright!
    Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart,
      Like rich star-crowded night.
    As moonbeams silver on the wave
      Of some night-sadden'd river,
    So on my lonesome life thy love
      Would lie in light for ever.
    Yet wander on--oh, wander on,
      Cold river, to the sea,
    And, weary life, _thy_ ocean gain--
      Undream'd eternity.

    In vain the cruel curse of earth
      Hath torn our lives apart;
    The man-made barriers of gold
      Weigh down the humble heart.
    Oh, hadst thou been a village maid--
      A simple wayside flower--
    With nought to boast, save honest worth,
      And beauty all thy dower!
    Such might have been--such _should_ have been,
      But other lot befell;
    I am the lowly son of toil,
      And thou proud Isabelle.

    It ever seems to me that love
      Should level all degrees;
    Pure honour, and a stainless heart
      Are Nature's heraldries.
    No scutcheon needs a noble soul
      (Alas! how thinks the age?);
    He is not poor who freedom hath
      For his broad heritage.
    Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil;
      Vain dreams of youth, farewell;
    The future hath its duty's prize--
      The past, its Isabelle.




HOUSEHOLD GODS.


    Built on Time's uneven sand,
      Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd;
    Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's hand
      Torn in wandering leaves are scatter'd.
    Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd,
    Old affections fondly cherish'd.

    All our blossoms wither soon,
      While we dream the flower will strengthen,
    And across life's summer noon
      Death's dark shadow seems to lengthen.
    In that mighty shadow perish'd
    All we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.

    Dear ones loved are lost in night;
      O'er the world we wander lonely,
    And the heart of all youth's light
      Holds one fading sunbeam only.
    Old affections vainly cherish'd,
    All except the memory perish'd.




POOR COMPANIONS.


    Look up, old friend! why hang thy head?
      The world is all before us.
    Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet,
      Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us.
    Spring leans to us across the sea
      With affluent caressing,
    And autumn yet shall crown our toil
      With many a fruitful blessing.
    Then why should we despair in spring,
      Who braved out wintry weather?
    Let monarchs rule, but we shall sing
      And journey on together.

    You mourn that we are born so poor--
      I would not change our treasure
    For all the thorn-concealing flowers
      That strew the path of pleasure.
    God only searches for the soul,
      Nor heeds the outward building;
    Believe me, friend, a noble heart
      Requires no aid of gilding.
    Then never let us pine in spring,
      We 've braved out wintry weather,
    We yet may touch a sweeter string
      When toiling on together.

    What though our blood be tinged with mud,
      My lord's is simply purer;
    'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make
      His seat in heaven surer.
    But should the noble deign to speak,
      We 'll hail him as a brother,
    And trace respective pedigrees
      To Eve, our common mother.
    Then why should we despair in spring,
      Who braved out wintry weather?
    Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing,
      And journey on together.




WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.


A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the
youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse,
near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh
year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh,
where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the
governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh.
During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary
ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was
seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and
occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of
suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead,
on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.

Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the
age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in
his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he
retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in
childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the
various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and
Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern
languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the
Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with
Christian resignation.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See "Minstrel," vol. iv. p. 1.




LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]


    No more by thy margin, dark Carron,
      Shall Wallace in solitude, wander,
    When tranquil the moon shines afar on
      Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.
        For lost are to me
          Thy beauties for ever,
        Since fallen in thee
        Lie the faithful and free,
          To waken, ah, never!

    And I, thus defeated, must suffer
      My country's reproach; yet, forsaken,
    A home to me nature may offer
      Among her green forests of braken.
        But home who can find
          For heart-rending sorrow?
        The wound who can bind
        When thus pierced is the mind
          By fate's ruthless arrow?

    'Tis death that alone ever frees us
      Of woes too profound to be spoken,
    And nought but the grave ever eases
      The pangs of a heart that is broken.
        Then, oh! that my blood
          In Carron's dark water
        Had mix'd with the flood
        Of the warriors' shed
          'Mid torrents of slaughter.

    For woe to the day when desponding
      I read in thine aspect the story
    Of those that were slain when defending
      Their homes and their mountains of glory.
        And curst be the guile
          Of treacherous knavery
        That throws o'er our isle
        In its tyranny vile
          The mantle of slavery.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.




OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]


    Oh! what is in this flaunting town
      That pleasure can impart,
    When native hills and native glens
      Are imaged on the heart,
    And fancy hears the ceaseless roar
      Of cataracts sublime,
    Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er
      The awful works of time?

    What, what is all the city din?
      What all the bustling crowd
    That throngs these ways from morn to night
      Array'd in trappings proud?
    While fancy's eye still sees the scenes
      Around my mountain home,
    Oh! what 's to me yon turret high.
      And what yon splendid dome?

    Ah! what except a mockery vain
      Of nature free as fair,
    That dazzles rather than delights
      The eye that meets its glare?
    Then bear me to the heathy hills
      Where I so loved to stray,
    There let me rove with footsteps free
      And sing the rural lay.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Composed at the age of fifteen.




MARGARET CRAWFORD.


The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry,
Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in
the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of
attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training
to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an
operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was
while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her
thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the
beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father
served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the
situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her
parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of
Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years
been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in
an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the
preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the
banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies
of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough
realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's
cottage, at the hours of the _gloamin'_, when, after the bustle of the
day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by
the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till
she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and
assumed the form in which they now appear."




MY NATIVE LAND.


    My native land! my native land!
    Where liberty shall firmly stand,
    Where men are brave in heart and hand,
      In ancient Caledonia!
    How dear to me those gurgling rills
    That wander free amang the hills!
    How sweet to me the sang that fills
      The groves o' Caledonia!

    They tell me o' a distant isle
    Where summer suns for ever smile;
    But frae my heart they 'll never wile
      My love for Caledonia!
    And what are a' their flowery plains,
    If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains?
    Nae foot o' slavery ever stains
      My native Caledonia!

    Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays
    O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes,
    Oh, let me spend my latest days
      In ancient Caledonia!
    My native land! my native land!
    Where liberty shall firmly stand,
    Where men are brave in heart and hand--
      True sons of Caledonia!




THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.


    Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness--
      Far from my dear native country I roam;
    Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness
      That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.

    Far from the home of my childhood I wander,
      Far from the friends I may never meet more;
    Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder--
      Visions that memory alone can restore.

    Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever--
      Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart;
    Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever,
      Affection and friendship can never depart.

    Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness--
      Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain!
    Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness?
      When shall I visit my country again?




THE STREAM OF LIFE.


    Down by a crystal stream
      Musing I stray'd,
    As 'neath the summer beam
      Lightly it play'd,
    Winding by field and fen,
    Mountain and meadow, then
    Stealing through wood and glen,
      Soft'ning the shade.

    Thus, then, methought, is life;
      Onward it flows--
    Now mingling peace with strife,
      Toil with repose--
    Now sparkling joyously
    Under the glare of day,
    Drinking each sunny ray,
      Purely it flows.

    Now gliding peacefully,
      Calm and serene,
    Smoothly it takes its way,
      Softly I ween
    Murmur its waters past--
    Oh, will that stillness last?
    See, rocks are nearing fast,
      Changing the scene.

    Wildly it dashes now,
      Loudly it roars,
    Over the craggy brow
      Fiercely it pours.
    All in commotion lost,
    Wave over wave is toss'd;
    Spray, white as winter's frost,
      Up from it soars.

    Yet where the conflict 's worst
      Brightest it gleams;
    Rays long in silence nursed
      Shoot forth in streams:
    Beauties before unknown
    Out from its breast are thrown;
    Light, like a golden zone,
      Brilliantly beams.

    Thus in the Christian's breast
      Pure faith may lie,
    Hid in the day of rest
      Deep from the eye;
    But when life's shadows lower
    Faith lights the darkest hour,
    Driving, by heavenly power,
      Gloom from the sky.




DAY-DREAMS OF OTHER YEARS.


    There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years,
    And time long, long departed, like the present still appears;
    And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours,
    When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.

    O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight!
    Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright;
    They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace,
    Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.

    Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms,
    All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms--
    Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth,
    When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.

    Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still--
    Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill;
    Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land--
    Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!

    Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow,
    And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now;
    We are tasting life in earnest--all its vain illusions gone--
    And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.

    Some are sleeping with their kindred--summer blossoms o'er them wave;
    Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave;
    While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore,
    And that happy, loving company shall meet--ah! never more.

    But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot,
    The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot;
    And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days--
    Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays.

    Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth,
    May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth--
    Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom;
    But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.




AFFECTION'S FAITH.


    Away on the breast of the ocean,
      Far away o'er the billowy brine,
    'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion,
      Where the storm and the tempest combine,
    Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary;
      While Hope, with her heavenly smile,
    Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary,
      And points me to blessings the while.

    Of the far-hidden future still dreaming,
      On the wild wings of fancy I fly,
    And the star of affection, bright beaming,
      Is piercing the gloom of our sky;
    And my home is away o'er the ocean,
      Afar o'er the wide swelling sea,
    Where a heart, in its purest devotion,
      Is breathing fond blessings on me.




GEORGE DONALD, JUN.

George Donald the younger was born on the 1st of March 1826, at
Thornliebank, near Glasgow. His father, George Donald the elder, is
noticed in an earlier part of the present volume. Sent to labour in a
calico print-work in his tenth year, his education was chiefly obtained
at evening schools, and afterwards by self-application during the
intervals of toil. In his seventeenth year he became apprenticed to a
pattern-designer, and having fulfilled his indenture, he has since
prosecuted this occupation. From his youth a writer of verses, he has
contributed poetical compositions to the Glasgow _Examiner_ and
_Citizen_ newspapers.




OUR AIN GREEN SHAW.

    They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear,
      Whar rivers row ower gowden sands, and flower unfading blaw,
    But, oh! nae joys o' nature to me are half sae dear
      As the flow'rets springing wild in our ain green shaw.

    They speak o' gilded palaces, o' lords and leddies fair,
      And scenes that charm the weary heart in cities far awa';
    But nane o' a' their gaudy shows and pleasures can compare
      Wi' the happiness that dwells in our ain green shaw.

    Oh weel I lo'e when summer comes wi' sunny days an' glee,
      And brings to gladden ilka heart her rural pleasures a',
    When on the thorn the mavis sings and gowans deck the lea,--
      Oh, then nae spot 's sae bonnie as our ain green shaw.

    While Heaven supplies each simple want and leaves me still my cot,
      I'll bear through life a cheerfu' heart whatever may befa',
    Nor envy ither's joys, but aye be happy wi' my lot
      When wand'ring in the e'enin' through our ain green shaw.




ELIZA.


    In her chamber, vigil keeping,
    Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,
        Weeping for her lover slain:
    Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,
    Once a joyous-hearted maiden
        Till her William cross'd the main.

    Fatal day that saw them parted!
    For it left her lonely-hearted--
        Her so full of joy before--
    Brought to her the thought of sadness,
    Clouding her young spirit's gladness,
        That she ne'er might see him more!

    Sad Eliza, no blest morrow
    Will dispel thy secret sorrow,
        Bring thine own true love again.
    Mournful is thy William's story:
    On the field of martial glory,
        Fighting bravely, he was slain!

    Now the silent stars above her
    Seem to tell her of her lover,
        For each night, with pensive gaze
    On the blue vault shining o'er her,
    Sits Eliza, while before her
        Fleet the scenes of other days.

    Thus her lonely vigil keeping,
    Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,
        Weeping for her lover slain:
    Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,
    Once a joyous-hearted maiden
        Till her William cross'd the main.




JOHN JEFFREY.


The author of "Lays of the Revolutions," John Jeffrey, was born on the
29th March 1822, at the manse of Girthon, in the stewartry of
Kirkcudbright. His maternal granduncle was the celebrated Dr Thomas
Brown of Edinburgh. From his father, who was parish minister of Girthon,
and a man of accomplished learning, he received an education sufficient
to qualify him for entering, in 1836, the University of Edinburgh. In
1844 he became a licentiate of the Free Church, and after declining
several calls, accepted, in 1846, the charge of the Free Church
congregation at Douglas, Lanarkshire. Mr Jeffrey was early devoted to
poetical studies. In his eighteenth year he printed, for private
circulation, a small volume of poems, entitled "Hymns of a Neophyte." In
1849 appeared his "Lays of the Revolutions," a work which, vindicating
in powerful verse the cause of oppressed European nationalities, was
received with much favour by the public. To several of the leading
periodicals Mr Jeffrey has contributed spirited articles in support of
liberal politics. A pamphlet from his pen, on the decay of traditional
influence in Parliament, entitled "The Fall of the Great Factions," has
obtained considerable circulation. More recently he has devoted himself
to the study of the modern languages, and to inquiries in ethnological
science.




WAR-CRY OF THE ROMAN INSURRECTIONISTS.


    Rise, Romans, rise at last,
    Craft's kingdom now is past;
        Brook no delay!
    Lombard blades long ago,
    Swifter than whirlwinds blow,
    Swept from Milan the foe:
        Why should we stay?

    Rise, then, for fatherland;
    In rock-like phalanx stand,
        Cowards no more.
    Rise in colossal might,
    Rise till the storm of fight
    Wrap us in lurid light
        Where cannons roar!

    In this great dawn of time,
    In this great death of crime,
        Quit us like men;
    By our deeds, by our words,
    By our songs, by our swords--
    Use all against the hordes,
        Sabre or pen!

    More than fame, duty calls,
    Trumpet-tongued from the walls
        Girding great Rome;
    Battle for truth and faith,
    Battle lest hostile scathe
    Crush us, or fetters swathe
        Free hearth and home!

    Hark! how God's thunders roll,
    Booming from pole to pole
        Of the wide world!
    "Old lies are crush'd for aye,
    Now truths assume their sway,
    Bright shines the flag of day
        O'er night unfurl'd!"

    Tower, then, the barricades!
    Flash forth the lightning blades!
        Romans, awake!
    Storm as the tempests burst,
    Down with the brood accursed!
    Sparks long in silence nursed
        Etna-like break;
    And that volcano's thirst
        Seas cannot slake!




PATRICK SCOTT.


The author of several meritorious poetical works, Patrick Scott was born
at Macao in China, but is eminently of Scottish descent. His father,
Helenus Scott, M.D., a cadet of the ducal house of Buccleuch, was a
distinguished member of the Medical Board of Bombay, of which he was
some time president. Receiving an elementary education at the
Charterhouse, London, the subject of this notice entered, in his
sixteenth year, the East India College at Haileybury. At the age of
eighteen he proceeded to India, to occupy a civil appointment at Bombay.
In 1845, after eleven years' service, he returned to Britain in impaired
health, and he has since resided chiefly in London.

Mr Scott first appeared as an author in 1851, by the publication of
"Lelio, and other Poems," a volume which was received with warm
encomiums by the press. In 1853, he published "Love in the Moon: a
Poem," which was followed in the same year by "Thomas á Becket, and
other Poems." His latest poetical publication appeared in 1854, under
the title of "A Poet's Children."




THE EXILE.


    With drooping heart he turn'd away
      To seek a distant clime,
    Where friends were kind, and life was gay,
      In early boyhood's time.
    And still with years and seas between,
      To one fond hope he clung--
    To see once more, as he had seen,
      The home he loved when young.

    His youthful brow was touch'd with thought,
      And life had lost its morn,
    When glad again the wanderer sought
      The soil where he was born.
    Alas! that long expected shore
      Denied the wonted joy,
    And the man felt not, as of yore
      Had felt the happier boy.

    For formal friends scarce grasp'd his hand--
      The friends he knew of old;
    What cared he for a sunny land,
      If human hearts were cold?
    Again he cast his alter'd lot
      'Mid alien tribes to roam;
    And fail'd to find another spot
      So foreign as his home.

    His heavy grief no bosom shared,
      No eye would weep his fall;
    What matter if _his_ life were spared,
      Who lived unloved by all!
    And when had ceased his earthly toil
      Upon that distant shore,
    His bones were gather'd to the soil--
      His heart had died before.




JOHN BATHURST DICKSON.


An able theologian and accomplished writer of verses, John Bathurst
Dickson was born on the 25th December 1823, in the town of Kelso,
Roxburghshire. His father was a respectable writer or attorney in that
place. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, and passed through
a theological curriculum at the New College of that city, he became, in
1851, a licentiate of the Free Church. In June 1852, he was ordained to
the ministerial charge of the Free High Church, Paisley.

During the period of his attendance at college, Mr Dickson was an
extensive contributor to _Tait's Magazine_, and different religious
periodicals. In 1855, he published "Theodoxia; or, Glory to God an
Evidence for the Truth of Christianity;" and in 1857 appeared from his
pen "The Temple Lamp," a periodical publication. He has written verses
on a variety of topics. His song, "The American Flag," has been widely
published in the United States.




THE AMERICAN FLAG.


    Float forth, thou flag of the free;
    Flash far over land and sea,
    Proud ensign of Liberty--
             Hail, hail to thee!

    The blue of the heavens is thine,
    The stars on thy canvas shine;
    Thy heraldry tells thee divine--
             Hail, hail to thee!

    Thy white proclaims thee unstain'd,
    Thy crimson thy love unfeign'd
    To man, by despots enchain'd--
             Hail, hail to thee!

    Under thy God-given light
    Our fathers went forth to fight
    'Gainst sceptred wrong for the right--
             Hail, hail to thee!

    The Lion of England no more
    'Gainst thy proud Eagle shall roar:
    Peace strideth from shore to shore--
             Hail, hail to thee!

    Float forth, thou flag of the free--
    Flash far over land and sea,
    Till the world shout, Liberty--
             Hail, hail to thee!




EVAN M'COLL.


A writer both of English and Gaelic songs, Evan M'Coll was born in 1808,
at Kenmore, Lochfineside, Argyllshire. His father, Dugald M'Coll,
followed an industrial occupation, but contrived to afford his son a
somewhat liberal education. The leisure hours of the youthful poet were
ardently devoted to literary culture. In 1837, he became a contributor
of Gaelic poetry to a Glasgow periodical, and his compositions began to
excite an interest in the Highlands. Two influential Highland gentlemen
secured him an appointment in the Customs at Liverpool. He subsequently
emigrated to America, and is now resident at Kingston.

Besides many fugitive pieces, Mr M'Coll has published a volume of
lyrics, entitled "The Mountain Minstrel," and a volume of Gaelic poetry.
A specimen of his Gaelic minstrelsy will be found among the translations
at the end of the present volume.




THE HILLS OF THE HEATHER.


    Give the swains of Italia
      'Mong myrtles to rove,
    Give the proud, sullen Spaniard
      His bright orange grove;
    Give gold-sanded streams
      To the sons of Chili,
    But, oh! give the hills
      Of the heather to me.

    The hills where the hunter
      Oft soundeth his horn,
    Where sweetest the skylark
      Awakens the morn;
    The gray cliff, the blue lake,
      The stream's dashing glee,
    Endear the red hills
      Of the heather to me.

    There Health, rosy virgin,
      For ever doth dwell;
    There Love fondly whispers
      To Beauty his tale;
    There Freedom's own darling!
      The Gael, lives free,
    Then, oh! give the hills
      Of the heather to me.




JAMES D. BURNS.


One of the most interesting sacred poets of the present age, James D.
Burns, was born at Edinburgh on the 18th February 1823. A pupil of
Heriot's Hospital, he became a student in the University of Edinburgh,
where he took the degree of Master of Arts, and completed, with marked
distinction, a course of theology. Receiving license as a probationer of
the Free Church, he was in 1845 ordained to the ministry at Dunblane.
Having resigned his charge from bad health in 1848, he proceeded to
Madeira, where he undertook the pastoral superintendence of a
Presbyterian congregation. He subsequently travelled in Spain and Italy.
In 1854 he published "The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems," a
collection of his poetical compositions, of which the greater number are
of a scriptural or sacred character. Mr Burns is now minister of a
Presbyterian church at Hampstead, Middlesex.




RISE, LITTLE STAR!


        Rise, little star!
      O'er the dusky hill,--
    See the bright course open
      Thou hast to fulfil.

        Climb, little star!
      Higher still and higher.
    With a silent swiftness
      And a pulse of fire.

        Stand, little star!
      On the peak of heaven;
    But for one brief moment
      Is the triumph given.

        Sink, little star!
      Yet make heaven bright,
    Even while thou art sinking,
      With thy gentle light.

        Set, little star!
      Gladly fade and die,
    With the blush of morning
      Coming up the sky.

        Each little star
      Crieth, Life, O man!
    Should have one clear purpose
      Shining round its span.




THOUGH LONG THE WANDERER MAY DEPART.


    Though long the wanderer may depart,
      And far his footsteps roam,
    He clasps the closer to his heart
      The image of his home.
    To that loved land, where'er he goes,
      His tend'rest thoughts are cast,
    And dearer still through absence grows
      The memory of the past.

    Though nature on another shore
      Her softest smile may wear,
    The vales, the hills, he loved before
      To him are far more fair.
    The heavens that met his childhood's eye,
      All clouded though they be,
    Seem brighter than the sunniest sky
      Of climes beyond the sea.

    So Faith, a stranger on the earth,
      Still turns its eye above;
    The child of an immortal birth
      Seeks more than mortal love.
    The scenes of earth, though very fair,
      Want home's endearing spell;
    And all his heart and hope are where
      His God and Saviour dwell.

    He may behold them dimly here,
      And see them as not nigh,
    But all he loves will yet appear
      Unclouded to his eye.
    To that fair city, now so far,
      Rejoicing he will come,
    A better light than Bethlehem's star
      Guides every wanderer home.




GEORGE HENDERSON.


George Henderson was born on the 5th May 1800, in the parish of Bunkle
and county of Berwick. With a rudimentary education obtained at
different schools, he entered, in his nineteenth year, the University of
Edinburgh. After the close of his second session, he temporarily
abandoned literary pursuits. Resolving to adopt the medical profession,
he subsequently resumed attendance at the University. In 1829 he
obtained his diploma from the Royal College of Surgeons. He has since
engaged in medical practice in the village of Chirnside, Berwickshire.

By the cultivation of polite literature, Mr Henderson has experienced
relaxation from the active duties of his profession. In 1856 he
published a volume of curious researches, entitled "The Popular Rhymes,
&c., of the County of Berwick." He is understood to be preparing for the
press a volume of his poetical compositions, to be entitled "Lays and
Legends of the Merse."




I CANNA LEAVE MY NATIVE LAND.


    I canna leave my native land,
      I canna sail the sea;
    The trees around my cottage stand,
      The gowans deck the lea;
    The primrose blooms beside the burn,
      The wild flower on the brae;
    To leave them a' my heart wad mourn,
      I canna gang away.

    The dew-draps gem the clover leaves,
      The laverock sings aboon,
    The blae-berry bush wi' spring revives,
      And it will blossom soon;
    I canna leave the bonnie brae
      Where waves the new-sprung fern,
    Where oft I 've pass'd the summer's day,
      And look'd upon the burn.

    I canna leave the green-croft well,
      Its waters cool and clear,
    For oft its pleasant murmurs dwell
      Like music in mine ear;
    The elder bush, the garden bower,
      Where robin sings sae sweet,
    The auld gray dike, the bee-house tower,
      The cosie garden seat.




HORATIUS BONAR, D.D.


One of the most esteemed of living Scottish theological writers,
Horatius Bonar, is likewise favourably known as a sacred lyric poet. He
is a native of Edinburgh, where his father, the late James Bonar, Esq.,
a man of eminent piety and accomplished scholarship, held the office of
a Solicitor of Excise. His ancestors for several successive generations
were ministers of the Church of Scotland. He was educated at the High
School and the University of his native city. After engaging for some
time in missionary labour at Leith, he was ordained to the ministry at
Kelso in November 1837, and has since prosecuted his pastoral duties in
that place. His first literary efforts appeared in the shape of
religious tracts, now published in a volume under the title of "The
Kelso Tracts." He next published the work by which he has become most
widely known, "The Night of Weeping," which was followed by other two
works of the same series, "The Morning of Joy," and "The Eternal Day."
Of his subsequent publications, the more conspicuous are, "Prophetical
Landmarks," "The Coming and the Kingdom of the Lord Jesus," "A Stranger
Here," "Man; his Religion and his World," "The Story of Grace," "The
Blood of the Cross," and "The Desert of Sinai, or Notes of a Tour from
Cairo to Beersheba." Dr Bonar was for many years editor of the
_Presbyterian Review_; he now edits _The Quarterly Journal of Prophecy_.
The following spiritual songs, well adapted for music, are from his
volume entitled "Hymns of Faith and Hope."




THE MEETING PLACE.


    Where the faded flower shall freshen,
      Freshen never more to fade;
    Where the shaded sky shall brighten,
      Brighten never more to shade:
    Where the sun-blaze never scorches,
      Where the star-beams cease to chill;
    Where no tempest stirs the echoes
      Of the wood, or wave, or hill:
    Where the morn shall wake in gladness,
      And the noon the joy prolong,
    Where the daylight dies in fragrance,
      'Mid the burst of holy song:
          Brother, we shall meet and rest
          'Mid the holy and the blest!

    Where no shadow shall bewilder,
      Where life's vain parade is o'er,
    Where the sleep of sin is broken,
      And the dreamer dreams no more;
    Where the bond is never sever'd,
      Partings, claspings, sob and moan,
    Midnight waking, twilight weeping,
      Heavy noontide, all are done:
    Where the child has found its mother,
      Where the mother finds the child,
    Where dear families are gather'd
      That were scatter'd on the wild:
          Brother, we shall meet and rest
          'Mid the holy and the blest!

    Where the hidden wound is healèd,
      Where the blighted life re-blooms,
    Where the smitten heart the freshness
      Of its buoyant youth resumes;
    Where the love that here we lavish
      On the withering leaves of time,
    Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on
      In an ever spring-bright clime:
    Where we find the joy of loving,
      As we never loved before,
    Loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd,
      Loving once and evermore:
          Brother, we shall meet and rest
          'Mid the holy and the blest!

    Where a blasted world shall brighten
      Underneath a bluer sphere,
    And a softer, gentler sunshine,
      Shed its healing splendour here;
    Where earth's barren vales shall blossom,
      Putting on their robe of green,
    And a purer, fairer Eden,
      Be where only wastes have been:
    Where a king in kingly glory,
      Such as earth has never known,
    Shall assume the righteous sceptre,
      Claim and wear the holy crown:
          Brother, we shall meet and rest
          'Mid the holy and the blest!




TRUST NOT THESE SEAS AGAIN.


    Trust not these seas again,
      Though smooth and fair;
    Trust not these waves again,
      Shipwreck is there.

    Trust not these stars again,
      Though bright and fair;
    Trust not these skies again,
      Tempest is there.

    Trust not that breeze again,
      Gentle and fair;
    Trust not these clouds again,
      Lightning is there.

    Trust not that isle again,
      Flower-crown'd and fair;
    Trust not its rocks again,
      Earthquake is there.

    Trust not these flowers again,
      Fragrant and fair;
    Trust not that rose again,
      Blighting is there.

    Trust not that earth again,
      Verdant and fair;
    Trust not its fields again,
      Winter is there.

    Trust not these hopes again,
      Sunny and fair;
    Trust not that smile again,
      Peril is there.

    Trust not this world again,
      Smiling and fair;
    Trust not its sweets again,
      Wormwood is there;

    Trust not its love again,
      Sparkling and fair;
    Trust not its joy again,
      Sorrow is there.




JOHN HALLIDAY.


A song-writer of merit, John Halliday was born on the 18th July 1821, at
Hawickshielsgate, near Hawick, Roxburghshire. His father was an
agricultural labourer; and, with an ordinary education at school, he
was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant
farmer in his native district. Inheriting from his mother a taste for
the elder Scottish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such
scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he
essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor
of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous
list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "The Rustic Bard," a
duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident
at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where
he is well employed as a florist and landscape gardener.




THE AULD KIRK BELL.


    In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow,
    And the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow,
    Stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard,
    Where the gowans earliest gem the swaird;
    And the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through stane
    Shrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane--
    Where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod,
    And the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod--
    On a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell,
    Tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell.

    On the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew,
    Where warm words flow'd in a worship true;
    Is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the bee
    As it wings and sings in its taintless glee
    Through the nettles tall to the thistles red,
    Where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed;
    And it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall,
    Which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall;
    Then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell,
    It covers its combs in the auld kirk bell.

    By the crumbling base of the auld kirk tower
    Is the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower;
    And the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones,
    And playfully writhe round mouldering bones:
    The bat clingeth close to the binewood's root,
    Where its gnarlèd boughs up the belfry shoot,
    As, hiding the handworks of ruthless time,
    It garlands in grandeur and green sublime
    The hoary height, where the rust sae fell
    Bends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell.

    Oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is come
    To the auld kirk bell--ance and ever it 's dumb;
    On the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom,
    For a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb,
    As, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away,
    To blend with water, the wood and the clay,
    Till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men;
    Then ne'er ane will think, nor ere ane will ken,
    That a joyfu' jowl and a waefu' knell,
    As it swung, had been rung by the auld kirk bell.




THE AULD AIK-TREE.


    Oh, we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare,
    And we hae daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair,
    And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see,
    Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree.

    It 's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green,
    For simmer sairs it little now--it's no what it has been,
    Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea,
    And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree.

    It 's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit,
    For we hae seen them blum as braw in mony a ither bit;
    Nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning glee
    Sae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik-tree.

    But there 's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart,
    Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part,
    And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing glee
    We 've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree.

    For we hae play'd aneath its shade a chuffie-cheekit bairn,
    Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern,
    And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free;
    Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik-tree?

    We 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green,
    To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the grays o' e'en;
    And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae wee
    Atween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree.

    And we hae tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threw
    Out o'er the glen her misty gray in kindly drippin' dew,
    And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our e'e,
    When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree.

    Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel,
    And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal!
    Where are they? where my childhood's hearth
                                 --those hearts sae kind and free,--
    When a' is unco groun save the auld aik-tree?




JAMES DODDS.


A man of elegant and varied accomplishments, and one of the most
eloquent public-speakers of the age, James Dodds was born in 1815, in
the county of Roxburgh. He was at first intended by some influential
friends for the Church, and proceeded through part of the College
curriculum, but some changes occurring, he ultimately devoted himself to
the study of law. Probably his ambition was for the Bar; but overruling
circumstances led him, about twelve years ago, to enter on the
profession of parliamentary solicitor in London, in which he has met
with much success.

From his youth a devoted student, he has, amidst the exigencies of
business, sedulously kept up his literary pursuits. He has produced no
independent work, but has largely contributed, both in prose and verse,
to the periodicals. Among these contributions, a series of poems,
chiefly ballads on incidents connected with the times of the Covenant,
which appeared in several of the Edinburgh magazines, about thirteen
years since, attracted much attention. One of these lays we have
transferred to the present work. Mr Dodds has lately prepared a series
of lectures on the fifty years' struggle of the Covenanters, which will
probably be presented to the public. He has evinced a deep interest in
the cause of raising a national monument to Sir William Wallace, and
has, under the auspices of the Central Committee, addressed public
meetings on the subject in many of the principal towns.




TRIAL AND DEATH OF ROBERT BAILLIE OF JERVIESWOODE.


    'Twas when December's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast,
    And vile men high in place were more unpitying than the blast,
    Before their grim tribunal's front, firm and undaunted stood
    That patriot chief of high renown, the noble Jervieswoode.

    The hand of death is on him press'd--the seal of death is there!
    Oh, the savage of the wilderness those weak old limbs would spare!
    Frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly trace
    The shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face.
    These twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain,
    Long days of sickness, weary nights of languishing and pain;
    For whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year,
    No friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer;
    His lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep,
    And where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep.

    Yet o'er his weakness and decay an ancient grandeur falls,
    Like the majesty that lingers round some mould'ring palace walls;
    The light of calm and noble thoughts is bright within his eye,
    And, purged of earthly taint, his soul prepares to mount on high.
    Nor is he left alone--a sister faithful to him clung
    With woman's heart, with home-born love, with angel look and tongue;
    There in that Golgotha she sits, so tender, so benign--
    Fair as the moon's sweet glimpses through the cloudy tempest shine.

    The court is met, the assize are set: the robes of state look brave,
    Yet the proudest and the lordliest there is but a tyrant's slave--
    Blood-hirelings they who earn their pay by foul and treach'rous deeds--
    For swift and fell the hound must be whom the hunter richly feeds.
    What though no act of wrong e'er stain'd the fame of Jervieswoode,
    Shall it protect him in those times that he is wise and good?
    So wise--so good--so loved of all, though weak and worn with care,
    Though death comes fast he is the last whom Antichrist would spare!
    For his the bold and freeborn mind, the wisdom of a sage,
    The glow of youth still cherish'd in the sober breast of age;
    The soul of chivalry is his, and honour pure from stain--
    A heart that beats for liberty, and spurns each galling chain,
    Whether entwined by hands that bear the crozier or the sword;
    For he would see all nations free in Christ who is their Lord.

    And once, with England's patriot band, by tyrant power oppress'd,
    He had dream'd of free and happy homes in the forests of the west--
    To breathe the uncorrupted air, to tread the fresh green sod,
    And where the broad Savannah rolls in peace to worship God!
    These are his crimes! the treason this for which he now is tried;
    But though the forms of law are kept all justice is denied.
    Woe! that a land so favour'd once should witness such disgrace!
    Shame! that a land so powerful yet should brook a scene so base!

    Unroll your parchments black with lies--shut fast your coward doors--
    And brand the aged chief with crimes his generous heart abhors:
    When truth avails not, well you know how to supply the lack
    With secret tales and with wild words extorted by the rack!
    There is an hour for every power--an hour of darkness this!
    Spur on, ye slaves of Antichrist! or ye the goal may miss!

    His strength, increasing with his need, he raises bold and high,
    And fixes on Mackenzie[15] a clear and searching eye:
    "How canst thou thus, my lord, 'gainst me such accusations bring,
    That I have been a man of strife in plots against the king?
    I hate the way of violence--the anarchist I spurn;
    Who scatters firebrands little knows where they may fall and burn.
    In my degree I have been bold to guard the nation's right,
    And keep alive within these realms the lamp of Gospel light:
    But in my gloomy dungeon laid, didst thou not visit me,
    And solemnly avow that I from wicked plots was free?
    How canst thou, then, unto my charge such grievous actions lay,
    And all thou hast so solemn said as solemnly unsay?"

    The whole assembled multitude full on Mackenzie turn'd,
    That even his harden'd countenance with shame and anger burn'd:
    "True, Jervieswoode, I told thee so, as my own private view--
    Here I discharge the functions which to the crown are due."
    "If thou hast a conscience for thyself, and another for this place,
    I leave thee to the God of heaven and His all pardoning grace!
    My lords, I add no more--proceed--right well I know my doom:
    Death hath no terrors for my soul--the grave it hath no gloom!"

    'Tis one from old Saint Giles! The blasts of midnight shake the hall,
    Hoarse sounding like a demon's voice, which the stoutest hearts appal!
    His doom is utter'd!--"Twelve hours hence thy traitorous head shall fall,
    And for a terror be exposed upon the city wall;
    Thy limbs shall quarter'd be, and hung, all mutilate and bare,
    At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr;
    That all good subjects thence may learn obedience to the State,
    Their duty to our gracious king, and bloody treason's fate."
    A horror seizes every breast--a stifled cry of dread:
    "Who sheds the blood of innocence, the blood on his own head!"
    That pack'd and perjured jury shrink in conscience-struck dismay,
    And wish their hands as clear of guilt as they were yesterday.
    Mackenzie's cold and flinty face is quivering like a leaf,
    Whilst with quick and throbbing finger he turns o'er and o'er his brief;
    And the misnamed judges vainly try their rankling thoughts to hide
    Beneath an outward painted mask of loftiness and pride.
    Even she, the sweet heroic one! aye watchful at his side,
    Whose courage ne'er hath blanch'd as yet, though sorely, sharply tried--
    Even she is crush'd beneath the weight of this last and deadly blow,
    And sinks upon her brother's neck, o'erwhelm'd in speechless woe.

    He, he alone, is calm of soul! Powers of no mortal birth
    Are gently loosening every tie that links him to the earth;
    And inward faith gives outward force--strong is his deep dark eye--
    And his brow and lip are beautiful as in the days gone by.
    Meekly he rises to depart, but pauses for a space,
    And looks upon his cowering foes with calm and saintly grace:
    "The time is short, the sentence sharp--your malice I forgive;
    For God hath made me fit to die, as ye, my lords, to live!"

    And meekly he departs! his toils, his work, and warfare done--
    And his martyr chariot waits him, and his triumphs are begun!

    And twelve hours thence, upon the block, his reverend head did fall,
    And for a terror was exposed upon the city wall;
    His limbs were quarter'd, and were hung, all mutilate and bare,
    At Jedburgh, and Lanark town, at Glasgow, and at Ayr:
    And thus through all broad Scotland these martyr'd relics go,
    Like a fiery cross to rouse the land to the tyrant's overthrow!

    The ancient halls of Jervieswoode are desolate and gray,
    And its ancient oaks and lime trees are sinking in decay;
    These are of things that perish, and their place soon knows them not,
    But a glory from the past illumes this consecrated spot.
    To him who braves the martyr's death is deathless honour given,
    For the faith that breeds heroic deeds is dear to earth and heaven;
    And through all succeeding ages, amongst the wise and good,
    Enshrined shall be the memory of the noble Jervieswoode.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] Sir George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh, the King's Advocate.




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




DUNCAN MACFARLAN.


Duncan Macfarlan was a native of Rannoch, in Perthshire. He was born in
1750, and became, early in life, chaplain to one of the Highland
regiments. He was subsequently admitted to the pastoral charge of the
Gaelic Church, Perth. He executed some of the translations of Ossianic
remains published by H. & J. M'Callum in 1816, under the auspices of the
Highland Society of London. He died about the year 1834. Our translator
remembers him as a venerable old gentleman, of polished manners and
intelligent conversation. The following specimen of his poetical
compositions is, in the original, extremely popular among the Gael.




THE BEAUTY OF THE SHIELING.


    My beauty of the shieling,
      Thy graceful air, like arrow-shaft,
    A fiery flame concealing,
      Has left me to the marrow chaf'd.
    So winsome is thy smiling,
    Thy love-craft so beguiling,
    It binds me like the wilding,
      And I yield, in dule and sorrow left.

    Thy brown locks rank'd in order,
      So spiral, rich, and clustering!
    Thy face, of flowers a border,
      'Neath feather'd eyebrows mustering!
    Two drops of dewy splendour
    Those lids of beauty under!
    And that kiss--a fragrant wonder,
      As fruits of India Western!




JOHN MUNRO.


John Munro was born in 1791, in the parish of Criech, Sutherlandshire.
His father was superintendent of a manufacturing establishment. On the
premature death of her husband, his mother proceeded to Glasgow, where
the family were enabled to obtain a suitable education. In 1827, the
poet commenced business as an accountant. The hours of relaxation from
business he sedulously devoted to the concerns of literature, especially
poetry. He produced some religious tracts, and composed verses, chiefly
of a devotional character. He died in 1837, and his remains were
consigned to the Necropolis of the city. Admiring friends reared an
appropriate monument over his grave.




THE HIGHLAND WELCOME.


    "My dearest, wilt thou follow,
      And mount with me the billow?
    Wilt thou with me pass o'er the sea
      To the land of hill and hollow?"

    "No, Highlandman! I leave not
      My kindred for another,
    Nor go with thee across the sea
      From the children of my mother.

    "No, Highlandman! I will not fly
      My own beloved border;
    For poortith dwells and famine pales
      In your Highlands of disorder.

    "I will not wed a Gael--
      His house is but a shieling;
    Oh, best unborn, than all forlorn
      Mid your crags to have my dwelling!"

    "The house I call mine own house,
      A better was not born in;
    And land and sea will smile on thee,
      In the Highlands of thy scorning.

    "I do not boast the wheaten wealth
      Of our glens and hills, my dearie!
    But enow is health, and grass is wealth,
      In the land of mead and dairy.

    "I 've store of kine, my darling,
      Nor any lilting sweeter
    Thine ear can know, than is their low,
      And the music of the bleater.

    "I have no ship on ocean
      With merchant treasure sailing;
    But my tight boat, and trusty net,
      Whole loads of fish are trailing.

    "And, for dress, is none, my beauty,
      Than the tartan plaiding warmer,
    For its colours bright, oh, what delight
      To see them deck my charmer!

    "And ne'er was Highland welcome
      More hearty than thy greeting,
    Each day, the rein, and courteous swain,
      Thy pleasure will be meeting.

    "And thou shalt wear the healthy hue
      That give the Highland breezes,
    And not a bird but will be heard
      To sing the song that pleases.

    "No summer morn is blyther,
      With all its burst of glory,
    Than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd,
      Pined--shall, caress'd, adore thee."

    "Stay, Highlander! my heart, my hand,
      My vow and all I render,
    A Highland lay has won the day,
      And I will hie me yonder."




JOHN MACDONALD, JUN.


John Macdonald, author of the following song, is described in
"Mackenzie's Collection" as having rented the farm of Scoraig,
Lochbroom, and subsequently fixed his residence in the island of Lewis.
The present translation is from the pen of Mr D. Macpherson of London.




MARY, THE FAIR OF GLENSMOLE.


      Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,
      Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,
      Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,
      Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.

    Sweet, oh, sweet! with Mary o'er the wilds to stray,
    When Glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of May;
    And, when weary roving through the greenwood glade,
    Softly to recline beneath the birken shade.
      Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

    There to fix my gaze in raptures of delight,
    On her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light;
    On her bosom, purer than the silver tide,
    Fairer than the _cana_ on the mountain side.
      Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

    What were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men,
    To the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen?
    Here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing,
    There the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing.
      Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

    What were all the splendour of the proud and great,
    To the simple pleasures of our green retreat?
    From the crystal spring fresh vigour we inhale,
    Rosy health does court us on the mountain gale.
      Sweet the rising mountains, &c.

    Were I offer'd all the wealth that Albion yields,
    All her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields,
    With the countless riches of her subject seas,
    I would scorn the change for blisses such as these!
      Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,
      Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,
      Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,
      Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.




EVAN M'COLL.[16]

FOOTNOTES:

[16] For Biographical Sketch, see p. 222.




THE CHILD OF PROMISE.


    She died--as die the roses
      On the ruddy clouds of dawn,
    When the envious sun discloses
      His flame, and morning 's gone.

    She died--like waves of sun-glow
      Fast by the shadows chased:
    She died--like heaven's rainbow
      By gushing showers effaced.

    She died--like flakes appearing
      On the shore beside the sea;
    Thy snow as bright! but, nearing,
      The ground-swell broke on thee.

    She died--as dies the glory
      Of music's sweetest swell:
    She died--as dies the story
      When the best is still to tell.

    She died--as dies moon-beaming
      When scowls the rayless wave:
    She died--like sweetest dreaming,
      That hastens to its grave.

    She died--and died she early:
      Heaven wearied for its own.
    As the dipping sun, my Mary,
      Thy morning ray went down!




INDEX

TO THE

FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS.


A bonnie rose bloom'd wild and fair, vol. iv., 112.

Adieu--a long and last adieu, vol. iii., 207.

Adieu, lovely summer, I see thee declining, vol. i., 273.

Adieu, romantic banks of Clyde, vol. iii., 30.

Adieu, ye streams that smoothly glide, vol. i., 42.

Adieu, ye wither'd flow'rets, vol. iv., 207.

Admiring nature's simple charms, vol. ii., 239.

Ah! do not bid me wake the lute, vol. ii., 283.

Adown the burnie's flowery bank, vol. ii., 227.

Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out, vol. i., 118.

Ae morn of May, when fields were gay, vol. iii., 31.

Ah! faded is that lovely bloom, vol. ii., 276.

Afar from the home where his youthful prime, vol. vi., 165.

Afore the Lammas tide, vol. iv., 197.

Afore the muircock begin to craw, vol. ii., 67.

Again the laverock seeks the sky, vol. v., 82.

Ages, ages have departed, vol. i., 258.

A health to Caberfae, vol. i., 357.

Alake for the lassie! she's no right at a', vol. ii., 317.

A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen, vol. ii., 184.

Alas! how true the boding voice, vol. v., 87.

Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning, vol. i., 300.

Ah! little did my mother think, vol. i., 234.

A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow, vol. i., 142.

All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time, vol. iv., 173.

All night, by the pathway that crosses the muir, vol. iv., 141.

Alone to the banks of the dark rolling Danube, vol. ii., 264.

Along by Levern stream so clear, vol. ii., 201.

Although the lays o' ither lands, vol. vi., 96.

Amang the birks sae blithe an' gay, vol. ii., 227.

Amang the breezy heights and howes, vol. vi., 49.

Ah! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell, vol. ii., 211.

And can thy bosom bear the thought, vol. iv., 100.

And dost thou speak sincere, my love, vol. ii., 116.

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, vol. iii., 245.

Ah no! I cannot say farewell, vol. iii., 79.

Ah, Peggie, since thou 'rt gane away, vol. ii., 72.

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass, vol. iii., 251.

Argyle is my name, and you may think it strange, vol ii., 216.

As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, vol. iii., 224.

As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave, vol. i., 326.

As lockfasted in slumber's arms, vol. i., 330.

As o'er the Highland hills I hied, vol. i., 37.

A song, a song, brave hearts, a song, vol. v., 8.

As sunshine to the flowers in May, vol. v., 99.

At hame or afield, I 'm cheerless and lone, vol. iii., 124.

Ah! the wound of my breast sinks my heart to the dust, vol. ii., 343.

At waking so early, vol. i., 311.

At Willie's weddin' on the green, vol. ii., 210.

Auld Peter MacGowan cam' down the craft, vol. v., 10.

Awake, thou first of creatures, indignant in their frown, vol. iii., 123.

Away, away, like a child at play, vol. vi., 68.

Away, away, my gallant bark, vol. vi., 84.

Away on the breast of the ocean, vol. vi., 211.

Away on the wings of the wind she flies, vol. iv., 160.

Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing, vol. v., 254.

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, vol. i., 300.

A wee bird cam' to our ha' door, vol. iii., 128.

A wee bird sits upon a spray, vol. iv., 190.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees, vol. vi., 145.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, vol. iii., 15.

A young gudewife is in my house, vol. i., 141.


Bare was our burn brae, vol. v., 65.

Beautiful moon, wilt thou tell me where, vol. vi., 44.

Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, vol. v., 209.

Behave yoursel' before folk, vol. iii., 74.

Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk, vol. ii., 108.

Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains, vol. vi., 115.

Beneath a hill, 'mang birken bushes, vol. iv., 294.

Bird of the wilderness, vol. i., 52.

Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur, vol. i., 243.

Blest be the hour of night, vol. vi., 48.

Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, vol. ii., 171.

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, vol. iii., 140.

Blithe be the mind of the ploughman, vol. v., 176.

Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O, vol. ii., 148.

Blithe young Bess to Jean did say, vol. ii., 82.

Blue are the hills above the Spey, vol. v., 212.

Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles, vol. iv., 233.

Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, vol. v., 207.

Bonnie Charlie 's now awa, vol. i., 218.

Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander, vol. ii., 230.

Bonnie lassie, blithesome lassie, vol. ii., 188.

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet, vol. vi., 33.

Born where the glorious starlights trace, vol. iv., 150.

Bring the rod, the line, the reel, vol. v., 221.

Brither Jamie cam' west wi' a braw burn trout, vol. ii., 109.

Built on Time's uneven sand, vol. vi., 198.

By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep, vol. i., 110.

By Niagara's flood, vol. vi., 81.

By the lone Mankayana's margin gray, vol. iii., 107.

By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam, vol. i, 212.


Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock, vol. ii., 53.

Calm sleep the village dead, vol. v., 260.

Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, vol. ii., 51.

Can my dearest Henry leave me, vol. iii., 41.

Can ought be constant as the sun, vol. ii., 249.

Can ye lo'e, my dear lassie, vol. v., 63.

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, vol. iv., 89.

Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south, vol. i., 119.

Change! change! the mournful story, vol. v., 173.

Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea, vol. vi., 160.

Chaunt me no more thy roundelay, vol. ii., 174.

Cheer, boys, cheer! no more of idle sorrow, vol. vi., 20.

Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early, vol. iv., 282.

Close by the marge of Leman's Lake, vol. vi., 177.

Come all ye jolly shepherds, vol. ii., 55.

Come awa', come awa', vol. iii., 109.

Come awa', hie awa', vol. ii., 171.

Come back, come back, thou youthful time, vol. vi., 17.

Come gie us a sang, Montgomery cried, vol. i., 11.

Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow, vol. iii., 19.

Come, memory, paint, though far away, vol. vi., 52.

Come o'er the stream, Charlie, vol. ii., 59.

Come see my scarlet rose-bush, vol. vi., 37.

Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack, vol. ii., 306.

Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa', vol. i., 89.

Come when the dawn of the morning is breaking, vol. v., 15.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, vol. v., 202.

Could we but look beyond our sphere, vol. iii., 199.

Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang, vol. v., 205.

Culloden, on thy swarthy brow, vol. iii., 46.


Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main, vol. i., 179.

Dear aunty, I've been lang your care, vol. ii., 95.

Dear aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham, vol. v., 107.

Dearest love believe me, vol. iii., 110.

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, vol. i., 44.

Does grief appeal to you, ye leal, vol. ii., 341.

Down by a crystal stream, vol. vi., 207.

Down in the valley lone, vol. v., 181.

Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery, vol. v., 25.

Do you know what the birds are singing? vol. vi., 134.


Each whirl of the wheel, vol. v., 61.

Easy is my pillow press'd, vol. ii., 349.

Eliza fair, the mirth of May, vol. v., 138.

Eliza was a bonnie lass, and, oh! she lo'ed me weel, vol. iv., 187.

Ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me doun, vol. ii., 246.

Ere foreign fashions crossed the Tweed, vol. iii., 189.

Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, vol. ii., 165.

Eye of the brain and heart, vol. v., 133.


Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease, vol. i., 269.

Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed, vol. ii., 128.

Fair as a star of light, vol. vi., 179.

Fair Ellen, here again I stand, vol. v., 141.

Fair modest flower of matchless worth, vol. i., 157.

Fair Scotland, dear as life to me, vol. v., 137.

Fare-thee-weel, for I must leave thee, vol. iii., 263.

Fare-thee-weel, my bonnie lassie, vol. iii., 225.

Fareweel, O! fareweel, vol. i., 238.

Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, vol. v., 91.

Fareweel, ye fields and meadows green, vol. i., 121.

Farewell, and though my steps depart, vol. iii., 116.

Farewell, our father's land, vol. iii., 249.

Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, vol. vi., 117.

Farewell, ye streams sae dear to me, vol. ii., 232.

Far lone amang the Highland hills, vol. ii., 139.

Far over yon hills of the heather sae green, vol. ii., 50.

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud, vol. vi., 28.

Fife, an' a' the land about it, vol. ii., 112.

Float forth, thou flag of the free, vol. vi., 221.

Flowers of summer sweetly springing, vol. v., 251.

Flow saftly thou stream through the wild spangled valley, vol. iii., 243.

For mony lang year I hae heard frae my granny, vol. ii., 250.

For success a prayer with a farewell bear, vol. iii., 284.

For twenty years and more, vol. v., 80.

From beauty's soft lips, like the balm of its roses, vol. iv., 97.

From the climes of the sun all war-worn and weary, vol. ii., 220.

From the deep and troubled waters, vol. vi., 25.

From the village of Leslie with a heart full of glee, vol. i., 182.

Fy, let us a' to the wedding, vol. i., 136.


Gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair, vol. iv., 58.

Gane were but the winter cauld, vol. iii., 12.

Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O! vol. iv., 133.

Give me the hour when bells are rung, vol. vi., 149.

Give the swains of Italia, vol. vi., 223.

Glad tidings for the Highlands, vol. ii., 335.

Gloomy winter's now awa', vol. ii., 145.

Good morrow, good morrow, warm, rosy, and bright, vol. v., 16.

Good night, and joy be wi' ye a', vol. ii., 214.

Good night, the silver stars are clear, vol. v., 246.

Go to Berwick, Johnnie, vol. i., 121.

Go to him then if thou canst go, vol. ii., 300.

Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain, vol. iii., 55.

Guid night and joy be wi' ye a', vol. iv., 114.


Had I the wings of a dove I would fly, vol. v., 261.

Hae ye been in the north, bonnie lassie, vol. ii., 308.

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances, vol. i., 295.

Hark, hark, the skylark singing, vol. ii., 202.

Hark, the martial drums resound, vol. ii., 164.

Haste all ye fairy elves hither to me, vol. iv., 131.

Heard ye the bagpipe or saw ye the banners, vol. iv., 78.

Heart, take courage, 'tis not worthy, vol. vi., 9.

Heaven speed the righteous sword, vol. i., 254.

Hech, what a change hae we now in this toun, vol. ii., 215.

Hech, hey, the mirth that was there, vol. i., 205.

He left his native land, and far away, vol. v., 111.

He loved her for her merry eyes, vol. v., 244.

Here 's to them, to them that are gane, vol. i., 237.

Her eyes were red with weeping, vol. iii., 136.

Here we go upon the tide, vol. ii., 69.

Here 's to the year that 's awa', vol. v., 78.

Her hair was like the Cromla mist, vol. ii., 177.

Her lip is o' the rose's hue, vol. v., 117.

Hersell pe auchty years and twa, vol. ii., 71.

He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod, vol. i., 216.

He is gone, he is gone, vol. iii., 240.

He 's gone on the mountain, vol. i., 299.

He 's lifeless amang the rude billows, vol. i., 202.

He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest, vol. i., 272.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek, vol. vi., 138.

He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, vol. i., 211.

Hey for the Hielan' heather, vol. iv., 110.

Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, vol. v., 18.

Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur, vol. iii., 136.

Hope cannot cheat us, vol. vi., 15.

How blest were the days o' langsyne, when a laddie, vol. iii., 39.

How blithely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding, vol. v., 26.

How brightly beams the bonnie moon, vol. iii., 73.

How early I woo'd thee, how dearly I lo'ed thee, vol. v., 160.

How eerily, how drearily, how eerily to pine, vol. iii., 137.

How happy a life does the parson possess, vol. i., 28.

How happy lives the peasant by his ain fireside, vol. iii., 78.

How often death art waking, vol. i., 321.

How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away, vol. ii, 274.

How sweet are Leven's silver streams, vol. iii., 36.

How sweet are the blushes of morn, vol. v., 35.

How sweet is the scene at the waking of morning, vol. ii., 243.

How sweet the dewy bell is spread, vol. iii., 259.

How sweet thy modest light to view, vol. ii., 196.

Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, vol. vi., 103.

Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame, vol. v., 229.

Hurrah for the Highlands, the brave Scottish Highlands, vol. v., 249.

Hurrah for the Thistle, the brave Scottish Thistle, vol. v., 232.

Hurrah, hurrah for the boundless sea, vol. vi., 189.

Hurrah, hurrah, we 've glory won, vol. v., 89.

Hush, ye songsters, day is done, vol. iii., 159.


I ask no lordling's titled name, vol. ii., 166.

I canna leave my native land, vol. vi., 228.

I canna sleep a wink, lassie, vol. v., 183.

I cannot give thee all my heart, vol. vi., 11.

I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp, vol. vi., 29.

If Fortune with a smiling face, vol. vi., 12.

I fleet along, and the empires fall, vol. vi., 167.

I fly from the fold since my passion's despair, vol. i., 316.

I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, vol. iv., 62.

If there 's a word that whispers love, vol. v., 266.

If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame, vol. v., 7.

I gaed to spend a week in Fife, vol. vi., 55.

I hae naebody noo, I hae naebody noo, vol. ii., 77.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, vol. vi., 88.

I heard a wee bird singing, vol. v., 32.

I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts amang, vol. iii., 61.

I lately lived in quiet ease, vol. ii., 62.

I like to spring in the morning bricht, vol. v., 98.

I 'll no be had for naething, vol. i., 230.

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother, vol. vi., 42.

I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather, vol. ii., 74.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, vol. v., 155.

I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark, vol. vi., 50.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, vol. iv., 268.

I 'll twine a gowany garland, vol. vi., 105.

I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, vol. i., 90.

I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true, vol. vi., 144.

I love the free ridge of the mountain, vol. iii., 108.

I love the merry moonlight, vol. iv., 135.

I love the sea, I love the sea, vol. iv., 162.

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves, vol. vi., 187.

I mark'd her look of agony, vol. iii., 167.

I 'm a very little man, vol. vi., 147.

I 'm away, I 'm away like a thing that is wild, vol. v., 255.

I 'm naebody noo, though in days that are gane, vol. v., 182.

I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land, vol. i., 263.

I 'm wand'rin' wide this wintry night, vol. v., 158.

I 'm wearin' awa', John, vol. i., 196.

I met four chaps yon birks amang, vol. ii., 208.

In a dream of the night I was wafted away, vol. iii. 257.

In a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow, vol. vi., 234.

In all its rich wildness her home she is leaving, vol. i., 200.

In a saft simmer gloamin', vol. iii., 236.

In distant years when other arms, vol. v., 123.

I neither got promise of siller nor land, vol. iii., 147.

I never thocht to thole the waes, vol. iv., 221.

In her chamber, vigil keeping, vol. vi., 213.

In life's gay morn, when hopes beat high, vol. iii., 42.

In that home was joy and sorrow, vol. vi., 184.

In the morning of life, when its sunny smile, vol. iii., 200.

I pray for you of your courtesy, before we further move, vol. v., 144.

I remember the time, thou roaring sea, vol. vi., 13.

Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye, vol. i., 318.

I sat in the vale 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, vol. iv., 60.

I saw my true love first on the banks of queenly Tay, vol. iii., 121.

I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire, vol. v., 282.

I see the wretch of high degree, vol. i., 315.

Is not the earth a burial-place, vol. v., 269.

I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove, vol. v., 92.

Is our Helen very fair, vol. vi., 182.

Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman, vol. iv., 166.

It fell on a morning when we were thrang, vol. i, 146.

It has long been my fate to be thought in the wrong, vol. i., 22.

It 's dowie in the hint o' hairst, vol. v., 62.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, vol. iii., 13.

It was an English ladye bright, vol. i., 289.

I 've listened to the midnight wind, vol. iii., 203.

I 've a guinea I can spend, vol. vi., 22.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep, vol. vi., 70.

I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will, vol. ii., 296.

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair, vol. vi., 91.

I 've no sheep on the mountain nor boat on the lake, vol. i., 132.

I 've rocked me on the giddy mast, vol. iii., 20.

I 've seen the lily of the wold, vol. iii., 48.

I 've seen the smiling summer flower, vol. iv., 245.

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, vol. iii., 233.

I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale, vol. iv., 192.

I wadna gi'e my ain wife, vol. iv., 246.

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, vol. iii., 86.

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', vol. vi., 89.

I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh, vol. ii., 197.

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade, vol. v., 274.

I will sing a song of summer, vol. vi., 186.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be, vol. iv., 167.

I will wake my harp when the shades of even, vol. iv., 170.

I winna bide in your castle ha's, vol. iv., 229.

I winna gang back to my minny again, vol. ii., 248.

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, vol. iv., 63.

I wish I were where Helen lies, vol. i., 111.


Jenny's heart was frank and free, vol. i., 114.

John Anderson, my jo, John, vol. i., 155.

Joy of my earliest days, vol. i., 203.


Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, vol. ii., 141.


Land of my fathers! night's dark gloom, vol. iii., 167.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness, vol. vi., 207.

Lane on the winding Earn there stands, vol. i., 223.

Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, vol. iv., 224.

Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan, vol. iv., 168.

Lassie wi' the gowden hair, vol. i., 87.

Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair, vol. i., 123.

Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie, vol. vi., 135.

Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower, vol. iv., 76.

Leave the city's busy throng, vol. vi., 143.

Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids, vol. iv., 77.

Let ither anglers choose their ain, vol. v., 222.

Let the maids of the Lowlands, vol. iii., 272.

Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers, vol. iv., 177.

Let us go, lassie, go, vol. ii., 143.

Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O, vol. iv., 264.

Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, vol. iii., 146.

Life's pleasure seems sadness and care, vol. vi., 194.

Liking is a little boy, vol. vi., 120.

Listen to me, as when ye heard our father, vol. iii., 183.

Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale, vol. ii., 75.

Look up, old friend, why hang thy head, vol. vi., 199.

Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, vol. ii., 181.

Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, vol. ii., 137.

Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green, vol. iii., 188.

Love flies the haunts of pomp and power, vol. v., 79.

Love is timid, love is shy, vol. iii., 196.

Loved land of my kindred, farewell, and for ever, vol. iv., 111.

Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping, vol. iii., 76.

Lowland lassie, wilt thou go, vol. ii., 151.


'Mang a' the lasses young and braw, vol. iii., 214.

Meet me on the gowan lea, vol. v., 147.

Meg muckin' at Geordie's byre, vol. i., 244.

Men of England, who inherit, vol. ii., 268.

Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty, vol. v., 37.

More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands, vol. iv., 57.

Mourn for the mighty dead, vol. vi., 21.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully, vol. iii., 239.

Musing, we sat in our garden bower, vol. v., 100.

My beauty dark, my glossy bright, vol. ii., 347.

My beauty of the shieling, vol. vi., 250.

My Bessie, oh, but look upon these bonnie budding flowers, vol. iv., 189.

My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn, vol. v., 67.

My bonnie wee wifie, I 'm waefu' to leave thee, vol. v., 13.

My brothers are the stately trees, vol. iv., 254.

My brown dairy, brown dairy, vol. ii., 327.

My couthie auld wife, aye blithsome to see, vol. vi., 102.

My darling is the philabeg, vol. v., 290.

My dearest, wilt thou follow, vol. vi., 252.

My dear little lassie, why, what 's the matter? vol. i., 246.

My hawk is tired of perch and hood, vol. i., 298.

My lassie is lovely, as May-day adorning, vol. iii., 48.

My love, come let us wander, vol. iii., 197.

My love 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame, vol. i., 95.

My luve 's a flower in garden fair, vol. v., 189.

My mother bids me bind my hair, vol. i., 41.

My mountain hame, my mountain hame, vol. iv., 194.

My name it is Donald M'Donald, vol. ii., 48.

My native land, my native land, vol. vi., 206.

My soul is ever with thee, vol. v., 106.

My spirit could its vigil hold, vol. iv., 152.

My tortured bosom long shall feel, vol. iii., 141.

My wee wife dwells in yonder cot, vol. iv., 187.

My wife 's a winsome wee thing, vol. ii., 299.

My young heart's luve! twal' years hae been, vol. iv., 259.

My young, my fair, my fair-haired Mary, vol. i., 335.


Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn-side, vol. iii., 227.

Name the leaves on all the trees, vol. vi., 118.

Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering, vol. v., 75.

Night turns to day, vol. i., 255.

No homeward scene near me, vol. iv., 290.

No more by thy margin, dark Carron, vol. vi., 202.

No one knows what silent secrets, vol. vi., 24.

No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread, vol. iv., 61.

No sound was heard o'er the broom-covered valley, vol. iv., 86.

Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore, vol. iv., 281.

Now bank and brae are clad in green, vol. ii., 245.

Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird, vol. ii., 92.

Now, Mary, now, the struggle 's o'er, vol. iii., 229.

Now rests the red sun in his caves of the ocean, vol. ii., 254.

Now simmer decks the field wi' flowers, vol. ii., 304.

Now smiling summer's balmy breeze, vol. ii., 229.

Now summer shines with gaudy pride, vol. ii., 116.

Now the beams of May morn, vol. iii., 149.

Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea, vol. iii., 177.

Now winter wi' his cloudy brow, vol. ii., 147.

Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains, vol. i., 165.


Oh! are ye sleeping, Maggie, vol. ii., 156.

Oh! away to the Tweed, vol. v., 94.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art, vol. vi., 197.

Oh, blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft, vol. i., 124.

Oh, blessing on her star-like e'en, vol. v., 102.

Oh! blessing on thee, land, vol. v., 104.

Oh, bonnie are the howes, vol. iv., 200.

Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen-tree, vol. ii., 240.

Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee, vol. v., 276.

Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley, vol. v., 194.

Oh, brave Caledonians, my brothers, my friends, vol. iii., 114.

Oh, bright the beaming queen o' night, vol. v., 146.

Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone, vol. i., 221.

Oh, Charlie is my darling, vol. iii., 53.

Oh, come my bonnie bark, vol. iii., 16.

Oh, come with me for the queen of night, vol. iii., 59.

October winds wi' biting breath, vol. ii., 203.

O dear, dear to me, vol. vi., 92.

Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains, vol. v., 239.

Oh! dear were the joys that are past, vol. iii., 62.

Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee, vol. v., 78.

Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, vol. v., 43.

Oh, dinna cross the burn, Willie, vol. v., 150.

Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' beneath your ken, vol. v., 204.

Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee, vol. i., 96.

Oh, distant, but dear, is that sweet island wherein, vol. ii., 109.

O'er mountain and valley, vol. iii., 169.

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying, vol. v., 47.

Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael, vol. v., 295.

Of Nelson and the north, vol. ii., 265.

Of streams that down the valley run, vol. ii., 129.

Oh, gentle sleep wilt thou lay thy head, vol. iii., 90.

Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins, vol. iv., 117.

Oh, grand bounds the deer o'er the mountain, vol. i., 55.

Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen, vol. vi., 129.

Oh, hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, vol. iv., 218.

Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk-tree's shade, vol. iv., 269.

Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! vol. v., 108.

Oh, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, vol. ii., 263.

O hi', O hu', she 's sad for scolding, vol. v., 288.

Oh! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha', vol. iii., 125.

Oh, how I love the evening hour, vol. v., 265.

Oh! I have traversed lands afar, vol. v., 12.

Oh! I lo'ed my lassie weel, vol. iii., 253.

O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers, vol. v., 44.

Oh, lady, twine no wreath for me, vol. i., 302.

Oh, lassie! I lo'e dearest, vol. v., 47.

Oh, lassie! if thou 'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, vol. iv., 65.

Oh, lassie! wilt thou gang wi' me, vol. iii., 65.

Oh, lassie! wilt thou go? vol. ii., 287.

Old Scotland, I love thee, thou 'rt dearer to me, vol. v., 250.

Oh, leave me not! the evening hour, vol. v., 74.

Oh, leeze me on the bonnie lass, vol. ii., 178.

Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie, vol. v., 58.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, vol. v., 270.

Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman, vol. iii., 280.

Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek, vol. v., 122.

Oh, merrily and gallantly, vol. v., 116.

Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, Marion, vol. i., 56.

Oh, mony a turn of woe and weal, vol. i., 347.

Oh, mony a year has come and gane, vol. v., 20.

Oh, my lassie, our joy to complete again, vol. ii., 54.

Oh, my love, leave me not, vol. i., 106.

Oh! my love 's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie, vol. v., 52.

Oh! my love is very lovely, vol. vi., 8.

Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud, vol. vi., 173.

Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing, vol. iv., 199.

Once more in the Highlands I wander alone, vol. v., 257.

Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry? vol. i., 139.

On, on to the fields where of old, vol. iv., 56.

On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame, vol. v., 119.

On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, vol. ii., 173.

On the greensward lay William in anguish extended, vol. ii., 163.

On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake, vol. iv., 250.

On the banks o' the burn, while I pensively wander, vol. ii., 316.

On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood, vol. iv., 105.

On this unfrequented plain, vol. ii., 294.

O our childhood's once delightful hours, vol. iii., 198.

Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, vol. v., 193.

Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, vol. v., 208.

Oh, sarely may I rue the day, vol. ii., 58.

Oh, sair I feel the witching power, vol. iii., 192.

Oh, saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, vol. i., 82.

Oh, saw ye this sweet, bonnie lassie o' mine, vol. ii., 70.

Oh, saw ye this sweet, bonnie lassie o' mine, vol. iv., 271.

Oh! say na you maun gang awa, vol. iv., 201.

Oh! say not life is ever drear, vol. v., 88.

Oh! say not o' war the young soldier is weary, vol. iv., 214.

Oh! say not 'tis the March wind, 'tis a fiercer blast that drives, vol. v., 293.

Oh! say not, my love, with that mortified air, vol. i., 305.

Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze, vol. v., 167.

Oh, some will tune their mournful strain, vol. i., 232.

Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain, vol. iii., 134.

O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn-tree, vol. v., 187.

O sweet is the calm, dewy gloamin', vol iv., 247.

Oh, sweet were the hours, vol. iii., 94.

Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark, vol. vi., 154.

O tell me, bonnie young lassie, vol. i., 85.

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear, vol. iv., 69.

Oh, that I were the shaw in, vol. ii., 329.

Oh, the auld house, the auld house! vol. i., 224.

Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills, vol. iv., 230.

Oh, the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet, vol. ii., 19.

Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, vol. iii., 266.

Oh! the happy time departed, vol. vi., 17.

Oh! the sunny peaches glow, vol. iii., 150.

O these are not my country's hills, vol. iv., 127.

Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie, blue sea, vol. iv., 133.

Oh! the land of hills is the land for me, vol. iv., 270.

Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me, vol. v., 242.

Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain, vol. v., 237.

Our ain native land, our ain native land, vol. iv., 54.

Oh, tuneful voice, I still deplore, vol. i., 44.

Our Mary liket weel to stray, vol. iv., 70.

Our minstrels a', frae south to north, vol. iii., 95.

Our native land, our native vale, vol. iii., 106.

Ours is the land of gallant hearts, vol. iv., 51.

Oh, wae be to the orders that march'd my love awa, vol. iii., 238.

Oh! wae's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, vol. vi., 148.

Oh, wae 's my life, and sad my heart, vol. v., 17.

Oh, waft me to the fairy clime, vol. iv., 92.

Oh! waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him, vol. vi., 126.

Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggie, O! vol. iii., 227.

Oh, weel's me on my ain man, vol. i., 204.

Oh, weel befa' the maiden gay, vol. ii., 64.

Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, vol. v., 85.

Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, vol. iii., 201.

Oh! we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, vol. vi., 236.

Oh, wha 's at the window, wha, wha, wha? vol. iv., 253.

Oh, what are the chains of love made of, vol. iv., 136.

Oh, what care I where Love was born, vol. v., 11.

Oh! what is in this flaunting town, vol. vi., 203.

Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth, vol. i., 254.

Oh, where are the pretty men of yore, vol. v., 129.

Oh, where has the exile his home, vol. iv., 250.

Oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird, vol. v., 14.

Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone, vol. i., 104.

Oh! why left I my hame, vol. iii., 264.

O! why should old age so much wound us, vol. i., 20.

Oh! will ye go to yon burn-side, vol. iii., 68.

Oh! will ye walk the wood wi' me, vol. iv., 273.

Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud, vol. iv., 139.

Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now, vol. iv., 180.

Oh! years hae come an' years hae gane, vol. iv., 193.

Oh, yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet, vol. iv., 255.

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow, vol. vi., 18.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, vol. i., 290.


Peace be upon their banners, vol. v., 224.

Phoebus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast, vol. v., 51.

Preserve us a' what shall we do, vol. ii., 99.

Put off, put off, and row with speed, vol. ii., 179.


Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy clear, vol. ii., 94.


Raise high the battle-song, vol. iii., 131.

Red gleams the sun on yon hill tap, vol. i., 55.

Reft the charm of the social shell, vol. iii., 276.

Removed from vain fashion, vol. iv., 80.

Returning Spring, with gladsome ray, vol. i., 169.

Rise, little star, vol. vi., 224.

Rise, my love! the moon unclouded, vol. iv., 149.

Rise, rise, Lowland and Highlandman, vol. iv., 115.

Rise, Romans, rise at last, vol. vi., 216.

Rising o'er the heaving billow, vol. v., 29.

Robin is my ain gudeman, vol. i. 205.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, vol. i., 52.


Saw ye Johnnie comin', quo' she, vol. i. 145.

Saw ye my Annie, vol. iv., 121.

Saw ye nae my Peggie, vol. i., 208.

Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone, vol. vi., 40.

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, vol. ii., 251.

Scotia's thistle guards the grave, vol. iv., 50.

Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains, vol. vi., 33.

See the moon o'er cloudless Jura, vol. iii., 196.

See the winter clouds around, vol. ii., 87.

Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink, vol. i., 219.

Shadows of glory, the twilight is parting, vol. vi., 139.

Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear, vol. iii, 99.

She died, as die the roses, vol. vi., 256.

She died in beauty, like a rose, vol. iv., 177.

She 's aff and awa, like the lang simmer day, vol. iv., 124.

She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, vol. iii., 9.

She was mine when the leaves of the forest were green, vol. iii., 116.

She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn, vol. v., 200.

Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay, vol. i., 352.

Sing a' ye bards wi' loud acclaim, vol. iii., 139.

Sing not to me of sunny shores, vol. vi., 155.

Sing on, fairy Devon, vol. vi., 104.

Sing on, thou little bird, vol. ii., 286.

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go, vol. v., 166.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare 's o'er, vol. i., 294.

Songs of my native land, vol. i., 220.

Star of descending night, vol. iv., 92.

Stay, proud bird of the shore, vol. iv., 141.

St Leonard's hill was lightsome land, vol. i., 228.

Sublime is Scotia's mountain land, vol. vi., 169.

Summer ocean, vol. vi., 61.

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, vol. i., 265.

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen, vol. iv., 75.

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom, vol. vi., 94.

Sweet 's the dew-deck'd rose in June, vol. iv., 101.

Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun, vol. iv., 239.

Sweet summer now is by, vol. iv., 275.

Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, vol. vi., 254.


Talk not of temples--there is one, vol. iii., 152.

Taste life's glad moments, ii., 212.

Tell me, Jessie, tell me why? vol. i., 122.

Tell me, dear! in mercy speak, vol. vi., 131.

The auld meal mill, oh! the auld meal mill, vol. v., 230.

The bard strikes his harp the wild valleys among, vol. ii., 249.

The bard strikes his harp the wild woods among, vol. v., 50.

The beacons blazed, the banners flew, vol. v., 38.

The best o' joys maun hae an end, vol. i., 209.

The blackbird's hymn is sweet, vol. iv., 145.

The bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in the ase, vol. v., 201.

The bonnie rowan bush, vol. iv., 231.

The bonniest lass in a' the warld, vol. i., 201.

The breath o' spring is gratefu', vol. v., 143.

The bride she is winsome and bonnie, vol. i., 148.

The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me, vol. iv., 223.

The cantie spring scarce reared her head, vol. iii., 52.

The cranreuch's on my head, vol. vi., 107.

The dark gray o' gloamin', vol. iv., 243.

The dawn is breaking, but lonesome and eerie, vol. iii., 274.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, vol. vi., 72.

The dreary reign of winter's past, vol. v., 55.

The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza, vol. iv., 146.

The fairies are dancing, how nimbly they bound, vol. ii., 273.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, vol. vi., 26.

The fields, the streams, the skies, are fair, vol. v., 267.

The gathering clans 'mong Scotia's glens, vol. iv., 52.

The gloamin' star was showerin', vol. vi., 106.

The gloom of dark despondency, vol. vi., 193.

The gloomy days are gone, vol. v., 218.

The golden smile of morning, vol. vi., 122.

The gowan glitters on the sward, vol. i., 143.

The happy days of yore, vol. vi., 156.

The harvest morn breaks, vol. iv., 266.

The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon cliff, vol. i., 168.

The heath this night must be my bed, vol. i., 297.

The Highland hills, there are songs of mirth, vol. vi., 168.

The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht, vol. v., 235.

Their nest was in the leafy bush, vol. i., 206.

The king is on his throne, wi' his sceptre an' his croon, vol. v., 216.

The laird o' Cockpen, he 's proud and he 's great, vol. i., 198.

The lake is at rest, love, vol. iv., 85.

The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e, vol. iv., 215.

The lark has left the evening cloud, vol. iii., 10.

The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', vol. iii., 221.

The lily of the vale is sweet, vol. v., 35.

The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea, vol. v., 132.

The loved of early days, vol. iv., 179.

The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, vol. iv., 93.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe, vol. vi., 130.

The maid is at the altar kneeling, vol. iv., 160.

The maid who wove the rosy wreath, vol. iv., 96.

The midges dance aboon the burn, vol. ii., 149.

The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie, vol. i., 231.

The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood, vol. iv., 140.

The moon shone in fits, vol. ii., 221.

The moon was a waning, vol. ii., 78.

The mother with her blooming child, vol. v., 172.

The music of the night, vol. iii., 217.

The music o' the year is hush'd, vol. ii., 161.

The neighbours a' they wonder how, vol. ii., 293.

The night winds Eolian breezes, vol. iv., 265.

The noble otter hill, vol. i., 337.

The oak is Britain's pride, vol. v., 223.

The parting kiss, the soft embrace, vol. iii., 90.

The primrose is bonnie in spring, vol. iii., 174.

There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, vol. vi., 209.

There grew in bonnie Scotland, vol. ii., 186.

There grows a bonnie brier-bush in our kail-yard, vol. i., 215.

There is a bonnie blushing flower, vol. v., 256.

There is a concert in the trees, vol. iv., 208.

There is a pang for every heart, vol. iii., 148.

There is music in the storm, love, vol. vi., 180.

There lived a lass in Inverness, vol. iii., 14.

There lives a lassie i' the braes, vol. i., 24.

There lives a young lassie, vol. iv., 116.

There 's a thrill of emotion, half painful, half sweet, vol. iii., 222.

There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen, vol. i., 48.

There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen, vol. i., 210.

There 's high and low, there 's rich and poor, vol. i., 194.

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, vol. vi., 128.

There 's mony a flower beside the rose, vol. iv., 188.

There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air, vol. ii., 275.

There 's music in a mother's voice, vol. vi., 51.

There 's nae covenant noo, lassie, vol. ii., 187.

There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth, vol. iv., 228.

There 's nae love like early love, vol. iii., 185.

There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name, vol. v., 206.

There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, vol. vi., 163.

There was a musician wha play'd a good stick, vol. i., 271.

The rosebud blushing to the morn, vol. ii., 105.

The Rover o' Lochryan, he 's gane, vol. v., 64.

The Scotch blue bell, vol. v., 233.

The season comes when first we met, vol. i., 43.

The sea, the deep, deep sea, vol. iii., 218.

The shadows of evening fall silent around, vol. vi., 146.

The sky in beauty arch'd, vol. iv., 154.

The skylark sings his matin lay, vol. vi., 63.

The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd-boy his crook; vol. v., 68.

The spring comes back to woo the earth, vol. v., 156.

The storm grew faint as daylight tinged, vol. iv., 212.

The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths, vol. vi., 36.

The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, vol. ii., 175.

The sun-down had mantled Ben Nevis with night vol. iv., 287.

The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow, vol. iii., 129.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, vol. ii., 136.

The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, vol. ii., 176.

The sun is sunk, the day is done, vol. i., 133.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, vol. i., 41.

The sunny days are come, my love, vol. vi., 172.

The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander, vol. ii., 305.

The tears I shed must ever fall, vol. i., 168.

The tempest is raging, vol. iii., 151.

The troops were all embarked on board, vol. i., 115.

The weary sun 's gane down the west, vol. ii., 154.

The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane, vol. v., 200.

The wild rose blooms in Drummond woods, vol. iv., 236.

The women are a' gane wud, vol. i., 227.

The year is wearing to an end, vol. ii., 79.

They 're stepping off, the friends I knew, vol. vi., 45.

They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, vol. iii., 122.

They tell me first and early love, vol. vi., 73.

They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear, vol. vi., 212.

Thou bonnie wood o' Craigie Lee, vol. ii., 153.

Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar, vol. iii., 164.

Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, vol. v., 114.

Thou gentle and kind one, vol. v., 128.

Thou hast left me, dear Dermot, to cross the wide sea, vol. iv., 107.

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, vol. iii., 17.

Though all fair was that bosom heaving white, vol. iv., 67.

Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers, vol. iv., 217.

Though long the wanderer may depart, vol. vi., 225.

Though richer swains thy love pursue, vol. i., 134.

Though siller Tweed rin o'er the Lea, vol. ii., 104.

Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, vol. ii., 117.

Though this wild brain is aching, vol. iv., 155.

Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I lo'e thee weel, vol. ii., 167.

Thou morn full of beauty, vol. v., 140.

Through Crockstoun Castle's lanely wa's, vol. ii., 144.

Thus sang the minstrel Cormack, his anguish to beguile, vol. iii., 275.

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, vol. ii., 244.

Thy queenly hand, Victoria, vol. v., 264.

Thy wily eyes, my darling, vol. iv., 292.

'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, vol. iv., 153.

'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean, vol. ii., 150.

'Tis not the rose upon the cheek, vol. iii., 60.

'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, vol. iii., 266.

'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray, vol. v., 186.

'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawing, vol. v., 258.

'Tis the first rose o' summer that opes to my view, vol. iii., 264.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, vol. vi., 65.

Together, dearest, we have play'd, vol. v., 22.

To live in cities, and to join, vol. v., 245.

Touch once more a sober measure, vol. iii., 178.

To Scotland's ancient realm, vol. v., 272.

To wander lang in foreign lands, vol. iii., 210.

True love is water'd aye wi' tears, vol. i., 233.

Trust not these seas again, vol. vi., 232.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves, vol. vi., 76.

'Twas a balmy summer gloamin', vol. vi., 158.

'Twas on a Monday morning, vol. ii., 61.

'Twas on a simmer afternoon, vol. i., 213.

'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, vol. i., 72.

'Twas when December's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast,
                                                       vol. vi., 239.

'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', vol. ii., 314.


Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil, vol. vi., 142.


Waken, lords and ladies gay, vol. i., 304.

Walkin' out ae mornin' early, vol. iii., 24.

Warlike chieftains now assembled, vol. v., 40.

Weep away, heart, weep away, vol. vi., 59.

Weep not over poet's wrong, vol. vi., 69.

Welcome, pretty little stranger, vol. i., 257.

We 'll meet beside the dusky glen on yon burn-side, vol. ii., 140.

We 'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us, vol. iv., 53.

We part, yet wherefore should I weep, vol. v., 105.

Were I a doughty cavalier, vol. v., 127.

Were I but able to rehearse, vol. i., 17.

We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, vol. vi., 185.

Wha 'll buy caller herrin', vol. i, 195.

Whan Jamie first woo'd me he was but a youth, vol. iii., 25.

Whare hae ye been a' day, vol. i., 83.

What ails my heart--what dims my e'e? vol. v., 253.

What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain? vol. vi., 78.

What are the flowers of Scotland, vol. ii., 66.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart, vol. vi., 85.

What makes this hour a day to me? vol. v., 33.

What though ye hae nor kith nor kin, vol. v., 238.

What 's this vain world to me, vol. i., 236.

What wakes the poet's lyre, vol. iv., 91.

When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame, vol. iii., 123.

When autumn comes and heather bells, vol. iv., 132.

When Charlie to the Highlands came, vol. ii., 180.

When cities of old days, vol. iv., 156.

When first I cam' to be a man, vol. i., 13.

When fops and fools together prate, vol. i., 31.

When friendship, love, and truth abound, vol. i., 253.

When hope lies dead within the heart, vol. i., 45.

When I began the world first, vol. i., 33.

When I look far down on the valley below me, vol. iv., 169.

When I think on the lads and the land I hae left, vol. v., 66.

When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie, vol. ii., 307.

When I was a miller in Fife, vol. iii., 92.

When Katie was scarce out nineteen, vol. i., 157.

When loud the horn is sounding, vol. vi., 63.

When merry hearts were gay, vol. i., 92.

When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lyin' a' at rest, vol. iv., 49.

When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades, vol. v., 153.

When rosy day far in the west has vanish'd frae the scene, vol. v., 151.

When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, vol. ii., 183.

When shall we meet again, vol. iv., 81.

When the bee has left the blossom, vol. v., 73.

When the fair one and the dear one, vol. ii., 190.

When the glen all is still save the stream of the fountain, vol. iv., 58.

When the lark is in the air, vol. iii., 158.

When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, vol. iv., 270.

When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms, vol. iv., 79.

When the sheep are in the fauld, vol. i., 64.

When the star of the morning is set, vol. iv., 66.

When the sun gaes down, vol. v., 109.

When thy smile was still clouded, vol. ii., 282.

When we meet again, Lisette, vol. vi., 190.

When white was my owrelay, vol. i., 134.

When winter winds forget to blaw, vol. i., 268.

Where Manor's stream rins blithe an' clear, vol. iii., 262.

Where shall the lover rest, vol. i., 292.

Where the faded flower shall freshen, vol. vi., 230.

Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes, vol. iii., 67.

While beaux and belles parade the street, vol. iv., 213.

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, vol. i., 303.

Why does the day whose date is brief, vol. iii., 202.

Why gaze on that pale face, vol. vi., 161.

Why is my spirit sad, vol. vi., 41.

Why tarries my love, vol. i., 68.

Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an a', vol. i., 226.

Wifie, come hame, vol. v., 203.

Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell, vol. iii., 54.

Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, vol. i., 202.

Will ye go to the Highlands, my Mary, vol. iii., 66.

Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me, vol. v., 180.

Winter's cauld and cheerless blast, vol. v., 196.

With a breezy burst of singing, vol. v., 285.

With drooping heart he turn'd away, vol. vi., 218.

Within the towers of ancient Glammis, vol. ii., 88.

With laughter swimming in thine eye, vol. iii., 88.

With lofty song we love to cheer, vol. v., 23.

Would that I were where wild woods wave, vol. iv., 68.

Would you be young again? vol. i., 235.


Ye briery bields, where roses blaw, vol. ii., 231.

Ye daisied glens and briery braes, vol. iii., 208.

Ye dark, rugged rocks that recline o'er the deep, vol. i., 179.

Ye hameless glens and waving woods, vol. vi., 151.

Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved, vol. vi., 195.

Ye ken whaur yon wee burnie, love, vol. v., 148.

Ye mariners of England, vol. ii., 262.

Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, vol. v., 205.

Ye needna be courtin' at me, auld man, vol. iv., 222.

Yes, the shades we must leave which my childhood has haunted, vol. ii., 281.

Yestreen, as I strayed on the banks o' the Clyde, vol. iii., 187.

Yestreen, on Cample's bonnie flood, vol. v., 21.

Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin', vol. ii., 96.

Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier, vol. iv., 249.

Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes, vol. v., 174.

Young Donald, dearer loved than life, vol. iv., 113.

Young Love once woo'd a budding rose, vol. vi., 64

Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa, vol. v., 126.

Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, vol. v., 84.

You 've surely heard of famous Neil, vol, ii., 86.




INDEX OF AUTHORS


Affleck, James, vol. iii., 38.

Ainslie, Hew, vol. v., 60.

Aird, Marion Paul, vol. v., 258.

Aird, Thomas, vol. v., 131.

Allan, George, vol. iv., 163.

Allan, Robert, vol. ii., 169.

Anderson, Rev. J. G. Torry, vol. iv., 158.

Anderson, William, vol. v., 178.

Atkinson, Thomas, vol. iv., 122.


Baillie, Joanna, vol. i., 126.

Bald, Alexander, vol. v., 34.

Balfour, Alexander, vol. ii., 101.

Ballantine, James, vol. v., 198.

Barnard, Lady Ann, vol. i., 58.

Bell, Henry Glassford, vol. vi., 39.

Bennet, William, vol. vi., 47.

Bennoch, Francis, vol. v., 1.

Bethune, Alexander, vol. iv., 203.

Bethune, John, vol. iv., 203.

Blackie, John Stuart, vol. vi., 109.

Blair, William, vol. v., 82.

Bonar, Horatius, D.D., vol. vi., 229.

Boswell, Sir Alex., Bart., vol. ii., 204.

Brockie, William, vol. vi., 78.

Brown, Colin Rae, vol. vi., 159.

Brown, James, vol. iii., 186.

Brown, John, vol. iv., 286.

Brown, Thomas., M.D., vol. ii., 278.

Brydson, Thomas, vol. iv., 172.

Buchanan, Alexander, vol. vi., 89.

Buchanan, Dugald, vol. i., 322.

Buchan, Peter, vol. iii., 162.

Burns, James D., vol. vi., 224.

Burtt, John, vol. v., 46.


Cadenhead, William, vol. vi., 133.

Cameron, William, senr., vol. i., 35.

Cameron, William, junr., vol. v., 146.

Campbell, Alexander, vol. i., 161.

Campbell, John, vol. v., 292.

Campbell, Thomas, vol. ii., 255.

Carlile, Alexander, vol. iv., 252.

Cathcart, Robert, vol. vi., 94.

Chalmers, William, vol. ii., 285.

Chambers, Robert, vol. v. 124.

Conolly, Erskine, vol. iii., 220.

Couper, Robert, M.D., vol. i., 53.

Craig, Isabella, vol. vi., 182.

Crawford, Archibald, vol. vi., 31.

Crawford, John, vol. vi., 98.

Crawford, Margaret, vol. vi., 205.

Cunningham, Allan, vol. iii., 1.

Cunningham, Thomas Mounsey, vol. ii., 223.


Davidson, Robert, vol. iii. 206.

Denovan, J. C., vol. iv., 106.

Dick, Thomas, vol. v., 160.

Dickson, John Bathurst, vol. vi., 220.

Dobie, William, vol. v., 54.

Dodds, James, vol. vi., 238.

Donald, George, sen., vol. vi., 35.

Donald, George, jun., vol. vi., 212.

Douglas, Alexander, vol. ii., 110.

Drummond, David, vol. iii., 34.

Dudgeon, William, vol. i., 151.

Dunbar, William, D.D., vol. v., 28.

Duncan, Henry, D.D., vol. ii., 156.

Dunlop, John, vol. v., 77.

Duthie, Robert, vol. vi., 187.


Elliott, Thomas, vol. vi., 141.


Ferguson, William, vol. v., 155.

Finlay, John, senr., vol. iii., 57.

Finlay, John, junr., vol. v., 215.

Finlay, William, vol. iii., 166.

Finlayson, Charles James, vol. v., 49.

Fleming, Charles, vol. v., 153.

Fletcher, Angus, vol. iv., 292.

Foster, William Air, vol. v., 91.

Fraser, Robert, vol. iii., 252.


Gall, Richard, vol. ii., 241.

Gardiner, William, vol. iv., 126.

Gibson, Allan, vol. vi., 137.

Gilfillan, Robert, vol. iii., 261.

Gillespie, William, vol. ii., 218.

Glen, William, vol. iii., 126.

Goldie, John, vol. iv., 98.

Gordon, Alexander, Duke of, vol. i., 46.

Grant, Joseph, vol. iv., 143.

Grant, Mrs, of Carron, vol. i., 50.

Grant, Mrs, of Laggan, vol. i., 99.

Gray, Charles, vol. iii., 50.

Grieve, John, vol. iii., 43.


Halliday, John, vol. vi., 234.

Hamilton, John, vol. i., 117.

Hedderwick, James, vol. vi., 67.

Henderson, George, vol. vi., 227.

Henderson, James, vol. vi., 165.

Hendry, Robert, M.D., vol. v., 57.

Hetherington, William, D.D., LL.D., vol. v., 185.

Hislop, James, vol. iii., 254.

Hogg, James, vol. ii., 1.

Hogg, Robert, vol. iv., 129.

Home, James, vol. iv., 267.

Hume, Alexander, sen., vol. iv., 182.

Hume, Alexander, jun., vol. v., 276.

Hunter, Mrs John, vol. i., 39.

Hunter, John, vol. v., 119.


Imlah, John, vol. iv., 108.

Inglis, Henry, vol. vi., 59.

Inglis, Mrs Margaret M., vol. iv., 73.

Irving, Archibald Stirling, vol. iv., 235.


Jamieson, Alexander, vol. iv., 95.

Jamieson, Robert, vol. ii., 288.

Jamie, William, vol. vi., 96.

Jeffrey, John, vol. vi., 215.

Jerdan, William, vol. v., 30.


Kennedy, Duncan, vol. v., 284.

King, James, vol. iv., 83.

Knox, William, vol. iii., 112.


Laidlaw, William, vol. ii., 310.

Laing, Alexander, vol. iv., 241.

Latto, Thomas C., vol. vi., 127.

Leighton, Robert, vol. vi., 163.

Lewis, Stuart, vol. iii., 27.

Leyden, John, M.D., vol. ii., 191.

Little, James, vol. vi., 153.

Lochore, Robert, vol. ii., 91.

Lockhart, John Gibson, vol. iii., 171.

Logan, William, vol. vi., 151.

Lyle, Thomas, vol. iv., 261.

Lyon, Mrs Agnes, vol. ii., 84.


Macansh, Alexander, vol. v., 171.

Macarthur, Mrs Mary, vol. v., 111.

Mackay, Charles, LL.D., vol. vi., 1.

M'Coll, Evan, vol. vi., 222.

M'Diarmid, John, vol. iii., 155.

Macdonald, Alexander, vol. ii., 321.

Macdonald, James, vol. v., 192.

Macdonald, John, sen., vol. v., 281.

Macdonald, John, jun., vol. vi., 254.

M'Dougall, Allan, vol. v., 287.

Macfarlan, Duncan, vol. vi., 249.

Macfarlan, James, vol. vi., 196.

Macgregor, James, D.D., vol. v., 294.

Macgregor, Joseph, vol. v., 25.

Macindoe, George, vol. ii., 106.

Macintyre, Duncan, vol. i., 334.

Mackay, Archibald, vol. v., 85.

Mackay, Robert, sen., vol. i., 309.

Mackay, Robert, jun., vol. ii., 349.

Mackenzie, Kenneth, vol. v., 290.

M'Lachlan, Alexander, vol. vi., 80.

M'Lachlan, Evan, vol. iv., 279.

Maclagan, Alexander, vol. v., 226.

Maclagan, James, vol. iii., 282.

Maclardy, James, vol. vi., 171.

M'Laren, William, vol. ii., 114.

Macleod, Norman, vol. i., 355.

Macneill, Hector, vol. i., 73.

Macodrum, John, vol. i., 351.

Macvurich, Lachlan, vol. iii., 279.

Malcolm, John, vol. iii., 215.

Malone, Robert L., vol. iv., 216.

Manson, James, vol. vi., 61.

Marshall, Charles, vol. v., 97.

Mathers, Thomas, vol. iii., 184.

Mayne, John, vol. i., 107.

Menzies, George, vol. iii., 223.

Mercer, Andrew, vol. ii., 189.

Miller, Hugh, vol. v., 161.

Miller, Robert, vol. iv., 179.

Miller, William, vol. v., 274.

Mitchell, John, vol. iv., 90.

Moir, David Macbeth, vol. iii., 24.

Montgomery, James, vol. i., 247.

Moore, Dugald, vol. iv., 147.

Morrison, John, vol. ii., 346.

Motherwell, William, vol. iii., 230.

Muirhead, James, D.D., vol. ii., 81.

Munro, John, vol. vi., 251.


Nairn, Carolina, Baroness, vol. i., 184.

Nevay, John, vol. iv., 257.

Nicholson, William, vol. iii., 63.

Nicol, James, vol. i., 24.

Nicoll, Robert, vol. iv., 225.


Ogilvy, Mrs Eliza H., vol. v., 211.

Outram, George, vol. vi., 54.


Pagan, Isobel, vol. iv., 88.

Park, Andrew, vol. v., 248.

Part, William, vol. iii., 97.

Parker, James, vol. v., 116.

Paul, Hamilton, vol. ii., 120.

Picken, Ebenezer, vol. iii., 22.

Polin, Edward, vol. vi., 87.

Pollok, Robert, vol. iv., 103.

Pringle, James, vol. v., 176.

Pringle, Thomas, vol. iii., 102.


Ramsay, John, vol. v., 114.

Reid, William, vol. i., 153.

Richardson, Mrs E. G., vol. ii., 255.

Riddell, Henry Scott, vol. iv., 7.

Riddell, William B. C., vol. vi., 201.

Ritchie, Alexander A., vol. iv., 237.

Robertson, John, vol. ii., 98.

Rodger, Alexander, vol. iii., 71.

Roger, Peter, vol. iii., 212.

Ross, William, vol. iii., 271.


Scadlock, James, vol. ii., 199.

Scott, Andrew, vol. i., 260.

Scott, George, vol. ii., 253.

Scott, Patrick, vol. vi., 218.

Scott, Sir Walter, vol. i., 275.

Sillery, Charles Doyne, vol. iv., 174.

Sim, John, vol. iii., 226.

Simpson, Mrs Jane C, vol. v., 241.

Sinclair, William, vol. v., 263.

Skinner, John, vol. i., 1.

Smart, Alexander, vol. v., 71.

Smibert, Thomas, vol. iv., 195.

Stewart, Allan, vol. iv., 211.

Stewart, Charles, D.D., vol. iv. 289.

Stewart, Mrs Dugald, vol. i., 167.

Still, Peter, vol. iv., 220.

Stirling, William, M.P., vol. vi., 121.

Stirrat, James, vol. iii., 40.

Stoddart, Thomas Tod, vol. v., 220.

Struthers, John, vol. ii., 235.

Stuart, John Roy, vol. ii., 340.

Symington, Andrew James, vol. vi., 176.


Tait, Alexander, vol. v., 151.

Tait, John, vol. i., 70.

Tannahill, Robert, vol. ii., 131.

Taylor, David, vol. vi., 92.

Telfer, James, vol. iv., 273.

Thomson, William, vol. v., 68.

Train, Joseph, vol. ii., 288.

Tweedie, John, vol. iv., 120.


Vedder, David, vol. iii., 143.


Watson, Thomas, vol. v., 189.

Watson, Walter, vol. ii., 302.

Webster, David, vol. iii., 91.

Weir, Daniel, vol. iii., 194.

White, Robert, vol. v., 136.

Wilson, Alexander, vol. i., 172.

Wilson, Alexander Stephen, vol. vi., 192.

Wilson, George, vol. v., 37.

Wilson, John, vol. iii., 81.

Wilson, Robert, vol. vi., 84.

Wilson, William, vol. v., 102.

Wright, John, vol. iv., 137.


Young, Thomas, vol. vi., 81.

Younger, John, vol. v., 42.


THE END.


EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume VI, by Various