[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

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

VOL. I.


THE AULD HOUSE O' GASK.
_THE BIRTH PLACE OF LADY NAIRN._
_(Copied by permission of Patterson & Sons)_

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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

SIR WALTER SCOTT BART.

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

       *       *       *       *       *




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

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

BY

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


IN SIX VOLUMES;

VOL. I.


EDINBURGH:

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

M.DCCC.LV.


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




TO

WILLIAM STIRLING, ESQ. OF KEIR, M.P.,

AN ENLIGHTENED SENATOR, AN ACCOMPLISHED SCHOLAR, AND AN INGENIOUS POET,

THIS FIRST VOLUME

OF

The Modern Scottish Minstrel

IS,

WITH HIS KIND PERMISSION, MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,

BY

HIS VERY OBEDIENT, FAITHFUL SERVANT,

CHARLES ROGERS.




PREFACE.


Scotland has probably produced a more patriotic and more extended
minstrelsy than any other country in the world. Those Caledonian
harp-strains, styled by Sir Walter Scott "gems of our own mountains,"
have frequently been gathered into caskets of national song, but have
never been stored in any complete cabinet; while no attempt has been
made, at least on an ample scale, to adapt, by means of suitable
metrical translations, the minstrelsy of the Gaël for Lowland melody.
The present work has been undertaken with the view of supplying these
deficiencies, and with the further design of extending the fame of those
cultivators of Scottish song--hitherto partially obscured by untoward
circumstances, or on account of their own diffidence--and of affording a
stimulus towards the future cultivation of national poetry.

The plan of the work is distinct from that of every previous collection
of Scottish song--the more esteemed lyrical compositions of the various
bards being printed along with the memoirs of the respective authors,
while the names of the poets have been arranged in chronological order.
Those have been considered as _modern_ whose lives extend into the past
half-century; and the whole of these have consequently been included in
the work. Several Highland bards who died a short period before the
commencement of the century have, however, been introduced. Of all the
Scottish poets, whether lyrical or otherwise, who survived the period
indicated, biographical sketches will be supplied in the course of the
publication, together with memoirs of the principal modern collectors,
composers and vocalists. The memoirs, so far as is practicable, will be
prepared from original materials, of which the Editor, after a very
extensive correspondence, has obtained a supply more ample and more
interesting than, he flatters himself, has ever been attained by any
collector of northern minstrelsy. The work will extend to six volumes,
each of the subsequent volumes being accompanied by a dissertation on a
distinct department of Scottish poetry and song. Each volume will be
illustrated with two elegant engravings. In the course of the work, many
original compositions will be presented, recovered from the MSS. of the
deceased poets, or contributed by distinguished living bards.

For the department of the "Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy," the Editor has
obtained the assistance of a learned friend, intimately familiar with
the language and poetry of the Highlands. To this esteemed co-adjutor
the reader is indebted for the revisal of the Gaelic department of this
work, as well as for the following prefatory observations on the
subject:--

     "Among the intelligent natives of the Highlands, it is well known
     that the Gaelic language contains a quantity of poetry, which, how
     difficult soever to transfuse into other tongues and idioms, never
     fails to touch the heart, and excite enthusiastic feelings. The
     plan of 'The Modern Scottish Minstrel' restricts us to a period
     less favourable to the inspirations of the Celtic muse than remoter
     times. If it is asked, What could be gained by recurring to a more
     distant period? or what this unlettered people have really to shew
     for their bardic pretensions? we answer, that there is extant a
     large and genuine collection of Highland minstrelsy, ranging over a
     long exciting period, from the days of Harlaw to the expedition of
     Charles Edward. The 'Prosnachadh Catha,' or battle-song, that led
     on the raid of Donald the Islander on the Garioch, is still sung;
     the 'Woes of the Children of the Mist' are yet rehearsed in the
     ears of their children in the most plaintive measures. Innerlochy
     and Killiecrankie have their appropriate melodies; Glencoe has its
     dirge; both the exiled Jameses have their pæan and their lament;
     Charles Edward his welcome and his wail;--all in strains so varied,
     and with imagery so copious, that their repetition is continually
     called for, and their interest untiring.

     "All that we have to offer belongs to recent times; but we cannot
     aver that the merit of the verses is inferior. The interest of the
     subjects is certainly immeasurably less; but, perhaps, not less
     propitious to the lilts and the luinneags, in which, as in her
     music and imitative dancing, the Highland border has found her best
     Lowland acceptation.

     "We are not aware that we need except any piece, out of the more
     ancient class, that seems not to admit of being rivalled by some of
     the compositions of Duncan Ban (Macintyre), Rob Donn, and a few
     others that come into our own series, if we exclude the pathetic
     'Old Bard's Wish,' 'The Song of the Owl,' and, perhaps, Ian Lom's
     'Innerlochy.'

     "But, while this may be so far satisfactory to our readers, we are
     under the necessity of claiming their charitable forbearance for
     the strangers of the mountain whom we are to introduce to their
     acquaintance. The language, and, in some respects, the imagery and
     versification, are as foreign to the usages of the Anglo-Saxon as
     so many samples of Orientalism. The transfusion of the Greek and
     Latin choral metres is a light effort to the difficulty of
     imitating the rhythm, or representing the peculiar vein of these
     song-enamoured mountaineers. Those who know how a favourite ode of
     Horace, or a lay of Catullus, is made to look, except in mere
     paraphrase, must not talk of the poorness or triteness of the
     Highlander's verses, till they are enabled to do them justice by a
     knowledge of the language. We disdain any attempt to make those
     bards sing in the mere English taste, even if we could so translate
     them as to make them speak or sing better than they do. The fear of
     his sarcasms prevented Dr Johnson from hearing one literal version
     during his whole sojourn in the Highlands. Sir Walter Scott wished
     that somebody might have the manliness to recover Highland poetry
     from the mystification of paraphrase or imposture, and to present
     it genuine to the English reader. In that spirit we promise to
     execute our task; and we shall rejoice if even a very moderate
     degree of success should attend our endeavours to obtain for the
     sister muse some share of that popularity to which we believe her
     entitled."

In respect of the present volume of "The Modern Scottish Minstrel," the
Editor has to congratulate himself on his being enabled to present, for
the first time in a popular form, the more esteemed lays of Carolina,
Baroness Nairn, author of "The Laird o' Cockpen," "The Land o' the
Leal," and a greater number of popular lyrics than any other Caledonian
bard, Burns alone excepted. Several pieces of this accomplished lady,
not previously published, have been introduced, through the kindness of
her surviving friends. The memoir of the Baroness has been prepared from
original documents entrusted to the Editor. For permission to engrave
"The Auld House o' Gask," Lady Nairn's birth-place, the Editor's thanks
are due to Mr Paterson, music-seller in Edinburgh.

While the present volume of "The Modern Scottish Minstrel" is offered to
the public with becoming diffidence, the Editor is not without a faint
ray of hope that, if health and sufficient leisure are afforded him, the
present publication may be found the most ample and satisfactory
repository of national song which has at any period been offered to the
public.

    ARGYLE HOUSE, STIRLING,
        _April 18, 1855._




CONTENTS.

                                                                    PAGE
JOHN SKINNER,                                                          1
  Tullochgorum,                                                       11
  John o' Badenyon,                                                   13
  The ewie wi' the crookit horn,                                      17
  O! why should old age so much wound us?                             20
  Still in the wrong,                                                 22
  Lizzy Liberty,                                                      24
  The stipendless parson,                                             28
  The man of Ross,                                                    31
  A song on the times,                                                33

WILLIAM CAMERON,                                                      35
  As o'er the Highland hills I hied,                                  37

MRS JOHN HUNTER,                                                      39
  The Indian death-song,                                              41
  My mother bids me bind my hair,                                     41
  The flowers of the forest,                                          42
  The season comes when first we met,                                 43
  Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore,                                 44
  Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,                             44
  The lot of thousands,                                               45

ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON,                                            46
  Cauld kail in Aberdeen,                                             48

MRS GRANT OF CARRON,                                                  50
  Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,                                          52

ROBERT COUPER, M.D.,                                                  53
  Kinrara,                                                            55
  The sheeling,                                                       55
  The ewe-bughts, Marion,                                             56

LADY ANNE BARNARD,                                                    58
  Auld Robin Gray,                                                    64
     "     "    Part II.,                                             65
  Why tarries my love?                                                68

JOHN TAIT,                                                            70
  The banks of the Dee,                                               72

HECTOR MACNEILL,                                                      73
  Mary of Castlecary,                                                 82
  My boy, Tammy,                                                      83
  Oh, tell me how for to woo,                                         85
  Lassie wi' the gowden hair,                                         87
  Come under my plaidie,                                              89
  I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane,                                     90
  Donald and Flora,                                                   92
  My luve's in Germany,                                               95
  Dinna think, bonnie lassie,                                         96

MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN,                                                  99
  Oh, where, tell me where?                                          104
  Oh, my love, leave me not,                                         106

JOHN MAYNE,                                                          107
  Logan braes,                                                       110
  Helen of Kirkconnel,                                               111
  The winter sat lang,                                               113
  My Johnnie,                                                        114
  The troops were embarked,                                          115

JOHN HAMILTON,                                                       117
  The rantin' Highlandman,                                           118
  Up in the mornin' early,                                           119
  Go to Berwick, Johnnie,                                            121
  Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff,                                    121
  Tell me, Jessie, tell me why?                                      122
  The hawthorn,                                                      123
  Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds!                                       124

JOANNA BAILLIE,                                                      126
  The maid of Llanwellyn,                                            132
  Good night, good night!                                            133
  Though richer swains thy love pursue,                              134
  Poverty parts good companie,                                       134
  Fy, let us a' to the wedding,                                      136
  Hooly and fairly,                                                  139
  The weary pund o' tow,                                             141
  The wee pickle tow,                                                142
  The gowan glitters on the sward,                                   143
  Saw ye Johnnie comin'?                                             145
  It fell on a morning,                                              146
  Woo'd, and married, and a',                                        148

WILLIAM DUDGEON,                                                     151
  Up among yon cliffy rocks,                                         152

WILLIAM REID,                                                        153
  The lea rig,                                                       154
  John Anderson, my jo (a continuation),                             155
  Fair, modest flower,                                               157
  Kate o' Gowrie,                                                    157
  Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde,                                   159

ALEXANDER CAMPBELL,                                                  161
  Now winter's wind sweeps,                                          165
  The hawk whoops on high,                                           166

MRS DUGALD STEWART,                                                  167
  The tears I shed must ever fall,                                   168
  Returning spring, with gladsome ray,                               169

ALEXANDER WILSON,                                                    172
  Connel and Flora,                                                  179
  Matilda,                                                           179
  Auchtertool,                                                       182

CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN,                                            184
  The ploughman,                                                     194
  Caller herrin',                                                    195
  The land o' the leal,                                              196
  The Laird o' Cockpen,                                              198
  Her home she is leaving,                                           200
  The bonniest lass in a' the warld,                                 201
  My ain kind dearie, O!                                             202
  He 's lifeless amang the rude billows,                             202
  Joy of my earliest days,                                           203
  Oh, weel's me on my ain man,                                       204
  Kind Robin lo'es me                                                205
  Kitty Reid's house,                                                205
  The robin's nest,                                                  206
  Saw ye nae my Peggy?                                               208
  Gude nicht, and joy be wi' ye a'!                                  209
  Cauld kail in Aberdeen,                                            210
  He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel,                              211
  The lass o' Gowrie,                                                213
  There grows a bonnie brier bush,                                   215
  John Tod,                                                          216
  Will ye no come back again?                                        218
  Jamie the laird,                                                   219
  Songs of my native land,                                           220
  Castell Gloom,                                                     221
  Bonnie Gascon Ha',                                                 223
  The auld house,                                                    224
  The hundred pipers,                                                226
  The women are a' gane wud,                                         227
  Jeanie Deans,                                                      228
  The heiress,                                                       230
  The mitherless lammie,                                             231
  The attainted Scottish nobles,                                     232
  True love is watered aye wi' tears,                                233
  Ah, little did my mother think,                                    234
  Would you be young again?                                          235
  Rest is not here,                                                  236
  Here's to them that are gane,                                      237
  Farewell, O farewell!                                              238
  The dead who have died in the Lord,                                239

JAMES NICOL,                                                         240
  Blaw saftly, ye breezes,                                           242
  By yon hoarse murmurin' stream,                                    242
  Haluckit Meg,                                                      244
  My dear little lassie,                                             246

JAMES MONTGOMERY,                                                    247
  "Friendship, love, and truth,"                                     253
  The Swiss cowherd's song in a foreign land,                        254
  German war-song,                                                   254
  Via Crucis, via Lucis,                                             255
  Verses to a robin-redbreast,                                       257
  Slavery that was,                                                  258

ANDREW SCOTT,                                                        260
  Rural content, or the muirland farmer,                             263
  Symon and Janet,                                                   265
  Coquet water,                                                      268
  The young maid's wish for peace,                                   269
  The fiddler's widow,                                               271
  Lament for the death of an Irish chief,                            272
  The departure of summer,                                           273

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.,                                             275
  It was an English ladye bright,                                    289
  Lochinvar,                                                         290
  Where shall the lover rest,                                        292
  Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,                                   294
  Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,                         295
  The heath this night must be my bed,                               297
  The imprisoned huntsman,                                           298
  He is gone on the mountain,                                        299
  A weary lot is thine, fair maid,                                   300
  Allen-a-Dale,                                                      300
  The cypress wreath,                                                302
  The cavalier,                                                      303
  Hunting song,                                                      304
  Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,                     315

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METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN),                                            309
  The song of winter,                                                311
  Dirge for Ian Macechan,                                            315
  The song of the forsaken drover,                                   315
  Isabel Mackay--the maid alone,                                     318
  Evan's Elegy,                                                      321

DOUGAL BUCHANAN,                                                     322
  A clagionn--the skull,                                             326
  Am bruadar--the dream,                                             330

DUNCAN MACINTYRE,                                                    334
  Mairi bhan og (Mary, the young, the fair-haired),                  335
  Bendourain, the Otter Mount,                                       336
  The bard to his musket,                                            347

JOHN MACODRUM,                                                       351
  Oran na h-aois (the song of age),                                  352

NORMAN MACLEOD (TORMAID BAN),                                        355
  Caberfae,                                                          357

       *       *       *       *       *

GLOSSARY,                                                            363




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL




JOHN SKINNER.


Among those modern Scottish poets whose lives, by extending to a
considerably distant period, render them connecting links between the
old and recent minstrelsy of Caledonia, the first place is due to the
Rev. John Skinner. This ingenious and learned person was born on the 3d
of October 1721, at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, and county of
Aberdeen. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was parochial
schoolmaster; but two years after his son's birth, he was presented to
the more lucrative situation of schoolmaster of Echt, a parish about
twelve miles distant from Aberdeen. He discharged the duties of this
latter appointment during the long incumbency of fifty years. He was
twice married. By his first union with Mrs Jean Gillanders, the relict
of Donald Farquharson of Balfour, was born an only child, the subject of
this memoir. The mother dying when the child was only two years old, the
charge of his early training depended solely on his father, who for
several years remained a widower. The paternal duties were adequately
performed: the son, while a mere youth, was initiated in classical
learning, and in his thirteenth year he became a successful competitor
for a bursary or exhibition in Marischal College, Aberdeen. At the
University, during the usual philosophical course of four years, he
pursued his studies with diligence and success; and he afterwards became
an usher in the parish schools of Kemnay and Monymusk.

From early youth, young Skinner had courted the Muse of his country, and
composed verses in the Scottish dialect. When a mere stripling, he could
repeat, which he did with enthusiasm, the long poem by James I. of
"Christ-kirk on the Green;" he afterwards translated it into Latin
verse; and an imitation of the same poem, entitled "The Monymusk
Christmas Ba'ing," descriptive of the diversions attendant on the annual
Christmas gatherings for playing the game of foot-ball at Monymusk,
which he composed in his sixteenth year, attracting the notice of the
lady of Sir Archibald Grant, Bart. of Monymusk, brought him the favour
of that influential family. Though the humble usher of a parish school,
he was honoured with the patronage of the worthy baronet and his lady,
became an inmate of their mansion, and had the uncontrolled use of its
library. The residence of the poet in Monymusk House indirectly conduced
towards his forming those ecclesiastical sentiments which exercised such
an important influence on his subsequent career. The Episcopal clergyman
of the district was frequently a guest at the table of Sir Archibald;
and by the arguments and persuasive conversation of this person, Mr
Skinner was induced to enlist his sympathies in the cause of the
Episcopal or non-juring clergy of Scotland. They bore the latter
appellation from their refusal, during the existence of the exiled
family of Stewart, to take the oath of allegiance to the House of
Hanover. In 1740, on the invitation of Mr Robert Forbes, Episcopal
minister at Leith, afterwards a bishop, Mr Skinner, in the capacity of
private tutor to the only son of Mr Sinclair of Scolloway, proceeded to
Zetland, where he acquired the intimate friendship of the Rev. Mr
Hunter, the only non-juring clergyman in that remote district. There he
remained only one year, owing to the death of the elder Mr Sinclair, and
the removal of his pupil to pursue his studies in a less retired
locality. He lamented the father's death in Latin, as well as in English
verse. He left Scolloway with the best wishes of the family; and as a
substantial proof of the goodwill of his friend Mr Hunter, he received
in marriage the hand of his eldest daughter.

Returning to Aberdeenshire, he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal
Church, by Bishop Dunbar of Peterhead; and in November 1742, on the
unanimous invitation of the people, he was appointed to the pastoral
charge of the congregation at Longside. Uninfluenced by the soarings of
ambition, he seems to have fixed here, at the outset, a permanent
habitation: he rented a cottage at Linshart in the vicinity, which,
though consisting only of a single apartment, besides the kitchen,
sufficed for the expenditure of his limited emoluments. In every respect
he realised Goldsmith's description of the village pastor:--

    "A man he was to all the country dear,
    And passing rich with forty pounds a-year;
    Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
    Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place."

Secluded, however, as were Mr Skinner's habits, and though he never had
interfered in the political movements of the period, he did not escape
his share in those ruthless severities which were visited upon the
non-juring clergy subsequent to the last Rebellion. His chapel was
destroyed by the soldiers of the barbarous Duke of Cumberland; and, on
the plea of his having transgressed the law by preaching to more than
four persons without subscribing the oath of allegiance, he was, during
six months, detained a prisoner in the jail of Aberdeen.

Entering on the sacred duties of the pastoral office, Mr Skinner appears
to have checked the indulgence of his rhyming propensities. His
subsequent poetical productions, which include the whole of his popular
songs, were written to please his friends, or gratify the members of his
family, and without the most distant view to publication. In 1787, he
writes to Burns, on the subject of Scottish song:--"While I was young, I
dabbled a good deal in these things; but on getting the black gown, I
gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all
tolerably good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite
tunes, and so extorted those effusions which have made a public
appearance, beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions; at
the same time, I hope there is nothing to be found in them
uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to
see respected." Some of Mr Skinner's best songs were composed at a
sitting, while they seldom underwent any revision after being committed
to paper. To the following incident, his most popular song,
"Tullochgorum," owed its origin. In the course of a visit he was making
to a friend in Ellon (not Cullen, as has been stated on the authority of
Burns), a dispute arose among the guests on the subject of Whig and Tory
politics, which, becoming somewhat too exciting for the comfort of the
lady of the house, in order to bring it promptly to a close, she
requested Mr Skinner to suggest appropriate words for the favourite air,
"The Reel of Tullochgorum." Mr Skinner readily complied, and, before
leaving the house, produced what Burns, in a letter to the author,
characterised as "the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw." The name of
the lady who made the request to the poet was Mrs Montgomery, and hence
the allusion in the first stanza of the ballad:--

    "Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
    And lay your disputes all aside;
    What signifies 't for folks to chide
        For what was done before them?
      Let Whig and Tory all agree," &c.

Though claiming no distinction as a writer of verses, Mr Skinner did not
conceal his ambition to excel in another department of literature. In
1746, in his twenty-fifth year, he published a pamphlet, in defence of
the non-juring character of his Church, entitled "A Preservative against
Presbytery." A performance of greater effort, published in 1757, excited
some attention, and the unqualified commendation of the learned Bishop
Sherlock. In this production, entitled "A Dissertation on Jacob's
Prophecy," which was intended as a supplement to a treatise on the same
subject by Dr Sherlock, the author has established, by a critical
examination of the original language, that the words in Jacob's prophecy
(Gen. xlix. 10), rendered "sceptre" and "lawgiver" in the authorised
version, ought to be translated "tribeship" and "typifier," a difference
of interpretation which obviates some difficulties respecting the exact
fulfilment of this remarkable prediction. In a pamphlet printed in 1767,
Mr Skinner again vindicated the claims and authority of his Church; and
on this occasion, against the alleged misrepresentations of Mr Norman
Sievewright, English clergyman at Brechin, who had published a work
unfavourable to the cause of Scottish Episcopacy. His most important
work, "An Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, from the first appearance
of Christianity in that kingdom," was published in the year 1788, in two
octavo volumes. This publication, which is arranged in the form of
letters to a friend, and dedicated, in elegant Latin verse, "Ad Filium
et Episcopum," (to his son, and bishop), by partaking too rigidly of a
sectarian character, did not attain any measure of success. Mr Skinner's
other prose works were published after his death, together with a Memoir
of the author, under the editorial care of his son, Bishop Skinner of
Aberdeen. These consist of theological essays, in the form of "Letters
addressed to Candidates for Holy Orders," "A Dissertation on the
Sheckinah, or Divine Presence with the Church or People of God," and "An
Essay towards a literal or true radical exposition of the Song of
Songs," the whole being included in two octavo volumes, which appeared
in 1809. A third volume was added, containing a collection of the
author's compositions in Latin verse, and his fugitive songs and ballads
in the Scottish dialect--the latter portion of this volume being at the
same time published in a more compendious form, with the title,
"Amusements of Leisure Hours; or, Poetical Pieces, chiefly in the
Scottish dialect."

Though living in constant retirement at Linshart, the reputation of the
Longside pastor, both as a poet and a man of classical taste, became
widely extended, and persons distinguished in the world of letters
sought his correspondence and friendship. With Dr Gleig, afterwards
titular Bishop of Brechin, Dr Doig of Stirling, and John Ramsay of
Ochtertyre, he maintained an epistolary intercourse for several years.
Dr Gleig, who edited the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, consulted Mr Skinner
respecting various important articles contributed to that valuable
publication. His correspondence with Doig and Ramsay was chiefly on
their favourite topic of philology. These two learned friends visited Mr
Skinner in the summer of 1795, and entertained him for a week at
Peterhead. This brief period of intellectual intercourse was regarded by
the poet as the most entirely pleasurable of his existence; and the
impression of it on the vivid imagination of Mr Ramsay is recorded in a
Latin eulogy on his northern correspondent, which he subsequently
transmitted to him. A poetical epistle addressed by Mr Skinner to Robert
Burns, in commendation of his talents, was characterized by the Ayrshire
Bard as "the best poetical compliment he had ever received." It led to a
regular correspondence, which was carried on with much satisfaction to
both parties. The letters, which chiefly relate to the preparation of
Johnson's _Musical Museum_, then in the course of publication, have been
included in his published correspondence. Burns never saw Mr Skinner; he
had not informed himself as to his locality during the prosecution of
his northern tour, and had thus the mortification of ascertaining that
he had been in his neighbourhood, without having formed his personal
acquaintance. To Mr Skinner's son, whom he accidentally met in Aberdeen
on his return, he expressed a deep regret for the blunder, as "he would
have gone twenty miles out of his way to visit the author of
'Tullochgorum.'"

As a man of ingenuity, various acquirements, and agreeable manners, Mr
Skinner was held in much estimation among his contemporaries. Whatever
he read, with the assistance of a commonplace-book, he accurately
remembered, and could readily turn to account; and, though his library
was contained in a closet of five feet square, he was abundantly well
informed on every ordinary topic of conversation. He was fond of
controversial discussion, and wielded both argument and wit with a power
alarming to every antagonist. Though keen in debate, he was however
possessed of a most imperturbable suavity of temper. His conversation
was of a playful cast, interspersed with anecdote, and free from every
affectation of learning. As a clergyman, Mr Skinner enjoyed the esteem
and veneration of his flock. Besides efficiently discharging his
ministerial duties, he practised gratuitously as a physician, having
qualified himself, by acquiring a competent acquaintance with the
healing art at the medical classes in Marischal College. His pulpit
duties were widely acceptable; but his discourses, though edifying and
instructive, were more the result of the promptitude of the preacher
than the effects of a painstaking preparation. He abandoned the aid of
the manuscript in the pulpit, on account of the untoward occurrence of
his notes being scattered by a startled fowl, in the early part of his
ministry, while he was addressing his people from the door of his house,
after the wanton destruction of his chapel.

In a scene less calculated to invite poetic inspiration no votary of the
muse had ever resided. On every side of his lonely dwelling extended a
wild uncultivated plain; nor for miles around did any other human
habitation relieve the monotony of this cheerless solitude. In her
gayest moods, Nature never wore a pleasing aspect in _Long-gate_, nor
did the distant prospect compensate for the dreary gloominess of the
surrounding landscape. For his poetic suggestions Mr Skinner was wholly
dependent on the singular activity of his fancy; as he derived his chief
happiness in his communings with an attached flock, and in the endearing
intercourse of his family. Of his children, who were somewhat numerous
he contrived to afford the whole, both sons and daughters, a superior
education; and he had the satisfaction, for a long period of years, to
address one of his sons as the bishop of his diocese.

The death of Mr Skinner's wife, in the year 1799, fifty-eight years
after their marriage, was the most severe trial which he seems to have
experienced. In a Latin elegy, he gave expression to the deep sense
which he entertained of his bereavement. In 1807, his son, Bishop
Skinner, having sustained a similar bereavement, invited his aged father
to share the comforts of his house; and after ministering at Longside
for the remarkably lengthened incumbency of sixty-five years, Mr Skinner
removed to Aberdeen. But a greater change was at hand; on the 16th of
June 1807, in less than a week after his arrival, he was suddenly seized
with illness, and almost immediately expired. His remains were interred
in the churchyard of Longside; and the flock to which he had so long
ministered placed over the grave a handsome monument, bearing, on a
marble tablet, an elegant tribute to the remembrance of his virtues and
learning. At the residence of Bishop Skinner, he had seen his
descendants in the fourth generation.

Of Mr Skinner's songs, printed in this collection, the most popular are
"Tullochgorum," "John o' Badenyon," and "The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn."
The whole are pervaded by sprightliness and good-humoured pleasantry.
Though possessing the fault of being somewhat too lengthy, no
song-compositions of any modern writer in Scottish verse have, with the
exception of those of Burns, maintained a stronger hold of the Scottish
heart, or been more commonly sung in the social circle.




TULLOCHGORUM.


                  I.

    Come gie 's a sang, Montgomery cried,
    And lay your disputes all aside,
    What signifies 't for folks to chide
        For what was done before them:
    Let Whig and Tory all agree,
      Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
      Whig and Tory all agree,
        To drop their Whig-mig-morum;
    Let Whig and Tory all agree
    To spend the night wi' mirth and glee,
    And cheerful sing alang wi' me
        The Reel o' Tullochgorum.


                  II.

    O Tullochgorum 's my delight,
    It gars us a' in ane unite,
    And ony sumph that keeps a spite,
        In conscience I abhor him:
    For blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
      Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie,
      Blythe and cheerie we'll be a',
        And make a happy quorum;
    For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'
    As lang as we hae breath to draw,
    And dance, till we be like to fa',
        The Reel o' Tullochgorum.


                  III.

    What needs there be sae great a fraise
    Wi' dringing dull Italian lays?
    I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys
        For half a hunder score o' them;
    They're dowf and dowie at the best,
      Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
      Dowf and dowie at the best,
        Wi' a' their variorum;
    They're dowf and dowie at the best,
    Their _allegros_ and a' the rest,
    They canna' please a Scottish taste,
        Compared wi' Tullochgorum.


                  IV.

    Let warldly worms their minds oppress
    Wi' fears o' want and double cess,
    And sullen sots themsells distress
        Wi' keeping up decorum:
    Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
      Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
      Sour and sulky shall we sit,
        Like old philosophorum?
    Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
    Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
    Nor ever try to shake a fit
        To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum?


                  V.

    May choicest blessings aye attend
    Each honest, open-hearted friend,
    And calm and quiet be his end,
        And a' that's good watch o'er him;
    May peace and plenty be his lot,
      Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
      Peace and plenty be his lot,
        And dainties a great store o' them:
    May peace and plenty be his lot,
    Unstain'd by any vicious spot,
    And may he never want a groat,
        That 's fond o' Tullochgorum!


                  VI.

    But for the sullen, frumpish fool,
    That loves to be oppression's tool,
    May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
        And discontent devour him;
    May dool and sorrow be his chance,
      Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
      Dool and sorrow be his chance,
        And nane say, Wae 's me for him!
    May dool and sorrow be his chance,
    Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
    Wha e'er he be that winna dance
        The Reel o' Tullochgorum.




JOHN O' BADENYON


                  I.

    When first I cam to be a man
      Of twenty years or so,
    I thought myself a handsome youth,
      And fain the world would know;
    In best attire I stept abroad,
      With spirits brisk and gay,
    And here and there and everywhere
      Was like a morn in May;
    No care I had, nor fear of want,
      But rambled up and down,
    And for a beau I might have past
      In country or in town;
    I still was pleased where'er I went,
      And when I was alone,
    I tuned my pipe and pleased myself
      Wi' John o' Badenyon.


                  II.

    Now in the days of youthful prime
      A mistress I must find,
    For _love_, I heard, gave one an air
      And e'en improved the mind:
    On Phillis fair above the rest
      Kind fortune fix'd my eyes,
    Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
      And she became my choice;
    To Cupid now, with hearty prayer,
      I offer'd many a vow;
    And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore,
      As other lovers do;
    But, when at last I breathed my flame,
      I found her cold as stone;
    I left the girl, and tuned my pipe
      To John o' Badenyon.


                  III.

    When _love_ had thus my heart beguiled
      With foolish hopes and vain;
    To _friendship's_ port I steer'd my course,
      And laugh'd at lovers' pain;
    A friend I got by lucky chance,
      'Twas something like divine,
    An honest friend 's a precious gift,
      And such a gift was mine;
    And now whatever might betide
      A happy man was I,
    In any strait I knew to whom
      I freely might apply.
    A strait soon came: my friend I try'd;
      He heard, and spurn'd my moan;
    I hied me home, and tuned my pipe
      To John o' Badenyon.


                  IV.

    Methought I should be wiser next,
      And would a _patriot_ turn,
    Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes
      And cry up Parson Horne.[1]
    Their manly spirit I admired,
      And praised their noble zeal,
    Who had with flaming tongue and pen
      Maintain'd the public weal;
    But e'er a month or two had pass'd,
      I found myself betray'd,
    'Twas _self_ and _party_, after all,
      For a' the stir they made;
    At last I saw the factious knaves
      Insult the very throne,
    I cursed them a', and tuned my pipe
      To John o' Badenyon.


                  V.

    What next to do I mused awhile,
      Still hoping to succeed;
    I pitch'd on _books_ for company,
      And gravely tried to read:
    I bought and borrow'd everywhere,
      And studied night and day,
    Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote
      That happen'd in my way:
    Philosophy I now esteem'd
      The ornament of youth,
    And carefully through many a page
      I hunted after truth.
    A thousand various schemes I tried,
      And yet was pleased with none;
    I threw them by, and tuned my pipe
      To John o' Badenyon.


                  VI.

    And now, ye youngsters everywhere,
      That wish to make a show,
    Take heed in time, nor fondly hope
      For happiness below;
    What you may fancy pleasure here,
      Is but an empty name,
    And _girls_, and _friends_, and _books_, and so,
      You 'll find them all the same.
    Then be advised, and warning take
      From such a man as me;
    I 'm neither Pope nor Cardinal,
      Nor one of high degree;
    You 'll meet displeasure everywhere;
      Then do as I have done,
    E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves
      With John o' Badenyon.


[1] This song was composed when Wilkes, Horne, and others, were exciting
a commotion about liberty.




THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.


                I.

    Were I but able to rehearse
    My Ewie's praise in proper verse,
    I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierce
      As ever piper's drone could blaw;
    The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
    Wha had kent her might hae sworn
    Sic a Ewe was never born,
      Hereabout nor far awa';
    Sic a Ewe was never born,
      Hereabout nor far awa'.


                II.

    I never needed tar nor keil
    To mark her upo' hip or heel,
    Her crookit horn did as weel
      To ken her by amo' them a';
    She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
    But keepit aye her ain jog-trot,
    Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
      Was never sweir to lead nor caw;
    Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.


                III.

    Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
    Wind nor wet could never wrang her,
    Anes she lay an ouk and langer
      Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw:
    Whan ither ewies lap the dyke,
    And eat the kail, for a' the tyke,
    My Ewie never play'd the like,
      But tyc'd about the barn wa';
    My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.


                IV.

    A better or a thriftier beast
    Nae honest man could weel hae wist,
    For, silly thing, she never mist
      To hae ilk year a lamb or twa':
    The first she had I gae to Jock,
    To be to him a kind o' stock,
    And now the laddie has a flock
      O' mair nor thirty head ava';
    And now the laddie has a flock, &c.


                V.

    I lookit aye at even' for her,
    Lest mishanter should come o'er her,
    Or the fowmart might devour her,
      Gin the beastie bade awa;
    My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
    Well deserved baith girse and corn,
    Sic a Ewe was never born,
      Hereabout nor far awa';
    Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.


                VI.

    Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
    (Wha can speak it without _greeting_?)
    A villain cam' when I was sleeping,
      Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a':
    I sought her sair upo' the morn,
    And down aneath a buss o' thorn
    I got my Ewie's crookit horn,
      But my Ewie was awa';
    I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.


                VII.

    O! gin I had the loon that did it,
    Sworn I have as well as said it,
    Though a' the warld should forbid it,
      I wad gie his neck a thra':
    I never met wi' sic a turn
    As this sin' ever I was born,
    My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn,
      Silly Ewie, stown awa';
    My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.


                VIII.

    O! had she died o' crook or cauld,
    As Ewies do when they grow auld,
    It wad na been, by mony fauld,
      Sae sair a heart to nane o's a':
    For a' the claith that we hae worn,
    Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,
    The loss o' her we could hae born,
      Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa';
    The loss o' her we could hae born, &c.


                IX.

    But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,
    Aneath a bleedy villain's knife,
    I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife
      Will never win aboon 't ava:
    O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
    Call your muses up and mourn,
    Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn
      Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'!
    Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.




O! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH WOUND US?

TUNE--_"Dumbarton Drums."_


                    I.

    O! why should old age so much wound us?[2]
    There is nothing in it all to confound us:
      For how happy now am I,
      With my old wife sitting by,
    And our bairns and our oys all around us;
      For how happy now am I, &c.


                    II.

    We began in the warld wi' naething,
    And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing;
      We made use of what we had,
      And our thankful hearts were glad,
    When we got the bit meat and the claithing;
      We made use of what we had, &c.


                    III.

    We have lived all our lifetime contented,
    Since the day we became first acquainted:
      It 's true we 've been but poor,
      And we are so to this hour,
    But we never yet repined or lamented;
      It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.


                    IV.

    When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit,
    Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit;
      But we always gave a share
      Of the little we could spare,
    When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it;
      But we always gave a share, &c.


                    V.

    We never laid a scheme to be wealthy,
    By means that were cunning or stealthy;
      But we always had the bliss--
      And what further could we wiss?--
    To be pleased with ourselves, and be healthy;
      But we always had the bliss, &c.


                    VI.

    What though we cannot boast of our guineas?
    We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies;
      And these, I 'm certain, are
      More desirable by far
    Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies;
      And these, I am certain, are, &c.


                    VII.

    We have seen many wonder and ferly,
    Of changes that almost are yearly,
      Among rich folks up and down,
      Both in country and in town,
    Who now live but scrimply and barely;
      Among rich folks up and down, &c.


                    VIII.

    Then why should people brag of prosperity?
    A straiten'd life we see is no rarity;
      Indeed, we 've been in want,
      And our living 's been but scant,
    Yet we never were reduced to need charity;
      Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.


                    IX.

    In this house we first came together,
    Where we 've long been a father and mither;
      And though not of stone and lime,
      It will last us all our time;
    And I hope we shall ne'er need anither;
      And though not of stone and lime, &c.


                    X.

    And when we leave this poor habitation,
    We 'll depart with a good commendation;
      We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
      To a better house than this,
    To make room for the next generation;
      We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.

    Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.


[2] This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long
lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted.




STILL IN THE WRONG.


                        I.

    It has long been my fate to be thought in the _wrong_,
      And my fate it continues to be;
    The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,
      And the clerk and the cottar agree.
    There is nothing I do, and there 's nothing I say,
      But some one or other thinks wrong;
    And to please them I find there is no other way,
      But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.


                        II.

    Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refined
      In sense to a wondrous degree;
    Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,
      And it 's _wrong_ not to seek to be free."
    Says the sage Politician, "Your natural share
      Of talents would raise you much higher,
    Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,
      And it 's _wrong_ in you not to aspire."


                        III.

    Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life
      Is surely deserving of blame?
    You have children to care for, as well as a wife,
      And it 's _wrong_ not to lay up for them."
    Says the fat Gormandiser, "To eat and to drink
      Is the true _summum bonum_ of man:
    Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,
      And it 's _wrong_ not to live while you can."


                        IV.

    Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject,
      Nor give ourselves trouble about them:
    It is manners and dress that procure us respect,
      And it 's _wrong_ to look for it without them."
    Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,
      "Ah! me, but your manners are vile:
    A parson that 's blythe is a shame to be seen,
      And it 's _wrong_ in you even to smile."


                        V.

    Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,
      "Sir, whatever your character be,
    To obey you in this I will never be brought,
      And it 's _wrong_ to be meddling with me."
    Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,
      "Our matters to ruin must go:
    Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,
      And it 's _wrong_ to neglect the house so."


                        VI.

    Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,
      And I 'm censured by old and by young,
    Who in one point agree, though in others they split,
      That in something I 'm still in the _wrong_.
    But let them say on to the end of the song,
      It shall make no impression on me:
    If to differ from such be to be in the _wrong_,
      In the _wrong_ I hope always to be.




LIZZY LIBERTY.

TUNE--_"Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen."_


                        I.

        There lives a lassie i' the braes,
          And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her,
        When she has on her Sunday's claes,
          Ye never saw a lady brawer;
        So a' the lads are wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!


                        II.

        Her mither ware a tabbit mutch,
          Her father was an honest dyker,
        She 's a black-eyed wanton witch,
          Ye winna shaw me mony like her:
        So a' the lads are wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!


                        III.

        A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer,
          Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her,
        And nae a swankie far nor near,
          But tries wi' a' his might to win her:
        They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!


                        IV.

        For kindly though she be, nae doubt,
          She manna thole the marriage tether,
        But likes to rove and rink about,
          Like Highland cowt amo' the heather:
        Yet a' the lads are wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.


                        V.

        It 's seven year, and some guid mair,
          Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her,
        A merchant bluff and fu' o' care,
          Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller;
        So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her,
          Courting her, but cudna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.


                        VI.

        Neist to him came Baltic John,
          Stept up the brae, and leukit at her,
        Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan,
          And in a month or twa forgat her:
        Baltic John was wooing at her,
          Courting her, but cudna get her;
    Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.


                        VII.

        Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle,
          Frae hyne ayont the muckle water;
        Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle,
          Wi' might and main he would be at her:
        Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.


                        VIII.

        Now Monkey French is in a roar,
          And swears that nane but he sall hae her,
        Though he sud wade through bluid and gore,
          It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her:
        So Monkey French is wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.


                        IX.

        For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien',
          Need na think that she 'll come to them;
        They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin,
          And grace and guid have flown frae them;
        They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.


                        X.

        A stately chiel they ca' John Bull
          Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her;
        And gin he cud get a' his wull,
          There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her:
        Johnny Bull is wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Filthy Ted, she 'll never wed, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.


                        XI.

        Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast,
          Wadna care to speir about her;
        And swears, till he sall breathe his last,
          He 'll never happy be without her:
        Irish Teague is wooing at her,
          Courting her, but canna get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.


                        XII.

        But Donald Scot 's the happy lad,
          Though a' the lave sud try to rate him;
        Whan he steps up the brae sae glad,
          She disna ken maist whare to set him:
        Donald Scot is wooing at her,
          Courting her, will maybe get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.


                        XIII.

        Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice--
          I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her;
        As ye are happy, sae be wise,
          And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her:
        Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
          Courting her, will maybe get her;
    Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her.


                        XIV.

        Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin',
          Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her;
        And gin ye had her a' your ain,
          Ye might na find it mows to guide her:
        Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
          Courting her, will maybe get her;
    Cunning quean, she 's ne'er be mine, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.




THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.

TUNE--_"A Cobbler there was,"_ &c.


                        I.

    How happy a life does the Parson possess,
    Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less;
    Who depends on his book and his gown for support,
    And derives no preferment from conclave or court!
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        II.

    Without glebe or manse settled on him by law,
    No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw;
    In discharge of his office he holds him content,
    With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        III.

    With a neat little cottage and furniture plain,
    And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then;
    With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share,
    And ease him at all times of family care.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        IV.

    With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best,
    And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest;
    With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek,
    To afford him instruction each day of the week.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        V.

    What children he has, if any are given,
    He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven;
    To religion and virtue he trains them while young,
    And with such a provision he does them no wrong.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        VI.

    With labour below, and with help from above,
    He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love:
    Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant,
    He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        VII.

    With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd,
    He sits in his closet and studies his text;
    And while he converses with Moses or Paul,
    He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        VIII.

    Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great,
    Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state,
    He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere,
    And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer.
                                    Derry down, &c.


                        IX.

    In what little dealings he 's forced to transact,
    He determines with plainness and candour to act;
    And the great point on which his ambition is set,
    Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.
                                       Derry down, &c.


                        X.

    Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life,
    Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife;
    On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look,
    And at home always pleased with his wife and his book.
                                  Derry down, &c.


                        XI.

    And when, in old age, he drops into the grave,
    This humble remembrance he wishes to have:
    "By good men respected, by the evil oft tried,
    Contented he lived, and lamented he died!"
                                   Derry down, &c.




THE MAN OF ROSS.

TUNE--_"Miss Ross's Reel."_


                    I.

    When fops and fools together prate,
    O'er punch or tea, of this or that,
    What silly poor unmeaning chat
              Does all their talk engross!
    A nobler theme employs my lays,
    And thus my honest voice I raise
    In well-deserved strains to praise
              The worthy Man of Ross.


                    II.

    His lofty soul (would it were mine!)
    Scorns every selfish, low design,
    And ne'er was known to repine,
              At any earthly loss:
    But still contented, frank, and free,
    In every state, whate'er it be,
    Serene and staid we always see
              The worthy Man of Ross.


                    III.

    Let misers hug their worldly store,
    And gripe and pinch to make it more;
    Their gold and silver's shining ore
              He counts it all but dross:
    'Tis better treasure he desires;
    A surer stock his passion fires,
    And mild benevolence inspires
              The worthy Man of Ross.


                    IV.

    When want assails the widow's cot,
    Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,
    When blasting winds or foggy rot
            Augment the farmer's loss:
    The sufferer straight knows where to go,
    With all his wants and all his woe;
    For glad experience leads him to
            The worthy Man of Ross.


                    V.

    This Man of Ross I 'll daily sing,
    With vocal note and lyric string,
    And duly, when I 've drank the king,
            He 'll be my second toss.
    May Heaven its choicest blessings send
    On such a man, and such a friend;
    And still may all that 's good attend
            The worthy Man of Ross.


                    VI.

    Now, if you ask about his name,
    And where he lives with such a fame,
    Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame,
              For truly, _inter nos_,
    'Tis what belongs to you and me,
    And all of high or low degree,
    In every sphere to try to be
             The worthy Man of Ross.




A SONG ON THE TIMES.

TUNE--_"Broom of the Cowdenknows."_


                  I.

    When I began the world first,
      It was not as 'tis now;
    For all was plain and simple then,
      And friends were kind and true:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
      The times that I now see;
    I think the world 's all gone wrong,
      From what it used to be.


                  II.

    There were not then high capering heads,
      Prick'd up from ear to ear;
    And cloaks and caps were rarities,
      For gentle folks to wear:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.


                  III.

    There 's not an upstart mushroom now,
      But what sets up for taste;
    And not a lass in all the land,
      But must be lady-dress'd:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.


                  IV.

    Our young men married then for love,
      So did our lasses too;
    And children loved their parents dear,
      As children ought to do:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.


                  V.

    For oh, the times are sadly changed--
      A heavy change indeed!
    For truth and friendship are no more,
      And honesty is fled:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.


                  VI.

    There 's nothing now prevails but pride,
      Among both high and low;
    And strife, and greed, and vanity,
      Is all that 's minded now:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! &c.


                  VII.

    When I look through the world wide,
      How times and fashions go,
    It draws the tears from both my eyes,
      And fills my heart with woe:
    Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
      The times that I now see;
    I wish the world were at an end,
      For it will not mend for me!




WILLIAM CAMERON.


William Cameron, minister of Kirknewton, in the county of Edinburgh, was
educated in Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he was a pupil of Dr
Beattie, "who ever after entertained for him much esteem." A letter,
addressed to him by this eminent professor, in 1774, has been published
by Sir William Forbes;[3] and his name is introduced at the beginning of
Dr Beattie's "Letter to the Rev. Hugh Blair, D.D., on the Improvement of
Psalmody in Scotland. 1778, 8vo:"--"The message you lately sent me, by
my friend Mr Cameron, has determined me to give you my thoughts at some
length upon the subject of it."

He died in his manse, on the 17th of November 1811, in the 60th year of
his age, and the 26th year of his ministry. He was a considerable writer
of verses, and his compositions are generally of a respectable order. He
was the author of a "Collection of Poems," printed at Edinburgh in 1790,
in a duodecimo volume; and in 1781, along with the celebrated John Logan
and Dr Morrison, minister of Canisbay, he contributed towards the
formation of a collection of Paraphrases from Scripture, which, being
approved of by the General Assembly, are still used in public worship
in the Church of Scotland. A posthumous volume of verses by Mr Cameron,
entitled "Poems on Several Occasions," was published by subscription in
1813--8vo, pp. 132. The following song, which was composed by Mr
Cameron, on the restoration of the forfeited estates by Act of
Parliament, in 1784, is copied from Johnson's "Musical Museum." It
affords a very favourable specimen of the author's poetical talents.


[3] Forbes's "Life of Beattie," vol. i. p. 375.




AS O'ER THE HIGHLAND HILLS I HIED.

TUNE--_"As I came in by Auchindoun."_


                  I.

    As o'er the Highland hills I hied,
    The Camerons in array I spied;
    Lochiel's proud standard waving wide,
      In all its ancient glory.
    The martial pipe loud pierced the sky,
    The bard arose, resounding high
    Their valour, faith, and loyalty,
      That shine in Scottish story.

    No more the trumpet calls to arms,
    Awaking battle's fierce alarms,
    But every hero's bosom warms
      With songs of exultation.
    While brave Lochiel at length regains,
    Through toils of war, his native plains,
    And, won by glorious wounds, attains
      His high paternal station.

    Let now the voice of joy prevail,
    And echo wide from hill to vale;
    Ye warlike clans, arise and hail
      Your laurell'd chiefs returning.
    O'er every mountain, every isle,
    Let peace in all her lustre smile,
    And discord ne'er her day defile
      With sullen shades of mourning.

    M'Leod, M'Donald, join the strain,
    M'Pherson, Fraser, and M'Lean;
    Through all your bounds let gladness reign,
      Both prince and patriot praising;
    Whose generous bounty richly pours
    The streams of plenty round your shores;
    To Scotia's hills their pride restores,
      Her faded honours raising.

    Let all the joyous banquet share,
    Nor e'er let Gothic grandeur dare,
    With scowling brow, to overbear,
      A vassal's right invading.
    Let Freedom's conscious sons disdain
    To crowd his fawning, timid train,
    Nor even own his haughty reign,
      Their dignity degrading.

    Ye northern chiefs, whose rage unbroke
    Has still repell'd the tyrant's shock;
    Who ne'er have bow'd beneath his yoke,
      With servile base prostration;--
    Let each now train his trusty band,
    'Gainst foreign foes alone to stand,
    With undivided heart and hand,
      For Freedom, King, and Nation.




MRS JOHN HUNTER.


Anne Home was born in the year 1742. She was the eldest daughter of
Robert Home, of Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, surgeon of Burgoyne's
Regiment of Light Horse, and afterwards physician in Savoy. By
contracting an early marriage, in which affection overcame more
prudential considerations, both her parents gave offence to their
relations, who refused to render them pecuniary assistance. Her father,
though connected with many families of rank, and himself the son of a
landowner, was consequently obliged to depend, in the early part of his
career, on his professional exertions for the support of his family. His
circumstances appear subsequently to have been more favourable. In July
1771, Miss Home became the wife of John Hunter, the distinguished
anatomist, to whom she bore two children. She afforded evidence of her
early poetical talent, by composing, before she had completed her
twenty-third year, the song beginning, "Adieu! ye streams that smoothly
glide." This appeared in the _Lark_, an Edinburgh periodical, in the
year 1765. In 1802, she published a collection of her poems, in an
octavo volume, which she inscribed to her son, John Banks Hunter.

During the lifetime of her distinguished husband, Mrs Hunter was in the
habit of receiving at her table, and sharing in the conversation of, the
chief literary persons of her time. Her evening _conversazioni_ were
frequented by many of the more learned, as well as fashionable persons
in the metropolis. On the death of her husband, which took place in
1793, she sought greater privacy, though she still continued to reside
in London. By those who were admitted to her intimacy, she was not more
respected for her superior talents and intelligence, than held in esteem
for her unaffected simplicity of manners. She was the life of her social
parties, sustaining the happiness of the hour by her elegant
conversation, and encouraging the diffident by her approbation. Amiable
in disposition, she was possessed of a beautiful countenance and a
handsome person. She wrote verses with facility, but she sought no
distinction as a poet, preferring to be regarded as a good housewife and
an agreeable member of society. In her latter years, she obtained
amusement in resuming the song-writing habits of her youth, and in
corresponding with her more intimate friends. She likewise derived
pleasure in the cultivation of music: she played with skill, and sung
with singular grace.

Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering
illness. Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the
collections of national poetry. Those selected for the present work have
long maintained a wide popularity. The songs evince a delicacy of
thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression.




THE INDIAN DEATH-SONG.


    The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
    But glory remains when their lights fade away.
    Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
    For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

    Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
    Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
    Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
    No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

    Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
    And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:
    Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;
    But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

    I go to the land where my father is gone;
    His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.
    Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain,
    And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.




MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.


    My mother bids me bind my hair
      With bands of rosy hue,
    Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
      And lace my boddice blue.

    "For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,
      While others dance and play?"
    Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
      While Lubin is away.

    'Tis sad to think the days are gone,
      When those we love were near;
    I sit upon this mossy stone,
      And sigh when none can hear.

    And while I spin my flaxen thread,
      And sing my simple lay,
    The village seems asleep or dead,
      Now Lubin is away.




THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.[4]


    Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide,
      Through mazy windings o'er the plain;
    I 'll in some lonely cave reside,
      And ever mourn my faithful swain.

    Flower of the forest was my love,
      Soft as the sighing summer's gale,
    Gentle and constant as the dove,
      Blooming as roses in the vale.

    Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,
      For me he search'd the banks around;
    But, ah! the sad and fatal day,
      My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.

    Now droops the willow o'er the stream;
      Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;
    Dire fancy paints him in my dream;
      Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.


[4] Of the "Flowers of the Forest," two other versions appear in the
Collections. That version beginning, "I've heard the lilting at our
yow-milking," is the composition of Miss Jane Elliot, the daughter of
Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, Lord Justice-Clerk, who died in 1766. She
composed the song about the middle of the century, in imitation of an
old version to the same tune. The other version, which is the most
popular of the three, with the opening line, "I 've seen the smiling of
fortune beguiling," was also the composition of a lady, Miss Alison
Rutherford; by marriage, Mrs Cockburn, wife of Mr Patrick Cockburn,
advocate. Mrs Cockburn was a person of highly superior accomplishments.
She associated with her learned contemporaries, by whom she was much
esteemed, and died at Edinburgh in 1794, at an advanced age. "The
forest" mentioned in the song comprehended the county of Selkirk, with
portions of Peeblesshire and Lanarkshire. This was a hunting-forest of
the Scottish kings.




THE SEASON COMES WHEN FIRST WE MET.


    The season comes when first we met,
      But you return no more;
    Why cannot I the days forget,
      Which time can ne'er restore?
    O! days too sweet, too bright to last,
    Are you, indeed, for ever past?

    The fleeting shadows of delight,
      In memory I trace;
    In fancy stop their rapid flight,
      And all the past replace;
    But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
    And tears the fading visions close!




OH, TUNEFUL VOICE! I STILL DEPLORE.


    Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore
    Those accents which, though heard no more,
      Still vibrate in my heart;
    In echo's cave I long to dwell,
    And still would hear the sad farewell,
      When we were doom'd to part.

    Bright eyes! O that the task were mine,
    To guard the liquid fires that shine,
      And round your orbits play--
    To watch them with a vestal's care,
    And feed with smiles a light so fair,
      That it may ne'er decay!




DEAR TO MY HEART AS LIFE'S WARM STREAM.[5]


    Dear to my heart as life's warm stream,
      Which animates this mortal clay;
    For thee I court the waking dream,
      And deck with smiles the future day;
    And thus beguile the present pain,
    With hopes that we shall meet again!

    Yet will it be as when the past
      Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
    And o'er our minds one mantle cast,
      Of kind affections finely wrought.
    Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain,
    For so we ne'er can meet again!

    May he who claims thy tender heart,
      Deserve its love as I have done!
    For, kind and gentle as thou art,
      If so beloved, thou 'rt fairly won.
    Bright may the sacred torch remain,
    And cheer thee till we meet again!


[5] These lines were addressed by Mrs Hunter to her daughter, on the
occasion of her marriage.




THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.


    When hope lies dead within the heart,
      By secret sorrow close conceal'd,
    We shrink lest looks or words impart
      What must not be reveal'd.

    'Tis hard to smile when one would weep,
      To speak when one would silent be;
    To wake when one should wish to sleep,
      And wake to agony.

    Yet such the lot by thousands cast,
      Who wander in this world of care,
    And bend beneath the bitter blast,
      To save them from despair.

    But Nature waits her guests to greet,
      Where disappointments cannot come,
    And Time guides, with unerring feet,
      The weary wanderers home.




ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON.


Alexander, the fourth Duke of Gordon, was born in the year 1743, and
died on the 17th of January 1827, in the eighty-fourth year of his age.
Chiefly remembered as a kind patron of the poet Burns, his name is
likewise entitled to a place in the national minstrelsy as the author of
an excellent version of the often-parodied song, "Cauld Kail in
Aberdeen." Of this song, the first words, written to an older tune,
appeared in the second volume of Herd's "Collection," in 1776. These
begin--

    "Cauld kail in Aberdeen,
      And castocks in Strabogie;
    But yet I fear they 'll cook o'er soon,
      And never warm the cogie."

The song is anonymous, as is the version, first published in Dale's
"Scottish Songs," beginning--

    "There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
      And castocks in Strabogie,
    Where ilka lad maun hae his lass,
      But I maun hae my cogie."

A third version, distinct from that inserted in the text, was composed
by William Reid, a bookseller in Glasgow, who died in 1831. His song is
scarcely known. The Duke's song, with which Burns expressed himself as
being "charmed," was first published in the second volume of Johnson's
"Musical Museum." It is not only gay and animating, but has the merit of
being free of blemishes in want of refinement, which affect the others.
The "Bogie" celebrated in the song, it may be remarked, is a river in
Aberdeenshire, which, rising in the parish of Auchindoir, discharges its
waters into the Deveron, a little distance below the town of Huntly. It
gives its name to the extensive and rich valley of Strathbogie, through
which it proceeds.




CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.


    There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
      And castocks in Strabogie;
    Gin I hae but a bonnie lass,
      Ye 're welcome to your cogie.
    And ye may sit up a' the night,
    And drink till it be braid daylight;
    Gi'e me a lass baith clean and tight,
      To dance the reel o' Bogie.

    In cotillions the French excel,
      John Bull loves country dances;
    The Spaniards dance fandangoes well;
      Mynheer an all'mande prances;
    In foursome reels the Scots delight,
    At threesomes they dance wondrous light,
    But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,
      Danced to the reel o' Bogie.

    Come, lads, and view your partners weel,
      Wale each a blythesome rogie;
    I'll tak this lassie to mysel',
      She looks sae keen and vogie.
    Now, piper lads, bang up the spring,
    The country fashion is the thing,
    To pree their mou's ere we begin
      To dance the reel o' Bogie.

    Now ilka lad has got a lass,
      Save yon auld doited fogie,
    And ta'en a fling upon the grass,
      As they do in Strabogie.
    But a' the lasses look sae fain,
    We canna think oursel's to hain,
    For they maun hae their come again,
      To dance the reel o' Bogie.

    Now a' the lads hae done their best,
      Like true men o' Strabogie,
    We 'll stop a while and tak' a rest,
      And tipple out a cogie.
    Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,
    And try ilk ither to surpass,
    In wishing health to every lass,
      To dance the reel o' Bogie.




MRS GRANT OF CARRON.


Mrs Grant of Carron, the reputed author of one song, which has long
maintained a favoured place, was a native of Aberlour, on the banks of
the Spey, in the county of Banff. She was born about the year 1745, and
was twice married--first, to her cousin, Mr Grant of Carron, near
Elchies, on the river Spey, about the year 1763; and, secondly, to Dr
Murray, a physician in Bath. She died at Bath about the year 1814.

In his correspondence with George Thomson, Burns, alluding to the song
of Mrs Grant, "Roy's Wife," remarks that he had in his possession "the
original words of a song for the air in the handwriting of the lady who
composed it," which, he adds, "are superior to any edition of the song
which the public has seen." He subsequently composed an additional
version himself, beginning, "Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie?" but
this, like others of the bard's conversions of Scottish songs into an
English dress, did not become popular. The verses by his female friend,
in which the lady is made to be the sufferer by misplaced affection, and
commencing, "Stay, my Willie, yet believe me," though published, remain
likewise in obscurity. "Roy's Wife" was originally written to an old
tune called the "Ruffian's Rant," but this melody is now known by the
name of its favourite words. The sentiment of the song is peculiarly
pleasing. The rejected lover begins by loudly complaining of his wrongs,
and the broken assurances of his former sweetheart: then he suddenly
recalls what were her good qualities; and the recollection of these
causes him to forgive her marrying another, and even still to extend
towards her his warmest sympathies.




ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.


        Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
        Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
        Wat ye how she cheated me
        As I cam' o'er the braes of Balloch!

    She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine,
      She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;
    But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean,
      She 's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie!
                     Roy's wife, &c.

    Oh, she was a canty quean,
      An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch!
    How happy I, had she been mine,
      Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch!
                     Roy's wife, &c.

    Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear,
      Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie!
    To me she ever will be dear,
      Though she's for ever left her Johnnie!
                     Roy's wife, &c.




ROBERT COUPER, M.D.


Dr Couper was born in the parish of Sorbie, in Wigtonshire, on the 22d
of September 1750. His father rented the farm of Balsier in that parish.
With a view towards the ministry in the Scottish Church, he proceeded to
the University of Glasgow in 1769; but being deprived of both his
parents by death before the completion of the ordinary period of
academical study, and his pecuniary means being limited, he quitted the
country for America, where he became tutor to a family in Virginia. He
now contemplated taking orders in the Episcopal Church, but on the
outbreak of the War of Independence in 1776 he returned to Britain
without fulfilling this intention. He resumed his studies at Glasgow
preparatory to his seeking a surgeon's diploma; and he afterwards
established himself as a medical practitioner in Newton-Stewart, a
considerable village in his native county. From this place he removed to
Fochabers, about the year 1788, on being recommended, by his friend Dr
Hamilton, Professor of Anatomy at Glasgow, as physician to the Duke of
Gordon. Before entering on this new sphere of practice, he took the
degree of M.D. At Fochabers he remained till the year 1806, when he
again returned to the south. He died at Wigton on the 18th January
1818. From a MS. Life of Dr Couper, in the possession of a gentleman in
Wigton, and communicated to Dr Murray, author of "The Literary History
of Galloway," these leading events of Dr Couper's life were first
published by Mr Laing, in his "Additional Illustrations to the Scots
Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 513.

Dr Couper published "Poetry, chiefly in the Scottish Language"
(Inverness, 1804), 2 vols. 12mo. Among some rubbish, and much tawdry
versification, there is occasional power, which, however, is
insufficient to compensate for the general inferiority. There are only a
few songs, but these are superior to the poems; and those following are
not unworthy of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.




KINRARA.

TUNE--_"Neil Gow."_


    Red gleams the sun on yon hill-tap,
      The dew sits on the gowan;
    Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey,
      Around Kinrara rowan.
    Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass?
      Alas! wert thou but near me,
    Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye,
      Would ever, ever cheer me.

    The lav'rock sings among the clouds,
      The lambs they sport so cheerie,
    And I sit weeping by the birk:
      O where art thou, my dearie?
    Aft may I meet the morning dew,
      Lang greet till I be weary;
    Thou canna, winna, gentle maid!
      Thou canna be my dearie.




THE SHEELING.

TUNE--_"The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre."_


    Oh, grand bounds the deer o'er the mountain,
      And smooth skims the hare o'er the plain;
    At noon, the cool shade by the fountain
      Is sweet to the lass and her swain.
    The ev'ning sits down dark and dreary;
      Oh, yon 's the loud joys of the ha';
    The laird sings his dogs and his dearie--
      Oh, he kens na his singin' ava.

    But oh, my dear lassie, when wi' thee,
      What 's the deer and the maukin to me?
    The storm soughin' wild drives me to thee,
      And the plaid shelters baith me and thee.
    The wild warld then may be reeling,
      Pride and riches may lift up their e'e;
    My plaid haps us baith in the sheeling--
      That 's a' to my lassie and me.




THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION.[6]


    Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, my Marion?
      It was ther I forgather'd wi' thee;
    The sun smiled sweet ower the mountain,
      And saft sough'd the leaf on the tree.

    Thou wast fair, thou wast bonnie, my Marion,
      And lovesome thy rising breast-bane;
    The dew sat in gems ower thy ringlets,
      By the thorn when we were alane.

    There we loved, there thou promised, my Marion,
      Thy soul--a' thy beauties were mine;
    Crouse we skipt to the ha' i' the gloamin',
      But few were my slumbers and thine.

    Fell war tore me lang frae thee, Marion,
      Lang wat'ry and red was my e'e;
    The pride o' the field but inflamed me
      To return mair worthy o' thee.

    Oh, aye art thou lovely, my Marion,
      Thy heart bounds in kindness to me;
    And here, oh, here is my bosom,
      That languish'd, my Marion, for thee.


[6] These verses form a modernised version of the old and popular song,
"Will ye gae to the ewe-bughts, Marion?" The air is extremely beautiful.




LADY ANNE BARNARD.


Lady Anne Lindsay was the eldest of a family of eight sons and three
daughters, born to James, Earl of Balcarres, by his spouse, Anne
Dalrymple, a daughter of Sir Robert Dalrymple, of Castleton, Bart. She
was born at Balcarres, in Fife, on the 8th of December 1750. Inheriting
a large portion of the shrewdness long possessed by the old family of
Lindsay, and a share of talent from her mother, who was a person of
singular energy, though somewhat capricious in temper, Lady Anne
evinced, at an early age, an uncommon amount of sagacity. Fortunate in
having her talents well directed, and naturally inclined towards the
acquisition of learning, she soon began to devote herself to useful
reading, and even to literary composition. The highly popular ballad of
"Auld Robin Gray" was written when she had only attained her
twenty-first year. According to her own narrative, communicated to Sir
Walter Scott, she had experienced loneliness on the marriage of her
younger sister, who accompanied her husband to London, and had sought
relief from a state of solitude by attempting the composition of song.
An old Scottish melody,[7] sung by an eccentric female, an attendant on
Lady Balcarres, was connected with words unsuitable to the plaintive
nature of the air; and, with the design of supplying the defect, she
formed the idea of writing "Auld Robin Gray." The hero of the ballad was
the old herdsman at Balcarres. To the members of her own family Lady
Anne only communicated her new ballad--scrupulously concealing the fact
of her authorship from others, "perceiving the shyness it created in
those who could write nothing."

While still in the bloom of youth, the Earl of Balcarres died, and the
Dowager Countess having taken up her residence in Edinburgh, Lady Anne
experienced increased means of acquainting herself with the world of
letters. At her mother's residence she met many of the literary persons
of consideration in the northern metropolis, including such men as Lord
Monboddo, David Hume, and Henry Mackenzie. To comfort her sister, Lady
Margaret Fordyce, who was now a widow, she subsequently removed to
London, where she formed the acquaintance of the principal personages
then occupying the literary and political arena, such as Burke,
Sheridan, Dundas, and Windham. She also became known to the Prince of
Wales, who continued to entertain for her the highest respect. In 1793,
she married Andrew Barnard, Esq., son of the Bishop of Limerick, and
afterwards secretary, under Lord Macartney, to the colony at the Cape of
Good Hope. She accompanied her husband to the Cape, and had meditated a
voyage to New South Wales, that she might minister, by her benevolent
counsels, towards the reformation of the convicts there exiled. On the
death of her husband in 1807, she again resided with her widowed sister,
the Lady Margaret, till the year 1812, when, on the marriage of her
sister to Sir James Burges, she occupied a house of her own, and
continued to reside in Berkeley Square till the period of her death,
which took place on the 6th of May 1825.

To entire rectitude of principle, amiability of manners, and kindliness
of heart, Anne Barnard added the more substantial, and, in females, the
more uncommon quality of eminent devotedness to intellectual labour.
Literature had been her favourite pursuit from childhood, and even in
advanced life, when her residence was the constant resort of her
numerous relatives, she contrived to find leisure for occasional
literary _réunions_, while her forenoons were universally occupied in
mental improvement. She maintained a correspondence with several of her
brilliant contemporaries, and, in her more advanced years, composed an
interesting narrative of family Memoirs. She was skilled in the use of
the pencil, and sketched scenery with effect. In conversation she was
acknowledged to excel; and her stories[8] and anecdotes were a source of
delight to her friends. She was devotedly pious, and singularly
benevolent: she was liberal in sentiment, charitable to the indigent,
and sparing of the feelings of others. Every circle was charmed by her
presence; by her condescension she inspired the diffident; and she
banished dulness by the brilliancy of her humour. Her countenance, it
should be added, wore a pleasant and animated expression, and her
figure was modelled with the utmost elegance of symmetry and grace. Her
sister, Lady Margaret Fordyce, was eminently beautiful.

The popularity obtained by the ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" has seldom
been exceeded in the history of any other metrical composition. It was
sung in every fashionable circle, as well as by the ballad-singers, from
Land's-end to John o' Groat's; was printed in every collection of
national songs, and drew tears from our military countrymen both in
America and India. With the exception of Pinkerton, every writer on
Scottish poetry and song has awarded it a tribute of commendation. "The
elegant and accomplished authoress," says Ritson, "has, in this
beautiful production, to all that tenderness and simplicity for which
the Scottish song has been so much celebrated, united a delicacy of
expression which it never before attained." "'Auld Robin Gray,'" says
Sir Walter Scott, "is that real pastoral which is worth all the
dialogues which Corydon and Phillis have had together, from the days of
Theocritus downwards."

During a long lifetime, till within two years of her death, Lady Anne
Barnard resisted every temptation to declare herself the author of the
popular ballad, thus evincing her determination not to have the secret
wrested from her till she chose to divulge it. Some of those inducements
may be enumerated. The extreme popularity of the ballad might have
proved sufficient in itself to justify the disclosure; but, apart from
this consideration, a very fine tune had been put to it by a doctor of
music;[9] a romance had been founded upon it by a man of eminence; it
was made the subject of a play, of an opera, and of a pantomime; it had
been claimed by others; a sequel had been written to it by some
scribbler, who professed to have composed the whole ballad; it had been
assigned an antiquity far beyond the author's time; the Society of
Antiquaries had made it the subject of investigation; and the author had
been advertised for in the public prints, a reward being offered for the
discovery. Never before had such general interest been exhibited
respecting any composition in Scottish verse.

In the "Pirate," published in 1823, the author of "Waverley" had
compared the condition of Minna to that of Jeanie Gray, in the words of
Lady Anne, in a sequel which she had published to the original ballad:--

    "Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent;
    Despair it was come, and she thought it content;
    She thought it content, but her cheek it grew pale,
    And she droop'd like a snowdrop broke down by the hail!"

At length, in her seventy-third year, and upwards of half a century
after the period of its composition, the author voluntarily made avowal
of the authorship of the ballad and its sequel. She wrote to Sir Walter
Scott, with whom she was acquainted, requesting him to inform his
_personal friend_, the author of "Waverley," that she was indeed the
author. She enclosed a copy to Sir Walter, written in her own hand; and,
with her consent, in the course of the following year, he printed "Auld
Robin Gray" as a contribution to the Bannatyne Club.

The second part has not acquired such decided popularity, and it has not
often been published with it in former Collections. Of the fact of its
inequality, the accomplished author was fully aware: she wrote it
simply to gratify the desire of her venerable mother, who often wished
to know how "the unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." The
Countess, it may be remarked, was much gratified by the popularity of
the ballad; and though she seems, out of respect to her daughter's
feelings, to have retained the secret, she could not resist the frequent
repetition of it to her friends.

In the character of Lady Anne Barnard, the defective point was a certain
want of decision, which not only led to her declining many distinguished
and advantageous offers for her hand, but tended, in some measure, to
deprive her of posthumous fame. Illustrative of the latter fact, it has
been recorded that, having entrusted to Sir Walter Scott a volume of
lyrics, composed by herself and by others of the noble house of Lindsay,
with permission to give it to the world, she withdrew her consent after
the compositions had been printed in a quarto volume, and were just on
the eve of being published. The copies of the work, which was entitled
"Lays of the Lindsays," appear to have been destroyed. One lyric only
has been recovered, beginning, "Why tarries my love?" It is printed as
the composition of Lady Anne Barnard, in a note appended to the latest
edition of Johnson's "Musical Museum," by Mr C. K. Sharpe, who
transcribed it from the _Scots Magazine_ for May 1805. The popular song,
"Logie o' Buchan," sometimes attributed to Lady Anne in the Collections,
did not proceed from her pen, but was composed by George Halket,
parochial schoolmaster of Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, about the middle of
the last century.


[7] The name of this old melody is, "The Bridegroom greets when the Sun
gangs down."--See Stenhouse's Notes to Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol.
iv. p. 280; the "Lives of the Lindsays," by Lord Lindsay, vol. ii., pp.
314, 332, 392. Lond. 1849, 3 vols., 8vo.

[8] "She was entertaining a large party of distinguished guests at
dinner, when a hitch occurred in the kitchen. The old servant came up
behind her and whispered, 'My lady, you must tell another story--the
second course won't be ready for five minutes!'"--Letter of General
Lindsay to Lord Lindsay, "Lives of the Lindsays," vol. ii. p. 387.

[9] The Rev. William Leeves, of Wrington, to whose tune the ballad is
now sung.--See an account of Mr Leeves' claims to the authorship of the
tune, &c., in Johnson's "Musical Museum;" Stenhouse's Notes, vol. iv. p.
231.




AULD ROBIN GRAY.

PART I.


    When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 's come hame,
    And a' the warld to rest are gane,
    The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
    Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.

    Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride,
    But saving a crown-piece, he had naething beside;
    To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
    And the crown and the pound they were baith for me.

    He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
    When my father brake his arm, and the cow was stown away;
    My mither she fell sick--my Jamie at the sea;
    And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.

    My father couldna wark, and my mither couldna spin;
    I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;--
    Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,
    Said, "Jeanie, oh, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?"

    My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back;
    But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;
    The ship was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
    Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me?

    My father urged me sair--my mither didna speak;
    But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break;
    They gied him my hand--my heart was in the sea--
    And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

    I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
    When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,
    I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he,
    Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee."

    Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
    I gied him a kiss, and bade him gang awa';--
    I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee;
    For though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!

    I gang like a ghaist, and carena much to spin;
    I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
    But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
    For oh, Robin Gray, he is kind to me!


PART II.

    The spring had pass'd over, 'twas summer nae mair,
    And, trembling, were scatter'd the leaves in the air;
    "Oh, winter," cried Jeanie, "we kindly agree,
    For wae looks the sun when he shines upon me."

    Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' spent;
    Despair it was come, and she thought it content;
    She thought it content, but her cheek was grown pale,
    And she droop'd like a snow-drop broke down by the hail.

    Her father was sad, and her mother was wae,
    But silent and thoughtfu' was auld Robin Gray;
    He wander'd his lane, and his face was as lean
    As the side of a brae where the torrents have been.

    He gaed to his bed, but nae physic would take,
    And often he said, "It is best, for her sake!"
    While Jeanie supported his head as he lay,
    The tears trickled down upon auld Robin Gray.

    "Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie!" said he, wi' a groan;
    "I 'm nae worth your sorrow--the truth maun be known;
    Send round for your neighbours--my hour it draws near,
    And I 've that to tell that it 's fit a' should hear.

    "I 've wrang'd her," he said, "but I kent it o'er late;
    I 've wrang'd her, and sorrow is speeding my date;
    But a 's for the best, since my death will soon free
    A faithfu' young heart, that was ill match'd wi' me.

    "I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day,
    The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay;
    I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet o' her vow;--
    In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the cow!

    "I cared not for crummie, I thought but o' thee;
    I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me;
    While she fed your parents, oh! did you not say,
    You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray?

    "But sickness at hame, and want at the door--
    You gi'ed me your hand, while your heart it was sore;
    I saw it was sore, why took I her hand?
    Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land!

    "How truth, soon or late, comes to open daylight!
    For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew white;
    White, white grew your cheek, but aye true unto me.
    Oh, Jeanie, I 'm thankfu'--I 'm thankfu' to dee!

    "Is Jamie come here yet?" and Jamie he saw;
    "I 've injured you sair, lad, so I leave you my a';
    Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be!
    Waste no time, my dauties, in mournin' for me."

    They kiss'd his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face
    Seem'd hopefu' of being accepted by grace;
    "Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, "forgi'en he will be,
    Wha wadna be tempted, my love, to win thee?"

           *       *       *       *       *

    The first days were dowie, while time slipt awa';
    But saddest and sairest to Jeanie of a'
    Was thinking she couldna be honest and right,
    Wi' tears in her e'e, while her heart was sae light.

    But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away,
    The wife of her Jamie, the tear couldna stay;
    A bonnie wee bairn--the auld folks by the fire--
    Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire!

In an earlier continuation of the original ballad, there are some good
stanzas, which, however, the author had thought proper to expunge from
the piece in its altered and extended form. One verse, descriptive of
Robin Gray's feelings, on observing the concealed and withering grief of
his spouse, is beautiful for its simplicity:--

    "Nae questions he spier'd her concerning her health,
    He look'd at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth;
    When his heart it grew grit, and, sighin', he feign'd
    To gang to the door to see if it rain'd."




SONG.


      Why tarries my love?
      Ah! where does he rove?
    My love is long absent from me.
      Come hither, my dove,
      I 'll write to my love,
    And send him a letter by thee.

      To find him, swift fly!
      The letter I 'll tie
    Secure to thy leg with a string.
      Ah! not to my leg,
      Fair lady, I beg,
    But fasten it under my wing.

      Her dove she did deck,
      She drew o'er his neck
    A bell and a collar so gay;
      She tied to his wing
      The scroll with a string,
    Then kiss'd him and sent him away.

      It blew and it rain'd,
      The pigeon disdain'd
    To seek shelter; undaunted he flew,
      Till wet was his wing,
      And painful his string,
    So heavy the letter it grew.

      It flew all around,
      Till Colin he found,
    Then perch'd on his head with the prize;
      Whose heart, while he reads,
      With tenderness bleeds,
    For the pigeon that flutters and dies.




JOHN TAIT.


John Tait was, in early life, devoted to the composition of poetry. In
Ruddiman's _Edinburgh Weekly Magazine_ for 1770, he repeatedly published
verses in the Poet's Corner, with his initials attached, and in
subsequent years he published anonymously the "Cave of Morar," "Poetical
Legends," and other poems. "The Vanity of Human Wishes, an Elegy,
occasioned by the Untimely Death of a Scots Poet," appears under the
signature of J. Tait, in "Poems on Various Subjects by Robert Fergusson,
Part II.," Edinburgh, 1779, 12mo. He was admitted as a Writer to the
Signet on the 21st of November 1781; and in July 1805 was appointed
Judge of Police, on a new police system being introduced into Edinburgh.
In the latter capacity he continued to officiate till July 1812, when a
new Act of Parliament entrusted the settlement of police cases, as
formerly, to the magistrates of the city. Mr Tait died at his house in
Abercromby Place, on the 29th of August 1817.

"The Banks of the Dee," the only popular production from the pen of the
author, was composed in the year 1775, on the occasion of a friend
leaving Scotland to join the British forces in America, who were then
vainly endeavouring to suppress that opposition to the control of the
mother country which resulted in the permanent establishment of American
independence. The song is set to the Irish air of "Langolee." It was
printed in Wilson's Collection of Songs, which was published at
Edinburgh in 1779, with four additional stanzas by a Miss Betsy B----s,
of inferior merit. It was re-published in "The Goldfinch" (Edinburgh,
1782), and afterwards was inserted in Johnson's "Musical Museum." Burns,
in his letter to Mr George Thomson, of 7th April 1793, writes--"'The
Banks of the Dee' is, you know, literally 'Langolee' to slow time. The
song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; for instance--

    "'And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.'

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from
a tree; and, in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in
Scotland. Creative rural imagery is always comparatively flat."

Thirty years after its first appearance, Mr Tait published a new edition
of the song in Mr Thomson's Collection, vol. iv., in which he has, by
alterations on the first half stanza, acknowledged the justice of the
strictures of the Ayrshire bard. The stanza is altered thus:

    "'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
    And sweetly the _wood-pigeon coo'd from the tree_;
    At the foot of a rock, where the _wild rose was growing_,
    I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee."

The song, it may be added, has in several collections been erroneously
attributed to John Home, author of the tragedy of "Douglas."




THE BANKS OF THE DEE.


    'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
      And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree,
    At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing,
      I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.
    Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
    Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever,
    For there first I gain'd the affection and favour
      Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

    But now he 's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
      To quell the proud rebels--for valiant is he;
    And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning,
      To wander again on the banks of the Dee.
    He 's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows,
    The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,
    And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows,
      The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

    But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him,
      Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me;
    And when he returns, with such care I 'll watch o'er him,
      He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.
    The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying,
    The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing,
    While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying,
      And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.




HECTOR MACNEILL.


Hector Macneill was born on the 22d of October 1746, in the villa of
Rosebank, near Roslin; and, to to use his own words, "amidst the murmur
of streams and the shades of Hawthornden, may be said to have inhaled
with life the atmosphere of a poet."[10] Descended from an old family,
who possessed a small estate in the southern district of Argyllshire,
his father, after various changes of fortune, had obtained a company in
the 42d Regiment, with which he served during several campaigns in
Flanders. From continued indisposition, and consequent inability to
undergo the fatigues of military life, he disposed of his commission,
and retired, with his wife and two children, to the villa of Rosebank,
of which he became the owner. A few years after the birth of his son
Hector, he felt necessitated, from straitened circumstances, to quit
this beautiful residence; and he afterwards occupied a farm on the banks
of Loch Lomond. Such a region of the picturesque was highly suitable for
the development of those poetical talents which had already appeared in
young Hector, amidst the rural amenities of Roslin. In his eleventh
year, he wrote a drama, after the manner of Gay; and the respectable
execution of his juvenile attempts in versification gained him the
approbation of Dr Doig, the learned rector of the grammar-school of
Stirling, who strongly urged his father to afford him sufficient
instruction, to enable him to enter upon one of the liberal professions.
Had Captain Macneill's circumstances been prosperous, this counsel might
have been adopted, for the son's promising talents were not unnoticed by
his father; but pecuniary difficulties opposed an unsurmountable
obstacle.

An opulent relative, a West India trader, resident in Bristol, had paid
the captain a visit; and, attracted by the shrewdness of the son Hector,
who was his namesake, offered to retain him in his employment, and to
provide for him in life. After two years' preparatory education, he was
accordingly sent to Bristol, in his fourteenth year. He was destined to
an adventurous career, singularly at variance with his early
predilections and pursuits. By his relative he was designed to sail in a
slave ship to the coast of Guinea; but the intercession of some female
friends prevented his being connected with an expedition so uncongenial
to his feelings. He was now despatched on board a vessel to the island
of St Christopher's, with the view of his making trial of a seafaring
life, but was provided with recommendatory letters, in the event of his
preferring employment on land. With a son of the Bristol trader he
remained twelvemonths; and, having no desire to resume his labours as a
seaman, he afterwards sailed for Guadaloupe, where he continued in the
employment of a merchant for three years, till 1763, when the island was
ceded to the French. Dismissed by his employer, with a scanty balance of
salary, he had some difficulty in obtaining the means of transport to
Antigua; and there, finding himself reduced to entire dependence, he was
content, without any pecuniary recompense, to become assistant to his
relative, who had come to the town of St John's. From this unhappy
condition he was rescued, after a short interval. He was possessed of a
knowledge of the French language; a qualification which, together with
his general abilities, recommended him to fill the office of assistant
to the Provost-Marshal of Grenada. This appointment he held for three
years, when, hearing of the death of his mother and sister, he returned
to Britain. On the death of his father, eighteen months after his
arrival, he succeeded to a small patrimony, which he proceeded to invest
in the purchase of an annuity of £80 per annum. With this limited
income, he seems to have planned a permanent settlement in his native
country; but the unexpected embarrassment of the party from whom he had
purchased the annuity, and an attachment of an unfortunate nature,
compelled him to re-embark on the ocean of adventure. He accepted the
office of assistant-secretary on board Admiral Geary's flag-ship, and
made two cruises with the grand fleet. Proposing again to return to
Scotland, he afterwards resigned his appointment; but he was induced, by
the remonstrances of his friends, Dr Currie, and Mr Roscoe, of
Liverpool, to accept a similar situation on board the flag-ship of Sir
Richard Bickerton, who had been appointed to take the chief command of
the naval power in India. In this post, many of the hardships incident
to a seafaring life fell to his share; and being present at the last
indecisive action with "Suffrein," he had likewise to encounter the
perils of war. His present connexion subsisted three years; but Macneill
sickened in the discharge of duties wholly unsuitable for him, and
longed for the comforts of home. His resources were still limited, but
he flattered himself in the expectation that he might earn a subsistence
as a man of letters. He fixed his residence at a farm-house in the
vicinity of Stirling; and, amidst the pursuits of literature, the
composition of verses, and the cultivation of friendship, he contrived,
for a time, to enjoy a considerable share of happiness. But he speedily
discovered the delusion of supposing that an individual, entirely
unknown in the literary world, could at once be able to establish his
reputation, and inspire confidence in the bookselling trade, whose
favour is so essential to men of letters. Discouraged in longer
persevering in the attempt of procuring a livelihood at home, Macneill,
for the fourth time, took his departure from Britain. Provided with
letters of introduction to influential and wealthy persons in Jamaica,
he sailed for that island on a voyage of adventure; being now in his
thirty-eighth year, and nearly as unprovided for as when he had first
left his native shores, twenty-four years before. On his arrival at
Kingston, he was employed by the collector of customs, whose
acquaintance he had formed on the voyage; but this official soon found
he could dispense with his services, which he did, without aiding him in
obtaining another situation. The individuals to whom he had brought
letters were unable or unwilling to render him assistance, and the
unfortunate adventurer was constrained, in his emergency, to accept the
kind invitation of a medical friend, to make his quarters with him till
some satisfactory employment might occur. He now discovered two intimate
companions of his boyhood settled in the island, in very prosperous
circumstances, and from these he received both pecuniary aid and the
promise of future support. Through their friendly offices, his two sons,
who had been sent out by a generous friend, were placed in situations of
respectability and emolument. But the thoughts of the poet himself were
directed towards Britain. He sailed from Jamaica, with a thousand plans
and schemes hovering in his mind, equally vague and indefinite as had
been his aims and designs during the past chapter of his history. A
small sum given him as the pay of an inland ensigncy, now conferred on
him, but antedated, sufficed to defray the expenses of the voyage.

Before leaving Scotland for Jamaica, Macneill had commenced a poem,
founded on a Highland tradition; and to the completion of this
production he assiduously devoted himself during his homeward voyage. It
was published at Edinburgh in 1789, under the title of "The Harp, a
Legendary Tale." In the previous year, he published a pamphlet in
vindication of slavery, entitled, "On the Treatment of the Negroes in
Jamaica." This pamphlet, written to gratify the wishes of an interested
friend, rather than as the result of his own convictions, he
subsequently endeavoured to suppress. For several years, Macneill
persevered in his unsettled mode of life. On his return from Jamaica, he
resided in the mansion of his friend, Mr Graham of Gartmore, himself a
writer of verses, as well as a patron of letters; but a difference with
the family caused him to quit this hospitable residence. After passing
some time with his relatives in Argyllshire, he entertained a proposal
of establishing himself in Glasgow, as partner of a mercantile house,
but this was terminated by the dissolution of the firm; and a second
attempt to succeed in the republic of letters had an equally
unsuccessful issue. In Edinburgh, whither he had removed, he was seized
with a severe nervous illness, which, during the six following years,
rendered him incapable of sustained physical exertion. With a little
money, which he contrived to raise on his annuity, he retired to a small
cottage at St Ninians; but his finances again becoming reduced, he
accepted of the hospitable invitation of his friends, Major Spark and
his lady, to become the inmate of their residence of Viewforth House,
Stirling. At this period, Macneill composed the greater number of his
best songs, and produced his poem of "Scotland's Skaith, or the History
of Will and Jean," which was published in 1795, and speedily gained him
a wide reputation. Before the close of twelvemonths, it passed through
no fewer than fourteen editions. A sequel, entitled "The Waes o' War,"
which appeared in 1796, attained nearly an equal popularity. The
original ballad was composed during the author's solitary walks along
the promenades of the King's Park, Stirling, while he was still
suffering mental depression. It was completed in his own mind before any
of the stanzas were committed to paper.

The hope of benefiting his enfeebled constitution in a warm climate
induced him to revisit Jamaica. As a parting tribute to his friends at
Stirling, he published, in 1799, immediately before his departure, a
descriptive poem, entitled "The Links of Forth, or a Parting Peep at the
Carse of Stirling," which, regarded as the last effort of a dying poet,
obtained a reception fully equal to its merits.

On the oft-disappointed and long unfortunate poet the sun of prosperity
at length arose. On his arrival in Jamaica, one of his early friends, Mr
John Graham, of Three-Mile-River, settled on him an annuity of £100
a-year; and, in a few months afterwards, they sailed together for
Britain, the poet's health being essentially improved. Macneill now
fixed his permanent residence in Edinburgh, and, with the proceeds of
several legacies bequeathed to him, together with his annuity, was
enabled to live in comparative affluence. The narrative of his early
adventures and hardships is supposed to form the basis of a novel,
entitled "The Memoirs of Charles Macpherson, Esq.," which proceeded from
his pen in 1800. In the following year, he published a complete edition
of his poetical works, in two duodecimo volumes. In 1809, he published
"The Pastoral, or Lyric Muse of Scotland," in a thin quarto volume; and
about the same time, anonymously, two other works in verse, entitled
"Town Fashions, or Modern Manners Delineated," and "Bygone Times and
Late-come Changes." His last work, "The Scottish Adventurers," a novel,
appeared in 1812, in two octavo volumes.

The latter productions of Hector Macneill, both in prose and verse,
tended rather to diminish than increase his fame. They exhibit the
sentiments of a querulous old man, inclined to cling to the habits of
his youth, and to regard any improvement as an act of ruthless
innovation. As the author of some excellent songs, and one of the most
popular ballads in the Scottish language, his name will continue to be
remembered. His songs, "Mary of Castlecary," "My boy, Tammie," "Come
under my plaidie," "I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane," "Donald and Flora,"
and "Dinna think, bonnie lassie," will retain a firm hold of the popular
mind. His characteristic is tenderness and pathos, combined with unity
of feeling, and a simplicity always genuine and true to nature. Allan
Cunningham, who forms only a humble estimate of his genius, remarks that
his songs "have much softness and truth, an insinuating grace of
manners, and a decorum of expression, with no small skill in the
dramatic management of the stories."[11] The ballad of "Scotland's
Skaith" ranks among the happiest conceptions of the Scottish Doric muse;
rural life is depicted with singular force and accuracy, and the
debasing consequences of the inordinate use of ardent spirits among the
peasantry, are delineated with a vigour and power, admirably adapted to
suit the author's benevolent intention in the suppression of
intemperance.

During his latter years, Macneill was much cherished among the
fashionables of the capital. He was a tall, venerable-looking old man;
and although his complexion was sallow, and his countenance somewhat
austere, his agreeable and fascinating conversation, full of humour and
replete with anecdote, rendered him an acceptable guest in many social
circles. He displayed a lively, but not a vigorous intellect, and his
literary attainments were inconsiderable. Of his own character as a man
of letters, he had evidently formed a high estimate. He was prone to
satire, but did not unduly indulge in it. He was especially impatient of
indifferent versification; and, among his friends, rather discouraged
than commended poetical composition. Though long unsettled himself, he
was loud in his commendations of industry; and, from the gay man of the
world, he became earnest on the subject of religion. For several years,
his health seems to have been unsatisfactory. In a letter to a friend,
dated Edinburgh, January 30, 1813, he writes:--"Accumulating years and
infirmities are beginning to operate very sensibly upon me now, and
yearly do I experience their increasing influence. Both my hearing and
my sight are considerably weakened, and, should I live a few years
longer, I look forward to a state which, with all our love for life, is
certainly not to be envied.... My pen is my chief amusement. Reading
soon fatigues, and loses its zest; composition never, till over-exertion
reminds me of my imprudence, by sensations which too frequently render
me unpleasant during the rest of the day." On the 15th of March 1818, in
his seventy-second year, the poet breathed his last, in entire
composure, and full of hope.


[10] We quote from an autobiography of the poet, the original of which
is in the possession of one of his surviving friends. We have likewise
to acknowledge our obligations to Dr Muschet, of Birkhill, near
Stirling, for communicating some interesting letters of Macneill,
addressed to his late father. The late Mr John Campbell, Writer to the
Signet, had undertaken to supply a memoir for this work, partly from his
own recollections of his deceased friend; but, before he could fulfil
his promise, he was called to rest with his fathers. We have, however,
taken advantage of his reminiscences of the bard, orally communicated to
us. An intelligent abridgment of the autobiography appears in
_Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. iv. p. 273. See likewise the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_, vol. xv. p. 307.

[11] "The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern," by Allan Cunningham,
vol. i. p. 242. London, 1825; 4 vols. 12mo.




MARY OF CASTLECARY.[12]

TUNE--_"Bonnie Dundee."_


    "Oh, saw ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing?
      Saw ye my true love, down on yon lee?
    Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'?
      Sought she the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree?
    Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
      Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
    Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
      Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?"

    "I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
      Nor saw I your true love, down on yon lea;
    But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin',
      Down by the burnie whare flow'rs the haw-tree.
    Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
      Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
    Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
      Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me!"

    "It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,
      It was na my true love, ye met by the tree:
    Proud is her leal heart--modest her nature;
      She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me.
    Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary;
      Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee;--
    Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer,
      Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee."

    "It was, then, your Mary; she 's frae Castlecary;
      It was, then, your true love I met by the tree;--
    Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
      Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me."
    Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew;
      Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling e'e--
    "Ye 's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning;
      Defend, ye fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie."

    "Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling;--
      Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee;
    The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing--
      Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
    "Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing?
      Is it my true love here that I see?"
    "Oh, Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart 's constant to me;
      I 'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!"


[12] This song was first published, in May 1791, in _The Bee_, an
Edinburgh periodical, conducted by Dr James Anderson.




MY BOY, TAMMY.[13]


    "Whare hae ye been a' day,
        My boy, Tammy?
    Whare hae ye been a' day,
        My boy, Tammy?"
    "I 've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
    Meadow green, and mountain gray,
    Courting o' this young thing,
        Just come frae her mammy."

    "And whare got ye that young thing,
        My boy, Tammy?"
    "I gat her down in yonder howe,
    Smiling on a broomy knowe,
    Herding a wee lamb and ewe
        For her poor mammy."

    "What said ye to the bonnie bairn,
        My boy, Tammy?"
    "I praised her een, sae bonny blue,
    Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou';
    I pree'd it aft, as ye may true;--
        She said she 'd tell her mammy.

    "I held her to my beating heart,
        My young, my smiling lammie!
    'I hae a house, it cost me dear;
    I 've wealth o' plenishin' and gear;--
    Ye 'se get it a', were 't ten times mair,
        Gin ye will leave your mammy.'

    "The smile gaed aff her bonnie face--
        'I maunna leave my mammy;
    She 's gi'en me meat, she 's gi'en me claise,
    She 's been my comfort a' my days;
    My father's death brought mony waes--
        I canna leave my mammy.'"

    "We 'll tak her hame, and mak her fain,
        My ain kind-hearted lammie;
    We 'll gi'e her meat, we 'll gi'e her claise,
    We 'll be her comfort a' her days."
    The wee thing gi'es her hand and says--
        "There! gang and ask my mammy."

    "Has she been to kirk wi' thee,
        My boy, Tammy?"
    "She has been to kirk wi' me,
    And the tear was in her e'e;
    But, oh! she 's but a young thing,
        Just come frae her mammy."


[13] This beautiful ballad was first printed, in 1791, in _The Bee_. It
is adapted to an old and sweet air, to which, however, very puerile
words were attached.




OH, TELL ME HOW FOR TO WOO![14]

TUNE--_"Bonnie Dundee."_


          "Oh, tell me, bonnie young lassie!
            Oh, tell me how for to woo!
          Oh, tell me, bonnie sweet lassie!
            Oh, tell me how for to woo!
    Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning?
      Lips, like the roses, fresh moisten'd wi' dew;
    Say, maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning?
      Oh, tell me how for to woo!

    "Far hae I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie!
      Far hae I ventured across the saut sea;
    Far hae I travell'd ower moorland and mountain,
      Houseless and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea.
    Ne'er hae I tried yet to mak love to onie,
      For ne'er lo'ed I onie till ance I lo'ed you;
    Now we 're alane in the green-wood sae bonnie--
      Oh, tell me how for to woo!"

    "What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie?
      What care I for your crossing the sea?
    It was na for naething ye left poor young Peggie;
      It was for my tocher ye cam' to court me.
    Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudie?
      Ribbons, and perlins, and breast-knots enew?
    A house that is canty, with wealth in 't, my laddie?
      Without this ye never need try for to woo."

    "I hae na gowd to busk ye aye gaudie;
      I canna buy ribbons and perlins enew;
    I 've naething to brag o' house, or o' plenty,
      I 've little to gi'e, but a heart that is true.
    I cam' na for tocher--I ne'er heard o' onie;
      I never lo'ed Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow:
    I 've wander'd, puir fule! for a face fause as bonnie:
      I little thocht this was the way for to woo."

    "Our laird has fine houses, and guineas o' gowd
      He 's youthfu', he 's blooming, and comely to see.
    The leddies are a' ga'en wud for the wooer,
      And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me.
    Oh, saft in the gloaming, his love he discloses!
      And saftly, yestreen, as I milked my cow,
    He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses,
      And a' the gait hame he did naething but woo."

    "Ah, Jenny! the young laird may brag o' his siller,
      His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree;
    His speeches for _true love_ may drap sweet as honey,
      But trust me, dear Jenny, he ne'er lo'ed like _me_.
    The wooin' o' gentry are fine words o' fashion--
      The faster they fa' as the heart is least true;
    The dumb look o' love 's aft the best proof o' passion;
      The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo."

    "Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning?
      Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou'?
    Hae na ye come ower sea, moor, and mountain?
      What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo?
    Far ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie;
      Now that ye 've found me, there 's nae cause to rue;
    Wi' health we 'll hae plenty--I 'll never gang gaudie;
      I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true."

    She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom,
      The saft tear o' transport fill'd ilk lover's e'e;
    The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit,
      And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree.
    He clasp'd her, he press'd her, and ca'd her his hinny;
      And aften he tasted her honey-sweet mou';
    And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sigh'd to her Johnnie,
      "Oh, laddie! weel can ye woo."


[14] Mr Graham, of Gartmore, an intimate friend of Hector Macneill,
composed a song, having a similar burden, the chorus proceeding thus:--

    "Then, tell me how to woo thee, love;
      Oh, tell me how to woo thee!
    For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
      Though ne'er another trow me."

This was published by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border," as a production of the reign of Charles I.




LASSIE WI' THE GOWDEN HAIR.


          Lassie wi' the gowden hair,
          Silken snood, and face sae fair;
          Lassie wi' the yellow hair,
            Thinkna to deceive me.
          Lassie wi' the gowden hair,
          Flattering smile, and face sae fair,
          Fare ye weel! for never mair
            Johnnie will believe ye.
    Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn;
    Oh, no! Mary Bawn, ye 'll nae mair deceive me.

          Smiling, twice ye made me troo,
          Twice, poor fool! I turn'd to woo;
          Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow;
            Now I 've sworn to leave ye.
          Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow;
          Twice, poor fool! I 've learn'd to rue;
          Come ye yet to mak me troo?
            Thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me.
    No, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn;
    Oh, no! Mary Bawn; thrice ye 'll ne'er deceive me.

          Mary saw him turn to part;
          Deep his words sank in her heart;
          Soon the tears began to start--
            "Johnnie, will ye leave me?"
          Soon the tears began to start,
          Grit and gritter grew his heart;
          "Yet a word before we part,
            Love could ne'er deceive ye.
    Oh, no! Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo, Johnnie doo;
    Oh, no! Johnnie doo--love could ne'er deceive ye."

          Johnnie took a parting keek;
          Saw the tears drap owre her cheek;
          Pale she stood, but couldna speak--
            Mary 's cured o' smiling.
          Johnnie took anither keek--
          Beauty's rose has left her cheek;
          Pale she stands, and canna speak.
            This is nae beguiling.
    Oh, no! Mary Bawn, Mary Bawn, dear Mary Bawn;
    Oh, no; Mary Bawn--love has nae beguiling.




COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

TUNE--_"Johnnie M'Gill."_


    "Come under my plaidie, the night 's gaun to fa';
      Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw;
    Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
      There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.
    Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
      I 'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw:
    Oh, come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me!
      There 's room in 't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa."

    "Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, auld Donald, gae 'wa,
      I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw;
    Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie, I 'll no sit beside ye;
      Ye may be my gutcher;--auld Donald, gae 'wa.
    I 'm gaun to meet Johnnie, he 's young and he 's bonnie;
      He 's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw;
    Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly!
      His cheek 's like the new rose, his brow 's like the snaw."

    "Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa';
      Your Jock 's but a gowk, and has naething ava;
    The hale o' his pack he has now on his back--
      He 's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.
    Be frank now and kindly; I 'll busk ye aye finely;
      To kirk or to market they 'll few gang sae braw;
    A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
      And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'."

    "My father 's aye tauld me, my mither and a',
      Ye 'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw;
    It 's true I lo'e Johnnie, he 's gude and he 's bonnie;
      But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava.
    I hae little tocher; you 've made a gude offer;
      I 'm now mair than twenty--my time is but sma';
    Sae gi'e me your plaidie, I 'll creep in beside ye--
      I thocht ye 'd been aulder than threescore and twa."

    She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa',
      Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a';
    The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted,
      And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa.
    He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary;
      And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw;
    The owlet was screamin' while Johnnie cried, "Women
      Wad marry Auld Nick if he 'd keep them aye braw."




I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.[15]


    I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane,
      He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me;
    He 's willing to mak' me his ain,
      And his ain I am willing to be.
    He has coft me a rokelay o' blue,
      And a pair o' mittens o' green;
    The price was a kiss o' my mou',
      And I paid him the debt yestreen.

    Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
      Their land and their lordly degree;
    I carena for aught but my dear,
      For he 's ilka thing lordly to me:
    His words are sae sugar'd and sweet!
      His sense drives ilk fear far awa'!
    I listen, poor fool! and I greet;
      Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!

    "Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer,
      "Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say;
    Though we 've little to brag o', near fear--
      What 's gowd to a heart that is wae?
    Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
      Yet see how he 's dwining wi' care;
    Now we, though we 've naething but health,
      Are cantie and leal evermair.

    "O Marion! the heart that is true,
      Has something mair costly than gear!
    Ilk e'en it has naething to rue,
      Ilk morn it has naething to fear.
    Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store,
      And tremble for fear aught ye tyne;
    Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
      While here in my arms I lock mine!"

    He ends wi' a kiss and a smile--
      Wae 's me! can I tak' it amiss?
    My laddie 's unpractised in guile,
      He 's free aye to daut and to kiss!
    Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment
      Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
    Play your pranks--I hae gi'en my consent,
      And this nicht I 'm Jamie's for life!


[15] The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is
unsuitable for insertion, has been ascribed, on the authority of Burns,
to the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, in Mid-Lothian, who died
in 1819, aged sixty-two. Ritson, however, by prefixing the letters "J.
D." to the original stanza would seem to point to a different author.




DONALD AND FLORA.[16]


                I.

    When merry hearts were gay,
    Careless of aught but play,
    Poor Flora slipt away,
        Sadd'ning to Mora;[17]
    Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
    Quick heaved her bosom bare,
    As to the troubled air
        She vented her sorrow.


                II.

    "Loud howls the stormy wist,
    Cold, cold is winter's blast;
    Haste, then, O Donald, haste,
        Haste to thy Flora!
    Twice twelve long months are o'er,
    Since on a foreign shore
    You promised to fight no more,
        But meet me in Mora."


                III.

    "'Where now is Donald dear?'
    Maids cry with taunting sneer;
    'Say, is he still sincere
        To his loved Flora?'
    Parents upbraid my moan,
    Each heart is turn'd to stone:
    'Ah, Flora! thou 'rt now alone,
        Friendless in Mora!'


                IV.

    "Come, then, O come away!
    Donald, no longer stay;
    Where can my rover stray
        From his loved Flora!
    Ah! sure he ne'er can be
    False to his vows and me;
    Oh, Heaven!--is not yonder he,
        Bounding o'er Mora!"


                V.

    "Never, ah! wretched fair!"
    Sigh'd the sad messenger,
    "Never shall Donald mair
        Meet his loved Flora!
    Cold as yon mountain snow
    Donald thy love lies low;
    He sent me to soothe thy woe,
        Weeping in Mora.


                VI.

    "Well fought our gallant men
    On Saratoga's plain;
    Thrice fled the hostile train
        From British glory.
    But, ah! though our foes did flee,
    Sad was such victory--
    Truth, love, and loyalty
        Fell far from Mora.


                VII.

    "'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,'
    Donald, expiring, said;
    'Give it to yon dear maid
        Drooping in Mora.
    Tell her, O Allan! tell
    Donald thus bravely fell,
    And that in his last farewell
        He thought on his Flora.'"


                VIII.

    Mute stood the trembling fair,
    Speechless with wild despair;
    Then, striking her bosom bare,
        Sigh'd out, "Poor Flora!
    Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!"
    Was all the fond heart could say:
    At length the sound died away
        Feebly in Mora.


[16] This fine ballad was written by Macneill, to commemorate the death
of his friend, Captain Stewart, a brave officer, betrothed to a young
lady in Athole, who, in 1777, fell at the battle of Saratoga, in
America. The words, which are adapted to an old Gaelic air, appear with
music in Smith's "Scottish Minstrel," vol. iii. p. 28. The ballad, in
the form given above, has been improved in several of the stanzas by the
author, on his original version, published in Johnson's "Museum." See
the "Museum," vol. iv. p. 238.

[17] Mora is the name of a small valley in Athole, so designated by the
two lovers.




MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY.[18]

TUNE--_"Ye Jacobites by name."_


    My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame;
    My luve 's in Germanie, send him hame;
                My luve 's in Germanie,
                Fighting brave for royalty:
                He may ne'er his Jeanie see--
                    Send him hame.

    He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame, send him hame;
    He 's as brave as brave can be--send him hame;
                He 's as brave as brave can be,
                He wad rather fa' than flee;
                His life is dear to me--
                    Send him hame.

    Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame,
    Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame;
                Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
                But he fell in Germanie,
                In the cause of royalty,
                    Bonnie dame.

    He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's slain, Willie 's slain;
    He 'll ne'er come ower the sea--Willie 's gane!
                He 'll ne'er come ower the sea,
                To his love and ain countrie:
                This warld 's nae mair for me--
                    Willie 's gane!


[18] This song was originally printed on a single sheet, by N. Stewart
and Co., Edinburgh, in 1794, as the lament of a lady on the death of an
officer. It does not appear in Macneill's "Poetical Works," but he
asserted to Mr Stenhouse his claims to the authorship.--Johnson's
"Museum," vol. iv. p. 323.




DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE.[19]

TUNE--_"Clunie's Reel."_


    "Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee!
    Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
    Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
    I 'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee."

    "Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
    Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
    Far 's the gate ye hae to gang; dark 's the night, and eerie;
    Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me."

    "It 's but a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
    But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
    But a night and hauf a day that I 'll leave my dearie;
    Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I 'll come again and see thee."

    "Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me;
    Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me;
    When a' the lave are sound asleep, I 'm dull and eerie;
    And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie."

    "Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee!
    Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
    Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I 'm gaun to leave thee;
    Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I 'll come again and see thee."

    "Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me;
    Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me;
    While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie;
    And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me."

    "Oh, never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee!
    Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee;
    Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee;
    E'en let the world gang as it will, I 'll stay at hame and cheer ye."

    Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;"
    Threw his plaid into the neuk; "Never can I grieve thee;"
    Drew his boots, and flang them by; cried, "My lass, be cheerie;
    I 'll kiss the tear frae aff thy cheek, and never leave my dearie."


[19] The last verse of this song was added by John Hamilton. The song,
on account of this addition, was not included by Macneill in the
collected edition of his "Poetical Works." One of Miss Blamire's songs
has the same opening line; and it has been conjectured by Mr Maxwell,
the editor of her poems, that Macneill had been indebted to her song for
suggesting his verses.




MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.


Mrs Anne Grant, commonly styled of Laggan, to distinguish her from her
contemporary, Mrs Grant of Carron, was born at Glasgow, in February
1755. Her father, Mr Duncan Macvicar, was an officer in the army, and,
by her mother, she was descended from the old family of Stewart, of
Invernahyle, in Argyllshire. Her early infancy was passed at
Fort-William; but her father having accompanied his regiment to America,
and there become a settler, in the State of New York, at a very tender
age she was taken by her mother across the Atlantic, to her new home.
Though her third year had not been completed when she arrived in
America, she retained a distinct recollection of her landing at
Charlestown. By her mother she was taught to read, and a well-informed
serjeant made her acquainted with writing. Her precocity for learning
was remarkable. Ere she had reached her sixth year, she had made herself
familiar with the Old Testament, and could speak the Dutch language,
which she had learned from a family of Dutch settlers. The love of
poetry and patriotism was simultaneously evinced. At this early period,
she read Milton's "Paradise Lost" with attention, and even
appreciation; and glowed with the enthusiastic ardour of a young heroine
over the adventures of Wallace, detailed in the metrical history of
Henry, the Minstrel. Her juvenile talent attracted the notice of the
more intelligent settlers in the State, and gained her the friendship of
the distinguished Madame Schuyler, whose virtues she afterwards depicted
in her "Memoirs of an American Lady."

In 1768, along with his wife and daughter, Mr Macvicar returned to
Scotland, his health having suffered by his residence in America; and,
during the three following summers, his daughter found means of
gratifying her love of song, on the banks of the Cart, near Glasgow. The
family residence was now removed to Fort-Augustus, where Mr Macvicar had
received the appointment of barrack-master. The chaplain of the fort was
the Rev. James Grant, a young clergyman, related to several of the more
respectable families in the district, who was afterwards appointed
minister of the parish of Laggan, in Inverness-shire. At Fort-Augustus,
he had recommended himself to the affections of Miss Macvicar, by his
elegant tastes and accomplished manners, and he now became the
successful suitor for her hand. They were married in 1779, and Mrs
Grant, to approve herself a useful helpmate to her husband, began
assiduously to acquaint herself with the manners and habits of the
humbler classes of the people. The inquiries instituted at this period
were turned to an account more extensive than originally contemplated.
Mr Grant, who was constitutionally delicate, died in 1801, leaving his
widow and eight surviving children without any means of support, his
worldly circumstances being considerably embarrassed.

On a small farm which she had rented, in the vicinity of her late
husband's parish, Mrs Grant resided immediately subsequent to his
decease; but the profits of the lease were evidently inadequate for the
comfortable maintenance of the family. Among the circle of her friends
she was known as a writer of verses; in her ninth year, she had essayed
an imitation of Milton; and she had written poetry, or at least verses,
on the banks of the Cart and at Fort-Augustus. To aid in supporting her
family, she was strongly advised to collect her pieces into a volume;
and, to encourage her in acting upon this recommendation, no fewer than
three thousand subscribers were procured for the work by her friends.
The celebrated Duchess of Gordon proved an especial promoter of the
cause. In 1803, a volume of poems appeared from her pen, which, though
displaying no high powers, was favourably received, and had the double
advantage of making her known, and of materially aiding her finances.
From the profits, she made settlement of her late husband's liabilities;
and now perceiving a likelihood of being able to support her family by
her literary exertions, she abandoned the lease of her farm. She took up
her residence near the town of Stirling, residing in the mansion of
Gartur, in that neighbourhood. In 1806, she again appeared before the
public as an author, by publishing a selection of her correspondence
with her friends, in three duodecimo volumes, under the designation of
"Letters from the Mountains." This work passed through several editions.
In 1808, Mrs Grant published the life of her early friend, Madame
Schuyler, under the designation of "Memoirs of an American Lady," in two
volumes.

From the rural retirement of Gartur, she soon removed to the town of
Stirling; but in 1810, as her circumstances became more prosperous, she
took up her permanent abode in Edinburgh. Some distinguished literary
characters of the Scottish capital now resorted to her society. She was
visited by Sir Walter Scott, Francis Jeffrey, James Hogg, and others,
attracted by the vivacity of her conversation. The "Essays on the
Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland" appeared in 1811, in two
volumes; in 1814, she published a metrical work, in two parts, entitled
"Eighteen Hundred and Thirteen;" and, in the year following, she
produced her "Popular Models and Impressive Warnings for the Sons and
Daughters of Industry."

In 1825, Mrs Grant received a civil-list pension of £50 a-year, in
consideration of her literary talents, which, with the profits of her
works and the legacies of several deceased friends, rendered the latter
period of her life sufficiently comfortable in respect of pecuniary
means. She died on the 7th of November 1838, in the eighty-fourth year
of her age, and retaining her faculties to the last. A collection of her
correspondence was published in 1844, in three volumes octavo, edited by
her only surviving son, John P. Grant, Esq.

As a writer, Mrs Grant occupies a respectable place. She had the happy
art of turning her every-day observation, as well as the fruits of her
research, to the best account. Her letters, which she published at the
commencement of her literary career, as well as those which appeared
posthumously, are favourable specimens of that species of composition.
As a poet, she attained to no eminence. "The Highlanders," her longest
and most ambitious poetical effort, exhibits some glowing descriptions
of mountain scenery, and the stern though simple manners of the Gaël. Of
a few songs which proceed from her pen, that commencing, "Oh, where,
tell me where?" written on the occasion of the Marquis of Huntly's
departure for Holland with his regiment, in 1799, has only become
generally known. It has been parodied in a song, by an unknown author,
entitled "The Blue Bells of Scotland," which has obtained a wider range
of popularity.




OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE?


    "Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?
    Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone?"
    "He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
    And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.
    He 's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done,
    And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home."

    "Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?
    Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?"
    "He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
    And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away.
    He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey,
    And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away."

    "Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?
    Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear?"
    "A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
    And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star;
    A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
    And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star."

    "Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound,
    Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound!"
    "The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly;
    The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye;
    The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly,
    And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die!"

    "But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds;
    But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds.
    His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
    While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds;
    His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
    While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds."




OH, MY LOVE, LEAVE ME NOT![20]

AIR--_"Bealach na Gharraidh."_


    Oh, my love, leave me not!
    Oh, my love, leave me not!
    Oh, my love, leave me not!
      Lonely and weary.

    Could you but stay a while,
    And my fond fears beguile,
    I yet once more could smile,
      Lightsome and cheery.

    Night, with her darkest shroud,
    Tempests that roar aloud,
    Thunders that burst the cloud,
      Why should I fear ye?

    Till the sad hour we part,
    Fear cannot make me start;
    Grief cannot break my heart
      Whilst thou art near me.

    Should you forsake my sight,
    Day would to me be night;
    Sad, I would shun its light,
      Heartless and weary.


[20] From Albyn's "Anthology," vol. i. p. 42. Edinburgh, 1816, 4to.




JOHN MAYNE.


John Mayne, chiefly known as the author of "The Siller Gun," a poem
descriptive of burgher habits in Scotland towards the close of the
century, was born at Dumfries, on the 26th of March 1759. At the grammar
school of his native town, under Dr Chapman, the learned rector, whose
memory he has celebrated in the third canto of his principal poem, he
had the benefit of a respectable elementary education; and having chosen
the profession of a printer, he entered at an early age the printing
office of the _Dumfries Journal_. In 1782, when his parents removed to
Glasgow, to reside on a little property to which they had succeeded, he
sought employment under the celebrated Messrs Foulis, in whose printing
establishment he continued during the five following years. He paid a
visit to London in 1785, with the view of advancing his professional
interests, and two years afterwards he settled in the metropolis.

Mayne, while a mere stripling, was no unsuccessful wooer of the Muse;
and in his sixteenth year he produced the germ of that poem on which his
reputation chiefly depends. This production, entitled "The Siller Gun,"
descriptive of a sort of _walkingshaw_, or an ancient practice which
obtained in his native town, of shooting, on the king's birth-day, for a
silver tube or gun, which had been presented by James VI. to the
incorporated trades, as a prize to the best marksman, was printed at
Dumfries in 1777, on a small quarto page. The original edition consisted
of twelve stanzas; in two years it increased to two cantos; in 1780, it
was printed in three cantos; in 1808, it was published in London with a
fourth; and in 1836, just before his death, the author added a fifth.
The latest edition was published by subscription, in an elegant
duodecimo volume.

In 1780, in the pages of Ruddiman's _Weekly Magazine_, Mayne published a
short poem on "Halloween," which suggested Burns's celebrated poem on
the same subject. In 1781, he published at Glasgow his song of "Logan
Braes," of which Burns afterwards composed a new version.

In London, Mayne was first employed as printer, and subsequently became
joint-editor and proprietor, along with Dr Tilloch, of the _Star_
evening newspaper. With this journal he retained a connexion till his
death, which took place at London on the 14th of March 1836.

Besides the humorous and descriptive poem of "The Siller Gun," which, in
the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, surpasses the efforts of Ferguson, and
comes near to those of Burns,[21] Mayne published another epic
production, entitled "Glasgow," which appeared in 1803, and has passed
through several editions. In the same year he published "English, Scots,
and Irishmen," a chivalrous address to the population of the three
kingdoms. To the literary journals, his contributions, both in prose and
verse, were numerous and interesting. Many of his songs and ballads
enriched the columns of the journal which he so long and ably conducted.
In early life, he maintained a metrical correspondence with Thomas
Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the same county,
and whose earliest ambition was to earn the reputation of a poet.[22]

Possessed of entire amiability of disposition, and the utmost amenity of
manners, John Mayne was warmly beloved among the circle of his friends.
Himself embued with a deep sense of religion, though fond of innocent
humour, he preserved in all his writings a becoming respect for sound
morals, and is entitled to the commendation which a biographer has
awarded him, of having never committed to paper a single line "the
tendency of which was not to afford innocent amusement, or to improve
and increase the happiness of mankind." He was singularly modest and
even retiring. His eulogy has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham, who
knew him well, that "a better or warmer-hearted man never existed." The
songs, of which we have selected the more popular, abound in vigour of
expression and sentiment, and are pervaded by a genuine pathos.


[21] See Note to "Lady of the Lake."

[22] See the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, vol. xxi. p. 170.




LOGAN BRAES.[23]


    By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,
    Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep,
    I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
    Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
    But, waes my heart! thae days are gane,
    And I wi' grief may herd alane;
    While my dear lad maun face his faes,
    Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

    Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
    Atween the preachings meet wi' me,
    Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk,
    Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
    I weel may sing thae days are gane--
    Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
    While my dear lad maun face his faes,
    Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

    At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
    I daunder dowie and forlane;
    I sit alane, beneath the tree
    Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
    Oh, could I see thae days again,
    My lover skaithless, and my ain!
    Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
    We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.


[23] This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza
being subsequently added by the author. It is adapted to a beautiful old
air, "Logan Water," incongruously connected with some indecorous
stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the
Scottish muse, and attempted to modernise the song, but his edition is
decidedly inferior. Other four stanzas have been added, by some
anonymous versifier, to Mayne's verses, which first appeared in Duncan's
"Encyclopædia of Scottish, English, and Irish Songs," printed at Glasgow
in 1836, 2 vols. 12mo. In those stanzas the lover is brought back to
Logan braes, and consummates his union with his weeping shepherdess. The
stream of Logan takes its rise among the hills separating the parishes
of Lesmahago and Muirkirk, and, after a flow of eight miles, deposits
its waters into the Nethan river.




HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.[24]


    I wish I were where Helen lies,
    For night and day on me she cries;
    And, like an angel, to the skies
        Still seems to beckon me!
    For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
    For me she wish'd to be a bride;
    For me in life's sweet morn she died
        On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

    Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
    As Helen on my arm reclined,
    A rival with a ruthless mind
        Took deadly aim at me.
    My love, to disappoint the foe,
    Rush'd in between me and the blow;
    And now her corse is lying low,
        On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

    Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
    I curse the hand by which she fell--
    The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
        And tore my love from me!
    For if, when all the graces shine,
    Oh! if on earth there 's aught divine,
    My Helen! all these charms were thine,
        They centred all in thee!

    Ah! what avails it that, amain,
    I clove the assassin's head in twain?
    No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
        No resting-place for me.
    I see her spirit in the air--
    I hear the shriek of wild despair,
    When murder laid her bosom bare,
        On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

    Oh! when I 'm sleeping in my grave,
    And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
    May He who life and spirit gave
        Unite my love and me!
    Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
    My soul on wings of peace shall rise,
    And, joining Helen in the skies,
        Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.


[24] During the reign of Mary, Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great
personal attractions and numerous accomplishments, named Helen Irving,
daughter of Irving of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam
Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of fortune in the
neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the banks of the Kirtle, she
was slain by a shot which had been aimed at Fleming by a disappointed
rival. The melancholy history has been made the theme of three different
ballads, two of these being old. The present ballad, by Mr Mayne, was
inserted by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh _Annual Register_ of 1815.




THE WINTER SAT LANG.


    The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
    Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
    My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',
    And we thought upon those that were farest awa'.
    Oh, were they but here that are farest awa'!
    Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a'!
    Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma',
    If they were but here that are far frae us a'!

    Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,
    And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer;
    Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,
    A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.
    He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',
    In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a';
    While I hae a being ye 'se aye hae a ha',
    Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."

    My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,
    By the bairn she doated on early and late,
    Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a',
    There 's been naething unworthy o' him that 's awa'!
    Then here is to them that are far frae us a',
    The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!
    Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a';
    And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that 's awa'!




MY JOHNNIE.

AIR--_"Johnnie's Gray Breeks."_


    Jenny's heart was frank and free,
      And wooers she had mony, yet
    The sang was aye, "Of a' I see,
      Commend me to my Johnnie yet.
    For ear' and late, he has sic gate
      To mak' a body cheerie, that
    I wish to be, before I dee,
      His ain kind dearie yet."

    Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace,
      Her shape was sma' and genty-like,
    And few or nane in a' the place,
      Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yet
    Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms,
      Had gart her oft look eerie, yet
    She sung wi' glee, "I hope to be
      My Johnnie's ain dearie yet.

    "What though he's now gane far awa',
      Whare guns and cannons rattle, yet
    Unless my Johnnie chance to fa'
      In some uncanny battle, yet
    Till he return my breast will burn
      Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet,
    For I hope to see, before I dee,
      His bairns to him endear me yet."




THE TROOPS WERE EMBARKED.


    The troops were all embark'd on board,
      The ships were under weigh,
    And loving wives, and maids adored,
      Were weeping round the bay.

    They parted from their dearest friends,
      From all their heart desires;
    And Rosabel to Heaven commends
      The man her soul admires!

    For him she fled from soft repose,
      Renounced a parent's care;
    He sails to crush his country's foes,
      She wanders in despair!

    A seraph in an infant's frame
      Reclined upon her arm;
    And sorrow in the lovely dame
      Now heighten'd every charm:

    She thought, if fortune had but smiled--
      She thought upon her dear;
    But when she look'd upon his child,
      Oh, then ran many a tear!

    "Ah! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st?
      Who 'll sing a lullaby,
    Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st,
      If I should chance to die?"

    On board the ship, resign'd to fate,
      Yet planning joys to come,
    Her love in silent sorrow sate
      Upon a broken drum.

    He saw her lonely on the beach;
      He saw her on the strand;
    And far as human eye can reach
      He saw her wave her hand!

    "O Rosabel! though forced to go,
      With thee my soul shall dwell,
    And Heaven, who pities human woe,
      Will comfort Rosabel!"




JOHN HAMILTON.


Of the personal history of John Hamilton only a few particulars can be
ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in
North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the
art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune
to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils--a young lady of birth
and fortune--whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations.
He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in
the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody the
name of Mr Hamilton is familiar, as a composer of several esteemed and
beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song
entitle his name to an honourable place.




THE RANTIN' HIGHLANDMAN.


    Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out
      To flit a tether'd ewe and lamb,
    I met, as skiffin' ower the green,
      A jolly, rantin' Highlandman.
    His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,
      And ilka smile my favour wan;
    I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad
      As this young rantin' Highlandman.

    He said, "My dear, ye 're sune asteer;
      Cam' ye to hear the lav'rock's sang?
    Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,
      And wed a rantin' Highlandman?
    In summer days, on flow'ry braes,
      When frisky are the ewe and lamb,
    I 'se row ye in my tartan plaid,
      And be your rantin' Highlandman.

    "Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell,
      I 'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang,
    If ye 'll consent to scour the bent
      Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman.
    We 'll big a cot, and buy a stock,
      Syne do the best that e'er we can;
    Then come, my dear, ye needna fear
      To trust a rantin' Highlandman."

    His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart,
      And fain I wad hae gi'en my han';
    Yet durstna, lest my mither should
      Dislike a rantin' Highlandman.
    But I expect he will come back;
      Then, though my kin should scauld and ban,
    I 'll ower the hill, or whare he will,
      Wi' my young rantin' Highlandman.




UP IN THE MORNIN' EARLY.[25]


    Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south;
      The drift is drifting sairly;
    The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch;
      Oh, sirs, it 's winter fairly!
    Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
      Up in the mornin' early;
    I'd rather gae supperless to my bed
      Than rise in the mornin' early.

    Loud roars the blast amang the woods,
      And tirls the branches barely;
    On hill and house hear how it thuds!
      The frost is nippin' sairly.
    Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
      Up in the mornin' early;
    To sit a' nicht wad better agree
      Than rise in the mornin' early.

    The sun peeps ower yon southland hills,
      Like ony timorous carlie;
    Just blinks a wee, then sinks again;
      And that we find severely.
    Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
      Up in the mornin' early;
    When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek,
      Wha 'd rise in the mornin' early?

    Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush:
      Poor things! they suffer sairly;
    In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht,
      A' day they feed but sparely.
    Now, up in the mornin's no for me,
      Up in the mornin' early;
    A pennyless purse I wad rather dree,
      Than rise in the mornin' early.

    A cosie house and canty wife
      Aye keep a body cheerly;
    And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink,
      They answer unco rarely.
    But up in the mornin'--na, na, na!
      Up in the mornin' early!
    The gowans maun glint on bank and brae
      When I rise in the mornin' early.


[25] Burns composed two verses to the same tune, which is very old. It
was a favourite of Queen Mary, the consort of William III. In his
"Beggar's Opera," Gay has adopted the tune for one of his songs. It was
published, in 1652, by John Hilton, as the third voice to what is called
a "Northern Catch" for three voices, beginning--"I'se gae wi' thee, my
sweet Peggy."




GO TO BERWICK, JOHNNIE.[26]


    Go to Berwick, Johnnie;
      Bring her frae the Border;
    Yon sweet bonnie lassie,
      Let her gae nae farther.
    English loons will twine ye
      O' the lovely treasure;
    But we 'll let them ken
      A sword wi' them we 'll measure.

    Go to Berwick, Johnnie,
      And regain your honour;
    Drive them ower the Tweed,
      And show our Scottish banner.
    I am Rob, the King,
      And ye are Jock, my brither;
    But, before we lose her,
      We 'll a' there thegither.


[26] These stanzas are founded on some lines of old doggerel,
beginning--

    "Go, go, go,
      Go to Berwick, Johnnie;
    Thou shalt have the horse,
      And I shall have the pony."






MISS FORBES' FAREWELL TO BANFF.


    Farewell, ye fields an' meadows green!
      The blest retreats of peace an' love;
    Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence,
      With my young swain a while to rove.
    Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk,
      Among the beauties of the spring;
    An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank,
      To hear the feather'd warblers sing.

    The azure sky, the hills around,
      Gave double beauty to the scene;
    The lofty spires of Banff in view--
      On every side the waving grain.
    The tales of love my Jamie told,
      In such a saft an' moving strain,
    Have so engaged my tender heart,
      I 'm loth to leave the place again.

    But if the Fates will be sae kind
      As favour my return once more,
    For to enjoy the peace of mind
      In those retreats I had before:
    Now, farewell, Banff! the nimble steeds
      Do bear me hence--I must away;
    Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back,
      To part nae mair from scenes so gay.




TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY?


    Tell me, Jessie, tell me why
    My fond suit you still deny?
    Is your bosom cold as snow?
    Did you never feel for woe?
    Can you hear, without a sigh,
    Him complain who for you could die?
    If you ever shed a tear,
    Hear me, Jessie, hear, O hear!

    Life to me is not more dear
    Than the hour brings Jessie here;
    Death so much I do not fear
    As the parting moment near.
    Summer smiles are not so sweet
    As the bloom upon your cheek;
    Nor the crystal dew so clear
    As your eyes to me appear.

    These are part of Jessie's charms,
    Which the bosom ever warms;
    But the charms by which I 'm stung,
    Come, O Jessie, from thy tongue!
    Jessie, be no longer coy;
    Let me taste a lover's joy;
    With your hand remove the dart,
    And heal the wound that 's in my heart.




THE HAWTHORN.


    Last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair,
    I met with young Jamie, wh'as taking the air;
    He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail,
    Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
      That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
      Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale.

    He said he had loved me both long and sincere,
    That none on the green was so gentle and fair;
    I listen'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale,
    Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
                That blooms in the valley, &c.

    "Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove,
    How charming their song, and enticing to love!
    The briers that with roses perfume the passing gale,
    And meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale"--
                That blooms in the valley, &c.

    His words were so moving, and looks soft and kind,
    Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind;
    My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale,
    Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
                That blooms in the valley, &c.

    Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay,
    But leave me he would not, nor let me away;
    Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail,
    Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
                That blooms in the valley, &c.

    Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse?
    His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows!
    We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still,
    And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale--
      That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale,
      We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale.




OH, BLAW, YE WESTLIN' WINDS![27]


    Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft
      Amang the leafy trees!
    Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale,
      Bring hame the laden bees;
    And bring the lassie back to me,
      That 's aye sae neat and clean;
    Ae blink of her wad banish care,
      Sae lovely is my Jean.

    What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,
      Hae pass'd atween us twa!
    How fain to meet, how wae to part,
      That day she gaed awa'!
    The Powers aboon can only ken,
      To whom the heart is seen,
    That nane can be sae dear to me
      As my sweet, lovely Jean.


[27] These verses were written as a continuation to Burns's "Of a' the
airts the wind can blaw." Other two stanzas were added to the same song
by W. Reid.--See _postea_.




JOANNA BAILLIE.


Joanna Baillie was born on the 11th of September 1762, in the manse of
Bothwell, in Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended
from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently
entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert
Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswood, so celebrated for its
Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an
honourable house: she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston; and
her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science--Dr
William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter the
greatest anatomist of his age. Joanna--a twin, the other child being
still-born--was the youngest of a family of three children. Her only
brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical
world. Agnes, her sister, who was eldest of the family, remained
unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof.

In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge
of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton,--a town
situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was
subsequently elected Professor of Divinity in the University of
Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both
continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calderwood,
in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an
invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his
medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great
Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter.

Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning,
Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in
rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she
could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic
representations, which she carried on with her companions. But she did
not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of
twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and
that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite
any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at
first, "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to delineate the
stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a
Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she
discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the
ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and
decoration. "Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of
passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, "be introduced, and it
will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and
unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising
exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient
to satisfy the utmost ambition of the author, and established the
foundation of her fame. "Nothing to compare with them had been produced
since the great days of the English drama; and the truth, vigour,
variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound,
might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can
scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when
it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally
published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had
passed her life in domestic seclusion."[28] Encouraged by the success of
the first volume of her dramas on the "Passions," the author added a
second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published
a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family
Legend" in 1810,--a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a
prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the
"Family Legend" was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the
auspices of the former illustrious character; and was ably supported by
Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It
was favourably received during ten successive performances. "You have
only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play,"
wrote Sir Walter Scott to the author, "and your conceptions will still
fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the 'Family Legend.'
The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree; many people had
come from your native capital of the west; everything that pretended to
distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes; and in
the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever,
witnessed in the same space." Other two of her plays, "Count Basil" and
"De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by
Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general
approbation; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining
a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes
of dramas; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the
period of nearly forty years.

Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not
return to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the
marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief-Justice Denman, in
1791, she passed some years at Colchester; but she subsequently fixed
her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At
Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she
has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of
the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she
continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her
pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely
independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends,
one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to
her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained
with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to
her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir
by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently
complimenting her in his works. In his "Epistle to William Erskine,"
which forms the introduction to the third canto of "Marmion," he thus
generously eulogises his gifted friend:--

    "Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
    Restore the ancient tragic line,
    And emulate the notes that wrung
    From the wild harp, which silent hung
    By silver Avon's holy shore,
    Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er;
    When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
    With fearless hand and heart on flame!
    From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
    And swept it with a kindred measure,
    Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
    With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
    Awakening at the inspiréd strain,
    Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."

To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of "Macduff's Cross,"
which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823.

Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining
an increasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her
numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well
entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern
dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by
no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent
thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions,
and

                   "Within _her_ mighty page,
    Each tyrant passion shews his woe and rage."

The tragedies of "Count Basil" and "De Montfort" are her best plays, and
are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon.
Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or
diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful; and powerful
without any ostentation of strength. Her personal history was the
counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in
conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have
attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had
possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently
religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior
intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by
her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the
metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to
public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She
died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age
of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole Works
in a collected form.

The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in
the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful
effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the
"land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm
affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of "the mountain and the
flood." "Fy, let us a' to the wedding," "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" "It
fell on a morning when we were thrang," and "Woo'd, and married, and
a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the
world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's "Melodies," and
"The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in
1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers,
author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in
the present work.


[28] _Literary Gazette_, March 1851.




THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN.


    I 've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
    Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,
    Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree--
    Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

    Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came,
    And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame;
    For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee,
    Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

    Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn,
    Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn:
    Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
    When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

    The farmer rides proudly to market or fair,
    The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair;
    But of all our proud fellows the proudest I 'll be,
    While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

    For blythe as the urchin at holiday play,
    And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
    And trim as the lady of gentle degree,
    Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.




GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!


    The sun is sunk, the day is done,
    E'en stars are setting one by one;
    Nor torch nor taper longer may
    Eke out the pleasures of the day;
    And since, in social glee's despite,
    It needs must be, Good night, good night!

    The bride into her bower is sent,
    And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent;
    The lover's whisper'd words and few
    Have bade the bashful maid adieu;
    The dancing-floor is silent quite--
    No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!

    The lady in her curtain'd bed,
    The herdsman in his wattled shed,
    The clansman in the heather'd hall,
    Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
    We part in hope of days as bright
    As this now gone--Good night, good night!

    Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
    And if upon its stillness fall
    The visions of a busy brain,
    We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;
    To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
    Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!




THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.


    Though richer swains thy love pursue,
    In Sunday gear and bonnets new;
    And every fair before thee lay
    Their silken gifts, with colours gay--
    They love thee not, alas! so well
    As one who sighs, and dare not tell;
    Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
    In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.

    I grieve not for my wayward lot,
    My empty folds, my roofless cot;
    Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
    Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;
    Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,
    Who by his master still abides;
    But how wilt thou prefer my boon,
    In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?




POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]

AIR--_"Todlin' Hame."_


    When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,
    And siller was chinking my pouches within;
    When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
    As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay--
          Kind was she, and my friends were free;
          But poverty parts gude companie.

    How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!
    The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;
    And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
    As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.
          Woe is me! and can it then be,
          That poverty parts sic companie?

    We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;
    We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;
    And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,
    The cheering and life of my bosom have been.
          Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,
          And poverty parts sweet companie.

    At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride,
    The _bruse_ I hae won, and a kiss of the bride;
    And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,
    When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song.
          Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,
          When poverty parts gude companie.

    Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet,
    And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,
    While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
    But now they pass by me, and never a word.
          So let it be; for the worldly and slie
          Wi' poverty keep nae companie.

    But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;
    The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
    For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,
    And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
          Cruelly though we ilka day see
          How poverty parts dear companie.


[29] This song was written for Thomson's "Melodies." "Todlin' Hame," the
air to which it is adapted, appears in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany"
as an old song. The words begin--"When I hae a saxpence under my thum."
Burns remarks that "it is perhaps one of the first bottle-songs that
ever was composed."




FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.[30]


    Fy, let us a' to the wedding,
      For they will be lilting there;
    For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
      The lass wi' the gowden hair.
    And there will be jilting and jeering,
      And glancing of bonnie dark een;
    Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
      O' questions, baith pawky and keen.

    And there will be Bessy, the beauty,
      Wha raises her cock-up sae hie,
    And giggles at preachings and duty;
      Gude grant that she gang nae ajee!
    And there will be auld Geordie Tanner,
      Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
    She 'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
       But, wow! he looks dowie and cowed.

    And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress,
      Will perk at the top o' the ha',
    Encircled wi' suitors, whase care is
      To catch up the gloves when they fa'.
    Repeat a' her jokes as they 're cleckit,
      And haver and glower in her face,
    When tocherless Mays are negleckit--
      A crying and scandalous case.

    And Mysie, whase clavering aunty
      Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird;
    And learns the young fouk to be vaunty,
      But neither to spin nor to caird.
    And Andrew, whase granny is yearning
      To see him a clerical blade,
    Was sent to the college for learning,
      And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.

    And there will be auld Widow Martin,
      That ca's hersel' thretty and twa!
    And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain
      Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.
    And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty--
      A pattern of havens and sense--
    Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
      And crack wi' Mess John in the spence.

    And Angus, the seer o' ferlies,
      That sits on the stane at his door,
    And tells about bogles, and mair lies
      Than tongue ever utter'd before.
    And there will be Bauldy, the boaster,
      Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
    Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
      Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.

    And Hugh, the town-writer, I 'm thinking,
      That trades in his lawyerly skill,
    Will egg on the fighting and drinking,
      To bring after grist to his mill.
    And Maggie--na, na! we 'll be civil,
      And let the wee bridie abee;
    A vilipend tongue it is evil,
      And ne'er was encouraged by me.

    Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
      For they will be lilting there,
    Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
      The fun and the feasting to share.
    For they will get sheep's-head and haggis,
      And browst o' the barley-mow;
    E'en he that comes latest and lagis
      May feast upon dainties enow.

    Veal florentines, in the o'en baken,
      Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;
    Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
      Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat.
    And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill)
      To drink the young couple gude luck,
    Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle,
      Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

    And then will come dancing and daffing,
      And reelin' and crossin' o' han's,
    Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
      As back by the aumry she stan's.
    Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,
      While fiddlers are making their din;
    And pipers are droning and skirling,
      As loud as the roar o' the linn.

    Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
      For they will be lilting there;
    For Jock 's to be married to Maggie,
      The lass wi' the gowden hair.


[30] This song is a new version of "The Blythesome Bridal," beginning,
"Fy, let us a' to the bridal," which first appeared in Watson's
Collection, in 1706, and of which the authorship was generally assigned
to Francis Semple of Beltrees, in Renfrewshire, who lived in the middle
of the seventeenth century, though more recently it has been attributed
to Sir William Scott of Thirlestane, in Selkirkshire, who flourished in
the beginning of last century. The words of the original song are
coarse, but humorous.




HOOLY AND FAIRLY.[31]


    Oh, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry?
    My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary;
    And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly.
      O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

    She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow,
    Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou';
    While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.
      O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!

    To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a',
    She gangs sae light-headed, and buskit sae braw,
    In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely.
      O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!

    I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
    Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;
    The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly.
      O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!

    She 's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,
    And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen;
    Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she 'll lay on me sairly.
      O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!

    When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed--
    The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred--
    While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early.
      O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!
        Timely and fairly, timely and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly!

    A word o' gude counsel or grace she 'll hear none;
    She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John;
    While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly.
      O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      O gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!

    I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
    I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;
    Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly.
      What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.


[31] The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from "The
Drucken Wife o' Gallowa'," a song which first appeared in the "Charmer,"
a collection of songs, published at Edinburgh in 1751, but the
authorship of which is unknown.




THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.


            A young gudewife is in my house,
              And thrifty means to be,
            But aye she 's runnin' to the town
              Some ferlie there to see.
    The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
    I soothly think, ere it be spun, I 'll wear a lyart pow.

            And when she sets her to her wheel,
              To draw her threads wi' care,
            In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
              And she can spin nae mair.
                          The weary pund, &c.

            And then like ony merry May,
              At fairs maun still be seen,
            At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
              At dances on the green.
                          The weary pund, &c.

            Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
              A bagpipe 's her delight,
            But for the crooning o' her wheel
              She disna care a mite.
                          The weary pund, &c.

            "You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs
              Made o' your hinkum twine,
            But, ah! I fear our bonnie burn
              Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
                          The weary pund, &c.

            "Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
              Sic jeering means nae ill;
            Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
              I'll loe and bless thee still."
                          The weary pund, &c.




THE WEE PICKLE TOW.[32]


    A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
      And she thought to try the spinnin' o't;
    She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,
      And that was an ill beginnin' o't.
    Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, I ween;
    The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
    Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
      O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!

    She stamp'd on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,
      Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, O!
    And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her tongue;
      Like ane sair demented she lookit, O!
    "Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel!
      I hope, gude forgi'e me! he 's now wi' the d--l,
    He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;
      O dole for the ill beginnin' o't!

    "And now, when they 're spinnin' and kempin' awa',
      They 'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't,
    While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a',
      Into some silly joke will be turnin' it:
    They 'll say I was doited, they 'll say I was fu';
    They 'll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;
    They 'll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,
      And that made the ill beginning o't.

    "O curst be the day, and unchancy the hour,
      When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't!
    Then some evil spirit or warlock had power,
      And made sic an ill beginnin' o't.
    May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray,
    The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away,
    And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray,
      The next time I try the spinnin' o't."


[32] "The Wee Pickle Tow" is an old air, to which the words of this song
were written.




THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD.


    The gowan glitters on the sward,
      The lav'rock's in the sky,
    And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
      And time is passing by.
        Oh, no! sad and slow,
      And lengthen'd on the ground;
        The shadow of our trysting bush
      It wears so slowly round.

    My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
      My lambs are bleating near;
    But still the sound that I lo'e best,
      Alack! I canna hear.
        Oh, no! sad and slow,
      The shadow lingers still;
        And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
      And croon upon the hill.

    I hear below the water roar,
      The mill wi' clacking din,
    And lucky scolding frae the door,
      To ca' the bairnies in.
        Oh, no! sad and slow,
      These are nae sounds for me;
        The shadow of our trysting bush
      It creeps sae drearily!

    I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
      A snood o' bonnie blue,
    And promised, when our trysting cam',
      To tie it round her brow.
        Oh, no! sad and slow,
      The mark it winna pass;
        The shadow o' that dreary bush
      Is tether'd on the grass.

    O now I see her on the way!
      She 's past the witch's knowe;
    She 's climbing up the brownie's brae--
      My heart is in a lowe.
        Oh, no! 'tis not so,
      'Tis glamrie I hae seen;
        The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
      Will move nae mair till e'en.

    My book o' grace I 'll try to read,
      Though conn'd wi' little skill;
    When collie barks I 'll raise my head,
      And find her on the hill.
        Oh, no! sad and slow,
      The time will ne'er be gane;
        The shadow o' our trysting bush
      Is fix'd like ony stane.




SAW YE JOHNNIE COMIN'?


    "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she;
      "Saw ye Johnnie comin'?
    Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,
      And his doggie rinnin'.
    Yestreen, about the gloamin' time,
      I chanced to see him comin',
    Whistling merrily the tune
      That I am a' day hummin'," quo' she;
        "I am a' day hummin'.

    "Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she;
      "Fee him, faither, fee him;
    A' the wark about the house
      Gaes wi' me when I see him:
    A' the wark about the house
      I gang sae lightly through it;
    And though ye pay some merks o' gear,
      Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she;
        "No; ye winna rue it."

    "What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?
      What wad I do wi' him?
    He 's ne'er a sark upon his back,
      And I hae nane to gi'e him."
    "I hae twa sarks into my kist,
      And ane o' them I 'll gi'e him;
    And for a merk o' mair fee,
      Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she;
        "Dinna stand wi' him.

    "Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she;
      "Weel do I lo'e him;
    The brawest lads about the place
      Are a' but hav'rels to him.
    Oh, fee him, father; lang, I trow,
      We 've dull and dowie been:
    He 'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,
      And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she;
        "Crack wi' me at e'en."




IT FELL ON A MORNING.[33]


    It fell on a morning when we were thrang--
      Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making,
      And bannocks on the girdle baking--
    That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang;
      But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,
    Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween;
      For a chap at the door in braid daylight
    Is no like a chap when heard at e'en.

    Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen,
      Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie.
      And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie,
    Raised up the latch and came crousely ben.
      His coat was new, and his owrelay was white,
    And his hose and his mittens were coozy and bein;
      But a wooer that comes in braid daylight
    Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

    He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw,
      And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit,
      And looked about, like a body half glaikit,
    On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a':
      "Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way?
    Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean--
      An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day,
    Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en."

    "Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trow
      You 'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,
      As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly;
    Black Madge is far better and fitter for you."
      He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth,
    And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between;
      For wooers that come when the sun 's in the south
    Are mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en.

    "Black Madge she is prudent." "What 's that to me?"
      "She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle--
      Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle;
    I 'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy 's free."
      Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,
    And Nanny run laughing out to the green;
      For wooers that come when the sun shines bright
    Are no like the wooers that come at e'en.

    Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,
      "All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O:
      Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow,
    May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me."
      But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight,
    For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween;
      For a wooer that comes in braid daylight
    Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.


[33] This song was contributed by Miss Baillie to "The Harp of
Caledonia."




WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.[34]


    The bride she is winsome and bonnie,
      Her hair it is snooded sae sleek;
    And faithful and kind is her Johnnie,
      Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.
    New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow--
      New pearlings and plenishing too;
    The bride that has a' to borrow
      Has e'en right muckle ado.
        Woo'd, and married, and a';
        Woo'd, and married, and a';
        And is na she very weel aff,
        To be woo'd, and married, and a'?

    Her mither then hastily spak--
      "The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;
    In my pouches I hadna a plack
      The day that I was a bride.
    E'en tak to your wheel and be clever,
      And draw out your thread in the sun;
    The gear that is gifted, it never
      Will last like the gear that is won.
        Woo'd, and married, an' a',
        Tocher and havings sae sma';
        I think ye are very weel aff
        To be woo'd, and married, and a'."

    "Toot, toot!" quo' the gray-headed faither;
      "She 's less of a bride than a bairn;
    She 's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather,
      Wi' sense and discretion to learn.
    Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
      As humour inconstantly leans;
    A chiel maun be constant and steady,
      That yokes wi' a mate in her teens.
        Kerchief to cover so neat,
        Locks the winds used to blaw;
        I 'm baith like to laugh and to greet,
        When I think o' her married at a'."

    Then out spak the wily bridegroom,
      Weel waled were his wordies, I ween,--
    "I 'm rich, though my coffer be toom,
      Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een;
    I 'm prouder o' thee by my side,
      Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
    Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride,
      Wi' purples and pearlings enew.
        Dear and dearest of ony,
        I 've woo'd, and bookit, and a';
        And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie,
        And grieve to be married at a'?"

    She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smiled,
      And she lookit sae bashfully down;
    The pride o' her heart was beguiled,
      And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown;
    She twirl'd the tag o' her lace,
      And she nippit her boddice sae blue;
    Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face,
      And aff like a maukin she flew.
        Woo'd, and married, and a',
        Married and carried awa';
        She thinks hersel' very weel aff,
        To be woo'd, and married, and a'.


[34] Of the song, "Woo'd, and married, and a'," there is another
version, published in Johnson's "Musical Museum," vol. i. p. 10, which
was long popular among the ballad-singers. This was composed by
Alexander Ross, schoolmaster of Lochlee, author of "Helenore, or the
Fortunate Shepherdess." A song, having a similar commencement, had
previously been current on the Border.




WILLIAM DUDGEON.


Though the author of a single popular song, William Dudgeon is entitled
to a place among the modern contributors to the Caledonian minstrelsy.
Of his personal history, only a very few facts have been recovered. He
was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive
farm at Preston, in Berwickshire. During his border tour in May 1787,
the poet Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his
friend Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of
Lord Douglas in the Merse. In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his
impression of the meeting:--"A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy,
remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information,
some genius, and extreme modesty." Dudgeon died in October 1813, about
his sixtieth year.




UP AMONG YON CLIFFY ROCKS.


    Up among yon cliffy rocks
      Sweetly rings the rising echo,
    To the maid that tends the goats
    Lilting o'er her native notes.
      Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy 's kind,
        An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me;
      Here 's a brooch I ne'er shall tine,
        Till he 's fairly married to me.
    Drive away, ye drone, Time,
    And bring about our bridal day.

    "Sandy herds a flock o' sheep;
      Aften does he blaw the whistle
    In a strain sae saftly sweet,
    Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.
      He 's as fleet 's the mountain roe,
        Hardy as the Highland heather,
      Wading through the winter snow,
        Keeping aye his flock together;
    But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
    He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.

    "Brawly can he dance and sing,
      Canty glee or Highland cronach;
    Nane can ever match his fling,
    At a reel or round a ring,
      In a brawl he 's aye the bangster:
    A' his praise can ne'er be sung
      By the langest-winded sangster;
    Sangs that sing o' Sandy,
    Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."




WILLIAM REID.


William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father,
a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school
of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop
and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another
enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under
the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became
eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the _literati_ of
the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a
warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was
an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a
zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and
1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry,
Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this
publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original
contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by
collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831,
leaving a widow and a family.




THE LEA RIG.[35]


    Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O!
    And cuddle there fu' kindly
      Wi' me, my kind dearie, O!
    At thorny bush, or birken tree,
      We 'll daff and never weary, O!
    They 'll scug ill een frae you and me,
      My ain kind dearie, O!

    Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
      Shall ever come to fear ye, O!
    But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,
      Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!
    While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,
      And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
    Upon the lea my pleasure grows,
      Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!

    At gloamin', if my lane I be,
      Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!
    And mony a heavy sigh I gie,
      When absent frae my dearie, O!
    But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
     In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!
    Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn,
      When wi' my kind dearie, O!

    Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
      Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O!
    Upon the bonny greensward howes,
      Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!
    I've courted till I've heard the craw
      Of honest chanticleerie, O!
    Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
      Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!

    For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
      And I were ne'er sae weary, O!
    I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O!
    While in this weary world of wae,
      This wilderness sae dreary, O!
    What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?
      'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!


[35] The two first stanzas of this song are the composition of the
gifted and unfortunate Robert Fergusson. It is founded on an older
ditty, beginning, "I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig." See Johnson's
"Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 53.




JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.[36]


    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      I wonder what ye mean,
    To rise sae early in the morn,
      And sit sae late at e'en;
    Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John,
      And why should you do so?
    Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,
      John Anderson, my jo.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      When Nature first began
    To try her canny hand, John,
      Her masterpiece was man;
    And you amang them a', John,
      Sae trig frae tap to toe--
    She proved to be nae journeyman,
      John Anderson, my jo.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      Ye were my first conceit;
    And ye needna think it strange, John,
      That I ca' ye trim and neat;
    Though some folks say ye 're auld, John,
      I never think ye so;
    But I think ye 're aye the same to me,
      John Anderson, my jo.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      We 've seen our bairns' bairns;
    And yet, my dear John Anderson,
      I 'm happy in your arms;
    And sae are ye in mine, John,
      I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No;
    Though the days are gane that we have seen,
      John Anderson, my jo.


[36] These stanzas are in continuation of Burns's song, "John Anderson,
my jo." Five other stanzas have been added to the continuation by some
unknown hand, which will be found in the "Book of Scottish Song," p. 54.
Glasgow, 1853.




FAIR, MODEST FLOWER.

TUNE--_"Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon."_


    Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth!
      Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;
    Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,
      And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem.
    But doubly bless'd shall be the youth
      To whom thy heaving bosom warms;
    Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,
      He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.

    Though storms of life were blowing snell,
      And on his brow sat brooding care,
    Thy seraph smile would quick dispel
      The darkest gloom of black despair.
    Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,
      And chose thee from the dwellers there;
    And sent thee from celestial bliss,
      To shew what all the virtues are.




KATE O' GOWRIE.[37]

TUNE--_"Locherroch Side."_


    When Katie was scarce out nineteen,
    Oh, but she had twa coal-black een!
    A bonnier lass ye wadna seen
      In a' the Carse o' Gowrie.
    Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,
    Pate did to her his love explain,
    And swore he 'd be, were she his ain,
      The happiest lad in Gowrie.

    Quo' she, "I winna marry thee,
    For a' the gear that ye can gi'e;
    Nor will I gang a step ajee,
      For a' the gowd in Gowrie.
    My father will gi'e me twa kye;
    My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye;
    I 'll get a gown just like the sky,
      Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie."

    "Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae!
    Ye little ken a heart that 's wae;
    Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray,
      Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie:
    Since first I met thee at the shiel,
    My saul to thee 's been true and leal;
    The darkest night I fear nae deil,
      Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.

    "I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht,
    Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught;
    I dream a' nicht, and start about,
      And wish for thee in Gowrie.
    I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear,
    Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear;
    Sit down by me till ance I swear,
      Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."

    Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid,
    Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;
    She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said,
      "Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!"
    Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang;
    Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang,
    And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang;
      But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."

    The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent;
    The priest was ca'd: a' were content;
    And Katie never did repent
      That she gaed hame to Gowrie.
    For routh o' bonnie bairns had she;
    Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;
    And her braw lasses bore the gree
      Frae a' the rest o' Gowrie.


[37] See _postea_, in this volume, under article "Lady Nairn."




UPON THE BANKS O' FLOWING CLYDE.[38]


    Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde
      The lasses busk them braw;
    But when their best they hae put on,
      My Jeanie dings them a';
    In hamely weeds she far exceeds
      The fairest o' the toun;
    Baith sage and gay confess it sae,
      Though drest in russit goun.

    The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,
      Mair harmless canna be;
    She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't,
      Except her love for me;
    The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue,
      Is like her shining een;
    In shape and air wha can compare,
      Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.


[38] These two stanzas were written as a continuation of Burns's popular
song, "Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Two other stanzas were added
by John Hamilton. See _ante_, p. 124.




ALEXANDER CAMPBELL.


A miscellaneous writer, a poet, and a musical composer, Alexander
Campbell first saw the light at Tombea, on the banks of Loch Lubnaig, in
Perthshire. He was born in 1764, and received such education as his
parents could afford him, which was not very ample, at the parish school
of Callander. An early taste for music induced him to proceed to
Edinburgh, there to cultivate a systematic acquaintance with the art.
Acquiring a knowledge of the science under the celebrated Tenducci and
others, he became himself a teacher of the harpsichord and of vocal
music, in the metropolis. As an upholder of Jacobitism, when it was
scarcely to be dreaded as a political offence, he officiated as organist
in a non-juring chapel in the vicinity of Nicolson Street; and while so
employed had the good fortune to form the acquaintance of Burns, who was
pleased to discover in an individual entertaining similar state
sentiments with himself, an enthusiastic devotion to national melody and
song.

Mr Campbell was twice married; his second wife was the widow of a
Highland gentleman, and he was induced to hope that his condition might
thus be permanently improved. He therefore relinquished his original
vocation, and commenced the study of physic, with the view of obtaining
an appointment as surgeon in the public service; but his sanguine hopes
proved abortive, and, to complete his mortification, his wife left him
in Edinburgh, and sought a retreat in the Highlands. He again procured
some employment as a teacher of music; and about the year 1810, one of
his expedients was to give lessons in drawing. He was a man of a fervent
spirit, and possessed of talents, which, if they had been adequately
cultivated, and more concentrated, might have enabled him to attain
considerable distinction; but, apparently aiming at the reputation of
universal genius, he alternately cultivated the study of music, poetry,
painting, and physic. At a more recent period, Sir Walter Scott found
him occasional employment in transcribing manuscripts; and during the
unhappy remainder of his life he had to struggle with many difficulties.

One of his publications bears the title of "Odes and Miscellaneous
Poems, by a Student of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh,"
Edinburgh, 1790, 4to. These lucubrations, which attracted no share of
public attention, were followed by "The Guinea Note, a Poem, by Timothy
Twig, Esquire," Edinburgh, 1797, 4to. His next work is entitled, "An
Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland, with Illustrations by
David Allan," Edinburgh, 1798, 4to. This work, though written in a
rambling style, contains a small proportion of useful materials very
unskilfully digested. "A Dialogue on Scottish Music," prefixed, had the
merit of conveying to Continental musicians for the first time a correct
acquaintance with the Scottish scale, the author receiving the
commendations of the greatest Italian and German composers. The work
likewise contains "Songs of the Lowlands," a selection of some of the
more interesting specimens of the older minstrelsy. In 1802 he published
"A Tour from Edinburgh through various parts of North Britain," in two
volumes quarto, illustrated with engravings from sketches executed by
himself. This work met with a favourable reception, and has been
regarded as the most successful of his literary efforts. In 1804 he
sought distinction as a poet by giving to the world "The Grampians
Desolate," a long poem, in one volume octavo. In this production he
essays "to call the attention of good men, wherever dispersed throughout
our island, to the manifold and great evils arising from the
introduction of that system which has within these last forty years
spread among the Grampians and Western Isles, and is the leading cause
of a depopulation that threatens to extirpate the ancient race of the
inhabitants of those districts." That system to which Mr Campbell
refers, he afterwards explains to be the monopoly of sheep-stores, a
subject scarcely poetical, but which he has contrived to clothe with
considerable smoothness of versification. The last work which issued
from Mr Campbell's pen was "Albyn's Anthology, a Select Collection of
the Melodies and Vocal Poetry Peculiar to Scotland and the Isles,
hitherto Unpublished." The publication appeared in 1816, in two parts,
of elegant folio. It was adorned by the contributions of Sir Walter
Scott, James Hogg, and other poets of reputation. The preface contains
"An Epitome of the History of Scottish Poetry and Music from the
Earliest Times." His musical talents have a stronger claim to
remembrance than either his powers as a poet or his skill as a writer.
Yet his industry was unremitted, and his researches have proved
serviceable to other writers who have followed him on the same themes.
Only a few lyrical pieces proceeded from his pen; these were first
published in "Albyn's Anthology." From this work we have extracted two
specimens.

Mr Campbell died of apoplexy on the 15th of May 1824, after a life much
chequered by misfortune. He left various MSS. on subjects connected with
his favourite studies, which have fortunately found their way into the
possession of Mr Laing, to whom the history of Scottish poetry is
perhaps more indebted than to any other living writer. The poems in this
collection, though bearing marks of sufficient elaboration, could not be
recommended for publication. Mr Campbell was understood to be a
contributor to _The Ghost_, a forgotten periodical, which ran a short
career in the year 1790. It was published in Edinburgh twice a week, and
reached the forty-sixth number; the first having appeared on the 25th of
April, the last on the 16th of November. He published an edition of a
book, curious in its way--Donald Mackintosh's "Collection of Gaelic
Proverbs, and Familiar Phrases; Englished anew!" Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo.
The preface contains a characteristic account of the compiler, who
described himself as "a priest of the old Scots Episcopal Church, and
last of the non-jurant clergy in Scotland."




NOW WINTER'S WIND SWEEPS.


    Now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains,
      Deeply clad in drifting snow;
    Soundly sleep the frozen fountains;
      Ice-bound streams forget to flow:
    The piercing blast howls loud and long,
    The leafless forest oaks among.

    Down the glen, lo! comes a stranger,
      Wayworn, drooping, all alone;--
    Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Ranger!
      But alas! his strength is gone!
    He stoops, he totters on with pain,
    The hill he 'll never climb again.

    Age is being's winter season,
      Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold;
    Passion weaken'd, yields to reason,
      Man feels _then_ himself grown old;
    His senses one by one have fled,
    His very soul seems almost dead.




THE HAWK WHOOPS ON HIGH.


    The hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon' cliff,
    Lo! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff;
    The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around,
    While he lists with delight to the harp's distant sound;
    Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along
    The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song?
    Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen,
    "The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween?

    'Tis Albyn's own minstrel! and, proud of his name,
    He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame!--
    He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish'd of old,
    And soul to the tales that so oft have been told;
    Hence Walter the Minstrel shall flourish for aye,
    Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his "Lay;"
    To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight,
    Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night.




MRS DUGALD STEWART.


Helen D'Arcy Cranstoun, the second wife of the celebrated Professor
Stewart, is entitled to a more ample notice in a work on Modern Scottish
Song than the limited materials at our command enable us to supply. She
was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of
William, fifth Lord Cranstoun. She was born in the year 1765, and became
the wife of Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having
survived her husband ten years, she died at Warriston House, in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister
of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's "Schloss
Hainfeld"), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of
Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse.

The following pieces from the pen of the accomplished author are replete
with simple beauty and exquisite tenderness.




THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

TUNE--_"Ianthe the Lovely."_


    The tears I shed must ever fall:
      I mourn not for an absent swain;
    For thoughts may past delights recall,
      And parted lovers meet again.
    I weep not for the silent dead:
      Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
    And those they loved their steps shall tread,
      And death shall join to part no more.

    Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
      If certain that his heart is near,
    A conscious transport glads each scene,
      Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
    E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
      We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
    To think that e'en in death he loved,
      Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

    But bitter, bitter are the tears
      Of her who slighted love bewails;
    No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
      No pleasing melancholy hails.
    Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
      Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;
    The flattering veil is rent aside,
      The flame of love burns to destroy.

    In vain does memory renew
      The hours once tinged in transport's dye;
    The sad reverse soon starts to view,
      And turns the past to agony.
    E'en time itself despairs to cure
      Those pangs to every feeling due:
    Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,
      To win a heart, and break it too!

    No cold approach, no alter'd mien,
      Just what would make suspicion start;
    No pause the dire extremes between--
      He made me blest, and broke my heart:[39]
    From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn,
      Neglected and neglecting all;
    Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
      The tears I shed must ever fall.


[39] The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.




RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.[40]


    Returning spring, with gladsome ray,
      Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep:
    All nature smiles, serene and gay,
      It smiles, and yet, alas! I weep.

    But why, why flows the sudden tear,
      Since Heaven such precious boons has lent,
    The lives of those who life endear,
      And, though scarce competence, content?

    Sure, when no other bliss was mine
      Than that which still kind Heaven bestows,
    Yet then could peace and hope combine
      To promise joy and give repose.

    Then have I wander'd o'er the plain,
      And bless'd each flower that met my view;
    Thought Fancy's power would ever reign,
      And Nature's charms be ever new.

    I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt,
      That happy bosom knew no ill--
    That those who scorn'd me, time would melt,
      And those I loved be faultless still.

    Enchanting dreams! kind was your art
      That bliss bestow'd without alloy;
    Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,
      'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy.

    Oh! whence the change that now alarms,
      Fills this sad heart and tearful eye,
    And conquers the once powerful charms
      Of youth, of hope, of novelty?

    'Tis sad Experience, fatal power!
      That clouds the once illumined sky,
    That darkens life's meridian hour,
      And bids each fairy vision fly.

    She paints the scene--how different far
      From that which youthful fancy drew!
    Shews joy and freedom oft at war,
      Our woes increased, our comforts few.

    And when, perhaps, on some loved friend
      Our treasured fondness we bestow,
    Oh! can she not, with ruthless hand,
      Change even that friend into a foe?

    See in her train cold Foresight move,
      Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn;
    And Prudence every fear approve,
      And Pity harden into scorn!

    The glowing tints of Fancy fade,
      Life's distant prospects charm no more;
    Alas! are all my hopes betray'd?
      Can nought my happiness restore?

    Relentless power! at length be just,
      Thy better skill alone impart;
    Give Caution, but withhold Distrust,
      And guard, but harden not, my heart!


[40] These tender and beautiful verses are transcribed from Johnson's
"Musical Museum," in a note to which they were first published by the
editor, Mr David Laing. He remarks that he "has reason to believe" that
they are from the pen of Mrs Stewart. (See Johnson's "Musical Museum,"
vol. iv. p. 366, _new edition_. Edinburgh, 1853.)




ALEXANDER WILSON.


The author of the celebrated "American Ornithology" is entitled to an
honourable commemoration as one of the minstrels of his native land.
Alexander Wilson was born at Paisley on the 6th of July 1766. His father
had for some time carried on a small trade as a distiller; but the son
was destined by his parents for the clerical profession, in the National
Church--a scheme which was frustrated by the death of his mother in his
tenth year, leaving a large family of children to the sole care of his
father. He had, however, considerably profited by the instruction
already received at school; and having derived from his mother a taste
for music and a relish for books, he invoked the muse in solitude, and
improved his mind by miscellaneous reading. His father contracted a
second marriage when Alexander had reached his thirteenth year; and it
became necessary that he should prepare himself for entering upon some
handicraft employment. He became an apprentice to his brother-in-law,
William Duncan, a weaver in his native town; and on completing his
indenture, he wrought as a journeyman, during the three following years,
in the towns of Paisley, Lochwinnoch, and Queensferry. But the
occupation of weaving, which had from the first been unsuitable to his
tastes, growing altogether irksome, he determined to relinquish it for a
vocation which, if in some respects scarcely more desirable, afforded
him ample means of gratifying his natural desire of becoming familiar
with the topography of his native country. He provided himself with a
pack, as a pedlar, and in this capacity, in company with his
brother-in-law, continued for three years to lead a wandering life. His
devotedness to verse-making had continued unabated from boyhood; he had
written verses at the loom, and had become an enthusiastic votary of the
muse during his peregrinations with his pack. He was now in his
twenty-third year; and with the buoyancy of ardent youth, he thought of
offering to the public a volume of his poems by subscription. In this
attempt he was not successful; nor would any bookseller listen to
proposals of publishing the lucubrations of an obscure pedlar. In 1790,
he at length contrived to print his poems at Paisley, on his own
account, in the hope of being able to dispose of them along with his
other wares. But this attempt was not more successful than his original
scheme, so that he was compelled to return to his father's house at
Lochwinnoch, and resume the obnoxious shuttle. His aspirations for
poetical distinction were not, however, subdued; he heard of the
institution of the _Forum_, a debating society established in Edinburgh
by some literary aspirants, and learning, in 1791, that an early subject
of discussion was the comparative merits of Ramsay and Fergusson as
Scottish poets, he prepared to take a share in the competition. By
doubling his hours of labour at the loom, he procured the means of
defraying his travelling expenses; and, arriving in time for the debate
in the _Forum_, he repeated a poem which he had prepared, entitled the
"Laurel Disputed," in which he gave the preference to Fergusson. He
remained several weeks in Edinburgh, and printed his poem. To Dr
Anderson's "Bee" he contributed several poems, and a prose essay,
entitled "The Solitary Philosopher." Finding no encouragement to settle
in the metropolis, he once more returned to his father's house in the
west. He now formed the acquaintance of Robert Burns, who testified his
esteem for him both as a man and a poet. In 1792, he published
anonymously his popular ballad of "Watty and Meg," which he had the
satisfaction to find regarded as worthy of the Ayrshire Bard.

The star of the poet was now promising to be in the ascendant, but an
untoward event ensued. In the ardent enthusiasm of his temperament, he
was induced to espouse in verse the cause of the Paisley hand-loom
operatives in a dispute with their employers, and to satirise in strong
invective a person of irreproachable reputation. For this offence he was
prosecuted before the sheriff, who sentenced him to be imprisoned for a
few days, and publicly to burn his own poem in the front of the jail.
This satire is entitled "The Shark; or, Long Mills detected." Like many
other independents, he mistook anarchy in France for the dawn of liberty
in Europe; and his sentiments becoming known, he was so vigilantly
watched by the authorities, that he found it was no longer expedient for
him to reside in Scotland. He resolved to emigrate to America; and,
contriving by four months' extra labour, and living on a shilling
weekly, to earn his passage-money, he sailed from Portpatrick to
Belfast, and from thence to Newcastle, in the State of Delaware, where
he arrived on the 14th July 1794. During the voyage he had slept on
deck, and when he landed, his finances consisted only of a few
shillings; yet, with a cheerful heart, he walked to Philadelphia, a
distance of thirty-three miles, with only his fowling-piece on his
shoulder. He shot a red-headed woodpecker by the way,--an omen of his
future pursuits, for hitherto he had devoted no attention to the study
of ornithology.

He was first employed by a copperplate-printer in Philadelphia, but
quitted this occupation for the loom, at which he worked about a year in
Philadelphia, and at Shepherdstown, in Virginia. In 1795, he traversed a
large portion of the State of New Jersey as a pedlar, keeping a
journal,--a practice which he had followed during his wandering life in
Scotland. He now adopted the profession of a schoolmaster, and was
successively employed in this vocation at Frankford, in Pennsylvania, at
Milestown, and at Bloomfield, in New Jersey. In preparing himself for
the instruction of others, he essentially extended his own acquaintance
with classical learning, and mathematical science; and by occasional
employment as a land-surveyor, he somewhat improved his finances. In
1801, he accepted the appointment of teacher in a seminary in
Kingsessing, on the river Schuylkill, about four miles from
Philadelphia,--a situation which, though attended with limited
emolument, proved the first step in his path to eminence. He was within
a short distance of the residence of William Bartram, the great American
naturalist, with whom he became intimately acquainted; he also formed
the friendship of Alexander Lawson, an emigrant engraver, who initiated
him in the art of etching, colouring, and engraving. Discovering an
aptitude in the accurate delineation of birds, he was led to the study
of ornithology; with which he became so much interested, that he
projected a work descriptive, with drawings, of all the birds of the
Middle States, and even of the Union. About this period he became a
contributor to the "Literary Magazine," conducted by Mr Brockden Brown,
and to Denny's "Portfolio."

Along with a nephew and another friend, Wilson made a pedestrian tour to
the Falls of Niagara, in October 1804, and on his return published in
the "Portfolio" a poetical narrative of his journey, entitled "The
Foresters,"--a production surpassing his previous efforts, and
containing some sublime apostrophes. But his energies were now chiefly
devoted to the accomplishment of the grand design he had contemplated.
Disappointed in obtaining the co-operation of his friend Mr Lawson, who
was alarmed at the extent of his projected adventure, and likewise
frustrated in obtaining pecuniary assistance from the President
Jefferson, on which he had some reason to calculate, he persevered in
his attempts himself, drawing, etching, and colouring the requisite
illustrations. In 1806, he was employed as assistant-editor of a new
edition of Rees' Cyclopedia, by Mr Samuel Bradford, bookseller in
Philadelphia, who rewarded his services with a liberal salary, and
undertook, at his own risk, the publication of his "Ornithology." The
first volume of the work appeared in September 1808, and immediately
after its publication the author personally visited, in the course of
two different expeditions, the Eastern and Southern States, in quest of
subscribers. These journeys were attended with a success scarcely
adequate to the privations which were experienced in their prosecution;
but the "Ornithology" otherwise obtained a wide circulation, and,
excelling in point of illustration every production that had yet
appeared in America, gained for the author universal commendation. In
January 1810, his second volume appeared, and in a month after he
proceeded to Pittsburg, and from thence, in a small skiff, made a
solitary voyage down the Ohio, a distance of nearly six hundred miles.
During this lonely and venturous journey he experienced relaxation in
the composition of a poem, which afterwards appeared under the title of
"The Pilgrim." In 1813, after encountering numerous hardships and
perils, which an enthusiast only could have endured, he completed the
publication of the seventh volume of his great work. But the sedulous
attention requisite in the preparation of the plates of the eighth
volume, and the effect of a severe cold, caught in rashly throwing
himself into a river to swim in pursuit of a rare bird, brought on him a
fatal dysentery, which carried him off, on the 23d of August 1813, in
his forty-eighth year. He was interred in the cemetery of the Swedish
church, Southwark, Philadelphia, where a plain marble monument has been
erected to his memory. A ninth volume was added to the "Ornithology" by
Mr George Ord, an intimate friend of the deceased naturalist; and three
supplementary volumes have been published, in folio, by Charles Lucien
Bonaparte, uncle of the present Emperor of the French.

Amidst his extraordinary deserts as a naturalist, the merits of
Alexander Wilson as a poet have been somewhat overlooked. His poetry, it
may be remarked, though unambitious of ornament, is bold and vigorous in
style, and, when devoted to satire, is keen and vehement. The ballad of
"Watty and Meg," though exception may be taken to the moral, is an
admirable picture of human nature, and one of the most graphic
narratives of the "taming of a shrew" in the language. Allan Cunningham
writes: "It has been excelled by none in lively, graphic fidelity of
touch: whatever was present to his eye and manifest to his ear, he
could paint with a life and a humour which Burns seems alone to
excel."[41] In private life, Wilson was a model of benevolence and of
the social virtues; he was devoid of selfishness, active in beneficence,
and incapable of resentment. Before his departure for America, he waited
on every one whom he conceived he had offended by his juvenile
escapades, and begged their forgiveness; and he did not hesitate to
reprove Burns for the levity too apparent in some of his poems. To his
aged father, who survived till the year 1816, he sent remittances of
money as often as he could afford; and at much inconvenience and
pecuniary sacrifice, he established the family of his brother-in-law on
a farm in the States. He was sober even to abstinence; and was guided in
all his transactions by correct Christian principles. In person, he was
remarkably handsome; his countenance was intelligent, and his eye
sparkling. He never attained riches, but few Scotsmen have left more
splendid memorials of their indomitable perseverance.[42] FOOTNOTES:

[41] The "Songs of Scotland," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247.

[42] The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume
published under the following title:--"The Poetical Works of Alexander
Wilson; also, his Miscellaneous Prose Writings, Journals, Letters,
Essays, &c., now first Collected: Illustrated by Critical and
Explanatory Notes, with an extended Memoir of his Life and Writings, and
a Glossary." Belfast, 1844, 18vo. A portrait of the author is prefixed.




CONNEL AND FLORA.


    Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
    Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
    Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
    But Connel returns to his Flora no more.

    For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
    O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
    While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
    He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

    Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep,
    Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep!
    There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
    I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.




MATILDA.


    Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
      Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main,
    Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
      And cease while ye hear me complain.

    For distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
      And far from each friend now I be;
    And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
      Between my Matilda and me.

    How blest were the times when together we stray'd,
      While Phoebe shone silent above,
    Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side,
      And talk'd the whole evening of love!

    Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace,
      Nor noise could our pleasures annoy,
    Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze,
      That soothed us to love and to joy.

    If haply some youth had his passion express'd,
      And praised the bright charms of her face,
    What horrors unceasing revolved though my breast,
      While, sighing, I stole from the place!

    For where is the eye that could view her alone,
      The ear that could list to her strain,
    Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own,
      Nor double the pangs I sustain?

    Thou moon, that now brighten'st those regions above,
      How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss,
    While breathing my tender expressions of love,
      I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss!

    Ah, then, how I joy'd while I gazed on her charms!
      What transports flew swift through my heart!
    I press'd the dear, beautiful maid in my arms,
      Nor dream'd that we ever should part.

    But now from the dear, from the tenderest maid,
      By fortune unfeelingly torn;
    'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad,
      In secret I wander forlorn.

    And oft, while drear Midnight assembles her shades,
      And Silence pours sleep from her throne,
    Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal through the glades,
      And sigh, 'midst the darkness, my moan.

    In vain to the town I retreat for relief,
      In vain to the groves I complain;
    Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er soothe my grief,
      And solitude nurses my pain.

    Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best,
      I languish in mis'ry and care;
    Her presence could banish each woe from my heart,
      But her absence, alas! is despair.

    Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep;
      Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main--
    Oh, shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
      And cease while ye hear me complain!

    Far distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
      And far from each friend now I be;
    And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
      Between my Matilda and me.




AUCHTERTOOL.[43]


    From the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee,
    And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free,
    Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full,
    To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.

    Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd,
    Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd;
    The road I explored out, without form or rule,
    Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.

    At length I arrived at the edge of the town,
    As Phoebus, behind a high mountain, went down;
    The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul,
    And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Auchtertool.

    An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired,
    But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fired;
    For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool,
    "I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."

    With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride;
    But, asking, was told there was none else beside,
    Except an old weaver, who now kept a school,
    And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.

    To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapp'd at the door;
    He oped, but as soon as I dared to implore,
    He shut it like thunder, and utter'd a howl
    That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.

    Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode,
    Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road;
    Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl,
    My wrath I 'll vent forth upon old Auchtertool.


[43] We have ventured to omit three verses, and to alter slightly the
last line of this song. It was originally published at Paisley, in 1790,
to the tune of "One bottle more." Auchtertool is a small hamlet in
Fifeshire, about five miles west of the town of Kirkcaldy. The
inhabitants, whatever may have been their failings at the period when
Wilson in vain solicited shelter in the hamlet, are certainly no longer
entitled to bear the reproach of lacking in hospitality. We rejoice in
the opportunity thus afforded of testifying as to the disinterested
hospitality and kindness which we have experienced in that
neighbourhood.




CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN.


Carolina Oliphant was born in the old mansion of Gask, in the county of
Perth, on the 16th of July 1766. She was the third daughter and fifth
child of Laurence Oliphant of Gask, who had espoused his cousin Margaret
Robertson, a daughter of Duncan Robertson of Struan, and his wife a
daughter of the fourth Lord Nairn. The Oliphants of Gask were cadets of
the formerly noble house of Oliphant; whose ancestor, Sir William
Oliphant of Aberdalgie, a puissant knight, acquired distinction in the
beginning of the fourteenth century by defending the Castle of Stirling
against a formidable siege by the first Edward. The family of Gask were
devoted Jacobites; the paternal grandfather of Carolina Oliphant had
attended Prince Charles Edward as aid-de-camp during his disastrous
campaign of 1745-6, and his spouse had indicated her sympathy in his
cause by cutting out a lock of his hair on the occasion of his accepting
the hospitality of the family mansion. The portion of hair is preserved
at Gask; and Carolina Oliphant, in her song, "The Auld House," has thus
celebrated the gentle deed of her progenitor:--

    "The Leddy too, sae genty,
      There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
    An' clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
      Frae his lang yellow hair."

The estate of Gask escaped forfeiture, but the father of Carolina did
not renounce the Jacobite sentiments of his ancestors. He named the
subject of this memoir Carolina, in honour of Prince Charles Edward; and
his prevailing topic of conversation was the reiterated expression of
his hope that "the king would get his ain." He would not permit the
names of the reigning monarch and his queen to be mentioned in his
presence; and when impaired eyesight compelled him to seek the
assistance of his family in reading the newspapers, he angrily reproved
the reader if the "German lairdie and his leddy" were designated
otherwise than by the initial letters, "K. and Q." This extreme
Jacobitism at a period when the crime was scarcely to be dreaded, was
reported to George III., who is related to have confessed his respect
for a man who had so consistently maintained his political sentiments.

In her youth, Carolina Oliphant was singularly beautiful, and was known
in her native district by the poetical designation of "The Flower of
Strathearn." She was as remarkable for the precocity of her intellect,
as she was celebrated for the elegance of her person. Descended by her
mother from a family which, in one instance,[44] at least, had afforded
some evidence of poetical talents, and possessed of a correct musical
ear, she very early composed verses for her favourite melodies. To the
development of her native genius, her juvenile condition abundantly
contributed: the locality of her birthplace, rich in landscape scenery,
and associated with family traditions and legends of curious and
chivalric adventure, might have been sufficient to promote, in a mind
less fertile than her own, sentiments of poesy. In the application of
her talents she was influenced by another incentive. A loose ribaldry
tainted the songs and ballads which circulated among the peasantry, and
she was convinced that the diffusion of a more wholesome minstrelsy
would essentially elevate the moral tone of the community. Thus, while
still young, she commenced to purify the older melodies, and to compose
new songs, which were ultimately destined to occupy an ample share of
the national heart. The occasion of an agricultural dinner in the
neighbourhood afforded her a fitting opportunity of making trial of her
success in the good work which she had begun. To the president of the
meeting she sent, anonymously, her verses entitled "The Ploughman;" and
the production being publicly read, was received with warm approbation,
and was speedily put to music. She was thus encouraged to proceed in her
self-imposed task; and to this early period of her life may be ascribed
some of her best lyrics. "The Laird o' Cockpen," and "The Land o' the
Leal," at the close of the century, were sung in every district of the
kingdom.

Carolina Oliphant had many suitors for her hand: she gave a preference
to William Murray Nairn, her maternal cousin, who had been Baron Nairn,
barring the attainder of the title on account of the Jacobitism of the
last Baron. The marriage was celebrated in June 1806. At this period, Mr
Nairn was Assistant Inspector-General of Barracks in Scotland, and held
the rank of major in the army. By Act of Parliament, on the 17th June
1824, the attainder of the family was removed, the title of Baron being
conferred on Major Nairn. This measure is reported to have been passed
on the strong recommendation of George IV.; his Majesty having learned,
during his state visit to Scotland in 1822, that the song of "The
Attainted Scottish Nobles" was the composition of Lady Nairn. The song
is certainly one of the best apologies for Jacobitism.

On the 9th of July 1830, Lady Nairn was bereaved of her husband, to whom
she had proved an affectionate wife. Her care had for several years been
assiduously bestowed on the proper rearing of her only child William,
who, being born in 1808, had reached his twenty-second year when he
succeeded to the title on the death of his father. This young nobleman
warmly reciprocated his mother's affectionate devotedness; and, making
her the associate of his manhood, proved a source of much comfort to her
in her bereavement. In 1837, he resolved, in her society, to visit the
Continent, in the hope of being recruited by change of climate from an
attack of influenza caught in the spring of that year. But the change
did not avail; he was seized with a violent cold at Brussels, which,
after an illness of six weeks, proved fatal. He died in that city on the
7th of December 1837. Deprived both of her husband and her only child, a
young nobleman of so much promise, and of singular Christian worth, Lady
Nairn, though submitting to the mysterious dispensations with becoming
resignation, did not regain her wonted buoyancy of spirit. Old age was
rapidly approaching,--those years in which the words of the inspired
sage, "I have no pleasure in them," are too frequently called forth by
the pressure of human infirmities. But this amiable lady did not sink
under the load of affliction and of years: she mourned in hope, and wept
in faith. While the afflictions which had mingled with her cup of
blessings tended to prevent her lingering too intently on the past,[45]
the remembrance of a life devoted to deeds of piety and virtue was a
solace greater than any other earthly object could impart, leading her
to hail the future with sentiments of joyful anticipation. During the
last years of her life, unfettered by worldly ties, she devoted all her
energies to the service of Heaven, and to the advancement of Christian
truth. Her beautiful ode, "Would you be young again?" was composed in
1842, and enclosed in a letter to a friend; it is signally expressive of
the pious resignation and Christian hope of the author.

After the important era of her marriage, she seems to have relinquished
her literary ardour. But in the year 1821, Mr Robert Purdie, an
enterprising music-seller in Edinburgh, having resolved to publish a
series of the more approved national songs, made application to several
ladies celebrated for their musical skill, with the view of obtaining
their assistance in the arrangement of the melodies. To these ladies was
known the secret of Lady Nairn's devotedness to Scottish song, enjoying
as they did her literary correspondence and private intimacy; and in
consenting to aid the publisher in his undertaking, they calculated on
contributions from their accomplished friend. They had formed a correct
estimate: Lady Nairn, whose extreme diffidence had hitherto proved a
barrier to the fulfilment of the best wishes of her heart, in effecting
the reformation of the national minstrelsy, consented to transmit
pieces for insertion, on the express condition that her name and rank,
and every circumstance connected with her history, should be kept in
profound secrecy. The condition was carefully observed; so that,
although the publication of "The Scottish Minstrel" extended over three
years, and she had several personal interviews and much correspondence
with the publisher and his editor, Mr R. A. Smith, both these
individuals remained ignorant of her real name. She had assumed the
signature, "B. B.," in her correspondence with Mr Purdie, who appears to
have been entertained by _the discovery_, communicated in confidence,
that the name of his contributor was "Mrs Bogan of Bogan;" and by this
designation he subsequently addressed her. The _nom de guerre_ of the
two B.'s[46] is attached to the greater number of Lady Nairn's
contributions in "The Scottish Minstrel."

The new collection of minstrelsy, unexceptionable as it was in the words
attached to all the airs, commanded a wide circulation, and excited
general attention. The original contributions were especially commended,
and some of them were forthwith sung by professed vocalists in the
principal towns. Much speculation arose respecting the authorship, and
various conjectures were supported, each with plausible arguments, by
the public journalists. In these circumstances, Lady Nairn experienced
painful alarm, lest, by any inadvertence on the part of her friends, the
origin of her songs should be traced. While the publication of the
"Minstrel" was proceeding, her correspondents received repeated
injunctions to adopt every caution in preserving her _incognita_; she
was even desirous that her sex might not be made known. "I beg the
publisher will make no mention of a _lady_," she wrote to one of her
correspondents, "as you observe, the more mystery the better, and
_still_ the balance is in favour of the lords of creation. I cannot
help, in some degree, undervaluing beforehand what is said to be a
feminine production." "The Scottish Minstrel" was completed in 1824, in
six royal octavo volumes, forming one of the best collections of the
Scottish melodies. It was in the full belief that "Mrs Bogan" was her
real name, that the following compliment was paid to Lady Nairn by
Messrs Purdie and R. A. Smith, in the advertisement to the last volume
of the work:--"In particular, the editors would have felt happy in being
permitted to enumerate the many original and beautiful verses that adorn
their pages, for which they are indebted to the author of the
much-admired song, 'The Land o' the Leal;' but they fear to wound a
delicacy which shrinks from all observation."

Subsequent to the appearance of "The Scottish Minstrel," Lady Nairn did
not publish any lyrics; and she was eminently successful in preserving
her _incognita_. No critic ventured to identify her as the celebrated
"B. B.," and it was only whispered among a few that she had composed
"The Land o' the Leal." The mention of her name publicly as the author
of this beautiful ode, on one occasion, had signally disconcerted her.
While she was resident in Paris, in 1842, she writes to an intimate
friend in Edinburgh on this subject:--"A Scottish lady here, Lady----,
with whom I never met in Scotland, is so good as, among perfect
strangers, to _denounce_ me as the origin of 'The Land o' the Leal!' I
cannot trace it, but very much dislike as ever any kind of publicity."
The extreme diffidence and shrinking modesty of the amiable author
continued to the close of her life; she never divulged, beyond a small
circle of confidential friends, the authorship of a single verse. The
songs published in her youth had been given to others; but, as in the
case of Lady Anne Barnard, these assignments caused her no uneasiness.
She experienced much gratification in finding her simple minstrelsy
supplanting the coarse and demoralising rhymes of a former period; and
this mental satisfaction she preferred to fame.

The philanthropic efforts of Lady Nairn were not limited to the
purification of the national minstrelsy; her benevolence extended
towards the support of every institution likely to promote the temporal
comforts, or advance the spiritual interests of her countrymen. Her
contributions to the public charities were ample, and she

    "Did good by stealth, and blush'd to find it fame."

In an address delivered at Edinburgh, on the 29th of December 1845, Dr
Chalmers, referring to the exertions which had been made for the supply
of religious instruction in the district of the West Port of Edinburgh,
made the following remarks regarding Lady Nairn, who was then recently
deceased:--"Let me speak now as to the countenance we have received. I
am now at liberty to mention a very noble benefaction which I received
about a year ago. Inquiry was made at me by a lady, mentioning that she
had a sum at her disposal, and that she wished to apply it to charitable
purposes; and she wanted me to enumerate a list of charitable objects,
in proportion to the estimate I had of their value. Accordingly, I
furnished her with a scale of about five or six charitable objects. The
highest in the scale were those institutions which had for their design
the Christianising of the people at home; and I also mentioned to her,
in connexion with the Christianising at home, what we were doing at the
West Port; and there came to me from her, in the course of a day or two,
no less a sum than £300. She is now dead; she is now in her grave, and
her works do follow her. When she gave me this noble benefaction, she
laid me under strict injunctions of secrecy, and, accordingly, I did not
mention her name to any person; but after she was dead, I begged of her
nearest heir that I might be allowed to proclaim it, because I thought
that her example, so worthy to be followed, might influence others in
imitating her; and I am happy to say that I am now at liberty to state
that it was Lady Nairn of Perthshire. It enabled us, at the expense of
£330, to purchase sites for schools, and a church; and we have got a
site in the very heart of the locality, with a very considerable extent
of ground for a washing-green, a washing-house, and a play-ground for
the children, so that we are a good step in advance towards the
completion of our parochial economy."

After the death of her son, and till within two years of her own death,
Lady Nairn resided chiefly on the Continent, and frequently in Paris.
Her health had for several years been considerably impaired, and
latterly she had recourse to a wheeled chair. In the mansion of Gask, on
the 27th of October 1845, she gently sunk into her rest, at the advanced
age of seventy-nine years.

Some years subsequent to this event, it occurred to the relatives and
literary friends of the deceased Baroness that as there could no longer
be any reason for retaining her _incognita_, full justice should be done
to her memory by the publication of a collected edition of her works.
This scheme was partially executed in an elegant folio, entitled "Lays
from Strathearn: by Carolina, Baroness Nairn. Arranged with Symphonies
and Accompaniments for the Pianoforte, by Finlay Dun." It bears the
imprint of London, and has no date. In this work, of which a new edition
will speedily be published by Messrs Paterson, music-sellers, Edinburgh,
are contained seventy songs, but the larger proportion of the author's
lyrics still remain in MS. From her representatives we have received
permission to select her best lyrics for the present work, and to insert
several pieces hitherto unpublished. Of the lays which we have selected,
several are new versions to old airs; the majority, though unknown as
the compositions of Lady Nairn, are already familiar in the drawing-room
and the cottage. For winning simplicity, graceful expression, and
exquisite pathos, her compositions are especially remarkable; but when
her muse prompts to humour, the laugh is sprightly and overpowering.

In society, Lady Nairn was reserved and unassuming. Her countenance,
naturally beautiful, wore, in her mature years, a somewhat pensive cast;
and the characteristic by which she was known consisted in her
enthusiastic love of music. It may be added, that she was fond of the
fine arts, and was skilled in the use of the pencil.


[44] Robertson of Struan, cousin-german of Lady Nairn's mother, and a
conspicuous Jacobite chief, composed many fugitive verses for the
amusement of his friends; and a collection of them, said to have been
surreptitiously obtained from a servant, was published, without a date,
under the following title:--"Poems on various Subjects and Occasions, by
the Honourable Alexander Robertson of Struan, Esq.--mostly taken from
his own original Manuscripts." Edinburgh, 8vo.

[45] Writing to one of her correspondents, in November 1840, Lady Nairn
thus remarks--"I sometimes say to myself, 'This is no me,' so greatly
have my feelings and trains of thought changed since 'auld lang syne;'
and, though I am made to know assuredly that all is well, I scarcely
dare to allow my mind to settle on the past."

[46] A daughter of Baron Hume was one of the ladies who induced Lady
Nairn to become a contributor to "The Scottish Minstrel." Many of the
songs were sent to the Editor through the medium of Miss Hume. She thus
expresses herself in a letter to a friend:--"My father's admiration of
'The Land o' the Leal' was such, that he said no woman but Miss Ferrier
was capable of writing it. And when I used to shew him song after song
in MS., when I was receiving the anonymous verses for the music, and ask
his criticism, he said--'Your unknown poetess has only _one_, or rather
_two_, letters out of taste, viz., choosing "B. B." for her signature.'"




THE PLEUGHMAN.[47]


    There 's high and low, there 's rich and poor,
      There 's trades and crafts enew, man;
    But, east and west, his trade 's the best,
      That kens to guide the pleugh, man.
          Then, come, weel speed my pleughman lad,
            And hey my merry pleughman;
          Of a' the trades that I do ken,
            Commend me to the pleughman.

    His dreams are sweet upon his bed,
      His cares are light and few, man;
    His mother's blessing 's on his head,
      That tents her weel, the pleughman.
          Then, come, weel speed, &c.

    The lark, sae sweet, that starts to meet
      The morning fresh and new, man;
    Blythe though she be, as blythe is he
      That sings as sweet, the pleughman.
          Then, come, weel speed, &c.

    All fresh and gay, at dawn of day
      Their labours they renew, man;
    Heaven bless the seed, and bless the soil,
      And Heaven bless the pleughman.
          Then, come, weel speed, &c.


[47] This seems to have been the author's first composition in Scottish
verse. See the Memoir.




CALLER HERRIN'.[48]


    Wha 'll buy caller herrin'?
    They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
    Wha 'll buy caller herrin',
    New drawn frae the Forth?

    When ye were sleepin' on your pillows,
    Dream'd ye ought o' our puir fellows,
    Darkling as they faced the billows,
    A' to fill the woven willows.
          Buy my caller herrin',
          New drawn frae the Forth.

    Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
    They 're no brought here without brave daring;
    Buy my caller herrin',
    Haul'd thro' wind and rain.
          Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

    Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
    Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'!
    Wives and mithers, maist despairin',
    Ca' them lives o' men.
          Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

    When the creel o' herrin' passes,
    Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
    Gather in their braw pelisses,
    Cast their heads, and screw their faces.
          Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

    Caller herrin 's no got lightlie;
    Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie;
    Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin',
    Gow has set you a' a-singin'.
          Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.

    Neebour wives, now tent my tellin',
    When the bonny fish ye 're sellin',
    At ae word be in yer dealin'--
    Truth will stand when a' thing 's failin'.
          Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.


[48] This song has acquired an extensive popularity, for which it is
much indebted, in addition to its intrinsic merits, to the musical
powers of the late John Wilson, the eminent vocalist, whose premature
death is a source of regret to all lovers of Scottish melody. Mr Wilson
sung this song in every principal town of the United Kingdom, and always
with effect.




THE LAND O' THE LEAL.[49]


    I 'm wearin' awa', John,
    Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John;
    I 'm wearin' awa'
      To the land o' the leal.
    There 's nae sorrow there, John;
    There 's neither cauld nor care, John;
    The day 's aye fair
      I' the land o' the leal.

    Our bonnie bairn 's there, John;
    She was baith gude and fair, John;
    And, oh! we grudged her sair
      To the land o' the leal.
    But sorrows sel' wears past, John,
    And joy 's a-comin' fast, John--
    The joy that 's aye to last
      In the land o' the leal.

    Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John,
    Sae free the battle fought, John,
    That sinfu' man e'er brought
      To the land o' the leal.
    Oh, dry your glist'ning e'e, John!
    My saul langs to be free, John;
    And angels beckon me
      To the land o' the leal.

    Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!
    Your day it 's wearin' thro', John;
    And I 'll welcome you
      To the land o' the leal.
    Now, fare ye weel, my ain John,
    This warld's cares are vain, John;
    We 'll meet, and we 'll be fain,
      In the land o' the leal.


[49] This exquisitely tender and beautiful lay was composed by Lady
Nairn, for two married relatives of her own, Mr and Mrs C----, who had
sustained bereavement in the death of a child. Such is the account of
its origin which we have received from Lady Nairn's relatives.




THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN.[50]

    The Laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's great,
    His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state;
    He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
    But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

    Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
    At his table-head he thought she 'd look well;
    M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
    A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

    His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude as new;
    His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
    He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat,
    And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

    He took the gray mare, and rade cannily--
    And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
    "Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,
    She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen."

    Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine,
    "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
    She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
    Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

    And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low,
    And what was his errand he soon let her know;
    Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na;"
    And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

    Dumbfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gie;
    He mounted his mare--he rade cannily;
    And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
    She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.

    And now that the Laird his exit had made,
    Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
    "Oh! for ane I 'll get better, it 's waur I 'll get ten,
    I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

    Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,
    They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
    Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
    But as yet there 's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.


[50] This humorous and highly popular song was composed by Lady Nairn
towards the close of the last century, in place of the older words
connected with the air, "When she came ben, she bobbit." The older
version, which is entitled "Cockpen," is exceptional on the score of
refinement, but was formerly sung on account of the excellence of the
air. It is generally believed to be a composition of the reign of
Charles II.; and the hero of the piece, "the Laird of Cockpen," is said
to have been the companion in arms and attached friend of his sovereign.
Of this personage an anecdote is recorded in some of the Collections.
Having been engaged with his countrymen at the battle of Worcester, in
the cause of Charles, he accompanied the unfortunate monarch to Holland,
and, forming one of the little court at the Hague, amused his royal
master by his humour, and especially by his skill in Scottish music. In
playing the tune, "Brose and Butter," he particularly excelled; it
became the favourite of the exiled monarch, and Cockpen had pleasure in
gratifying the royal wish, that he might be lulled to sleep at night,
and awakened in the morning by this enchanting air. At the Restoration,
Cockpen found that his estate had been confiscated for his attachment to
the king, and had the deep mortification to discover that he had
suffered on behalf of an ungrateful prince, who gave no response to his
many petitions and entreaties for the restoration of his possessions.
Visiting London, he was even denied an audience; but he still
entertained a hope that, by a personal conference with the king, he
might attain his object. To accomplish this design, he had recourse to
the following artifice:--He formed acquaintance with the organist of the
chapel-royal, and obtained permission to officiate as his substitute
when the king came to service. He did so with becoming propriety till
the close of the service, when, instead of the solemn departing air, he
struck up the monarch's old favourite, "Brose and Butter." The scheme,
though bordering on profanity, succeeded in the manner intended. The
king proceeding hastily to the organ-gallery, discovered Cockpen, whom
he saluted familiarly, declaring that he had "almost made him dance." "I
could dance too," said Cockpen, "if I had my lands again." The request,
to which every entreaty could not gain a response, was yielded to the
power of music and old association. Cockpen was restored to his
inheritance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss
Ferrier, the accomplished author of "Marriage," and other popular
novels. She only contributed the last two stanzas. The present Laird of
Cockpen is the Marquis of Dalhousie.




HER HOME SHE IS LEAVING.

AIR--_"Mordelia."_


    In all its rich wildness, her home she is leaving,
    In sad and tearful silence grieving,
    And still as the moment of parting is nearer,
    Each long cherish'd object is fairer and dearer.
    Not a grove or fresh streamlet but wakens reflection
    Of hearts still and cold, that glow'd with affection;
    Not a breeze that blows over the flowers of the wild wood,
    But tells, as it passes, how blest was her childhood.

    And how long must I leave thee, each fond look expresses,
    Ye high rocky summits, ye ivy'd recesses!
    How long must I leave thee, thou wood-shaded river,
    The echoes all sigh--as they whisper--for ever!
    Tho' the autumn winds rave, and the seared leaves fall,
    And winter hangs out her cold icy pall--
    Yet the footsteps of spring again ye will see,
    And the singing of birds--but they sing not for me.

    The joys of the past, more faintly recalling,
    Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling,
    And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow,
    Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow.
    Hope dawns--and the toils of life's journey beguiling,
    The path of the mourner is cheer'd with its smiling;
    And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre,
    Where parting is never--nor sorrow can enter.





THE BONNIEST LASS IN A' THE WARLD.


    The bonniest lass in a' the warld,
      I 've often heard them telling,
    She 's up the hill, she 's down the glen,
      She 's in yon lonely dwelling.
    But nane could bring her to my mind
      Wha lives but in the fancy,
    Is 't Kate, or Shusie, Jean, or May,
      Is 't Effie, Bess, or Nancy?

    Now lasses a' keep a gude heart,
      Nor e'er envy a comrade,
    For be your een black, blue, or gray,
      Ye 're bonniest aye to some lad.
    The tender heart, the charming smile,
      The truth that ne'er will falter,
    Are charms that never can beguile,
      And time can never alter.




MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O![51]


    Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O?
    Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O?
    Gin ye'll tak heart, and gang wi' me,
      Mishap will never steer ye, O;
    Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O!

    There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O!
    There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O!
    Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws--
      Let them gang tapsle teerie, O!
    It 's walth o' peace, o' love, and truth,
      My ain kind dearie, O!


[51] The first two lines of this song are borrowed from the "Lea-Rig," a
lively and popular lyric, of which the first two verses were composed by
Robert Fergusson, the three remaining being added by William Reid of
Glasgow. (See _ante_, article "William Reid.")




HE'S LIFELESS AMANG THE RUDE BILLOWS.

AIR--_"The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."_


    He 's lifeless amang the rude billows,
      My tears and my sighs are in vain;
    The heart that beat warm for his Jeanie,
      Will ne'er beat for mortal again.
    My lane now I am i' the warld,
      And the daylight is grievous to me;
    The laddie that lo'ed me sae dearly
      Lies cauld in the deeps o' the sea.

    Ye tempests, sae boist'rously raging,
      Rage on as ye list--or be still;
    This heart ye sae often hae sicken'd,
      Is nae mair the sport o' your will.
    Now heartless, I hope not--I fear not,--
      High Heaven hae pity on me!
    My soul, tho' dismay'd and distracted,
      Yet bends to thy awful decree.




JOY OF MY EARLIEST DAYS.

AIR--_"I'll never leave thee."_


    Joy of my earliest days,
      Why must I grieve thee?
    Theme of my fondest lays,
      Oh, I maun leave thee!
    Leave thee, love! leave thee, love!
      How shall I leave thee?
    Absence thy truth will prove,
      For, oh! I maun leave thee!

    When on yon mossy stane,
      Wild weeds o'ergrowin',
    Ye sit at e'en your lane,
      And hear the burn rowin';
    Oh! think on this partin' hour,
      Down by the Garry,
    And to Him that has a' the pow'r,
      Commend me, my Mary!




OH, WEEL'S ME ON MY AIN MAN.

AIR--_"Landlady count the lawin'."_


        Oh, weel's me on my ain man,
        My ain man, my ain man!
        Oh, weel's me on my ain gudeman!
        He 'll aye be welcome hame.

    I 'm wae I blamed him yesternight,
    For now my heart is feather light;
    For gowd I wadna gie the sight;
    I see him linking ower the height.
        Oh, weel's me on my ain man, &c.

    Rin, Jamie, bring the kebbuck ben,
    And fin' aneath the speckled hen;
    Meg, rise and sweep about the fire,
    Syne cry on Johnnie frae the byre.
        For weel's me on my ain man,
        My ain man, my ain man!
        For weel's me on my ain gudeman!
        I see him linkin' hame.




KIND ROBIN LOE'S ME.[52]


    Robin is my ain gudeman,
    Now match him, carlins, gin ye can,
    For ilk ane whitest thinks her swan,
        But kind Robin lo'es me.
    To mak my boast I 'll e'en be bauld,
    For Robin lo'ed me young and auld,
    In summer's heat and winter's cauld,
        My kind Robin lo'es me.

    Robin he comes hame at e'en
    Wi' pleasure glancin' in his e'en;
    He tells me a' he 's heard and seen,
        And syne how he lo'es me.
    There 's some hae land, and some hae gowd,
    Mair wad hae them gin they could,
    But a' I wish o' warld's guid,
        Is Robin still to lo'e me.


[52] The author seems to have composed these stanzas as a sequel to a
wooing song of the same name, beginning, "Robin is my only jo," which
first appeared in Herd's Collection in 1776. There are some older words
to the same air, but these are coarse, and are not to be found in any of
the modern Collections.




KITTY REID'S HOUSE.

AIR--_"Country Bumpkin."_


    Hech, hey! the mirth that was there,
          The mirth that was there,
          The mirth that was there;
    Hech, how! the mirth that was there,
        In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
    There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee,
      In Kitty's Reid's house, in Kitty Reid's house,
    There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee,
      In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!

          Hech, hey! the fright that was there,
                The fright that was there,
                The fright that was there;
          Hech, how! the fright that was there,
              In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
    The light glimmer'd in through a crack i' the wa',
    An' a'body thocht the lift it wad fa',
    And lads and lasses they soon ran awa'
          Frae Kitty's Reid's house on the green, Jo!

          Hech, hey! the dule that was there,
                The dule that was there,
                The dule that was there;
          The birds and beasts it wauken'd them a',
              In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
    The wa' gaed a hurley, and scatter'd them a',
    The piper, the fiddler, auld Kitty, and a';
    The kye fell a routin', the cocks they did craw,
          In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!




THE ROBIN'S NEST.

AIR--_"Lochiel's awa' to France."_


    Their nest was in the leafy bush,
        Sae soft and warm, sae soft and warm,
    And Robins thought their little brood
        All safe from harm, all safe from harm.
    The morning's feast with joy they brought,
      To feed their young wi' tender care;
    The plunder'd leafy bush they found,
      But nest and nestlings saw nae mair.

    The mother cou'dna leave the spot,
      But wheeling round, and wheeling round,
    The cruel spoiler aim'd a shot,
      Cured her heart's wound, cured her heart's wound.
    She will not hear their helpless cry,
      Nor see them pine in slavery!
    The burning breast she will not bide,
      For wrongs of wanton knavery.

    Oh! bonny Robin Redbreast,
      Ye trust in men, ye trust in men,
    But what their hard hearts are made o',
      Ye little ken, ye little ken.
    They 'll ne'er wi' your wee skin be warm'd,
      Nor wi' your tiny flesh be fed,
    But just 'cause you 're a living thing,
      It 's sport wi' them to lay you dead.

    Ye Hieland and ye Lowland lads,
      As birdies gay, as birdies gay,
    Oh, spare them, whistling like yoursel's,
      And hopping blythe from spray to spray!
    Their wings were made to soar aloft,
      And skim the air at liberty;
    And as you freedom gi'e to them,
      May you and yours be ever free!




SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?[53]


    Saw ye nae my Peggy?
    Saw ye nae my Peggy?
    Saw ye nae my Peggy comin'
        Through Tillibelton's broom?
    I 'm frae Aberdagie,
    Ower the crafts o' Craigie,
    For aught I ken o' Peggie,
        She 's ayont the moon.

    'Twas but at the dawin',
    Clear the cock was crawin',
    I saw Peggy cawin'
        Hawky by the brier.
    Early bells were ringin',
    Blythest birds were singin',
    Sweetest flowers were springin',
        A' her heart to cheer.

    Now the tempest's blawin',
    Almond water 's flowin',
    Deep and ford unknowin',
        She maun cross the day.
    Almond waters, spare her,
    Safe to Lynedoch bear her!
    Its braes ne'er saw a fairer,
        Bess Bell nor Mary Gray.

    Oh, now to be wi' her!
    Or but ance to see her
    Skaithless, far or near,
        I 'd gie Scotland's crown.
    Byeword, blind 's a lover--
    Wha 's yon I discover?
    Just yer ain fair rover,
        Stately stappin' down.


[53] Another song with the same title, "Saw ye nae my Peggy?" is
inserted in the Collections. It first appeared in Herd's Collection, in
1769, though it is understood to be of a considerably older date. Allan
Ramsay composed two songs to the same air, but they are both inferior.
The air is believed to have originally been connected with some
exceptionable words, beginning, "Saw ye my Maggie?"




GUDE NICHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'!


    The best o' joys maun hae an end,
      The best o' friends maun part, I trow;
    The langest day will wear away,
      And I maun bid fareweel to you.
    The tear will tell when hearts are fu',
      For words, gin they hae sense ava,
    They 're broken, faltering, and few:
      Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

    Oh, we hae wander'd far and wide,
      O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell!
    And mony a simple flower we 've pu'd,
      And twined it wi' the heather-bell.
    We 've ranged the dingle and the dell,
      The cot-house, and the baron's ha';
    Now we maun tak a last farewell:
      Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!

    My harp, fareweel! thy strains are past,
      Of gleefu' mirth, and heartfelt care;
    The voice of song maun cease at last,
      And minstrelsy itsel' decay.
    But, oh! whar sorrow canna win,
      Nor parting tears are shed ava',
    May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin,
      And joy for aye be wi' us a'!




CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.[54]


    There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
      There 's castocks in Strabogie;
    And morn and e'en, they 're blythe and bein,
      That haud them frae the cogie.
    Now, haud ye frae the cogie, lads;
      O bide ye frae the cogie!
    I 'll tell ye true, ye 'll never rue,
      O' passin' by the cogie.

    Young Will was braw and weel put on,
      Sae blythe was he and vogie;
    And he got bonnie Mary Don,
      The flower o' a' Strabogie.
    Wha wad hae thocht, at wooin' time,
      He 'd e'er forsaken Mary,
    And ta'en him to the tipplin' trade,
      Wi' boozin' Rob and Harry?

    Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat,
      She scarce could lift the ladle;
    Wi' pithless feet, 'tween ilka greet,
      She 'd rock the borrow'd cradle.
    Her weddin' plenishin' was gane,
      She never thocht to borrow:
    Her bonnie face was waxin' wan--
      And Will wrought a' the sorrow.

    He 's reelin' hame ae winter's nicht,
      Some later than the gloamin';
    He 's ta'en the rig, he 's miss'd the brig,
      And Bogie 's ower him foamin'.
    Wi' broken banes, out ower the stanes,
      He creepit up Strabogie;
    And a' the nicht he pray'd wi' micht,
      To keep him frae the cogie.

    Now Mary's heart is light again--
      She 's neither sick nor silly;
    For auld or young, nae sinfu' tongue,
      Could e'er entice her Willie;
    And aye the sang through Bogie rang--
      "O had ye frae the cogie;
    The weary gill 's the sairest ill
      On braes o' fair Strabogie."


[54] This excellent ballad is the fourth version adapted to the air,
"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Some notice of the three former will be found
_ante_, p. 46.




HE'S OWER THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.


    He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel,
    He 's ower the hills we daurna name;
    He 's ower the hills ayont Dunblane,
      Wha soon will get his welcome hame.

    My father's gane to fight for him,
    My brithers winna bide at hame;
    My mither greets and prays for them,
    And 'deed she thinks they 're no to blame.
          He 's ower the hills, &c.

    The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer;
    But, ah! that love maun be sincere
    Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
    An' for his sake leaves a' beside.
          He 's ower the hills, &c.

    His right these hills, his right these plains;
    Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns;
    What lads e'er did our laddies will do;
    Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too.
          He 's ower the hills, &c.

    Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
    Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
    Oh, did ye but see him, ye 'd do as we've done!
    Hear him but ance, to his standard you 'll run.
          He 's ower the hills, &c.

    Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight;
    For your country, religion, and a' that is right;
    Were ten thousand lives now given to me,
    I 'd die as aft for ane o' the three.
          He 's ower the hills, &c.




THE LASS O' GOWRIE.[55]

AIR--_"Loch Erroch Side."_


    'Twas on a summer's afternoon,
    A wee afore the sun gaed down,
    A lassie, wi' a braw new gown,
      Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie.
    The rose-bud, wash'd in summer's shower,
    Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower;
    But Kitty was the fairest flower
      That e'er was seen in Gowrie.

    To see her cousin she cam' there,
    An', oh, the scene was passing fair!
    For what in Scotland can compare
      Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie?
    The sun was setting on the Tay,
    The blue hills melting into gray;
    The mavis' and the blackbird's lay
      Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.

    Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd!
    An' truth and constancy had vow'd,
    But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed,
      Until she saw fair Gowrie.
    I pointed to my faither's ha',
    Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw,
    Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw;
      Wad she no bide in Gowrie?

    Her faither was baith glad and wae;
    Her mither she wad naething say;
    The bairnies thocht they wad get play
      If Kitty gaed to Gowrie.
    She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet,
    The blush and tear were on her cheek;
    She naething said, an' hung her head;
      But now she's Leddy Gowrie.


[55] There are several other versions of this highly popular song. One
of these, the composition of William Reid of Glasgow, has already been
adduced. See _ante_, p. 157. Another, which is one of the most
celebrated, in the first two verses is nearly the same with the opening
stanzas of Lady Nairn's version, the sequel proceeding as follows:--

        I praised her beauty loud an' lang,
        Then round her waist my arms I flang,
        And said, "My dearie, will ye gang
          To see the Carse o' Gowrie?

        "I'll tak ye to my father's ha',
        In yon green field beside the shaw;
        I'll mak you lady o' them a'--
          The brawest wife in Gowrie."

        Soft kisses on her lips I laid,
        The blush upon her cheek soon spread;
        She whisper'd modestly, and said,
          "I'll gang wi' you to Gowrie."

        The auld folks soon ga'e their consent,
        Syne for Mess John they quickly sent,
        Wha tied them to their heart's content,
          And now she's Lady Gowrie.

Mr Lyle, in his "Ancient Ballads and Songs" (Lond. 1827, 12mo, p. 138),
presents an additional version, which we subjoin. Mr Lyle remarks, that
he had revised it from an old stall copy, ascribed to Colonel James
Ramsay of Stirling Castle.

    THE BONNIE LASS O' GOWRIE.

        A wee bit north frae yon green wood,
          Whar draps the sunny showerie,
        The lofty elm-trees spread their boughs,
          To shade the braes o' Gowrie;
        An' by yon burn ye scarce can see,
          There stan's a rustic bowerie,
        Whar lives a lass mair dear to me
          Than a' the maids in Gowrie.

        Nae gentle bard e'er sang her praise,
          'Cause fortune ne'er left dowrie;
        The rose blaws sweetest in the shade,
          So does the flower o' Gowrie.
        When April strews her garlands roun',
          Her bare foot treads the flowerie;
        Her sang gars a' the woodlands ring,
          That shade the braes o' Gowrie.

        Her modest blush an' downcast e'e,
          A flame sent beating through me;
        For she surpasses all I've seen,
          This peerless flower o' Gowrie.
        I've lain upon the dewy green
          Until the evening hourie,
        An' thought gin e'er I durst ca' mine
          The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.

        The bushes that o'erhang the burn,
          Sae verdant and sae flowerie,
        Can witness that I love alane
          The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.
        Let ithers dream an' sigh for wealth,
          An' fashions fleet and flowery;
        Gi'e me that heav'nly innocence
          Upon the braes o' Gowrie.




THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH.[56]


    There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard,
    And white are the blossoms o't in our kail-yard,
    Like wee bit white cockauds to deck our Hieland lads,
    And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.

    An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
    An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
    Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me,
    Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie.

    "But were they a' true that were far awa?
    Oh! were they a' true that were far awa'?
    They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha',
    And forgot auld frien's that were far awa.

    "Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye 've been,
    Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green;
    Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha',
    And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'."

    "I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green,
    I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean,
    Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa',
    And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'."

           *       *       *       *       *

    The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
    The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
    A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill,
    And the bloom 's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.


[56] The present is an amended version of an old song, entitled "The
Bonnie Brier Bush," altered and added to by Burns for the "Musical
Museum."




JOHN TOD.


    He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod,
        He 's a terrible man, John Tod;
          He scolds in the house,
          He scolds at the door,
    He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod,
        He scolds on the vera hie road.

    The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
        The weans a' fear John Tod;
          When he 's passing by,
          The mithers will cry,--
    Here 's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod,
        Here 's an ill wean, John Tod.

    The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
        The callants a' fear John Tod;
          If they steal but a neep,
          The callant he 'll whip,
    And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod,
        It 's unco weel done o' John Tod.

    An' saw ye nae wee John Tod, John Tod?
        Oh, saw ye nae wee John Tod?
          His bannet was blue,
          His shoon maistly new,
    An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod,
        Oh, weel does he keep the kirk road.

    How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod?
        How is he wendin', John Tod?
          He 's scourin' the land,
          Wi' his rung in his hand,
    An' the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod,
        An' the French wadna frighten John Tod.

    Ye 're sun-brunt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod
        Ye 're tantit and tatter'd, John Tod;
          Wi' your auld strippit coul,
          Ye look maist like a fule,
    But there 's nouse i' the lining,[57] John Tod, John Tod,
        But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod.

    He 's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod,
        He 's weel respeckit, John Tod;
          He 's a terrible man,
          But we 'd a' gae wrang
    If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod,
        If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod.


[57] A familiar Scottish phrase for good sense.




WILL YE NO COME BACK AGAIN?


    Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
      Safely ower the friendly main;
    Mony a heart will break in twa
      Should he ne'er come back again.
          Will ye no come back again?
          Will ye no come back again?
          Better lo'ed ye canna be--
          Will ye no come back again?

    Ye trusted in your Hieland men,
      They trusted you, dear Charlie!
    They kent your hiding in the glen,
      Death or exile braving.
          Will ye no, &c.

    English bribes were a' in vain,
      Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be;
    Siller canna buy the heart
      That beats aye for thine and thee.
          Will ye no, &c.

    We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour,
      We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray;
    Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e,
      Oh, there is none that wad betray!
          Will ye no, &c.

    Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang,
      Lilting wildly up the glen;
    But aye to me he sings ae sang,
      Will ye no come back again?
          Will ye no, &c.




JAMIE THE LAIRD.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_


    Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink,
    Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak him think;
    Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw,
    An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava.
    Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e,
    In body or mind, nae fau't can she see;
    "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
    Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
        An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow,
        An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow;
        "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
        Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.

    His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee,
    His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee;
    He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he,
    A dafter-like body I never did see.
    An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein',
    When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein';
    Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation,
    I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation.
        An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.

    An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun,
    An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun.
    Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say,
    "I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae,
    Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie,
    Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."
    I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury--
    I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury.
        For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.

    Freen's! gi'e your advice!--I 'll follow your counsel--
    Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council,
    Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,
    For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae.
    The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin',
    For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin';
    The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin',
    For I 'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'.
        For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,
        For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow;
        "He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
        Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.




SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND.

AIR--_"Happy Land."_


      Songs of my native land,
        To me how dear!
      Songs of my infancy,
        Sweet to mine ear!
    Entwined with my youthful days,
    Wi' the bonny banks and braes,
    Where the winding burnie strays,
        Murmuring near.

      Strains of my native land,
        That thrill the soul,
      Pouring the magic of
        Your soft control!
    Often has your minstrelsy
    Soothed the pang of misery,
    Winging rapid thoughts away
        To realms on high.

      Weary pilgrims _there_ have rest,
        Their wand'rings o'er;
      There the slave, no more oppress'd,
        Hails Freedom's shore.
    Sin shall then no more deface,
    Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease,
    Ending in eternal peace,
        And songs of joy!

      There, when the seraphs sing,
        In cloudless day;
      There, where the higher praise
        The ransom'd pay.
    Soft strains of the happy land,
    Chanted by the heavenly band,
    Who can fully understand
        How sweet ye be!




CASTELL GLOOM.[58]


    Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone,
      The green grass o'er thee growin';
    On hill of _Care_ thou art alone,
      The _Sorrow_ round thee flowin'.
    Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's
      Nae banners now are streamin',
    The houlet flits amang thy ha's,
      And wild birds there are screamin'.
    Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime,
      Frae civil war that flows;
    Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,
      And mourn the great Montrose.

    Here ladies bright were aften seen,
      Here valiant warriors trod;
    And here great Knox has aften been,
      Wha fear'd nought but his God!
    But a' are gane! the guid, the great,
      And naething now remains,
    But ruin sittin' on thy wa's,
      And crumblin' down the stanes.
        Oh! mourn the woe, &c.

    Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow,
      Though sleepin' was the sun;
    But mornin's light did sadly show,
      What ragin' flames had done.
    Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud,
      That hung o'er thy wild wood!
    Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,
      And all was solitude.
        Oh! mourn the woe, &c.


[58] Castle Gloom, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of
the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the
middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burnt by the Marquis of
Montrose--an enterprise to which he was excited by the Ogilvies, who
thus sought revenge for the destruction, by the Marquis of Argyll, of
the "bonnie house of Airlie." The castle is situated on a promontory of
the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannanshire, and
has long been in the ruinous condition described in the song. Two hill
rivulets, designated _Sorrow_ and _Care_, proceed on either side of the
castle promontory. John Knox, the Reformer, for some time resided in
Castle Gloom, with Archibald, fourth Earl of Argyll, and here preached
the Reformed doctrines.




BONNIE GASCON HA'.


    Lane, on the winding Earn there stands
      An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld,
    Biggit by lang forgotten hands,
      Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.

    Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd
      And rived thy gray disjaskit wa',
    But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd
      To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!

    Oh, may a muse unkent to fame
      For this dim greesome relic sue,
    It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name,
      The truest Scotland ever knew.

    Just leave in peace each mossy stane
      Tellin' o' nations' rivalry,
    An' for succeeding ages hain
      Remains o' Scottish chivalry.

           *       *       *       *       *

    What though no monument to thee
      Is biggit by thy country's hand;
    Engraved are thy immortal deeds
      On every heart o' this braid land.

    Rude Time may monuments ding doun,
      An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay;
    Enduring, deathless, noble chief,
      Thy name can never pass away!

    Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,--
      Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee;
    In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,
      "WALLACE" remember'd aye shall be.




THE AULD HOUSE.


    Oh, the auld house, the auld house!
      What though the rooms were wee?
    Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
      And bairnies fu' o' glee!
    The wild-rose and the jesamine
      Still hang upon the wa';
    How mony cherish'd memories
      Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!

    Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird!
      Sae canty, kind, and crouse;
    How mony did he welcome to
      His ain wee dear auld house!
    And the leddy too, sae genty,
      There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
    And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
      Frae his lang yellow hair.

    The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
      The blue bells sweetly blaw,
    The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still,
      But the auld house is awa'.
    The auld house, the auld house,
      Deserted though ye be,
    There ne'er can be a new house,
      Will seem sae fair to me.

    Still flourishing the auld pear tree
      The bairnies liked to see,
    And oh, how aften did they speir
      When ripe they a' wad be!
    The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
      Aye rinnin' here and there,
    The merry shout--oh! whiles we greet
      To think we 'll hear nae mair.

    For they are a' wide scatter'd now,
      Some to the Indies gane,
    And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
      Not here we 'll meet again.
    The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,
      Wi' flowers o' every hue,
    Shelter'd by the holly's shade,
      An' the dark sombre yew.

    The setting sun, the setting sun,
      How glorious it gaed down;
    The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
      To cloudless skies aboon!
    The auld dial, the auld dial,
      It tauld how time did pass;
    The wintry winds hae dung it down,--
      Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.




THE HUNDRED PIPERS.[59]

AIR--_"Hundred Pipers."_


    Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
    Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
    We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,
    Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
    It is ower the border, awa', awa',
    It is ower the border, awa', awa',
    Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha',
    Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.

    Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw,
    Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',
    Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear,
    An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.
    Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?
    Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?
    Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae,
    An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away.
                Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.

    Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?
    Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?
    Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',
    Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
    His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,
    His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;
    The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,
    While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!
                Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.

    The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
    But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
    Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,
    An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.
    Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a',
    Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,
    Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',
    Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
                Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.


[59] "Charles Edward entered Carlisle preceded by a hundred pipers. Two
thousand Highlanders crossed the Esk, at Longtown; the tide being
swollen, nothing was seen of them but their heads and shoulders; they
stemmed the force of the stream, and lost not a man in the passage: when
landed, the pipers struck up, and they danced reels until they were dry
again."--_Authentic Account of Occupation of Carlisle, by George G.
Monsey._




THE WOMEN ARE A' GANE WUD.[60]


    The women are a' gane wud,
      Oh, that he had biden awa'!
    He 's turn'd their heads, the lad,
      And ruin will bring on us a'.
    George was a peaceable man,
      My wife she did doucely behave;
    But now dae a' that I can,
      She 's just as wild as the lave.

    My wife she wears the cockade,
      Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae,
    She has a true friend in her maid,
      And they ne'er mind a word that I say.
    The wild Hieland lads as they pass,
      The yetts wide open do flee;
    They eat the very house bare,
      And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.

    I 've lived a' my days in the Strath
      Now Tories infest me at hame,
    And tho' I tak nae side at a',
      Baith sides will gae me the blame.
    The senseless creturs ne'er think
      What ill the lad wad bring back;
    The Pope we 'd hae, and the d--l,
      And a' the rest o' his pack.


[60] These verses are printed from a MS. in possession of one of Lady
Nairn's friends, and are, the Editor believes, for the first time
published.




JEANIE DEANS.[61]


    St Leonard's hill was lightsome land,
      Where gowan'd grass was growin',
    For man and beast were food and rest,
      And milk and honey flowin'.
    A father's blessing follow'd close,
      Where'er her foot was treading,
    And Jeanie's humble, hamely joys
      On every side were spreading wide,
      On every side were spreading.

    The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat,
      St Anthon's well aye springin';
    The lammies playing at her feet,
      The birdies round her singin'.
    The solemn haunts o' Holyrood,
      Wi' bats and hoolits eerie,
    The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury,
      The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62]
      The lowly wells o' Weary.

    But evil days and evil men,
      Came ower their sunny dwellin',
    Like thunder-storms on sunny skies,
      Or wastefu' waters swellin'.
    What aince was sweet is bitter now,
      The sun of joy is setting;
    In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee,
      The briny tear is wetting fast,
      The briny tear is wetting.

    Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent,
      In faithful supplication;
    Her earthly stay 's Macallummore,
      The guardian o' the nation.
    A hero's heart--a sister's love--
      A martyr's truth unbending;
    They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid--
      And she is gane, her leefu' lane,
      To Lunnon toun she 's wending!


[61] The romantic scenery depicted in this song is in the immediate
vicinity of the Queen's Drive, Edinburgh.

[62] The wells of Weary are situated near the Windyknowe, beneath
Salisbury Crags.




THE HEIRESS.[63]

GAELIC AIR--_"Mo Leannan Falnich."_


      I 'll no be had for naething,
      I 'll no be had for naething,
      I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing,
        So ye needna follow me.
    Oh, the change is most surprising,
      Last year I was plain Betty Brown,
    Now to me they 're a' aspiring,--
      The fair Elizabeth I am grown!

    What siller does is most amazing,
      Nane o' them e'er look'd at me,
    Now my charms they a' are praising,
      For my sake they 're like to dee.
    The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor,
      Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree;
    Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention--
      Oh, surely this is no me!
                          But I 'll no, &c.

    The yett is now for ever ringing,
      Showers o' valentines aye bringing,
    Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts,
      Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts.
    The siller, O the weary siller!
      Aft in toil and trouble sought,
    But better far it should be sae,
      Than that true hearts should e'er be bought.
                          Sae I 'll no, &c.

    But there is ane, when I had naething,
      A' his heart he gi'ed to me;
    And sair he toil'd for a wee thing,
      To bring me when he cam frae sea.
    If ever I should marry ony,
      He will be the lad for me;
    For he was baith gude and bonny,
      And he thought the same o' me.
                          Sae I 'll no, &c.


[63] This song is printed from an improved version of the original, by a
literary friend of the author.




THE MITHERLESS LAMMIE.


    The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie,
      We tentit it kindly by night and by day,
    The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't,
      Its food was the gowan--its music was "_mai_."

    Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,
      But it would gae witless the world to see;
    The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not,
      Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.

    Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it,
      Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly;
    He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,
      And left its kind hame the wide world to try.

    We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in',
      Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,
    Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin';
      'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.




THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES.[64]


    Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains,
      To tell o' hame-made sorrow,
    And if they cheat you o' your tears,
      They 'll dry upon the morrow.
    Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,
      In verity they're sportin',
    My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes,
      But wakin' true misfortune.

    Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a',
      For loyalty attainted,
    A nameless bardie 's wae to see
      Your sorrows unlamented;
    For if your fathers ne'er had fought
      For heirs of ancient royalty,
    Ye 're down the day that might hae been
      At the top o' honour's tree a'.

    For old hereditary right,
      For conscience' sake they stoutly stood;
    And for the crown their valiant sons
      Themselves have shed their injured blood;
    And if their fathers ne'er had fought
      For heirs of ancient royalty,
    They 're down the day that might hae been
      At the top o' honour's tree a'.


[64] This song having become known to George IV., it is said to have
induced his Majesty to award the royal sanction for the restitution of
the title of Baron to Lady Nairn's husband.--(See Memoir.)




TRUE LOVE IS WATERED AYE WI' TEARS.[65]


    True love is water'd aye wi' tears,
      It grows 'neath stormy skies,
    It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fears
      An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.
    Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound,
      Oh! wha the heart can buy?
    The titled glare, the warldling's care,
      Even absence 'twill defy,
                         Even absence 'twill defy.

    And time, that kills a' ither things,
      His withering touch 'twill brave,
    'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,
      'Twill live beyond the grave!
    'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep,
      In true heart's memorie--
    Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair,
      Sae bricht, sae young, could dee,
                         Sae young could dee.

    Unfeeling hands may touch the chord
      Where buried griefs do lie--
    How many silent agonies
      May that rude touch untie!
    But, oh! I love that plaintive lay--
      That dear auld melodie!
    For, oh, 'tis sweet!--yet I maun greet,
      For it was sung by thee,
                         Sung by thee!

    They may forget wha lichtly love,
      Or feel but beauty's chain;
    But they wha loved a heavenly mind
      Can never love again!
    A' my dreams o' warld's guid
      Aye were turn'd wi' thee,
    But I leant on a broken reed
      Which soon was ta'en frae me,
                         Ta'en frae me.

    'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna ken
      What we may live to see,
    'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veil
      O'er sad futurity!
    Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven,
      Wha feel the warld is vain,
    Oh, fix your broken earthly ties
      Where they ne'er will break again,
                         Break again!


[65] Here first printed.




AH, LITTLE DID MY MOTHER THINK.[66]


    Ah, little did my mother think
      When to me she sung,
    What a heartbreak I would be,
      Her young and dautit son.

    And oh! how fond she was o' me
      In plaid and bonnet braw,
    When I bade farewell to the north countrie,
      And marching gaed awa!

    Ah! little did my mother think
      A banish'd man I 'd be,
    Sent frae a' my kith and kin,
      Them never mair to see.

    Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drap
      Aft ye did gi'e to me,
    That has brought a' this misery
      Baith to you and me.


[66] These verses are here first printed.




WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?[67]

AIR--_"Ailen Aroon."_


    Would you be young again?
      So would not I--
    One tear to memory given,
      Onward I 'd hie.
    Life's dark flood forded o'er,
    All but at rest on shore,
    Say, would you plunge once more,
      With home so nigh?

    If you might, would you now
      Retrace your way?
    Wander through stormy wilds,
      Faint and astray?
    Night's gloomy watches fled,
    Morning all beaming red,
    Hope's smiles around us shed,
      Heavenward--away.

    Where, then, are those dear ones,
      Our joy and delight?
    Dear and more dear though now
      Hidden from sight.
    Where they rejoice to be,
    There is the land for me;
    Fly, time, fly speedily;
      Come, life and light.


[67] This song was composed in 1842, when the author had attained her
seventy-sixth year. The four lays following, breathing the same
devotional spirit, appear to have been written about the same period of
the author's life. The present song is printed from the original MS.




REST IS NOT HERE.


    What 's this vain world to me?
      Rest is not here;
    False are the smiles I see,
      The mirth I hear.
    Where is youth's joyful glee?
    Where all once dear to me?
    Gone, as the shadows flee--
      Rest is not here.

    Why did the morning shine
      Blythely and fair?
    Why did those tints so fine
      Vanish in air?
    Does not the vision say,
    Faint, lingering heart, away,
    Why in this desert stay--
      Dark land of care!

    Where souls angelic soar,
      Thither repair;
    Let this vain world no more
      Lull and ensnare.
    That heaven I love so well
    Still in my heart shall dwell;
    All things around me tell
      Rest is found there.




HERE'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE.

AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel."_


        Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
        Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
    Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,
      That will never be here again--no, never.
        But where are they now that are gane?
        Oh, where are the faithful and true?
    They 're gane to the light that fears not the night,
      An' their day of rejoicing shall end--no, never.

        Here 's to them, to them that were here;
        Here 's to them, to them that were here;
    Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by,
      But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last--for ever.
        Oh, bright was their morning sun!
        Oh, bright was their morning sun!
    Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;
      But the storm and the cloud are now past--for ever.

        Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;
        Oh, how sad the last parting tear!
    But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek
      Can bedim the bright vision again--no, never.
      Then, speed to the wings of old Time,
      That waft us where pilgrims would be;
    To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,
      Where the full tide of glory shall flow--for ever.




FAREWEEL, O FAREWEEL!

GAELIC AIR.


    Fareweel, O fareweel!
      My heart it is sair;
    Fareweel, O fareweel!
      I 'll see him nae mair.

    Lang, lang was he mine,
      Lang, lang--but nae mair;
    I mauna repine,
      But my heart it is sair.

    His staff 's at the wa',
      Toom, toom is his chair!
    His bannet, an' a'!
      An' I maun be here!

    But oh! he 's at rest,
      Why sud I complain?
    Gin my soul be blest,
      I 'll meet him again.

    Oh, to meet him again,
      Where hearts ne'er were sair!
    Oh, to meet him again,
      To part never mair!




THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.[68]


    Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
    Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
    But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,
    Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest.
    The sun is not set, but is risen on high,
    Nor long in corruption his body shall lie--
    Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,
    Nor the music of heaven be discord below;
    Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,
    Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

    Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
    Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
    But give to the living thy passion of tears
    Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears,
    Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,
    By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.
    Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,
    Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er;
    Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,
    And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.


[68] These stanzas are printed for the first time. The MS. is not in
Lady Nairn's handwriting, but there is every reason to assign to her the
authorship.




JAMES NICOL.


James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at
Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769.
Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the
parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh,
where he pursued study with unflinching assiduity and success. On
completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by
the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an
assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of
Innerleithen; and on the death of the incumbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to
the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the
ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he
espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his
immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a
warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical
reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses
to the _Edinburgh Magazine_; and he afterwards published a collection of
"Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo.
This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical
effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern
cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep
admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of
that immortal bard.

At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement.
He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his
daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder
of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally
happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together
have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose
writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS.,
in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed
a number of articles to the _Edinburgh Encyclopædia_, among which are
"Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His
posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture
Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.

Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of
business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in
the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked
all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a
physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own
medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and
without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were
brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November
1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son
predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder
son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and
Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a
geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.




BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.


    Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,
      Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;
    'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer,
      The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e.
    For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander,
      Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!

    Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?
      Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?
    When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!--
      That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?
    Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream,
    Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,
    Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin',
    Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.




BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN' STREAM.


    By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam,
      Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e;
    Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour,
      When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.

    The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made,
      When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie;
    An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,
      An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.

    Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales,
      An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree;
    Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,
      For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!

    When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang,
      An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e,
    My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?
      But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.

    Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,
      To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!
    Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,
      The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.

    But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear,
      Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;
    For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again,
      Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.




HALUCKIT MEG.


    Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
      Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
    Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,
      While loud as a lavrock she sang.
    Her Geordie had promised to marry,
      An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
    Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,
      Already seem'd mistress an' mair.

    "My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me,
      An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg,
    An' say they expect soon to hear me,
      I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.
    An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter,
      An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'
    An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter,
      He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.

    "I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
      That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,
    That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
      That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about;
    But they needna let on that he 's crazie,
      His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa';
    Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy,
      For fient a hair has he ava'.

    "But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
      An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,
    An' if siller comes at my wordie,
      His beauty I never will miss 't.
    Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,
      Think love-raptures ever will burn?
    But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
      Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

    "There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures,
      A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
    He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,
      He likes his saul less than his gear.
    But though I now flatter his failin',
      An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare,
    Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',
      His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

    "I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,
      A flunkie ahint me in green;
    While Geordie cried out he was harriet,
      An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.
    But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
      I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
    Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie;
      Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"

    But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
      Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;
    An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,
      His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,
    Designin' to rax her a lounder,
      He chanced on the lather to shift,
    An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder,
      Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!




MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.


    My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?
      My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still;
    I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
      Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!
    My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',
      I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;
    I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',
      Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.

    Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
      And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try--
    Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off
      I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
    When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
      And never grew weary the lang simmer day;
    The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
      And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.

    In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,
      'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';
    Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye--
      My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
    When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;
      And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!
    There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
      That tells me my happiness centres in thee.




JAMES MONTGOMERY.


James Montgomery, the spiritual character of whose writings has gained
him the honourable designation of the Christian Poet, was born at
Irvine, in the county of Ayr, on the 4th of November 1771. His father,
John Montgomery, was a missionary of the Moravian Brethren, and in this
capacity came to Irvine from Ireland, only a few days before the birth
of James, his eldest son. In his fourth year he returned to Ireland with
his parents, and received the rudiments of his education from the
village schoolmaster of Grace Hill, a settlement of the Moravian
Brethren in the county of Antrim. In October 1777, in his seventh year,
he was placed by his father in the seminary of the Moravian settlement
of Fulneck, near Leeds; and on the departure of his parents to the West
Indies, in 1783, he was committed to the care of the Brethren, with the
view of his being trained for their Church. He was not destined to see
his parents again. His mother died at Barbadoes, in November 1790, and
his father after an interval of eight months.

In consequence of his indolent habits, which were incorrigible, young
Montgomery was removed from the seminary at Fulneck, and placed in the
shop of a baker at Mirfield, in the vicinity. He was then in his
sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidence of a refined
taste, both in poetry and music, though careless of the ordinary routine
of scholastic instruction, his new occupation was altogether uncongenial
to his feelings. He, however, remained about eighteen months in the
baker's service, but at length made a hasty escape from Mirfield, with
only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, and seemingly without
any scheme except that of relieving himself from an irksome employment.
But an accidental circumstance speedily enabled him to obtain an
engagement with a shopkeeper in Wath, now a station on the railway
between London and Leeds; and in procuring this employment, he was
indebted to the recommendation of his former master, whose service he
had unceremoniously quitted. But this new situation had few advantages
over the old, and he relinquished it in about a year to try his fortune
in the metropolis. He had previously sent a manuscript volume of poetry
to Harrison, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, who, while declining to
publish it, commended the author's talents, and so far promoted his
views as now to receive him into his establishment. But Montgomery's
aspirations had no reference to serving behind a counter; he only
accepted a place in the bookseller's establishment that he might have an
opportunity of leisurely feeling his way as an author. His literary
efforts, however, still proved fruitless. He composed essays and tales,
and wrote a romance in the manner of Fielding, but none of his
productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he
quitted London in eight months, and returned to the shop of his former
employer at Wath. After the interval of another year, he proceeded to
Sheffield, to occupy a situation under Mr Joseph Gales, a bookseller,
and the proprietor of the _Register_ newspaper.

Montgomery was now in his twenty-first year, and fortune at length
began, though with many lowering intervals, to smile upon his youthful
aspirations. Though he occupied a subordinate post in Mr Gales'
establishment, his literary services were accepted for the _Register_,
in which he published many of his earlier compositions, both in prose
and verse. This journal had advocated sentiments of an ultra-liberal
order, and commanding a wide circulation and a powerful influence among
the operatives in Sheffield, had been narrowly inspected by the
authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of
sympathising in the transactions of the French revolutionists; he was
prosecuted for sedition, and deemed himself only safe from compulsory
exile by a voluntary exit to America. This event took place about two
years after Montgomery's first connexion with Sheffield, and he had now
reverted to his former condition of abject dependence unless for a
fortunate occurrence. This was no less than his being appointed
joint-proprietor and editor of the newspaper by a wealthy individual,
who, noticing the abilities of the young shopman, purchased the
copyright with the view of placing the management entirely in his hands.

The first number of the newspaper under the poet's care, the name being
changed to that of _The Sheffield Iris_, appeared in July 1794; and
though the principles of the journal were moderate and conciliatory in
comparison with the democratic sentiments espoused by the former
publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new
conductor. He did not escape their vigilance; for the simple offence of
printing for a ballad-vender some verses of a song celebrating the fall
of the Bastile, he was libelled as "a wicked, malicious, seditious, and
evil-disposed person;" and being tried before the Doncaster Quarter
Sessions, in January 1795, was sentenced to three months' imprisonment
in the Castle of York. He was condemned to a second imprisonment of six
months in the autumn of the same year, for inserting in his paper an
account of a riot in the place, in which he was considered to have cast
aspersions on a colonel of volunteers. The calm mind of the poet did not
sink under these persecutions, and some of his best lyrics were composed
during the period of his latter confinement. During his first detention
he wrote a series of interesting essays for his newspaper. His "Prison
Amusements," a series of beautiful pieces, appeared in 1797. In 1805, he
published his poem, "The Ocean;" in 1806, "The Wanderer in Switzerland;"
in 1808, "The West Indies;" and in 1812, "The World before the Flood."
In 1819 he published "Greenland, a Poem, in Five Cantos;" and in 1825
appeared "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." Of all those
productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest
circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious
criticism in the _Edinburgh Review_, at once procured an honourable
place for the author among his contemporaries. He became sole proprietor
of the _Iris_ in one year after his being connected with it, and he
continued to conduct this paper till September 1825, when he retired
from public duty. He subsequently contributed articles for different
periodicals; but he chiefly devoted himself to the moral and religious
improvement of his fellow-townsmen. A pension of £150 on the civil list
was conferred upon him as an acknowledgment of his services in behalf of
literature and of philanthropy; a well-merited public boon which for
many years he was spared to enjoy. He died at his residence, The Mount,
Sheffield, on the 30th of April 1854, in the eighty-second year of his
age. He bequeathed handsome legacies to various public charities. His
Poetical Works, in a collected form, were published in 1850 by the
Messrs Longman, in one octavo volume; and in 1853 he gave to the world
his last work, being "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social
Devotion." Copious memoirs of his life are now in the course of
publication.

As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his
versification, and for the fervent piety pervading all his compositions.
As a man, he was gentle and conciliatory, and was remarkable as a
generous promoter of benevolent institutions. The general tendency of
his poems was thus indicated by himself, in the course of an address
which he made at a public dinner, given him at Sheffield, in November
1825, immediately after the toast of his health being proposed by the
chairman, Lord Viscount Milton, now Earl Fitzwilliam:--

     "I sang of war--but it was the war of freedom, in which death was
     preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that
     most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since
     the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat
     as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to
     sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which
     your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous
     legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own
     day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;'
     extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang
     of love--the love of country, the love of my own country; for,

            'Next to heaven above,
        Land of my fathers! thee I love;
        And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
        With all thy faults I love thee still.'

     I sang, likewise, the love of home--its charities, endearments and
     relationships--all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection
     of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder
     gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker
     pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his
     brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I
     sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard
     under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, who _is_ love. Nor did
     I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the
     young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety
     will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered
     through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me
     worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the
     British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language
     is spoken--from America, the East and West Indies, from New
     Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves--I have received
     testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers,
     hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to
     criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary
     communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like
     voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear
     of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch--the voice of
     posterity."




"FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH."


    When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound
      Among a band of brothers,
    The cup of joy goes gaily round,
      Each shares the bliss of others.
    Sweet roses grace the thorny way
      Along this vale of sorrow;
    The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
      Shall bloom again to-morrow.
    How grand in age, how fair in youth,
    Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

    On halcyon wings our moments pass,
      Life's cruel cares beguiling;
    Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,
      In gay good-humour smiling:
    With ermine beard and forelock gray,
      His reverend part adorning,
    He looks like Winter turn'd to May,
      Night soften'd into Morning.
    How grand in age, how fair in youth,
    Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"

    From these delightful fountains flow
      Ambrosial rills of pleasure;
    Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,
      A more resplendent treasure?
    Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
      Will form a constellation,
    Where every star, with modest light,
      Shall gild its proper station.
    How grand in age, how fair in youth,
    Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"




THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.


    Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth--
    The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
    When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
            Our forests, our fountains,
            Our hamlets, our mountains,
    With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
    Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
    In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?

    When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
    Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,--
    The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,
            My father, my mother,
            My sister, my brother,
    And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
    Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?--
    'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.




GERMAN WAR-SONG.[69]


    Heaven speed the righteous sword,
    And freedom be the word;
    Come, brethren, hand in hand,
    Fight for your fatherland.

    Germania from afar
    Invokes her sons to war;
    Awake! put forth your powers,
    And victory must be ours.

    On to the combat, on!
    Go where your sires have gone;
    Their might unspent remains,
    Their pulse is in our veins.

    On to the battle, on!
    Rest will be sweet anon;
    The slave may yield, may fly,--
    We conquer, or we die!

    O Liberty! thy form
    Shines through the battle-storm.
    Away with fear, away!
    Let justice win the day.


[69] The simple and sublime original of these stanzas, with the fine air
by Hümmel, became the national song of Germany, and was sung by the
soldiers especially, during the latter campaigns of the war, when
Buonaparte was twice dethroned, and Europe finally delivered from French
predominance.




VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.


    Night turns to day:--
            When sullen darkness lowers,
            And heaven and earth are hid from sight,
            Cheer up, cheer up;
            Ere long the opening flowers,
            With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.

    Storms die in calms:--
            When over land and ocean
            Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
            Cheer up, cheer up;
            The voice of wild commotion,
            Proclaims tranquillity behind.

    Winter wakes spring:--
            When icy blasts are blowing
            O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,
            Cheer up, cheer up;
            All beautiful and glowing,
            May floats in fragrance on the breeze.

    War ends in peace:--
            Though dread artillery rattle,
            And ghostly corses load the ground,
            Cheer up, cheer up;
            Where groan'd the field of battle,
            The song, the dance, the feast, go round.

    Toil brings repose:--
            With noontide fervours beating,
            When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
            Cheer up, cheer up;
            Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,
            Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

    Death springs to life:--
            Though brief and sad thy story,
            Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
            Look up, look up;
            Eternity and glory
            Dawn through the portals of the tomb.




VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST,
WHICH VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.


    Welcome, pretty little stranger!
      Welcome to my lone retreat!
    Here, secure from every danger,
      Hop about, and chirp, and eat:
        Robin! how I envy thee,
        Happy child of Liberty!

    Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,
      Shakes the world with tempests round,
    Heaven above with vapours scowling,
      Frost imprisons all the ground:
        Robin! what are these to thee?
        Thou art bless'd with liberty.

    Though yon fair majestic river[70]
      Mourns in solid icy chains,
    Though yon flocks and cattle shiver
      On the desolated plains:
        Robin! thou art gay and free,
        Happy in thy liberty.

    Hunger never shall disturb thee,
      While my rates one crumb afford;
    Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee;
      Come and share my humble board:
        Robin! come and live with me--
        Live, yet still at liberty.

    Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes,
      Steal upon the blooming year;
    Then, amid the enamour'd bushes,
      Thy sweet song shall warble clear:
        Then shall I, too, join with thee--
        Swell the hymn of Liberty.

    Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin,
      In this iron-hearted age,
    Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,
      And confine thee in a cage,
        Then, poor prisoner! think of me--
        Think, and sigh for liberty.


[70] The Ouse.




SLAVERY THAT WAS.


    Ages, ages have departed,
      Since the first dark vessel bore
    Afric's children, broken-hearted,
      To the Caribbéan shore;
    She, like Rachel,
      Weeping, for they were no more.

    Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd,
      In the fight and on the deep;
    Millions, millions more have water'd,
      With such tears as captives weep,
    Fields of travail,
      Where their bones till doomsday sleep.

    Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading,
      Rent her garments, smote her breast,
    Till a voice from Heaven proceeding,
      Gladden'd all the gloomy west,--
    "Come, ye weary,
      Come, and I will give you rest!"

    Tidings, tidings of salvation!
      Britons rose with one accord,
    Purged the plague-spot from our nation,
      Negroes to their rights restored;
    Slaves no longer,
      _Freemen,--freemen_ of the _Lord_.




ANDREW SCOTT.


Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and
Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble
parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He
was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his
own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses
on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile
predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet
copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the
close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon
thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming
propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing
verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the
conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to
Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in
his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his
own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously
applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An
intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his
verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication--a counsel which
induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in
1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he
published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another
duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work,
entitled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last
volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe.

The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the
composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills,
the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the
inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and
ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however,
experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two
miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and
patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of
Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson
Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in
the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence,
extended towards him countenance and assistance.

Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of
an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle,
or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the
eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the
churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which
he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the
office of schoolmaster of that parish.

The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing:
his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the
publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit
for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known
portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of
his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in
his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden,
and has been pronounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving
from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was
modest and unassuming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The
songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable
specimens of his muse.[71]


[71] We have to acknowledge our obligations for several particulars of
this sketch to Mr Robert Bower, Melrose, the author of a volume of
"Ballads and Lyrics," published at Edinburgh in 1853.




RURAL CONTENT; OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.

AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_


    I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land,
      And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't,
    And I hae servants at my command,
      And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.
    My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
    The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,
    And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,
      To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.

    Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,
      It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;
    I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,
      And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.
    A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,
    I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,
    Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,
      And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.

    My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,
      And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,
    And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,
      Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;
    And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,
    My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,
    And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
      While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

    To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,
      But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,
    How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,
      Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.
    In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
    I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,
    But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,
      And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.

    Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae--
      My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?--
    In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,
      I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
    Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,
    And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
    And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
      I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.

    Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,
      My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;
    My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,
      And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.
    Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
    Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
    Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,
      Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.

    And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
      Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't,
    And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',
      Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.
    My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,
    The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
    Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,
      And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.

    And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,
      My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;
    He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,
      And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.
    And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,
    The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,
    Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,
      Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.

    And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,
      My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;
    Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,
      And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,
    On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,
    And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,
    Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,
      Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.

    Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,
      Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,
    Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,
      Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:
    For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,
    The seasons row round us in rural content;
    We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,
      And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.




SYMON AND JANET.

AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_


    Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
      Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,
    For mony lang towmond thegither,
      There lived an auld man and his wife.

    About the affairs o' the nation,
      The twasome they seldom were mute;
    Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
      Did saur in their wizens like soot.

    In winter, when deep are the gutters,
      And night's gloomy canopy spread,
    Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
      And lowsin' his buttons for bed.

    Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',
      To lock in the door was her care;
    She seein' our signals a-blazin',
      Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.

    "O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!
      Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;
    Our signals I see them extendit,
      Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"

    "What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,
      And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',
    "Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"
    Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.

    "Our youngest son 's in the militia,
      Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:
    O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
      I too in the ranks shall appear."

    His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
      And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;
    His bullets he put in the other,
      That he for the purpose had run.

    Then humpled he out in a hurry,
      While Janet his courage bewails,
    And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"
      And teughly she hang by his tails.

    "Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,
      "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,
    For now to be ruled by a woman,
      Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."

    Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!
      Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;
    This aught days I tentit a pyot
      Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.

    "And yesterday, workin' my stockin',
      And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
    A muckle black corbie sat croakin';
      I kend it foreboded some ill."

    "Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
      For ere the next sun may gae down,
    Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,
      And end my auld days in renown?"

    "Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,
      I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,
    And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,
      Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."

    Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,
      Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;
    At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,
      Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.

    There footmen and yeomen paradin',
      To scour aff in dirdum were seen,
    Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'
      The briny saut tears frae their een.

    Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,
      And to the commander he gaes;
    Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,
      And help ye to lounder our faes.

    "I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,
      Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,
    And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,
      I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."

    "Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"
      The captain did smiling reply,
    But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
      Till daylight should glent in the sky.

    Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;
      Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,
    Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing,
      Gaed bannin' the French again hame.




COQUET WATER.

AIR--_"Braw Lads of Gala Water."_


    Whan winter winds forget to blaw,
      An' vernal suns revive pale nature,
    A shepherd lad by chance I saw,
      Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.

    Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays,
      His Mary's charms an' matchless feature,
    While echoes answer'd frae the braes,
      That skirt the banks of Coquet water.

    "Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine,"
      Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her;
    An' deem mysel' as happy syne,
      As landit laird on Coquet water.

    "Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam,
      In foreign lands their fortune fritter;
    But love's pure joys be mine at home,
      Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.

    "Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I,
      Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better;
    Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy,
      Tending my flocks by Coquet water.

    "Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream,
      For on thy banks aft hae I met her;
    Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam,
      That busk the banks of Coquet water."




THE YOUNG MAID'S WISH FOR PEACE.

AIR--_"Far frae Hame," &c._


    Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease,
    An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace;
    Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea,
    Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.

    My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main,
    An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain;
    But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me,
    That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.

    When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break,
    An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake;
    Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be,
    An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.

    Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore,
    Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar;
    In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee,
    Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.

    Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war,
    An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar:
    But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity,
    First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.

    An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!
    On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie,
    Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea,
    Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.

    Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!
    An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won;
    On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily,
    An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.

    But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand
    To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land,
    When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be,
    An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.




THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW.


    There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,
      He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,
    An' in his profession he had right good luck
      At bridals his elbow to diddle.

    But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,
      As a' men to dust must return;
    An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,
      That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.

    Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,
      Lamenting the day that she saw,
    An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,
      That silent now hang on the wa'.

    Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,
      Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,
    As in came a younker some comfort to speak,
      Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.

    "Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,
      Consent but to marry me now,
    I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,
      An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."

    The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,
      "Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,
    If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,
      Folks needna contend against fate."

    He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,
      An' put a' the thairms in tune,
    The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,
      For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.

    Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,
      For death still the dearest maun sever;
    For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,
      An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.




LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF.


    He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,
    Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:
    We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,
    Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.

    Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,
    Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;
    And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,
    His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.

    When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,
    Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,
    Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,
    Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.

    Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,
    Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,
    Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,--
    Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.

    Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted--
    The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed--
    Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,
    Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.




THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.


    Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining,
      I sigh, for thy exit is near;
    Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining,
      Who now presses hard on thy rear.

    The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning,
      Droop sick as they nod on the lea;
    The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morning
      Shrill warbles his song from the tree.

    Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow,
      No warbler to lend her a lay,
    No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow,
      As wont for to welcome the day.

    Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley,
      Each landscape how pensive its mien!
    They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily,
      And losing their liv'ry of green.

    O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions,
      To where purer streamlets still flow,
    Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions,
      Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.




SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.


Sir Walter Scott, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most
illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of
August 1771. His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was
descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of
Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his
mother's side his progenitors were likewise highly respectable: his
maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice
of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr
Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of
Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a
family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived
infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of the uncommon attribute of
genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to
serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When
scarcely two years old he was seized with an illness which deprived him
of the proper use of his right limb, a loss which continued during his
life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside
with his paternal grandfather, Robert Scott, who rented the farm of
Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, in Roxburghshire.
Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction
through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant; but he had
afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early
acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness,
he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve
months, without experiencing benefit from the mineral waters. During the
three following years he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth
year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border
legends, chiefly derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a
person of a romantic inclination and sprightly intelligence. At this
period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in
Ramsay's "Evergreen," were his favourite studies; and he took delight in
reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages, or
verses, to his mother, who sought every incentive to stimulate his
native propensity. In 1778 he was sent to the High School, where he
possessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able
scholar, and Dr Adam, the distinguished rector. His progress in
scholarship was not equal to his talents; he was already a devotee to
romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend
to some quiet spot in the country, to relate or to listen to a
fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the
prescribed tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, the love of
miscellaneous literature, especially the works of the great masters of
fiction, amounted to a passion; and as his memory was singularly
tenacious, he accumulated a great extent and variety of miscellaneous
information.

On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to
reside with some relations at Kelso; and in this interesting locality
his growing attachment to the national minstrelsy and legendary lore
received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh he entered the
University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in
October 1793. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the
High School, insomuch that Mr Dalziel, the professor of Greek, was
induced to give public expression as to his hopeless incapacity. The
professor fortunately survived to make ample compensation for the
rashness of his prediction.

The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were entirely directed to a
military life; but his continued lameness interposed an insuperable
difficulty, and was a source of deep mortification. He was at length
induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities,
entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his
confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his
aspirations, he was chiefly reconciled by the consideration that his
fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books.

Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had
attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the
second year of his apprenticeship. While precluded from active duty,
being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by
speaking, he was still allowed to read; a privilege which accelerated
his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he
was recommended exercise on horseback; and in obeying the instructions
of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself
generally familiar with localities and scenes famous in Scottish story.
On the restoration of his health, he at length became seriously engaged
in the study of law for several continuous years, and, after the
requisite examinations, was admitted as an advocate, on the 10th of July
1792, when on the point of attaining his twenty-first year.

In his twelfth year, Scott had composed some verses for his preceptor
and early friend Dr Adam, which afforded promise of his future
excellence. But he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early
life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in
prose wore a stiff formality. On being called to the bar, he at first
carefully refrained, according to his own statement, from claiming the
honour of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose
that his habits were unsuitable to a due attention to the duties of his
profession. He was relieved of dependence on professional employment by
espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman,
possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaintance he had formed at
Gilsland, a watering-place in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed
Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of £300 a year. While he
continued in his father's office he had made himself familiar with the
French and Italian languages, and had read many of their more celebrated
authors, especially the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after
he came to the bar, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad
poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis,
whose friendship he had recently acquired. In 1796 he made his first
adventure as an author by publishing translations of "Lenoré," and "The
Wild Huntsman" of Bürger. The attempt proved unsuccessful; but,
undismayed, he again essayed his skill in translation by publishing, in
1799, an English version of Goëthe's "Goetz of Berlichingen." His
success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original
performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land.

Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of
the Scottish borders, which had only been preserved by the recitations
of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The
independence of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his
long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, a
wild pastoral district on the Scottish border, anciently peopled by the
noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions;
and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information,
partly communicated to him by intelligent correspondents, he gave to the
world, in 1802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of "Minstrelsy of
the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume,
consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and
others. These volumes issued from the printing-press of his early friend
and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun
to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards so
justly celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript
in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of "Sir Tristrem;"
and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was
the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the
Rhymer. He published in 1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original
ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for
him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of £600.

The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. In the year following
that which produced the "Lay," he received his appointment as a
principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards
brought him £1200 a-year. To literary occupation he now resolved to
dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced "Marmion," his
second great poem, which brought him £1000 from the publisher, and at
once established his fame. During the same year he completed the heavy
task of editing the works of Dryden, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he
edited the state papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a
contributor to the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, conducted by Southey.
"The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his
poetical works, appeared in 1810; "Don Roderick," in 1811; "Rokeby," in
1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless," and
"The Bridal of Triermain," appeared subsequently, without the author's
name.

As a poet, Scott had now attained a celebrity unrivalled among his
contemporaries, and it was in the apprehension of compromising his
reputation, that, in attempting a new species of composition, he was
extremely anxious to conceal the name of the author. The novel of
"Waverley," which appeared in 1814, did not, however, suffer from its
being anonymous; for, although the sale was somewhat heavy at first, the
work soon afterwards reached the extraordinary circulation of twelve
thousand copies. Contrary to reasonable expectation, however, the author
of "Waverley" did not avow himself, and, numerous as was the catalogue
of prose fictions which, for more than twenty years, proceeded from his
pen, he continued as desirous of retaining his secret as were his female
contemporaries, Lady Nairn and Lady Anne Barnard, to cast a veil over
their poetical character. The rapidity with which the "Great Unknown"
produced works of fiction, was one of the marvels of the age; and many
attempts were made to withdraw the curtain which concealed the
mysterious author. Successive years produced at least one, and often
two, novels of a class infinitely superior to the romances of the past
age, all having reference to the manners and habits of the most
interesting and chivalrous periods of Scottish or British history,
which, in these works, were depicted with a power and vivacity
unattained by the most graphic national historians. Subsequently to the
publication of "Guy Mannering" and "The Antiquary," in 1815 and 1816,
and as an expedient to sustain the public interest, Scott commenced a
new series of novels, under the title of "Tales of my Landlord," these
being professedly written by a different author; but this resort was
abandoned as altogether unnecessary for the contemplated object. Each
successive romance by the author of "Waverley" awakened renewed ardour
and enthusiasm among the public, and commanded a circulation
commensurate with the bounds in which the language was understood. Many
of them were translated into the various European languages. In the year
1814 he had published an edition of the works of Swift, in nineteen
volumes octavo.

For some years after his marriage, Scott had occupied a cottage in the
romantic vicinity of Lasswade, near Edinburgh; but in 1804 he removed to
Ashestiel, an old mansion, beautifully situated on the banks of the
Tweed, seven miles above Selkirk, where, for several years, he continued
to reside during the vacation of the Court. The ruling desire of his
life was, that by the proceeds of his intellectual labour he might
acquire an ample demesne, with a suitable mansion of his own, and thus
in some measure realise in his own person, and in those of his
representatives, somewhat of the territorial importance of those olden
barons, whose wassails and whose feuds he had experienced delight in
celebrating. To attain such distinction as a Scottish _laird_, or
landholder, he was prepared to incur many sacrifices; nor was this
desire exceeded by regard for literary reputation. It was unquestionably
with a view towards the attainment of his darling object, that he taxed
so severely those faculties with which nature had so liberally endowed
him, and exhibited a prolificness of authorship, such as has rarely been
evinced in the annals of literary history. In 1811 he purchased, on the
south bank of the Tweed, near Melrose, the first portion of that estate
which, under the name of Abbotsford, has become indelibly associated
with his history. The soil was then a barren waste, but by extensive
improvements the place speedily assumed the aspect of amenity and
beauty. The mansion, a curious amalgamation, in questionable taste, of
every species of architecture, was partly built in 1811, and gradually
extended with the increasing emoluments of the owner. By successive
purchases of adjacent lands, the Abbotsford property became likewise
augmented, till the rental amounted to about £700 a-year--a return
sufficiently limited for an expenditure of upwards of £50,000 on this
favourite spot.

At Abbotsford the poet maintained the character of a wealthy country
gentleman. He was visited by distinguished persons from the sister
kingdom, from the Continent, and from America, all of whom he
entertained in a style of sumptuous elegance. Nor did his constant
social intercourse with his visitors and friends interfere with the
regular prosecution of his literary labours: he rose at six, and
engaged in study and composition till eleven o'clock. During the period
of his residence in the country, he devoted the remainder of the day to
his favourite exercise on horseback, the superintendence of improvements
on his property, and the entertainment of his guests. In March 1820,
George IV., to whom he was personally known, and who was a warm admirer
of his genius, granted to him the honour of a baronetcy, being the first
which was conferred by his Majesty after his accession. Prior to this
period, besides the works already enumerated, he had given to the world
his romances of "The Black Dwarf," "Old Mortality," "Rob Roy," "The
Heart of Midlothian," "The Bride of Lammermoor," "A Legend of Montrose,"
and "Ivanhoe." The attainment of the baronetcy appears to have
stimulated him to still greater exertion. In 1820 he produced, besides
"Ivanhoe," which appeared in the early part of that year, "The
Monastery" and "The Abbot;" and in the beginning of 1821, the romance of
"Kenilworth," being twelve volumes published within the same number of
months. "The Pirate" and "The Fortunes of Nigel" appeared in 1822;
"Peveril of the Peak" and "Quentin Durward," in 1823; "St Ronan's Well"
and "Redgauntlet," in 1824; and "The Tales of the Crusaders," in 1825.

During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter
undertook the congenial duty of acting as Master of Ceremonies, which he
did to the entire satisfaction of his sovereign and of the nation. But
while prosperity seemed to smile with increasing brilliancy, adversity
was hovering near. In 1826, Archibald Constable and Company, the famous
publishers of his works, became insolvent, involving in their
bankruptcy the printing firm of the Messrs Ballantyne, of which Sir
Walter was a partner. The liabilities amounted to the vast sum of
£102,000, for which Sir Walter was individually responsible. To a mind
less balanced by native intrepidity and fortified by principle, the
apparent wreck of his worldly hopes would have produced irretrievable
despondency; but Scott bore his misfortune with magnanimity and manly
resignation. He had been largely indebted to both the establishments
which had unfortunately involved him in their fall, in the elegant
production of his works, as well as in respect of pecuniary
accommodation; and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal
obligation, fully to discharge the debt. He declined to accept an offer
of the creditors to be satisfied with a composition; and claiming only
to be allowed time, applied himself with indomitable energy to his
arduous undertaking, at the age of fifty-five, in the full
determination, if his life was spared, of cancelling every farthing of
his obligations. At the crisis of his embarrassments he was engaged in
the composition of "Woodstock," which shortly afterwards appeared. The
"Life of Napoleon," which had for a considerable time occupied his
attention, was published in 1827, in nine vols. octavo. In the course of
its preparation he had visited both London and Paris in search of
materials. In the same year he produced "Chronicles of the Canongate,"
_first series_; and in the year following, the second series of those
charming tales, and the first portion of his juvenile history of
Scotland, under the title of "Tales of a Grandfather." A second portion
of these tales appeared in 1829, and the third and concluding series in
1830, when he also contributed a graver History of Scotland in two
volumes to _Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopædia_. In 1829 likewise appeared
"Anne of Geierstein," a romance, and in 1830 the "Letters on Demonology
and Witchcraft." In 1831 he produced a series of "Tales on French
History," uniform with the "Tales of a Grandfather," and his novels,
"Count Robert of Paris," and "Castle Dangerous," as a fourth series of
"Tales of My Landlord." Other productions of inferior mark appeared from
his pen; he contributed to the _Edinburgh Review_, during the first year
of its career; wrote the articles, "Chivalry," "Romance," and "Drama,"
for the sixth edition of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_; and during his
latter years contributed somewhat copiously to the _Quarterly Review_.

At a public dinner in Edinburgh, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund,
on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter made his first avowal as to the
authorship of the Waverley Novels,--an announcement which scarcely took
the public by surprise. The physical energies of the illustrious author
were now suffering a rapid decline; and in his increasing infirmities,
and liability to sudden and severe attacks of pain, and even of
unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the
praiseworthy effort to pay his debts, he was sacrificing his health and
shortening his life. Those apprehensions proved not without foundation.
In the autumn of 1831, his health became so lamentably broken, that his
medical advisers recommended a residence in Italy, and entire cessation
from mental occupation, as the only means of invigorating a constitution
so seriously dilapidated. But the counsel came too late; the patient
proceeded to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, but experiencing no benefit
from the change, he was rapidly conveyed homewards in the following
summer, in obedience to his express wish, that he might have the
satisfaction of closing his eyes at Abbotsford. The wish was gratified:
he arrived at Abbotsford on the 11th of July 1832, and survived till
the 21st of the ensuing September. According to his own request, his
remains were interred in an aisle in Dryburgh Abbey, which had belonged
to one of his ancestors, and had been granted to him by the late Earl of
Buchan. A heavy block of marble rests upon the grave, in juxtaposition
with another which has been laid on that of his affectionate partner in
life, who died in May 1826. The aisle is protected by a heavy iron
railing.

In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet; but his personal
appearance, which had otherwise been commanding, was considerably marred
by the lameness of his right limb, which caused him to walk with an
awkward effort, and ultimately with much difficulty. His countenance, so
correctly represented in his numerous portraits and busts, was
remarkable for depth of forehead; his features were somewhat heavy, and
his eyes, covered with thick eyelashes, were dull, unless animated by
congenial conversation. He was of a fair complexion; and his hair,
originally sandy, became gray from a severe illness which he suffered in
his 48th year. His general conversation consisted in the detail of
chivalric adventures and anecdotes of the olden times. His memory was so
retentive that whatever he had studied indelibly maintained a place in
his recollection. In fertility of imagination he surpassed all his
contemporaries. As a poet, if he has not the graceful elegance of
Campbell, and the fervid energy of Byron, he excels the latter in purity
of sentiment, and the former in vigour of conception. His style was well
adapted for the composition of lyric poetry; but as he had no ear for
music, his song compositions are not numerous. Several of these,
however, have been set to music, and maintain their popularity.[72] But
Scott's reputation as a poet is inferior to his reputation as a
novelist; and while even his best poems may cease to be generally read,
the author of the Waverley Novels will only be forgotten with the disuse
of the language. A cabinet edition of these novels, with the author's
last notes, and illustrated with elegant engravings, appeared in
forty-eight volumes a short period before his decease; several other
complete editions have since been published by the late Mr Robert
Cadell, and by the present proprietors of the copyright, the Messrs
Black of Edinburgh.

As a man of amiable dispositions and incorruptible integrity, Sir Walter
Scott shone conspicuous among his contemporaries, the latter quality
being eminently exhibited in his resolution to pay the whole of his
heavy pecuniary liabilities. To this effort he fell a martyr; yet it was
a source of consolation to his survivors, that, by his own extraordinary
exertions, the policy of life insurance payable at his death, and the
sum of £30,000 paid by Mr Cadell for the copyright of his works, the
whole amount of the debt was discharged. It is, however painfully, to be
remarked, that the object of his earlier ambition, in raising a family,
has not been realised. His children, consisting of two sons and two
daughters, though not constitutionally delicate, have all departed from
the scene, and the only representative of his house is the surviving
child of his eldest daughter, who was married to Mr John Gibson
Lockhart, the late editor of the _Quarterly Review_, and his literary
executor. This sole descendant, a grand-daughter, is the wife of Mr
Hope, Q.C., who has lately added to his patronymic the name of Scott,
and made Abbotsford his summer residence. The memory of the illustrious
Minstrel has received every honour from his countrymen; monuments have
been raised to him in the principal towns--that in the capital, a rich
Gothic cross, being one of the noblest decorations of his native city.
Abbotsford has become the resort of the tourist and of the traveller
from every land, who contemplate with interest and devotion a scene
hallowed by the loftiest genius.

    "The grass is trodden by the feet
      Of thousands, from a thousand lands--
    The prince, the peasant, tottering age,
      And rosy schoolboy bands;
    All crowd to fairy Abbotsford,
      And lingering gaze, and gaze the more;
    Hang o'er the chair in which _he_ sat,
      The latest dress _he_ wore."[73]


[72] We regret that, owing to the provision of the copyright act, we are
unable, in this work, to present four of Sir Walter Scott's most popular
songs, "The Blue Bonnets over the Border," "Jock o' Hazeldean,"
"M'Gregor's Gathering," and "Carle, now the King's come." These songs
must, however, be abundantly familiar to the majority of readers.

[73] From "The Grave of Sir Walter Scott," a poem by Thomas C. Latto
(see "The Minister's Kail-yard, and other Poems." Edinburgh, 1845,
12mo). To explain an allusion in the last line of the above stanza, it
should be noticed, that the last dress of the poet is exhibited to
visitors at Abbotsford, carefully preserved in a glass case.




IT WAS AN ENGLISH LADYE BRIGHT.[74]


    It was an English ladye bright
      (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),
    And she would marry a Scottish knight,
      For Love will still be lord of all.

    Blithely they saw the rising sun,
      When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;
    But they were sad ere day was done,
      Though Love was still the lord of all.

    The sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
      Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;
    Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
      For ire that Love was lord of all.

    For she had lands, both meadow and lea,
      Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
    And he swore her death, ere he would see
      A Scottish knight the lord of all.

    That wine she had not tasted well
      (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),
    When dead in her true love's arms she fell,
      For Love was still the lord of all.

    He pierced her brother to the heart,
      Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall--
    So perish all would true love part,
      That Love may still be lord of all!

    And then he took the cross divine
      (Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),
    And died for her sake in Palestine,
      So Love was still the lord of all.

    Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
      (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)
    Pray for their souls who died for love,
      For Love shall still be lord of all!


[74] This song appears in the sixth canto of "The Lay of the Last
Minstrel." "It is the author's object in these songs," writes Lord
Jeffrey, "to exemplify the different styles of ballad-narrative which
prevailed in this island at different periods, or in different
conditions of society. The first (the above) is conducted upon the rude
and simple model of the old border ditties, and produces its effect by
the direct and concise narrative of a tragical occurrence."




LOCHINVAR.[75]


    Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
    Through all the wide border his steed was the best;
    And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
    He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
    So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
    There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

    He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
    He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
    But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
    The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
    For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
    Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

    So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,
    Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
    Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
    (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)
    "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
    Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

    "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--
    Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--
    And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
    To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;
    There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
    That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

    The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
    He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
    She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
    With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
    He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar--
    "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

    So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
    That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
    While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
    And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
    And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better, by far,
    To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

    One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
    When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
    So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
    So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
    "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
    They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

    There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
    Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
    There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,
    But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
    So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
    Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?


[75] This song occurs in the fifth canto of "Marmion." It is founded on
a ballad entitled "Katharine Janfarie," in the "Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border."




WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.[76]


    Where shall the lover rest,
      Whom the fates sever
    From his true maiden's breast,
      Parted for ever?
    Where, through groves deep and high,
      Sounds the far billow;
    Where early violets die
      Under the willow.
              Eleu loro, &c.
            Soft shall be his pillow.

    There, through the summer day,
      Cool streams are laving;
    There, while the tempests sway,
      Scarce are boughs waving;
    There, thy rest shalt thou take,
      Parted for ever;
    Never again to wake,
      Never, O never!
              Eleu loro, &c.
            Never, O never!

    Where shall the traitor rest,
      He, the deceiver,
    Who could win maiden's breast,
      Ruin, and leave her?
    In the lost battle,
      Borne down by the flying,
    Where mingle war's rattle
      With groans of the dying.
              Eleu loro, &c.
            There shall he be lying.

    Her wing shall the eagle flap
      O'er the false-hearted;
    His warm blood the wolf shall lap
      Ere life be parted.
    Shame and dishonour sit
      By his grave ever;
    Blessing shall hallow it,--
      Never, O never!
              Eleu loro, &c.
            Never, O never!


[76] From the third canto of "Marmion."




SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER.[77]


    Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
      Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
    Dream of battle-fields no more,
      Days of danger, nights of waking.
    In our isle's enchanted hall,
      Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
    Fairy strains of music fall,
      Every sense in slumber dewing.
    Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
    Dream of fighting fields no more;
    Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
    Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

    No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
      Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;
    Trump nor pibroch summon here,
      Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
    Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
      At the daybreak from the fallow;
    And the bittern sound his drum,
      Booming from the sedgy shallow.
    Ruder sounds shall none be near,
    Guards nor wardens challenge here;
    Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
    Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.

    Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
      While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
    Dream not, with the rising sun,
      Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
    Sleep! the deer is in his den;
    Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
      How thy gallant steed lay dying.
    Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
    Think not of the rising sun,
    For at dawning to assail ye,
    Here no bugles sound reveillé.


[77] The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of "The Lady of the
Lake."




HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES![78]


    Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!
      Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine!
    Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
      Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
            Heaven send it happy dew,
            Earth lend it sap anew,
        Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
            While every Highland glen
            Sends our shout back agen,
        Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

    Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
      Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
    When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,
      The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade;
            Moor'd in the rifted rock
            Proof to the tempest shock,
        Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
            Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
            Echo his praise agen,
        Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

    Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,
      And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;
    Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
      And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.
            Widow and Saxon maid
            Long shall lament our raid,
        Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
            Lennox and Leven-Glen
            Shake when they hear agen,
        Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

    Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
      Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!
    Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands
      Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
            O that some seedling gem,
            Worthy such noble stem,
        Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!
            Loud should Clan-Alpine then
            Ring from the deepmost glen,
        Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!


[78] The "boat song" in the second canto of "The Lady of the Lake." It
may be sung to the air of "The Banks of the Devon."




THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED.[79]


    The heath this night must be my bed,
    The bracken curtains for my head,
    My lullaby the warder's tread,
      Far, far from love and thee, Mary.

    To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
    My couch may be the bloody plaid,
    My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
      It will not waken me, Mary!

    I may not, dare not, fancy now
    The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
    I dare not think upon thy vow,
      And all it promised me, Mary.

    No fond regret must Norman know;
    When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
    His heart must be like bended bow,
      His foot like arrow free, Mary.

    A time will come with feeling fraught,
    For if I fall in battle fought,
    Thy hapless lover's dying thought
      Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.

    And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
    How blithely will the evening close,
    How sweet the linnet sing repose
      To my young bride and me, Mary!


[79] Song of Norman in "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.




THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.[80]


    My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
    My idle greyhound loathes his food,
    My horse is weary of his stall,
    And I am sick of captive thrall;
    I wish I were as I have been,
    Hunting the hart in forest green,
    With bended bow and bloodhound free,
    For that 's the life is meet for me.

    I hate to learn the ebb of time
    From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
    Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
    Inch after inch, along the wall.
    The lark was wont my matins ring,
    The sable rook my vespers sing:
    These towers, although a king's they be,
    Have not a hall of joy for me.

    No more at dawning morn I rise
    And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
    Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
    And homeward wend with evening dew;
    A blithesome welcome blithely meet
    And lay my trophies at her feet,
    While fled the eve on wing of glee--
    That life is lost to love and me!


[80] "The Lady of the Lake," canto sixth.




HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.[81]


    He is gone on the mountain,
      He is lost to the forest,
    Like a summer-dried fountain,
      When our need was the sorest.
    The font re-appearing,
      From the rain-drops shall borrow;
    But to us comes no cheering,
      To Duncan no morrow!

    The hand of the reaper
      Takes the ears that are hoary,
    But the voice of the weeper
      Wails manhood in glory.
    The autumn winds rushing
      Wafts the leaves that are searest,
    But our flower was in flushing
      When blighting was nearest.

    Fleet foot on the corrie,
      Sage counsel in cumber,
    Red hand in the foray,
      How sound is thy slumber!
    Like the dew on the mountain,
      Like the foam on the river,
    Like the bubble on the fountain,
      Thou art gone, and for ever.


[81] "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.




A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.[82]


    "A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
      A weary lot is thine!
    To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
      And press the rue for wine!
    A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
      A feather of the blue,
    A doublet of the Lincoln green,
      No more of me ye knew, my love!
      No more of me ye knew.

    "This morn is merry June, I trow,
      The rose is budding fain;
    But she shall bloom in winter snow,
      Ere we two meet again."
    He turn'd his charger as he spake,
      Upon the river shore,
    He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
      Said, "Adieu for evermore, my love!
      And adieu for evermore."


[82] "Rokeby," canto third.




ALLEN-A-DALE.[83]


    Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,
    Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
    Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
    Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning;
    Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!
    And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

    The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
    And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,
    The mere for his net, and the land for his game,
    The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
    Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale
    Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.

    Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
    Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;
    Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
    Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
    And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,
    Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

    Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;
    The mother she asked of his household and home;
    "Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,
    My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still;
    'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
    And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.

    The father was steel and the mother was stone,
    They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;
    But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry,
    He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,
    And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
    And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.


[83] "Rokeby," canto third.




THE CYPRESS WREATH.[84]


    Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me,
    Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
    Too lively glow the lilies' light,
    The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,
    The mayflower and the eglantine
    May shade a brow less sad than mine;
    But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
    Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

    Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
    With tendrils of the laughing vine;
    The manly oak, the pensive yew,
    To patriot and to sage be due;
    The myrtle bough bids lovers live
    But that Matilda will not give;
    Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
    Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

    Let merry England proudly rear
    Her blended roses, bought so dear;
    Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
    With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.
    On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
    The flower she loves of emerald green;
    But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
    Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

    Strike the wild harp while maids prepare
    The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
    And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,
    With bloody hand the victor weaves,
    Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
    But when you hear the passing-bell,
    Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
    And twine it of the cypress-tree!

    Yes, twine for me the cypress bough;
    But, O Matilda, twine not now!
    Stay till a few brief months are past
    And I have look'd and loved my last!
    When villagers my shroud bestrew
    With pansies, rosemary, and rue,--
    Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
    And weave it of the cypress-tree!


[84] "Rokeby," canto fifth.




THE CAVALIER.[85]


    While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
    My true love has mounted his steed and away,
    Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;--
    Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

    He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
    He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair,
    From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down--
    Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

    For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
    Her king is his leader, her church is his cause,
    His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,--
    God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!

    They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
    The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
    But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
    That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.

    There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
    There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!
    Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
    With the barons of England that fight for the crown?

    Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier,
    Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,
    Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
    In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!


[85] "Rokeby," canto fifth.




HUNTING SONG.[86]


    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    On the mountain dawns the day,
    All the jolly chase is here,
    With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!
    Hounds are in their couples yelling,
    Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
    Merrily, merrily, mingle they--
    "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    The mist has left the mountain gray,
    Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
    Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:
    And foresters have busy been
    To track the buck in thicket green;
    Now we come to chant our lay,
    "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    To the green-wood haste away;
    We can shew you where he lies,
    Fleet of foot and tall of size;
    We can shew the marks he made
    When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
    You shall see him brought to bay,
    "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

    Louder, louder chant the lay,
    Waken, lords and ladies gay!
    Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
    Run a course as well as we;
    Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
    Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
    Think of this, and rise with day,
    Gentle lords and ladies gay.


[86] First published in the continuation of Strutt's Queenhoohall, 1808,
inserted in the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, of the same year, and set
to a Welsh air in Thomson's _Select Melodies_, vol. iii., 1817.




OH, SAY NOT, MY LOVE, WITH THAT MORTIFIED AIR.


    Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
      That your spring-time of pleasure is flown;
    Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
      For those raptures that still are thine own.

    Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,
      Its tendrils in infancy curl'd;
    'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine,
      Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

    Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,
      Has assumed a proportion more round,
    And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,
      Looks soberly now on the ground--

    Enough, after absence to meet me again,
      Thy steps still with ecstacy move;
    Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
      For me the kind language of love.




       *       *       *       *       *


METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.


       *       *       *       *       *




ROBERT MACKAY (ROB DONN).


Robert Mackay, called _Donn_, from the colour of his hair, which was
brown or chestnut, was born in the Strathmore of Sutherlandshire, about
the year 1714.

His calling, with the interval of a brief military service in the
fencibles, was the tending of cattle, in the several gradations of herd,
drover, and bo-man, or responsible cow-keeper--the last, in his pastoral
county, a charge of trust and respectability. At one period he had an
appointment in Lord Reay's forest; but some deviations into the
"righteous theft"--so the Highlanders of those parts, it seems, call the
appropriation of an occasional deer to their own use--forfeited his
noble employer's confidence. Rob, however, does not appear to have
suffered in his general character or reputation for an _unconsidered
trifle_ like this, nor otherwise to have declined in the favour of his
chief, beyond the necessity of transporting himself to a situation
somewhat nearer the verge of Cape Wrath than the bosom of the deer
preserve.

Mackay was happily married, and brought up a large family in habits and
sentiments of piety; a fact which his reverend biographer connects very
touchingly with the stated solemnities of the "Saturday night," when the
lighter chants of the week were exchanged at the worthy drover's
fireside for the purer and holier melodies of another inspiration.[87]
As a pendant to this creditable account of the bard's principles, we are
informed that he was a frequent guest at the presbytery dinner-table; a
circumstance which some may be so malicious as to surmise amounted to
nothing more than a purpose to enhance the festive recreations of the
reverend body--a suspicion, we believe, in this particular instance,
totally unfounded. He died in 1778; and he has succeeded to some rather
peculiar honours for a person in his position, or even of his mark. He
has had a reverend doctor for his editorial biographer,[88] and no less
than Sir Walter Scott for his reviewer.[89]

The passages which Sir Walter has culled from some literal translations
that were submitted to him, are certainly the most favourable specimens
of the bard that we have been able to discover in his volume. The rest
are generally either satiric rants too rough or too local for
transfusion, or panegyrics on the living and the dead, in the usual
extravagant style of such compositions, according to the taste of the
Highlanders and the usage of their bards; or they are love-lays, of
which the language is more copious and diversified than the sentiment.
In the gleanings on which we have ventured, after the illustrious person
who has done so much honour to the bard by his comments and selections,
we have attempted to draw out a little more of the peculiar character of
the poet's genius.


[87] Songs and Poems of Robert Mackay, p. 38. (Inverness, 1829. 8vo.)

[88] The Rev. Dr Mackintosh Mackay, successively minister of Laggan and
Dunoon, now a clergyman in Australia.

[89] _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., April 1831.




THE SONG OF WINTER.

   This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It
   is in a style peculiar to the Highlands, where description runs so
   entirely into epithets and adjectives, as to render recitation
   breathless, and translation hopeless. Here, while we have retained
   the imagery, we have been unable to find room, or rather rhyme, for
   one half of the epithets in the original. The power of alliterative
   harmony in the original song is extraordinary.


                I.

      At waking so early
        Was snow on the Ben,
    And, the glen of the hill in,
    The storm-drift so chilling
    The linnet was stilling,
        That couch'd in its den;
    And poor robin was shrilling
        In sorrow his strain.


                II.

      Every grove was expecting
        Its leaf shed in gloom;
    The sap it is draining,
    Down rootwards 'tis straining,
    And the bark it is waning
        As dry as the tomb,
    And the blackbird at morning
        Is shrieking his doom.


                III.

      Ceases thriving, the knotted,
        The stunted birk-shaw;[90]
    While the rough wind is blowing,
    And the drift of the snowing
    Is shaking, o'erthrowing,
        The copse on the law.


                IV.

      'Tis the season when nature
        Is all in the sere,
    When her snow-showers are hailing,
    Her rain-sleet assailing,
    Her mountain winds wailing,
        Her rime-frosts severe.


                V.

      'Tis the season of leanness,
        Unkindness, and chill;
    Its whistle is ringing,
    An iciness bringing,
    Where the brown leaves are clinging
        In helplessness, still,
    And the snow-rush is delving
        With furrows the hill.


                VI.

      The sun is in hiding,
        Or frozen its beam
    On the peaks where he lingers,
    On the glens, where the singers,[91]
    With their bills and small fingers
        Are raking the stream,
    Or picking the midstead
        For forage--and scream.


                VII.

      When darkens the gloaming
        Oh, scant is their cheer!
    All benumb'd is their song in
    The hedge they are thronging,
    And for shelter still longing,
        The mortar[92] they tear;
    Ever noisily, noisily
        Squealing their care.


                VIII.

      The running stream's chieftain[93]
        Is trailing to land,
    So flabby, so grimy,
    So sickly, so slimy,--
    The spots of his prime he
        Has rusted with sand;
    Crook-snouted his crest is
        That taper'd so grand.


                IX.

      How mournful in winter
        The lowing of kine;
    How lean-back'd they shiver,
    How draggled their cover,
    How their nostrils run over
        With drippings of brine,
    So scraggy and crining
        In the cold frost they pine.


                X.

      'Tis hallow-mass time, and
        To mildness farewell!
    Its bristles are low'ring
    With darkness; o'erpowering
    Are its waters, aye showering
        With onset so fell;
    Seem the kid and the yearling
        As rung their death-knell.


                XI.

      Every out-lying creature,
        How sinew'd soe'er,
    Seeks the refuge of shelter;
    The race of the antler
    They snort and they falter,
        A-cold in their lair;
    And the fawns they are wasting
        Since their kin is afar.


                XII.

      Such the songs that are saddest
        And dreariest of all;
    I ever am eerie
    In the morning to hear ye!
    When foddering, to cheer the
        Poor herd in the stall--
    While each creature is moaning,
        And sickening in thrall.


[90] "Birk-shaw." A few Scotticisms will be found in these versions, at
once to flavour the style, and, it must be admitted, to assist the
rhymes.

[91] Birds.

[92] The sides of the cottages--plastered with mud or mortar, instead of
lime.

[93] Salmon.




DIRGE FOR IAN MACECHAN.

A FRAGMENT.

   Mackay was entertained by Macechan, who was a respectable
   store-farmer, from his earliest life to his marriage. According to
   his reverend biographer,[94] the last lines of the elegy, of which
   the following is a translation, were much approved.


    I see the wretch of high degree,
      Though poverty has struck his race,
      Pass with a darkness on his face
    That door of hospitality.

    I see the widow in her tears,
      Dark as her woe--I see her boy--
      From both, want reaves the dregs of joy;
    The flash of youth through rags appears.

    I see the poor's--the minstrel's lot--
      As brethren they--no boon for song!
      I see the unrequited wrong
    Call for its helper, who is not.

    You hear my plaint, and ask me, why?
      You ask me _when_ this deep distress
      Began to rage without redress?
    "With Ian Macechan's dying sigh!"


[94] "Poems," p. 318.




THE SONG OF THE FORSAKEN DROVER.

  During a long absence on a droving expedition, Mackay was deprived of
  his mistress by another lover, whom, in fine, she married. The discovery
  he made, on his return, led to this composition; which is a sequel to
  another composed on his distant journey, in which he seems to
  prognosticate something like what happened. Both are selected by Sir
  Walter Scott as specimens of the bard, and may be found paraphrastically
  rendered in a prose version, in the _Quarterly Review_, vol. xlv., p.
  371, and in the notes to the last edition of "The Highland Drover," in
  "Chronicles of the Canongate." With regard to the present specimen, it
  may be remarked, that part of the original is either so obscure, or so
  freely rendered by Sir Walter Scott's translator, that we have attempted
  the present version, not without some little perplexity as to the sense
  of one or two allusions. We claim, on the whole, the merit of almost
  literal fidelity.


                        I.

    I fly from the fold, since my passion's despair
    No longer must harbour the charms that are there;
    Anne's[95] slender eyebrows, her sleek tresses so long,
    Her turreted bosom--and Isabel's[96] song;
        What has been, and is not--woe 's my thought!
        It must not be spoken, nor can be forgot.


                        II.

    I wander'd the fold, and I rambled the grove,
    And each spot it reported the kiss of my love;
    But I saw her caressing another--and feel
    'Tis distraction to hear them, and see them so leal.
        What has been, and is not, &c.


                        III.

    Since 'twas told that a rival beguil'd thee away,
    The dreams of my love are the dreams of dismay;
    Though unsummon'd of thee,[97] love has captured thy thrall,
    And my hope of redemption for ever is small.
        Day and night, though I strive aye
        To shake him away, still he clings like the ivy.


                        IV.

    But, auburn-hair'd Anna! to tell thee my plight,
    'Tis old love unrequited that prostrates my might,
    In presence or absence, aye faithful, my smart
    Still racks, and still searches, and tugs at my heart--
        Broken that heart, yet why disappear
        From my country, without one embrace from my dear?


                        V.

    She answers with laughter and haughty disdain--
    "To handle my snood you petition in vain;
    Six suitors are mine since the year thou wert gone,
    What art _thou_, that thou should'st be the favourite one?
        Art thou sick? Ha, ha, for thy woe!
        Art thou dying for love? Troth, love's payment was slow."[98]


                        VI.

    Though my anger may feign it requites thy disdain,
    And vaunts in thy absence, it threatens in vain--
    All in vain! for thy image in fondness returns,
    And o'er thy sweet likeness expectancy burns;
        And I hope--yes, I hope once more,
        Till my hope waxes high as a tower[99] in its soar.


[95] "Anne"--Rob's first love, the heroine of the piece. "Similar in
interest to the Highland Mary of Burns, is the yellow-haired Anne of Rob
Donn."--"Life," p. 18.

[96] "Isabel"--the daughter of Ian Macechan, the subject of other
verses.

[97] "Unsummon'd of thee." The idea is rather quaintly expressed in the
original thus--"Though thou hast sent me no summons, love has, of his
own accord, acted the part of a catchpole (or sheriff's officer), and
will not release me." Such are the homely fancies introduced into some
of the most passionate strains of the Gaelic muse.

[98] Alluding to his absence, and delay in his courtship.

[99] Rather more modest than the classic's "feriam sidera vertice."




ISABEL MACKAY--THE MAID ALONE.

TO A PIOBRACH TUNE.

  This is one of those lyrics, of which there are many in Gaelic poetry,
  that are intended to imitate pipe music. They consist of three parts,
  called Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath. The first is a slow, monotonous
  measure, usually, indeed, a mere repetition of the same words or tones;
  the second, a livelier or brisker melody, striking into description or
  narrative; the third, a rapid finale, taxing the reciter's or
  performer's powers to their utmost pitch of expedition. The heroine of
  the song is the same Isabel who is introduced towards the commencement
  of the "Forsaken Drover;" and it appears, from other verses in Mackay's
  collection, that it was not her fate to be "alone" through life. It is
  to be understood that when the verses were composed, she was in charge
  of her father's extensive pastoral _manége_, and not a mere milk-maid or
  dairy-woman.


              URLAR.

    Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,
      And Isabel Mackay is alone;
    Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye,
      And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c.
    Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye,
      At the forest foot--and alone?


              SIUBHAL.

    By the Virgin and Son![100]
    Thou bride-lacking one,
      If ever thy time
        Is coming, begone,
      The occasion is prime,
    For Isabel Mackay
    Is with the milk kye
      At the skirts of the forest,
        And with her is none.
          By the Virgin and Son, &c.

    Woe is the sign!
      It is not well
      With the lads that dwell
        Around us, so brave,
    When the mistress fine
      Of Riothan-a-dave
    Is out with the kine,
      And with her is none.
              O, woe is the sign, &c.

    Whoever he be
      That a bride would gain
    Of gentle degree,
      And a drove or twain,
      His speed let him strain
    To Riothan-a-dave,
    And a bride he shall have.
      Then, to her so fain!
              Whoever he be, &c.

    And a bride he shall have,
      The maid that's alone.
            Isabel Mackay, &c.
    Oh, seest not the dearie
      So fit for embracing,
      Her patience distressing,
      The bestial a-chasing,
          And she alone!

    'Tis a marvellous fashion
      That men should be slack,
      When their bosoms lack
    An object of passion,
    To look such a lass on,
      Her patience distressing,
      The bestial a-chasing,
        In the field, alone.


              CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

    Oh, look upon the prize, sirs,
    That where yon heights are rising,
    The whole long twelvemonth sighs in,
        Because she is alone.
    Go, learn it from my minstrelsy,
      Who list the tale to carry,
    The maiden shuns the public eye,
      And is ordain'd to tarry
    'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware,
    Where brown hills rear their ridges bare,
    And wails her plight the livelong year,
        To spend the day alone.


[100] A common Highland adjuration.




EVAN'S ELEGY.

   Mackay was benighted on a deer-stalking expedition, near a wild hut
   or shealing, at the head of Loch Eriboll. Here he found its only
   inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet,
   apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he
   "crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the
   following elegiac ditty, in which, it will be observed, he alludes
   to the death, then recent, of Pelham, an eminent statesman of
   George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old
   man's feelings were moved in a way which will be found in the
   appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in the
   _Quarterly_, and is now attempted in the measure of the original.


    How often, Death! art waking
      The imploring cry of Nature!
    When she sees her phalanx breaking,
      As thou'dst have all--grim feature!
    Since Autumn's leaves to brownness,
      Of deeper shade were tending,
    We saw thy step, from palaces,
      To Evan's nook descending.
        Oh, long, long thine agony!
          A nameless length its tide;
        Since breathless thou hast panted here,
          And not a friend beside.
        Thine errors what, I judge not;
          What righteous deeds undone;
        But if remains a se'ennight,
          Redeem it, dying one!

    Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true,
      What dust of time would blind?
    Such thy impartiality
      To our highest, lowest kind.
    Thy look is upwards, downwards shot,
      Determined none to miss;
    It rose to Pelham's princely bower,
      It sinks to shed like this!
          Oh, long, long, &c.!
    So great thy victims, that the noble
      Stand humbled by the bier;
    So poor, it shames the poorest
      To grace them with a tear.
    Between the minister of state
      And him that grovels there,
    Should one remain uncounselled,
      Is there one whom dool shall spare?
          Oh, long, long, &c.!
    The hail that strews the battle-field
      Not louder sounds its call,
    Than the falling thousands round us
      Are voicing words to all.
    Hearken! least of all the nameless;
      Evan's hour is going fast;
    Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones--
      Princely Pelham's hour is past.
          Oh, long, long, &c.!
    Friends of my heart! in the twain we see
      A type of life's declining;
    'Tis like the lantern's dripping light,
      At either end a-dwining.
    Where was there one more low than thou--
      Thou least of meanest things?[101]
    And where than his was higher place
      Except the throne of kings?
          Oh, long, long, &c.!


[101] At this humiliating apostrophe, the beggar is reported to have
instinctively raised his staff--an action which the bard observed just
in time to avoid its descent on his back.




DOUGAL BUCHANAN.


Dougal Buchanan was born at the Mill of Ardoch, in the beautiful valley
of Strathyre, and parish of Balquhidder, in the year 1716. His parents
were in circumstances to allow him the education of the parish school;
on which, by private application, he so far improved, as to be qualified
to act as teacher and catechist to the Highland locality which borders
on Loch Rannoch, under the appointment of the Society for Propagating
Christian Knowledge. Never, it is believed, were the duties of a calling
discharged with more zeal and efficiency. The catechist was, both in and
out of the strict department of his office, a universal oracle,[102] and
his name is revered in the scene of his usefulness in a degree to which
the honours of canonization could scarcely have added. Pious, to the
height of a proverbial model, he was withal frank, cheerful, and social;
and from his extraordinary command of the Gaelic idiom, and its poetic
phraseology, he must have lent an ear to many a song and many a
legend[103]--a nourishment of the imagination in which, as well as in
purity of Gaelic, his native Balquhidder was immeasurably inferior to
the Rannoch district of his adoption.

The composition of hymns, embracing a most eloquent and musical
paraphrase of many of the more striking inspirations of scriptural
poetry, seems to have been the favourite employment of his leisure
hours. These are sung or recited in every cottage of the Highlands where
a reader or a retentive memory is to be found.

Buchanan's life was short. He was cut off by typhus fever, at a period
when his talents had begun to attract a more than local attention. It
was within a year after his return from superintending the press of the
first version of the Gaelic New Testament, that his lamented death took
place. His command of his native tongue is understood to have been
serviceable to the translator, the Rev. James Stewart of Killin, who had
probably been Buchanan's early acquaintance, as they were natives of the
same district. This reverend gentleman is said to have entertained a
scheme of getting the catechist regularly licensed to preach the gospel
without the usual academical preparation. The scheme was frustrated by
his death, in the summer of 1768.

We know of no fact relating to the development of the poetic vein of
this interesting bard, unless it be found in the circumstance to which
he refers in his "Diary,"[104] of having been bred a violent Jacobite,
and having lived many years under the excitement of strong, even
vindictive feelings, at the fate of his chief and landlord (Buchanan of
Arnprior and Strathyre), who, with many of his dependents, and some of
the poet's relations, suffered death for their share in the last
rebellion. While he relates that the power of religion at length
quenched this effervescence of his emotions, it may be supposed that
ardent Jacobitism, with its common accompaniment of melody, may have
fostered an imagination which every circumstance proves to have been
sufficiently susceptible. It may be added, as a particular not unworthy
of memorial in a poet's life, that his remains are deposited in perhaps
the most picturesque place of sepulture in the kingdom--the peninsula of
Little Leny, in the neighbourhood of Callander; to which his relatives
transferred his body, as the sepulchre of many chiefs and considerable
persons of his clan, and where it is perhaps matter of surprise that his
Highland countrymen have never thought of honouring his memory with some
kind of monument.

The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials
for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and
their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available
for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not
directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem
on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105] have been
omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for
our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being
mere amplifications of Scripture--wonderful, indeed, in point of
vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight
traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some
passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models.


[102] "Statistical Account of Fortingall."--Stat. Acc., x., p. 549.

[103] The same account observes that though none of his works are
published but his sacred compositions, he composed "several songs on
various subjects."

[104] Published at Glasgow, 1836.

[105] These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and
"The Good and Wicked Pastor."




A CLAGIONN.

THE SKULL.


    As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave
      Lo! a featureless skull on the ground;
    The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp,
      While I turn it around and around.
    Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express
      Of the bystander nigh, a thought;
    Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both,
      Nor passes emotion its throat.
    No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace
      Its brow, and no ear for my song;
    Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death
      The raised features hath flatten'd along.
    The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam--
      The intelligent sight, are no more;
    But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil,
      Come hither their dwellings to bore.
    No lineament here is left to declare
      If monarch or chief art thou;
    Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave
      That on dunghill expires, is as low.
    Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath
      Who tenants my hand, unfold;
    That my voice may not die without a reply,
      Though the ear it addresses is cold.
    Say, wert thou a May,[106] of beauty a ray,
      And flatter'd thine eye with a smile?
    Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net,
      The hearts of the youth to wile?
    Alas every charm that a bosom could warm
      Is changed to the grain of disgust!
    Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her
      Gracefulness all in the dust!
    Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe
      Acknowledge thy rule o'er them--
    A magistrate true, to all dealing their due,
      And just to redress or condemn?
    Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold
      In the scales of thy partial decree;
    While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd,
      And appeal'd their distresses to thee?
    Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power
      To extinguish the fever of ail?
    And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried
      O'er omnipotent death to prevail?
    Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'd
      Thy hope when the need was thine own;
    What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healing
      When the hours of thy portion were flown?
    Or--wert thou a hero, a leader to glory,
      While armies thy truncheon obey'd;
    To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering
      In flight, left their mountains of dead?
    Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade,
      When came onwards in battle array
    The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms,
      To sack and to rifle their prey?
    How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while
      Besieging, the reptile is vain,
    And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find
      His defence in the lodge of thy brain!
    Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been,
      Some, the organ where music repair'd;
    In rabble and rout they come in and come out
      At the gashes their fangs have bared.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land,
      Represented by nakedness, here?
    Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind,
      Nor all unimparted thy gear;
    Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou!
      To leanness their countenances grew--
    'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for right
      Required, to a moment, its due;
    While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied
      To cover their head from the chill,
    And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand,
      As cold blows the blast of the hill.
    Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown,
      Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid;
    All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke!
      While but claims their obeisance the dead.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such,
      That death must have lent them his sting--
    So daring they were, so reckless of fear,
      As heaven had wanted a king?
    Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spy
      In the haunt of thy venomous jaws,
    Its slander display, as poisons its prey
      The devilish snake in the grass?
    That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd,
      The inflexible shackles of death;
    And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail
      Where its slaver once harbour'd beneath.
    And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urn
      And expired, with impenitent groan;
    To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part,
      And then to appear--at the Throne!
    Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take
      To the Judge of thy actions the way,
    And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse,
      Thy sentence of termless dismay.

           *       *       *       *       *

    The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ,
      To brass-links the veins of thy frame
    Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow
      Like the anvil that melts not in flame!
    But wert thou the mould of a champion bold
      For God and his truth and his law?
    Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each sense
      Is broken--each gem with a flaw--
    Be comforted thou! For rising in air
      Thy flight shall the clarion obey;
    And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd,
      If they will, by the creatures of prey.


[106] Maiden or virgin--_orig._




AM BRUADAR.

THE DREAM.

   We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The
   Skull." In the original they are touched in phraseology scarcely
   unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.


    As lockfasted in slumber's arms
      I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race
    When every spectral object charms,
      To melt, like shadow, in the chase),

    A vision came; mine ear confess'd
      Its solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught!
    Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest,
      Or fills the world thy crave of thought?

           *       *       *       *       *

    "Since fell transgression ravaged here
      And reft Man's garden-joys away,
    He weeps his unavailing tear,
      And straggles, like a lamb astray.

    "With shrilling bleat for comfort hie
      To every pinfold, humankind;
    Ah, there the fostering teat is dry,
      The stranger mother proves unkind.

    "No rest for toil, no drink for drought,
      For bosom-peace the shadow's wing--
    So feeds expectancy on nought,
      And suckles every lying thing.

    "Some woe for ever wreathes its chain,
      And hope foretells the clasp undone;
    Relief at handbreadth seems, in vain
      Thy fetter'd arms embrace--'tis gone!

    "Not all that trial's lore unlearns
      Of all the lies that life betrays,
    Avails, for still desire returns--
      The last day's folly is to-day's.

    "Thy wish has prosper'd--has its taste
      Survived the hour its lust was drown'd;
    Or yields thine expectation's zest
      To full fruition, golden-crown'd?

    "The rosebud is life's symbol bloom,
      'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven--
    Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb,
      When to the grasping hand 'tis given.

    "Go, search the world, wherever woe
      Of high or low the bosom wrings,
    There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe,
      Is answer'd from the breast of kings.

    "From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud,
      From every heart its sigh is roll'd;
    The rose's stalk is fang'd--one shroud
      Is both the sting's and honey's fold.

    "Is wealth thy lust--does envy pine
      Where high its tempting heaps are piled?
    Look down, behold the fountain shine,
      And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!

    "Quickens thy breath with rash inhale,
      And falls an insect[107] in its toil?
    The creature turns thy life-blood pale,
      And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.

    "When high thy fellow-mortal soars,
      His state is like the topmost nest--
    It swings with every blast that roars,
      And every motion shakes its crest.

    "And if the world for once is kind,
      Yet ever has the lot its bend;
    Where fortune has the crook inclined,
      Not all thy strength or art shall mend.

    "For as the sapling's sturdy stalk,
      Whose double twist is crossly strain'd,
    Such is thy fortune--sure to baulk
      At this extreme what there was gain'd.

    "When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd,
      'Twas vain who hoarded its supply,
    Not all his miser care avail'd
      His neighbour's portion to outvie.

    "So, blended all that nature owns,
      So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless--
    With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans;
      With courtly luxury, distress.

    "Lift up the balance--heap with gold,
      Its other shell vile dust shall fill;
    And were a kingdom's ransom told,
      The scales would want adjustment still.

    "Life has its competence--nor deem
      That better than enough were more;
    Sure it were phantasy to dream
      With burdens to assuage thy sore.

    "It is the fancy's whirling strife
      That breeds thy pain--to-day it craves,
    To-morrow spurns--suffices life
      When passion asks what passion braves?

    "Should appetite her wish achieve,
      To herd with brutes her joy would bound;
    Pleased other paradise to leave,
      Content to pasture on the ground.

    "But pride rebels, nor towers alone
      Beyond that confine's lowly sphere--
    Seems as from the Eternal Throne
      It aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.

    "'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare;
      But, seek we to our bliss the way,
    Let us to Heaven our path refer,
      Believe, and worship, and obey.

    "That choice is all--to range beyond
      Nor must, nor needs; provision, grace,
    In these He gives, who sits enthroned,
      Salvation, competence, and peace."

    The instructive vision pass'd away,
      But not its wisdom's dreamless lore;
    No more in shadow-tracks I stray,
      And fondle shadow-shapes no more.


[107] _Orig._--The venomous red spider.




DUNCAN MACINTYRE.


Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most
extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced.
Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour
forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible.
And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry
committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,--the late Dr
Stewart of Luss,--who, when a young man, became acquainted with this
extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of
under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's
father was minister.

Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724,
and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of
keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a
musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take
part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of
Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City
Guard.

Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest
scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His
verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of
subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and
the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been
experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.




MAIRI BHAN OG.

MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.


    My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,
      My life-time love, my own!
    The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie
      Was bound to me alone,
    By covenant true, and ritual holy,
      Gave happiness all but divine;
    Nor needed there more to transport me wholly,
      Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.

           *       *       *       *       *

    'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted
      Was far, but I rivall'd the wind,
    The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,
      That force can never unbind.
    I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,
      While I gain'd a love and a bride,
    I heard my heart, and could tell each second,
      As its pulses struck on my side.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,
      And said that no salve could save;
    She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,
      For herself to my breast she gave.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee
      For chasing away, away,
    My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,
      And teaching no more to stray.
    I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,
      All shapely from branch to stem,
    My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying
      To cull the fairest from them;
    One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,
      Bent lowly down to my hand,
    And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,
      To me, the least of the band.
    I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,
      Where the stream's transparence ran,
    Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in,
      Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.
    Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection
      With such a prize to my share!
    My love is a ray, a morning reflection,
      Beside me she sleeps, a star.


[108] Gaelic, "gealag"--descriptive of the salmon, from its glossy
brightness.




BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT.


Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or
lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses,
than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality--the
dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's
treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his
performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small
risk,--although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in
any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman
somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit
this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating
them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in
the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance,
and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always
rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who
understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in
other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.


            URLAR.

    The noble Otter hill!
    It is a chieftain Beinn,[109]
    Ever the fairest still
      Of all these eyes have seen.
    Spacious is his side;
    I love to range where hide,
    In haunts by few espied,
      The nurslings of his den.
    In the bosky shade
    Of the velvet glade,
    Couch, in softness laid,
      The nimble-footed deer;
    To see the spotted pack,
    That in scenting never slack,
    Coursing on their track,
      Is the prime of cheer.
    Merry may the stag be,
      The lad that so fairly
    Flourishes the russet coat
      That fits him so rarely.
    'Tis a mantle whose wear
    Time shall not tear;
    'Tis a banner that ne'er
      Sees its colours depart:
    And when they seek his doom,
    Let a man of action come,
    A hunter in his bloom,
      With rifle not untried:
    A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint,
    To strike a trusty dint,
    And make the gun-lock glint
      With a flash of pride.
    Let the barrel be but true,
    And the stock be trusty too,
    So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew,
      Shall be purple-dyed.
    He should not be novice bred,
    But a marksman of first head,
    By whom that stag is sped,
      In hill-craft not unskill'd;
    So, when Padraig of the glen
    Call'd his hounds and men,
    The hill spake back again,
      As his orders shrill'd;
    Then was firing snell,
    And the bullets rain'd like hail,
    And the red-deer fell
      Like warrior on the field.


            SIUBHAL.

    Oh, the young doe so frisky,
      So coy, and so fair,
    That gambols so briskly,
      And snuffs up the air;
    And hurries, retiring,
    To the rocks that environ,
    When foemen are firing,
      And bullets are there.
    Though swift in her racing,
      Like the kinsfolk before her,
    No heart-burst, unbracing
      Her strength, rushes o'er her.
    'Tis exquisite hearing
    Her murmur, as, nearing,
    Her mate comes careering,
      Her pride, and her lover;--
    He comes--and her breathing
      Her rapture is telling;
    How his antlers are wreathing,
      His white haunch, how swelling!
    High chief of Bendorain,
    He seems, as adoring
    His hind, he comes roaring
      To visit her dwelling.
    'Twere endless my singing
    How the mountain is teeming
    With thousands, that bringing
      Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming,
    With his hind, and her gala
    Of younglings, that follow
    O'er mountain and beala,[112]
      All lightsome are beaming.
    When that lightfoot so airy,
      Her race is pursuing,
    Oh, what vision saw e'er a
      Feat of flight like her doing?
    She springs, and the spreading grass
    Scarce feels her treading,
    It were fleet foot that sped in
      Twice the time that she flew in.
    The gallant array!
      How the marshes they spurn,
    In the frisk of their play,
      And the wheelings they turn,--
    As the cloud of the mind
    They would distance behind,
    And give years to the wind,
      In the pride of their scorn!
    'Tis the marrow of health
      In the forest to lie,
    Where, nooking in stealth,
      They enjoy her[113] supply,--
    Her fosterage breeding
    A race never needing,
    Save the milk of her feeding,
      From a breast never dry.
    Her hill-grass they suckle,
      Her mammets[114] they swill,
    And in wantonness chuckle
      O'er tempest and chill;
    With their ankles so light,
    And their girdles[115] of white,
    And their bodies so bright
      With the drink of the rill.
    Through the grassy glen sporting
      In murmurless glee,
    Nor snow-drift nor fortune
      Shall urge them to flee,
    Save to seek their repose
    In the clefts of the knowes,
    And the depths of the howes
      Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]


            URLAR.

    In the forest den, the deer
    Makes, as best befits, his lair,
    Where is plenty, and to spare,
      Of her grassy feast.
    There she browses free
    On herbage of the lea,
    Or marsh grass, daintily,
      Until her haunch is greased.
    Her drink is of the well,
    Where the water-cresses swell,
    Nor with the flowing shell
      Is the toper better pleased.
    The bent makes nobler cheer,
    Or the rashes of the mere,
    Than all the creagh that e'er
      Gave surfeit to a guest.
    Come, see her table spread;
    The _sorach_[117] sweet display'd
    The _ealvi_,[118] and the head
      Of the daisy stem;
    The _dorach_[119] crested, sleek,
    And ringed with many a streak,
    Presents her pastures meek,
      Profusely by the stream.
    Such the luxuries
    That plump their noble size,
    And the herd entice
      To revel in the howes.
    Nobler haunches never sat on
    Pride of grease, than when they batten
    On the forest links, and fatten
      On the herbs of their carouse.
    Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming,
      When the supper-time
    Calls all their hosts from roaming,
      To see their social prime;
    And when the shadows gather,
    They lair on native heather,
    Nor shelter from the weather
      Need, but the knolls behind.
    Dread or dark is none;
    Their 's the mountain throne,
    Height and slope their own,
      The gentle mountain kind;
    Pleasant is the grace
    Of their hue, and dappled dress,
    And an ark in their distress,
      In Bendorain dear they find.


            SIUBHAL.

    So brilliant thy hue
      With tendril and flow'ret,
    The grace of the view,
      What land can o'erpower it?
    Thou mountain of beauty,
    Methinks it might suit thee,
    The homage of beauty
      To claim as a queen.
    What needs it? Adoring
    Thy reign, we see pouring
    The wealth of their store in
      Already, I ween.
    The seasons--scarce roll'd once,
    Their gifts are twice told--
    And the months, they unfold
      On thy bosom their dower,
    With profusion so rare,
    Ne'er was clothing so fair,
    Nor was jewelling e'er
      Like the bud and the flower
    Of the groves on thy breast,
    Where rejoices to rest
    His magnificent crest,
      The mountain-cock, shrilling
    In quick time, his note;
    And the clans of the grot
    With melody's note,
      Their numbers are trilling.
    No foot can compare,
      In the dance of the green,
    With the roebuck's young heir;
      And here he is seen
    With his deftness of speed,
    And his sureness of tread,
    And his bend of the head,
      And his freedom of spring!
    Over corrie careers he,
    The wood-cover clears he,
    And merrily steers he
      With bound, and with fling,--
    As he spurns from his stern
    The heather and fern,
    And dives in the dern[120]
      Of the wilderness deep;
    Or, anon, with a strain,
    And a twang of each vein
    He revels amain
      'Mid the cliffs of the steep.
    With the burst of a start
    When the flame of his heart
    Impels to depart,
      How he distances all!
    Two bounds at a leap,
    The brown hillocks to sweep,
    His appointment to keep
      With the doe, at her call.
    With her following, the roe
      From the danger of ken
    Couches inly, and low,
      In the haunts of the glen;
    Ever watchful to hear,
    Ever active to peer,
    Ever deft to career,--
      All ear, vision, and limb.
    And though Cult[121] and Cuchullin,
    With their horses and following,
    Should rush to her dwelling,
      And our prince[122] in his trim,
    They might vainly aspire
    Without rifle and fire
    To ruffle or nigh her,
      Her mantle to dim.
    Stark-footed, lively,
    Ever capering naively
    With motion alive, aye,
      And wax-white, in shine,
    When her startle betrays
    That the hounds are in chase,
    The same as the base
      Is the rocky decline--
    She puffs from her chest,
    And she ambles her crest
    And disdain is express'd
      In her nostril and eye;--
    That eye--how it winks!
    Like a sunbeam it blinks,
    And it glows, and it sinks,
      And is jealous and shy!
    A mountaineer lynx,
      Like her race that 's gone by.


            CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

    Her lodge is in the valley--here
      No huntsman, void of notion,
    Should hurry on the fallow deer,
      But steal on her with caution;--
    With wary step and watchfulness
    To stalk her to her resting place,
    Insures the gallant wight's success,
      Before she is in motion.
    The hunter bold should follow then,
    By bog, and rock, and hollow, then,
    And nestle in the gulley, then,
      And watch with deep devotion
    The shadows on the benty grass,
    And how they come, and how they pass;
    Nor must he stir, with gesture rash,
      To quicken her emotion.
    With nerve and eye so wary, sir,
    That straight his piece may carry, sir,
    He marks with care the quarry, sir,
      The muzzle to repose on;
    And now, the knuckle is applied,
    The flint is struck, the priming tried,
    Is fired, the volley has replied,
      And reeks in high commotion;--
    Was better powder ne'er to flint,
    Nor trustier wadding of the lint--
    And so we strike a telling dint,
      Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]


[109] Anglicised into _Ben_.

[110] The deer.

[111] Stag of the first head.

[112] Pass.

[113] Any one who has heard a native attempt the Lowland tongue for the
first time, is familiar with the personification that turns every
inanimate object into _he_ or _she_. The forest is here happily
personified as a nurse or mother.

[114] Bog-holes.

[115] Stripings.

[116] _Gaelic_--Easan-an-tsith.

[117] Primrose.

[118] St John's wort.

[119] A kind of cress, or marshmallow.

[120] _Anglice_--dark.

[121] _Gaelic_--Caoillt; who, with Cuchullin, makes a figure in
traditional Gaelic poetry.

[122] _Gaelic_--King George.

[123] Literally--"From the barrel of Nic-Coisean." This was the poet's
favourite gun, to which his muse has addressed a separate song of
considerable merit.




THE BARD TO HIS MUSKET.[124]

   Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of
   Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at
   his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired
   of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in
   his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence
   a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment
   of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his
   feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the
   original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are
   enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the
   spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the
   Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at
   our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems
   of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it
   to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr
   Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain,
   of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come
   forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of
   Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic
   productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride,
   thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of
   patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he
   carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as
   enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was
   love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.


    Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal
      May happen to a Highlan' man;
    Though he fall in love he soon may feel
      He cannot get the fancied one;
    The first I loved in time that 's past,
      I courted twenty years, ochone!
    But she forsook me at the last,
      And Duncan then was left alone.

    To Edinbro' I forthwith hied
      To seek a sweetheart to my mind,
    An', if I could, to find a bride
      For the fause love I left behind;
    Said Captain Campbell of the Guard,
      "I ken a widow secretly,
    An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,
      To put her, Duncan, in your way."

    As was his wont, I trow, did he
      Fulfil his welcome promise true,
    He gave the widow unto me,
      And all her portion with her too;
    And whosoe'er may ask her name,
      And her surname also may desire,
    They call her Janet[125]--great her fame--
      An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.

    She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,
      No vexing gloom or look at hand,
    As high in rank and in degree
      As any lady in the land;
    She 's my support and my relief,
      Since e'er she join'd me, any how;
    Great is the cureless cause of grief
      To him who has not got her now!

    Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite,
      Altho' she liveth still at ease--
    An' allow the crested stags to fight
      And wander wheresoe'er they please,
    A young wife I have chosen now,
      Which I repent not any where,
    I am not wanting wealth, I trow,
      Since ever I espoused the fair.

    I pass my word of honour bright--
      Most excellent I do her call;
    In her I ne'er, in any light,
      Discover'd any fault at all.
    She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,
      Without a hidden fault, my friend;
    In her, defect I never found,
      Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.

    When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!
      For money in a great degree;
    Ah, George's daughter--generous lass--
      Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;
    She keepeth me in drink, and stays
      By me in ale-houses and all,
    An' at once, without a word, she pays
      For every stoup I choose to call!

    An' every turn I bid her do
      She does it with a willing grace;
    She never tells me aught untrue,
      Nor story false, with lying face;
    She keeps my rising family
      As well as I could e'er desire,
    Although no labour I do try,
      Nor dirty work for love or hire.

    I labour'd once laboriously,
      Although no riches I amass'd;
    A menial I disdain'd to be,
      An' keep my vow unto the last.
    I have ceased to labour in the lan',
      Since e'er I noticed to my wife,
    That the idle and contented man
      Endureth to the longest life.

    'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed--
      In whom I faithfully believe,
    She 's able still to earn my bread,
      An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;
    I 'll have no lack of linens fair,
      An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,
    An' trust me that all worldly care
      Now gives me not the least concern.


[124] The "Auld Town Guard" of Edinburgh, which existed before the
Police Acts came into operation, was composed principally of
Highlandmen, some of them old pensioners. Their rendezvous, or place of
resort, was in the vicinity of old St Giles's Church, where they might
generally be found smoking, snuffing, and speaking in the true Highland
vernacular. Archie Campbell, celebrated by Macintyre as "Captain
Campbell," was the last, and a favourable specimen of this class of
civic functionaries. He was a stout, tall man; and, dressed in his "knee
breeks and buckles, wi' the red-necked coat, and the cocked hat," he
considered himself of no ordinary importance. He had a most thorough
contempt for grammar, and looked upon the Lord Provost as the greatest
functionary in the world. He delighted to be called "the Provost's
right-hand man." Archie is still well remembered by many of the
inhabitants of Edinburgh, as he was quite a character in the city. In
dealing with a prisoner, Archie used to impress him with the idea that
he could do great things for him by merely speaking to "his honour the
Provost;" and when locking a prisoner up in the Tolbooth, he would say
sometimes--"There, my lad, I cannot do nothing more for you!" He took
care to give his friends from the Highlands a magnificent notion of his
great personal consequence, which, of course, they aggrandised when they
returned to the hills.

[125] A byeword for a regimental firelock.

[126] A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and
elsewhere.




JOHN MACODRUM.


Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of
merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,--of whom, after a distinguished
career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature
death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.

Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's
report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which
Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story
is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little
with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian,
in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic
to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have,"
quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."

Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald,
lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains--a fact that brings the
time in which he flourished down to 1766.

His poem entitled the "Song of Age," is admired by his countrymen for
its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some
occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of
versification.




ORAN NA H-AOIS,

THE SONG OF AGE.


    Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,
      The notes would betray the languor of woe;
    My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone
      That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.
    The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare,
      And offers us ne'er the respite of peace,
    Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,
      For under the sun is no hope of release.
    'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen
      Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside;
    How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower
      The arm of our power, and the step of our pride.
    As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,
      The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,
    So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,
      Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.
    Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,
      And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;
    Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve--
      In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.
    To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,
      Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;
    On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]
      The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.
    Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held
      By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;
    The friends of our love at thy call must remove,--
      What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?
    They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store,
      Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;
    Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us,
      Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.
    Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face
      To hasten its race on the route to the tomb,
    To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear,
      Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb;
    Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd,
      Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!
    To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,
      Even sympathy dies--and thy helper is none.
    We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'd
      Thy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose;
    Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,
      And the ivory[128] tare from its sockets' repose.
    Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould,
      Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim;
    What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track,
      And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb!
    Thou leper of fear--thou niggard of cheer--
      Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found?
    Thou contempt of the brave--oh, rather the grave,
      Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound.
    Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray,
      Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom;
    Thou bane of delight--when thy shivering plight,
      And thy grizzle of white,[129] and thy crippleness, come
    To beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor,
      And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread;
    All unwelcome they call--from the hut to the hall
      The confession of all is, "_'Tis time he were dead_!"

The picturesque portion of the description here terminates. With respect
to the moral and religious application, it is but just to the poet to
say, that before the close he appeals in pathetic terms to the young,
warning them not to boast of their strength, or to abuse it; and that he
concludes his lay with the sentiment, that whatever may be the ills of
"age," there are worse that await an unrepenting death, and a suffering
eternity.


[127] Alluding to the plagues.

[128] The teeth.

[129] _Gaelic_--Matted, rough, gray beard.




NORMAN MACLEOD;

OR, TORMAID BAN.


Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had his _marrow_ in a
Highland bard, nearly his contemporary, whose one effort was attended
with more lasting popularity than the sole oration of that celebrated
person. The clan song of the Mackenzies is the composition in question,
and its author is now ascertained to have been a gentleman, or farmer of
the better class, of the name of Norman Macleod, a native of Assynt[130]
in Sutherland. The most memorable particular known of this person,
besides the production of his poetic effort, is his having been the
father of a Glasgow professor,[131] whom we remember occupying the chair
of Church History in the university in very advanced age, about 1814,
assisted by a helper and successor; and of another son, who was the
respected minister of Rogart till towards the end of last century.

The date of "Caberfae" is not exactly ascertained. It was composed
during the exile of Lord Seaforth, but, we imagine, before the '45, in
which he did not take part, and while Macshimei (Lord Lovat) still
passed for a Whig. In Mackenzie's excellent collection (p. 361), a
later date is assigned to the production.

The Seaforth tenantry, who (after the manner of the clans) privately
supported their chief in his exile, appear to have been much aggrieved
by some proceedings of the loyalist, Monro of Fowlis, who, along with
his neighbour of Culloden and Lovat, were probably acting under
government commission, in which the interests of the crown were seconded
by personal or family antagonism. The loyal family of Sutherland, who
seem by grant or lease to have had an interest in the estates, also come
in for a share of the bard's resentment.

All this forms the subject of "Caberfae," which, without having much
meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated "Lillibulero," to animate
armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be
imagined. The repetition of "the Staghead, when rises his cabar on,"
which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a
Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,--being a simple
allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag
at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant. The cabar is the
horn, or, rather, the "tine of the first-head,"--no ignoble emblem,
certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity. The difficulty of the
measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of
some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader's indulgence.


[130] In Stat. Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.

[131] Hugh Macleod.




CABERFAE,

THE STAGHEAD.[132]


    A health to Caberfae,
      A toast, and a cheery one,
    That soon return he may,
      Though long and far his tarrying.
    The death of shame befal me,
      Be riven off my eididh[133] too,
    But my fancy hears thy call--we
      Should all be _up and ready, O_!
    'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,
      Thine arm, inaction scorning,
    Assign their dues to the Munroes,
      Their _welcome_ in the morning.
    Nor stood the Cátach[134] to his bratach[135]
      For dread of a belabouring,
    When up gets the Staghead,
      And raises his cabar on.

    Woe to the man of Folais,[136]
      When he to fight must challenge thee;
    Nor better fared the Roses[137]
      That lent _Monro_ their valiancy.
    The Granndach[138] and the Frazer,[139]
      They tarried not the melee in;
    Fled Forbes,[140] in dismay, sir,
      Culloden-wards, undallying.
    Away they ran, while firm remain,
      Not one to three, retiring so,
    The earl,[141] the craven, took to haven,
      Scarce a pistol firing, O!
    Mackay[142] of Spoils, his heart recoils,
      He cries in haste his cabul[143] on,
    He flies--as soars the Staghead,
      And raises his cabar on.

    Like feather'd creatures flying,
      That in the hill-mist shiver,
    In haste for refuge hieing,
      To the meadow or the river--
    So, port they sought, and took to boat,
      Bewailing what had happened them,
    To trust was rash, the missing flash
      Of the rusty guns that weapon'd them.
    The coracle of many a skull,
      The relics of his neighbour, on,
    Monro retreats[144]--for Staghead
      Is raising his cabar on.

    I own my expectation,--
      'Tis this has roused my apathy,
    That He who rules creation
      May change the dismal hap of thee,
    And hasten to restore thee
      In safety from thy danger,
    To thine own, in joy and glory,
      To save us from the stranger.
    With princely grace to give redress,
      Nor a taunt to suffer back again;
    The fell Monro has felt thy blow,
      And should he dare attack again,
    Then as he flew, he 'll run anew,
      The flames to quench he 'll labour on,
    Of castle fired--when Staghead
      High raises his cabar on!

    I 've seen thee o'er the lowly,
      A gracious chieftain ever,
    The Cátach[145] self below thee,
      And the Gallach[145] cower'd for cover;
    But ever more their striving,
      When claim'd respect thine eye,
    Thy scourge corrected, driving
      To other lands to fly.
    Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,
      No panic fear shall turn them,
    With steel-cap, blade, and _skene_ array'd,
      Their banning foes they spurn them.
    Clan-Shimei[146] then may dare them,
      They 'll fly, had each a sabre on,
    Needs but a look--when Staghead
      Once raises his cabar on.

    Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,
      Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147] O!
    Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,
      That forays with the beagle, O!
    For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148]
      My song shall raise the mountain-deer;
    The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,
      He loves the cress, the fountain cheer.
    His lodge is in the forest;--
      While carion-flesh enticing
    Thy greedy maw, thou buriest
      Thou kite of prey! thy claws in
    The putrid corse of famish'd horse,
      The greedy hound a-striving
    To rival thee in gluttony,
      Both at the bowels riving.
    Thou called the _true bird_![149]--Never,
      Thou foster child of evil,[150] ha!
    How ill match with thy feather[151]
      The talons[152] of thy devilry!
    But when thy foray preys on
      Our harmless flocks, so dastardly,
    How often has the shepherd
      With trusty baton master'd thee;
    Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,
      Else, not alone, belabouring,
    He 'd gored thee with the Staghead,
      Up-raising his cabar on.[153]

    Woe worth the world, deceiver--
      So false, so fair of seeming!
    We 've seen the noble Siphort[154]
      With all his war-notes[155] screaming;
    When not a chief in Albain,
      Mac-Ailein's[156] self though backing him,
    Could face his frown--as Staghead
      Arose with his cabar on.

    To join thy might, when call'd the right,
      A gallant army springing on,
    Would rise, from Assint to the crags
      Of Scalpa, rescue bringing on.
    Each man upon, true-flinted gun,
      Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean;
    With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157]
      When up rose thy cabar on!

    Came too the men of Muideart,[158]
      While stream'd their flag its bravery;
    Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159]
      That havock'd on the cavalry.
    Macalister,[160] Mackinnon,
      With many a flashing trigger there,
    The foemen rushing in on,
      Resistless shew'd their vigour there.
    May fortune free thee--may we see thee
      Again in Bràun,[161] the turreted,
    Girt with thy clan! And not a man
      But will get the scorn he merited.
    Then wine will play, and usquebae
      From flaggons, and from badalan,[162]
    And pipers scream--when Staghead
      High raises his cabar on.


[132] Applicable both to the chief and his crest.

[133] Literally, "_the dress_," (pron. _eidi_,) _i.e._, Highland garb,
not yet abolished.

[134] Sutherlanders, or Caithness men.

[135] Banner.

[136] Monro of Fowlis.

[137] Rose of Kilravock and his clan.

[138] Grant of Grant.

[139] Lovat.

[140] Of Culloden.

[141] Of Sutherland.

[142] Lord Reay.

[143] Steed. The Celtic "Cabul" and Latin "Caballus" correspond.

[144] Here the bard is a little obscure; but he seems to mean that the
Monroes made their escape over the skulls of the dead, as if they were
boats or coracles by which to cross or get away from danger.

[145] The Caithness and Sutherland men.

[146] Lovat's men.

[147] The eagle being the crest of the Monro.

[148] The _eagle_; the crest of Monro of Fowlis. The filthy and cruel
habits of this predatory bird are here contrasted with the
forest-manners of the stag in a singular specimen of clan vituperation.

[149] _Fioreun_, the name of the eagle, signifying true bird.

[150] Literally--Accursed by Moses, or the Mosaic law.

[151] The single eagle's feather crested the chieftain's bonnet.

[152] Literally--If thy feather is noble, thy claws are (of) the devil!

[153] This picture of the eagle is not much for edification--nor another
hit at the lion of the Macdonalds, then at feud with the Seaforth. The
former is abridged, and the latter omitted; as also a lively detail of
the _creagh_, in which the Monroes are reproached with their spoilages
of cheese, butter, and winter-mart beef.

[154] Seaforth.

[155] Literally--Bagpipes.

[156] Macallammore: Argyle.

[157] Macdonald of Sleat.

[158] Clanranald's country.

[159] Literally--Of blue steel.

[160] Mac-Mhic-Alister, the patronymic of Glengary.

[161] Castle Brahan, Seaforth's seat.

[162] _Gaelic_--Barrels of liquor, properly _bùidealan_.


END OF VOL. I.




GLOSSARY.


_A-low_, on fire.

_Ava_, at all.

_Ayont_, beyond.

_Ban_, swear.

_Bang_, to change place hastily.

_Bangster_, a violent person.

_Bawks_, the cross-beams of a roof.

_Bein_, good, suitable.

_Bicker_, a dish for holding liquor.

_Boddle_, an old Scottish coin--value the third of a penny.

_Boggie_, a marsh.

_Brag_, vaunt.

_Braw_, gaily dressed.

_Busk_, to attire oneself.

_Buss_, bush.

_Cantie_, cheerful.

_Castocks_, the pith of stalks of cabbages.

_Caw_, to drive.

_Chat_, talk.

_Chuckies_, chickens.

_Chuffy_, clownish.

_Clavering_, talking idly.

_Cleeding_, clothing.

_Clishmaclavers_, idle talk.

_Clocksie_, vivacious.

_Cock-up_, a hat or cap turned up before.

_Coft_, purchased.

_Cogie_, a hollow wooden vessel.

_Coozy_, warm.

_Cosie_, snug, comfortable.

_Cowt_, cattle.

_Creel_, a basket.

_Croft_, a tenement of land.

_Croon_, to make a plaintive sound.

_Crouse_, brisk.

_Crusie_, a small lamp.

_Cuddle_, embrace.

_Curpin_, the crupper of a saddle.

_Cuttie_, a short pipe.

_Daff_, sport.

_Daut_, caress.

_Daud_, blow.

_Daunder_, to walk thoughtlessly.

_Dautit_, fondled.

_Dirdum_, tumult.

_Disjasket_, having appearance of decay.

_Doited_, stupid.

_Dool_, grief.

_Dorty_, a foolish urchin.

_Douf_, dull.

_Dowie_, sad.

_Draigle_, draggle.

_Dringing_, delaying.

_Drone_, sound of bagpipes.

_Dung_, defeated.

_Eerie_, timorous.

_Eident_, wary.

_Elf_, a puny creature.

_Fashious_, troublesome.

_Fauld_, a fold.

_Ferlies_, remarkable things.

_Fleyt_, frightened.

_Fogie_, a stupid old person.

_Foumart_, a pole-cat.

_Fraise_, flattery.

_Frumpish_, crumpled.

_Gabbit_, a person prone to idle talk.

_Gart_, compelled.

_Giggle_, unmeaning laughter.

_Gin_, if.

_Girse_, grass.

_Glaikit_, stupid.

_Glamrie_, the power of enchantment.

_Glower_, stare.

_Grusome_, frightful.

_Grist_, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.

_Gutchir_, grandfather.

_Gutters_, mud, wet dust.

_Hain_, save, preserve.

_Hap_, cover.

_Havens_, endowments.

_Henny_, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.

_Hinkum_, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.

_Howe_, a hollow.

_Hyne_, hence.

_Kail_, cabbages, colewort.

_Kebbuck_, a cheese.

_Keil_, red clay, used for marking.

_Ken_, know.

_Kenspeckle_, having a singular appearance.

_Leal_, honest, faithful.

_Leese me_, pleased am I with.

_Lyart_, gray-haired.

_Loof_, the palm of the hand.

_Lowin_, warm.

_Lucky, A_, an old woman.

_Luntin_, smoking.

_Mailin_, a farm.

_Maukin_, a hare.

_Mirk_, dark.

_Mishanter_, a sorry scrape.

_Mittens_, gloves without fingers.

_Mouldie_, crumbling.

_Mouls_, the earth of the grave.

_Mows_, easy.

_Mutch_, a woman's cap.

_Neip_, a turnip.

_Neive_, the closed fist.

_Nippen_, carried off surreptitiously.

_Ouk_, week.

_Owerlay_, a cravat.

_Perk_, push.

_Perlins_, women's ornaments.

_Poortith_, poverty.

_Preed_, tasted.

_Randy_, a scold, a shrew.

_Rate_, slander.

_Rink_, run about.

_Routh_, abundance.

_Rummulgumshin_, common sense.

_Sabbit_, sobbed.

_Scant_, scarce.

_Scartle_, a graip or fork.

_Scrimply_, barely.

_Scug_, shelter.

_Seer_, sure.

_Shaw_, a plantation.

_Shiel_, a sheep shed.

_Skeigh_, timorous.

_Skiffin_, moving lightly.

_Smeddum_, sagacity.

_Snooded_, the hair bound up.

_Spaewife,_ a female fortune-teller.

_Spence_, a larder.

_Steenies_, guineas.

_Sud_, should.

_Sumph_, a soft person.

_Swankie_, a clever young fellow.

_Sweir_, indolent.

_Syne_, then.

_Tabbit_, benumbed.

_Tapsle-teerie_, topsyturvy.

_Ted_, toad.

_Thairms_, strings.

_Thowless_, thoughtless.

_Thraw_, twist.

_Tint_, lost.

_Tirl_, to uncover.

_Tocher_, dowry.

_Toss_, toast.

_Towmond_, a year.

_Trig_, neat, trim.

_Tryst_, appointment.

_Tyced_, made diversion.

_Vauntit_, boasted.

_Weel_, will.

_Whigmigmorum_, political ranting.

_Wile_, choice.

_Wist_, wished.

_Wizen_, the throat.

_Wow_, vow.


EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.







[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

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

VOL. II.


ALTRIVE.
_THE RESIDENCE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

[Signature: James Hogg]

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

Lithographed from an original Portrait in the possession of his widow
by Schenck & McFarlane, Edinburgh.]

       *       *       *       *       *




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. II.


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

M.DCCC.LVI.


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




TO

JOHN BROWN, ESQ., OF MARLIE.

My dear Sir,

I dedicate to you this second volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL,"
as a sincere token of my estimation of your long continued and most
disinterested friendship, and of the anxiety you have so frequently
evinced respecting the promotion of my professional views and literary
aspirations.

I have the honour to be,
    My dear Sir,
        your most obliged,
            and very faithful servant,
                CHARLES ROGERS.

Argyle House, Stirling,
    _December 1855._




INTRODUCTION

TO

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.[1]


The suspicion which arose in regard to the authenticity of Ossian,
subsequent to his appearance in the pages of Macpherson, has unjustly
excited a misgiving respecting the entire poetry of the Gael. With
reference to the elder poetry of the Highlands, it has now been
established[2] that at the period of the Reformation, the natives were
engrossed with the lays and legends of Bards and Seanachies,[3] of which
Ossian, Caoillt, and Cuchullin were the heroes. These romantic strains
continued to be preserved and recited with singular veneration. They
were familiar to hundreds in different districts who regarded them as
relics of their ancestors, and would as soon have mingled the bones of
their fathers with the dust of strangers, as ventured on the alteration
of a single passage. Many of the reciters of this elder poetry were
writers of verses,[4] yet there is no instance of any attempt to alter
or supersede the originals. Nor could any attempt have succeeded. There
are specimens which exist, independent of those collected by Macpherson,
which present a peculiarity of form, and a Homeric consistency of
imagery, distinct from every other species of Gaelic poetry.

Of an uncertain era, but of a date posterior to the age of Ossian, there
is a class of compositions called _Ur-sgeula_,[5] or _new-tales_, which
may be termed the productions of the sub-Ossianic period. They are
largely blended with stories of dragons and other fabulous monsters; the
best of these compositions being romantic memorials of the
Hiberno-Celtic, or Celtic Scandinavian wars. The first translation from
the Gaelic was a legend of the _Ur-sgeula_. The translator was Ierome
Stone,[6] schoolmaster of Dunkeld, and the performance appeared in the
_Scots Magazine_ for 1700. The author had learned from the monks the
story of Bellerophon,[7] along with that of Perseus and Andromeda, and
from these materials fabricated a romance in which the hero is a
mythical character, who is supposed to have given name to Loch Fraoch,
near Dunkeld. Belonging to the same era is the "Aged Bard's Wish,"[8] a
composition of singular elegance and pathos, and remarkable for certain
allusions to the age and imagery of Ossian. This has frequently been
translated. Somewhat in the Ossianic style, but of the period of the
_Ur-sgeula_ are two popular pieces entitled _Mordubh_[9] and _Collath_.
Of these productions the imagery is peculiarly illustrative of the
character and habits of the ancient Gael, while they are replete with
incidents of the wars which the Albyn had waged with their enemies of
Scandinavia. To the same period we are disposed to assign the "Song of
the Owl," though it has been regarded by a respectable authority[10] as
of modern origin. Of a portion of this celebrated composition we subjoin
a metrical translation from the pen of Mr William Sinclair.

     The Bard, expelled from the dwellings of men by
     plunderers according to one account, by a discontented
     helpmate according to another, is placed in a lone
     out-house, where he meets an owl which he supposes
     himself to engage in an interchange of sentiment
     respecting the olden time:--


HUNTER.

    O wailing owl of Strona's vale!
      We wonder not thy night's repose
    Is mournful, when with Donegal
      In distant years thou first arose:
    O lonely bird! we wonder not,
      For time the strongest heart can bow,
    That thou should'st heave a mournful note,
      Or that thy sp'rit is heavy now!

OWL.

    Thou truly sayest I lone abide,
      I lived with yonder ancient oak,
    Whose spreading roots strike deep and wide
      Amidst the moss beside the rock;
    And long, long years have gone at last,
      And thousand moons have o'er me stole,
    And many a race before me past,
      Still I am Strona's lonely owl!

HUNTER.

    Now, since old age has come o'er thee,
      Confess, as to a priest, thy ways;
    And fearless tell thou unto me
      The glorious tales of bygone days.

OWL.

    Rapine and falsehood ne'er I knew,
      Nor grave nor temples e'er have torn,
    My youthful mate still found me true--
      Guiltless am I although forlorn!
    I 've seen brave Britto's son, the wild,
      The powerful champion, Fergus, too,
    Gray-haired Foradden, Strona's child--
      These were the heroes great and true!

HUNTER.

    Thou hast well began, but tell to me,
      And say what further hast thou known!
    E'er Donegal abode with thee,
      In the Fersaid these all were gone!

OWL.

    Great Alexander of the spears,
      The mightiest chief of Albyn's race,
    Oft have I heard his voice in cheers
      From the green hill-side speed the chase;
    I saw him after Angus brave--
      Nor less a noble warrior he--
    Fersaid his home, his work he gave
      Unto the Mill of Altavaich.

HUNTER.

    From wild Lochaber, then, the sword
      With war's dread inroads swept apace;
    Where, gloomy-brow'd and ancient bird,
      Was then thy secret hiding-place?

OWL.

    When the fierce sounds of terror burst,
      And plunder'd herds were passing on,
    I turn'd me from the sight accurst
      Unto the craig Gunaoch lone;
    Some of my kindred by the lands
      Of Inch and Fersaid sought repose,
    Some by Loch Laggan's lonely sands,
      Where their lamenting cries arose!

Here follows a noble burst of poetical fervour in praise of the lonely
rock, and the scenes of the huntsman's youth. The green plains, the wild
harts, the graceful beauty of the brown deer, and the roaring stag, with
the banners, ensigns, and streamers of the race of Cona,--all share in
the poet's admiration. The following constitutes the exordium of the
poem:--

    Oh rock of my heart! for ever secure,
      The rock where my childhood was cherish'd in love,
    The haunt of the wild birds, the stream flowing pure,
      And the hinds and the stags that in liberty rove;
    The rock all encircled by sounds from the grove,
      Oh, how I delighted to linger by thee,
    When arose the wild cry of the hounds as they drove,
      The herds of wild deer from their fastnesses free!
    Loud scream'd the eagles around thee, I ween,
      Sweet the cuckoos and the swans in their pride,
    More cheering the kid-spotted fawns that were seen,
      With their bleating, that sweetly arose by thy side,
    I love thee, O wild rock of refuge! of showers,
      Of the leaves and the cresses, all glorious to me,
    Of the high grassy heights and the beautiful bowers
      Afar from the smooth shelly brink of the sea!

The termination of the Sub-Ossianic period brings us to another epoch in
the history of Gaelic poetry. The Bard was now the chieftain's retainer,
at home a crofter and pensioner,[11] abroad a follower of the camp. We
find him cheering the rowers of the galley, with his _birlinn_ chant,
and stirring on the fight with his _prosnuchadh catha_, or battle-song.
At the noted battle of Harlaw,[12] a piece was sung which has escaped
the wreck of that tremendous slaughter, and of contemporary poetry. It
is undoubtedly genuine; and the critics of Gaelic verse are unanimous in
ascribing to it every excellence which can belong either to alliterative
art, or musical excitement. Of the battle-hymn some splendid specimens
have been handed down; and these are to be regarded with an amount of
confidence, from the apparent ease with which the very long "Incitement
to Battle," in the "Garioch Battle-Storm," as Harlaw is called, was
remembered. Collections of favourite pieces began to be made in writing
about the period of the revival of letters. The researches of the
Highland Society brought to light a miscellany, embracing the poetical
labours of two contemporaries of rank, Sir Duncan Campbell[13] of
Glenurchay, and Lady Isabel Campbell. From this period the poet's art
degenerates into a sort of family chronicle. There were, however,
incidents which deserved a more affecting style of memorial; and this
appears in lays which still command the interest and draw forth the
tears of the Highlander. The story of the persecuted Clan Gregor
supplies many illustrations, such as the oft-chanted _Macgregor na
Ruara_,[14] and the mournful melodies of Janet Campbell.[15] In the
footsteps of these exciting subjects of poetry, came the inspiring
Montrose wars, which introduce to our acquaintance the more modern class
of bards; of these the most conspicuous is, Ian Lom[16] or Manntach.
This bard was a Macdonald; he hung on the skirts of armies, and at the
close of the battle sung the triumph or the wail, on the side of his
partisans.[17] To the presence of this person the clans are supposed to
have been indebted for much of the enthusiasm which led them to glory in
the wars of Montrose. His poetry only reaches mediocrity, but the
success which attended it led the chiefs to seek similar support in the
Jacobite wars; and very animated compositions were the result of their
encouragement. Mathieson, the family bard of Seaforth, Macvuirich, the
pensioner of Clanranald, and Hector the Lamiter, bard of M'Lean, were
pre-eminent in this department. The Massacre of Glencoe suggested
numerous elegies. There is one remarkable for pathos by a clansman who
had emigrated to the Isle of Muck, from which circumstance he is styled
"Am Bard Mucanach."

The knights of Duart and Sleat, the chiefs of Clanranald and Glengarry,
the Lochaber seigniory of Lochiel, and the titled chivalry of Sutherland
and Seaforth,[18] formed subjects of poetic eulogy. Sir Hector Maclean,
Ailein Muideartach, and the lamented Sir James Macdonald obtained the
same tribute. The second of these Highland favourites could not make his
manly countenance, or stalwart arm, visible in hall, barge, or
battle,[19] without exciting the enthusiastic strain of the enamoured
muse of one sex, or of the admiring minstrel of the other. In this
department of poetry, some of the best proficients were women. Of these
Mary M'Leod, the contemporary of Ian Lom, is one of the most musical and
elegant. Her chief, _The M'Leod_, was the grand theme of her
inspiration. Dora Brown[20] sung a chant on the renowned Col-Kitto, as
he went forth against the Campbells to revenge the death of his father;
a composition conceived in a strain such as Helen Macgregor might have
struck up to stimulate to some deed of daring and vindictive enterprise.

Of the modern poetry of the Gael, Macpherson has expressed himself
unfavourably; he regarded the modern Highlanders as being incapable of
estimating poetry otherwise than in the returning harmony of similar
sounds. They were seduced, he remarks, by the charms of rhyme; and
admired the strains of Ossian, not for the sublimity of the poetry, but
on account of the antiquity of the compositions, and the detail of facts
which they contained. On this subject a different opinion has been
expressed by Sir Walter Scott. "I cannot dismiss this story," he writes,
in his last introduction to his tale of the "Two Drovers," "without
resting attention for a moment on the light which has been thrown on the
character of the Highland Drover, since the time of its first
appearance, by the account of a drover poet, by name Robert Mackay, or,
as he was commonly called, Rob Donn, _i.e._, Brown Robert; and certain
specimens of his talents, published in the ninetieth number of the
_Quarterly Review_. The picture which that paper gives of the habits
and feelings of a class of persons with which the general reader would
be apt to associate no ideas but those of wild superstition and rude
manners, is in the highest degree interesting; and I cannot resist the
temptation of quoting two of the songs of this hitherto unheard-of poet
of humble life.... Rude and bald as these things appear in a verbal
translation, and rough as they might possibly appear, even were the
originals intelligible, we confess we are disposed to think they would
of themselves justify Dr Mackay (editor of Mackay's Poems) in placing
this herdsman-lover among the true sons of song."

Of that department of the Gaelic Minstrelsy admired by Scott and
condemned by Macpherson, the English reader is presented in the present
work with specimens, to enable him to form his own judgment. These
specimens, it must however be remembered, not only labour under the
ordinary disadvantages of translations, but have been rendered from a
language which, in its poetry, is one of the least transfusible in the
world. Yet the effort which has been made to retain the spirit, and
preserve the rhythm and manner of the originals, may be sufficient to
establish that the honour of the Scottish Muse has not unworthily been
supported among the mountains of the Gael. Some of the compositions are
Jacobite, and are in the usual warlike strain of such productions, but
the majority sing of the rivalries of clans, the emulation of bards, the
jealousies of lovers, and the honour of the chiefs. They likewise abound
in pictures of pastoral imagery; are redolent of the heath and the
wildflower, and depict the beauties of the deer forest.

The various kinds of Highland minstrelsy admit of simple classification.
The _Duan Mor_ is the epic song; its subdivisions are termed _duana_ or
_duanaga_. Strings of verse and incidents ([Greek: Rhapsôdia]) were intended to
form an epic history, and were combined by successive bards for that
purpose. The battle-song (_Prosnuchadh-catha_) was the next in
importance. The model of this variety is not to be found in any of the
Alcaic or Tyrtæan remains. It was a dithyrambic of the wildest and most
passionate enthusiasm, inciting to carnage and fury. Chanted in the
hearing of assembled armies, and sometimes sung before the van, it was
intended as an incitement to battle, and even calculated to stimulate
the courage of the general. The war-song of the Harlaw has been already
noticed; it is a rugged tissue of alliteration, every letter having a
separate division in the remarkable string of adjectives which are
connected to introduce a short exordium and grand finale. The _Jorram_,
or boat-song, some specimens of which attracted the attention of Dr
Johnson,[21] was a variety of the same class. In this, every measure was
used which could be made to time with an oar, or to mimic a wave, either
in motion or sound. Dr Johnson discovered in it the proceleusmatic song
of the ancients; it certainly corresponds in real usage with the poet's
description:--

                        "Stat margine puppis,
    Qui voce alternos nautarum temperet ictus,
    Et remis dictet sonitum pariterque relatis,
    Ad numerum plaudet resonantia cærula tonsis."

Alexander Macdonald excels in this description of verse. In a piece
called Clanranald's _Birlinn_, he has summoned his utmost efforts in
timing the circumstances of a voyage with suitable metres and
descriptions. A happy imitation of the boat-song has been rendered
familiar to the English reader by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Roderigh
Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! ieroe," of the "Lady of the Lake." The _Luineag_,
or favourite carol of the Highland milkmaid, is a class of songs
entirely lyrical, and which seldom fails to please the taste of the
Lowlander. Burns[22] and other song-writers have adopted the strain of
the _Luineag_ to adorn their verses. The _Cumha_, or lament, is the
vehicle of the most pathetic and meritorious effusions of Gaelic poetry;
it is abundantly interspersed with the poetry of Ossian.

Among the Gael, blank verse is unknown, and for rhyme they entertain a
passion.[23] They rhyme to the same set of sounds or accents for a space
of which the recitation is altogether tedious. Not satisfied with the
final rhyme, their favourite measures are those in which the middle
syllable corresponds with the last, and the same syllable in the second
line with both; and occasionally the final sound of the second line is
expected to return in every alternate verse through the whole poem. The
Gael appear to have been early in possession of these coincidences of
termination which were unknown to the classical poets, or were regarded
by them as defects.[24] All writers on Celtic versification, including
the Irish, Welsh, Manx, and Cornish varieties, are united in their
testimony as to the early use of rhyme by the Celtic poets, and agree in
assigning the primary model to the incantations of the Druids.[25] The
lyrical measures of the Gael are various, but the scansion is regular,
and there is no description of verse familiar to English usage, from the
Iambic of four syllables, to the slow-paced Anapæstic, or the prolonged
Alexandrine, which is not exactly measured by these sons and daughters
of song.[26] Every poetical composition in the language, however
lengthy, is intended to be sung or chanted. Gaelic music is regulated by
no positive rules; it varies from the wild chant of the battle-song to
the simple melody of the milkmaid. In Johnson's "Musical Museum,"
Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology," Thomson's "Collection," and Macdonald's
"Airs," the music of the mountains has long been familiar to the curious
in song, and lover of the national minstrelsy.[27]


[1] We are indebted for these observations on the Highland Muse to the
learned friend who has supplied the greater number of the translations
from the Gaelic poets, which appear in the present work.

[2] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 16-20.

[3] Genealogists or Antiquaries.

[4] Letter from Sir James Macdonald to Dr Blair.

[5] M'Callum's "Collection," p. 207. See also Smith's "Sean Dana, or
Gaelic Antiquities;" Gillies' "Collection" and Clark's "Caledonian
Bards."

[6] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 99, 105, 112.

[7] Boswell's "Life of Johnson," p. 320, Croker's edition, 1847.

[8] "Poems by Mrs Grant of Laggan," p. 395, Edinburgh, 1803, 8vo. The
original is to be found in the Gaelic collections.

[9] Mrs Grant's Poems, p. 371; Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 1.

[10] See Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 249. The
original is contained in Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets."

[11] See Johnson's "Journey to the Western Islands."

[12] Stewart's Collection, p. 1.

[13] Report on Ossian, p. 92. Sir Duncan Campbell fell at the battle of
Flodden, Lady Campbell afterwards married Gilbert, Earl of Cassillis.

[14] Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 196.

[15] Mrs Ogilvie's "Highland Minstrelsy." For the original see Turner's
Collection, p. 186.

[16] Reid's "Bibliotheca Scotica Celtica." Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets,"
p. 36.

[17] Napier's "Memoirs of Montrose." In this work will be found a very
spirited translation of Ian Lom's poem on the battle of Innerlochy.

[18] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," pp. 24, 59, 77, 77, 151; Turner's
"Gaelic Collection," _passim._

[19] See the beautiful verses translated by the Marchioness of
Northampton from "Ha tighinn fodham," in "Albyn's Anthology," or
Croker's "Boswell."

[20] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 56.

[21] Johnson's Works, vol. xii. p. 291.

[22] Poems, Chambers' People's Edition, p. 134.

[23] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 63.

[24] _Edinburgh Review_ on Mitford's "Harmony of Language," vol. vi. p.
383.

[25] Brown's "History of the Highlands," vol. i. p. 89.

[26] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 64.

[27] See also Logan's "Scottish Gael," vol. ii. p. 252.




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

JAMES HOGG,                                                            1
  Donald Macdonald,                                                   48
  Flora Macdonald's farewell,                                         50
  Bonnie Prince Charlie,                                              51
  The skylark,                                                        52
  Caledonia,                                                          53
  O Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye,                             54
  When the kye comes hame,                                            55
  The women folk,                                                     58
  M'Lean's welcome,                                                   59
  Charlie is my darling,                                              61
  Love is like a dizziness,                                           62
  O weel befa' the maiden gay,                                        64
  The flowers of Scotland,                                            66
  Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now,                                  67
  Pull away, jolly boys,                                              69
  O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?                         70
  The auld Highlandman,                                               71
  Ah, Peggy, since thou 'rt gane away,                                72
  Gang to the brakens wi' me,                                         74
  Lock the door, Lariston,                                            75
  I hae naebody now,                                                  77
  The moon was a-waning,                                              78
  Good night, and joy,                                                79

JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D.,                                                 81
  Bess the gawkie,                                                    82
MRS AGNES LYON,                                                       84
  Neil Gow's farewell to whisky,                                      86
  See the winter clouds around,                                       87
  Within the towers of ancient Glammis,                               88
  My son George's departure,                                          90

ROBERT LOCHORE,                                                       91
  Now, Jenny lass,                                                    92
  Marriage, and the care o't,                                         94
  Mary's twa lovers,                                                  95
  The forlorn shepherd,                                               96

JOHN ROBERTSON,                                                       98
  The toom meal pock,                                                 99

ALEXANDER BALFOUR,                                                   101
  The bonnie lass o' Leven water,                                    104
  Slighted love,                                                     105

GEORGE MACINDOE,                                                     106
  Cheese and whisky,                                                 108
  The burn trout,                                                    109

ALEXANDER DOUGLAS,                                                   110
  Fife, an' a' the land about it,                                    112

WILLIAM M'LAREN,                                                     114
  Now summer shines with gaudy pride,                                116
  And dost thou speak sincere, my love?                              116
  Say not the bard has turn'd old,                                   117

HAMILTON PAUL,                                                       120
  Helen Gray,                                                        128
  The bonnie lass of Barr,                                           129

ROBERT TANNAHILL,                                                    131
  Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane,                                    136
  Loudon's bonnie woods and braes,                                   137
  The lass of Arranteenie,                                           139
  Yon burn side,                                                     140
  The braes o' Gleniffer,                                            141
  Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's,                            142
  The braes o' Balquhither,                                          143
  Gloomy winter 's now awa',                                         145
  O! are ye sleeping, Maggie?                                        146
  Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow,                                   147
  The dear Highland laddie, O,                                       148
  The midges dance aboon the burn,                                   149
  Barrochan Jean,                                                    150
  O, row thee in my Highland plaid,                                  151
  Bonnie wood of Craigie lea,                                        153
  Good night, and joy,                                               154

HENRY DUNCAN, D.D.,                                                  156
  Curling song,                                                      161
  On the green sward,                                                163
  The Ruthwell volunteers,                                           164
  Exiled far from scenes of pleasure,                                165
  The roof of straw,                                                 166
  Thou kens't, Mary Hay,                                             167

ROBERT ALLAN,                                                        169
  Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty,                               171
  Come awa, hie awa,                                                 171
  On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts,                                 173
  To a linnet,                                                       174
  The primrose is bonnie in spring,                                  174
  The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee,                                   175
  The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry,                             176
  Her hair was like the Cromla mist,                                 177
  O leeze me on the bonnie lass,                                     178
  Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle,                         179
  When Charlie to the Highlands came,                                180
  Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower,                              181
  The lovely maid of Ormadale,                                       183
  A lassie cam' to our gate,                                         184
  The thistle and the rose,                                          186
  The Covenanter's lament,                                           187
  Bonnie lassie,                                                     188

ANDREW MERCER,                                                       189
  The hour of love,                                                  190

JOHN LEYDEN, M.D.,                                                   191
  Ode to the evening star,                                           196
  The return after absence,                                          197
  Lament for Rama,                                                   197

JAMES SCADLOCK,                                                      199
  Along by Levern stream so clear,                                   201
  Hark, hark, the skylark singing,                                   202
  October winds,                                                     203

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART.,                                        204
  Jenny's bawbee,                                                    208
  Jenny dang the weaver,                                             210
  The lass o' Isla,                                                  211
  Taste life's glad moments,                                         212
  Good night, and joy be wi' ye a',                                  214
  Old and new times,                                                 215
  Bannocks o' barley meal,                                           216

WILLIAM GILLESPIE,                                                   218
  The Highlander,                                                    220
  Ellen,                                                             221

THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM,                                           223
  Adown the burnie's flowery bank,                                   227
  The hills o' Gallowa',                                             227
  The braes o' Ballahun,                                             229
  The unco grave,                                                    230
  Julia's grave,                                                     231
  Fareweel, ye streams,                                              232

JOHN STRUTHERS,                                                      235
  Admiring Nature's simple charms,                                   239
  Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree,                                  240

RICHARD GALL,                                                        241
  How sweet is the scene,                                            243
  Captain O'Kain,                                                    243
  My only jo and dearie, O,                                          244
  The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e,                                    245
  The braes o' Drumlee,                                              246
  I winna gang back to my mammy again,                               248
  The bard,                                                          249
  Louisa in Lochaber,                                                249
  The hazlewood witch,                                               250
  Farewell to Ayrshire,                                              251

GEORGE SCOTT,                                                        253
  The flower of the Tyne,                                            254

THOMAS CAMPBELL,                                                     255
  Ye mariners of England,                                            262
  Glenara,                                                           263
  The wounded hussar,                                                264
  Battle of the Baltic,                                              265
  Men of England,                                                    268

MRS G. G. RICHARDSON,                                                269
  The fairy dance,                                                   273
  Summer morning,                                                    274
  There 's music in the flowing tide,                                275
  Ah! faded is that lovely broom,                                    276

THOMAS BROWN, M.D.,                                                  278
  Consolation of altered fortunes,                                   281
  The faithless mourner,                                             282
  The lute,                                                          283

WILLIAM CHALMERS,                                                    285
  Sing on,                                                           286
  The Lomond braes,                                                  287

JOSEPH TRAIN,                                                        288
  My doggie,                                                         293
  Blooming Jessie,                                                   295
  Old Scotia,                                                        296

ROBERT JAMIESON,                                                     297
  My wife 's a winsome wee thing,                                    299
  Go to him, then, if thou can'st go,                                300

WALTER WATSON,                                                       302
  My Jockie 's far awa,                                              304
  Maggie an' me,                                                     305
  Sit down, my cronie,                                               306
  Braes o' Bedlay,                                                   307
  Jessie,                                                            308

WILLIAM LAIDLAW,                                                     310
  Lucy's flittin',                                                   314
  Her bonnie black e'e,                                              316
  Alake for the lassie,                                              317




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.


ALEXANDER MACDONALD,                                                 321
  The lion of Macdonald,                                             323
  The brown dairy-maiden,                                            327
  The praise of Morag,                                               329
  News of Prince Charles,                                            335

JOHN ROY STUART,                                                     340
  Lament for Lady Macintosh,                                         341
  The day of Culloden,                                               343

JOHN MORRISON,                                                       346
  My beauty dark,                                                    347

ROBERT MACKAY,                                                       349
  The Highlander's home sickness,                                    349

       *       *       *       *       *

GLOSSARY,                                                            350




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.




JAMES HOGG.


The last echoes of the older Border Minstrelsy were dying from the
memory of the aged, and the spirit which had awakened the strains seemed
to have sighed an eternal farewell to its loved haunts in the past,
when, suddenly arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of
inspiration, at the close of last century, over several sons of song,
worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires. Of these,
unquestionably the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated
"The Ettrick Shepherd." This distinguished individual was born in the
bosom of the romantic vale of Ettrick, in Selkirkshire,--one of the most
mountainous and picturesque districts of Scotland. The family of Hogg
claimed descent from Hougo, a Norwegian baron; and the poet's paternal
ancestors at one period possessed the lands of Fauldshope in Ettrick
Forest, and were followers, under the feudal system, of the Knights of
Harden. For several generations they had adopted the simple occupation
of shepherds. On the mother's side, the poet was descended from the
respectable family of Laidlaw,--one of the oldest in Tweeddale, and of
which all the representatives bore the reputation of excelling either in
intellectual vigour or physical energy; they generally devoted
themselves to the pastoral life. Robert Hogg, the poet's father, was a
person of very ordinary sagacity, presenting in this respect a decided
contrast to his wife, Margaret Laidlaw, a woman of superior energy and
cultivated mind. Their family consisted of four sons, of whom the second
was James, the subject of this Memoir. The precise date of his birth is
unknown: he was baptised, according to the Baptismal Register of
Ettrick, his native parish, on the 9th of December 1770.[28]

At the period of his marriage, Robert Hogg was in circumstances of
considerable affluence; he had saved money as a shepherd, and, taking on
lease the two adjoining pastoral farms of Ettrick-hall and
Ettrick-house, he largely stocked them with sheep adapted both for the
Scottish and English markets. During several years he continued to
prosper; but a sudden depression in the market, and the absconding of a
party who was indebted to him, at length exhausted his finances, and
involved him in bankruptcy. The future poet was then in his sixth year.
In this destitute condition, the family experienced the friendship and
assistance of Mr Brydon, tenant of the neighbouring farm of Crosslee,
who, leasing Ettrick-house, employed Robert Hogg as his shepherd. But
the circumstances of the family were much straitened by recent reverses;
and the second son, young as he was, and though he had only been three
months at school, was engaged as a cow-herd, his wages for six months
being only a ewe-lamb and a pair of shoes! Three months' further
attendance at school, on the expiry of his engagement, completed the
future bard's scholastic instructions. It was the poet's lot, with the
exception of these six months' schooling, to receive his education among
the romantic retreats and solitudes of Nature. First as a cow-herd, and
subsequently through the various gradations of shepherd-life, his days,
till advanced manhood, were all the year round passed upon the hills.
And such hills! The mountains of Ettrick and Yarrow are impressed with
every feature of Highland scenery, in its wildest and most striking
aspects. There are stern summits, enveloped in cloud, and stretching
heavenwards; huge broad crests, heathy and verdant, or torn by fissures
and broken by the storms; deep ravines, jagged, precipitate, and
darksome; and valleys sweetly reposing amidst the sublimity of the awful
solitude. There are dark craggy mountains around the Grey-Mare's-Tail,
echoing to the roar of its stupendous cataract; and romantic and
beautiful green hills, and inaccessible heights, surrounding and
towering over St Mary's Loch, and the Loch of the Lowes. To the
sublimity of that vast academy, in which he had learned to invoke the
Muse, the poet has referred in the "Queen's Wake":--

    "The bard on Ettrick's mountain green,
    In Nature's bosom nursed had been;
    And oft had mark'd in forest lone
    The beauties on her mountain throne;
    Had seen her deck the wildwood tree,
    And star with snowy gems the lea;
    In loveliest colours paint the plain,
    And sow the moor with purple grain;
    By golden mead and mountain sheer,
    Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear,
    When shadowy flocks of purest snow
    Seem'd grazing in a world below."

Glorious as was his academy, the genius of the poet was not precocious.
Forgetting everything he had learned at school, he spent his intervals
of toil in desultory amusements, or in pursuing his own shadow upon the
hills. As he grew older, he discovered the possession of a musical ear;
and saving five shillings of his earnings, he purchased an old violin,
upon which he learned to play his favourite tunes. He had now attained
his fourteenth year; and in the constant hope of improving his
circumstances, had served twelve masters.

The life of a cow-herd affords limited opportunities for mental
improvement. And the early servitude of the Ettrick Shepherd was spent
in excessive toil, which his propensities to fun and frolic served just
to render tolerable. When he reached the respectable and comparatively
easy position of a shepherd, he began to think of teaching himself to
read. From Mrs Laidlaw, the wife of the farmer at Willinslee, on which
he served, he was privileged with the loan of two works, of which the
reputation had been familiar to him from childhood. These were Henry the
Minstrel's "Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace," and the "Gentle
Shepherd" of Allan Ramsay. On these the future poet with much difficulty
learned to read, in his eighteenth year. He afterwards read a number of
theological works, from his employer's collection of books; and among
others of a speculative cast, "Burnet's Theory of the Conflagration of
the Earth," the perusal of which, he has recorded, "nearly overturned
his brain."

At Whitsunday 1790, in his twentieth year, Hogg entered the service, as
shepherd, of Mr James Laidlaw, tenant of Blackhouse,--a farm situate on
the Douglasburn in Yarrow. This proved the most signally fortunate step
which he had yet taken. Mr Laidlaw was a man of singular shrewdness and
of a highly cultivated mind; he readily perceived his shepherd's
aptitude for learning, and gave him the use of his library. But the
poet's connexion with Blackhouse was especially valuable in enabling him
to form the intimacy of Mr William Laidlaw, his master's son, the future
factor and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott. Though ten years his junior,
and consequently a mere youth at the period of his coming to Blackhouse,
young Laidlaw began early to sympathise with the Shepherd's
predilections, and afterwards devoted a large portion of time to his
society. The friendship which ensued proved useful to both. A MS.
narrative of the poet's life by this unfailing friend, which has been
made available in the preparation of this Memoir, enables us to supply
an authentic account of this portion of his career. "He was not long,"
writes Mr Laidlaw, "in going through all the books belonging to my
father; and learning from me that Mr Elder, bookseller, Peebles, had a
large collection of books which he used as a circulating library, he
forthwith became a subscriber, and by that means read Smollett's and
Fielding's novels, and those voyages and travels which were published at
the time, including those of Cook, Carteret, and others."

The progress of the Shepherd in learning was singularly tardy. He was,
by a persevering course of reading, sufficiently familiar with the more
esteemed writers in English literature, ere he attempted penmanship. He
acquired the art upon the hill-side by copying the Italian alphabet,
using his knees as his desk, and having his ink-bottle suspended from
his button. In his twenty-sixth year he first essayed to write
verses,--an effort attended, in the manual department, with amusing
difficulty, for he stripped himself of his coat and vest to the
undertaking, yet could record only a few lines at a sitting! But he was
satisfied with the fame derived from his verses, as adequate
compensation for the toil of their production; he wrote for the
amusement of the shepherd maidens, who sung them to their favourite
tunes, and bestowed on him the prized designation of "Jamie the Poeter."
At the various gatherings of the lads and lasses in the different
homesteads, then frequent in this pastoral district, he never failed to
present himself, and had golden opportunities of winning the chaplet of
applause, both for the strains of his minstrelsy, and the music of his
violin. These _réunions_ were not without their influence in stimulating
him to more ambitious efforts in versification.

The Shepherd's popularity, while tending the flocks of Mr Laidlaw at
Blackhouse, was not wholly derived from his skill as a versifier, and
capabilities as a musician, but, among the fairer portion of the
creation, was perhaps scarcely less owing to the amenity of his
disposition, combined with the handsomeness of his person. As a
candidate for the honour of feminine approbation, he was successful
alike in the hall and on the green: the rumour of his approach at any
rural assemblage or merry-meeting was the watchword for increased mirth
and happiness. If any malignant rival had hinted aught to his prejudice,
the maidens of the whole district had assembled to vindicate his cause.
His personal appearance at this early period is thus described by Mr
William Laidlaw:--"About nineteen years of age, Hogg was rather above
the middle height, of faultless symmetry of form; he was of almost
unequalled agility and swiftness. His face was then round and full, and
of a ruddy complexion, with bright blue eyes that beamed with gaiety,
glee, and good-humour, the effect of the most exuberant animal spirits.
His head was covered with a singular profusion of light-brown hair,
which he was obliged to wear coiled up under his hat. On entering church
on a Sunday (where he was all his life a regular attender) he used, on
lifting his hat, to raise his right hand to assist a graceful shake of
his head in laying back his long hair, which rolled down his back, and
fell below his loins. And every female eye was upon him, as, with light
step, he ascended the stair to the gallery where he sat."

As the committing of his thoughts to paper became a less irksome
occupation, Hogg began, with commendable prudence, to attempt
composition in prose; and in evidence of his success, he had the
satisfaction to find short essays which he sent to the _Scots Magazine_
regularly inserted in that periodical. Poetry was cultivated at the same
time with unabated ardour, though the bard did not yet venture to expose
his verses beyond the friendly circle of his associates in Ettrick
Forest. Of these, the most judicious was young Laidlaw; who, predicting
his success, urged him to greater carefulness in composition. There was
another stimulus to his improvement. Along with several shepherds in the
forest, who were of studious inclinations, he formed a literary society,
which proposed subjects for competition in verse, and adjudged encomiums
of approbation to the successful competitors. Two spirited members of
this literary conclave were Alexander Laidlaw, a shepherd, and
afterwards tenant of Bowerhope, on the border of St Mary's Lake, and the
poet's elder brother, William, a man of superior talent. Both these
individuals subsequently acquired considerable distinction as
intelligent contributors to the agricultural journals. For some years,
William Hogg had rented the sheep-farm of Ettrick-house, and afforded
shelter and support to his aged and indigent parents. In the year 1800,
he resigned his lease to the poet, having taken another farm on the
occasion of his marriage. James now established himself, along with his
parents, at Ettrick-house, the place of his nativity, after a period of
ten years' connexion with Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, whose conduct
towards him, to use his own words, had proved "much more like that of a
father than a master." It was during the course of a visit to Edinburgh
in the same year, that an accidental circumstance gave a wider range to
his poetical reputation. Spending an evening with a party of friends in
the Crown Tavern, he was solicited for a song. He sung the last which he
had composed; it was "Donald Macdonald." The reception was a roar of
applause, and one of the party offered to get it set to music and
published. The song was issued anonymously from the music establishment
of Mr John Hamilton of Edinburgh. Within a few months it was sung in
every district of the kingdom; and, at a period when the apprehended
invasion of Napoleon filled the hearts of the nation with anxiety, it
was hailed as an admirable stimulus to patriotism. In the preparation of
the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," Scott had been largely indebted
to the intelligent peasantry of the south. He was now engaged in making
collections for his third volume, and had resolved to examine the
pastoral inhabitants of Ettrick and Yarrow. Procuring a note of
introduction from his friend Leyden to young Laidlaw, Scott arrived at
Blackhouse during the summer of 1801, and in his native home formed the
acquaintance of his future steward. To his visitor, Laidlaw commended
Hogg as the best qualified in the forest to assist him in his
researches; and Scott, who forthwith accompanied Laidlaw to
Ettrick-house, was more than gratified by an interview with the
shepherd-bard. "He found," writes his biographer, "a brother poet, a
true son of nature and genius, hardly conscious of his powers.... As
yet, his naturally kind and simple character had not been exposed to any
of the dangerous flatteries of the world; his heart was pure; his
enthusiasm buoyant as that of a happy child; and well as Scott knew that
reflection, sagacity, wit and wisdom, were scattered abundantly among
the humblest rangers of these pastoral solitudes, there was here a depth
and a brightness that filled him with wonder, combined with a quaintness
of humour, and a thousand little touches of absurdity, which afforded
him more entertainment, as I have often heard him say, than the best
comedy that ever set the pit in a roar." Scott remained several days in
the forest, daily accompanied in his excursions by Hogg and Laidlaw,
both of whom rapidly warmed in his regard. From the recitation of the
Shepherd's mother, he obtained important and interesting accessions to
his Minstrelsy.

With the exception of the song of "Donald Macdonald," Hogg had not yet
published verses. His _début_ as an author was sufficiently
unpropitious. Shortly after Scott's visit, he had been attending the
Monday sheep-market in Edinburgh, and being unable to dispose of his
entire stock, was necessitated to remain in the city till the following
Wednesday. Having no acquaintances, he resolved to employ the interval
in writing from recollection several of his poems for the press. Before
his departure, he gave the pieces to a printer; and shortly after, he
received intimation that a thousand copies were ready for delivery. On
comparing the printed sheets with his MSS. at Ettrick, he had the
mortification of discovering "many of the stanzas omitted, others
misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page." The little
_brochure_, imperfect as it was, sold rapidly in the district; for the
Shepherd had now a considerable circle of admirers, and those who had
ridiculed his verse-making, kept silent since Scott's visit to him. A
copy of the pamphlet is preserved in the Advocates' Library; it consists
of sixty-two pages octavo, and is entitled, "Scottish Pastorals, Poems,
Songs, &c., mostly written in the Dialect of the South, by James Hogg.
Edinburgh: printed by John Taylor, Grassmarket, 1801. Price One
Shilling." The various pieces evince poetic power, unhappily combined
with a certain coarseness of sentiment. One of the longer ballads,
"Willie and Keatie," supposed to be a narrative of one of his early
amours, obtained a temporary popularity, and was copied into the
periodicals. It is described by Allan Cunningham as a "plain, rough-spun
pastoral, with some fine touches in it, to mark that better was coming."

The domestic circumstances of the Shepherd were meanwhile not
prosperous; he was compelled to abandon the farm of Ettrick-house, which
had been especially valuable to him, as affording a comfortable home to
his venerated parents. In the hope of procuring a situation as an
overseer of some extensive sheep-farm, he made several excursions into
the northern Highlands, waiting upon many influential persons, to whom
he had letters of recommendation. These journeys were eminently
advantageous in acquainting him with many interesting and celebrated
scenes, and in storing his mind with images drawn from the sublimities
and wild scenery of nature, but were of no account as concerned the
object for which they were undertaken. Without procuring employment, he
returned, with very reduced finances, to Ettrick Forest. He published a
rough narrative of his travels in the _Scots Magazine_; and wrote two
essays on the rearing and management of sheep, for the Highland Society,
which were acknowledged with premiums. Frustrated in an attempt to
procure a farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, and declining an offer of
Scott to appoint him to the charge of his small sheep-farm at Ashestiel,
he was led to indulge in the scheme of settling in the island of Harris.
It was in the expectation of being speedily separated from the loved
haunts of his youth, that he composed his "Farewell to Ettrick,"
afterwards published in the "Mountain Bard," one of the most touching
and pathetic ballads in the language. The Harris enterprise was not
carried out; and the poet, "to avoid a great many disagreeable questions
and explanations," went for several months to England. Fortune still
frowned, and the ambitious but unsuccessful son of genius had to return
to his former subordinate occupation as a shepherd. He entered the
employment of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-Slack, in Nithsdale.

Dissatisfied with the imitations of ancient ballads in the third volume
of "The Border Minstrelsy," Hogg proceeded to embody some curious
traditions in this kind of composition. He transmitted specimens to
Scott, who warmly commended them, and suggested their publication. The
result appeared in the "Mountain Bard," a collection of poems and
ballads, which he published in 1803, prefixed with an account of his
life. From the profits of this volume, with the sum of eighty-six pounds
paid him by Constable for the copyright of his two treatises on sheep,
he became master of three hundred pounds. With this somewhat startling
acquisition, visions of prosperity arose in his ardent and enthusiastic
mind. He hastily took in lease the pastoral farm of Corfardin, in the
parish of Tynron, Dumfriesshire, to which he afterwards added the lease
of another large farm in the same neighbourhood. Misfortune still
pursued him; he rented one of the farms at a sum exceeding its value,
and his capital was much too limited for stocking the other, while a
disastrous murrain decimated his flock. Within the space of three years
he was again a penniless adventurer. Removing from the farm-homestead of
Corfardin, he accepted the generous invitation of his hospitable
neighbour, Mr James Macturk of Stenhouse, to reside in his house till
some suitable employment might occur. At Stenhouse he remained three
months; and he subsequently acknowledged the generosity of his friend,
by honourably celebrating him in the "Queen's Wake." Writing to Mr
Macturk, in 1814, he remarks, in reference to his farming at Corfardin,
"But it pleased God to take away by death all my ewes and my lambs, and
my long-horned cow, and my spotted bull, for if they had lived, and if I
had kept the farm of Corfardin, I had been a lost man to the world, and
mankind should never have known the half that was in me. Indeed, I can
never see the design of Providence in taking me to your district at all,
if it was not to breed my acquaintance with you and yours, which I hope
will be one source of happiness to me as long as I live. Perhaps the
very circumstance of being initiated into the mysteries of your
character,[29] is of itself a sufficient compensation for all that I
suffered in your country."

Disappointed in obtaining an ensigncy in a Militia Regiment, through the
interest of Sir Walter Scott, and frustrated in every other attempt to
retain the social position he had gained, he returned to Ettrick, once
more to seek employment in his original occupation. But if friendship
had somewhat failed him, on his proving unsuccessful at Ettrick-house,
his _prestige_ was now completely gone; old friends received him coldly,
and former employers declined his services. He found that, till he
should redeem his reputation for business and good management, there was
no home for him in Ettrick Forest. Hogg was not a man who would tamely
surrender to the pressure of misfortune: amidst his losses he could
claim the strictest honesty of intention, and he was not unconscious of
his powers. With his plaid over his shoulders, he reached Edinburgh in
the month of February 1810, to begin, in his fortieth year, the career
of a man of letters. The scheme was singularly adventurous, but the die
was cast; he was in the position of the man on the tread-wheel, and felt
that he must write or perish.

It affords no matter of surprise that the Shepherd was received coldly
by the booksellers, and that his offers of contributing to their
periodicals were respectfully declined. His volume, "The Mountain Bard,"
had been forgotten; and though his literary fitness had been undisputed,
his lengthened want of success in life seemed to imply a doubt of his
general steadiness. Mr Constable, his former publisher, proved the most
friendly; he consented to publish a collection of songs and ballads,
which he had prepared, two-thirds being his own composition, and the
remainder that of his ingenious friends. This publication, known as "The
Forest Minstrel," had a slow sale, and conferred no benefit on the
unfortunate author. What the booksellers would not do for him, Hogg
resolved to do for himself; he originated a periodical, which he
designated "The Spy," acting as his own publisher. The first number of
this publication--a quarto weekly sheet, price fourpence--was issued on
the first of September 1810. With varied popularity, this paper existed
during the space of a year; and owing to the perseverance of the
conductor might have subsisted a longer period, but for a certain
ruggedness which occasionally disfigured it. As a whole, being chiefly
the composition of a shepherd, who could only read at eighteen, and
write at twenty-six, and who, to use his own words, "knew no more of
human life or manners than a child," the work presented a remarkable
record in the annals of literature. As a business concern, it did not
much avail the projector, but it served indirectly towards improving his
condition, by inducing the habit of composing readily, and with
undeviating industry. A copy of "The Spy" is now rare.

From his literary exertions, Hogg was long, subsequent to his arrival in
the metropolis, in deriving substantial pecuniary emolument. In these
circumstances, he was fortunate in the friendship of Mr John Grieve, and
his partner Mr Henry Scott, hat manufacturers in the city, who, fully
appreciating his genius, aided him with money so long as he required
their assistance. These are his own words, "They suffered me to want for
nothing, either in money or clothes, and I did not even need to ask
these." To Mr Grieve, Hogg was especially indebted; six months he was an
inmate of his house, and afterwards he occupied comfortable lodgings,
secured him by his friend's beneficence. Besides these two invaluable
benefactors, the Shepherd soon acquired the regard and friendship of
several respectable men of letters, both in Edinburgh and elsewhere. As
contributors to "The Spy," he could record the names of James Gray of
the High School, and his accomplished wife; Thomas Gillespie, afterwards
Professor of Humanity in the University of St Andrews; J. Black,
subsequently of the _Morning Chronicle_; William Gillespie, the
ingenious minister of Kells; and John Sym, the renowned Timothy Tickler
of the "_Noctes_." Of these literary friends, Mr James Gray was the more
conspicuous and devoted. This excellent individual, the friend of so
many literary aspirants, was a native of Dunse, and had the merit of
raising himself from humble circumstances to the office of a master in
the High School of Edinburgh. Possessed of elegant and refined tastes,
an enthusiastic admirer of genius, and a poet himself,[30] Mr Gray
entertained at his table the more esteemed wits of the capital; he had
extended the hand of hospitality to Burns, and he received with equal
warmth the author of "The Forest Minstrel." In the exercise of
disinterested beneficence, he was aided and encouraged by his second
wife, formerly Miss Peacock, who sympathised in the lettered tastes of
her husband, and took delight in the society of men of letters. They
together made annual pedestrian excursions into the Highlands, and the
narrative of their adventures proved a source of delightful instruction
to their friends. Mr Gray, after a lengthened period of residence in
Edinburgh, accepted, in the year 1821, the Professorship of Latin in the
Institution at Belfast; he subsequently took orders in the Church of
England, and proceeded to India as a chaplain. In addition to his
chaplaincy, he held the office of preceptor to one of the native princes
of Hindostan. He died at Bhoog, in the kingdom of Cutch, on the 25th of
September 1830; and if we add that he was a man of remarkable learning,
his elegy may be transcribed from the "Queen's Wake:"--

    "Alike to him the south and north,
    So high he held the minstrel worth;
    So high his ardent mind was wrought,
    Once of himself he never thought."

As the circle of the poet's friends increased, a scheme was originated
among them, which was especially entertained by the juniors, of
establishing a debating society for mutual improvement. This institution
became known as the Forum; meetings were held weekly in a public hall of
the city, and strangers were admitted to the discussions on the payment
of sixpence a-head. The meetings were uniformly crowded; and the
Shepherd, who held the office of secretary, made a point of taking a
prominent lead in the discussions. He spoke once, and sometimes more
frequently, at every meeting, making speeches, both studied and
extemporaneous, on every variety of theme; and especially contributed,
by his rough-spun eloquence, to the popularity of the institution. The
society existed three years; and though yielding the secretary no
pecuniary emolument, proved a new and effective mean of extending his
acquaintance with general knowledge.

Hogg now took an interest in theatricals, and produced two dramas, one
of which, a sort of musical farce, was intended as a burlesque on the
prominent members of the Forum, himself included. This he was induced,
on account of the marked personalities, to confine to his repositories;
he submitted the other to Mr Siddons, who commended it, but it never was
brought upon the stage. He was about to appear before the world in his
most happy literary effort, "The Queen's Wake,"--a composition
suggested by Mr Grieve. This ingenious individual had conceived the
opinion that a republication of several of the Shepherd's ballads in
"The Spy," in connexion with an original narrative poem, would arrest
public attention as to the author's merits; while a narrative having
reference to the landing of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen Mary,
seemed admirably calculated to induce a general interest in the poem.
The proposal, submitted to Allan Cunningham and Mr Gray, received their
warm approbation; and in a few months the entire composition was ready
for the press. Mr Constable at once consented to undertake the
publication; but a more advantageous offer being made by Mr George
Goldie, a young bookseller, "The Queen's Wake" issued from his
establishment in the spring of 1813. Its success was complete; two
editions were speedily circulated, and the fame of the author was
established. With the exception of the _Eclectic Review_, every
periodical accorded its warmest approbation to the performance; and
vacillating friends, who began to doubt the Shepherd's power of
sustaining the character he had assumed as a poet and a man of letters,
ceased to entertain their misgivings, and accorded the warmest tributes
to his genius. A commendatory article in the _Edinburgh Review_, in
November 1814, hailed the advent of a third edition.

By the unexpected insolvency of his publisher, while the third edition
was in process of sale, Hogg had nearly sustained a recurrence of
pecuniary loss. This was, however, fortunately prevented by the
considerate beneficence of Mr Goldie's trustees, who, on receiving
payment of the printing expenses, made over the remainder of the
impression to the author. One of the trustees was Mr Blackwood,
afterwards the celebrated publisher of _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_.
Hogg had now attained the unenviable reputation of a literary prodigy,
and his studies were subject to constant interruption from admirers, and
the curious who visited the capital. But he gave all a cordial
reception, and was never less accessible amidst the most arduous
literary occupation. There was one individual whose acquaintance he was
especially desirous of forming; this was John Wilson, whose poem, "The
Isle of Palms," published in 1812, had particularly arrested his
admiration. Wilson had come to reside in Edinburgh during a portion of
the year, but as yet had few acquaintances in the city. He was slightly
known to Scott; but a peculiarity of his was a hesitation in granting
letters of introduction. In despair of otherwise meeting him, Hogg, who
had reviewed his poem in the _Scots Magazine_, sent him an invitation to
dinner, which the Lake-poet was pleased cordially to accept. That dinner
began one of the most interesting of the Shepherd's friendships; both
the poets were pleased with each other, and the closest intimacy ensued.
It was on his way to visit Wilson, at Elleray, his seat in Cumberland,
during the autumn of 1814, that the Shepherd formed the acquaintance of
the Poet-laureate. He had notified to Southey his arrival at one of the
hotels in Keswick, and begged the privilege of a visit. Southey promptly
acknowledged his summons, and insisted on his remaining a couple of days
at Greta Hall to share his hospitality. Two years could not have more
firmly rivetted their friendship. As a mark of his regard, on returning
to Edinburgh Hogg sent the Laureate the third edition of "The Queen's
Wake," then newly published, along with a copy of "The Spy." In
acknowledging the receipt of these volumes, Southey addressed the
following letter to the Shepherd, which is now for the first time
published:--

             "Keswick, _December 1, 1814._

     "Dear Hogg,--Thank you for your books. I will not say
     that 'The Queen's Wake' has exceeded my expectations,
     because I have ever expected great things from you,
     since, in 1805, I heard Walter Scott, by his own
     fireside at Ashestiel, repeat 'Gilmanscleuch.'[31] When
     he came to that line--'I ga'e him a' my goud,
     father'--the look and the tone with which he gave it
     were not needed to make it go through me. But 'The
     Wake' has equalled all that I expected. The
     improvements in the new edition are very great, and
     they are in the two poems which were most deserving of
     improvement, as being the most impressive and the most
     original. Each is excellent in its way, but 'Kilmeny'
     is of the highest character; 'The Witch of Fife' is a
     real work of fancy--'Kilmeny' a fine one of
     imagination, which is a higher and rarer gift. These
     poems have given general pleasure throughout the house;
     my eldest girl often comes out with a stanza or two of
     'The Witch,' but she wishes sometimes that you always
     wrote in English. 'The Spy' I shall go through more at
     leisure.

     "I like your praise both of myself and my poem, because
     it comes from a good quarter. You saw me where and how
     a man is best seen--at home, and in his every-day wear
     and tear, mind and manners: I have no holiday suit, and
     never seek to shine: such as it is, my light is always
     burning. Somewhat of my character you may find in
     Chaucer's Clerk of Oxenford; and the concluding line of
     that description might be written, as the fittest
     motto, under my portrait--'Gladly would he learn, and
     gladly teach.' I have sinned enough to make me humble
     in myself, and indulgent toward others. I have suffered
     enough to find in religion not merely consolation, but
     hope and joy; and I have seen enough to be contented
     in, and thankful for, the state of life in which it has
     pleased God to place me.

     "We hoped to have seen you on your way back from
     Ellery. I believe you did not get the ballad of the
     'Devil and the Bishop,' which Hartley transcribed for
     you. I am reprinting my miscellaneous poems, collected
     into three volumes. Your projected publication[32] will
     have the start of it greatly, for the first volume is
     not nearly through the press, and there is a corrected
     copy of the ballad, with its introduction, in
     Ballantyne's hands, which you can make use of before it
     will be wanted in its place.

     "You ask me why I am not intimate with Wilson. There is
     a sufficient reason in the distance between our
     respective abodes. I seldom go even to Wordworth's or
     Lloyd's; and Ellery is far enough from either of their
     houses, to make a visit the main business of a day. So
     it happens that except dining in his company once at
     Lloyd's many years ago, and breakfasting with him here
     not long afterwards, I have barely exchanged
     salutations once or twice when we met upon the road.
     Perhaps, however, I might have sought him had it not
     been for his passion for cock-fighting. But this is a
     thing which I regard with abhorrence.

     "Would that 'Roderick' were in your hands for
     reviewing; I should desire no fairer nor more competent
     critic. But it is of little consequence what friends or
     enemies may do for it now; it will find its due place
     in time, which is slow but sure in its decisions. From
     the nature of my studies, I may almost be said to live
     in the past; it is to the future that I look for my
     reward, and it would be difficult to make any person
     who is not thoroughly intimate with me, understand how
     completely indifferent I am to the praise or censure of
     the present generation, farther than as it may affect
     my means of subsistence, which, thank God, it can no
     longer essentially do. There was a time when I was
     materially injured by unjust criticism; but even then I
     despised it, from a confidence in myself, and a natural
     buoyancy of spirit. It cannot injure me now, but I
     cannot hold it in more thorough contempt.

     "Come and visit me when the warm weather returns. You
     can go nowhere that you will be more sincerely
     welcomed. And may God bless you.

        "Robert Southey."

In waging war with the Lake school of poetry, the _Edinburgh Review_ had
dealt harshly with Southey. His poems of "Madoc" and "The Curse of
Kehama" had been rigorously censured, and very shortly before the
appearance of "Roderick," his "Triumphal Ode" for 1814, which was
published separately, had been assailed with a continuance of the same
unmitigated severity. The Shepherd, who knew, notwithstanding the
Laureate's professions of indifference to criticism, that his nature was
sensitive, and who feared that the _Review_ would treat "Roderick" as it
had done Southey's previous productions, ventured to recommend him to
evince a less avowed hostility to Jeffrey, in the hope of subduing the
bitterness of his censure. The letter of Southey, in answer to this
counsel, will prove interesting, in connexion with the literary history
of the period. The Bard of Keswick had hardly advanced to that happy
condition which he fancied he had reached, of being "indulgent toward
others," at least under the influence of strong provocation:--

             "Keswick, _24th Dec. 1814._

     "Dear Hogg,--I am truly obliged to you for the
     solicitude which you express concerning the treatment
     'Roderick' may experience in the _Edinburgh Review_,
     and truly gratified by it, notwithstanding my perfect
     indifference as to the object in question. But you
     little know me, if you imagine that any thoughts of
     fear or favour would make me abstain from speaking
     publicly of Jeffrey as I think, and as he deserves. I
     despise his commendation, and I defy his malice. _He_
     crush the 'Excursion!!!'[33] Tell him that he might as
     easily crush Skiddaw. For myself, _popularity_ is not
     the mark I shoot at; if it were, I should not write
     such poems as 'Roderick;' and Jeffrey can no more stand
     in my way to _fame_, than Tom Thumb could stand in my
     way in the street.

     "He knows that he has dealt unfairly and maliciously by
     me; he knows that the world knows it, that his very
     friends know it, and that if he attacks 'Roderick' as
     he did 'Madoc' and 'Kehama,' it will be universally
     imputed to personal ill-will. On the other hand, he
     cannot commend this poem without the most flagrant
     inconsistency. This would be confessing that he has
     wronged me in the former instances; for no man will
     pretend to say that 'Madoc' does not bear marks of the
     same hand as 'Roderick;' it has the same character of
     language, thought, and feeling; it is of the same ore
     and mint; and if the one poem be bad, the other cannot
     possibly be otherwise. The irritation of the _nettling_
     (as you term it), which he has already received [a
     portion of the letter is torn off and lost]....
     Whatever part he may take, my conduct towards him will
     be the same. I consider him a public nuisance, and
     shall deal with him accordingly.

     "Nettling is a gentle term for what he has to undergo.
     In due season he shall be _scorpioned_ and
     _rattlesnaked_. When I take him in hand it shall be to
     dissect him alive, and make a preparation of him to be
     exhibited _in terrorem_, an example to all future
     pretenders to criticism. He has a forehead of native
     brass, and I will write upon it with aqua-fortis. I
     will serve him up to the public like a turkey's
     gizzard, sliced, scored, peppered, salted, cayanned,
     grilled, and bedevilled. I will bring him to justice;
     he shall be executed in prose, and gibbeted in
     verse....[34]

     .... "'Roderick' has made good speed in the world, and
     ere long I shall send you the poem in a more commodious
     shape,[35] for Ballantyne is at this time reprinting
     it. I finished my official ode a few days ago. It is
     without rhyme, and as unlike other official odes in
     matter as in form; for its object is to recommend, as
     the two great objects of policy, general education and
     extensive colonization. At present, I am chiefly
     occupied upon 'The History of Brazil,' which is in the
     press--a work of great labour.

     "The ladies here all desire to be kindly remembered to
     you. I have ordered 'The Pilgrims of the Sun,' and we
     look for it with expectation, which, I am sure, will
     not be disappointed. God bless you.--Yours very truly,

        "Robert Southey."

A review of "Roderick" appeared in the _Edinburgh Review_ for June 1815,
which on the whole was favourable, so that the wrath of the Laureate was
appeased.

During the earlier period of his Edinburgh career, Hogg had formed the
acquaintance of an estimable family in Athol, Mr and Mrs Izett, of
Kinnaird House, and he had been in the habit of spending a portion of
his time every summer at their hospitable residence. In the summer of
1814, while visiting there, he was seized with a severe cold, which
compelled him to prolong his stay with his friends; and Mrs Izett, who
took a warm interest in his welfare, suggested that he might turn his
illness to account, by composing a poem, descriptive of the beauties of
the surrounding scenery. The hint was sufficient; he commenced a
descriptive poem in the Spenserian stanza, which was speedily completed,
and given to the world under the title of "Mador of the Moor." It was
well received; and the author is correct in asserting that it contains
"some of his highest and most fortunate efforts in rhyme." "The
Pilgrims of the Sun" was his next poem; it was originally intended as
one of a series, to be contained in a poetical work, which he proposed
to entitle "Midsummer Night Dreams," but which, on the advice of his
friend, Mr James Park of Greenock, he was induced to abandon. From its
peculiar strain, this poem had some difficulty in finding a publisher;
it was ultimately published by Mr John Murray of London, who liberally
recompensed the author, and it was well received by the press.

The circle of the Shepherd's literary friends rapidly extended. Lord
Byron opened a correspondence with him, and continued to address him in
long familiar letters, such as were likely to interest a shepherd-bard.
Unfortunately, these letters have been lost; it was a peculiarity of
Hogg to be careless in regard to his correspondence. With Wordsworth he
became acquainted in the summer of 1815, when that poet was on his first
visit to Edinburgh. They met at the house, in Queen Street, of the
mother of his friend Wilson; and the Shepherd was at once interested and
gratified by the intelligent conversation and agreeable manners of the
great Lake-poet. They saw much of each other in the city, and afterwards
journeyed together to St Mary's Loch; and the Shepherd had the
satisfaction of entertaining his distinguished brother-bard with the
homely fare of cakes and milk, in his father's cottage at Ettrick.
Wordsworth afterwards made the journey memorable in his poem of "Yarrow
Visited." The poets temporarily separated at Selkirk,--Wordsworth having
secured the promise of a visit from his friend, at Mount Ryedale, prior
to his return to Edinburgh. The promise was duly fulfilled; and the
Shepherd had the pleasure of meeting, during his visit, Lloyd, and De
Quincey, and his dear friend Wilson. A portion of the autumn of 1815 was
spent by the Shepherd at Elleray. In the letter inviting his visit
(dated September 1815), the author of "The Isle of Palms" indicates his
opinion of the literary influence of his correspondent, by writing as
follows:--"If you have occasion soon to write to Murray,[36] pray
introduce something about 'The City of the Plague,' as I shall probably
offer him that poem in about a fortnight, or sooner. Of course, I do not
_wish_ you to say that the poem is utterly worthless. I think that a
bold eulogy from you (if administered immediately), would be of service
to me; but if you do write about it, do not tell him that I have any
intention of offering it to him, but you may say, you hear I am going to
offer it to a London bookseller."

The Shepherd's intimacy with the poets had induced him to entertain a
somewhat plausible scheme of bettering his finances. He proposed to
publish, in a handsome volume, a poem by each of the living bards of
Great Britain. For this purpose, he had secured pieces from Southey,
Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and some others;
and had received promises of contributions from Lord Byron and Samuel
Rogers. The plan was frustrated by Scott. He was opposed to his
appearing to seek fresh laurels from the labours of others, and
positively refused to make a contribution. This sadly mortified the
Shepherd,[37] and entirely altered his plans. He had now recourse to a
peculiar method of realising his original intention. In the short period
of four weeks, he produced imitations of the more conspicuous bards,
which speedily appeared in a volume entitled "The Poetic Mirror." This
work, singularly illustrative of the versatility of his genius, was
eminently successful, the first edition disappearing in the course of
six weeks. The imitations of the bards were pronounced perfect, only
that of Wordsworth was intentionally a caricature; the Shepherd had been
provoked to it by a conceived slight of the Lake-poet, during his visit
at Mount Ryedale.[38]

"The Poetic Mirror" appeared in 1816; and in the following year the
Shepherd struck out a new path, by publishing two duodecimo volumes of
"Dramatic Tales." This work proved unsuccessful. In 1813 he had
dedicated his "Forest Minstrel" to the Countess of Dalkeith; and this
amiable and excellent woman, afterwards better known as Harriet, Duchess
of Buccleuch, had acknowledged the compliment by a gift of a hundred
guineas, and several other donations. The Shepherd was, however,
desirous of procuring the means of comfortable self-support,
independently of his literary exertions; and had modestly preferred the
request that he might receive a small farm in lease on the Buccleuch
estates. The request was at length responded to. The Duchess, who took a
deep interest in him, made a request to the Duke, on her death-bed, that
something might be done for her ingenious protégé. After her decease,
the late Charles, Duke of Buccleuch, gave the Shepherd a life-lease of
the farm of Altrive Lake, in Yarrow, at a nominal rent, no portion of
which was ever exacted. The Duke subsequently honoured him with his
personal friendship, and made him frequently share of his hospitality.

From the time of his abandoning "The Spy," Hogg had contemplated the
publication of a periodical on an extended scale. At length, finding a
coadjutor in Mr Thomas Pringle, he explained their united proposal to
his friend, Mr Blackwood, the publisher, who highly approved of the
design. Preliminaries were arranged, and the afterwards celebrated
_Blackwood's Magazine_ took its origin. Hogg was now resident at
Altrive, and the editorship was entrusted to Pringle and his literary
friend Cleghorn. The vessel had scarcely been well launched, however, on
the ocean of letters, when storms arose a-head; hot disputes occurred
between the publisher and the editors, which ultimately terminated in
the withdrawal of the latter from the concern, and their connexion with
the _Edinburgh Magazine_, an opposition periodical established by Mr
Constable. The combating parties had referred to the Shepherd, who was
led to accord his support to Mr Blackwood. He conceived the idea of the
"Chaldee Manuscript," as a means of ridiculing the oppositionists. Of
this famous satire, the first thirty-seven verses of chapter first, with
several other sentences throughout, were his own composition, the
remaining portion being the joint fabrication of his friends Wilson and
Lockhart.[39] This singular production produced a sensation in the
capital unequalled in the history of any other literary performance; and
though, from the evident personalities and the keenness of the satire,
it had to be cancelled, so that a copy in the pages of the magazine is
now a rarity, it sufficiently attained the purpose of directing public
attention to the newly-established periodical. The "Chaldee Manuscript"
appeared in the seventh number of _Blackwood's Magazine_, published in
October 1817. To the magazine Hogg continued to be a regular
contributor; and, among other interesting compositions, both in prose
and verse, he produced in its pages his narrative of the "Shepherd's
Calendar." His connexion with this popular periodical is more generally
known from the position assigned him in the "_Noctes Ambrosianæ_" of
Professor Wilson. In those interesting dialogues, the _Shepherd_ is
represented as a character of marvellous shrewdness and sagacity, whose
observations on men and manners, life and literature, uttered, as they
are, in the homeliest phrases, contain a depth of philosophy and vigour
of criticism rarely exhibited in the history of real or fictitious
biography. "In wisdom," writes Professor Ferrier, "the Shepherd equals
the Socrates of Plato; in humour, he surpasses the Falstaff of
Shakspeare; clear and prompt, he might have stood up against Dr Johnson
in close and peremptory argument; fertile and copious, he might have
rivalled Burke in amplitude of declamation; while his opulent
imagination and powers of comical description invest all that he utters,
either with a picturesque mildness or a graphic quaintness peculiarly
his own." These remarks, applicable to the Shepherd of the "_Noctes_,"
would, indeed, be much overstrained if applied to their prototype; yet
it is equally certain that the leading features of the ideal Shepherd
were depicted from those of the living Shepherd of Ettrick, by one who
knew well how to estimate and appreciate human nature.

On taking possession of his farm of Altrive Lake, which extended to
about seventy acres, Hogg built a small cottage on the place, in which
he received his aged father, his mother having been previously called to
her rest. In the stocking of the farm, he received very considerable
assistance from the profits of a guinea edition of "The Queen's Wake,"
of which the subscribers' list was zealously promoted by Sir Walter
Scott. At Altrive he continued literary composition with unabated
ardour. In 1817, he published "The Brownie of Bodsbeck," a tale of the
period of the Covenant, which attained a considerable measure of
popularity. In 1819, he gave to the world the first volume of his
"Jacobite Relics," the second volume not appearing till 1821. This work,
which bears evidence of extensive labour and research, was favourably
received; the notes are lengthy and copious, and many of the pieces,
which are set to music, have long been popular. His "Winter Evening
Tales" appeared in 1820: several of them were composed on the hills in
early life.

The worldly circumstances of the Shepherd now were such as rendered him
abundantly justifiable in entering into the married state. On the 28th
April 1820, he espoused Miss Margaret Phillips, the youngest daughter of
Mr Phillips, late of Longbridgemoor, in Annandale. By this union he
became brother-in-law of his friend Mr James Gray, whose first wife was
a sister of Mrs Hogg. At the period of his marriage, from the profits of
his writings and his wife's dowry, he was master of nearly a thousand
pounds and a well-stocked farm; and increasing annual gains by his
writings, seemed to augur future independence. But the Shepherd, not
perceiving that literature was his forte, resolved to embark further in
farming speculations; he took in lease the extensive farm of Mount
Benger, adjoining Altrive Lake, expending his entire capital in the
stocking. The adventure proved almost ruinous.

The coronation of George IV. was fixed to take place on the 19th of
July 1821; and Sir Walter Scott having resolved to be among the
spectators, invited the Shepherd to accompany him to London on the
occasion. Through Lord Sidmouth, the Secretary of State, he had procured
accommodation for Hogg at the pageant, which his lordship had granted,
with the additional favour of inviting both of them to dinner, to meet
the Duke of York on the following day. The Shepherd had, however, begun
to feel more enthusiastic as a farmer than a poet, and preferred to
attend the sheep-market at St Boswells. For this seeming lack of
loyalty, he afterwards made ample compensation; he celebrated the King's
visit to Scotland, in August 1822, in "a Masque or Drama," which was
published in a separate form. A copy of this production being laid
before the King by Sir Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, then Secretary of
State, received his Majesty's gracious command suitably to acknowledge
it. In his official communication, Sir Robert thanked the Shepherd, in
the King's name, "for the gratifying proof of his genius and loyalty."
It had been Scott's desire to obtain a Civil List pension for the
Shepherd, to aid him in his struggles at Mount Benger; and it was with
something like hope that he informed him that Sir Robert Peel had
expressed himself pleased with his writings. But the pension was never
obtained.

Harassed by pecuniary difficulties, Hogg wrote rapidly, with the view of
relieving himself. In 1822, he published a new edition of his best
poems, in four volumes, for which he received the sum of £200; and in
this and the following year, he produced two works of fiction, entitled,
"The Three Perils of Man," and "The Three Perils of Women," which
together yielded him £300. In 1824, he published "The Confessions of a
Fanatic;" and, in 1826, he gave to the world his long narrative poem of
"Queen Hynde." The last proved unequal to his former poetical efforts.
In 1826, Mr J. G. Lockhart proceeded to London to edit the _Quarterly
Review_, taking along with him, as his assistant, Robert Hogg, a son of
the Shepherd's elder brother. The occasion afforded the poet an
opportunity of renewing his correspondence with his old friend, Allan
Cunningham. Allan wrote to him as follows:--

             "27 Lower Belgrave Place, _16th Feb. 1826._

     "My dear James,--It required neither present of book,
     nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render
     your letter a most welcome one. You are often present
     to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your
     friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your
     nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man,
     and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as
     yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you,
     carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast
     of genius about her. One of your very happiest little
     things is in the Souvenir of this season--it is pure
     and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in
     the language to compare to it, save everybody's
     'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been
     equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which
     are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it--where
     fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are
     unrivalled.

     "Often do I tread back to the foot of old
     Queensberry,[40] and meet you coming down amid the
     sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little
     sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my
     sight--your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my
     feet--the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for
     the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as
     it really was--poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk,
     and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to
     Thornhill, and there whilst the glass goes round, and
     lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on
     verse, and still our speech is song. Poetry had then a
     charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can
     now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me;
     yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest
     aspirations, and contents itself with purifying and
     completing the conceptions of early years.

     "We are both a little older and a little graver than we
     were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and
     joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the
     same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh--at least
     so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might
     admonish me of change--of loss of bloom, and abatement
     of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier; he
     is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by
     Cæsar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School,
     and are distinguished in their classes; they climb to
     the head, and keep their places. The other three are at
     their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity
     for mirth and mischief.

     "I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to
     remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the
     spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed
     into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own
     reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile,
     and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and
     the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by
     gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six
     children fed now like the prophet Elijah--they are more
     likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I
     cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I
     sing. So farewell to song for a season.

     "My brother's[41] want of success has surprised me too.
     He had a fair share of talent; and, had he cultivated
     his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his
     fate would have been different. But he sees nature
     rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful
     eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise
     of those who love singular and curious things. I have
     said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might
     have said much, for we hear her household prudence and
     her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my
     own dear country--a good assurance of a capital wife
     and an affectionate mother. My wife and I send her and
     you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in
     London during the summer.

     "You have written much, but you must write more yet.
     What say you to a series of poems in your own original
     way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition,
     but purified from its grossness by your own genius and
     taste? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and
     commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a
     yearly pastoral _Gazette_ in prose and verse for our
     _ain_ native Lowlands. The thing would take.

     "The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like
     an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now what
     it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue
     in every town--let it lay out its money in purchasing
     an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Wellington,
     and money could never be laid out more worthily.--I
     remain, dear James, your very faithful friend,

        "Allan Cunningham."

One of the parties chiefly aggrieved in the matter of the Chaldee MS.
was Thomas Pringle, one of the original editors of _Blackwood_. This
ingenious person had lately returned from a period of residence in
Southern Africa, and established himself in London as secretary to the
Slave Abolition Society, and a man of letters. Forgetting past
differences, he invited the Shepherd, in the following letter, to aid
him in certain literary enterprises:--

             "London, _May 19, 1827._

     "My dear Sir,--I wrote you a hasty note some time ago,
     to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of
     Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other
     friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly
     publication, something in the shape of the _Literary
     Gazette_, to be entitled _The London Review_. The
     editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume
     of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a
     young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name
     has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public,
     though he has been a contributor to several of the
     first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the
     work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The
     editors, knowing that I have the pleasure of your
     acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to
     their work, either in verse or prose, and they will
     consider themselves pledged to pay for any
     contributions with which you may honour them at the
     same rate as _Blackwood_. May I hope, my dear sir, that
     you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them
     something for their first number, which is to appear in
     the beginning of June....

     "I always read your '_Noctes_,' and have had many a
     hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern
     Africa; for though I detest _Blackwood's_ politics, and
     regret to see often such fine talents so sadly
     misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never
     permitted my own political predilections, far less any
     reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to
     the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and
     beautifies so many delightful articles in that
     magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very
     truly,

        "Tho. Pringle."

A similar request for contributions was made the year following by
William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary
style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of
the Society of Friends.

             "Nottingham, _12th mo., 20th, 1828._

     "Respected Friend,--Herewith I forward, for thy
     acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony
     of the high estimation in which we have long held thy
     writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my
     wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on
     foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that
     nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance
     prevented us.

     "I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the
     Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to
     furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put
     him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he
     may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a
     notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons,
     and the beautiful in scenery,--of all that is pleasant
     in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I
     hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a
     little time, both a pleasant and original volume, and
     one which may do its mite towards strengthening and
     diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so
     desirable in a great commercial country like this,
     where our manufacturing population are daily spreading
     over its face, and cut off themselves from the
     animating and heart-preserving influence of
     nature,--are also swallowing up our forests and heaths,
     those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which
     have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our
     noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold
     and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may
     wander, without being continually offended and
     obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable
     factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores
     of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of
     anything characteristic of the seasons, in
     _mountainous_ scenery especially, I shall regard them
     as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether
     any particular customs or festivities are kept up in
     the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time,
     as were wont of old all over England; and where is
     there a man who could solve such a problem like
     thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my
     request; but as my object is to promote the love of
     nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more
     influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to
     have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have
     it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists;
     being more desirous to give to others that ardent
     attachment to the beauties of the country that has
     clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which
     all our real poets are so distinguished, than to
     realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me
     about your country life, or the impression which the
     scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different
     seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should
     be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems
     of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable
     or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of
     presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary
     requests me to present to thee her respectful regards;
     and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect,
     thy friend,

        "W. Howitt."

In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount
Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever
ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the
report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to
literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of
"Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter,
intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his
contendings with adversity:--

             "Devongrove, _27th June 1829._

     "My dear Friend James Hogg,--I have never seen, spoken,
     whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's
     visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and
     inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath.
     How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been
     going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to
     another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the
     chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down
     from one degree of poetical extenuation to another,
     till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of
     literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and
     compare you as you are now with what you were in your
     'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very
     fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you
     indeed, at times, in the _Literary Journal_; I see you
     in _Blackwood_, fighting, and reaping a harvest of
     beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John
     Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I
     see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you
     in the looking-glass of my own facetious and
     song-recalling memory--but I should wish to see you in
     the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your
     own person, standing before me in my own house, at my
     own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical
     radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear
     Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may
     tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by
     the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of
     the Shakspeare cellars[42]--but you may rest yourself
     under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space,
     and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it
     is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me,
     will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.

     "To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take
     a trip up this way some time during the summer. I
     understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that
     thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write
     me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again
     to see your fist at least, though the Fates should
     forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you
     would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa
     friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have
     in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me
     now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be,
     ever most sincerely yours,

        "Wm. Tennant."

The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns,
published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet
Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his songs,
which received a wide circulation. On account of some unfortunate
difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to
London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication
of his whole works. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his
fame; he was courted with avidity by all the literary circles, and fêted
at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two
hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of
letters, was given him in Freemasons' Hall, on the anniversary of the
birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John
Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns
on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl
of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its present owner, Mr
Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a publisher for his
works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising bookseller in
Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of
March 1832, under the designation of the "Altrive Tales." By the
unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that
the unfortunate Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from a three
months' residence in London.

Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour; and, though
his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private
subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed
vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an
author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and
morals, under the title of "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good
Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James
Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number of _Blackwood's Magazine_
for 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated
"_Noctes_," which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing
to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subject we are
privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by
Professor Wilson:--

             "_30th April._

     "My dear Mr Hogg,--After frequent reflection on the
     estrangement that has so long subsisted between those
     who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced
     that _I_ ought to put an end to it on my own
     responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you
     or Mr Blackwood, I have written a '_Noctes_,' in which
     my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I
     have done right. I intend to write six within the year;
     and it is just, and no more than just, that you should
     receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for
     No. I. of the new series.

     "If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which
     at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters
     to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the
     Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your
     opinions and sentiments on all things, _angling_,
     shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic
     style, it will be easy for you to add £50 per annum to
     the £50 which you will receive for your '_Noctes_.' I
     hope you will do so.

     "I have taken upon myself a responsibility which
     nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced
     me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my
     motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in
     the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it;
     and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent
     anything happening that can be disagreeable to your
     feelings.--With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I
     am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,

        "John Wilson."

During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he
accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public
dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both
of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles,
the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of
his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the
hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so
many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could
exclaim that surely he had found it at last!

The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and
well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety,
as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London,
a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom
complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world
evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in
three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be
his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and,
though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in
the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman.
He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length
obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks,
he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William
Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he
had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill."
The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.

The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the
district. Of his literary friends--owing to the remoteness of the
locality--Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the
grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his
tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the
exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive
more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with
Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the
first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen
appeared in the _Athenæum_ of the 12th of December:--

    "When first descending from the moorlands,
      I saw the stream of Yarrow glide,
    Along a bare and open valley,
      The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

    "When last along its banks I wander'd,
      Through groves that had begun to shed
    Their golden leaves upon the pathway,
      My steps the Border Minstrel led.

    "The mighty minstrel breathes no longer,
      'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
    And death, upon the braes of Yarrow,
      Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.

           *       *       *       *       *

    "No more of old romantic sorrows,
      For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid,
    With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
      And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"

Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his
birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of
Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory has been erected
by his widow. "When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Riddell,
"pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the
nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the
yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to
welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land,
many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains
of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. And a verse of one of the songs of his early
days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified,
when he says--

    'Flow, my Ettrick! it was thee
      Into my life that first did drop me;
    Thee I 'll sing, and when I dee,
      Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me.
    Pausing swains will say, and weep,
    Here our Shepherd lies asleep.'"

As formerly described, Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking and
well-formed. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features.
His countenance[43] presented the peculiarity of a straight cheekbone;
his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its
vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with
gray. He was rather above the middle height, and was well-built; his
chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well-rounded. He
disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he
wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles
of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its
ways; in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral
character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language, from
the honesty of the narrator; never before did man of letters so minutely
reveal the history of his foibles and failings. He was entirely
unselfish and thoroughly benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of
shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way.
Towards his aged parents his filial affection was of the most devoted
kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly
welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man
of letters in the land.[44] Fond of conviviality, he loved the
intercourse of congenial minds; the voice of friendship was always more
precious to him than the claims of business. He was somewhat expert in
conversation; he talked Scotch on account of long habit, and because it
was familiar to him. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved
to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the
enthusiasm with which he sung amply compensated for the somewhat
discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event
to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education; and he built
a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit
of the children of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he
was in the present a devoted loyalist, and strongly maintained that the
stability of the state was bound up in the support of the monarchy; he
had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and
apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly
conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in
his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in
the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or
indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the
sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit,
he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of
his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These
prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language
of fervency and faith. From the strict rules of morality he may have
sometimes deviated, but it would be the worst exercise of
uncharitableness to doubt of his repentance.

It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the envenomed shafts of
calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much
has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple
nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of
the principles of his life. He has been broadly accused[45] of doing an
injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was one of his best
benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was
incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact?
Hogg strained his utmost effort to do honour to the dust of his
illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume,
and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy:--"He had
a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously
kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a
just judge, and a punctual correspondent.... Such is the man we have
lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an
extraordinary man,--the greatest man in the world."[46] Was ever more
panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his
recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger
biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and
the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a
genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions
of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and
Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his
resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was
somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of
such achievements?

Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most
distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in
the region of the imagination he stands supreme. A child of the forest,
nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his
strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the
mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled
with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were
calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor
Wilson,[47] "he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the
brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and
faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human
affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities
that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the
mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales
where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of
fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of
phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier
reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly
shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he
revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faëry:
the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the
potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius.
His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a
poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard
conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer, or
more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another
ballad in "The Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and
terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to
be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the
Sun." His ballads, generally in his peculiar vein of the romantic and
supernatural, are all indicative of power; his songs are exquisitely
sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though
he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's
Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Scottish song
had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high; many
of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are too
frequently disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral
experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers
and admirers while a love for rural habits, and the amusing arts of
pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.

Of the Shepherd it has been recorded by one[48] who knew him well, that
at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who
had ever attained his age; he was possessed of a buoyancy which
misfortune might temporarily depress, but could not subdue. To the close
of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and field exercises of his
youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running,
been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in
his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish
games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he was famous alike on the moor and
by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills;
and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny
brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with
enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into
the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his
worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one
who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable
man that ever wore the _maud_ of a Shepherd."[49]

Hogg left some MSS. which are still unpublished,--the journals of his
Highland tours being in the possession of Mr Peter Cunningham of London.
Since his death, a uniform edition of many of his best works,
illustrated with engravings from sketches by Mr D. O. Hill, has been
published, with the concurrence of the family, by the Messrs Blackie of
Glasgow, in eleven volumes duodecimo. A Memoir, undertaken for that
edition by the late Professor Wilson, was indefinitely postponed. A
pension on the Civil List of £50 was conferred by the Queen on Mrs Hogg,
the poet's widow, in October 1853; and since her husband's death, she
has received an annuity of £40 from the Duke of Buccleuch. Of a family
of five, one son and three daughters survive, some of whom are
comfortably settled in life.


[28] The Shepherd entertained the belief that he was born on the 25th of
January 1772.

[29] Mr Macturk is well remembered in Dumfriesshire as a person of
remarkable shrewdness and unbounded generosity.

[30] Mr Gray was the author of "Cona, or the Vale of Clywyd," "A Sabbath
among the Mountains," and other poems.

[31] The ballad of "Gilmanscleuch" appeared in "The Mountain Bard." See
"The Ettrick Shepherd's Poems," vol. ii., p. 203. Blackie and Son.

[32] "The Poetic Mirror," for which the Shepherd had begun to collect
contributions.

[33] Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth's "Excursion" in the _Edinburgh Review_
for November 1814, and certainly had never used more declamatory
language against any poem.

[34] In a letter to Mr Grosvenor C. Bedford, dated Keswick, December 22,
1814, Southey thus writes:--"Had you not better wait for Jeffrey's
attack upon 'Roderick.' I have a most curious letter upon this subject
from Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a worthy fellow, and a man of very
extraordinary powers. Living in Edinburgh, he thinks Jeffrey the
greatest man in the world--an intellectual Bonaparte, whom nobody and
nothing can resist. But Hogg, notwithstanding this, has fallen in liking
with me, and is a great admirer of 'Roderick.' And this letter is to
request that I will not do anything to _nettle_ Jeffrey while he is
deliberating concerning 'Roderick,' for he seems favourably disposed
towards me! Morbleu! it is a rich letter! Hogg requested that he himself
might review it, and gives me an extract from Jeffrey's answer, refusing
him. 'I have, as well as you, a great respect for Southey,' he says,
'but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his
neighbour Wordsworth.' But he shall be happy to talk to Hogg upon this
and other _kindred_ subjects, and he should be very glad to give me a
lavish allowance of praise, if I would afford him occasion, &c.; but he
must do what he thinks his duty, &c.! I laugh to think of the effect my
reply will produce upon Hogg. How it will make every bristle to stand on
end like quills upon the fretful porcupine!"--_Life and Correspondence
of Robert Southey, edited by his Son_, vol. iv., p. 93. London: 6 vols.
8vo.

[35] The first edition of "Roderick" was in quarto,--a shape which the
Shepherd deemed unsuitable for poetry.

[36] Murray of Abermarle Street, the famous publisher.

[37] Hogg evinced his strong displeasure with Sir Walter for his
refusal, by writing him a declamatory letter, and withdrawing from his
society for several months. The kind inquiries which his old benefactor
had made regarding him during a severe illness, afterwards led to a
complete reconciliation,--the Shepherd apologising by letter for his
former rashness, and his illustrious friend telling him "to think no
more of the business, and come to breakfast next morning."

[38] See Hogg's autobiography, prefixed to the fifth volume of Blackie's
edition of his poems, p. 107.

[39] See the Works of Professor Wilson, edited by his Son-in-law,
Professor Ferrier, vol. i., p. xvi. Edinburgh: 1855. 8vo.

[40] When the Shepherd was tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of
Mitchel-slack, on the great hill of Queensberry, in Nithsdale, he was
visited by Allan Cunningham, then a lad of eighteen, who came to see
him, moved with admiration for his genius.--(See Memoir of Allan
Cunningham, _postea_). [Transcriber's Note: This Memoir appears in
Volume III.]

[41] Thomas Mouncey Cunningham. See _postea_.

[42] The Shakspeare Club of Alloa, which is here referred to, took its
origin early in the century--being composed of admirers of the
illustrious dramatist, and lovers of general literature in that place.
The anniversary meeting was usually held on the 23d of April, generally
supposed to be the birth-day of the poet. The Shepherd was laureate of
the club, and was present at many of the meetings. On these occasions he
shared the hospitality of Mr Alexander Bald, now of Craigward
Cottage--"the Father of the Club," and one of his own attached literary
friends. Mr Bald formed the Shepherd's acquaintance in 1803, when on a
visit to his friend Grieve, at Cacrabank. This venerable gentleman is in
possession of the original M.S. of the "Ode to the Genius of
Shakspeare," which Hogg wrote for the Alloa Club in 1815. In a letter,
addressed to Mr Bald, accompanying that composition, he wrote as
follows: "_Edin., April 23d, 1815._--Let the bust of Shakspeare be
crowned with laurel on Thursday, for I expect it will be a memorable day
for the club, as well as in the annals of literature,--for I yesterday
got the promise of being accompanied by both _Wilson_, and _Campbell_,
the bard of Hope. I must, however, remind you that it was very late, and
over a bottle, when I extracted this promise--they both appeared,
however, to swallow the proposal with great avidity, save that the
latter, in conversing about our means of conveyance, took a mortal
disgust at the word _steam_, as being a very improper agent in the
wanderings of poets. I have not seen either of them to-day, and it is
likely that they will be in very different spirits, yet I think it not
improbable that one or both of them may be induced to come." The club
did not on this occasion enjoy the society of any of the three poets.

[43] Hogg used to say that his face was "out of all rule of drawing," as
an apology for artists, who so generally failed in transferring a
correct representation of him to canvas. There were at least four
oil-paintings of the poet: the first executed by Nicholson in 1817, for
Mr Grieve; the second by Sir John Watson Gordon for Mr Blackwood; the
third by a London artist for Allan Cunningham; and the fourth by Mr
James Scott of Edinburgh, for the poet himself. The last is universally
admitted to be the most striking likeness, and, with the permission of
Mrs Hogg, it has been very successfully lithographed for the present
volume.

[44] See "Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs Grant of Laggan." 1844.

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

[46] "The Domestic Memoirs and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, by
James Hogg," p. 118. Glasgow, 1834. 16mo.

[47] _Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. iv., p. 521.

[48] Mr H. S. Riddell.

[49] Mr J. G. Lockhart.




DONALD MACDONALD.

AIR--_"Woo'd, and married, and a'."_


    My name it is Donald Macdonald,
      I leeve in the Highlands sae grand;
    I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,
      Wherever my master[50] has land.
    When rankit amang the blue bonnets,
      Nae danger can fear me ava;
    I ken that my brethren around me
      Are either to conquer or fa':
          Brogues an' brochin an' a',
          Brochin an' brogues an' a';
          An' is nae her very weel aff,
          Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?

    What though we befriendit young Charlie?--
      To tell it I dinna think shame;
    Poor lad! he cam to us but barely,
      An' reckon'd our mountains his hame.
    'Twas true that our reason forbade us,
      But tenderness carried the day;
    Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
      Wi' him we had a' gane away.
          Sword an' buckler an' a',
          Buckler an' sword an' a';
          Now for George we 'll encounter the devil,
          Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!

    An' O, I wad eagerly press him
      The keys o' the East to retain;
    For should he gie up the possession,
      We 'll soon hae to force them again,
    Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
      Though it were my finishing blow,
    He aye may depend on Macdonald,
      Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row:
          Knees an' elbows an' a',
          Elbows an' knees an' a';
          Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
          His knees an' elbows an' a'.

    Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William,
      Auld Europe nae langer should grane;
    I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him
      Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane;
    Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny
      We 'd rattle him off frae our shore,
    Or lull him asleep in a cairny,
      An' sing him--"Lochaber no more!"
          Stanes an' bullets an a',
          Bullets an' stanes an' a';
          We 'll finish the Corsican callan
          Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.

    For the Gordon is good in a hurry,
      An' Campbell is steel to the bane,
    An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
      An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;
    The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,
      An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;
    An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald,
      Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!
          Brogues and brochin an' a',
          Brochin an' brogues an' a';
          An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
          The kilt an' the feather an' a'.


[50] This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his
lawful prince. The word "maker," which appears in former editions of the
song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd
never had the confidence to alter it.




FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL.[51]


    Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
      An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
    The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane,
      The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e.
    She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung,
      Away on the wave, like a bird of the main;
    An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung,
      Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
    Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young,
      Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

    The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,
      He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
    The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
      Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim;
    The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
      The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
    But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
      Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he:
    The conflict is past, and our name is no more--
      There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!

    The target is torn from the arm of the just,
      The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave,
    The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,
      But red is the sword of the stranger and slave;
    The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,
      Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue,
    Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud,
      When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true?
    Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good!
      The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!


[51] Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow,
junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it
was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was
so agreeably astonished--I could hardly believe my senses that I had
made so good a song without knowing it.--_Hogg._




BONNY PRINCE CHARLIE.


    Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg,
      Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry,
    Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades,
      Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
        Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
          Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!
        Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
          King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?

    I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald;
      But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry!
    Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald--
      For these are the men that will die for their Charlie!
        Follow thee! follow thee! &c.

    I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,
      Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;
    Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them,
      These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!
        Follow thee! follow thee! &c.

    Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore!
      Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!
    Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore,
      Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie!
        Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee?
          Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly!
        Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee,
          King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?




THE SKYLARK.[52]


        Bird of the wilderness,
        Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
        Emblem of happiness,
        Bless'd is thy dwelling-place--
    O to abide in the desert with thee!
        Wild is thy lay and loud,
        Far in the downy cloud,
    Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
        Where on thy dewy wing,
        Where art thou journeying?
    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
        O'er fell and mountain sheen,
        O'er moor and mountain green,
    O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
        Over the cloudlet dim,
        Over the rainbow's rim,
    Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
        Then, when the gloaming comes,
        Low in the heather blooms,
    Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
        Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling-place--
    O to abide in the desert with thee!


[52] For the fine original air, see Purdie's "Border Garland."--_Hogg._




CALEDONIA.[53]


    Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock,
      Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind--
    Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,
      Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:
    Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,
      Though bleak thy dun islands appear,
    Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,
      That roam on these mountains so drear!

    A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,
      Could never thy ardour restrain;
    The marshall'd array of imperial Rome
      Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain!
    Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,
      Of genius unshackled and free,
    The Muses have left all the vales of the south,
      My loved Caledonia, for thee!

    Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,
      Where loveliness slumbers at even,
    While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps,
      A calm little motionless heaven!
    Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,
      Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave--
    Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,
      And the land of my forefathers' grave!


[53] An appropriate air has just been composed for this song by Mr
Walter Burns of Cupar-Fife, which has been arranged with symphonies and
accompaniments for the pianoforte by Mr Edward Salter, of St Andrews.




O, JEANIE, THERE 'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE!

AIR--_"Over the Border."_


    O, my lassie, our joy to complete again,
      Meet me again i' the gloamin', my dearie;
    Low down in the dell let us meet again--
      O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
    Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,
    Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;
          Love be thy sure defence,
          Beauty and innocence--
      O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

    Sweetly blaw the haw an' the rowan tree,
      Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery;
    Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be--
      O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
    List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary,
    List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,
          Then come with fairy haste,
          Light foot, an' beating breast--
      O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!

    Far, far will the bogle and brownie be,
      Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it;
    Kind love is the tie of our unity,
      A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.
    'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery,
    Love gars a' Nature look bonny that 's near ye;
          That makes the rose sae sweet,
          Cowslip an' violet--
      O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!




WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.[54]

AIR--_"Shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't."_


    Come all ye jolly shepherds,
      That whistle through the glen,
    I 'll tell ye of a secret
      That courtiers dinna ken:
    What is the greatest bliss
      That the tongue o' man can name?
    'Tis to woo a bonny lassie
      When the kye comes hame.
        When the kye comes hame,
        When the kye comes hame,
        'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,
        When the kye comes hame.

    'Tis not beneath the coronet,
      Nor canopy of state,
    'Tis not on couch of velvet,
      Nor arbour of the great--
    'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk,
      In the glen without the name,
    Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
      When the kye comes hame.
        When the kye comes hame, &c.

    There the blackbird bigs his nest
      For the mate he lo'es to see,
    And on the topmost bough,
      O, a happy bird is he;
    Where he pours his melting ditty,
      And love is a' the theme,
    And he 'll woo his bonny lassie
      When the kye comes hame.
        When the kye comes hame, &c.

    When the blewart bears a pearl,
      And the daisy turns a pea,
    And the bonny lucken gowan
      Has fauldit up her e'e,
    Then the laverock frae the blue lift
      Doops down, an' thinks nae shame
    To woo his bonny lassie
      When the kye comes hame.
        When the kye comes hame, &c.

    See yonder pawkie shepherd,
      That lingers on the hill,
    His ewes are in the fauld,
      An' his lambs are lying still;
    Yet he downa gang to bed,
      For his heart is in a flame,
    To meet his bonny lassie
      When the kye comes hame.
        When the kye comes hame, &c.

    When the little wee bit heart
      Rises high in the breast,
    An' the little wee bit starn
      Rises red in the east,
    O there 's a joy sae dear
      That the heart can hardly frame,
    Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
      When the kye comes hame!
        When the kye comes hame, &c.

    Then since all Nature joins
      In this love without alloy,
    O, wha would prove a traitor
      To Nature's dearest joy?
    Or wha would choose a crown,
      Wi' its perils and its fame,
    And miss his bonny lassie
      When the kye comes hame?
        When the kye comes hame,
        When the kye comes home,
        'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,
        When the kye comes hame!


[54] In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose
rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common,
that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and
shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a
wedding with great glee the latter way, "When the kye come hame," when a
tailor, scratching his head, said, "It was a terrible affectit way
that!" I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.--_Hogg._




THE WOMEN FOLK.[55]


    O sarely may I rue the day
      I fancied first the womenkind;
    For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae
      Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!
    They hae plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e,
      An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
    But aye, for a' their witchery,
      The pawky things I lo'e them still.
        O, the women folk! O, the women folk!
          But they hae been the wreck o' me;
        O, weary fa' the women folk,
          For they winna let a body be!

    I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,
      I 've studied them wi' a' my skill,
    I 've lo'ed them better than mysel,
      I 've tried again to like them ill.
    Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
      To comprehend what nae man can;
    When he has done what man can do,
      He 'll end at last where he began.
        O, the woman folk, &c.

    That they hae gentle forms an' meet,
      A man wi' half a look may see;
    An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,
      An' waving curls aboon the bree;
    An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud,
      An' e'en sae pauky, bright, an' rare,
    Wad lure the laverock frae the clud--
      But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
        O, the woman folk, &c.

    Even but this night, nae farther gane,
      The date is neither lost nor lang,
    I tak ye witness ilka ane,
      How fell they fought, and fairly dang.
    Their point they 've carried right or wrang,
      Without a reason, rhyme, or law,
    An' forced a man to sing a sang,
      That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
        O, the woman folk! O, the woman folk!
          But they hae been the wreck o' me;
        O, weary fa' the women folk,
          For they winna let a body be!


[55] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by
Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar,
whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own
favourite humorous song when forced by ladies to sing against my will,
which too frequently happens; and notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it
will never be sung by any so well again.--For the air, see the "Border
Garland."--_Hogg._




M'LEAN'S WELCOME.[56]


      Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
      Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
      Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
        And dine with M'Lean;
      And though you be weary,
      We 'll make your heart cheery,
      And welcome our Charlie,
        And his loyal train.
      We 'll bring down the track deer,
      We 'll bring down the black steer,
      The lamb from the braken,
        And doe from the glen,
      The salt sea we 'll harry,
      And bring to our Charlie
      The cream from the bothy
        And curd from the penn.

      Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
      Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
      Come o'er the sea, Charlie,
        And dine with M'Lean;
      And you shall drink freely
      The dews of Glen-sheerly,
      That stream in the starlight
        When kings do not ken;
      And deep be your meed
      Of the wine that is red,
      To drink to your sire,
        And his friend The M'Lean.

      Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
      Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
      Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
        And dine with M'Lean;
      If aught will invite you
      Or more will delight you
    'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen,
      All ranged on the heather,
      With bonnet and feather,
      Strong arms and broad claymores,
        Three hundred and ten!


[56] I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in Glen-Lyon, from a
scrap of prose said to be the translation, _verbatim_, of a Gaelic song,
and to a Gaelic air, sung by one of the sweetest singers and most
accomplished and angelic beings of the human race. But, alas! earthly
happiness is not always the lot of those who, in our erring estimation,
most deserve it. She is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to
her memory. The air is arranged by Smith.--See the "Scottish
Minstrel."--_Hogg._




CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.[57]


    'Twas on a Monday morning,
      Right early in the year,
    That Charlie cam' to our town,
      The young Chevalier.
        An' Charlie is my darling,
          My darling, my darling;
        Charlie is my darling,
          The young Chevalier.

    As Charlie he came up the gate,
      His face shone like the day;
    I grat to see the lad come back
      That had been lang away.
        An' Charlie is my darling, &c.

    Then ilka bonny lassie sang,
      As to the door she ran,
    Our King shall hae his ain again,
      An' Charlie is the man:
        For Charlie he 's my darling, &c.

    Out ow'r yon moory mountain,
      An' down the craggy glen,
    Of naething else our lasses sing,
      But Charlie an' his men.
        An' Charlie he 's my darling, &c.

    Our Highland hearts are true an' leal,
      An' glow without a stain;
    Our Highland swords are metal keen,
      An' Charlie he 's our ain.
        An' Charlie he 's my darling,
          My darling, my darling;
        Charlie he 's my darling,
          The young Chevalier.


[57] Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published
in the "Jacobite Relics."--_Hogg._




LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.

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


    I lately lived in quiet ease,
      An' never wish'd to marry, O!
    But when I saw my Peggy's face,
      I felt a sad quandary, O!
    Though wild as ony Athol deer,
      She has trepann'd me fairly, O!
    Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear
      Torment me late an' early, O!
        O, love, love, love!
          Love is like a dizziness,
        It winna let a poor body
          Gang about his business!

    To tell my feats this single week,
      Would mak' a daft-like diary, O!
    I drave my cart outow'r a dike,
      My horses in a miry, O!
    I wear my stockings white an' blue,
      My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O!
    I drill the land that I should plough,
      An' plough the drills entirely, O!
          O, love, love, love! &c.

    Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,
      I rose to theek the stable, O!
    I keust my coat an' plied away
      As fast as I was able, O!
    I wrought that morning out an' out,
      As I 'd been redding fire, O!
    When I had done an' look'd about,
      Gude faith, it was the byre, O!
          O, love, love, love! &c.

    Her wily glance I 'll ne'er forget,
      The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't
    Has pierced me through an' through the heart,
      An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't.
    I tried to sing, I tried to pray,
      I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't,
    I tried wi' sport to drive 't away,
      But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
          O, love, love, love! &c.

    Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
      Or how severe my pliskie, O!
    I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love
      Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O!
    For love has raked me fore an' aft,
      I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
    I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
      An' soon I 'll dee for Peggy, O!
          O, love, love, love!
            Love is like a dizziness,
          It winna let a poor body
            Gang about his business!




O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.[58]


    O, weel befa' the maiden gay,
      In cottage, bught, or penn,
    An' weel befa' the bonny May
      That wons in yonder glen;
    Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,
    Wha 's aye kind, an' aye sae leal,
    An' pure as blooming asphodel
      Amang sae mony men.
    O, weel befa' the bonny thing
      That wons in yonder glen!

    'Tis sweet to hear the music float
      Along the gloaming lea;
    'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note
      Come pealing frae the tree;
    To see the lambkins lightsome race--
    The speckled kid in wanton chase--
    The young deer cower in lonely place,
      Deep in her flowing den;
    But sweeter far the bonny face
      That smiles in yonder glen!

    O, had it no' been for the blush
      O' maiden's virgin flame,
    Dear beauty never had been known,
      An' never had a name;
    But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
    Was modell'd by an angel's frame,
    The power o' beauty reigns supreme
      O'er a' the sons o' men;
    But deadliest far the sacred flame
      Burns in a lonely glen!

    There 's beauty in the violet's vest--
      There 's hinney in the haw--
    There 's dew within the rose's breast,
      The sweetest o' them a'.
    The sun will rise an' set again,
    An' lace wi' burning goud the main--
    The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
      Sae lovely to the ken;
    But lovelier far the bonny thing
      That wons in yonder glen!


[58] This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland,
where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system
of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged
in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day--a fair set-to
who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I
am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best
poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr
Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of
singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very
impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed
all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our
daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I
always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any
grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine
fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations,
they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to
myself, "Gude faith, it 's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went
over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn
what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had
heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.--_Hogg._




THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"The Blue Bells of Scotland."_


    What are the flowers of Scotland,
      All others that excel--
    The lovely flowers of Scotland,
      All others that excel?
    The thistle's purple bonnet,
      And bonny heather-bell,
    O, they 're the flowers of Scotland,
      All others that excel!

    Though England eyes her roses
      With pride she 'll ne'er forego,
    The rose has oft been trodden
      By foot of haughty foe;
    But the thistle in her bonnet blue,
      Still nods outow'r the fell,
    And dares the proudest foeman
      To tread the heather-bell.

    For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,
      Alack and well-a-day!
    For ilka hand is free to pu'
      An' steal the gem away.
    But the thistle in her bonnet blue
      Still bobs aboon them a';
    At her the bravest darena blink,
      Or gie his mou' a thraw.

    Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,
      The emblems o' the free,
    Their guardians for a thousand years,
      Their guardians still we 'll be.
    A foe had better brave the deil,
      Within his reeky cell,
    Than our thistle's purple bonnet,
      Or bonny heather-bell.




LASS, AN' YE LO'E ME, TELL ME NOW.[59]


    "Afore the muircock begin to craw,
      Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now,
    The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,
      For I canna come every night to woo."
    "The gouden broom is bonny to see,
      An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw,
    The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea,
      But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'."

    "Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat,
      Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;
    It 's no the thing that I would be at,
      An' I canna come every night to woo!
    The lamb is bonny upon the brae,
      The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe,
    The bird is bonny upon the tree--
      But which is the dearest of a' to you?"

    "The thing that I lo'e best of a',
      Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;
    The dearest thing that ever I saw,
      Though I canna come every night to woo,
    Is the kindly smile that beams on me,
      Whenever a gentle hand I press,
    And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e
      Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess."

    "Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see,
      What I lo'e best I 'll tell you now,
    The compliment that ye sought frae me,
      Though ye canna come every night to woo;
    Yet I would rather hae frae you
      A kindly look, an' a word witha',
    Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',
      Than a' the lads that ever I saw."

    "Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine,
      Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now,
    Our hearts an' fortunes we 'll entwine,
      An' I 'll aye come every night to woo;
    For O, I canna descrive to thee
      The feeling o' love's and nature's law,
    How dear this world appears to me
      Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!"


[59] This song was suggested to the Shepherd by the words adapted to the
formerly popular air, "Lass, gin ye lo'e me"--beginning, "I hae laid a
herring in saut."




PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS!


    Here we go upon the tide,
      Pull away, jolly boys!
    With heaven for our guide,
                  Pull away!
    Here 's a weather-beaten tar,
    Britain's glory still his star,
    He has borne her thunders far,
      Pull away, jolly boys!
    To your gallant men-of-war,
                  Pull away!

    We 've with Nelson plough'd the main,
      Pull away, jolly boys!
    Now his signal flies again,
                  Pull away!
    Brave hearts, then let us go
    To drub the haughty foe,
    Who once again shall know,
      Pull away, gallant boys!
    That our backs we never shew,
                  Pull away!

    We have fought and we have sped,
      Pull away, gallant boys!
    Where the rolling wave was red,
                  Pull away!
    We 've stood many a mighty shock,
    Like the thunder-stricken oak,
    We 've been bent, but never broke,
      Pull away, gallant boys!
    We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,
                  Pull away!

    Here we go upon the deep,
      Pull away, gallant boys!
    O'er the ocean let us sweep,
                  Pull away!
    Round the earth our glory rings,
    At the thought my bosom springs,
    That whene'er our pennant swings,
      Pull away, gallant boys!
    Of the ocean we 're the kings,
                  Pull away!




O, SAW YE THIS SWEET BONNY LASSIE O' MINE?


    O, saw ye this sweet bonny lassie o' mine,
    Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine;
    Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
    Sure naebody e'er was so happy as me!

    It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
    It 's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien;
    But O, it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e,
    That makes me as happy as happy can be.

    To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
    When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
    To breathe out the soul of a saft melting kiss--
    On earth here there 's naething is equal to this!

    I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
    When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy;
    I have felt every joy that illumines the breast,
    When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd:

    But O, there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
    In life's early day, when the bosom is warm;
    When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss--
    On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this!




THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN.


    Hersell pe auchty years and twa,
      Te twenty-tird o' May, man;
    She twell amang te Heelan hills,
      Ayont the reefer Spey, man.
    Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,
      She first peheld te licht, man;
    Tey shot my father in tat stoure--
      A plaguit, vexin' spite, man.

    I 've feucht in Scotland here at hame,
      In France and Shermanie, man;
    And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons,
      Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man.
    But wae licht on te nasty cun,
      Tat ever she pe porn, man;
    Phile koot klymore te tristle caird,
      Her leaves pe never torn, man.

    Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot,
      Phane'er it cam my turn, man;
    Put a' te force tat I could gie,
      Te powter wadna purn, man.
    A filty loon cam wi' his cun,
      Resolvt to to me harm, man;
    And wi' te tirk upon her nose,
      Ke me a pluddy arm, man.

    I flang my cun wi' a' my micht,
      And felt his nepour teit, man;
    Tan drew my swort, and at a straik
      Hewt aff te haf o 's heit, man.
    Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks;
      My oons pe nae tiscrace, man;
    Ter no pe yin pehint my back,
      Ter a pefore my face, man.




AH, PEGGIE, SINCE THOU 'RT GANE AWAY![60]


    Ah, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away,
      An' left me here to languish,
    I canna fend anither day
      In sic regretfu' anguish.
    My mind 's the aspen i' the vale,
      In ceaseless waving motion;
    'Tis like a ship without a sail,
      On life's unstable ocean.

    I downa bide to see the moon
      Blink owre the glen sae clearly;
    Aince on a bonnie face she shone--
      A face that I lo'ed dearly!
    An' when beside yon water clear,
      At e'en I 'm lanely roaming,
    I sigh an' think, if ane was here,
      How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!

    When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile,
      Thy words sae free an' kindly,
    Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile,
      The unbidden tear will blind me.
    The rose's deepest blushing hue
      Thy cheek could eithly borrow,
    But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou'
      Was worth a year o' sorrow.

    Oh! in the slippery paths of love,
      Let prudence aye direct thee;
    Let virtue every step approve,
      An' virtue will respect thee.
    To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
      Alak! I am nae stranger;
    An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang
      Is best aware o' danger.

    May still thy heart be kind an' true,
      A' ither maids excelling;
    May heaven distil its purest dew
      Around thy rural dwelling.
    May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing
      Around thee late an' early;
    An' oft to thy remembrance bring
      The lad that loo'd thee dearly.


[60] This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who in
nine years afterwards became the poet's wife.




GANG TO THE BRAKENS WI' ME.


    I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather,
      An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame,
    Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither,
      Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime,
    Love beckons in every sweet motion,
      Commanding due homage to gie;
    But the shrine o' my dearest devotion
      Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.

    I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie
      To gang to the brakens wi' me;
    But though neither lordly nor saucy,
      Her answer was--"Laith wad I be!
    I neither hae father nor mither,
      Sage counsel or caution to gie;
    An' prudence has whisper'd me never
      To gang to the brakens wi' thee."

    "Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,
      An' try your ain love to beguile?
    For ye are the richest young lady
      That ever gaid o'er the kirk-stile.
    Your smile that is blither than ony,
      The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree,
    An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny,
      Are five hunder thousand to me!"

    She turn'd her around an' said, smiling,
      While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear,
    "You 're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,
      For, O, you have valued it dear:
    Gae make out the lease, do not linger,
      Let the parson indorse the decree;
    An' then, for a wave of your finger,
      I 'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"

    There 's joy in the bright blooming feature,
      When love lurks in every young line;
    There 's joy in the beauties of nature,
      There 's joy in the dance and the wine:
    But there 's a delight will ne'er perish,
      'Mang pleasures all fleeting and vain,
    And that is to love and to cherish
      The fond little heart that's our ain!




LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON.


    Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale,
    Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on,
          The Armstrongs are flying,
          Their widows are crying,
    The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone;
    Lock the door, Lariston,--high on the weather gleam,
    See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky,
          Yeoman and carbineer,
          Billman and halberdier;
    Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.

    Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar,
    Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey,
          Hedley and Howard there,
          Wandale and Windermere,--
    Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay.
    Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston?
    Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye?
          Thou bold Border ranger
          Beware of thy danger--
    Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.

    Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,
    His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace;
          "Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
          On earth there are no men
    More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!
    Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here,
    Little know you of our moss-troopers' might,
          Lindhope and Sorby true,
          Sundhope and Milburn too,
    Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!

    "I 've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby,
    Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;
          Come, all Northumberland,
          Teesdale and Cumberland,
    Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray."
    Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale,
    Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold;
          Many a bold martial eye
          Mirror'd that morning sky,
    Never more oped on his orbit of gold!

    Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout,
    Lances and halberts in splinters were borne;
          Halberd and hauberk then
          Braved the claymore in vain,
    Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.
    See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere,
    Howard--ah! woe to thy hopes of the day!
          Hear the wide welkin rend,
          While the Scots' shouts ascend,
    "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"




I HAE NAEBODY NOW.


    I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now
      To meet me upon the green,
    Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,
      An' joy in her deep blue e'en;
    Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,
      An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,
    An' the wee bit tale o' news the while
      That had happen'd when I was away.

    I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now
      To clasp to my bosom at even,
    O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
      An' pray for a blessing from heaven.
    An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face
      In the morning, that met my eye,
    Where are they now, where are they now?
      In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.

    There 's naebody kens, there 's naebody kens,
      An' O may they never prove,
    That sharpest degree o' agony
      For the child o' their earthly love--
    To see a flower in its vernal hour
      By slow degrees decay,
    Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death,
      Breathe its sweet soul away.

    O, dinna break, my poor auld heart!
      Nor at thy loss repine,
    For the unseen hand that threw the dart
      Was sent frae her Father and thine;
    Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,
      Even till my latest day;
    For though my darling can never return,
      I can follow the sooner away.




THE MOON WAS A-WANING.


    The moon was a-waning,
      The tempest was over;
    Fair was the maiden,
      And fond was the lover;
    But the snow was so deep,
      That his heart it grew weary,
    And he sunk down to sleep,
      In the moorland so dreary.

    Soft was the bed
      She had made for her lover,
    White were the sheets
      And embroider'd the cover;
    But his sheets are more white,
      And his canopy grander,
    And sounder he sleeps
      Where the hill foxes wander.

    Alas, pretty maiden,
      What sorrows attend you!
    I see you sit shivering,
      With lights at your window;
    But long may you wait
      Ere your arms shall enclose him,
    For still, still he lies,
      With a wreath on his bosom!

    How painful the task,
      The sad tidings to tell you!--
    An orphan you were
      Ere this misery befell you;
    And far in yon wild,
      Where the dead-tapers hover,
    So cold, cold and wan
      Lies the corpse of your lover!




GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.


    The year is wearing to the wane,
      An' day is fading west awa',
    Loud raves the torrent an' the rain,
      And dark the cloud comes down the shaw;
    But let the tempest tout an' blaw
      Upon his loudest winter horn,
    Good night, and joy be wi' you a',
      We 'll maybe meet again the morn!

    O, we hae wander'd far and wide
      O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell,
    An' mony a simple flower we 've cull'd,
      An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell!
    We 've ranged the dingle an' the dell,
      The hamlet an' the baron's ha',
    Now let us take a kind farewell,--
      Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

    Though I was wayward, you were kind,
      And sorrow'd when I went astray;
    For O, my strains were often wild,
      As winds upon a winter day.
    If e'er I led you from the way,
      Forgie your Minstrel aince for a';
    A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,--
      Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!




JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D.


James Muirhead was born in 1742, in the parish of Buittle, and stewartry
of Kirkcudbright. His father was owner of the estate of Logan, and
representative of the family of Muirhead, who, for several centuries,
were considerable landed proprietors in Galloway. He was educated at the
Grammar School of Dumfries, and in the University of Edinburgh.
Abandoning the legal profession, which he had originally chosen, he
afterwards prosecuted theological study, and became, in 1769, a
licentiate of the Established Church. After a probation of three years,
he was ordained to the ministerial charge of Urr, a country parish in
the stewartry. In 1794 he received the degree of D.D. from the
University of Edinburgh. Warmly attached to his flock, he ministered at
Urr till his death, which took place on the 16th of May 1806.

Dr Muirhead was a person of warm affections and remarkable humour; his
scholarship was extensive and varied, and he maintained a correspondence
with many of his literary contemporaries. As an author, he is not known
to have written aught save the popular ballad of "Bess, the Gawkie,"--a
production which has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham "a song of
original merit, lively without extravagance, and gay without
grossness,--the simplicity elegant, and the naïveté scarcely
rivalled."[61]


[61] We have frequently had occasion to remark the ignorance of modern
editors regarding the authorship of the most popular songs. Every
collector of Scottish song has inserted "Bess, the Gawkie;" but scarcely
one of them has correctly stated the authorship. The song has been
generally ascribed to an anonymous "Rev. Mr Morehead;" by some to the
"Rev. Robert Morehead;" and Allan Cunningham, who states that his father
was acquainted with the real author, has described him as the "Rev.
William Morehead!"




BESS, THE GAWKIE.

TUNE--_"Bess, the Gawkie."_


    Blythe young Bess to Jean did say,
    Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,
    Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,
      And sport a while wi' Jamie?
    Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there,
    Nor about Jamie tak' a care,
    Nor about Jamie tak' a care,
      For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.

    For hark, and I will tell you, lass,
    Did I not see young Jamie pass,
    Wi' mickle blytheness in his face,
      Out ower the muir to Maggie.
    I wat he gae her mony a kiss,
    And Maggie took them nae amiss;
    'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
      That Bess was but a gawkie.

    For when a civil kiss I seek,
    She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,
    And for an hour she 'll hardly speak;
      Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie?
    But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
    She 'll gie a score without offence;
    Now gie me ane into the mense,
      And ye shall be my dawtie.

    O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,
    But I will never stand for ane
    Or twa when we do meet again;
      So ne'er think me a gawkie.
    Ah, na, lass, that canna be;
    Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
    Or ony thy sweet face that see,
      E'er to think thee a gawkie.

    But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak,
    For yonder Jamie does us meet;
    Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,
      I trow he likes the gawkie.
    O, dear Bess! I hardly knew,
    When I cam' by, your gown sae new;
    I think you 've got it wet wi' dew!
      Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!

    It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
    And I 'll get gowns when it is gane;
    Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,
      And tell it to your dawtie.
    The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek;
    He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,
    If I should gang anither gate,
      I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

    The lasses fast frae him they flew,
    And left poor Jamie sair to rue
    That ever Maggie's face he knew,
      Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.
    As they gaed ower the muir, they sang,
    The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
    The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
      Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.




MRS AGNES LYON.


A female contemporary of the Baroness Nairn, of kindred tastes, and of
equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of
Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay L'Amy, of Dunkenny,
in Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the
year 1762. She was reputed for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for
her hand; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon,
minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January
1786. Of a highly cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early
improved a taste for versifying, and acquired the habit of readily
clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother
of ten children; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well
as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her
occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain
lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her
marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally
domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous; in pathetic pieces she
is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear,
she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their
airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour
and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of
Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular
request, the words to his popular tune "Farewell to Whisky,"--the only
lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the
collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present
work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes.

Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, having survived her husband
about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to
the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS.
to the widow of one of her sons, to whom she was devotedly attached,
accompanied by a request, inscribed in rhyme at the beginning of the
first volume, that the compositions might not be printed, unless in the
event of a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus
described:--

    "Written off-hand, as one may say,
    Perhaps upon a rainy day,
    Perhaps while at the cradle rocking.
    Instead of knitting at a stocking,
    She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink,
    And easily the verses clink.
    Perhaps a headache at a time
    Would make her on her bed recline,
    And rather than be merely idle,
    She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle.
    She neither wanted lamp nor oil,
    Nor found composing any toil;
    As for correction's iron wand,
    She never took it in her hand;
    And can, with conscience clear, declare,
    She ne'er neglected house affair,
    Nor put her little babes aside,
    To take on Pegasus a ride.
    Rather let pens and paper flame,
    Than any mother have the shame
    (Except at any _orra time_)
    To spend her hours in making rhyme."

In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She
had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance
wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation; and a
retentive memory enabled her to render available the fruits of extensive
reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth,
and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety.




NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY.[62]

TUNE--_"Farewell to Whisky."_


    You 've surely heard of famous Neil,
    The man who play'd the fiddle weel;
    He was a heartsome merry chiel',
        And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O!
    For e'er since he wore the tartan hose
    He dearly liket _Athole brose_![63]
    And grieved he was, you may suppose,
        To bid "farewell to whisky," O!

    Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld,
    And whiles my hame is unco cauld;
    I think it makes me blythe and bauld,
        A wee drap Highland whisky, O!
    But a' the doctors do agree
    That whisky 's no the drink for me;
    I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee,
        By parting me and whisky, O!

    But I should mind on "auld lang syne,"
    How Paradise our friends did tyne,
    Because something ran in their mind--
        Forbid--like Highland whisky, O!
    Whilst I can get good wine and ale,
    And find my heart, and fingers hale,
    I 'll be content, though legs should fail,
        And though forbidden whisky, O!

    I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand,
    And screw its strings whilst they can stand,
    And mak' a lamentation grand
        For guid auld Highland whisky, O!
    Oh! all ye powers of music, come,
    For deed I think I 'm mighty glum,
    My fiddle-strings will hardly bum,
        To say, "farewell to whisky," O!


[62] In the Author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to
this song:--"Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the
physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words
following were composed, at his particular desire, to a lamentation he
had just made." Mrs Lyon became acquainted with Gow when she was a young
lady, attending the concerts in Dundee, at which the services of the
great violinist were regularly required. The song is very inaccurately
printed in some of the collections.

[63] A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky.




SEE THE WINTER CLOUDS AROUND.[64]


    See the winter clouds around;
    See the leaves lie on the ground;
    Pretty little Robin comes,
    Seeking for his daily crumbs!

    In the window near the tree,
    Little Robin you may see;
    There his slender board is fix'd,
    There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.

    View his taper limbs, how neat!
    And his eyes like beads of jet;
    See his pretty feathers shine!
    Little Robin haste and dine.

    When sweet Robin leaves the space,
    Other birds will fill his place;
    See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing!
    See the Sparrow's sombre wing!

    Great and grand disputes arise,
    For the crumbs of largest size,
    Which the bravest and the best
    Bear triumphant to their nest.

    What a pleasure thus to feed
    Hungry mouths in time of need!
    For whether it be men or birds,
    Crumbs are better far than words.


[64] These simple stanzas, conveying such an excellent _morale_ at the
close, were written, almost without premeditation, for the amusement and
instruction of a little girl, the author's grandchild, who had been on a
visit at the manse of Glammis. The allusion to the _board_ in the second
verse refers to a little piece of timber which the amiable lady of the
house had affixed on the outside of one of the windows, for holding a
few crumbs which she daily spread on it for _Robin_, who regularly came
to enjoy the bounty of his benefactress. This lyric, and those
following, are printed for the first time.




WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.[65]

TUNE--_"Merry in the Hall."_


    Within the towers of ancient Glammis
      Some merry men did dine,
    And their host took care they should richly fare
      In friendship, wit, and wine.
    But they sat too late, and mistook the gate,
      (For wine mounts to the brain);
    O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all;
      O, we hope they 'll be back again;
      We hope they 'll be back again!

    Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door,
      To find the proper way,
    But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch,
      And on the steps it lay.
    So his wife took care of this nice affair,
      And she wiped it free from stain;
    For the knight was gone, nor the owner known,
      So he ne'er got the switch again;
      So he ne'er got the switch again.

    This wondrous little whip[66] remains
      Within the lady's sight,
    (She crambo makes, with some mistakes,
      But hopes for further light).
    So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart,
      These thirty years her ain;
    Till the knight appear, it must just lie here,
      He will ne'er get his switch again;
      He will ne'er get his switch again!



[65] This lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April 1821, celebrates an
amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the
Castle of Glammis, in 1793. Sir Walter was hospitably entertained in the
Castle, by Mr Peter Proctor, the factor, in the absence of the noble
owner, the Earl of Strathmore, who did not reside in the family mansion;
and the conjecture may be hazarded, that he dropt his whip at the manse
door on the same evening that he drank an English pint of wine from the
_lion beaker_ of Glammis, the prototype of the _silver bear_ of
Tully-Veolan, "the _poculum potatorium_ of the valiant baron."--(See
_Note_ to Waverley, and Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott).

[66] The whip is now in the custody of Mr George Lyon, of Stirling, the
author's son.




MY SON GEORGE'S DEPARTURE.[67]

TUNE--_"Peggy Brown."_


    The parting kiss, the soft embrace,
      I feel them at my heart!
    'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms,
      But agony to part.
    But let us tranquillise our minds,
      And hope the time may be,
    When I shall see that face again,
      So loved, so dear to me!

    Five tedious years have roll'd along,
      And griefs have had their sway,
    Though many comforts fill'd my cup,
      Yet thou wert far away.
    On pleasant days, when friends are met,
      Our sports are scarce begun,
    When I shall sigh, because I miss
      My George, my eldest son!

    I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven,
      I 've seen thee well and gay,
    I 've heard the music of thy voice,
      I 've heard thee sweetly play.
    O try and cheer us with your strains
      Ere many twelvemonths be,
    And let us hear that voice again,
      So loved, so dear to me!



[67] This lay of affection is dated September 1820, when the author
received a visit from her eldest son, who was then settled as a merchant
in London. Mr George Lyon, the subject of the song, and the only
surviving member of the family, is now resident at Snowdoun House,
Stirling.




ROBERT LOCHORE.


Robert Lochore was descended from a branch of a Norman family of that
name, long established in the neighbourhood of Biggar, and of which the
representative was the House of Lochore de Lochore in Fifeshire. He was
born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762,
and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow.
He early commenced business in the city on his own account. In carrying
on public improvements he ever evinced a deep interest, and he
frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the "Annuity
Society,"--an institution attended with numerous benefits to the
citizens of Glasgow.

Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was
particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with
facility, many of his letters to his intimate friends being composed in
rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions
were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth,
contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning
of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his
compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died in
Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and
humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long
life; and, latterly, found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of
his family, his recollections of the past. He was universally beloved as
a faithful friend, and was deeply imbued with a sense of religion.




NOW, JENNY LASS.

TUNE--_"Garryowen."_


    Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird,
      My daddy 's dead, an' a' that;
    He 's snugly laid aneath the yird,
      And I 'm his heir, an' a' that;
      I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;
      I 'm now a laird, an' a' that;
    His gear an' land 's at my command,
      And muckle mair than a' that.

    He left me wi' his deein' breath,
      A dwallin' house, an' a' that;
    A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith--
      A big peat-stack, an' a' that.
      A mare, a foal, an' a' that;
      A mare, a foal, an' a' that;
    Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby,
      An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.

    A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas,
      An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that--
    Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees,
      An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that;
      A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
      A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
    Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'--
      A grecie, too, an' a' that.

    I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days,
      For Sundays, too, an' a' that;
    I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands,
      And siller, gowd, an' a' that.
      What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
      What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
    What want I noo, my dainty doo,
      But just a wife to a' that.

    Now, Jenny dear, my errand here
      Is to seek ye to a' that;
    My heart 's a' loupin', while I speer
      Gin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that.
      Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
      Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
    Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof,
      Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.

    Syne Jenny laid her neive in his--
      Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that;
    An' he gied her a hearty kiss,
      An' dauted her, an' a' that.
      They set a day, an' a' that;
      They set a day, an' a' that;
    Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame,
      An' haud a rant, an' a' that.




MARRIAGE, AND THE CARE O'T.

TUNE--_"Whistle o'er the lave o't."_


    Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,
    I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year,
    An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer
      Wi' blateness, an' the care o't.
    Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't;
    Will ye be my half-marrow sweet?
    Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't,
      An' ne'er think on the care o't.

    Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,
    O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede;
    How mony, thochtless, are misled
      By marriage, an' the care o't!
    A single life 's a life o' glee,
    A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,
    Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free,
      An' a' the dool an' care o't.

    Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply,
    Ye ne'er again shall me deny,
    Ye may a toothless maiden die,
      For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't.
    Fareweel, for ever!--aff I hie;--
    Sae took his leave without a sigh:
    Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try
      The married life, an' care o't.

    Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,
    An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,
    Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack
      'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.
    Though as she thocht she didna speak,
    An' lookit unco mim an' meek,
    Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek
      In marriage, wi' the care o't.




MARY'S TWA LOVERS.

TUNE--_"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."_


    Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care,
      Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;
    Now in a kittle case ance mair
      Wi' your advice assist me:
    Twa lovers frequent on me wait,
      An' baith I frankly speak wi';
    Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait
      Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.

    There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,
      A widower fresh and canty,
    Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,
      He 's rich, and rowes in plenty.
    Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,
      A lad deserves regardin';
    He 's clever, decent, sober too,
      But he 's no worth ae fardin'.

    Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,
      But 's cash will answer a' things;
    To be a lady pleases me,
      And buskit be wi' braw things.
    Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,
      His gait and looks entice me;
    But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you,
      And fix as ye advise me.

    Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,
      An' thus repliet to Mary:
    Unequal matches in a yoke
      Draw thrawart and camstrarie.
    Since gentle James ye dinna like,
      Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion;
    Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike,
      Grup to him wi' affection.




THE FORLORN SHEPHERD.[68]

TUNE--_"Banks of the Dee."_


    Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin',
      For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree,
    If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin',
      Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me.
    Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,--
      My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee,
    When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary,
      While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.

    She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow,
      The day too was set, when our bridal should be;
    How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow,
      She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me.
    For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches,
      An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee,
    Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess,
      Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.

    Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie,
      An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree,
    Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary,
      Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me.
    Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander,
      'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee.
    Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder,
      To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.


[68] This song is here printed for the first time.




JOHN ROBERTSON.


John Robertson, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which
has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an
extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He
received the most ample education which his native town could afford,
and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing.
Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy
of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a
period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered
his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted
in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known
to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster.
He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had
become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the
unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a
paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of
Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the
similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much
ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would
have attained a good position in life.




THE TOOM MEAL POCK.


    Preserve us a'! what shall we do,
      Thir dark, unhallow'd times;
    We 're surely dreeing penance now,
      For some most awfu' crimes.
    Sedition daurna now appear,
      In reality or joke;
    For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me,
      O' a hinging, toom meal pock,
        And sing, Oh waes me!

    When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,
      For sport and pastime free;
    I seem'd like ane in paradise,
      The moments quick did flee.
    Like Venuses they all appear'd,
      Weel pouther'd were their locks;
    'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,
      Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.
        And sing, Oh waes me!

    How happy pass'd my former days,
      Wi' merry heartsome glee;
    When smiling Fortune held the cup,
      And Peace sat on my knee.
    Nae wants had I but were supplied;
      My heart wi' joy did knock,
    When in the neuk I smiling saw
      A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock.
        And sing, Oh waes me!

    Speak no ae word about reform,
      Nor petition Parliament;
    A wiser scheme I 'll now propose,
      I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent:
    Send up a chiel or twa like me,
      As a sample o' the flock,
    Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proof
      O' a hinging, toom meal pock.
        And sing, Oh waes me!

    And should a sicht sae ghastly-like,
      Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,
    Hae nae impression on yon folks,
      But tell ye 'll stand ahin';
    O what a contrast will ye shaw,
      To the glowrin' Lunnun folk,
    When in St James' ye tak' your stand,
      Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock.
        And sing, Oh waes me!

    Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare,
      Before yon hills o' beef;
    Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,
      For Scotia's relief.
    Tell them ye are the vera best,
      Waled frae the fattest flock;
    Then raise your arms, and oh! display
      A hinging, toom meal pock.
        And sing, Oh waes me!




ALEXANDER BALFOUR.


Alexander Balfour, a poet, novelist and miscellaneous writer, was born
on the 1st March 1767, at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of
Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances; and
being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family,
from whom he received such a religious training as exercised a highly
beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the
parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his
twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the
loom, and returned home to teach a school in his native parish. During
the intervals of leisure, he wrote articles for the provincial
miscellanies, the _British Chronicle_ newspaper, and _The Bee_,
published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a
sail-cloth manufacturer in Arbroath; and, on the death of his employer,
soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her
death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors
for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained
prosperity; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his
literary studies, and maintaining a correspondence with several men of
letters in the capital. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country
residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814,
to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management
of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected
with his own firm. This step was lamentably unfortunate; the house, in
which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the general commercial
disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Reduced to a
condition of dependance, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a
manufacturing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned
this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk
in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close
confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes,
which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his
constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear, shortly after his
removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely
prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career
was that of a man of letters. During the interval which elapsed between
his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he
prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and
sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under
the title of "Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes;
and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and
reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited
the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he
supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication
was "The Farmer's Three Daughters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820,
he published "Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo;
which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his
fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled, "The Smuggler's Cave; or,
The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious
Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To the
_Scots Magazine_ he had long been a contributor; and, on the
establishment of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_ in its stead, his
assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His
articles, contributed to this periodical during the nine years of its
existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes: they
are on every variety of theme, but especially the manners of Scottish
rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous
contributions in verse, a series entitled, "Characters omitted in
Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825; and this
production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his
muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the
English poet.

In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of one
hundred pounds was conferred on Mr Balfour by the premier, Mr Canning,
in consideration of his genius. His last novel, "Highland Mary," in four
volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he
contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after an illness of
about two weeks' duration, on the 12th September 1829, in the
sixty-third year of his age.

Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and
otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which, in more prosperous
circumstances, he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the
close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore
a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took
delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His
speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the
heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a
devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was
influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of
his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published
under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an
interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first
place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine
pathos.




THE BONNY LASS O' LEVEN WATER.


    Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea,
      An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather,
    Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee
      Are not sae dear as Leven Water:
    When Nature form'd our favourite isle,
      An' a' her sweets began to scatter,
    She look'd with fond approving smile,
      Alang the banks o' Leven Water.

    On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray,
      'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin';
    Or through the woodlands green to stray,
      In ilka buss the mavis singin':
    But sweeter than the woodlands green,
      Or primrose painted fair by Nature,
    Is she wha smiles, a rural queen,
      The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

    The sunbeam in the siller dew,
      That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom,
    Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue;
      An' purer is her spotless bosom.
    Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast;
      There 's love an' truth in ilka feature;
    For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest,
      The bonny lass o' Leven Water!

    But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree,
      Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy;
    An' sair the carle wad scowl on me,
      For speakin' to his dawtit lassie:
    But were I laird o' Leven's glen,
      An' she a humble shepherd's daughter,
    I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain,
      The bonny lass o' Leven Water!




SLIGHTED LOVE.


    The rosebud blushing to the morn,
    The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn,
    When on thy gentle bosom worn,
      Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary!
    How blest was I, a little while,
    To deem that bosom free frae guile;
    When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile;
      Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!

    Though gear was scant, an' friends were few,
    My heart was leal, my love was true;
    I blest your e'en of heavenly blue,
      That glanced sae saft on me, Mary!
    But wealth has won your heart frae me;
    Yet I maun ever think of thee;
    May a' the bliss that gowd can gie,
      For ever wait on thee, Mary!

    For me, nae mair on earth I crave,
    But that yon drooping willow wave
    Its branches o'er my early grave,
      Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary!
    An' when that hallow'd spot you tread,
    Where wild-flowers bloom above my head,
    O look not on my grassy bed,
      Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!




GEORGE MACINDOE.


George Macindoe, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes,"
a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was born at Partick, near
Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a
silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less
irksome duties of a hotel-keeper in Glasgow. His hotel was a corner
tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate;
and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was
connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a
practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the
remainder of the evenings in conversation with the intelligent host.
After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow, during a
period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was
necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed
the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small
change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local
concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic,
and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for
figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City
Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees.

Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation
sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open
manly countenance was adorned with bushy locks, which in old age,
becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He
claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of
"incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume,
"Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states, in
the preface, he had laid before the public to gratify "the solicitations
of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad
entitled "A Million o' Potatoes," and the two songs which we have
selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he
published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled "The Wandering
Muse;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals.
He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year,
leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston,
Glasgow. The following remarks, regarding Macindoe's songs, have been
kindly supplied by Mr Robert Chambers:--

     "Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished
     by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One
     of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a
     real incident which it describes, namely, a supper,
     where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles
     to Glasgow by my father,[69] who, when learning his
     business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about
     the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with
     the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,'
     which contains some very droll verses, was written in
     compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then
     also a young manufacturer, but who died about two
     months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The
     jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson--'Bachelor
     Willie'--and my father's social good-nature, are
     pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough
     as they are.

     "_June 1, 1855._"



[69] Mr James Chambers, of Peebles, who died in 1824.




CHEESE AND WHISKY.

TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_


    Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk,
      When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing,
    I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk,
      And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing,
      And ne'er was choked for leeing.

    Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas,
      If e'er I thought worthy the preeing,
    Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese,
      May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing,
      May I sup porridge for leeing.

    When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease,
      Can as weel keep a body frae deeing,
    As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese,
      I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing,
      I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.

    Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze,
      I never could think about fleeing,
    But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese;
      Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing,
      Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.




THE BURN TROUT.

TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_


    Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout,
      An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing;
    He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout,
      An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing,
      An' said it wad just be a preeing.

    In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door
      This trout had lang been a dweller,
    Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore,
      An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller,
      An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.

    This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail
      That grannie had reested her ham on,
    Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail,
      An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon,
      An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.

    This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate,
      Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't;
    The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat,
      But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't,
      But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.

    When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive,
      Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane,
    May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive,
      An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing,
      An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.




ALEXANDER DOUGLAS.


Alexander Douglas was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the
village of Strathmiglo in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771.
Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of
studying for the ministry,--a laudable aspiration, which was
unfortunately checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school
during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle to the
farmers in the vicinity; and while so occupied, he read the Bible in the
fields, and with a religious sense, remarkable for his years, engaged in
daily prayer in some sequestered spot, for the Divine blessing to grant
him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen he was
apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he
afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now assiduously
sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the
British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several
companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and
while busily plying the shuttle began to compose verses for his
amusement. These compositions were jotted down during the periods of
leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty,
his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was
induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of this gentleman. A
cordial recommendation to publish his verses was the result; and a
large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his
medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume
of "Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a
profit of one hundred pounds.

Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st
November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow, who still
survives. Three children, the issue of the first marriage, died in early
life. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, Douglas had few
pretensions as a poet; some of his songs have however obtained a more
than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place
among the modern national minstrelsy.




FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.[70]

TUNE--_"Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."_


        Fife, an' a' the land about it,
        Fife, an' a' the land about it;
        May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,
        Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

    We 'll raise the song on highest key,
      Through every grove till echo shout it;
    The sweet enchantin' theme shall be,
      Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
        Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

    Her braid an' lang extended vales
      Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow;
    Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills;
      Her woods resound wi' music mellow.
        Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

    Her waters pastime sweet afford
      To ane an' a' wha like to angle;
    The seats o' mony a laird an' lord,
      Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle.
        Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

    In ilka town an' village gay,
      Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin';
    While to an' frae each port an' bay,
      See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'.
        Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

    Her maids are frugal, modest, fair,
      As lilies by her burnies growin';
    An' ilka swain may here repair,
      Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'.
        Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

    In peace, her sons like lammies mild,
      Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin';
    In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild,
      As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'.
        Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

    May auld an' young hae meat an' claes;
      May wark an' wages aye be plenty;
    An' may the sun to latest days
      See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.

        Fife, an' a' the land about it,
        Fife, an' a' the land about it;
        May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad,
        Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.


[70] A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson.




WILLIAM M'LAREN.


William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer
of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally
followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to
the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a
considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of
verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very
frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published,
in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and
another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The
Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to
provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a
prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he
published a memoir of Tannahill--an eloquent and affectionate tribute to
the memory of his departed friend--to which is appended an _éloge_ on
Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In
1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his
relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of
pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.

At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland;
but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political
opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland.
He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances
became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is
remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted
enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed,
without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and
successful in recommending his own.[71]


[71] Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for
supplying curious and interesting information regarding several of the
bards of the west, kindly furnished the particulars of the above memoir.




NOW SUMMER SHINES WITH GAUDY PRIDE.


    Now summer shines with gaudy pride,
    By flowery vale and mountain side,
    And shepherds waste the sunny hours
    By cooling streams, and bushy bowers;
    While I, a victim to despair,
    Avoid the sun's offensive glare,
    And in sequester'd wilds deplore
    The perjured vows of Ella More.

    Would Fate my injured heart provide
    Some cave beyond the mountain tide,
    Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye
    Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh;
    I 'd there to woods and rocks complain,
    To rocks that skirt the angry main;
    For angry main, and rocky shore,
    Are kinder far than Ella More.




AND DOST THOU SPEAK SINCERE, MY LOVE?

TUNE--_"Lord Gregory."_


    And dost thou speak sincere, my love?
      And must we ever part?
    And dost thou unrelenting see
      The anguish of my heart?
    Have e'er these doating eyes of mine,
      One wandering wish express'd?
    No; thou alone hast ever been
      Companion of my breast.

    I saw thy face, angelic fair,
      I thought thy form divine,
    I sought thy love--I gave my heart,
      And hoped to conquer thine.
    But, ah! delusive, cruel hope!
      Hope now for ever gone!
    My Mary keeps the heart I gave,
      But with it keeps her own.

    When many smiling summer suns
      Their silver light has shed,
    And wrinkled age her hoary hairs
      Waves lightly o'er my head;
    Even then, in life's declining hour,
      My heart will fondly trace
    The beauties of thy lovely form,
      And sweetly smiling face.




SAY NOT THE BARD HAS TURN'D OLD.


    Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,
    And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled,
    Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string,
    Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,
      Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize
    Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;
    Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and bright
    As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night;
      Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright,
    In the hall of his chief, on a festival night,
    I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,
    While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;
      Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,
    By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone,
    His strains then are various--now rapid, now slow,
    As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;
      Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,
    And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,
    I list with delight to his rapturous strain,
    While the borrowing echo returns it again;
      Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    But not summer's profusion alone can inspire
    His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,
    But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow,
    When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow;
      Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven,
    Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven,
    And smile at the billows that angrily rave,
    Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;
      Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

    When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,
    Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart--
    When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave,
    And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,
      Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.




HAMILTON PAUL.


A man of fine intellect, a poet, and an elegant writer, Hamilton Paul
has claims to remembrance. On the 10th April 1773, he was born in a
small cottage on the banks of Girvan Water, in the parish of Dailly, and
county of Ayr. In the same dwelling, Hugh Ainslie, another Scottish
bard, was afterwards born. Receiving his elementary education at the
parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Thomas
Campbell, author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was a college contemporary;
and their mutual love of poetry drew them closely to each other; they
competed for academical rewards offered for the best compositions in
verse, till frequent adjudication as to the equality of their merits,
induced them to forbear contesting on the same subjects. At least on one
occasion the verses of Paul were preferred to those of the Bard of Hope.
The following lines, exhibiting a specimen of his poetical powers at
this period, are from a translation of Claudian's "Epithalamium on the
Marriage of Honorius and Maria," for which, in the Latin class, he
gained a prize along with his friend:--

    "Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms,
    Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms;
    Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires,
    And in his breast awakens new desires.
    In love a novice, while his bosom glows
    With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows;
    The rural pastimes suited to his age,
    His late delight, no more his care engage;
    No more he wills to give his steed the reins
    In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains;
    No more he joys to bend the twanging bow,
    To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw;
    His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove,
    To wounds inflicted by the god of love.
    How oft, expressive of the inward smart,
    Did groans convulsive issue from his heart!
    How oft did blushes own the sacred flame,
    How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name!
    Now presents worthy of the plighted fair,
    And nuptial robes his busy train prepare--
    Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired,
    And those bright dames that to the beds aspired
    Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid
    Requires no earthly ornamental aid
    To give her faultless form a single grace,
    Or add one charm to her bewitching face."

The circumstances of the young poets were far from affluent. Campbell
particularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning
to the lodgings of his friend to request his opinion of some verses;
they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his
fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his
friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the
production:--

    "Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite,
    That rode upon the storm of night,
    And loud the waves were heard to roar
    That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."

After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a
family in Argyleshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the
island of Mull. They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose
and verse. "Your verses on the Unfortunate Lady," writes Campbell to
his friend, "I read with sweet pleasure; for there is a joy in grief,
when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad.... Morose as I am in
judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I
hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the
plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my
sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I
am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion,
I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan,
written soon after my arrival in Mull:--

    "Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering
      Jacob's grassy meads between,
    Lo! thy waters, gently wandering,
      Lave thy valleys rich and green.

    "When the winter, keenly show'ring,
      Strips fair Salem's holy shade,
    Then thy current, broader flowing,
      Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.

    "When, O! when shall light returning
      Gild the melancholy gloom,
    And the golden star of morning
      Jordan's solemn vault illume?

    "When shall Freedom's holy charmer
      Cheer my long benighted soul?
    When shall Israel, proud in armour,
      Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.

"The similarity of the measure with that of your last made me think of
sending you this piece. I am much hurried at present with my comedy, the
'Clouds of Aristophanes.' I have already finished my translation of the
Choephoroe of Æschylus. I dreamt a dream about your being before
Parnassus upon your trial for sedition and contumacy. I thought Thalia,
Clio, &c. addressed you. Their speeches shall be nonsensified into
rhyme, and shall be part of some other scrawl from your affectionate
friend,

    "THOMAS THE HERMIT."

In another epistle Campbell threatens to "send a formal message to the
kind nymphs of Parnassus, telling them that, whereas Hamilton Paul,
their favourite and admired laureate of the north, has been heard to
express his admiration of certain nymphs in a certain place; and that
the said Hamilton Paul has ungratefully and feloniously neglected to
speak with due reverence of the ladies of Helicon; that said Hamilton
Paul shall be deprived of all aid in future from these goddesses, and be
sent to draw his inspiration from the dry fountain of earthly beauty;
and that, furthermore, all the favours taken from the said Hamilton Paul
shall accrue to the informer and petitioner!"

After two years' residence in the Highlands, both the poets returned to
Glasgow to resume their academical studies: Campbell to qualify himself
as a man of letters, and Paul to prepare for the ministry of the
Scottish Church. "It would have been impossible, even during the last
years of their college life," writes Mr Deans,[72] "to have predicted
which of the two students would ultimately arrive at the greatest
eminence. They were both excellent classical scholars; they were both
ingenious poets; and Campbell does not appear to have surpassed his
companion either in his original pieces or his translations; they both
exhibited great versatility of talent; they were both playful and witty;
and seem to have been possessed of great facilities in sport. During
his latter years, when detailing the history of those joyous days, Mr
Paul dwelt on them with peculiar delight, and seemed animated with
youthful emotion when recalling the curious frolics and innocent and
singular adventures in which Campbell and he had performed a principal
part."

While resident at Inverary, Mr Paul composed several poems, which were
much approved by his correspondent. Among these, a ballad entitled "The
Maid of Inverary," in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Lady
Bury, was set to music, and made the subject of elaborate criticism. On
his return to the university, he composed with redoubled ardour,
contributing verses on every variety of topic to the newspapers and
periodicals. Several of his pieces, attracting the notice of some of the
professors, received their warm commendation.

Obtaining licence to preach, the poet returned to his native county.
During a probation of thirteen years, he was assistant to six parish
ministers, and tutor in five different families. He became
joint-proprietor and editor of the _Ayr Advertiser_, which he conducted
for a period of three years. At Ayr he was a member of every literary
circle; was connected with every club; chaplain to every society; a
speaker at every meeting; the poet of every curious occurrence; and the
welcome guest at every table. Besides editing his newspaper, he gave
private instructions in languages, and preached on Sabbath. His metrical
productions became widely known, and his songs were sung at the cottage
hearths of the district. His presence at the social meeting was the sure
indication of a prevalent good humour.

In 1813, Mr Paul attained the summit of his professional ambition; he
was ordained to the pastoral office in the united parishes of Broughton,
Glenholm, and Kilbucho, in Peeblesshire. Amidst due attention to his
clerical duties, he still found leisure to engage in literary pursuits,
and continued to contribute to the public journals both in prose and
poetry. Of the poet Burns he was an enthusiastic admirer; he was
laureate of the "Burns' Allowa' Club," and of the Glasgow Ayrshire
Friendly Society, whose annual meetings were held on the Bard's
anniversary; and the odes which he composed for these annual assemblages
attracted wide and warm admiration. He therefore recommended himself as
a suitable editor of the works of Burns, when a new edition was
contemplated by Messrs Wilson and M'Cormick, booksellers in Ayr. In the
performance of his editorial task, he was led, in an attempt to palliate
the immoralities of Burns, to make some indiscreet allusions respecting
his own clerical brethren; for this imprudence he narrowly escaped
censure from the ecclesiastical courts. His memoir, though commended in
_Blackwood's Magazine_, conducted by Professor Wilson, was severely
censured by Dr Andrew Thomson in the _Christian Instructor_.

The pastoral parish of Broughton was in many respects suited for a
person of Hamilton Paul's peculiar temperament and habits; in a more
conspicuous position his talents might have shone with more brilliancy;
but, after the burst of enthusiasm in his youth was past, he loved
seclusion, and modestly sought the shade. No man was less conscious of
his powers, or attached less value to his literary performances.[73] Of
his numerous poetical compositions each was the work of a sitting, or
had been uttered impromptu; and, unless secured by a friend, they were
commonly laid aside never to be recollected. As a clergyman, he
retained, during a lengthened incumbency, the respect and affection of
his flock, chiefly, it may be remarked, from the acceptability of his
private services, and the warmth and kindliness of his dispositions. His
pulpit discourses were elegantly composed, and largely impressed with
originality and learning; but were somewhat imperfectly pervaded with
those clear and evangelical views of Divine truth which are best
calculated to edify a Christian audience. In private society, he was
universally beloved. "His society," writes Mr Deans, "was courted by the
rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned. In every company he
was alike kind, affable, and unostentatious; as a companion, he was the
most engaging of men; he was the best story-teller of his day." His
power of humour was unbounded; he had a joke for every occasion, a
_bon-mot_ for every adventure. He had eminent power of satire when he
chose to wield it; but he generally blended the complimentary with the
pungent, and lessened the keenness of censure by the good-humour of its
utterance. His anecdotes are familiar over a wide district, and many of
his witty sayings have become proverbial. He was abundantly hospitable,
and had even suffered embarrassments from its injudicious exercise;
still he was always able, as he used to say--

    "To invite the wanderer to the gate,
      And spread the couch of rest."

It was his earnest desire that he might live to pay his liabilities, and
he was spared to accomplish the wish. He died on the 28th of February
1854, in the 81st year of his age.

In appearance, Hamilton Paul presented a handsome person, tall and
erect; his countenance was regular and pleasant; and his eyes, which
were partially concealed by overhanging eye-lashes, beamed with humour
and intelligence. In conversation he particularly excelled, evincing on
every topic the fruits of extensive reading and reflection. He was
readily moved by the pathetic; at the most joyous hour, a melancholy
incident would move him into tears. The tenderness of his heart was
frequently imparted to his verses, which are uniformly distinguished for
smoothness and simplicity.


[72] We are indebted to Mr W. Deans, author of a "History of the Ottoman
Empire," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Deans
was personally acquainted with Mr Hamilton Paul.

[73] "He never took any credit to himself," communicates his friend, Mr
H. S. Riddell, "from the widely-known circumstance of his having carried
off the prize from Campbell. He said that Campbell was at that period a
very young man, much younger than he, and had much less experience in
composition than himself."




HELEN GRAY.


    Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed
      On yonder heath-clad hills,
    Where wild meandering crystal Tweed
      Collects his glassy rills.
    And sweet the buds that scent the air,
      And deck the breast of May;
    But none of these are sweet or fair,
      Compared to Helen Gray.

    You see in Helen's face so mild,
      And in her bashful mien,
    The winning softness of the child,
      The blushes of fifteen.
    The witching smile, when prone to go,
      Arrests me, bids me stay;
    Nor joy, nor comfort can I know,
      When 'reft of Helen Gray.

    I little thought the dark-brown moors,
      The dusky mountain's shade,
    Down which the wasting torrent pours,
      Conceal'd so sweet a maid;
    When sudden started from the plain
      A sylvan scene and gay,
    Where, pride of all the virgin train,
      I first saw Helen Gray.

           *       *       *       *       *

    May never Envy's venom'd breath,
      Blight thee, thou tender flower!
    And may thy head ne'er droop beneath
      Affliction's chilling shower!
    Though I, the victim of distress,
      Must wander far away;
    Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll bless
      The name of Helen Gray.




THE BONNIE LASS OF BARR.


    Of streams that down the valley run,
      Or through the meadow glide,
    Or glitter to the summer sun,
      The Stinshar[74] is the pride.
    'Tis not his banks of verdant hue,
      Though famed they be afar;
    Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue,
    Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew;
    'Tis she that chiefly charms the view,
      The bonnie lass of Barr.

    When rose the lark on early wing,
      The vernal tide to hail;
    When daisies deck'd the breast of spring,
      I sought her native vale.
    The beam that gilds the evening sky,
      And brighter morning star,
    That tells the king of day is nigh,
    With mimic splendour vainly try
    To reach the lustre of thine eye,
      Thou bonnie lass of Barr.

    The sun behind yon misty isle,
      Did sweetly set yestreen;
    But not his parting dewy smile
      Could match the smile of Jean.
    Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe,
      Mine strove with tender war.
    On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow,
    While rivers to the ocean flow,
    With love of thee my heart shall glow,
      Thou bonnie lass of Barr.


[74] The English pronouncing the name of this river _Stinkar_, induced
the poet Burns to change it to Lugar.




ROBERT TANNAHILL.


Robert Tannahill was born at Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His father,
James Tannahill, a silk-gauze weaver, espoused Janet Pollock, daughter
of Matthew Pollock, owner of the small property of Boghall, near Beith;
their family consisted of six sons and one daughter, of whom the future
poet was the fourth child. On his mother's side he inherited a poetical
temperament; she was herself endowed with strong natural sagacity, and
her maternal uncle Hugh Brodie of Langcroft, a small landowner in
Lochwinnoch, evidenced poetic powers by composing "A Speech in Verse
upon Husbandry."[75] When a mere youth, Tannahill wrote verses; and
being unable, from a weakness in one of his limbs to join in the active
sports of his school-fellows, he occasionally sought amusement by
composing riddles in rhyme for their solution. As a specimen of these
early compositions, we submit the following, which has been communicated
to us by Mr Matthew Tannahill, the poet's surviving brother. It was
composed on old grumbling Peter Anderson, the gardener of King's Street,
a character still remembered in Paisley:--

    "Wi' girnin' and chirmin',
      His days they hae been spent;
    When ither folk right thankfu' spoke,
      He never was content."

Along with poetry Tannahill early cultivated the kindred arts of music
and song; a mere youth, he occasionally earned the payment of ten
shillings for playing on the fife at the Greenock parades; he afterwards
became eminent for his skill in the use of the flute. Having completed
his education at school, which consisted of instruction in the
elementary branches, he became apprenticed to a cotton-weaver.
Collecting old or obscure airs, he began to adapt to them suitable
words, which he jotted down as they occurred, upon a rude writing-desk
he had attached to his loom. His spare hours were spent in the general
improvement of his mind. For a period of two years at the commencement
of the century, he prosecuted his handicraft occupation at Bolton in
England. Returning to Paisley in the spring of 1802, he was offered the
situation of overseer of a manufacturing establishment, but he preferred
to resume the labours of the loom.

Hitherto Tannahill had not dreamt of becoming known as a song-writer; he
cultivated his gift to relieve the monotony of an unintellectual
occupation, and the usual auditor of his lays was his younger brother
Matthew, who for some years was his companion in the workshop. The
acquaintance of Robert Archibald Smith, the celebrated musical composer,
which he was now fortunate in forming, was the means of stimulating his
Muse to higher efforts and of awakening his ambition. Smith was at this
period resident in Paisley; and along with one Ross, a teacher of music
from Aberdeen, he set several of Tannahill's best songs to music. In
1805 he was invited to become a poetical contributor to a leading
metropolitan periodical; and two years afterwards he published a volume
of "Poems and Songs." Of this work a large impression was sold, and a
number of the songs soon obtained celebrity. Encouraged by R. A. Smith
and others, who, attracted by his fame, came to visit him, Tannahill
began to feel concerned in respect of his reputation as a song-writer;
he diligently composed new songs and re-wrote with attention those which
he had already published. Some of these compositions he hoped would be
accepted by his correspondent, Mr George Thomson, for his collection,
and the others he expected would find a publisher in the famous
bookselling firm of Constable & Co. The failure of both these
schemes--for Constable's hands were full, and Thomson exhibited his
wonted "fastidiousness"--preyed deeply on the mind of the sensitive
bard. A temporary relief to his disappointed expectations was occasioned
by a visit which, in the spring of 1810, he received from James Hogg,
the Ettrick Shepherd, who made a journey to Paisley expressly to form
his acquaintance. The visit is remembered by Mr Matthew Tannahill, who
describes the enthusiasm with which his brother received such homage to
his genius. The poets spent a night together; and in the morning
Tannahill accompanied the Shepherd half-way to Glasgow. Their parting
was memorable: "Farewell," said Tannahill, as he grasped the Shepherd's
hand, "we shall never meet again! Farewell, I shall never see you more!"

The visit of the Ettrick Bard proved only an interlude amidst the
depression which had permanently settled on the mind of poor Tannahill.
The intercourse of admiring friends even became burdensome to him; and
he stated to his brother Matthew his determination either to leave
Paisley for a sequestered locality, or to canvass the country for
subscribers to a new edition of his poems. Meanwhile, his person became
emaciated, and he complained to his brother that he experienced a
prickling sensation in the head. During a visit to a friend in Glasgow,
he exhibited decided symptoms of insanity. On his return home, he
complained of illness, and took to bed in his mother's house. He was
visited by three of his brothers on the evening of the same day, and
they left him about ten o'clock, when he appeared sufficiently composed.
Returning about two hours afterwards to inquire for him, and for their
mother, who lay sick in the next apartment, they found their brother's
bed empty, and discovered that he had gone out. Arousing the neighbours,
they made an immediate search, and at length they discovered the poet's
lifeless body at a deep spot of the neighbouring brook. Tannahill
terminated his own life on the 17th May 1810, at the age of thirty-six.

The victim of disappointments which his sensitive temperament could not
endure, Tannahill was naturally of an easy and cheerful disposition. "He
was happy himself," states his surviving brother, "and he wished to see
every one happy around him." As a child, his brother informs us, his
exemplary behaviour was so conspicuous, that mothers were satisfied of
their children's safety, if they learned that they were in company with
"_Bob_ Tannahill." Inoffensive in his own dispositions, he entertained
every respect for the feelings of others. He enjoyed the intercourse of
particular friends, but avoided general society; in company, he seldom
talked, and only with a neighbour; he shunned the acquaintance of
persons of rank, because he disliked patronage, and dreaded the
superciliousness of pride. His conversation was simple; he possessed,
but seldom used, considerable powers of satire; but he applied his
keenest shafts of declamation against the votaries of cruelty. In
performing acts of kindness he took delight, but he was scrupulous of
accepting favours; he was strong in the love of independence, and he had
saved twenty pounds at the period of his death. His general appearance
did not indicate intellectual superiority; his countenance was calm and
meditative, his eyes were gray, and his hair a light-brown. In person,
he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he
confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are much inferior to
his songs; of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish
language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and
graceful simplicity, they are pervaded by the gentlest pathos. Rich in
description of beautiful landscapes, they softly tell the tale of man's
affection and woman's love.[76]


[75] See Semple's "Continuation of Crawford's History of Renfrewshire,"
p. 116.

[76] Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular
affection towards any of the fair sex. We have ascertained that, at
different periods, he paid court to two females of his own rank. The
first of these was Jean King, sister of his friend John King, one of the
minor poets of Paisley; she afterwards married a person of the name of
Pinkerton; and her son, Mr James Pinkerton, printer, Paisley, has
frequently heard her refer to the fear she had entertained lest "Rob
would write a song about her." His next sweetheart was Mary Allan,
sister of the poet Robert Allan. This estimable woman was a sad mourner
on the poet's death, and for many years wept aloud when her deceased
lover was made the subject of conversation in her presence. She still
survives, and a few years since, to join some relations, she emigrated
to America. Some verses addressed to her by the poet she continues to
retain with the fondest affection.




JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.[77]


    The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
      And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
    While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'
      To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
    How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
      And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
    Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
      Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

    She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny;
      For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
    And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
      Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.
    Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
      Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
    Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
      Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

    How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
      The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;
    I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
      Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
    Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
      Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain;
    And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
      If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.


[77] "Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane" was published in 1808, and has
since received an uncommon measure of popularity. The music, so suitable
to the words, was composed by R. A. Smith. In the "Harp of Renfrewshire"
(p. xxxvi), Mr Smith remarks that the song was at first composed in two
stanzas, the third being subsequently added. "The Promethean fire," says
Mr Smith, "must have been burning but _lownly_, when such commonplace
ideas could be written, after the song had been so finely wound up with
the beautiful apostrophe to the mavis, 'Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy
hymn to the e'ening.'" The heroine of the song was formerly a matter of
speculation; many a "Jessie" had the credit assigned to her; and
passengers by the old stage-coaches between Perth and the south, on
passing through Dunblane, had pointed out to them, by the drivers, the
house of Jessie's birth. One writer (in the _Musical Magazine_, for May
1835) records that he had actually been introduced at Dunblane to the
individual Jessie, then an elderly female, of an appearance the reverse
of prepossessing! Unfortunately for the curious in such inquiries, the
heroine only existed in the imagination of the poet; he never was in
Dunblane, which, if he had been, he would have discovered that the sun
could not there be seen setting "o'er the lofty Benlomond." Mr Matthew
Tannahill states that the song was composed to supplant an old one,
entitled, "Bob o' Dumblane." Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, supplies the
information, that in consequence of improvements suggested from time to
time by R. A. Smith and William Maclaren, Tannahill wrote eighteen
different versions of this song.




LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.[78]

AIR--_"Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland."_


    Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes,
      I maun lea' them a', lassie;
    Wha can thole when Britain's faes
      Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie?
    Wha would shun the field of danger?
    Wha frae fame wad live a stranger?
    Now when Freedom bids avenge her,
      Wha would shun her ca', lassie?
    Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes
    Hae seen our happy bridal days,
    And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes,
      When I am far awa', lassie.

    "Hark! the swelling bugle sings,
      Yielding joy to thee, laddie,
    But the dolefu' bugle brings
      Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie.
    Lanely I may climb the mountain,
    Lanely stray beside the fountain,
    Still the weary moments countin',
      Far frae love, and thee, laddie.
    O'er the gory fields of war,
    When Vengeance drives his crimson car,
    Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar,
      And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."

    O! resume thy wonted smile!
      O! suppress thy fears, lassie!
    Glorious honour crowns the toil
      That the soldier shares, lassie;
    Heaven will shield thy faithful lover,
    Till the vengeful strife is over,
    Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever,
      Till the day we die, lassie;
    'Midst our bonnie woods and braes,
    We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days,
    As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays
      On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.


[78] Tannahill wrote this song in honour of the Earl of Moira,
afterwards Marquis of Hastings, and the Countess of Loudoun, to whom his
Lordship had been shortly espoused, when he was called abroad in the
service of his country.




THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.[79]


    Far lone amang the Highland hills,
      'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
    By rocky dens, and woody glens,
      With weary steps I wander.
    The langsome way, the darksome day,
      The mountain mist sae rainy,
    Are nought to me when gaun to thee,
      Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

    Yon mossy rosebud down the howe,
      Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
    Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
      And 's scarcely seen by ony;
    Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,
      Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
    Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
      The flower o' Arranteenie.

    Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
      I view the distant ocean,
    There Av'rice guides the bounding prow,
      Ambition courts promotion:--
    Let Fortune pour her golden store,
      Her laurell'd favours many;
    Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
      The lass o' Arranteenie.



[79] This song was written on a young lady, whom a friend of the author
met at Ardentinny, a retired spot on the margin of Loch Long.




YON BURN SIDE.[80]

AIR--_"The Brier-bush."_


    We 'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
    Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side;
          Though the broomy knowes be green,
          And there we may be seen,
    Yet we 'll meet--we 'll meet at e'en down by yon burn side.

    I 'll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side,
    Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side;
          There the busy prying eye,
          Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
    While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side,
    Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
    Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side;
          There fancy smoothes her theme,
          By the sweetly murm'ring stream,
    And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

    Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side,
    And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side;
          Far frae the noisy scene,
          I 'll through the fields alane,
    There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.


[80] The poet and one of his particular friends, Charles Marshall (whose
son, the Rev. Charles Marshall, of Dunfermline, is author of a
respectable volume, entitled "Lays and Lectures"), had met one evening
in a tavern, kept by Tom Buchanan, near the cross of Paisley. The
evening was enlivened by song-singing; and the landlord, who was
present, sung the old song, beginning, "There grows a bonny brier-bush,"
which he did with effect. On their way home together, Marshall remarked
that the words of the landlord's song were vastly inferior to the tune,
and humorously suggested the following burlesque parody of the first
stanza:--

    "There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard,
    There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard,
          They were set by Charlie Marshall,
          And pu'd by Nannie Laird,
    Yet there 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard."

He added that Tannahill would do well to compose suitable words for the
music. The hint sufficed; the friends met after a fortnight's interval,
when the poet produced and read the song of "Yon burn side." It
immediately became popular. Marshall used to relate this anecdote with
much feeling. He died in March 1851, at the age of fourscore.




THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.[81]

AIR--_"Bonny Dundee."_


    Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
      The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;
    How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover,
      Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw:
    The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,
      The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
    But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,
      And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

    Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,
      Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;
    Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,
      And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw.
    The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie,
      They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
    And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,
      'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

    Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
      And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae;
    While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,
      That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.

    'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin',
      'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e,
    For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan',
      The dark days o' winter were summer to me!


[81] The Braes of Gleniffer are a tract of hilly ground, to the south of
Paisley. They are otherwise known as Stanley Braes.




THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.[82]

AIR--_"Crockston Castle."_


    Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's
      The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
    Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
      Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary.
    Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave
      Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
    The darkest stormy night I 'd brave,
      For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

    Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep,
      Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure;
    But I will ford the whirling deep,
      That roars between me and my treasure.
    Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave,
      Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee,
    Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave,
      For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

    The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
      And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie;
    But when the lonesome way is past,
      I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary!
    Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave,
      With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,
    The wildest dreary night I 'd brave,
      For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.


[82] The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated on the brow of a gentle
eminence, about three miles south-east of Paisley. The Castle, in the
twelfth century, was possessed by a Norman family, of the name of Croc;
it passed, in the following century, by the marriage of the heiress,
into a younger branch of the House of Stewart, who were afterwards
ennobled as Earls of Lennox. According to tradition, Queen Mary and Lord
Darnley occasionally resided in the castle; and it is reported that the
unfortunate princess witnessed from its walls the fall of her fortunes
at the battle of Langside. Crockston Castle is now the possession of Sir
John Maxwell, Bart., of Pollock.




THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.[83]

AIR--_"The Three Carls o' Buchanan."_


    Let us go, lassie, go
      To the braes o' Balquhither,
    Where the blaeberries grow
      'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
    Where the deer and the rae,
      Lightly bounding together,
    Sport the lang summer day
      On the braes o' Balquhither.

    I will twine thee a bower
      By the clear siller fountain,
    And I 'll cover it o'er
      Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
    I will range through the wilds,
      And the deep glens sae dreary,
    And return wi' their spoils
      To the bower o' my dearie.

    When the rude wintry win'
      Idly raves round our dwelling,
    And the roar of the linn
      On the night breeze is swelling;
    So merrily we 'll sing,
      As the storm rattles o'er us,
    Till the dear sheiling ring
      Wi' the light lilting chorus.

    Now the summer is in prime,
      Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
    And the wild mountain thyme
      A' the moorlands perfuming;
    To our dear native scenes
      Let us journey together,
    Where glad innocence reigns,
      'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.


[83] A clerical friend has communicated to us the following stanza,
which he heard sung by an old Highlander, as an addition to the "Braes
o' Balquhither:"--

    "While the lads of the south
      Toil for bare worldly treasure--
    To the lads of the north
      Every day brings its pleasure:
    Oh, blithe are the joys
      That the Highlandman possesses,
    He feels no annoys,
      For he fears no distresses."






GLOOMY WINTER 'S NOW AWA'.

AIR--_"Lord Balgonie's Favourite."_


    Gloomy winter 's now awa'
    Saft the westling breezes blaw,
    'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw,
      The mavis sings fu' cheery, O!
    Sweet the crawflower's early bell
    Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
    Blooming like thy bonny sel',
      My young, my artless dearie, O!

    Come, my lassie, let us stray
    O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
    Blithely spend the gowden day,
      'Midst joys that never weary, O!
    Towering o'er the Newton woods,
    Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds,
    Siller saughs, wi' downy buds,
      Adorn the banks sae briery, O!

    Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
    Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks,
    'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,
      And ilka thing is cheery, O!
    Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
    Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
    Joy to me they canna bring,
      Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!




O! ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

AIR--_"Sleepy Maggie."_


          O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie?
          O! are ye sleeping, Maggie?
          Let me in, for loud the linn
          Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.

    Mirk and rainy is the night,
      No a starn in a' the carry;[84]
    Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
      And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
          O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

    Fearful soughs the bourtree bank,
      The rifted wood roars wild and dreary,
    Loud the iron yate does clank,
      And cry of howlets makes me eerie.
          O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

    Aboon my breath I daurna' speak,
      For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie,
    Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek,
      O rise, rise, my bonny lady!
          O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

    She opt the door, she let him in,
      He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie:
    "Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
      Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."

          Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!
          Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie!
          What care I for howlet's cry,
          For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?


[84] This expression commonly means, the direction in which the clouds
are carried by the wind, but it is here used to denote the firmament.




NOW WINTER, WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.

AIR--_"Forneth House."_


    Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow,
      Is far ayont yon mountains;
    And Spring beholds her azure sky
      Reflected in the fountains:
    Now, on the budding slaethorn bank,
      She spreads her early blossom,
    And wooes the mirly-breasted birds
      To nestle in her bosom.

    But lately a' was clad wi' snaw,
      Sae darksome, dull, and dreary;
    Now laverocks sing to hail the spring,
      And Nature all is cheery.
    Then let us leave the town, my love,
      And seek our country dwelling,
    Where waving woods, and spreading flowers,
      On every side are smiling.

    We 'll tread again the daisied green,
      Where first your beauty moved me;
    We 'll trace again the woodland scene,
      Where first ye own'd ye loved me;
    We soon will view the roses blaw
      In a' the charms of fancy,
    For doubly dear these pleasures a',
      When shared with thee, my Nancy.




THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O!

GAELIC AIR--_"Mor nian à Ghibarlan."_


    Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O!
    Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O!
    Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O!
    And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!

    But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O!
    The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O!
    Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O!
    That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!

    The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O!
    Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O!
    Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O!
    The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!

    He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen:
    He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen;
    He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O!
    Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!

    Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O!
    Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O!
    Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O!
    I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!




THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

AIR--_"The Shepherd's Son."_


    The midges dance aboon the burn,
      The dews begin to fa';
    The pairtricks down the rushy holm,
      Set up their e'ening ca'.
    Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sang
      Rings through the briery shaw,
    While flitting, gay, the swallows play
      Around the castle wa'.

    Beneath the golden gloamin' sky,
      The mavis mends her lay,
    The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,
      To charm the ling'ring day.
    While weary yeldrins seem to wail,
      Their little nestlings torn;
    The merry wren, frae den to den,
      Gaes jinking through the thorn.

    The roses fauld their silken leaves,
      The foxglove shuts its bell,
    The honeysuckle and the birk
      Spread fragrance through the dell
    Let others crowd the giddy court
      Of mirth and revelry--
    The simple joys that Nature yields
      Are dearer far to me.




BARROCHAN JEAN.[85]

AIR--_"Johnnie M'Gill."_


    'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?
      And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?
    How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation,
      She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.

    The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins,
      The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen;
    The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,
      A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!

    Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
      Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
    The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie,
      Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!

    The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,
      The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en;
    They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie,
      For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean!

    The doctors declared it was past their descriving,
      The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin;
    But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
      I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

    The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
      Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin;
    A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,
      E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan Jean!"

    The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
      Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean;
    Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
      Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

    But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie,
      The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green,
    He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
      And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.


[85] Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill
remarks:--"You will, no doubt, have frequently observed how much some
old people are given to magnify the occurrences of their young days.
'Barrochan Jean' was written on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch
parish, relating a story something similar to the subject of the song;
perhaps I have heightened her colouring a little."




O, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID!


    Lowland lassie, wilt thou go
    Where the hills are clad with snow;
    Where, beneath the icy steep,
    The hardy shepherd tends his sheep?
    Ill nor wae shall thee betide,
    When row'd within my Highland plaid.

    Soon the voice of cheery spring
    Will gar a' our plantin's ring,
    Soon our bonny heather braes
    Will put on their summer claes;
    On the mountain's sunny side,
    We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.

    When the summer spreads the flowers,
    Busks the glens in leafy bowers,
    Then we 'll seek the caller shade,
    Lean us on the primrose bed;
    While the burning hours preside,
    I 'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.

    Then we 'll leave the sheep and goat,
    I will launch the bonny boat,
    Skim the loch in canty glee,
    Rest the oars to pleasure thee;
    When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
    I 'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.

    Lowland lads may dress mair fine,
    Woo in words mair saft than mine;
    Lowland lads hae mair of art,
    A' my boast 's an honest heart,
    Whilk shall ever be my pride;--
    O, row thee in my Highland plaid!

    "Bonny lad, ye 've been sae leal,
    My heart would break at our fareweel;
    Lang your love has made me fain;
    Take me--take me for your ain!"
    Across the Firth, away they glide,
    Young Donald and his Lowland bride.




BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.[86]


          Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!
          Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea!
          Near thee I pass'd life's early day,
          And won my Mary's heart in thee.

    The broom, the brier, the birken bush,
      Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea,
    And a' the sweets that ane can wish
      Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.

    Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,
      The cooshat croodles am'rously,
    The mavis, down thy bughted glade,
      Gars echo ring frae every tree.
          Thou bonny wood, &c.

    Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang,
      Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!
    They 'll sing you yet a canty sang,
      Then, O, in pity, let them be!
          Thou bonny woods, &c.

    When winter blaws in sleety showers,
      Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie,
    He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers,
      As laith to harm a flower in thee.
          Thou bonny wood, &c.

    Though Fate should drag me south the line,
      Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea;
    The happy hours I 'll ever mind,
      That I, in youth, hae spent in thee.
          Thou bonny wood, &c.


[86] Craigie Lea is situated to the north-west of Paisley.




GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.[87]

AIR--_"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."_


    The weary sun 's gaen down the west,
      The birds sit nodding on the tree;
    All nature now prepares for rest,
      But rest prepared there 's none for me.
    The trumpet sounds to war's alarms,
      The drums they beat, the fifes they play,--
    Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms,
      For the morn I will be far away.

          Good night, and joy--good night, and joy,
            Good night, and joy be wi' you a';
          For since its so that I must go,
            Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!

    I grieve to leave my comrades dear,
      I mourn to leave my native shore;
    To leave my aged parents here,
      And the bonnie lass whom I adore.
    But tender thoughts maun now be hush'd,
      When danger calls I must obey.
    The transport waits us on the coast,
      And the morn I will be far away.
          Good night, and joy, &c.

    Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast!
      Though bleak and drear thy mountains be,
    When on the heaving ocean tost,
      I 'll cast a wishful look to thee!
    And now, dear Mary, fare thee well,
      May Providence thy guardian be!
    Or in the camp, or on the field,
      I 'll heave a sigh, and think on thee!
          Good night, and joy, &c.


[87] We have been favoured, by Mr Matthew Tannahill, with a copy of the
above song of his late gifted brother. It is not included in any edition
of his poems, but has been printed, through the favour of Mr M.
Tannahill, in the "Book of Scottish Song."




HENRY DUNCAN, D.D.


Dr Henry Duncan the distinguished founder of Savings' Banks, and the
promoter of various schemes of social economy, we are enabled to record
among the contributors to Caledonian minstrelsy. He was descended
through both parents from a succession of respectable clergymen of the
Scottish Church. His father George Duncan, was minister of Lochrutton in
the stewartry of Kircudbright, and the subject of this memoir was born
in the manse of that parish, on the 8th October 1774. After a period of
training at home under a private tutor, he was sent to the Academy of
Dumfries to complete his preparation for the University. At the age of
fourteen, he entered as a student the United College of St Andrews, but
after an attendance of two years at that seat of learning, he was
induced, on the invitation of his relative Dr Currie, to proceed to
Liverpool, there to prepare himself for a mercantile profession, by
occupying a situation in the banking office of Messrs Heywood. After a
trial of three years, he found the avocations of business decidedly
uncongenial, and firmly resolved to follow the profession of his
progenitors, by studying for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. He
had already afforded evidence of ability to grapple with questions of
controversial theology, by printing a tract against the errors of
Socinianism, which, published anonymously, attracted in the city of
Liverpool much attention from the originality with which the usual
arguments were illustrated and enforced. Of the concluding five years of
his academical course, the first and two last were spent at the
University of Edinburgh, the other two at that of Glasgow. In 1797, he
was enrolled as a member of the Speculative Society of the University of
Edinburgh, and there took his turn in debate with Henry Brougham,
Francis Horner, Lord Henry Petty afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, and
other young men of genius, who then adorned the academic halls of the
Scottish capital. With John Leyden, W. Gillespie afterwards minister of
Kells, and Robert Lundie the future minister of Kelso, he formed habits
of particular intimacy. From the Presbytery of Dumfries, he obtained
licence as a probationer in the spring of 1798, and he thereafter
accepted the situation of tutor in the family of Colonel Erskine
afterwards Earl of Mar, who then resided at Dalhonzie, near Crieff. In
this post he distinguished himself by inducing the inhabitants of the
district to take up arms in the defence of the country, during the
excitement, which then prevailed respecting an invasion. In the spring
of 1799, the parishes of Lochmaben and Ruthwell, both in the gift of the
Earl of Mansfield, became simultaneously vacant, and the choice of them
was accorded to Mr Duncan by the noble patron. He preferred Ruthwell,
and was ordained to the charge of that parish, on the 19th September.

In preferring the parish of Ruthwell to the better position and wider
field of ministerial usefulness presented at Lochmaben, Mr Duncan was
influenced by the consideration, that the population of the former
parish was such as would enable him to extend the pastoral
superintendence to every individual of his flock. In this respect he
realised his wishes; but not content with efficiently discharging the
more sacred duties of a parochial clergyman, he sought with devoted
assiduity, the amelioration of the physical condition of his people.
Relieving an immediate destitution in the parish, by a supply of Indian
corn brought on his own adventure, he was led to devise means of
preventing the recurrence of any similar period of depression. With this
intention, he established two friendly societies in the place, and
afterwards a local bank for the savings of the industrious. The latter
proved the parent of those admirable institutions for the working
classes, known as _Savings' Banks_, which have since become so numerous
throughout Europe and the United States of America. The Ruthwell
Savings' Bank was established in 1810. Numerous difficulties attended
the early operation of the system, on its general adoption throughout
the country, but these were obviated and removed by the skill and
promptitude of the ingenious projector. At one period his correspondence
on the subject cost him in postages an annual expenditure of one hundred
pounds, a sum nearly equal to half the yearly emoluments of his
parochial cure. The Act of Parliament establishing Savings' Banks in
Scotland, which was passed in July 1819, was procured through his
indomitable exertions, and likewise the Act of 1835, providing for the
better regulation of these institutions.

At Ruthwell, Dr Duncan introduced the system of popular lectures on
science, which has since been adopted by Mechanics' Institutes. Further
to extend the benefits of popular instruction and entertainment, he
edited a series of tracts entitled "The Scottish Cheap Repository," one
of the first of those periodicals devoted to the moral improvement of
the people. A narrative designated "The Cottager's Fireside," which he
originally contributed to this series, was afterwards published
separately, and commanded a wide circulation. In 1809, Dr Duncan
originated the _Dumfries and Galloway Courier_, a weekly newspaper which
he conducted during the first seven years of its existence. He was a
frequent contributor to "The Christian Instructor," and wrote the
articles "Blair" and "Blacklock" for the _Edinburgh Encyclopædia_. At
the request of Lord Brougham, he composed two treatises on Savings'
Banks and Friendly Societies, for publication by the "Society for the
Diffusion of Useful Knowledge." In 1819, he published the "Young Country
Weaver," a tale calculated to disseminate just political views among the
manufacturing classes; and in 1826 a tale of the times of the Covenant
in three volumes, with the title of "William Douglas, or the Scottish
Exiles." Deeply interested in the question of Slave Emancipation, he
contributed a series of letters on the subject to the _Dumfries
Courier_, which, afterwards published in the form of a pamphlet, excited
no inconsiderable attention. His most valuable and successful
publication, the "Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons" appeared in 1836-7
in four duodecimo volumes.

As a man of science, the name of Dr Duncan is associated with the
discovery of footprints of four-footed animals in the New Red-Sandstone.
He made this curious geological discovery in a quarry at Corncocklemuir,
about fifteen miles distant from his parochial manse. In 1823, he
received the degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews. In 1839,
he was raised to the Moderator's chair in the General Assembly. In
church politics, he had early espoused liberal opinions; at the
Disruption in 1843, he resigned his charge and united himself to the
Free Church. He continued to minister in the parish of Ruthwell, till
the appointment of an assistant and successor a short time before his
decease. Revisiting the scene of his ministerial labours after a brief
absence, he was struck with paralysis while conducting service at a
prayer-meeting, and two days afterwards expired. He died at Comlongon,
the residence of his brother-in-law Mr Phillips, on the 12th February
1846, and his remains were committed to the church-yard of Ruthwell, in
which he had ministered during an incumbency of upwards of forty-six
years.

Dr Duncan was twice married; first in 1804, to Miss Craig, the only
surviving daughter of his predecessor, and secondly in 1836, to Mrs
Lundie, the relict of his friend Mr Lundie, minister of Kelso. His
memoirs have been published by his son, the Rev. George John C. Duncan,
minister of the Free Church, Greenwich. A man of fine intellect,
extensive and varied scholarship, and highly benevolent dispositions, Dr
Duncan was much cherished and beloved alike by his parishioners and his
gifted contemporaries. Pious and exemplary as became his profession, he
was expert in business, and was largely endowed with an inventive
genius. Though hitherto scarcely known as a poet, he wrote verses so
early as his eleventh year, which are described by his biographer as
having "evinced a maturity of taste, a refinement of thought, and an
ease of diction which astonished and delighted his friends," and the
specimens of his more mature lyrical compositions, which we have been
privileged to publish from his MSS. are such as to induce some regret
that they were not sooner given to the public.




CURLING SONG.


    The music o' the year is hush'd,
      In bonny glen and shaw, man;
    And winter spreads o'er nature dead
      A winding sheet o' snaw, man.
    O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost,
      A crystal brig has laid, man;
    The wild geese screaming wi' surprise,
      The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.

    Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm,
      And leave your coaxing wife, man;
    Gae get your besom, tramps and stane,
      And join the friendly strife, man.
    For on the water's face are met,
      Wi' mony a merry joke, man;
    The tenant and his jolly laird,
      The pastor and his flock, man.

    The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd,
      The bonspiel is begun, man;
    The ice is true, the stanes are keen,
      Huzza for glorious fun, man!
    The skips are standing at the tee,
      To guide the eager game, man;
    Hush, not a word, but mark the broom,
      And tak' a steady aim, man.

    There draw a shot, there lay a guard,
      And here beside him lie, man;
    Now let him feel a gamester's hand,
      Now in his bosom die, man;
    Then fill the port, and block the ice,
      We sit upon the tee, man;
    Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat,
      And mak' their winner flee, man.

    How stands the game? Its eight and eight,
      Now for the winning shot, man;
    Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim,
      I 'll sweep you to the spot, man.
    The stane is thrown, it glides along,
      The besoms ply it in, man;
    Wi' twisting back the player stands,
      And eager breathless grin, man.

    A moment's silence, still as death,
      Pervades the anxious thrang, man;
    When sudden bursts the victor's shout,
      With holla's loud and lang, man.
    Triumphant besom's wave in air,
      And friendly banters fly, man;
    Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn,
      Wi' eager steps they hie, man.

    Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane,
      And drink wi' social glee, man,
    May curlers on life's slippery rink,
      Frae cruel rubs be free, man;
    Or should a treacherous bias lead
      Their erring course ajee, man,
    Some friendly in-ring may they meet,
      To guide them to the tee, man.




ON THE GREEN SWARD.[88]

TUNE--_"Arniston House."_


    On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended,
      To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him;
    But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended,
      And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd--

    "Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty,
      Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me;
    A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty,
      My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.

    "Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive,
      Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine;
    Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive,
      I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.

    "But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever,
      Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me;
    No hope to support, and no friend to deliver,
      Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain.

    "And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish,
      New poison does mix in my cup of affliction,
    For honour forbids (though without thee I languish)
      To make thee a partner of sorrow and want."

    "Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee,
      I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit;
    Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee,
      My portion is ample--that portion is thine."


[88] Composed in 1804. This song and those following, by Dr Duncan, are
here published for the first time.




THE RUTHWELL VOLUNTEERS.[89]


    Hark! the martial drums resound,
      Valiant brothers, welcome all,
    Crowd the royal standard round,
      'Tis your injured country's call.
        See, see, the robbers come,
          Ruin seize the ruthless foe;
        For your altars, for your homes,
          Heroes lay the tyrants low!

    He whom dastard fears abash,
      He was born to be a slave--
    Let him feel the despot's lash,
      And sink inglorious to the grave.
          See, see, &c.

    He who spurns a coward's life,
      He whose bosom freedom warms,
    Let him share the glorious strife,
      We 'll take the hero to our arms.
          See, see, &c.

    Spirits of the valiant dead,
      Who fought and bled at Freedom's call,
    In the path you dared to tread,
      We, your sons, will stand or fall.
          See, see, &c.

    Bending from your airy halls,
      Turn on us a guardian eye--
    Lead where Fame or Honour calls,
      And teach to conquer or to die!
          See, see, &c.


[89] Written in 1805, when the nation was in apprehension of the French
invasion.




EXILED FAR FROM SCENES OF PLEASURE.[90]

TUNE--_"Blythe, Blythe and Merry was she."_


    Exiled far from scenes of pleasure,
      Love sincere and friendship true,
    Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance,
      Trembling in the midnight dew.

    Sad and lonely, sad and lonely,
      Musing on the tints decay,
    On the maid I love so dearly,
      And on pleasure's fleeting day.

    Bright the moonbeams, when we parted,
      Mark'd the solemn midnight hour,
    Clothing with a robe of silver
      Hill, and dale, and shady bower.

    Then our mutual faith we plighted,
      Vows of true love to repeat,
    Lonely oft the pale orb watching,
      At this hour to lovers sweet.

    On thy silent face, with fondness,
      Let me gaze, fair queen of night,
    For my Annie's tears of sorrow
      Sparkle in thy soften'd light.

    When I think my Annie views thee,
      Dearly do I love thy rays,
    For the distance that divides us
      Seems to vanish as I gaze.


[90] Composed in 1807.




THE ROOF OF STRAW.


    I ask no lordling's titled name,
      Nor miser's hoarded store;
    I ask to live with those I love,
      Contented though I 'm poor.
    From joyless pomp and heartless mirth
      I gladly will withdraw,
    And hide me in this lowly vale,
      Beneath my roof of straw.

    To hear my Nancy's lips pronounce
      A husband's cherish'd name,
    To press my children to my heart
      Are titles, wealth and fame.
    Let kings and conquerors delight
      To hold the world in awe,
    Be mine to find content and peace
      Beneath my roof of straw.

    When round the winters' warm fireside
      We meet with social joy,
    The glance of love to every heart
      Shall speak from every eye.
    More lovely far such such scenes of bliss
      Than monarch ever saw,
    Even angels might delight to dwell
      Beneath my roof of straw.




THOU KEN'ST, MARY HAY.[91]

TUNE--_"Bonny Mary Hay."_


    Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel,
    My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal,
    Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
    And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?

    Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek,
    And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek?
    For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane,
    Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.

    But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim,
    An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb,
    My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee,
    For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.

    The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold,
    The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old,
    And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay,
    As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.

    We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done,
    But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon,
    Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
    And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?


[91] Composed in 1830.




ROBERT ALLAN.


Robert Allan was the son of a respectable flax-dresser in the village of
Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire. The third of a family of ten children, he was
born on the 4th of November 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early
evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered
by the encouragement of Tannahill and Robert Archibald Smith. With
Tannahill he lived on terms of the most cordial friendship. He followed
the occupation of a muslin weaver in his native place, and composed many
of his best verses at the loom. He was an extensive contributor to the
"Scottish Minstrel," published by R. A. Smith, his songs being set to
music by the editor. In 1820, a number of his songs appeared in the
"Harp of Renfrewshire." His only separate volume was published in 1836,
under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy, teacher of elocution
in Glasgow.

In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and
benevolent dispositions, became peculiarly irritable; he fancied that
his merits as a poet had been overlooked, and the feeling preyed deeply
upon his mind. He entertained extreme political opinions, and conceived
a dislike to his native country, which he deemed had not sufficiently
estimated his genius. Much in opposition to the wishes of his friends,
he sailed for New York in his 67th year. He survived the passage only
six days; he died at New York on the 1st June 1841.

Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of
Scottish song; all his lyrics evince a correct appreciation of the
beautiful in nature, and of the pure and elevated in sentiment. Several
of his lays are unsurpassed in genuine pathos.[92]


[92] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr John Macgregor, of
Paisley, son-in-law of Mr Allan, for most of the particulars contained
in this short memoir. Mr Macgregor prepared an extended life of the poet
for our use, which, however, was scarcely suited for our purpose. A
number of Mr Allan's songs, transcribed from his manuscripts, in the
possession of his son in New York, were likewise communicated by Mr
Macgregor. These being, in point of merit, unequal to the other
productions of the bard, we have not ventured on their publication.




BLINK OVER THE BURN, MY SWEET BETTY.


    Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty,
      Blink over the burn, love, to me;
    O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty,
      To get but a blink o' thine e'e.
    The birds are a' sporting around us,
      And sweetly they sing on the tree;
    But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty,
      I trow, is far dearer to me.

    The ringlets, my lovely young Betty,
      That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree,
    I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain,
      That blossom sae sweetly, like thee.
    Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty,
      Come over the burn, love, to me;
    O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty,
      To live in the blink o' thine e'e.




COME AWA, HIE AWA.

AIR--_"Haud awa frae me, Donald."_


          Come awa, hie awa,
            Come and be mine ain, lassie;
          Row thee in my tartan plaid,
            An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie.
    A gowden brooch, an' siller belt,
      Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie,
    Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame,
      For Highland hills wi' me, lassie.
          Come awa, &c.

    A bonnie bower shall be thy hame,
      And drest in silken sheen, lassie.
    Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha',
      And gayest on the green, lassie.
          Come awa, &c.


ANSWER.

          Haud awa, bide awa,
            Haud awa frae me, Donald;
          What care I for a' your wealth,
            And a' that ye can gie, Donald?

    I wadna lea' my Lowland lad
      For a' your gowd and gear, Donald;
    Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill,
      An' stay nae langer here, Donald.
          Haud awa, &c.

    My Jamie is a gallant youth,
      I lo'e but him alane, Donald,
    And in bonnie Scotland's isle,
      Like him there is nane, Donald;
          Haud awa, &c.

    He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose,
      Nor garters at his knee, Donald;
    But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart,
      And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.

    Sae haud awa, bide awa,
      Come nae mair at e'en, Donald;
    I wadna break my Jamie's heart,
      To be a Highland Queen, Donald.




ON THEE, ELIZA, DWELL MY THOUGHTS.

AIR--_"In yon garden fine and gay."_


    On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts,
      While straying was the moon's pale beam;
    At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep,
      I see thy form in fancy's dream.

    I see thee in the rosy morn,
      Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen;
    The morning smiles, but thou art lost,
      Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.

    Still fancy fondly dwells on thee,
      And adds another day of care;
    What bliss were mine could fancy paint
      Thee true, as she can paint thee fair!

    O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams!
      Ye silken cords that bind the heart;--
    Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine,
      And smile and triumph in the smart?




TO A LINNET.

AIR--_"M'Gilchrist's Lament."_


    Chaunt no more thy roundelay,
      Lovely minstrel of the grove,
    Charm no more the hours away,
      With thine artless tale of love;
    Chaunt no more thy roundelay,
      Sad it steals upon mine ear;
    Leave, O leave thy leafy spray,
      Till the smiling morn appear.

    Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song,
      As the welkin's shadows low'r;
    Whilst the beetle wheels along,
      Humming to the twilight hour.
    Not like thee I quit the scene,
      To enjoy night's balmy dream;
    Not like thee I wake again,
      Smiling with the morning beam.




THE PRIMROSE IS BONNY IN SPRING.

AIR--_"The Banks of Eswal."_


    The primrose is bonnie in spring,
      And the rose it is sweet in June;
    It 's bonnie where leaves are green,
      I' the sunny afternoon.
    It 's bonny when the sun gaes down,
      An' glints on the hoary knowe;
    It 's bonnie to see the cloud
      Sae red in the dazzling lowe.

    When the night is a' sae calm,
      An' comes the sweet twilight gloom,
    Oh! it cheers my heart to meet
      My lassie amang the broom,
    When the birds in bush and brake,
      Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang;
    Oh! what an hour to sit
      The gay gowden links amang.




THE BONNIE LASS O' WOODHOUSELEE.

AIR--_"Hey the rantin' Murray's Ha'."_


    The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw,
      But sweeter far on Woodhouselee,
    And dear I like his setting beam
      For sake o' ane sae dear to me.
    It was na simmer's fairy scenes,
      In a' their charming luxury,
    But Beauty's sel' that won my heart,
      The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

    Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile,
      Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e,
    Sae sairly wounded was my heart,
      That had na wist sic ills to dree;
    In vain I strave in beauty's chains,
      I cou'd na keep my fancy free,
    She gat my heart sae in her thrall,
      The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

    The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a',
      Where aft is heard the hum of bee,
    The meadow green, and breezy hill,
      Where lambkins sport sae merrilie,
    May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain,
      When e'enin' sun dips in the sea,
    But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn,
      Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.

    The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn,
      And dew-clad gowans on the lea,
    The water-lily on the lake,
      Are but sweet emblems a' of thee;
    And while in simmer smiles they bloom,
      Sae lovely, and sae fair to see,
    I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake,
      The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.




THE SUN IS SETTING ON SWEET GLENGARRY.


    The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry,
      The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
    O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,
      And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

    Doun yon glen ye never will weary,
      The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
    Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie,
      And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

    Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery,
      The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
    Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery,
      And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

    In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye,
      The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
    Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie,
      And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

    The water is wimpling by fu' clearly,
      The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green;
    Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie,
      And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.




HER HAIR WAS LIKE THE CROMLA MIST.

_Gaelic Air._


    Her hair was like the Cromla mist,
    When evening sun beams from the west,
      Bright was the eye of Morna;
    When beauty wept the warrior's fall,
    Then low and dark was Fingal's hall,
      Sad was the lovely Morna.

    O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid
    That sung peace to the warrior's shade,
      But none so fair as Morna.
    The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake,
    That waved beside dark Orna's lake,
      Where wander'd lovely Morna.

    Sad was the hoary minstrel's song,
    That died the rustling heath among,
      Where sat the lovely Morna;
    It slumber'd on the placid wave,
    It echoed through the warrior's cave,
      And sigh'd again to Morna.

    The hero's plumes were lowly laid;
    In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid
      Sang peace and rest to Morna;
    The harp's wild strain was past and gone,
    No more it whisper'd to the moan
      Of lovely, dying Morna.




O LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS.

AIR--_"Hodgart's Delight."_


    O leeze me on the bonnie lass
      That I lo'e best o' a';
    O leeze me on my Marion,
      The pride o' Lockershaw.
    O weel I like my Marion,
      For love blinks in her e'e,
    And she has vow'd a solemn vow,
      She lo'es na ane but me.

    The flowers grow bonnie on the bank,
      Where doun the waters fa';
    The birds sing bonnie in the bower,
      Where red, red roses blaw.
    An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart,
      When day has closed his e'e,
    I wander wi' my Marion,
      Wha lo'es na ane but me.

    Sic luve as mine an' Marion's,
      O, may it never fa'!
    But blume aye like the fairest flower,
      That grows in Lockershaw.
    My Marion I will ne'er forget
      Until the day I dee,
    For she has vow'd a solemn vow,
      She lo'es na ane but me.




QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

_Highland Boat-air._


    Put off, put off, and row with speed,
    For now 's the time, and the hour of need!
    To oars, to oars, and trim the bark,
    Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark!
    Yon light that plays round the castle's moat
    Is only the warder's random shot!
    Put off, put off, and row with speed,
    For now is the time, and the hour of need!

    Those pond'rous keys[93] shall the kelpies keep,
    And lodge in their caverns dark and deep;
    Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall,
    Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall;
    Or be the haunt of traitors, sold,
    While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold;
    Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed,
    For now is the time, and the hour of need!

    Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung,
    And the warder's voice hath treason sung;
    The echoes to the falconet's roar,
    Chime swiftly to the dashing oar.
    Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam,
    We steer by the light of the tapers' beam;
    For Scotland and Mary, on with speed,
    Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!


[93] The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the
lake.




WHEN CHARLIE TO THE HIGHLANDS CAME.

AIR--_"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."_


    When Charlie to the Highlands came,
      It was a' joy and gladness,
    We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon
      Wad broken be wi' sadness.

    Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown,
      And break our hearts wi' sorrow;
    Oh! it will never smile again,
      And bring a gladsome morrow!

    Our dwellings, and our outlay gear,
      Lie smoking, and in ruin;
    Our bravest youths, like mountain deer,
      The foe is oft pursuing.

    Our home is now the barren rock,
      As if by Heaven forsaken;
    Our shelter and our canopy,
      The heather and the bracken.

    Oh! we maun wander far and near,
      And foreign lands maun hide in;
    Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear,
      We daurna langer bide in.




LORD RONALD CAME TO HIS LADY'S BOWER.


    Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower,
      When the moon was in her wane;
    Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour,
      And to her bower is gane.
    He saftly stept in his sandal shoon,
      And saftly laid him doun;
    "It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore,
      "Sin ye maun wauken soon.

    "Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock
      Shall flap his siller wing,
    An' saftly ye maun ope the gate,
      An' loose the silken string."
    "O Ellenore, my fairest fair,
      O Ellenore, my bride!
    How can ye fear when my merry men a'
      Are on the mountain side."

    The moon was hid, the night was sped,
      But Ellenore's heart was wae;
    She heard the cock flap his siller wing,
      An' she watched the morning ray:
    "Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear,
      The mornin' opes its e'e;
    Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower,
      And safe, safe may thou be."

    But there was a page, a little fause page,
      Lord Ronald did espy,
    An' he has told his baron all,
      Where the hind and hart did lie.
    "It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald,
      Thy father's deeds o' weir;
    But since the hind has come to my faul',
      His blood shall dim my spear."

    Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore,
      And press'd her lily hand;
    Sic a comely knight and comely dame
      Ne'er met in wedlock's band:
    But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch,
      And kiss'd again his bride;
    And with his spear, in deadly ire,
      He pierced Lord Ronald's side.

    The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek,
      She look'd all wan and ghast;
    She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side,
      An' the blood was rinnin' fast:
    She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue,
      But his life she cou'dna stay;
    Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb,
      An' their spirits baith fled away.




THE LOVELY MAID OF ORMADALE.

AIR--_"Highland Lassie."_


    When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,
      To blaze upon the western wave;
    When peace and love possess the grove,
      And echo sleeps within the cave;
    Led by love's soft endearing charms,
      I stray the pathless winding vale,
    And hail the hour that gives to me
      The lovely maid of Ormadale.

    Her eyes outshine the star of night,
      Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue;
    And pure as flower in summer shade,
      Low bending in the pearly dew:
    Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure,
      Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail;
    As angel-smile she aye will be
      Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.

    Let fortune soothe the heart of care,
      And wealth to all its votaries give;
    Be mine the rosy smile of love,
      And in its blissful arms to live.
    I would resign fair India's wealth,
      And sweet Arabia's spicy gale,
    For balmy eve and Scotian bower,
      With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.




A LASSIE CAM' TO OUR GATE.


    A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen,
      An' low she curtsied doun;
    She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see,
      Then a' our ladies roun'.

    Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
      An' whare may your dwelling be?
    But her heart, I trow, was liken to break,
      An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.

    I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie--
      I haena a hame, nor ha';
    Fain here wad I rest my weary feet,
      For the night begins to fa'.

    I took her into our tapestry ha',
      An' we drank the ruddy wine;
    An' aye I strave, but fand my heart
      Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine.

    I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen
      She was sae jimp and sma';
    And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e
      Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw.

    Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
      An' whare may your dwelling be?
    Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind
      Blaw cauld on sic as ye?

    I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie--
      I haena a ha' nor hame;
    My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men,
      An' him I daurna name.

    Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin,
      Frae this ye mauna gae;
    An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain,
      Nae marrow ye shall hae.

    Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup,
      Sae fu' o' the damask wine,
    An' press it to your cherrie lip,
      For ye shall aye be mine.

    An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health,
      An' a' your kin sae dear;
    Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e
      Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.




THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.


    There grew in bonnie Scotland
      A thistle and a brier,
    And aye they twined and clasp'd,
      Like sisters, kind and dear.
    The rose it was sae bonnie,
      It could ilk bosom charm;
    The thistle spread its thorny leaf,
      To keep the rose frae harm.

    A bonnie laddie tended
      The rose baith ear' and late;
    He water'd it, and fann'd it,
      And wove it with his fate;
    And the leal hearts of Scotland
      Pray'd it might never fa',
    The thistle was sae bonny green,
      The rose sae like the snaw.

    But the weird sisters sat
      Where Hope's fair emblems grew;
    They drapt a drap upon the rose
      O' bitter, blasting dew;
    And aye they twined the mystic thread,--
      But ere their task was done,
    The snaw-white shade it disappear'd,
      And wither'd in the sun!

    A bonnie laddie tended
      The rose baith ear' an' late;
    He water'd it, and fann'd it,
      And wove it with his fate;
    But the thistle tap it wither'd,
      Winds bore it far awa',
    And Scotland's heart was broken,
      For the rose sae like the snaw!




THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT.

TUNE--_"The Martyr's Grave."_


    There 's nae Covenant now, lassie!
      There 's nae Covenant now!
    The Solemn League and Covenant
      Are a' broken through!
    There 's nae Renwick now, lassie,
      There 's nae gude Cargill,
    Nor holy Sabbath preaching
      Upon the Martyrs' Hill!

    It 's naething but a sword, lassie!
      A bluidy, bluidy ane!
    Waving owre poor Scotland,
      For her rebellious sin.
    Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie,
      Scotland 's a' wrang--
    It 's neither to the hill nor glen,
      Lassie, we daur gang.

    The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken,
      In simmer's dusk sae calm;
    There 's nae gathering now, lassie,
      To sing the e'ening psalm!
    But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie,
      Aboon the warrior's cairn;
    An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie,
      Aneath the waving fern!




BONNIE LASSIE.


    Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
      Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;
    Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
      Ye hae stown my heart frae me.

    Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,
      Let me love, nor love in vain;
    Fate shall never fond hearts sever,
      Hearts still bound by true love's chain.

    Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,
      Shall each day life's feast renew;
    Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure,
      Still to live and love more true.

    Mirth and folly, joys unholy,
      Never shall our thoughts employ;
    Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,
      Love and bliss without alloy.

    Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
      Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e;
    Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
      Ye hae stown my heart frae me.




ANDREW MERCER.


Andrew Mercer was born at Selkirk, in 1775. By his father, who was a
respectable tradesman, he was destined for the pulpit of the United
Secession Church. He became a student in the University of Edinburgh, in
1790, and was the class-fellow and friend of John Leyden, and of Dr
Alexander Murray, the future philologist. At the house of Dr Robert
Anderson, he formed the intimacy of Thomas Campbell; he also numbered
among his early associates Thomas Brown and Mungo Park. Abandoning
theological study, he cultivated a taste for the fine arts; and he
endeavoured to establish himself in the capital in the twofold capacity
of a miniature-painter, and a man of letters. With respect to both
avocations, he proved unfortunate. In 1804, a periodical entitled the
_North British Magazine_ was originated and supported by his friends, on
his behalf; but the publication terminated at the end of thirteen
months. At a subsequent period, he removed to Dunfermline, where he was
engaged in teaching, and in drawing patterns for the manufacturers. In
1828, he published a "History of Dunfermline," in a duodecimo volume;
and, at an interval of ten years, a volume of poems, entitled "Summer
Months among the Mountains." A man of considerable ingenuity and
scholarship, he lacked industry and steadiness of application. His
latter years were clouded by poverty. He died at Dunfermline on the 11th
of June 1842, in his 67th year.




THE HOUR OF LOVE.


    When the fair one and the dear one--
      Her lover by her side--
    Strays or sits as fancy flits,
      Where yellow streamlets glide;
        Gleams illuming--flowers perfuming
          Where'er her footsteps rove;
        Time beguiling with her smiling,
          Oh! that 's the hour of love.

    When the fair one and the dear one,
      Amid a moonlight scene,
    Where grove and glade, and light and shade,
      Are all around serene;
        Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy,
          While coos the turtle-dove,
        And in soft strains appeals--complains,
          Oh! that 's the hour of love.

    Should the fair one and the dear one
      The sigh of pity lend
    For human woe, that presses low
      A stranger, or a friend,
        Tears descending, sweetly blending,
          As down her cheeks they rove;
        Beauty's charms in pity's arms--
          Oh! that 's the hour of love.

    When the fair one and the dear one
      Appears in morning dreams,
    In flowing vest by fancy drest,
      And all the angel beams;
        The heavenly mien, and look serene,
          Confess her from above;
        While rising sighs and dewy eyes
          Say, that 's the hour of love!




JOHN LEYDEN, M.D.


John Leyden was born on the 8th September 1775, at Denholm, a hamlet in
the parish of Cavers, Roxburghshire. His ancestors, for several
generations, were farmers, but his father followed the humble occupation
of a shepherd. Of four brothers and two sisters, John was the eldest.
About a year after his birth, his father removed to Henlawshiel, a
solitary cottage,[94] about three miles from Denholm, on the margin of
the heath stretching down from the "stormy Ruberslaw." He received the
rudiments of knowledge from his paternal grandmother; and discovering a
remarkable aptitude for learning, his father determined to afford him
the advantages of a liberal education. He was sent to the parish school
of Kirkton, and afterwards placed under the tutorship of a Cameronian
clergyman, in Denholm, reputed as a classical scholar. In 1790, he
entered the University of Edinburgh, where he soon acquired distinction
for his classical attainments and devotedness to general learning. His
last session of college attendance was spent at St Andrews, where he
became a tutor. By the Presbytery of St Andrews, in May 1798, he was
licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church. On obtaining his
licence, he returned to the capital, where his reputation as a scholar
had secured him many friends. He now accepted the editorship of the
_Scots Magazine_, to which he had formerly been a contributor, and
otherwise employed himself in literary pursuits. In 1799, he published,
in a duodecimo volume, "An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the
Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Central
Africa, at the Close of the Eighteenth Century." "The Complaynt of
Scotland," a curious political treatise of the sixteenth century, next
appeared under his editorial care, with an ingenious introduction, and
notes. In 1801, he contributed the ballad of "The Elf-king," to Lewis'
"Tales of Wonder;" and, about the same period, wrote several ballads for
the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The dissertation on "Fairy
Superstition," in the second volume of the latter work, slightly altered
by Scott, proceeded from his pen. In 1802, he edited a small volume,
entitled, "Scottish Descriptive Poems," consisting of a new edition of
Wilson's "Clyde," and a reprint of "Albania,"--a curious poem, in blank
verse, by an anonymous writer of the beginning of the eighteenth
century.

A wide circle of influential friends were earnestly desirous of his
promotion. In 1800, the opposition of the aged incumbent prevented his
appointment as assistant and successor in the ministerial charge of his
native parish. A proposal to appoint him Professor of Rhetoric in the
University of Edinburgh also failed. He now resolved to proceed to
Africa, to explore the interior, under the auspices of the African
Association; but some of his friends meanwhile procured him an
appointment as a surgeon in the East India Company's establishment at
Madras. During his course at the University, he had attended some of the
medical classes; and he now resumed the study of medicine, with such an
amount of success, that in six weeks he qualified himself for a
surgeon's diploma. About the same time, the degree of M.D. was conferred
on him by the University of St Andrews.

Before his departure for the East, Leyden finished his longest poem, the
"Scenes of Infancy," the publication of which he entrusted to his
friend, Dr Thomas Brown. His last winter in Britain he passed in London,
enjoying the society of many distinguished men of letters, to whom he
was introduced by his former friend, Mr Richard Heber. He sailed for
India[95] on the 7th April 1803, and arrived at Madras on the 19th
August. In Hindostan, his talents and extraordinary capabilities in
forming an acquaintance with the native tongues gained him numerous
friends. He was successively appointed surgeon to the commissioners for
surveying the provinces in Mysore, recently conquered from Tippoo
Sultan; professor of Hindostan in the College of Calcutta; judge of the
twenty-four pargunnahs of Calcutta; a commissioner of the Court of
Requests in Calcutta; and assay-master of the mint. His literary
services being required by the Governor-General, he left Calcutta for
Madras, and afterwards proceeded along with the army in the expedition
against Java. On the capture of the town of Batavia, having gone to
examine the library of the place, in which he expected to find some
curious Indian MSS., he caught a malignant fever from the tainted air of
the apartment. He survived only three days, terminating a life of much
promise, on the 28th of August 1811, in the thirty-sixth year of his
age.

In John Leyden an unconquerable perseverance was united to remarkable
native genius, and a memory of singular retentiveness. Eminent as a
linguist, he was an able and accurate philologist; in a knowledge of the
many languages of India he stood unrivalled. During his residence in the
East, he published a "Dissertation on the Languages and Literature of
the Indo-Chinese Nations," in the tenth volume of the "Asiatic
Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with
oriental learning. He was early a votary of the Muse; and, in youth, was
familiar with the older Scottish bards. In April 1795, he appeared in
the _Edinburgh Literary Magazine_ as author of an elegy "On the Death of
a Sister;" and subsequently became a regular contributor of verses to
the periodicals of the capital. His more esteemed poetical productions
are the "Scenes of Infancy," and the ballads which he composed for the
"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." Of the latter, the supernatural
machinery is singularly striking; in the former poem, much smooth and
elegant versification is combined with powerful and vigorous
description. There are, indeed, occasional repetitions and numerous
digressions; but amidst these marks of hasty composition, every sentence
bears evidence of a masculine intellect and powerful imagination. His
lyrical effusions are pervaded with simplicity and tenderness.

Like some other sons of genius, Leyden was of rather eccentric habits.
He affected to despise artificial manners; and, though frequenting
polished circles in Edinburgh, then in London, and afterwards in Madras
and Calcutta, he persevered in an indomitable aversion to the use of the
English tongue, which he so well knew how to write with precision and
power. He spoke the broadest provincial Scotch with singular
pertinacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly
unconscious of the defect, he talked loud; and if engaged in argument,
raised his voice to a pitch which frequently proved more powerful than
the strength of his reasoning. He was dogmatical in maintaining his
opinions, and prone to monopolise conversation; his gesticulations were
awkward and even offensive. Peculiar as were his habits, few of the
distinguished persons who sought his acquaintance ever desired to
renounce his friendship.[96] In his domestic habits, he was temperate
often to abstinence; he was frugal, but not mean--careful, but not
penurious. He was generous towards his aged parents; was deeply imbued
with a sense of religion, and was the foe of vice in every form. He was
of a slight figure, and of middle stature; his countenance was
peculiarly expressive of intelligence. His hair was auburn, his eyes
dark, and his complexion clear and sanguine. He was considerably robust,
and took delight in practising gymnastics; he desired fame, not less for
feats of running and leaping, than in the sedate pursuits of literature.
His premature death was the subject of general lamentation; in the "Lord
of the Isles," Scott introduced the following stanza in tribute to his
memory:--

    "His bright and brief career is o'er,
      And mute his tuneful strain;
    Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
    That loved the light of song to pour;
    A distant and a deadly shore
      Has Leyden's cold remains."



[94] We lately visited the spot. Not a vestige of the cottage remains. A
wilder and more desolate locality hardly ever nourished the youthful
imagination of a poet.

[95] Leyden was assisted in his outfit for India by Sir Walter Scott and
Sydney Smith, the latter contributing forty pounds. (See "Memoir of the
Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i. p. 21.
London: 1855. 2 vols. 8vo.)

[96] Thomas Campbell was one of Leyden's early literary friends; they
had quarrelled, but continued to respect each other's talents. The
following anecdote is recorded by Sir Walter Scott in his diary:--"When
I repeated 'Hohenlinden' to Leyden, he said, 'Dash it, man, tell the
fellow that I hate him; but, dash him, he has written the finest verses
that have been published these fifty years.' I did mine errand as
faithful as one of Homer's messengers, and had for answer:--'Tell Leyden
that I detest him, but I know the value of his critical
approbation.'"--_Lockhart's Life of Scott._




ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.


    How sweet thy modest light to view,
      Fair star! to love and lovers dear;
    While trembling on the falling dew,
      Like beauty shining through a tear.

    Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream,
      To mark that image trembling there,
    Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam,
      To see thy lovely face so fair.

    Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
      The moon thy timid beams outshine
    As far as thine each starry light,
      Her rays can never vie with thine.

    Thine are the soft, enchanting hours
      When twilight lingers on the plain,
    And whispers to the closing flowers
      That soon the sun will rise again.

    Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
      As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
    And bids the yielding heart expand
      In love's delicious ecstasy.

    Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove
      That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain,
    Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love--
      But sweeter to be loved again.




THE RETURN AFTER ABSENCE.


    Oh! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet,
    Warm breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet;
    And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam,
    Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home;
    The white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed,
    Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed.

    Rejoice, O Bokhara, and flourish for aye!
    Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay.
    Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies,
    Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise--
    Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king,
    In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring.




LAMENT FOR RAMA.

FROM THE BENGALI.


    I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh,
    For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly;
    Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array,
    Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away.

    All the people are flocking to see him pass by;
    They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye:
    From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves,
    And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.

    His fine locks are matted, no raiment has he
    For the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree;
    And of all his gay splendour, you nought may behold,
    Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.

    Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal array
    Before his proud squadrons his banners display,
    And the voice of the people exulting to own
    Their sovereign assuming the purple and crown;
    But the time has gone by, my hope is despair,--
    One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.

    Our light is departing, and darkness returns,
    Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns;
    Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain,
    And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.




JAMES SCADLOCK.


James Scadlock, a poet of considerable power, and an associate of
Tannahill, was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1775. His father, an
operative weaver, was a person of considerable shrewdness; and the poet
M'Laren, who became his biographer, was his uterine brother. Apprenticed
to the loom, he renounced weaving in the course of a year, and
thereafter was employed in the establishment of a bookbinder. At the age
of nineteen he entered on an indenture of seven years to a firm of
copperplate engravers at Ferenize. He had early been inclined to
verse-making, and, having formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, he was
led to cultivate with ardour his native predilection. He likewise
stimulated his ingenious friend to higher and more ambitious efforts in
poetry. Accomplished in the elegant arts of drawing and painting,
Scadlock began the study of classical literature and the modern
languages. A general stagnation of trade, which threw him out of
employment, checked his aspirations in learning. After an interval
attended with some privations, he heard of a professional opening at
Perth, which he proceeded to occupy. He returned to Paisley, after the
absence of one year; and having married in 1808, his attention became
more concentrated in domestic concerns. He died of fever on the 4th July
1818, leaving a family of four children.

Scadlock was an upright member of society, a sincere friend, a
benevolent neighbour, and an intelligent companion. In the performance
of his religious duties he was regular and exemplary. Desirious of
excelling in conversation, he was prone to evince an undue formality of
expression. His poetry, occasionally deficient in power, is uniformly
distinguished for smoothness of versification.




ALONG BY LEVERN STREAM SO CLEAR.[97]


    Along by Levern stream so clear,
    When Spring adorns the infant year,
    And music charms the list'ning ear,
        I 'll wander with my Mary,
        My bonny blooming Mary;
    Not Spring itself to me is dear,
        When absent from my Mary.

    When Summer's sun pours on my head
    His sultry rays, I 'll seek the shade,
    Unseen upon a primrose bed
        I 'll sit with little Mary,
        My bonny blooming Mary,
    Where fragrant flowers around are spread,
        To charm my little Mary.

    She 's mild 's the sun through April shower
    That glances on the leafy bower,
    She 's sweet as Flora's fav'rite flower,
        My bonny little Mary,
        My blooming little Mary;
    Give me but her, no other dower
        I 'll ask with little Mary.

    Should fickle fortune frown on me,
    And leave me bare 's the naked tree,
    Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be,
        My lovely little Mary,
        My bonny blooming Mary;
    From gloomy care and sorrow free,
        I 'd ever keep my Mary.



[97] Set to music by R. A. Smith.




HARK, HARK, THE SKYLARK SINGING.

WELSH AIR--_"The rising of the Lark."_


    Hark, hark the skylark singing,
    While the early clouds are bringing
          Fragrance on their wings;
    Still, still on high he 's soaring,
    Through the liquid haze exploring,
          Fainter now he sings.
    Where the purple dawn is breaking,
    Fast approaches morning's ray,
    From his wings the dew he 's shaking,
          As he joyful hails the day,
    While echo, from his slumbers waking,
          Imitates his lay.

    See, see the ruddy morning,
    With his blushing locks adorning
          Mountain, wood, and vale;
    Clear, clear the dew-drop 's glancing,
    As the rising sun 's advancing
          O'er the eastern hill;
    Now the distant summits clearing,
    As the vapours steal their way,
    And his heath-clad breast 's appearing,
          Tinged with Phoebus' golden ray,
    Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheering
          Morning with her lay.

    Come, then, let us be straying,
    Where the hazel boughs are playing,
          O'er yon summits gray;
    Mild now the breeze is blowing,
    And the crystal streamlet 's flowing
          Gently on its way.
    On its banks the wild rose springing
    Welcomes in the sunny ray,
    Wet with dew its head is hinging,
          Bending low the prickly spray;
    Then haste, my love, while birds are singing,
          To the newborn day.




OCTOBER WINDS.

AIR--_"Oh, my love's bonnie."_


    October winds, wi' biting breath,
      Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading;
    Nae gowans glint upon the green,
      Alas! they 're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading.
    As through the woods I musing gang,
      Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,
    Save little robin's lanely sang,
      Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.

    The sun is jogging down the brae,
      Dimly through the mist he 's shining,
    And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass,
      As Day resigns his throne to E'ening.
    Oft let me walk at twilight gray,
      To view the face of dying nature,
    Till Spring again, wi' mantle green,
      Delights the heart o' ilka creature.




SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART.


Alexander Boswell was the eldest son of James Boswell, the celebrated
biographer of Dr Johnson, and grandson of Lord Auchinleck, one of the
senators of the College of Justice. He was born on the 9th October 1775.
His mother, a daughter of Sir Walter Montgomery, Bart., of Lainshaw, was
a woman of superior intelligence, and of agreeable and dignified
manners. Along with his only brother James, he received his education at
Westminster School and the University of Oxford. In 1795, on the death
of his father, he succeeded to the paternal estate of Auchinleck. He now
made the tour of Europe, and on his return took up his residence in the
family mansion.

Inheriting his father's love of literature, and deriving from his mother
a taste for elegant accomplishments, Alexander Boswell diligently
applied himself to the cultivation of his mind, by an examination of the
stores of the famous "Auchinleck Library." From his youth he had been
ardent in his admiration of Burns, and had written verses for the
amusement of his friends. A wooer of the lyric Muse, many of his lays
rapidly obtained circulation, and were sung with a gusto not inferior to
that inspired by the songs of the Bard of Coila. In 1803 he published,
without his name, in a thin octavo volume, "Songs, chiefly in the
Scottish Dialect," and subsequently contributed a number of lyrics of
various merit to the Musical Collection of Mr George Thomson, and
Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology." Several other poetical works proceeded
from his pen. In 1803, shortly after the appearance of his songs, he
published a ballad entitled "The Spirit of Tintoc; or, Johnnie Bell and
the Kelpie," with notes, 16 pp. 8vo: Mundell and Son, Edinburgh. This
performance, in which are humorously related the adventures of a drunken
tailor with the brownies and other denizens of the unseen world, on the
summit of Tintoc Hill, was followed in 1810 by another amusing poem,
bearing the title of "Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty, a Sketch of
Former Manners, with Notes by Simon Gray." In this poem, the changes
which had occurred in the habits of the citizens of Edinburgh are
pourtrayed in a colloquy between an old farmer and his city friend. In
1811 appeared "Clan-Alpin's Vow, a Fragment," with the author's name
prefixed. This production, founded upon a horrible tragedy connected
with the history of the Clan Macgregor, proved one of the most popular
of the author's works; it was reprinted in 1817, by Bentley and Son,
London. His future publications may be simply enumerated; they were
generally issued from a printing press which he established in the
mansion of Auchinleck. In 1812 he printed, for private circulation, a
poetical fragment entitled "Sir Albon," intended to burlesque the
peculiar style and rhythm of Sir Walter Scott; in 1815, "The Tyrant's
Fall," a poem on the battle of Waterloo; in 1816, "Skeldon Haughs, or
the Sow is Flitted," a tale in verse founded on an old Ayrshire
tradition; and in the same year another poetical tale, after the manner
of Allan Ramsay's "Monk and Miller's Wife," entitled, "The Woo'-creel,
or the Bull o' Bashun." From his printing office at Auchinleck, besides
his poetical tales and pasquinades, he issued many curious and
interesting works, chiefly reprints of scarce tracts on different
subjects, preserved in the Auchinleck Library. Of these the most
remarkable was the disputation between John Knox and Quentin Kennedy, at
Maybole, in 1562, of which the only copy then known to exist was
deposited in his paternal library.[98]

Amidst his devotedness to the pursuits of elegant literature, Mr Boswell
bestowed much attention on public affairs. He was M.P. for the county of
Ayr; and though silent in the House of Commons, was otherwise
indefatigable in maintaining his political sentiments. He supported
strict conservative principles, and was not without the apprehension of
civil disturbance through the impetuosity of the advocates of reform. As
Lieutenant-Colonel of the Ayrshire Yeomanry Cavalry, he was painstaking
in the training of his troops; the corps afterwards acknowledging his
services by the presentation of a testimonial. In 1821, his zeal for the
public interest was rewarded by his receiving the honour of a Baronetcy.

One of the most substantial of Sir Alexander's patriotic achievements
was the erection of an elegant monument to Robert Burns on the banks of
the Doon. The mode in which the object was accomplished is sufficiently
interesting. Along with a friend who warmly approved of the design, Sir
Alexander advertised in the public prints that a meeting would be held
at Ayr, on a particular day, to take into consideration the proposal of
rearing a monument to the great national bard. The day and hour arrived,
but, save the projectors, not a single individual attended. Nothing
disheartened, Sir Alexander took the chair, and his friend proceeded to
act as clerk; resolutions were proposed, seconded, and recorded, thanks
were voted to the chairman, and the meeting separated. These resolutions
being printed and circulated, were the means of raising by public
subscription the sum of nearly two thousand pounds for the erection of
the monument. Sir Alexander laid the foundation stone on the 25th of
January 1820.

The literary and patriotic career of Sir Alexander Boswell was brought
to a sudden termination. Prone to indulge a strong natural tendency for
sarcasm, especially against his political opponents, he published, in a
Glasgow newspaper, a severe poetical pasquinade against Mr James Stuart,
younger of Dunearn, a leading member of the Liberal party in Edinburgh.
The discovery of the authorship was followed by a challenge from Mr
Stuart, which being accepted, the hostile parties met near the village
of Auchtertool, in Fife. Sir Alexander fell, the ball from the pistol of
his antagonist having entered near the root of his neck on the right
side. He was immediately carried to Balmuto, a seat of his ancestors in
the vicinity, where he expired the following day. The duel took place on
the 26th March 1822.

The remains of the deceased Baronet were solemnly deposited in the
family vault of Auchinleck. In personal appearance, Sir Alexander
presented a powerful muscular figure; in society, he was fond of
anecdote and humour. In his youth he was keen on the turf and in field
sports; he subsequently found his chief entertainment in literary
avocations. As a poet, he had been better known if his efforts had been
of a less fragmentary character. The general tendency of his Muse was
drollery, but some of his lyrics are sufficiently touching.


[98] Another copy has since been discovered.




JENNY'S BAWBEE.


    I met four chaps yon birks amang,
    Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang;
    I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
        Wha 's they I see?
    Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel'
    Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,
    And here they cam awa' to steal
        Jenny's bawbee.

    The first, a Captain to his trade,
    Wi' ill-lined skull, but back weel clade,
    March'd round the barn, and by the shed,
        And papped on his knee:
    Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen,
    Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en!
    Though ne'er a beauty he had seen
        But Jenny's bawbee.

    A Norland Laird neist trotted up,
    Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup;
    Cried--There 's my beast, lad, haud the grup,
        Or tie it to a tree.
    What 's gowd to me? I 've wealth o' lan',
    Bestow on ane o' worth your han':
    He thought to pay what he was awn
      Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

    A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab,
    Wha speeches wove like ony wab;
    O' ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
      And a' for a fee;
    Accounts he owed through a' the toun,
    And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown;
    But now he thought to clout his goun
        Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

    Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,
    A fool came neist; but life has rubs;
    Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
        And jaupit a' was he:
    He danced up, squintin' through a glass,
    And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass!
    He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
        Jenny's bawbee.

    She bade the laird gae kaim his wig,
    The sodger not to strut sae big,
    The lawyer not to be a prig;
        The fool he cried, Te-hee!
    I kenn'd that I could never fail!
    But she pinn'd the dishclout to his tail,
    And soused him frae the water-pail,
        And kept her bawbee.

    Then Johnnie came, a lad o' sense,
    Although he had na mony pence;
    And took young Jenny to the spence,
        Wi' her to crack a wee.
    Now Johnnie was a clever chiel',
    And here his suit he press'd sae weel
    That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel,
        And she birl'd her bawbee.[99]



[99] The last stanza does not appear in the original version of the
song; it is here added from Allan Cunningham's collection. The idea of
the song, Cunningham remarks, was probably suggested to the author by an
old fragment, which still lives among the peasantry:--

    "And a' that e'er my Jenny had,
    My Jenny had, my Jenny had,
    A' that e'er my Jenny had,
        Was ae bawbee.
    There 's your plack and my plack,
    And your plack and my plack,
    And my plack and your plack,
        And Jenny's bawbee.

    We 'll put it in the pint stoup,
    The pint stoup, the pint stoup,
    We 'll put it in the pint stoup,
       And birl 't a' three."




JENNY DANG THE WEAVER.[100]


    At Willie's weddin' o' the green,
      The lasses, bonnie witches,
    Were busked out in aprons clean,
      And snaw-white Sunday mutches;
    Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent,
      But Jock wad na believe her;
    But soon the fool his folly kent,
      For Jenny dang the weaver.

    In ilka country dance and reel
      Wi' her he wad be babbin';
    When she sat down, then he sat down,
      And till her wad be gabbin';
    Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben,
      The coof wad never leave her,
    Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen,
      But Jenny dang the weaver.

    Quoth he, My lass, to speak my mind,
      In troth I needna swither,
    Ye 've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye 're kind,
      I needna court anither!
    He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried "pheugh,"
      And bade the coof no deave her,
    Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and leugh,
      And dang the silly weaver.


[100] The origin of the air is somewhat amusing. The Rev. Mr Gardner,
minister of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, known for his humour and musical
talents, was one evening playing over on his Cremona the notes of an air
he had previously jotted down, when a curious scene arrested his
attention in the courtyard of the manse. His man "Jock," who had lately
been a weaver in the neighbouring village, had rudely declined to wipe
the minister's shoes, as requested by Mrs Gardner, when the enraged
matron, snatching a culinary utensil, administered a hearty drubbing to
the shoulders of the impudent boor, and compelled him to execute her
orders. The minister witnessing the proceeding from the window, was
highly diverted, and gave the air he had just completed the title of
"Jenny Dang the Weaver." This incident is said to have occurred in the
year 1746.




THE LASS O' ISLA.


    "Ah, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell!
      My hopes are flown, for a 's to wreck;
    Heaven guard you, love, and heal your heart,
      Though mine, alas, alas! maun break."

    "Dearest lad, what ills betide?
      Is Willie to his love untrue?
    Engaged the morn to be his bride,
      Ah! hae ye, hae ye, ta'en the rue?"

    "Ye canna wear a ragged gown,
      Or beggar wed wi' nought ava;
    My kye are drown'd, my house is down,
      My last sheep lies aneath the snaw."

    "Tell na me o' storm or flood,
      Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill;
    For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed,
      Though poor, ye are my Willie still."

    "Ye canna thole the wind and rain,
      Or wander friendless far frae hame;
    Cheer, cheer your heart, some other swain
      Will soon blot out lost Willie's name."

    "I 'll tak my bundle in my hand,
      An' wipe the dew-drop frae my e'e;
    I 'll wander wi' ye ower the land;
      I 'll venture wi' ye ower the sea."

    "Forgi'e me, love, 'twas all a snare,
      My flocks are safe, we needna part;
    I 'd forfeit them and ten times mair
      To clasp thee, Mary, to my heart."

    "How could ye wi' my feelings sport,
      Or doubt a heart sae warm and true?
    I maist could wish ye mischief for 't,
      But canna wish ought ill to you."




TASTE LIFE'S GLAD MOMENTS.[101]


        Taste life's glad moments,
          Whilst the wasting taper glows;
        Pluck, ere it withers,
          The quickly-fading rose.

    Man blindly follows grief and care,
    He seeks for thorns, and finds his share,
    Whilst violets to the passing air
      Unheeded shed their blossoms.
        Taste life's, &c.

    When tim'rous Nature veils her form,
    And rolling thunder spreads alarm,
    Then, ah! how sweet, when lull'd the storm,
      The sun shines forth at even.
        Taste life's, &c.

    How spleen and envy anxious flies,
    And meek content, in humble guise,
    Improves the shrub, a tree shall rise,
      Which golden fruits shall yield him.
        Taste life's, &c.

    Who fosters faith in upright breast,
    And freely gives to the distress'd,
    There sweet contentment builds her nest,
      And flutters round his bosom.
        Taste life's, &c.

    And when life's path grows dark and strait,
    And pressing ills on ills await,
    Then friendship, sorrow to abate,
      The helping hand will offer.
        Taste life's, &c.

    She dries his tears, she strews his way,
    E'en to the grave, with flow'rets gay,
    Turns night to morn, and morn to day,
      And pleasure still increases.
        Taste life's, &c.

    Of life she is the fairest band,
    Joins brothers truly hand in hand,
    Thus, onward to a better land,
      Man journeys light and cheerly.
        Taste life's, &c.


[101] These verses, which form a translation of _Freùt euch des Libens_,
were written at Leipsig in 1795, when the author was on his continental
tour. He was then in his twentieth year.




GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'.


    Good night, and joy be wi' ye a',
      Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart;
    May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw;
      In sorrow may ye never part!
    My spirit lives, but strength is gone,
      The mountain-fires now blaze in vain;
    Remember, sons, the deeds I 've done,
      And in your deeds I 'll live again!

    When on yon muir our gallant clan,
      Frae boasting foes their banners tore;
    Wha shew'd himself a better man,
      Or fiercer waved the red claymore?
    But when in peace--then mark me there--
      When through the glen the wand'rer came,
    I gave him of our lordly fare,
      I gave him here a welcome hame.

    The auld will speak, the young maun hear;
      Be cantie, but be gude and leal;
    Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,
      Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
    So, ere I set, I 'll see ye shine;
      I 'll see ye triumph ere I fa';
    My parting breath shall boast you mine--
      Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'!




OLD AND NEW TIMES.[102]

AIR--_"Kellyburn Braes."_


    Hech! what a change hae we now in this town!
      The lads a' sae braw, the lasses sae glancin',
    Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the roun'
      For deil a haet 's done now but feastin' and dancin'.

    Gowd 's no that scanty in ilk siller pock,
      When ilka bit laddie maun hae his bit staigie;
    But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock,
      But trotted about upon honest shank's naigie.

    Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste,
      Barely a mullin for mice or for rattens;
    The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced,
      Her equipage a'--just a gude pair o' pattens.

    Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal,
      Though coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin';
    Right air we were tell 't by the housemaid or chiel',
      Sir, an' ye please, here 's your lass and a lantern.

    The town may be clouted and pieced, till it meets
      A' neebours benorth and besouth, without haltin';
    Brigs may be biggit ower lums and ower streets,
      The Nor' Loch itsel' heapêd heigh as the Calton.

    But whar is true friendship, and whar will you see,
      A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty?
    Tak' gray hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me,
      And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty.


[102] Contributed to the fourth volume of Mr George Thomson's
Collection.




BANNOCKS O' BARLEY MEAL.[103]

AIR--_"Bannocks o' Barley Meal."_


    Argyle is my name, and you may think it strange
    To live at a court, and yet never to change;
    To faction, or tyranny, equally foe,
    The good of the land 's the sole motive I know.
    The foes of my country and king I have faced,
    In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced;
    I 've done what I could for my country's weal,
    Now I 'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.

    Ye riots and revels of London, adieu!
    And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you!
    For Scotland, I mingled in bustle and strife;
    For myself, I seek peace and an innocent life:
    I 'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each scene,
    With Maggie, my love, in her rockley o' green;
    On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I 'll feel,
    While she shares my bannock o' barley meal!

    And if it chance Maggie should bring me a son,
    He shall fight for his king, as his father has done;
    I 'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride--
    O! may he be worthy to wear 't on his side.
    I pant for the breeze of my loved native place;
    I long for the smile of each welcoming face;
    I 'll aff to the Highlands as fast 's I can reel,
    And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.


[103] This song was contributed by Sir Alexander Boswell to the third
volume of Thomson's Collection. It is not wholly original, but an
improved version of former words to the same air, which are understood
to be the composition of John Campbell, the celebrated Duke of Argyle
and Greenwich, who died on the 4th October 1743.




WILLIAM GILLESPIE.


William Gillespie was born in the manse of Kells, in Galloway, on the
18th February 1776. His father, John Gillespie, minister of Kells, was
the intimate friend of Robert Burns; and likewise an early patron of
John Low, the ingenious, but unfortunate author of "Mary's Dream."
Receiving the rudiments of education at the parish school, William
proceeded, in 1792, to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his
studies for the Church. Obtaining licence as a probationer, he was, in
1801, ordained assistant and successor to his father, on whose death, in
1806, he succeeded to the full benefits of the charge. Inheriting from
his father an elegant turn of mind and a devotedness to literary
composition, he was induced to publish, in his twenty-ninth year, an
allegorical poem, entitled "The Progress of Refinement." A higher effort
from his pen appeared in 1815, under the title of "Consolation, and
other Poems." This volume, which abounds in vigorous sentiment and rich
poetical description, evincing on the part of the author a high
appreciation of the beauties of nature, considerably extended his
reputation. He formed habits of intimacy with many of his poetical
contemporaries, by whom he was beloved for the amenity of his
disposition. He largely contributed to various periodicals, especially
the agricultural journals; and was a zealous member of the Highland
Society of Scotland.

In July 1825, Mr Gillespie espoused Miss Charlotte Hoggan. Soon after
this event, he was attacked with erysipelas,--a complaint which,
resulting in general inflammation, terminated his promising career on
the 15th of October, in his fiftieth year. The following lyrics evince
fancy and deep pathos, causing a regret that the author did not more
amply devote himself to the composition of songs.




THE HIGHLANDER.[104]


    From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary,
      The Highlander sped to his youthful abode;
    Fair visions of home cheer'd the desert so dreary,
      Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.

    Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him,
      He stopp'd by the way in a sylvan retreat;
    The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him,
      The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.

    He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended,
      On dreams of his childhood his fancy past o'er;
    But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended,
      The sound of the bagpipes shall wake him no more.

    No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him,
      Though war launch'd her thunder in fury to kill;
    Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found him,
      And stretch'd him in peace by the stream of the hill.

    Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest,
      The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest;
    And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest,
      And moistens the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.



[104] Many years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his
native hills, fatigued, as was supposed, by the length of the march and
the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch tree on the
solitary road of Lowran, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken, in
Galloway. Here he was found dead; and this incident forms the subject of
these verses.--_Note by the Author._ "The Highlander" is set to a Gaelic
air in the fifth volume of R. A. Smith's "Scottish Minstrel."




ELLEN.


    The moon shone in fits,
      And the tempest was roaring,
    The Storm Spirit shriek'd,
      And the fierce rain was pouring;
    Alone in her chamber,
      Fair Ellen sat sighing,
    The tapers burn'd dim,
      And the embers were dying.

    "The drawbridge is down,
      That spans the wide river;
    Can tempests divide,
      Whom death cannot sever?
    Unclosed is the gate,
      And those arms long to fold thee,
    'Tis midnight, my love;
      O say, what can hold thee?"

    But scarce flew her words,
      When the bridge reft asunder,
    The horseman was crossing,
      'Mid lightning and thunder,
    And loud was the yell,
      As he plunged in the billow,
    The maid knew it well,
      As she sprang from her pillow.

    She scream'd o'er the wall,
      But no help was beside her;
    And thrice to her view
      Rose the horse and his rider.
    She gazed at the moon,
      But the dark cloud pass'd over;
    She plunged in the stream,
      And she sunk to her lover.

    Say, what is that flame,
      O'er the midnight deep beaming?
    And whose are those forms,
      In the wan moonlight gleaming?
    That flame gilds the wave,
      Which their pale corses cover;
    And those forms are the ghosts
      Of the maid and her lover.




THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM.


Thomas Mounsey Cunningham, an elder brother of Allan Cunningham, is
entitled to commemoration among the modern song-writers of his country.
His ancestors were lords of that district of Ayrshire which still bears
their family name; and a small inheritance in that county, which
belonged to his more immediate progenitors, was lost to the name and
race by the head of the family having espoused the cause and joined the
army of the Duke of Montrose. For several generations his forefathers
were farmers at Gogar, in the parish of Ratho, Midlothian. John
Cunningham, his father, was born at Gogar on the 26th March 1743, whence
he removed in his twenty-third year to fill the situation of
land-steward on the estate of Lumley, in the parish of Chester, and
county of Durham. He next became overseer on the property of Mr Mounsey
of Ramerscales, near Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire. He married Elizabeth
Harley, a lady of good connexions and of elegant personal
accomplishments, and with the view of acquiring a more decided
independence in his new condition, took in lease the farm of Culfaud, in
the stewartry of Kirkcudbright. Of a family of ten, Thomas was the
second son; he was born at Culfaud on the 25th June 1776. During his
infancy the farming speculations of his father proved unfortunate, and
the lease of Culfaud was abandoned. Returning to his former occupation
as a land-steward, John Cunningham was employed in succession by the
proprietors of Barncaillie and Collieston, and latterly by the
ingenious Mr Miller of Dalswinton.

Thomas was educated at the village-school of Kellieston, and
subsequently at the academy of Dumfries. The circumstances of his
parents required that he should choose a manual profession; and he was
apprenticed by his own desire to a neighbouring mill-wright. It was
during his intervals of leisure, while acquiring a knowledge of this
laborious occupation, that he first essayed the composition of verses;
he submitted his poems to his father, who mingled judicious criticism
with words of encouragement. "The Har'st Home," one of his earliest
pieces of merit, was privileged with insertion in the series of "Poetry,
Original and Selected," published by Brash & Reid, booksellers in
Glasgow. Proceeding to England in 1797, he entered the workshop of a
mill-wright in Rotherham. Under the same employer he afterwards pursued
his craft at King's Lynn; in 1800 he removed to Wiltshire, and soon
after to the neighbourhood of Cambridge. He next received employment at
Dover, and thence proceeded to London, where he occupied a situation in
the establishment of Rennie, the celebrated engineer. He afterwards
became foreman to one Dickson, an engineer, and superintendent of
Fowler's chain-cable manufactory. In 1812 he returned to Rennie's
establishment as a clerk, with a liberal salary. On leaving his father's
house to seek his fortune in the south, he had been strongly counselled
by Mr Miller of Dalswinton to abjure the gratification of his poetical
tendencies, and he seems to have resolved on the faithful observance of
this injunction. For a period of nine years his muse was silent; at
length, in 1806, he appeared in the _Scots Magazine_ as the contributor
of some of the best verses which had ever adorned the pages of that
periodical. The editor was eloquent in his commendations; and the
Ettrick Shepherd, who was already a contributor to the magazine, took
pains to discover the author, and addressed him a lengthened poetical
epistle, expressive of his admiration. A private intimacy ensued between
the two rising poets; and when the Shepherd, in 1809, planned the
"Forest Minstrel," he made application to his ingenious friend for
contributions. Cunningham sanctioned the republication of such of his
lyrics as had appeared in the _Scots Magazine_, and these proved the
best ornaments of the work.

Impatient of criticism, and of a whimsical turn of mind, Cunningham was
incapable of steadfastly pursuing the career of a man of letters. Just
as his name was becoming known by his verses in the _Scots Magazine_, he
took offence at some incidental allusions to his style, and suddenly
stopped his contributions. Silent for a second period of nine years, the
circumstance of the appropriation of one of his songs in the "Nithsdale
Minstrel," a provincial collection of poetry, published at Dumfries,
again aroused him to authorship. He made the publishers the subject of a
satirical poem in the _Scots Magazine_ of 1815. On the origin of the
_Edinburgh Magazine_, in 1817, he became a contributor, and under the
title of the "Literary Legacy," wrote many curious snatches of
antiquities, sketches of modern society, and scraps of song and ballad,
which imparted a racy interest to the pages of the new periodical. A
slight difference with the editor at length induced him to relapse into
silence. Fitful and unsettled as a cultivator of literature, he was in
the business of life a model of regularity and perseverance. He was much
esteemed by his employer, and was ultimately promoted to the chief
clerkship in his establishment. He fell a victim to the Asiatic cholera
on the 28th October 1834, in the 58th year of his age. During his latter
years he was in the habit of examining at certain intervals the MSS. of
prose and poetry, which at a former period he had accumulated. On those
occasions he uniformly destroyed some which he deemed unworthy of
further preservation. During one of these purgations, he hastily
committed to the flames a poem on which he had bestowed much labour, and
which contained a humorous description of scenes and characters familiar
to him in youth. The poem was entitled "Braken Fell;" and his ingenious
brother Allan, in a memoir of the author, has referred to its
destruction in terms of regret.[105] The style of Thomas Cunningham
seems, however, to have been lyrical, and it may be presumed that his
songs afford the best evidence of his power. In private life he was much
cherished by a circle of friends, and his society was gay and animated.
He was rather above the middle height, and latterly was corpulent. He
married in 1804, and has left a family.


[105] See _Scottish Monthly Magazine_, August 1836.




ADOWN THE BURNIE'S FLOWERY BANK.[106]


    Adown the burnie's flowery bank,
      Or through the shady grove,
    Or 'mang the bonnie scroggie braes,
      Come, Peggy, let us rove.
    See where the stream out ower the linn
      Deep headlong foamin' pours,
    There let us gang and stray amang
      The bloomin' hawthorn bowers.

    We 'll pu' the rose frae aff the brier,
      The lily frae the brae;
    We 'll hear the birdies blithely sing,
      As up the glen we gae.
    His yellow haughs o' wavin' grain
      The farmer likes to see,
    But my ain Peggy's artless smile
      Is far mair dear to me.


[106] Written when the author was quite a youth.




THE HILLS O' GALLOWA'.[107]

TUNE--_"The Lea Rig."_


    Amang the birks sae blithe an' gay,
      I met my Julia hameward gaun;
    The linties chantit on the spray,
      The lammies loupit on the lawn;
    On ilka swaird the hay was mawn,
      The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',
    An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawn
      Out ower the hills o' Gallowa'.

    Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
      An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
    As down we sat the flowers amang,
      Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
    My Julia's arms encircled me,
      An' saftly slade the hours awa',
    Till dawning coost a glimm'rin' e'e
      Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.

    It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,
      It isna gowd, it isna gear,
    This lifted e'e wad hae, quo' I,
      The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer;
    But gie to me my Julia dear,
      Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba',
    An' oh, sae blithe through life I 'll steer,
      Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

    When gloamin' daunders up the hill,
      An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
    Wi' her I 'll trace the mossy rill
      That through the muir meand'ring rowes;
    Or tint amang the scroggie knowes,
      My birken pipe I 'll sweetly blaw,
    An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes,
      The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.

    An' when auld Scotland's heathy hills,
      Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,
    Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills,
      Awake nae mair my canty strains;
    Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns,
      Where heather blooms an' muircocks craw,
    Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banes
      Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.


[107] Like many other Scottish songs composed early in the century, and
which at the time of publication were unacknowledged by their authors,
the "Hills o' Gallowa'" came to be attributed to Burns. It is included
among his songs in Orphoot's edition of his poetical works, which was
published at Edinburgh in 1820. In the "Harp of Caledonia," the editor,
Mr Struthers, assigns it to the Ettrick Shepherd. Along with those which
follow, the song appeared in the "Forest Minstrel." The heroine was
Julia Curtis, a maiden in Galloway, to whom Cunningham was early
attached. She is also celebrated by the poet in the "Braes of Ballahun,"
and her early demise is lamented in the tender stanzas of "Julia's
Grave." The latter composition first appeared in the _Scots Magazine_
for 1807, p. 448.




THE BRAES OF BALLAHUN.[108]

TUNE--_"Roslin Castle."_


    Now smiling summer's balmy breeze,
    Soft whispering, fans the leafy trees;
    The linnet greets the rosy morn,
    Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn;
    The bee hums round the woodbine bower,
    Collecting sweets from every flower;
    And pure the crystal streamlets run
    Among the braes of Ballahun.

    Oh, blissful days, for ever fled,
    When wand'ring wild, as fancy led,
    I ranged the bushy bosom'd glen,
    The scroggie shaw, the rugged linn,
    And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush,
    Where nestling sat the speckled thrush;
    Or, careless roaming, wander'd on
    Among the braes of Ballahun.

    Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh,
    When hills and dales rebound with joy?
    The flowery glen and lilied lea,
    In vain display their charms to me.
    I joyless roam the heathy waste,
    To soothe this sad, this troubled breast;
    And seek the haunts of men to shun,
    Among the braes of Ballahun.

    The virgin blush of lovely youth,
    The angel smile of artless truth,
    This breast illumed with heavenly joy,
    Which lyart time can ne'er destroy.
    Oh, Julia dear! the parting look,
    The sad farewell we sorrowing took,
    Still haunt me as I stray alone,
    Among the braes of Ballahun.


[108] Ballahun is a romantic glen, near Blackwood House, on the river
Nith.




THE UNCO GRAVE.[109]

TUNE--_"Crazy Jane."_


    Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander
      Hills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang,
    Ilka knowe an' green meander,
      Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang!
    Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,
      Howms whare rows the gowden wave;
    Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!
      I maun seek an unco grave.

    Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly,
      Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules,
    That some faithfu' hand might kindly
      Lay 't among my native mools.
    Cronies dear, wha late an' early
      Aye to soothe my sorrows strave,
    Think on ane wha lo'es ye dearly,
      Doom'd to seek an unco grave.

    Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains,
      Far frae a' that 's dear to dwall,
    Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains,
      Dings a dirk in my puir saul.
    Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather,
      Howms whare rows the gowden wave,
    Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever!
      I maun seek an unco grave.


[109] The Clouden is a stream which flows into the Nith, at Lincluden
College, near Dumfries.




JULIA'S GRAVE.

TUNE--_"Logan Water."_


    Ye briery bields, where roses blaw!
      Ye flowery fells, and sunny braes,
    Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a'
      The pleasures o' my youthfu' days!
    Amang your leafy simmer claes,
      And blushing blooms, the zephyr flies,
    Syne wings awa', and wanton plays
      Around the grave whare Julia lies.

    Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers,
      Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay,
    Can cheer the weary winged hours,
      As up the glen I joyless stray;
    For a' my hopes hae flown away,
      And when they reach'd their native skies,
    Left me amid the world o' wae,
      To weet the grave where Julia lies.

    It is na beauty's fairest bloom,
      It is na maiden charms consign'd,
    And hurried to an early tomb,
      That wrings my heart and clouds my mind;
    But sparkling wit, and sense refined,
      And spotless truth, without disguise,
    Make me with sighs enrich the wind
      That fans the grave whare Julia lies.




FAREWEEL, YE STREAMS.

AIR--_"Lassie wi' the Yellow Coatie."_


    Fareweel, ye streams sae dear to me,
    My bonnie Clouden, Kith, and Dee;
    Ye burns that row sae bonnily,
      Your siller waves nae mair I 'll see.
    Yet though frae your green banks I 'm driven,
    My saul away could ne'er be riven;
    For still she lifts her e'en to heaven,
      An' sighs to be again wi' thee.

    Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed,
    Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed,
    An' lilt alang the verdant mead,
      Or blithely on your whistles blaw,
    An' sing auld Scotia's barns an ha's,
    Her bourtree dykes an mossy wa's,
    Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws,
      Whare love an' freedom sweeten a'.

    Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld,
    Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld,
    Her wabsters blithe, an' souters bauld,
      Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see.
    Sing o' her mountains bleak an high;
    Her fords, whare neigh'rin' kelpies ply;
    Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy;
      Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.

    To you the darling theme belangs,
    That frae my heart exulting spangs;
    Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs,
      The lads that bled for liberty.
    Think o' our auld forbears o' yore,
    Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore;
    Wha slavery's bands indignant tore,
      An' bravely fell for you an' me.

    My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld,
    Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld,
    Until your dearest bluid rin cauld,
      Aye true unto your country be.
    Wi' daring look her dirk she drew,
    An' coost a mither's e'e on you;
    Then let na ony spulzien crew
      Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.




JOHN STRUTHERS.


John Struthers, whose name is familiar as the author of "The Poor Man's
Sabbath," was born on the 18th July 1776, in the parish of East
Kilbride, Lanarkshire. His parents were of the humbler rank, and were
unable to send him to school; but his mother, a woman of superior
intelligence, was unremitting in her efforts to teach him at home. She
was aided in her good work by a benevolent lady of the neighbourhood,
who, interested by the boy's precocity, often sent for him to read to
her. This kind-hearted individual was Mrs Baillie, widow of the Rev. Dr
Baillie of Hamilton, who was then resident at Longcalderwood, and whose
celebrated daughter, Joanna Baillie, afterwards took a warm interest in
the fame and fortunes of her mother's _protégé_. From the age of eight
to fourteen, young Struthers was engaged as a cowherd and in general
work about a farm; he then apprenticed himself to a shoemaker. On the
completion of his indenture, he practised his craft several years in his
native village till September 1801, when he sought a wider field of
business in Glasgow. In 1804, he produced his first and most celebrated
poem, "The Poor Man's Sabbath," which, printed at his own risk, was well
received, and rapidly passed through two editions. On the recommendation
of Sir Walter Scott, to whom the poem was made known by Joanna Baillie,
Constable published a third edition in 1808, handing the author thirty
pounds for the copyright. Actively employed in his trade, Struthers
continued to devote his leisure hours to composition. In 1816 he
published a pamphlet "On the State of the Labouring Poor." A more
ambitious literary effort was carried out in 1819; he edited a
collection of the national songs, which was published at Glasgow, under
the title of "The Harp of Caledonia," in three vols. 18mo. To this work
Joanna Baillie, Mrs John Hunter, and Mr William Smyth of Cambridge
contributed songs, while Scott and others permitted the re-publication
of such of their lyrics as the author chose to select.

Struthers married early in life. About the year 1818 his wife and two of
his children were snatched from him by death, and these bereavements so
affected him, as to render him unable to prosecute his labours as a
tradesman. He now procured employment as a corrector of the press, in
the printing-office of Khull, Blackie, & Co. During his connexion with
this establishment he assisted in preparing an edition of "Wodrow's
History," and produced a "History of Scotland" from the political Union
in 1707 to the year 1827, the date of its publication. These works--the
latter extending to two octavo volumes--were published by his employers.
On a dissolution of their co-partnership, in 1827, Struthers was thrown
out of employment till his appointment, in 1832, to the Keepership of
Stirling's Library, a respectable institution in Glasgow. This
situation, which yielded him a salary of about £50 a-year, he retained
till 1847, when he was led to tender his resignation. In his
seventy-first year he returned to his original trade, after being thirty
years occupied with literary concerns. He died suddenly on the 30th July
1853, at the advanced age of seventy-seven.

A man of strong intellect and vigorous imagination, John Struthers was
industrious in his trade, and persevering as an author, yet he failed to
obtain a competency for the winter of life; his wants, however, were
few, and he never sought to complain. Inheriting pious dispositions from
his parents, he excelled in familiarity with the text of Scripture, and
held strong opinions on the subject of morality. Educated in the
communion of the Original Secession Church, he afterwards joined the
Establishment, and ultimately retired from it at the Disruption in 1843.
He was a zealous member of the Free Church, and being admitted to the
eldership, was on two occasions sent as a representative to the General
Assembly of that body. An enthusiast respecting the beauties of external
nature, he was in the habit of undertaking lengthened pedestrian
excursions into the country, and took especial delight in rambling by
the sea-shore, or climbing the mountain-tops. His person was tall and
slight, though abundantly muscular, and capable of undergoing the toil
of extended journeys. Three times married, he left a widow, who has
lately emigrated to America; of his children two sons and two daughters
survive.

Besides the works already enumerated, Struthers was the author of other
compositions, both in prose and verse. He wrote an octavo pamphlet of 96
pages in favour of National Church Establishments; contributed memoirs
of James Hogg, minister of Carnock, and Principal Robertson to the
_Christian Instructor_, and prepared various lives of deceased worthies,
which were included in the "Illustrious and Distinguished Scotsmen,"
edited by Mr Robert Chambers. At the period of his death, he was engaged
in preparing a continuation of his "History of Scotland," to the era of
the Disruption; he also meditated the publication of a volume of essays.
His poetical works, which appeared at various intervals, were
re-published in 1850, in two duodecimo volumes, with an interesting
autobiographical sketch. Of his poems those most deserving of notice,
next to the "Sabbath," are "The House of Mourning, or the Peasant's
Death," and "The Plough," both evincing grave and elevated sentiment,
expressed in correct poetical language. The following songs are
favourable specimens of his lyrical compositions.




ADMIRING NATURE'S SIMPLE CHARMS.

TUNE--_"Gramachre."_


    Admiring Nature's simple charms,
      I left my humble home,
    Awhile my country's peaceful plains
      With pilgrim step to roam.
    I mark'd the leafy summer wave
      On flowing Irvine's side,
    But richer far 's the robe she wears
      Within the vale of Clyde.

    I roam'd the braes o' bonnie Doon,
      The winding banks o' Ayr,
    Where flutters many a small bird gay,
      Blooms many a flow'ret fair.
    But dearer far to me the stem
      That once was Calder's pride,
    And blossoms now the fairest flower
      Within the vale of Clyde.

    Avaunt, thou life-repressing north,
      Ye withering east winds too;
    But come, thou all-reviving west,
      Breathe soft thy genial dew.
    Till at the last, in peaceful age,
      This lovely flow'ret shed
    Its last green leaf upon my grave,
      Within the vale of Clyde.




OH, BONNIE BUDS YON BIRCHEN TREE.

TUNE--_"The mill, mill, O."_


    Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree,
      The western breeze perfuming;
    And softly smiles yon sunny brae,
      Wi' gowans gaily blooming.
    But sweeter than yon birchen tree,
      Or gowans gaily blooming,
    Is she, in blushing modesty,
      Wha meets me there at gloaming.

    Oh, happy, happy there yestreen,
      In mutual transport ranging,
    Among these lovely scenes, unseen,
      Our vows of love exchanging.
    The moon, with clear, unclouded face,
      Seem'd bending to behold us;
    And breathing birks, with soft embrace,
      Most kindly to enfold us.

    We bade each tree record our vows,
      And each surrounding mountain,
    With every star on high that glows
      From light's o'erflowing fountain.
    But gloaming gray bedims the vale,
      On day's bright beam encroaching;
    With rapture once again I hail
      The trysting hour approaching.




RICHARD GALL.


Richard Gall was born in December 1776, at Linkhouse, near Dunbar. His
father was a notary; but, being in poor circumstances, he apprenticed
his son, in his eleventh year, to a relative, who followed the conjoined
business of a builder and house-carpenter. The drudgery of heavy manual
labour proved very uncongenial; and the apprentice suddenly took his
departure, walking a long distance to Edinburgh, whither his parents had
removed their residence. He now selected the profession of a printer,
and entered on an indenture to Mr David Ramsay of the _Edinburgh Evening
Courant_. At the close of his apprenticeship, he became Mr Ramsay's
travelling clerk.

In the ordinary branches of education, young Gall had been instructed in
a school at Haddington; he took lessons in the more advanced departments
from a private tutor during his apprenticeship. He wrote verses from his
youth, and several of his songs became popular, and were set to music.
His poetical talents attracted the attention of Robert Burns and Hector
Macneill, both of whom cherished his friendship,--the former becoming
his correspondent. He also shared the intimacy of Thomas Campbell, and
of Dr Alexander Murray, the distinguished philologist.

His promising career was brief; an abscess broke out in his breast,
which medical skill could not subdue. After a lingering illness, he died
on the 10th of May 1801, in his twenty-fifth year. He had joined a
Highland volunteer regiment; and his remains were accompanied by his
companions-in-arms to the Calton burial-ground, and there interred with
military honours.

Possessed of a lively and vigorous fancy, a generous warmth of
temperament, and feelings of extreme sensibility, Richard Gall gave
promise of adorning the poetical literature of his country. Patriotism
and the beauties of external nature were the favourite subjects of his
muse, which, as if premonished of his early fate, loved to sing in
plaintive strains. Gall occasionally lacks power, but is always
pleasing; in his songs (two of which have frequently been assigned to
Burns) he is uniformly graceful. He loved poetry with the ardour of an
enthusiast; during his last illness he inscribed verses with a pencil,
when no longer able to wield the pen. He was thoroughly devoid of
personal vanity, and sought to advance the poetical reputation of his
country rather than his own. In his lifetime, his pieces were printed
separately; a selection of his poems and songs, with a memoir by
Alexander Balfour, was published in 1819.




HOW SWEET IS THE SCENE.


    How sweet is the scene at the waking o' morning!
      How fair ilka object that lives in the view!
    Dame Nature the valley an' hillock adorning,
      The wild-rose an' blue-bell yet wet wi' the dew.
    How sweet in the morning o' life is my Anna!
      Her smiles like the sunbeam that glints on the lea;
    To wander an' leave the dear lassie, I canna;
      Frae Truth, Love, an' Beauty, I never can flee.

    O lang hae I lo'ed her, and lo'ed her fu' dearly,
      For saft is the smile o' her bonny sweet mou';
    An' aft hae I read in her e'en, glancing clearly,
      A language that bade me be constant an' true.
    Then ithers may doat on their gowd an' their treasure;
      For pelf, silly pelf, they may brave the rude sea;
    To lo'e my sweet lassie, be mine the dear pleasure;
      Wi' her let me live, an' wi' her let me die.




CAPTAIN O'KAIN.


    Flow saftly, thou stream, through the wild spangled valley;
      Oh green be thy banks, ever bonny an' fair!
    Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily,
      Yet strangers to sorrow, untroubled by care.
                  The weary day lang
                  I list to your sang,
    An' waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane;
                  Each sweet little treasure
                  O' heart-cheering pleasure,
    Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O'Kain.

    Fu' aft on thy banks hae we pu'd the wild gowan,
      An' twisted a garland beneath the hawthorn;
    Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowing,
      Sweet days o' delight, which can never return!
                  Now ever, wae's me!
                  The tear fills my e'e,
    An sair is my heart wi' the rigour o' pain;
                  Nae prospect returning,
                  To gladden life's morning,
    For green waves the willow o'er Captain O'Kain.




MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O'.


    Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,
      My only jo an' dearie, O;
    Thy neck is like the siller dew
      Upon the banks sae briery, O;
    Thy teeth are o' the ivory,
      O, sweet 's the twinkle o' thine e'e!
    Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
      My only jo an' dearie, O.

    The birdie sings upon the thorn,
      Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O,
    Rejoicing in the simmer morn,
      Nae care to make it eerie, O;
    But little kens the sangster sweet,
    Ought o' the care I hae to meet,
    That gars my restless bosom beat,
      My only jo an' dearie, O.

    Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,
      An' youth was blinking bonny, O,
    Aft we wad daff the lee lang day,
      Our joys fu' sweet an' mony, O;
    Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea,
    An' round about the thorny tree;
    Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee,
      My only jo an' dearie, O.

    I hae a wish I canna tine,
      'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O;
    I wish that thou wert ever mine,
      An' never mair to leave me, O;
    Then I wad dawt thee night an' day,
    Nae ither warldly care wad hae,
    Till life's warm stream forgat to play,
      My only jo an' dearie, O.




THE BONNIE BLINK O' MARY'S E'E.[110]


    Now bank an' brae are clad in green,
      An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring;
    By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream,
      The birdies flit on wanton wing;
    By Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's,
      There let my Mary meet wi' me,
    There catch her ilka glance o' love,
      The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.

    The chiel' wha boasts o' warld's wealth
      Is aften laird o' meikle care;
    But Mary she is a' my ain,
      An' Fortune canna gie me mair.
    Then let me stray by Cassillis' banks,
      Wi' her, the lassie dear to me,
    An' catch her ilka glance o' love,
      The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.


[110] Cromeck in his "Reliques," erroneously attributes this song to
Burns.




THE BRAES O' DRUMLEE.


    Ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me down,
      Or reft me o' life's youthfu' bloom,
    How aft hae I gane, wi' a heart louping light,
      To the knowes yellow tappit wi' broom!
    How aft hae I sat i' the beild o' the knowe,
      While the laverock mounted sae hie,
    An' the mavis sang sweet in the plantings around,
      On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

    But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth,
      We see na' the blasts that destroy;
    We count na' upon the fell waes that may come,
      An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy.
    I saw na the fause face that fortune can wear,
      Till forced from my country to flee;
    Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, "Farewell,
      To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!

    "Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth,
      Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair;
    Ye 'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist,
      Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care.
    Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh,
      While the flood gushes down frae my e'e;
    For never again shall the tear weet my cheek,
      On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

    "O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!
      Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"--
    Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa',
      Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.
    Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin,
      Wi' the baby that sits on her knee;
    But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep,
      O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

    I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa,
      But naething could banish my care;
    An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past,
      Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.
    But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld,
      An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee,
    I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life,
      To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

    Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken
      The haunts that were dear ance to me;
    I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth,
      An' the mavis now sings on the tree.
    But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae;
      For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee,
    To think how at last my auld banes they will rest,
      Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.




I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY AGAIN.


    I winna gang back to my mammy again,
    I 'll never gae back to my mammy again;
    I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
    But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.
        I 've held by her apron, &c.

    Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,
    Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue:
    "O come awa, lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"
    An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.
        "O come awa, lassie," &c.

    He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo,
    An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou';
    While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain,
    An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!"
        While I fell on his bosom, &c.

    Some lasses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e,
    Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;
    Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane,
    Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again.
        Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.

    For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea,
    My mammy was kind as a mither could be;
    I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
    But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again.
        I 've held by her apron, &c.




THE BARD.

IRISH AIR--_"The Brown Maid."_


    The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang,
      Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear;
    While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang,
      An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear;
    But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys,
      Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control,
    On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays,
      An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!

    Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier,
      That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen;
    When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer,
      A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken.
    What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays!
      The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole!
    On the strings o' my heart she bewitchingly plays,
      An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!




LOUISA IN LOCHABER.


    Can ought be constant as the sun,
      That makes the world sae cheerie?
    Yes, a' the powers can witness be,
      The love I bear my dearie.
    But what can make the hours seem lang,
      An' rin sae wondrous dreary?
    What but the space that lies between
      Me an' my only dearie.

    Then fare ye weel, wha saw me aft,
      Sae blythe, baith late and early;
    An' fareweel scenes o' former joys,
      That cherish life sae rarely;
    Baith love an' beauty bid me flee,
      Nor linger lang an' eerie,
    But haste, an' in my arms enfauld,
      My only pride an' dearie.

    I 'll hail Lochaber's valleys green,
      Where many a rill meanders;
    I 'll hail wi' joy, its birken bowers,
      For there Louisa wanders.
    There will I clasp her to my breast,
      An' tent her smile fu' cheerie;
    An' thus, without a wish or want,
      Live happy wi' my dearie.




THE HAZELWOOD WITCH.


    For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannie
      Of brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa',
    Of auld wither'd hags that were never thought cannie,
      An' fairies that danced till they heard the cock caw.
    I leugh at her tales; an' last owk, i' the gloamin',
      I daunder'd, alane, down the hazelwood green;
    Alas! I was reckless, and rue sair my roamin',
      For I met a young witch, wi' twa bonnie black e'en.

    I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing,
      Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless an' blue;
    I looked again, an' my heart fell a-dancing,
      When I wad hae spoken, she glamour'd my mou'.
    O wae to her cantrips! for dumpish I wander,
      At kirk or at market there 's nought to be seen;
    For she dances afore me wherever I daunder,
      The hazelwood witch wi' the bonnie black e'en.




FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.[111]


    Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
      Scenes that former thoughts renew;
    Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
      Now a sad and last adieu!
    Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',
      Fare thee weel before I gang;
    Bonny Doon, whare, early roamin',
      First I weaved the rustic sang.

    Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying,
      First enthrall'd this heart o' mine;
    There the saftest sweets enjoying,
      Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine.
    Friends sae near my bosom ever,
      Ye hae render'd moments dear;
    But, alas! when forced to sever,
      Then the stroke, O how severe!

    Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
      Though 'tis doubly dear to me;
    Could I think I did deserve it,
      How much happier would I be.
    Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
      Scenes that former thoughts renew;
    Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
      Now a sad and last adieu!


[111] This is another song of Richard Gall which has been assigned to
Burns; it has even been included in Dr Currie's edition of his works. It
was communicated anonymously by Gall to the publisher of the "Scots
Musical Museum," and first appeared in that work. The original MS. of
the song was in the possession of Mr Stark, the author of a memoir of
Gall in the "Biographia Scotica."




GEORGE SCOTT.


George Scott was the son of a small landowner in Roxburghshire. He was
born at Dingleton, near Melrose, in 1777; and after attending the
parish-schools of Melrose and Galashiels, became a student in the
University of Edinburgh. On completing a curriculum of classical study,
he was in his twenty-second year appointed parochial schoolmaster of
Livingstone, West Lothian; and in six years afterwards was preferred to
the parish-school of Lilliesleaf, in his native county. He was an
accomplished scholar, and had the honour of educating many individuals
who afterwards attained distinction. With Sir Walter Scott, who
appreciated his scholarship, he maintained a friendly correspondence. In
1820, he published a small volume of poems, entitled, "Heath Flowers;
or, Mountain Melodies," which exhibits considerable poetical talent.
Having discharged the duties of an instructor of youth for half a
century, he retired from his public avocations in November 1850. He
survived till the 23d of February 1853, having attained his
seventy-sixth year.




THE FLOWER OF THE TYNE.

AIR--_"Bonnie Dundee."_


    Now rests the red sun in his caves of the ocean,
      Now closed every eye but of misery and mine;
    While, led by the moonbeam, in fondest devotion,
      I doat on her image, the Flower of the Tyne.
    Her cheek far outrivals the rose's rich blossom,
      Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine;
    The snow-drop and lily are lost on her bosom,
      For beauty unmatched is the Flower of the Tyne.

    So charming each feature, so guileless her nature,
      A thousand fond voices pronounce her divine;
    So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty,
      That sweet is thy thraldom, fair Flower of the Tyne!
    Thine aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting,
      The loves and the graces thy temples entwine;
    In manners the saint and the syren uniting,
      Bloom on, dear Louisa, the Flower of the Tyne.

    Though fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains,
      And graceful and straight as thine own silver pine,
    Though fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains,
      Yet fairer to me is the Flower of the Tyne.
    This poor throbbing heart as an offering I give her,
      A temple to love is this bosom of mine;
    Then smile on thy victim, Louisa, for ever,
      I 'll kneel at thine altar, sweet Flower of the Tyne.




THOMAS CAMPBELL.


Thomas Campbell, author of the "Pleasures of Hope," was descended from a
race of landed proprietors in Argyleshire, who claimed ancestry in
Macallummore, the great head of clan Campbell, and consequent
propinquity to the noble House of Argyle. Alexander Campbell, the poet's
father, had carried on a prosperous trade as a Virginian merchant, but
had suffered unhappy embarrassments, at the outbreak of the American
war. Of his eleven children, Thomas was the youngest. He was born on the
27th July 1777, in his father's house, High Street, Glasgow, and was
baptised by the celebrated Dr Thomas Reid, after whom he received his
Christian name. The favourite child of his parents, peculiar care was
bestowed upon his upbringing; he was taught to read by his eldest
sister, who was nineteen years his senior, and had an example of energy
set before him by his mother, a woman of remarkable decision. He
afforded early indication of genius; as a child, he was fond of ballad
poetry, and in his tenth year he wrote verses. At the age of eight he
became a pupil in the grammar school, having already made some
proficiency in classical learning. During the first session of
attendance at the University, he gained two prizes and a bursary on
Archbishop Leighton's foundation. As a classical scholar, he acquired
rapid distinction; he took especial delight in the dramatic literature
of Greece, and his metrical translations from the Greek plays were
pronounced excellent specimens of poetical composition. He invoked the
muse on many themes, and occasionally printed verses, which were
purchased by his comrades. From the commencement of his curriculum he
chiefly supported himself by teaching; at the close of his fourth
session, he accepted a tutorship in the island of Mull. There he
prosecuted verse-making, and continued his translations from the Greek
dramatists. He conducted a poetical correspondence with Hamilton Paul;
and the following lines addressed to this early friend, and entitled "An
Elegy written in Mull," may be quoted in evidence of his poetical talent
in his seventeenth year. These lines do not occur in any edition of his
works:

    "The tempest blackens on the dusky moor,
    And billows lash the long-resounding shore;
    In pensive mood I roam the desert ground,
    And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found.
    Oh, whither fled the pleasurable hours
    That chased each care, and fired the muse's powers;
    The classic haunts of youth, for ever gay
    Where mirth and friendship cheer'd the close of day,
    The well-known valleys where I wont to roam,
    The native sports, the nameless joys of home?
    Far different scenes allure my wondering eye:
    The white wave foaming to the distant sky;
    The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile;
    The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle,
    The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow,
    The wide, wild glen, the pathless plains below,
    The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled,
    The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild!
    Far different these from all that charm'd before,
    The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore:
    The sloping vales, with waving forests lined;
    Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind.
    Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey
    Thy gilded turrets from the distant way!
    Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil,
    And joy shall hail me to my native soil."
He remained at Mull five months; and subsequently became tutor in the
family of Sir William Napier, at Downie, near Loch Fyne. On completing a
fifth session at the University, he experienced anxiety regarding the
choice of a profession, chiefly with the desire of being able speedily
to aid in the support of his necessitous parents. He first thought of a
mercantile life, and then weighed the respective advantages of the
clerical, medical, and legal professions. For a period, he attempted
law, but soon tired of the drudgery which it threatened to impose. In
Edinburgh, during a brief period of legal study, he formed the
acquaintance of Dr Robert Anderson, through whose favour he became known
to the rising wits of the capital. Among his earlier friends he reckoned
the names of Francis Jeffrey, Henry Brougham, Thomas Brown, James
Graham, and David Irving.

In 1798, Campbell induced his parents to remove to Edinburgh, where he
calculated on literary employment. He had already composed the draught
of the "Pleasures of Hope," but he did not hazard its publication till
he had exhausted every effort in its improvement. His care was well
repaid; his poem produced one universal outburst of admiration, and one
edition after another rapidly sold. He had not completed his
twenty-second year when he gained a place among the most distinguished
poets of his country. For the copyright Mundell and Company allowed him
only two hundred copies in quires, which yielded him about fifty pounds;
but they presented him with twenty-five pounds on the appearance of each
successive edition. He was afterwards permitted to publish an edition on
his own account,--a privilege which brought him the sum of six hundred
pounds. Resolving to follow literature as a profession, he was desirous
of becoming personally acquainted with the distinguished men of letters
in Germany; in June 1800 he embarked at Leith for Hamburg. He visited
Ratisbon, Munich, and Leipsic; had an interview with the poet Klopstock,
then in his seventy-seventh year, and witnessed a battle between the
French and Germans, near Ratisbon. At Hamburg he formed the acquaintance
of Anthony M'Cann, who had been driven into exile by the Irish
Government in 1798, on the accusation of being a leader in the
rebellion. Of this individual he formed a favourable opinion, and his
condition suggested the exquisite poem, "The Exile of Erin." After some
months' residence at Altona, he sailed for England; the vessel narrowly
escaping capture by a privateer, landed him at Yarmouth, whence he
proceeded to London. He had been in correspondence with Perry of the
_Morning Chronicle_, who introduced him to Lord Holland, Sir James
Macintosh, and Samuel Rogers. Receiving tidings of his father's death,
he returned to Edinburgh. Not a little to his concern, he found that
warrants had been issued for his apprehension on the charge of high
treason; he was accused of attending Jacobin clubs at Hamburg, and of
conspiring with General Moreau and the Irish exiles to land troops in
Ireland! The seizure of his travelling trunk led to the ample
vindication of his loyalty; it was found to contain the first draught of
the "Mariners of England." Besides a magnificent quarto edition of the
"Pleasures of Hope," he now prepared a work in three volumes, entitled
"Annals of Great Britain;" for which the sum of three hundred pounds was
paid him by Mundell and Company. Through Professor Dugald Stewart, he
obtained the friendship of Lord Minto, who invited him to London, and
afterwards entertained him at Minto.

In 1803, Campbell resolved to settle in London; in his progress to the
metropolis he visited his friends Roscoe and Currie, at Liverpool. On
the 10th September, 1803, he espoused his fair cousin, Matilda Sinclair,
and established his residence in Upper Eaton Street, Pimlico. In the
following year, he sought refuge from the noise of the busy world in
London, by renting a house at Sydenham. His reputation readily secured
him a sufficiency of literary employment; he translated for the _Star_,
with a salary of two hundred pounds per annum, and became a contributor
to the _Philosophical Magazine_. He declined the offer of the Regent's
chair in the University of Wilna, in Russian-Poland; but shortly after
had conferred on him, by the premier, Charles Fox, a civil-list pension
of two hundred pounds. In 1809, he published his poem, "Gertrude of
Wyoming," along with the "Battle of the Baltic," the "Mariners of
England," "Hohenlinden," "Glenara," and others of his best lyrics. This
volume was well received, and added largely to his laurels. In 1811, he
delivered five lectures on poetry, in the Royal Institution.

Campbell was now a visitor in the first literary circles, and was
welcomed at the tables of persons of opulence. From the commencement of
his residence in London, he had known John Kemble, and his accomplished
sister, Mrs Siddons. He became intimate with Lord Byron and Thomas
Moore; and had the honour of frequent invitations to the residence of
the Princess of Wales, at Blackheath. In 1814, he visited Paris, where
he was introduced to the Duke of Wellington; dined with Humboldt and
Schlegel, and met his former friend and correspondent, Madame de Staël.
A proposal of Sir Walter Scott, in 1816, to secure him a chair in the
University of Edinburgh, was not attended with success. The "Specimens
of the British Poets," a work he had undertaken for Mr Murray, appeared
in 1819. In 1820, he accepted the editorship of the _New Monthly
Magazine_, with a salary of six hundred pounds per annum. A second
visit to Germany, which he accomplished immediately after the
commencement of his editorial duties, suggested to him the idea of the
London University; and this scheme, warmly supported by his literary
friends, and advocated by Lord Brougham, led in 1825 to the
establishment of the institution. In the year subsequent to this happy
consummation of his exertions on behalf of learning in the south, he
received intelligence of his having been elected Lord Rector of the
University of Glasgow. This honour was the most valued of his life; it
was afterwards enhanced by his re-election to office for the third
time,--a rare occurrence in the history of the College.

The future career of the poet was not remarkable for any decided
achievements in literature or poetry. In 1831, he allowed his name to be
used as the conductor of the _Metropolitan_, a short-lived periodical.
He published in 1834 a "Life of Mrs Siddons," in two volumes, but this
performance did not prove equal to public expectation. One of his last
efforts was the preparation of an edition of the "Pleasures of Hope,"
which was illustrated with engravings from drawings by Turner.
Subsequent to the death of Mrs Campbell, which took place in May 1828,
he became unsettled in his domestic habits, evincing a mania for change
of residence. In 1834, he proceeded to Algiers, in Africa; and returning
by Paris, was presented to King Louis Philippe. On his health failing,
some years afterwards, he tried the baths of Wiesbaden, and latterly
established his residence at Boulogne. After a prostrating illness of
several months, he expired at Boulogne, on the 15th of June 1844, in his
67th year.

Of the poetry of Thomas Campbell, "The Pleasures of Hope" is one of the
most finished epics in the language; it is alike faultless in respect
of conception and versification. His lyrics are equally sustained in
power of thought and loftiness of diction; they have been more
frequently quoted than the poems of any other modern author, and are
translated into various European languages. Few men evinced more
jealousy in regard to their reputation; he was keenly sensitive to
criticism, and fastidious in judging of his own composition. As a prose
writer, though he wrote with elegance, he is less likely to be
remembered. Latterly a native unsteadiness of purpose degenerated into
inaction; during the period of his unabated vigour, it prevented his
carrying out many literary schemes. A bad money manager, he had under no
circumstances become rich; at one period he was in the receipt of
fifteen hundred pounds per annum, yet he felt poverty. He had a strong
feeling of independence, and he never received a favour without
considering whether he might be able to repay it. He was abundantly
charitable, and could not resist the solicitations of indigence. Of
slavery and oppression in every form he entertained an abhorrence; his
zeal in the cause of liberty led him while a youth to be present in
Edinburgh at the trial of Gerard and others, for maintaining liberal
opinions, and to support in his maturer years the cause of the Polish
refugees. Naturally cheerful, he was subject to moods of despondency,
and his temper was ardent in circumstances of provocation. In personal
appearance he was rather under the middle height, and he dressed with
precision and neatness. His countenance was pleasing, but was only
expressive of power when lit up by congenial conversation. He was fond
of society and talked with fluency. His remains rest close by the ashes
of Sheridan, in Westminster Abbey, and over them a handsome monument has
lately been erected to his memory.




YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.


    Ye mariners of England,
      That guard our native seas;
    Whose flag has braved a thousand years
      The battle and the breeze!
    Your glorious standard launch again
      To match another foe;
    And sweep through the deep,
      While the stormy winds do blow;
    While the battle rages loud and long,
      And the stormy winds do blow.

    The spirit of your fathers
      Shall start from every wave;
    For the deck it was their field of fame,
      And ocean was their grave:
    Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
      Your manly hearts shall glow,
    As ye sweep through the deep,
      While the stormy winds do blow;
    While the battle rages loud and long,
      And the stormy winds do blow.

    Britannia needs no bulwarks,
      No towers along the steep;
    Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
      Her home is on the deep.
    With thunders from her native oak,
      She quells the floods below,--
    As they roar on the shore,
      When the stormy winds do blow;
    When the battle rages loud and long,
      And the stormy winds do blow.

    The meteor flag of England
      Shall yet terrific burn;
    Till danger's troubled night depart,
      And the star of peace return.
    Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
      Our song and feast shall flow,
    To the fame of your name,
      When the storm has ceased to blow;
    When the fiery fight is heard no more,
      And the storm has ceased to blow.




GLENARA.


    Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
    Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
    'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
    And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

    Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
    Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud:
    Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
    They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground.

    In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor,
    To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar.
    "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;
    Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

    "And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse!
    Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
    So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made,
    But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

    "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
    Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
    "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem.
    Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."

    Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
    When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;
    When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn--
    'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

    "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
    I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
    On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem.
    Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

    In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
    And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
    From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne--
    Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!




THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.


    Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,
      Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er.
    "O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover,
      Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

    "What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!"
      All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
    When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried,
      By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!

    From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
      And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar,
    And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
      That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

    How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
      How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
    "Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,
      To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?"

    "Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relieving
      Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!"
    "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving;
      No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

    "Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
      Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"
    His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,
      When he sank in her arms--the poor wounded hussar.




BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.


      Of Nelson and the North,
        Sing the glorious day's renown,
      When to battle fierce came forth,
        All the might of Denmark's crown,
    And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
        By each gun the lighted brand,
        In a bold determined hand,
        And the Prince of all the land
            Led them on.

      Like leviathans afloat,
        Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
      While the sign of battle flew
        On the lofty British line:
    It was ten of April morn by the chime,
        As they drifted on their path,
        There was silence deep as death,
        And the boldest held his breath
            For a time.

      But the might of England flush'd
        To anticipate the scene;
      And her van the fleeter rush'd
        O'er the deadly space between.
    "Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gun
        From its adamantine lips
        Spread a death-shade round the ships,
        Like the hurricane eclipse
            Of the sun.

      Again! again! again!
        And the havoc did not slack,
      Till a feeble cheer the Dane
        To our cheering sent us back;
    Their shots along the deep slowly boom;
        Then ceased, and all is wail,
        As they strike the shatter'd sail,
        Or in conflagration pale
            Light the gloom.

      Out spoke the victor then,
        As he hail'd them o'er the wave--
      "Ye are brothers! ye are men!
        And we conquer but to save.
    So peace instead of death let us bring;
        But yield, proud foe! thy fleet,
        With the crews, at England's feet,
        And make submission meet
            To our King."

      Then Denmark bless'd our chief
        That he gave her wounds repose;
      And the sounds of joy and grief
        From her people wildly rose,
    As Death withdrew his shades from the day.
        While the sun look'd smiling bright
        O'er a wide and woeful sight,
        Where the fires of funeral light
            Died away.

      Now joy, Old England, raise!
        For the tidings of thy might,
      By the festal cities blaze,
        Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
    And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
        Let us think of them that sleep,
        Full many a fathom deep,
        By thy wild and stormy steep,
            Elsinore!

      Brave hearts! to Britain's pride,
        Once so faithful and so true,
      On the deck of fame that died,
        With the gallant good Riou,
    Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!
        While the billow mournful rolls,
        And the mermaid's song condoles,
        Singing glory to the souls
            Of the brave!




MEN OF ENGLAND.


    Men of England, who inherit
      Rights that cost your sires their blood!
    Men whose undegenerate spirit
      Has been proved on field and flood,

    By the foes you 've fought uncounted,
      By the glorious deeds ye 've done,
    Trophies captured, breaches mounted,
      Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.

    Yet, remember, England gathers
      Hence but fruitless wreathes of fame,
    If the freedom of your fathers
      Glow not in your hearts the same.

    What are monuments of bravery,
      Whence no public virtues bloom?
    What avail in lands of slavery,
      Trophied temples, arch and tomb?

    Pageants!--Let the world revere us
      For our people's rights and laws,
    And the breasts of civic heroes,
      Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

    Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,
      Sidney's matchless shade is yours,
    Martyrs in heroic story,
      Worth a hundred Agincourts!

    We 're the sons of sires that baffled
      Crown'd and mitred tyranny;
    They defied the field and scaffold
      For their birthrights--so will we!




MRS G. G. RICHARDSON.[112]


Caroline Eliza Scott, better known as Mrs G. G. Richardson, the daughter
of a gentleman of considerable property in the south of Scotland, was
born at Forge, her father's family residence, in the parish of Canonbie,
on the 24th of November 1777, and spent her childhood and early youth
amidst Border scenes, Border traditions, and Border minstrelsy. It is
probable that these influences fostered the poetic temperament, while
they fed the imaginative element of her mind, as she very early gave
expression to her thoughts and feelings in romance and poetry. Born to a
condition of favourable circumstances, and associating with parents
themselves educated and intellectual, the young poetess enjoyed
advantages of development rarely owned by the sons and daughters of
genius. The flow of her mind was allowed to take its natural course; and
some of her early anonymous writings are quite as remarkable as any of
her acknowledged productions. Her conversational powers were lively and
entertaining, but never oppressive. She was ever ready to discern and do
homage to the merits of her contemporaries, while she never failed to
fan the faintest flame of latent poesy in the aspirations of the timid
or unknown. Affectionate and cheerful in her dispositions, she was a
loving and dutiful daughter, and shewed the tenderest attachment to a
numerous family of brothers and sisters. She was married to her cousin,
Gilbert Geddes Richardson, on the 29th of April 1799, at Fort George,
Madras; where she was then living with her uncle, General, afterwards
Lord Harris; and the connexion proved, in all respects, a suitable and
happy one. Her husband, at that time captain of an Indiaman, was one of
a number of brothers, natives of the south of Scotland, who all sought
their fortunes in India, and one of whom, Lieutenant-Colonel Richardson,
became known in literature as an able translator of Sanscrit poetry, and
contributor to the "Asiatic Researches." He was lost at sea, with his
wife and six children, on their homeward voyage; and this distressing
event, accompanied as it was by protracted suspense and anxiety, was
long and deeply deplored by his gifted sister-in-law.

Young, beautiful, and doubly attractive from the warmth of her heart,
and the fascination of her manners, Mrs Richardson was not only loved
and appreciated by her husband, and his family, but greatly admired in a
refined circle of Anglo-Indian society; and the few years of her married
life were marked by almost uninterrupted felicity. But death struck down
the husband and father in the very prime of manhood; and the widow
returned with her five children (all of whom survived her), to seek from
the scenes and friends of her early days such consolation as they might
minister to a grief which only those who have experienced it can
measure. She never brought her own peculiar sorrows before the public;
but there is a tone of gentle mournfulness pervading many of her poems,
that may be traced to this cause; and there are touching allusions to
"one of rare endowments," that no one who remembered her husband's
character could fail to recognise. Her intense love of nature happily
remained unchanged; and the green hills, the flowing river, and the
tangled wildwood, could still soothe a soul that, but for its
susceptibility to these beneficent charms, might have said in its
sadness of everything earthly, "miserable comforters are ye all."
Continuing to reside at Forge while her children were young, she devoted
herself to the direction of their education, the cultivation of her own
pure tastes, and the peaceful enjoyments of a country life; and when she
afterwards removed to London, and reappeared in brilliant and
distinguished society, she often reverted, with regret, to the bright
skies and cottage homes of Canonbie. In 1821, Mrs Richardson again
returned to Scotland, and took up her abode at Dumfries, partly from the
desire of being near her connexions, and partly for the sake of the
beautiful scenery surrounding that pretty county town. In 1828 she
published, by subscription, her first volume of miscellaneous poems,
which was well received by the public, favourably noticed by the leading
journals, and received a circulation even beyond the range of 1700
subscribers. A second edition, in a larger form, soon followed; and, in
1834, after finally settling in her native parish, she published a
second volume, dedicated to the Duchess of Buccleuch, and which was also
remarkably successful. From this time she employed her talents in the
composition of prose; she published "Adonia," a novel, in three volumes;
and various tales, essays, and fugitive pieces, forming contributions to
popular serials. Her later poems remain in manuscript. She maintained an
extensive correspondence with her literary friends, and spent much of
her time in reading and study, and in the practice of sincere and
unostentatious piety. Her faculties were vigorous and unimpared, until
the seizure of her last illness, which quickly terminated in death, on
the 9th October 1853, when she had nearly completed her seventy-sixth
year. She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her
own beloved Canonbie.


[112] The memoir of Mrs G. G. Richardson has been kindly supplied by her
accomplished relative, Mrs Macarthur, Hillhead, near Glasgow.




THE FAIRY DANCE.


    The fairies are dancing--how nimbly they bound!
    They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground;
    Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight,
    All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.

    Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear--
    'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,--
    The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes,
    And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.

    How featly they trip it! how happy are they
    Who pass all their moments in frolic and play,
    Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares,
    And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!

    But where have they vanish'd?--a cloud 's o'er the moon,
    I 'll hie to the spot,--they 'll be seen again soon--
    I hasten--'tis lighter,--and what do I view?--
    The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew.

    And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth
    Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth;
    Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud,
    Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.




SUMMER MORNING.


    How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away,
    O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,--
    To have all this silence and lightness my own,
    And revel with Nature, alone,--all alone!

    What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around,
    In this calm, holy sunshine, and stillness profound!
    The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care,
    And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there.

    The herbage, the blossoms, the branches, the skies,
    That shower on the river their beautiful dyes,
    The far misty mountains, the wide waving fields,
    What healthful enjoyment surveying them yields!

    Yes, this is the hour Nature's lovers partake,
    The manna that melts when Life's vapours awake;
    Another, and thoughts will be busy, oh how
    Unlike the pure vision they 're ranging in now!

    Lo! the hare scudding forth, lo! the trout in the stream
    Gently splashing, are stirring the folds of my dream,
    The cattle are rising, and hark, the first bird,--
    And now in full chorus the woodlands are heard.

    Oh, who on the summer-clad landscape can gaze,
    In the orison hour, nor break forth into praise,--
    Who, through this fair garden contemplative rove,
    Nor feel that the Author and Ruler is love?

    I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here;
    I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near;
    The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call
    Has a tear drop of gratitude ready to fall!




THERE 'S MUSIC IN THE FLOWING TIDE.


    There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air,
    There 's music in the swallow's wing, that skims so lightly there,
    There 's music in each waving tress of grove, and bower, and tree,
    To eye and ear 'tis music all where Nature revels free.

    There 's discord in the gilded halls where lordly rivals meet,
    There 's discord where the harpers ring to beauty's glancing feet,
    There 's discord 'neath the jewell'd robe, the wreath, the plume, the crest,
    Wherever Fashion waves her wand, there discord rules the breast.

    There 's music 'neath the cottage eaves, when, at the close of day,
    Kind-hearted mirth and social ease the toiling hour repay;
    Though coarse the fare, though rude the jest, that cheer that lowly board,
    There loving hearts and honest lips sweet harmony afford!

    Oh! who the music of the groves, the music of the heart,
    Would barter for the city's din, the frigid tones of art?
    The virtues flourish fresh and fair, where rural waters glide.
    They shrink and wither, droop and die, where rolls that turbid tide.




AH! FADED IS THAT LOVELY BLOOM.

_Written to an Italian Air._


    Ah! faded is that lovely bloom,
      And closed in death that speaking eye,
    And buried in a green grass tomb,
      What once breathed life and harmony!
    Surely the sky is all too dark,
      And chilly blows the summer air,--
    And, where 's thy song now, sprightly lark,
      That used to wake my slumb'ring fair?

    Ah! never shalt thou wake her more!
      And thou, bright sun, shalt ne'er again,
    On inland mead, or sea-girt shore,
      Salute the darling of the plain.
    Maiden! they bade me o'er thy fate
      Numbers and strains mellifluous swell,
    They knew the love I bore thee great,--
      They knew not what I ne'er can tell.

    The unstrung heart to others leaves
      The music of a feebler woe,
    Her numbers are the sighs she heaves,
      Her off'ring tears that ever flow.
    Where could I gather fancies now?
      They 're with'ring on thy lowly tomb,--
    My summer was thy cheek and brow,
      And perish'd is that lovely bloom!




THOMAS BROWN, M.D.


Illustrious as a metaphysician, Dr Thomas Brown is entitled to a place
in the poetical literature of his country. He was the youngest son of
Samuel Brown, minister of Kirkmabreck, in the stewartry of
Kirkcudbright, and was born in the manse of that parish, on the 9th
January 1778. His father dying when he was only a year old, his
childhood was superintended solely by his mother, who established her
abode in Edinburgh. Evincing an uncommon aptitude for knowledge, he
could read and understand the Scriptures ere he had completed his fifth
year. At the age of seven he was committed to the charge of a maternal
uncle in London, who placed him at the schools of Camberwell and
Chiswick, and afterwards at two other classical seminaries, in all of
which he exhibited remarkable precocity in learning. On the death of his
relative he returned to Edinburgh, and in his fourteenth year entered
the University of that city. During a visit to Liverpool, in the summer
of 1793, he was introduced to Dr Currie, who, presenting him with a copy
of Dugald Stewart's "Elements of Philosophy," was the means of directing
his attention to metaphysical inquiries. The following session he became
a student in Professor Stewart's class; and differing from a theory
advanced in one of the lectures, he modestly read his sentiments on the
subject to his venerable preceptor. The philosopher and pupil were
henceforth intimate friends.

In his nineteenth year, Brown became a member of the "Academy of
Physics," a philosophical association established by the scientific
youths of the University, and afterwards known to the world as having
given origin to the _Edinburgh Review_. As a member of this society he
formed the intimacy of Brougham, Jeffrey, Leyden, Logan, Sydney Smith,
and other literary aspirants. In 1778 he published "Observations on the
Zoonomia of Dr Darwin,"--a pamphlet replete with deep philosophical
sentiment, and which so attracted the notice of his friends that they
used every effort, though unsuccessfully, to secure him the chair of
rhetoric in the University during the vacancy which soon afterwards
occurred. His professional views were originally directed to the bar,
but disgusted with the law after a twelve-month's trial, he entered on a
medical course, to qualify himself as physician, and in 1803 received
his diploma. His new profession was scarcely more congenial than that
which he had abandoned, nor did the prospects of success, on being
assumed as a partner by Dr Gregory, reconcile him to his duties. His
favourite pursuits were philosophy and poetry; he published in 1804 two
volumes of miscellaneous poems which he had chiefly written at college,
and he was among the original contributors to the _Edinburgh Review_,
the opening article in the second number, on "Kant's Philosophy,"
proceeding from his pen. An essay on Hume's "Theory of Causation," which
he produced during the struggle attendant on Mr Leslie's appointment to
the mathematical chair, established his hitherto growing reputation; and
the public in the capital afterwards learned, with more than
satisfaction, that he had consented to act as substitute for Professor
Dugald Stewart, when increasing infirmities had compelled that
distinguished individual to retire from the active business of his
chair. In this new sphere he fully realised the expectations of his
admirers; he read his own lectures, which, though hastily composed,
often during the evenings prior to their delivery, were listened to with
an overpowering interest, not only by the regular students, but by many
professional persons in the city. Such distinction had its corresponding
reward; after assisting in the moral philosophy class for two years, he
was in 1810 appointed to the joint professorship.

Successful as a philosopher, Dr Brown was desirous of establishing a
reputation as a poet. In 1814 he published anonymously the "Paradise of
Coquettes," a poem which was favourably received. "The Wanderer of
Norway," a poem, appeared in 1816, and "Agnes" and "Emily," two other
distinct volumes of poems, in the two following years. He died at
Brompton, near London, on the 2d April 1820, and his remains were
conveyed for interment to the churchyard of his native parish. Amidst a
flow of ornate and graceful language, the poetry of Dr Brown is
disfigured by a morbid sensibility and a philosophy which dims rather
than enlightens. He possessed, however, many of the mental concomitants
of a great poet; he loved rural retirement and romantic scenery; well
appreciated the beautiful both in nature and in art; was conversant with
the workings of the human heart and the history of nations; was
influenced by generous emotions, and luxuriated in a bold and lofty
imagination.[113]


[113] Margaret Brown, one of the three sisters of Dr Brown, published
"Lays of Affection." Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. She was a woman of gentle
and unobtrusive manners and of pious disposition. Her poems constitute a
respectable memorial of her virtues.




CONSOLATION OF ALTERED FORTUNES.


    Yes! the shades we must leave which my childhood has haunted,
      Each charm by endearing remembrance improved;
    These walks of our love, the sweet bower thou hast planted,--
      We must leave them to eyes that will view them unmoved.

    Oh, weep not, my Fanny! though changed be our dwelling,
      We bear with us all, in the home of our mind;
    In virtues will glow that heart, fondly swelling,
      Affection's best treasure we leave not behind.

    I shall labour, but still by thy image attended--
      Can toil be severe which a smile can repay?
    How glad shall we meet! every care will be ended;
      And our evening of bliss will be more than a day.

    Content's cheerful beam will our cottage enlighten;
      New charms the new cares of thy love will inspire;
    Thy smiles, 'mid the smiles of our offspring, will lighten;
      I shall see it--and oh, can I feel a desire?




THE FAITHLESS MOURNER.


    When thy smile was still clouded in gloom,
      When the tear was still dim in thine eye,
    I thought of the virtues, scarce cold in the tomb,
      And I spoke not of love to thy sigh!

    I spoke not of love; yet the breast,
      Which mark'd thy long anguish,--deplore
    The sire, whom in sickness, in age, thou hadst bless'd,
      Though silent, was loving thee more!

    How soon wert thou pledged to my arms,
      Thou hadst vow'd, but I urged not the day;
    And thine eye grateful turn'd, oh, so sweet were its charms,
      That it more than atoned the delay.

    I fear'd not, too slow of belief--
      I fear'd not, too proud of thy heart,
    That another would steal on the hour of thy grief,
      That thy grief would be soft to his art.

    Thou heardst--and how easy allured,
      Every vow of the past to forsware;
    The love, which for thee would all pangs have endured,
      Thou couldst smile, as thou gav'st to despair.

    Ah, think not my passion has flown!
      Why say that my vows now are free?
    Why say--yes! I feel that my heart is my own;
      I feel it is breaking for thee.




THE LUTE.


    Ah! do not bid me wake the lute,
      It once was dear to Henry's ear.
    Now be its voice for ever mute,
      The voice which Henry ne'er can hear.

    Though many a month has pass'd since Spring,
      His grave's wan turf has bloom'd anew,
    One whisper of those chords would bring,
      In all its grief, our last adieu.

    The songs he loved--'twere sure profane
      To careless Pleasure's laughing brow
    To breathe; and oh! what other strain
      To Henry's lute could love allow?

    Though not a sound thy soul hath caught,
      To mine it looks, thus softly dead,
    A sweeter tenderness of thought
      Than all its living strings have shed.

    Then ask me not--the charm was broke;
      With each loved vision must I part;
    If gay to every ear it spoke,
      'Twould speak no longer to my heart.

    Yet once too blest!--the moonlit grot,
      Where last I gave its tones to swell;
    Ah! the _last_ tones--thou heardst them not--
      From other hands than mine they fell.

    Still, silent slumbering, let it keep
      That sacred touch! And oh! as dim
    To life, would, would that I could sleep,
      Could sleep, and only dream of _him_!




WILLIAM CHALMERS.


William Chalmers was born at Paisley in 1779. He carried on the business
of a tobacconist and grocer in his native town, and for a period enjoyed
considerable prosperity. Unfortunate reverses caused him afterwards to
abandon merchandise, and engage in a variety of occupations. At
different times he sought employment as a dentist, a drysalter, and a
book distributor; he sold small stationery as a travelling merchant, and
ultimately became keeper of the refreshment booth at the Paisley railway
station. He died at Paisley on the 3d of November 1843. Chalmers wrote
respectable verses on a number of subjects, but his muse was especially
of a humorous tendency. Possessed of a certain versatility of talent, he
published, in 1839, a curious production with the quaint title,
"Observations on the Weather in Scotland, shewing what kinds of weather
the various winds produce, and what winds are most likely to prevail in
each month of the year." His compositions in verse were chiefly
contributed to the local periodicals and newspapers.




SING ON.

AIR--_"The Pride of the Broomlands."_


      Sing on, thou little bird,
      Thy wild notes sae loud,
    O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree;
      Aft beneath thy birken bow'r
      I have met at e'ening hour
    My young Jamie that 's far o'er the sea.

      On yon bonnie heather knowes
      We pledged our mutual vows,
    And dear is the spot unto me;
      Though pleasure I hae nane,
      While I wander alane,
    And my Jamie is far o'er the sea.

      But why should I mourn,
      The seasons will return,
    And verdure again clothe the lea;
      The flow'rets shall spring,
      And the saft breeze shall bring,
    My dear laddie again back to me.

      Thou star! give thy light,
      Guide my lover aright,
    Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free;
      Now gold I hae in store,
      He shall wander no more,
    No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.




THE LOMOND BRAES.


    "O, lassie, wilt thou go
      To the Lomond wi' me?
    The wild thyme 's in bloom.
      And the flower 's on the lea;
        Wilt thou go my dearest love?
        I will ever constant prove,
        I 'll range each hill and grove
          On the Lomond wi' thee."

    "O young men are fickle,
      Nor trusted to be,
    And many a native gem
      Shines fair on the lea:
        Thou mayst see some lovely flower,
        Of a more attractive power,
        And may take her to thy bower
          On the Lomond wi' thee."

    "The hynd shall forsake,
      On the mountain the doe,
    The stream of the fountain
      Shall cease for to flow;
        Ben-Lomond shall bend
        His high brow to the sea,
        Ere I take to my bower
          Any flower, love, but thee."

    She 's taken her mantle,
      He 's taken his plaid;
    He coft her a ring,
      And he made her his bride:
        They 're far o'er yon hills,
        To spend their happy days,
        And range the woody glens
          'Mang the Lomond braes.




JOSEPH TRAIN.


A zealous and respectable antiquary and cultivator of historical
literature, Joseph Train is likewise worthy of a niche in the temple of
Scottish minstrelsy. His ancestors were for several generations
land-stewards on the estate of Gilmilnscroft, in the parish of Sorn, and
county of Ayr, where he was born on the 6th November 1779. When he was
eight years old, his parents removed to Ayr, where, after a short
attendance at school, he was apprenticed to a mechanical occupation. His
leisure hours were sedulously devoted to reading and mental improvement.
In 1799, he was balloted for the Ayrshire Militia; in which he served
for three years till the regiment was disbanded on the peace of Amiens.
When he was stationed at Inverness, he had commissioned through a
bookseller a copy of Currie's edition of the "Works of Burns," then sold
at three half-guineas, and this circumstance becoming incidentally known
to the Colonel of the regiment, Sir David Hunter Blair, he caused the
copy to be elegantly bound and delivered free of expense. Much pleased
with his intelligence and attainments, Sir David, on the disembodiment
of the regiment, actively sought his preferment; he procured him an
agency at Ayr for the important manufacturing house of Finlay and Co.,
Glasgow, and in 1808, secured him an appointment in the Excise. In 1810,
Train was sometime placed on service as a supernumerary in Perthshire;
he was in the year following settled as an excise officer at Largs,
from which place in 1813 he was transferred to Newton Stewart. The
latter location, from the numerous objects of interest which were
presented in the surrounding district, was highly suitable for his
inclinations and pursuits. Recovering many curious legends, he embodied
some of them in metrical tales, which, along with a few lyrical pieces,
he published in 1814, in a thin octavo volume,[114] under the title of
"Strains of the Mountain Muse." While the sheets were passing through
the press, some of them were accidentally seen by Sir Walter Scott, who,
warmly approving of the author's tastes, procured his address, and
communicated his desire to become a subscriber for the volume.

Gratified by the attention of Sir Walter, Mr Train transmitted for his
consideration several curious Galloway traditions, which he had
recovered. These Sir Walter politely acknowledged, and begged the favour
of his endeavouring to procure for him some account of the present
condition of Turnberry Castle, for his poem the "Lord of the Isles,"
which he was then engaged in composing. Mr Train amply fulfilled the
request by visiting the ruined structure situated on the coast of
Ayrshire; and he thereafter transmitted to his illustrious correspondent
those particulars regarding it, and of the landing of Robert Bruce, and
the Hospital founded by that monarch, at King's Case, near Prestwick,
which are given by Sir Walter in the notes to the fifth canto of the
poem. During a succession of years he regularly transmitted legendary
tales and scraps to Sir Walter, which were turned to excellent account
by the great novelist. The fruits of his communications appear in the
"Chronicles of the Canongate," "Guy Mannering," "Old Mortality," "The
Heart of Mid Lothian," "The Fair Maid of Perth," "Peveril of the Peak,"
"Quintin Durward," "The Surgeon's Daughter," and "Redgauntlet." He
likewise supplied those materials on which Sir Walter founded his dramas
of the "Doom of Devorgoil," and "Macduff's Cross."

When Sir Walter was engaged, a few years previous to his death, in
preparing the Abbotsford or first uniform edition of his works, Mr Train
communicated for his use many additional particulars regarding a number
of the characters in the Waverley Novels, of which he had originally
introduced the prototypes to the distinguished author. His most
interesting narrative was an account of the family of Robert Paterson,
the original "Old Mortality," which is so remarkable in its nature, that
we owe no apology for introducing it. Mr Train received his information
from Robert, a son of "Old Mortality," then in his seventy-fifth year,
and residing at Dalry, in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright. According to
the testimony of this individual, his brother John sailed for America in
1774, where he made a fortune during the American War. He afterwards
settled at Baltimore, where he married, and lived in prosperous
circumstances. He had a son named Robert, after "Old Mortality," his
father, and a daughter named Elizabeth; Robert espoused an American
lady, who, surviving him, was married to the Marquis of Wellesley, and
Elizabeth became the first wife of Prince Jerome Bonaparte.[115]

On his first connexion with the Excise, Mr Train turned his attention to
the most efficient means of checking illicit distillation in the
Highlands; and an essay which he prepared, suggesting improved
legislation on the subject, was in 1815 laid before the Board of Excise
and Customs, and transmitted with their approval to the Lords of the
Treasury. His suggestions afterwards became the subject of statutory
enactment. At this period, he began a correspondence with Mr George
Chalmers, author of the "Caledonia," supplying him with much valuable
information for the third volume of that great work. He had shortly
before traced the course of an ancient wall known as the "Deil's Dyke,"
for a distance of eighty miles from the margin of Lochryan, in
Wigtonshire, to Hightae, in Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire, and an account of
this remarkable structure, together with a narrative of his discovery of
Roman remains in Wigtonshire, greatly interested his indefatigable
correspondent. In 1820, through the kindly offices of Sir Walter, he was
appointed Supervisor. In this position he was employed to officiate at
Cupar-Fife and at Kirkintilloch. He was stationed in succession at South
Queensferry, Falkirk, Wigton, Dumfries, and Castle-Douglas. From these
various districts he procured curious gleanings for Sir Walter, and
objects of antiquity for the armory at Abbotsford.

Mr Train contributed to the periodicals both in prose and verse. Many of
his compositions were published in the _Dumfries Magazine_, _Bennett's
Glasgow Magazine_, and the _Ayr Courier_ and _Dumfries Courier_
newspapers. An interesting tale from his pen, entitled "Mysie and the
Minister," appeared in the thirtieth number of _Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal_; he contributed the legend of "Sir Ulrick Macwhirter" to Mr
Robert Chambers' "Picture of Scotland," and made several gleanings in
Galloway for the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," published by the same
gentleman. He had long contemplated the publication of a description of
Galloway, and he ultimately afforded valuable assistance to the Rev.
William Mackenzie in preparing his history of that district. Mr Train
likewise rendered useful aid to several clergymen in Galloway, in
drawing up the statistical accounts of their parishes,--a service which
was suitably acknowledged by the writers.

Having obtained from Sir Walter Scott a copy of Waldron's "Description
of the Isle of Man," a very scarce and curious work, Mr Train conceived
the idea of writing a history of that island. In the course of his
researches, he accidentally discovered a M.S. volume containing one
hundred and eight acts of the Manx Legislature, prior to the accession
of the Atholl family to that kingdom. Of this acquisition he transmitted
a transcript to Sir Walter, along with several Manx traditions, as an
appropriate acknowledgment for the donation he had received. In 1845 he
published his "History of the Isle of Man," in two large octavo volumes.
His last work was a curious and interesting history of a religious sect,
well known in the south of Scotland by the name of "The Buchanites."
After a period of twenty-eight years' service in the Excise, Mr Train
had his name placed on the retired list. He continued to reside at
Castle-Douglas, in a cottage pleasantly situated on the banks of
Carlingwark Lake. To the close of his career, he experienced pleasure in
literary composition. He died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, on the 7th
December 1852. His widow, with one son and one daughter, survive. A few
months after his death, a pension of fifty pounds on the Civil List was
conferred by the Queen on his widow and daughter, "in consequence of his
personal services to literature, and the valuable aid derived by the
late Sir Walter Scott from his antiquarian and literary researches
prosecuted under Sir Walter's direction."


[114] Mr Train published, in 1806, a small volume, entitled "Poetical
Reveries."

[115] Sir Walter Scott was convinced of the accuracy of the statement,
regarding the extraordinary connexion between the Wellesley and
Bonaparte families, and deferred publishing it only to avoid giving
offence to his intimate friend, the Duke of Wellington.




MY DOGGIE.

AIR--_"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen."_


    The neighbours a' they wonder how
      I am sae ta'en wi' Maggie,
    But ah! they little ken, I trow,
      How kind she 's to my doggie.
    Yestreen as we linked o'er the lea,
      To meet her in the gloamin';
    She fondly on my Bawtie cried,
      Whene'er she saw us comin'.

    But was the tyke not e'en as kind,
      Though fast she beck'd to pat him;
    He louped up and slaked her cheek,
      Afore she could win at him.
    But save us, sirs, when I gaed in,
      To lean me on the settle,
    Atween my Bawtie and the cat
      There rose an awfu' battle.

    An' though that Maggie saw him lay
      His lugs in bawthron's coggie,
    She wi' the besom lounged poor chit,
      And syne she clapp'd my doggie.
    Sae weel do I this kindness feel,
      Though Mag she isna bonnie,
    An' though she 's feckly twice my age,
      I lo'e her best of ony.

    May not this simple ditty show,
      How oft affection catches,
    And from what silly sources, too,
      Proceed unseemly matches;
    An' eke the lover he may see,
      Albeit his joe seem saucy,
    If she is kind unto his dog,
      He 'll win at length the lassie.




BLOOMING JESSIE.


    On this unfrequented plain,
    What can gar thee sigh alane,
      Bonnie blue-eyed lassie?
    Is thy mammy dead and gane,
    Or thy loving Jamie slain?
    Wed anither, mak nae main,
      Bonnie, blooming Jessie.

    Though I sob and sigh alane,
    I was never wed to ane,
      Quo' the blue-eyed lassie.
    But if loving Jamie's slain,
    Farewell pleasure, welcome pain,
    A' the joy wi' him is gane
      O' poor hapless Jessie.

    Ere he cross'd the raging sea,
    Was he ever true to thee,
      Bonnie, blooming Jessie?
    Was he ever frank and free?
    Swore he constant aye to be?
    Did he on the roseate lea
      Ca' thee blooming Jessie?

    Ere he cross'd the raging sea,
    Aft he on the dewy lea,
      Ca'd me blue-eyed lassie.
    Weel I mind his words to me,
    Were, if he abroad should die,
    His last throb and sigh should be,
      Bonnie, blooming Jessie.

    Far frae hame, and far frae thee,
    I saw loving Jamie die,
      Bonnie blue-eyed lassie.
    Fast a cannon ball did flee,
    Laid him stretch'd upo' the lea,
    Soon in death he closed his e'e,
      Crying, "Blooming Jessie."

    Swelling with a smother'd sigh,
    Rose the snowy bosom high
      Of the blue-eyed lassie.
    Fleeter than the streamers fly,
    When they flit athwart the sky,
    Went and came the rosy dye
      On the cheeks of Jessie.

    Longer wi' sic grief oppress'd
    Jamie couldna sae distress'd
      See the blue-eyed lassie.
    Fast he clasp'd her to his breast,
    Told her a' his dangers past,
    Vow'd that he would wed at last
      Bonnie, blooming Jessie.




OLD SCOTIA.


    I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will,
    Till the heart that now beats in my bosom is still.
    My forefathers loved thee, for often they drew
    Their dirks in defence of thy banners of blue;
    Though murky thy glens, where the wolf prowl'd of yore,
    And craggy thy mountains, where cataracts roar,
    The race of old Albyn, when danger was nigh,
    For thee stood resolved still to conquer or die.

    I love yet to roam where the beacon-light rose,
    Where echoed thy slogan, or gather'd thy foes,
    Whilst forth rush'd thy heroic sons to the fight,
    Opposing the stranger who came in his might.
    I love through thy time-fretted castles to stray,
    The mould'ring halls of thy chiefs to survey;
    To grope through the keep, and the turret explore,
    Where waved the blue flag when the battle was o'er.

    I love yet to roam o'er each field of thy fame,
    Where valour has gain'd thee a glorious name;
    I love where the cairn or the cromlach is made,
    To ponder, for low there the mighty are laid.
    Were these fall'n heroes to rise from their graves,
    They might deem us dastards, they might deem us slaves;
    But let a foe face thee, raise fire on each hill,
    Thy sons, my dear Scotia, will fight for thee still!




ROBERT JAMIESON.


An intelligent antiquary, an elegant scholar, and a respectable writer
of verses, Robert Jamieson was born in Morayshire about the year 1780.
At an early age he became classical assistant in the school of
Macclesfield in Cheshire. About the year 1800 he proceeded to the shores
of the Baltic, to occupy an appointment in the Academy of Riga. Prior to
his departure, he had formed the scheme of publishing a collection of
ballads recovered from tradition, and on his return to Scotland he
resumed his plan with the ardour of an enthusiast. In 1806 he published,
in two octavo volumes, "Popular Ballads and Songs, from Tradition,
Manuscripts, and Scarce Editions; with Translations of Similar Pieces
from the Ancient Danish Language, and a few Originals by the Editor." In
the preparation of this work, he acknowledges his obligations to Dr
Jamieson, author of the "History of the Culdees," Dr Robert Anderson,
editor of the "British Poets," Dr John Leyden, and some others. On the
recommendation of Sir Walter Scott he was received into the General
Register House, as assistant to the Deputy-Clerk-Register, in the
publication of the public records. He held this office till 1836, during
a period of thirty years. Subsequently he resided at Newhaven, near
Edinburgh, and ultimately in London, where he died on the 24th of
September 1844. Familiar with the northern languages, he edited,
conjointly with Sir Walter Scott and Henry Weber, a learned work,
entitled "Illustrations of Northern Antiquities from the Earlier
Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances." Edinburgh, 1814, quarto. In 1818 he
published, with some contributions from Scott, a new edition of Burt's
"Letters from the North of Scotland."

Mr Jamieson was of the middle size, of muscular form, and of
strongly-marked features. As a literary antiquary, he was held in high
estimation by the men of learning in the capital. As a poet he composed
several songs in early life, which are worthy of a place among the
modern minstrelsy of his country.




MY WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

TUNE--_"My Wife 's a wanton wee Thing."_


    My wife 's a winsome wee thing,
    A bonnie, blythesome wee thing,
    My dear, my constant wee thing,
      And evermair sall be;
    It warms my heart to view her,
    I canna choose but lo'e her,
    And oh! weel may I trow her
      How dearly she lo'es me!

    For though her face sae fair be,
    As nane could ever mair be;
    And though her wit sae rare be,
      As seenil do we see;
    Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me,
    Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me,
    Nor baith sae lang retain'd me,
      But for her love to me.

    When wealth and pride disown'd me,
    A' views were dark around me,
    And sad and laigh she found me,
      As friendless worth could be;
    When ither hope gaed frae me,
    Her pity kind did stay me,
    And love for love she ga'e me;
      And that 's the love for me.

    And, till this heart is cald, I
    That charm of life will hald by;
    And, though my wife grow auld, my
      Leal love aye young will be;
    For she 's my winsome wee thing,
    My canty, blythesome wee thing,
    My tender, constant wee thing,
      And evermair sall be.




GO TO HIM, THEN, IF THOU CAN'ST GO.


    Go to him, then, if thou can'st go,
      Waste not a thought on me;
    My heart and mind are a' my store,
      And they were dear to thee.
    But there is music in his gold
      (I ne'er sae sweet could sing),
    That finds a chord in every breast
      In unison to ring.

    The modest virtues dread the spell,
      The honest loves retire,
    The purer sympathies of soul
      Far other charms require.
    The breathings of my plaintive reed
      Sink dying in despair,
    The still small voice of gratitude,
      Even that is heard nae mair.

    But, if thy heart can suffer thee,
      The powerful call obey,
    And mount the splendid bed that wealth
      And pride for thee display.
    Then gaily bid farewell to a'
      Love's trembling hopes and fears,
    While I my lanely pillow here
      Wash with unceasing tears.

    Yet, in the fremmit arms of him
      That half thy worth ne'er knew,
    Oh! think na on my lang-tried love,
      How tender and how true!
    For sure 'twould break thy gentle heart
      My breaking heart to see,
    Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it 's tholed,
      And yet maun thole for thee.




WALTER WATSON.


Walter Watson was the son of a handloom weaver in the village of
Chryston, in the parish of Calder, and county of Lanark, where he was
born, on the 29th March 1780. Having a family of other two sons and four
daughters, his parents could only afford to send him two years to
school; when at the age of eight, he was engaged as a cow-herd. During
the winter months he still continued to receive instructions from the
village schoolmaster. At the age of eleven his father apprenticed him to
a weaver; but he had contracted a love for the fields, and after a few
years at the loom he hired himself as a farm-servant. In the hope of
improving his circumstances, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was
employed as a sawyer. He now enlisted in the Scots Greys; but after a
service of only three years, he was discharged, in June 1802, on the
reduction of the army, subsequent to the peace of Amiens. At Chryston he
resumed his earliest occupation, and, having married, resolved to employ
himself for life at the loom. His spare hours were dedicated to the
muse, and his compositions were submitted to criticism at the social
meetings of his friends. Encouraged by their approval, he published in
1808 a small volume of poems and songs, which, well received, gained him
considerable reputation as a versifier. Some of the songs at once became
popular. In 1820 he removed from Chryston, and accepted employment as a
sawyer in the villages of Banton and Arnbrae, in Kilsyth; in 1826 he
proceeded to Kirkintilloch, where he resumed the labours of the loom; in
1830 he changed his abode to Craigdarroch, in the parish of Calder, from
which, in other five years, he removed to Lennoxtown of Campsie, where
he and several of his family were employed in an extensive printwork. To
Craigdarroch he returned at the end of two years; in other seven years
he made a further change to Auchinairn which, in 1849, he left for
Duntiblae, in Kirkintilloch. He died at the latter place on the 13th
September 1854, in his seventy-fifth year. His remains were interred at
Chryston, within a few yards of the house in which he was born. His
widow, the "Maggie" of his songs, still survives, with only four of
their ten children.

Besides the volume already mentioned, Watson published a small
collection of miscellaneous poems in 1823, and a third volume in 1843. A
selection of his best pieces was published during the year previous to
his death, under the superintendence of several friends in Glasgow, with
a biographical preface by Mr Hugh Macdonald. The proceeds of this
volume, which was published by subscription, tended to the comfort of
the last months of the poet's life. On two different occasions during
his advanced years, he received public entertainments, and was presented
with substantial tokens of esteem. Of amiable dispositions, modest
demeanour, and industrious habits, he was beloved by all to whom he was
known. His poems generally abound in genuine Scottish humour, but his
reputation will rest upon a few of his songs, which have deservedly
obtained a place in the affections of his countrymen.




MY JOCKIE 'S FAR AWA'.


    Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers,
      The woods wi' leaves so green,
    An' little burds around their bowers
      In harmony convene;
    The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree,
      While saft the zephyrs blaw,
    But what are a' thae joys to me,
      When Jockie 's far awa'?
        When Jockie 's far awa' on sea,
          When Jockie 's far awa';
        But what are a' thae joys to me,
          When Jockie 's far awa'?

    Last May mornin', how sweet to see
      The little lambkins play,
    Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me,
      Did kindly walk this way!
    On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd,
      To busk my bosom braw;
    Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd,
      But now he 's far awa'.
        But now, &c.

    O gentle peace, return again,
      Bring Jockie to my arms,
    Frae dangers on the raging main,
      An' cruel war's alarms;
    Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll part
      While we hae breath to draw;
    Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart,
      My Jockie 's far awa';
        My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.




MAGGIE AN' ME.

AIR--_"The Banks o' the Dee."_


    The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander
      Amang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea,
    An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander,
      To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea;
    The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin',
    As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein',
    An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin'
      Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.

    The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty,
      The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree,
    While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty,
      As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee.
    Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant,
    The future, by thee, is made almost the present;
    Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant,
      Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.

    Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances,
      An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e,
    We needit nae art to engage our young fancies,
      'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee.
    Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither,
    We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither,
    An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither,
      Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.




SIT DOWN, MY CRONIE.[116]


    Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack,
    Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back,
    Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit,
    We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet;
      An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet,
      We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.

    Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale,
    It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale,
    We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,
    We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet,
      An' sae will we yet, &c.

    Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime,
    Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time;
    Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit,
    We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet,
      An' sae will we yet, &c.



[116] The last stanza of this song has, on account of its Bacchanalian
tendency, been omitted.




BRAES O' BEDLAY.[117]

AIR--_"Hills o' Glenorchy."_


    When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,
      My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day;
    My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sang
      Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay.
    How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,
    When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,
    Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes
      That screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.

    There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie,
      An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay,"
    Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane,
      An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.
    I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,
    Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her,
    Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her,
      It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.

    We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,
      Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,
    Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiled
      By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay.
    Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story,
    Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,
    Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,
      Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.



[117] The braes of Bedlay are in the neighbourhood of Chryston, about
seven miles north of Glasgow.




JESSIE.

AIR--_"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."_


    Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie,
      Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell,
    Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy,
      An' luve lilts his tale through the dell?
    O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie,
      Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw;
    The lassies hae doubts about Jessie,
      Her charms steal their luvers awa'.

    I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin',
      Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean,
    Your wooers are aften complainin'
      O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en.
    I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee,
      Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast;
    May luve wi' his blessins abide thee,
      For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.

    I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie,
      For fear some young laird o' degree
    May come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy,
      An' ding a' my prospects agee.
    There 's naething like gowd to the miser,
      There 's naething like light to the e'e,
    But they canna gie me ony pleasure,
      If Jessie prove faithless to me.

    Let us meet on the border, my Jessie,
      Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye,
    Though my words may be scant to address ye,
      My heart will be loupin' wi' joy.
    If ance I were wedded to Jessie,
      An' that may be ere it be lang,
    I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassie
      That ere was the theme o' a sang.




WILLIAM LAIDLAW.


As the confidential friend, factor, and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott,
William Laidlaw has a claim to remembrance; the authorship of "Lucy's
Flittin'" entitles him to rank among the minstrels of his country. His
ancestors on the father's side were, for a course of centuries,
substantial farmers in Tweedside, and his father, James Laidlaw, with
his wife, Catherine Ballantyne, rented from the Earl of Traquair the
pastoral farm of Blackhouse, in Yarrow. William, the eldest of a family
of three sons, was born in November 1780. His education was latterly
conducted at the Grammar School of Peebles. James Hogg kept sheep on his
father's farm, and a strong inclination for ballad-poetry led young
Laidlaw to cultivate his society. They became inseparable friends--the
Shepherd guiding the fancy of the youth, who, on the other hand,
encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.

In the summer of 1801, Laidlaw formed the acquaintance of Sir Walter
Scott. In quest of materials for the third volume of the "Border
Minstrelsy," Scott made an excursion into the vales of Ettrick and
Yarrow; he was directed to Blackhouse by Leyden, who had been informed
of young Laidlaw's zeal for the ancient ballad. The visit was an
eventful one: Scott found in Laidlaw an intelligent friend and his
future steward, and through his means formed, on the same day, the
acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. The ballad of "Auld Maitland," in
the third volume of the "Minstrelsy," was furnished by Laidlaw; he
recovered it from the recitation of "Will of Phawhope," the maternal
uncle of the Shepherd. A correspondence with Scott speedily ripened
into friendship; the great poet rapidly passing the epistolary forms of
"Sir," and "Dear Sir," into "Dear Mr Laidlaw," and ultimately into "Dear
Willie,"--a familiarity of address which he only used as expressive of
affection. Struck with his originality and the extent of his
acquirements, Scott earnestly recommended him to select a different
profession from the simple art of his fathers, especially suggesting the
study of medicine. But Laidlaw deemed himself too ripe in years to think
of change; he took a farm at Traquair, and subsequently removed to a
larger farm at Liberton, near Edinburgh.

The sudden fall in the price of grain at the close of the war, which so
severely affected many tenant-farmers, pressed heavily on Laidlaw, and
compelled him to abandon his lease. He now accepted the offer of Sir
Walter to become steward at Abbotsford, and, accordingly, removed his
family in 1817 to Kaeside, a cottage on the estate comfortably fitted up
for their reception. Through Scott's recommendation, he was employed to
prepare the chronicle of events and publications for the _Edinburgh
Annual Register_; and for a short period he furnished a similar record
to _Blackwood's Magazine_. He did not persevere in literary labours, his
time becoming wholly occupied in superintending improvements at
Abbotsford. When Sir Walter was in the country, he was privileged with
his daily intercourse, and was uniformly invited to meet those literary
characters who visited the mansion. When official duties detained Scott
in the capital, Laidlaw was his confidential correspondent. Sir Walter
early communicated to him the unfortunate event of his commercial
embarrassments, in a letter honourable to his heart. After feelingly
expressing his apprehension lest his misfortunes should result in
depriving his correspondent of the factorship, Sir Walter proceeds in
his letter: "You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it
is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be
useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I
will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your
services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer
in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must
have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my
inclination to observe the most strict privacy, the better to save
expense, and also time. I do not dislike the path which lies before me.
I have seen all that society can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can
give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit."
Laidlaw was too conscientious to remain at Abbotsford, to be a burden on
his illustrious friend; he removed to his native district, and for three
years employed himself in a variety of occupations till 1830, when the
promise of brighter days to his benefactor warranted his return. Scott
had felt his departure severely, characterising it as "a most melancholy
blank," and his return was hailed with corresponding joy. He was now
chiefly employed as Sir Walter's amanuensis. During his last illness,
Laidlaw was constant in his attendance, and his presence was a source of
peculiar pleasure to the distinguished sufferer. After the funeral, Sir
Walter's eldest son and his lady presented him with a brooch, their
marriage gift to their revered father, which he wore at the time of his
decease; it was afterwards worn by his affectionate steward to the close
of his life. The death of Scott took place on the 21st of September
1832, and shortly thereafter Laidlaw bade adieu to Abbotsford. He was
appointed factor on the Ross-shire property of Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of
Seaforth,--a situation which he subsequently exchanged for the
factorship of Sir Charles Lockhart Ross of Balnagowan, in the same
county. Compelled to resign the latter appointment from impaired health,
he ultimately took up his residence with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw,
tenant at Contin, near Dingwall, in whose house he expired on the 18th
of May 1845, having attained his sixty-fifth year. At an early age he
espoused his cousin, Miss Ballantyne, by whom he had a numerous family.
His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a sequestered
spot under the shade of the elevated Tor-Achilty, amidst the most
interesting Highland scenery.

A man of superior shrewdness, and well acquainted with literature and
rural affairs, Laidlaw was especially devoted to speculations in
science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and
entomology, and a considerable geologist. He prepared a statistical
account of Innerleithen, wrote a geological description of Selkirkshire,
and contributed several articles to the "Edinburgh Encyclopedia." In
youth, he was an enthusiast in ballad-lore; and he was especially expert
in filling up blanks in the compositions of the elder minstrels. His
original metrical productions are limited to those which appear in the
present work. "Lucy's Flittin'" is his masterpiece; we know not a more
exquisitely touching ballad in the language, with the single exception
of "Robin Gray." Laidlaw was a devoted friend, and a most intelligent
companion; he spoke the provincial vernacular, but his manners were
polished and pleasing. He was somewhat under the middle height, but was
well formed and slightly athletic, and his fresh-coloured complexion
beamed a generous benignity.




LUCY'S FLITTIN'.[118]

AIR--_"Paddy O'Rafferty."_


    'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',
      And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year,
    That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,
      And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear.
    For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer;
      She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;
    An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,
      Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.

    She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in',
      Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see.
    Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,
      The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
    As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin',
      Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang.
    She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',
      And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.

    Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
      And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?
    If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
      Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
    I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
      Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
    I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither,
      Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.

    Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
      The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
    Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',
      I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.
    Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
      It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see,
    He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
      Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

    The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit;
      The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea,
    But Lucy likes Jamie;--she turn'd and she lookit,
      She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
    Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,
      And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn;
    For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
      Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.


[118] This exquisite ballad was contributed by Laidlaw to Hogg's "Forest
Minstrel." There are two accounts as to the subject of it, both of which
we subjoin, as they were narrated to us during the course of a recent
excursion in Tweedside. According to one version, Lucy had been in the
service of Mr Laidlaw, sen., at Blackhouse, and had by her beauty
attracted the romantic fancy of one of the poet's brothers. In the other
account Lucy is described as having served on a farm in "The Glen" of
Traquair, and as having been beloved by her master's son, who afterwards
deserted her, when she died of a broken heart. The last stanza was added
by Hogg, who used to assert that he alone was responsible for the death
of poor Lucy. "The Glen" is a beautiful mountain valley opening on the
Tweed, near Innerleithen; it formerly belonged to Mr Alexander Allan,
but it is now the possession of Charles Tennent, Esq., Glasgow.




HER BONNIE BLACK E'E.

AIR--_"Saw ye my Wee Thing."_


    On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander,
      The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me;
    I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature,
      I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

    When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws,
      An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree;
    I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on
      The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.

    When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November,
      The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea;
    Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain,
      I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

    When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses,
      Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me;
    I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes,
      When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

    When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin',
      When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see;
    Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin',
      Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

    Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry,
      Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be;
    Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie,
      An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.

    Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never,
      She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me;
    An' this is my wish, may I leave it if ever
      She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.




ALAKE FOR THE LASSIE!

AIR--_"Logie o' Buchan."_


    Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a',
    That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa';
    But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain
    That lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.

    The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fain
    To see my dear laddie, to see him again;
    My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thought
    O' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.

    The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e,
    When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee;
    I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair,
    For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.

    I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw,
    I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;
    I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see,
    In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.

    He never wad see me in ony ae place,
    At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face;
    I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa,
    He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.

    My neebour lads strave to entice me awa';
    They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;
    But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,
    For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.

    His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!
    He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;
    An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me--
    I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




ALEXANDER MACDONALD.


Alexander Macdonald, who has been termed the Byron of Highland Bards,
was born on the farm of Dalilea, in Moidart. His father was a non-juring
clergyman of the same name; hence the poet is popularly known as
_Mac-vaistir-Alaister_, or Alexander the parson's son. The precise date
of his birth is unknown, but he seems to have been born about the first
decade of the last century. He was employed as a catechist by the
Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, under whose auspices he
afterwards published a vocabulary, for the use of Gaelic schools. This
work, which was the first of the kind in the language, was published at
Edinburgh in 1741. Macdonald was subsequently elected schoolmaster of
his native parish of Ardnamurchan, and was ordained an elder in the
parish church. But the most eventful part of his life was yet to come.
On the tidings of the landing of Prince Charles Edward, he awoke his
muse to excite a rising, buckled on his broadsword, and, to complete
his duty to his Prince, apostatised to the Catholic religion. In the
army of the Prince he bore an officer's commission. At the close of the
Rebellion, he at first sought shelter in Borodale and Arisaig; he
afterwards proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of teaching children in
the Jacobite connexion. The latter course was attended with this
advantage; it enabled him by subscription to print a volume of Gaelic
poetry, which contains all his best productions. Returning to his native
district, he attempted farming without success, and ultimately he became
dependent on the liberality of his relations. He died sometime
subsequent to the middle of the century.

Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the
descriptive, in which his reading made him largely a borrower; the
lyrical in which he excelled; the satirical, in which he was personal
and licentious; and the Jacobitical, in which he issued forth treason of
the most pestilential character. He has disfigured his verses by
incessant appeals to the Muses, and repeated references to the heathen
mythology; but his melody is in the Gaelic tongue wholly unsurpassed.




THE LION OF MACDONALD.

This composition was suggested by the success of Caberfae, the clan song
of the Mackenzies. Macdonald was ambitious of rivaling, or excelling
that famous composition, which contained a provoking allusion to a
branch of his own clan. In the original, the song is prefaced by a
tremendous philippic against the hero of Caberfae. The bard then strikes
into the following strain of eulogy on his own tribe, which is still
remarkably popular among the Gael.

    Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown,
    Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119] blossoms crown;
    Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air,
    And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare.
    Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious,
    To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious;
    How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle,
    As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!
      Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming,
    O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right assuming!
    I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming,
    As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.
    The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing,
    Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in.
    A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side,
    And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?
    The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith,
    And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death.
      Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?
    They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.
    Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold,
    And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told;
    O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour,
    And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger;
    And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara,
    Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow.
      Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following,
    Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing.
    Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them,
    Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found
                                              all eyes though scanning them.
    They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never
    Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever.
    Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying,
    And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying.
      Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan,
    How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.
    O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave,
    Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive;
    Nor wants their course the speed, the force,
                                   --nor wants their gallant stature,
    This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water,
    Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell,
    So fierce they gush--the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well.
      Clandonuil's[124] root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem,
    What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them?
    Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared;
    Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?
    What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd,
                                  in that cloud burst of steel,
    That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel,
    While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along,
    And stranger[125] notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!
      Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather,
    So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather;
    Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true,
    Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew,
    Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed
    Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed,
    And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on,
    And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.
      O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud,
    The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd,
    Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim,
    Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126] limb.
    Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127]
    Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy;
    The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best,
    Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!
    That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,--
    Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.


[119] The clan badge is a tuft of heather.

[120] The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.

[121] A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.

[122] Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, _Old King Coul_;
Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.

[123] The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed
to animate the combatants, during the period of excitement.

[124] The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are
not quite ascertained; as Sleat, Clanronald, Glengarry, Keppoch, and
Glencoe.

[125] _Lit._ Lowland or stranger. Killiecrankie and Sheriff Muir, not to
mention Innerlochy and Tippermuir, must have blended the dying shrieks
of Lowlanders with the triumphant shouts of the Gael. The image is a
fine one.

[126] The armorial emblem was gules.

[127] Prince Charles Edward was expected.




THE BROWN DAIRY-MAIDEN.


Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted
the air for his "Banks of the Devon."

          My brown dairy, brown dairy,
            Brown dairy-maiden;
          Brown dairy-maiden,
            Bell of the heather!

    A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling;
      Thy glove[128] there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover;
    When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis,
      As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over;
    Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee,
      And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.
    To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing,
      Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.
            My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

    They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all,
      For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!
    White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending,
      And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry;
    Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in,
      An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry;
    At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying,
      From the tresses[129] they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.
            My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

    At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming,
      And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.
    Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading
      O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.
    Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining,
      How their lustre is shining in union becoming!
            My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

    Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying
      With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer,
    O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding,
      When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!
    The music of milking, with melodies lilting,
      While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over,
    Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becoming
      As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.
                  My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.


[128] Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a
great figure in their poetry.

[129] The most frequent of all song-images in Gaelic, is the description
of yellow or auburn hair.




THE PRAISE OF MORAG.

This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the
native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable
tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is
understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the
humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the
imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or
Amaryllis _ideal_ of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was
married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of
the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the
"Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion
piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our
apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best
modern composition in their language.


URLAR.

    O that I were the shaw in,[130]
      When Morag was there,
    Lots to be drawing
      For the prize of the fair!
    Mingling in your glee,
    Merry maidens! We
    Rolicking would be
      The flow'rets along;
    Time would pass away
      In the oblivion of our play,
    As we cropp'd the primrose gay,
      The rock-clefts among;
    Then in mock we 'd fight,
    Then we 'd take to flight,
    Then we 'd lose us quite,
      Where the cliffs overhung.

    Like the dew-drop blue
      In the mist of morn
    So thine eye, and thy hue
      Put the blossom to scorn.
    All beauties they shower
    On thy person their dower;
    Above is the flower,
      Beneath is the stem;
    'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers,
    'Tis a star 'mid the streamers,
    'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers
      The foremost of them!
    Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!
    As we wonder, still we say
    Can it be a thing of clay
      We see in that gem?

    Since thy first feature
      Sparkled before me,
    Fair! not a creature
      Was like thy glory.[131]....



[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or
the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed.

[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical
descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in
the poet's eye.



SIUBHAL.

    Away with all, away with all,
      Away with all but Morag,
    A maid whose grace and mensefulness
      Still carries all before it.
    You shall not find her marrow,
    For beauty without furrow,
    Though you search the islands thorough
      From Muile[132] to the Lewis;
    So modest is each feature,
    So void of pride her nature,
    And every inch of stature
      To perfect grace so true is.[133]

       *       *       *       *       *

    O that drift, like a pillow,
      We madden to share it;
    O that white of the lily,
      'Tis passion to near it;
    Every charm in a cluster,
    The rose adds its lustre--
    Can it be but such muster
      Should banish the Spirit!


URLAR.

    We would strike the note of joy
      In the morning,
    The dawn with its orangery
      The hill-tops adorning.
    To bush and fell resorting,
    While the shades conceal'd our courting,
    Would not be lack of sporting
      Or gleeful _phrenesie_;
    Like the roebuck and his mate,
    In their woodland haunts elate
    The race we would debate
      Around the tendril tree.


SIUBHAL.

    Thou bright star of maidens,
      A beam without haze,
    No murkiness saddens,
      No disk-spot bewrays.
    The swan-down to feeling,
    The snow of the gaillin,[134]
    Thy limbs all excelling,
      Unite to amaze.
    The queen, I would name thee,
      Of maidenly muster;
    Thy stem is so seemly,
      So rich is its cluster
    Of members complete,
    Adroit at each feat,
    And thy temper so sweet,
      Without banning or bluster.
    My grief has press'd on
      Since the vision of Morag,
    As the heavy millstone
      On the cross-tree that bore it.
    In vain the world over,
    Seek her match may the rover;
    A shaft, thy poor lover,
      First struck overpowering.

    When thy ringlets of gold,
    With the crooks of their fold,
    Thy neck-wards were roll'd
      All weavy and showering.
    Like stars that are ring'd,
    Like gems that are string'd
    Are those locks, while, as wing'd
      From the sun, blends a ray
    Of his yellowest beams;
    And the gold of his gleams
    Behold how he streams
      'Mid those tresses to play.
    In thy limbs like the canna,[135]
      Thy cinnamon kiss,
    Thy bright kirtle, we ken a'
      New phoenix of bliss.
    In thy sweetness of tone,
    All the woman we own,
    Nor a sneer nor a frown
      On thy features appear;
    When the crowd is in motion
    For Sabbath devotion,[136]
    As an angel, arose on
      Their vision, my fair
    With her meekness of grace,
    And the flakes of her dress,
    As they stream, might express
      Such loveliness there.
    When endow'd at thy birth
    We marvel that earth
    From its mould, should yield worth
      Of a fashion so rare.


URLAR.

    I never dream'd would sink
    On a peak that mounts world's brink,
    Of sunlight, such a blink,
      Morag! as thine.
    As the charmings of a spell,
    Working in their cell,
    So dissolves the heart where dwell
      Thy graces divine.


SIUBHAL.

    Come, counsel me, my comrades,
      While dizzy fancy lingers,
    Did ever flute become, lads,
      The motion of such fingers?
    Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137]
    Or see or hear, before her,
    Such gracefulness, adore her
      Yet, woes me, how concealing
    From her I 've wedded, dare I?
    Still, homeward bound, I tarry,
    And Jeanie's eye is weary,
      Her truant unrevealing.
    The glow of love I feel,
    Not all the linns of Sheil,
    Nor Cruachan's snow avail
      To cool to congealing.[138]....


CRUNLUATH.

    My very brain is humming, sirs,
    As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs,
    And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs,
      My passion such a flame is.
    My very eyes are blinding, sirs,
    Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs,
    Nor height nor distance minding, sirs,
      The crag, as Corrie, tame is....


[132] Mull.

[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope
would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy
of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.

[134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation
and periodic visits to the Islands.

[135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors.

[136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion.

[137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders.




NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.

Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's
compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to
the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of
indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the
mask of civility.


    Glad tidings for the Highlands!
      To arms a ringing call--
    Hammers storming, targets forming,
      Orb-like as a ball.[139]
    Withers dismay the pale array,
      That guards the Hanoverian;
    Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er,
      The help is nigh we weary on.
    From friendly east a breeze shall haste
      The fruit-freight of our prayer--
    With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140]
      A prince to do and dare;
    Stuart his name, his sire's the same,
      For his riffled crown appealing,
    Strong his right in, soon shall Britain
      Be humbled to the kneeling.
    Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield,
      And firearms play defiance;
    Forwards they fly, and still their cry,
      Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions.
    Make ready for your travel,
     Be sharp-set, and be willing,
    There will be a dreadful revel,
      And liquor red be spilling.
    O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife,
      Are burning for the slaughter,
    Would let their volley, like fire to holly,
      Blaze on the usurping traitor.
    Full many a soldier arming,
      Is laggard in his spirit,
    E'er his blood the flag is warming
      Of the King that should inherit.
    He may be loon or coward,
      That spur scarce touch would nearly--
    The colours shew, he 's in a glow,
      Like the stubble of the barley.
    Onward, gallants! onward speed ye,
      Flower and bulwark of the Gael;
    Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy,
      Rosy-red, and do not quail.
    Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous,
      As your princely strain beseems,
    In your hands, alert for conflict,
      While the Spanish weapon gleams.--
    Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143]
      Humming music to the gale;
    Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144]
      Proud the banner staff to bear.
    A slashing weapon on his thigh,
      He tends his charge unfearing;
    Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh,
      To the gristle nostrils sheering.
    Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight,
      The finger white, the clever, he
    That gives the war-pipe his embrace
      To raise the storm of bravery.
    A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring
      Battle-sounding breeze of her
    Would stir the spirit of the clans
      To rake the heart of Lucifer.
    March ye, without feint and dolour,
      By the banner of your clan,
    In your garb of many a colour,
      Quelling onset to a man.
    Then, to see you swiftly baring
      From the sheath the manly glaive,
    Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing
      Marrow-showering of the brave!
    Woe the clattering, weapon-battering
      Answering to the piobrach's yell!
    When your racing speeds the chasing,
      Wide and far the clamours swell.
    Hard blows whistle from the bristle
      Of the temples to the thigh,
    Heavy handed as the land-flood,
      Who will turn ye, or make fly?
    Many a man has drunk an ocean
      Healths to Charlie, to the gorge,
    Broken many a glass proposing
      Weal to him and woe to George;
    But, 'tis feat of greater glory
      Far, than stoups of wine to trowl,
    One draught of vengeance deep and gory,
      Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl!
    Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all,
      Join ye to your clans your cheer!
    Nor heed though wife and child pursue all,
      Bidding you to fight, forbear.
    Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty,
      Gallant in your loyal pride,
    By your hacking, low as bracken
      Stretch the foe the turf beside.
    Our stinging kerne of aspect stern
      That love the fatal game,
    That revel rife till drunk with strife,
      And dye their cheeks with flame,
    Are strange to fear;--their broadswords shear
      Their foemen's crested brows,
    The red-coats feel the barb of steel,
      And hot its venom glows.
    The few have won fields, many a one,
      In grappling conflicts' play;
    Then let us march, nor let our hearts
      A start of fear betray.
    Come gushing forth, the trusty North,
      Macshimei,[145] loyal Gordon;
    And prances high their chivalry,
      And death-dew sits each sword on.


[138] Here Morag's musical performance on the flute, form the subject of
a panegyric, in which Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath are imitated.

[139] "Round as the shield of my fathers."--_Ossian_.

[140] The French military costume, distinguished by its white colour,
was assumed by the Jacobites.

[141] "Come, and I will give you flesh," a Highland war-cry invoking the
birds and beasts of prey to their bloody revel.

[142] Macdonald of Sleat, Macleod, and others, first hesitated, and
finally withheld themselves from the party of the white cockade.

[143] Flag.

[144] Warrior.

[145] Lovat and his clan.




JOHN ROY STUART.


John Roy Stuart was a distinguished officer in the Jacobite army of
1745. He was the son of a farmer in Strathspey, who gave him a good
education, and procured him a commission in a Highland regiment, which
at the period served in Flanders. His military experiences abroad proved
serviceable in the cause to which he afterwards devoted himself. In the
army of Prince Charles Edward, he was entrusted with important commands
at Gladsmuir, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; and he was deemed of
sufficient consequence to be pursued by the government with an amount of
vigilance which rendered his escape almost an approach to the
miraculous. An able military commander, he was an excellent poet. His
"Lament for Lady Macintosh" has supplied one of the most beautiful airs
in Highland music.[146] In the second of his pieces on the battle of
Culloden, translated for the present work, the lamentation for the
absence of the missing clans, and the night march to the field, are
executed with the skill and address of a genuine bard, while the story
of the battle is recited with the fervour of an honourable partisan.
Stuart died abroad in circumstances not differing from those of the best
and bravest, who were engaged in the same unhappy enterprise.


[146] See the Rev. Patrick Macdonald's Collection, No. 106.




LAMENT FOR LADY MACINTOSH.

This is the celebrated heroine who defended her castle of Moy, in the
absence of her husband, and, with other exploits, achieved the surprisal
of Lord Loudon's party in their attempt to seize Prince Charles Edward,
when he was her guest. Information had been conveyed by some friendly
unknown party, of a kind so particular as to induce the lady to have
recourse to the following stratagem. She sent the blacksmith on her
estate, at the head of a party of other seven persons, with instructions
to lie in ambush, and at a particular juncture to call out to the clans
to come on and hew to pieces "the scarlet soldiers," as were termed the
royalist troops. The feint succeeded, and is known in Jacobite story as
the "Route of Moy." The exploit is pointedly alluded to in the Elegy,
which is replete with beauty and pathos.


    Does grief appeal to you, ye leal,
      Heaven's tears with ours to blend?
    The halo's veil is on, and pale
      The beams of light descend.
    The wife repines, the babe declines,
      The leaves prolong their bend,
    Above, below, all signs are woe,
      The heifer moans her friend.

    The taper's glow of waxen snow,
      The ray when noon is nigh,
    Was far out-peer'd, till disappear'd
      Our star of morn, as high
    The southern west its blast released,
      And drown'd in floods the sky--
    Ah woe! was gone the star that shone,
      Nor left a visage dry
    For her, who won as win could none
      The people's love so well.
    O, welaway! the dirging lay
      That rung from Moy its knell;
    Alas, the hue, where orbs of blue,
      With roses wont to dwell!
    How can we think, nor swooning sink,
      To earth them in the cell?

    Silk wrapp'd thy frame, as lily stem,
      And snowy as its flower,
    So once, and now must love allow,
      The grave chest such a dower!
    The fairest shoot of noble root
      A blast could overpower;
    'Tis woman's meed for chieftain's deed,
      That bids our eyes to shower.

    Beseems his grief the princely chief,
      Who reins the charger's pride,
    And gives the gale the silken sail,
      That flaps the standard's side;
    Who from the hall where sheds at call,
      The generous shell its tide,
    And from the tower where Meiners'[147] power
      Prevails, brought home such bride.



[147] She was a daughter of Menzies of that Ilk, in Perthshire. The
founder of the family was a De Moyeners, in the reign of William the
Lion. The name in Gaelic continued to testify to its original, being
_Meini_, or _Meinarach_.




THE DAY OF CULLODEN.


    Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust,
      And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground;
    So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear,
      Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound.
    For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm
      With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown;
    The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued,
      While the base-born[148] by hosts is secured on the throne?
    Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace,
      Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small,
    Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight,
      But the musters that failed at the moment of call--
    Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world,
      Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day;
    Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril,
      Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array?
    Where the sons of the glen,[149] the Clan-gregor, in vain
      That never were hail'd to the carnage of war--
    Where Macvurich,[150] the child of victory styled?
      How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar!
    Clan-donuil,[151] my bosom friend, woe that the blossom
      That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd,
    Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts
      Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd!
    And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow
      Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's[152] command,
    And the Farquharsons[153] bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd,
      So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand.
    But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead,
      As I think of Clan-chattan,[154] the foremost in fight;
    Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime,
      And woe that the left[155] had not stood at the right!
    Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn,
      And Alister Rua the king of the feast;
    And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart,
      Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased.
    In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright,
      Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced;
    Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning,
      When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast.
    As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil,
      Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather,
    That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor,
     Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather
    Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed,
      And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun,
    Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger,
      And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.[156]
    Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong
      To our forces, the wiles of the traitor[157] have wrought;
    To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust
      Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought.
    His gorget he spurns, and his mantle[158] he turns,
      And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue;
    But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal,
      From the south or the north, the award of his due.
    And fell William,[159] the son of the man on the throne,
      Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree;
    May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit
      Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be
    As barren and bare--not a partner to share,
      Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace;
    Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour,
      Like Egypt, the darkness and loss of his race!
    Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high,
      And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey,
    And the lieges each one, from the child to the man,
      The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.


[148] George the First's Queen was a divorcée. The Jacobites retorted
the alleged spuriousness of the Chevalier de St George, on George II.,
the reigning Sovereign.

[149] _Glengyle_, and his Macgregors, were on their way from the
Sutherland expedition, but did not reach in time to take part in the
action.

[150] Macpherson of Clunie, the hero of the night skirmish at Clifton,
and with his clan, greatly distinguished in the Jacobite wars.

[151] Macdonald of the Isles refused to join the Prince.

[152] Of the routed army, the division whereof the Frazers formed the
greater number fled to Inverness. Being the least considerable in force,
they were pursued by the Duke of Cumberland's light horse, and almost
entirely massacred.

[153] The Farquharsons formed part of the unfortunate right wing in the
battle, and suffered severely.

[154] The Mackintoshes, whose impetuosity hurried the right wing into
action before the order to engage had been transmitted over the lines.
They were of course the principal sufferers.

[155] An allusion to the provocation given to the Macdonalds of
Clanranald, Glengarry, and Keppoch, by being deprived of their usual
position--the right wing. Their motions are supposed to have been tardy
in consequence. The poet was himself in the right wing.

[156] The unfortunate night-march of the Highlanders is described with
historic truth and great poetic effect.

[157] Roy Stuart lived and died in the belief (most unfounded, it
seems), that Lord George Murray was bribed and his army betrayed.

[158] Military orders received from the Court of St Germains.

[159] The Duke of Cumberland.




JOHN MORRISON.


John Morrison was a native of Perthshire. Sometime before 1745 he was
settled as missionary at Amulree, a muirland district near Dunkeld. In
1759 he became minister of Petty, a parish in the county of Inverness.
He obtained his preferment in consequence of an interesting incident in
his history. The proprietor of Delvine in Perthshire, who was likewise a
Writer to the Signet, was employed in a legal process, which required _a
diligence_ to be executed against one of the clan Frazer. A design to
waylay and murder the official employed in the _diligence_ had been
concerted. This came to the knowledge of a clergyman who ministered in a
parish chiefly inhabited by the Lovat tenantry. The minister, afraid of
openly divulging the design, on account of the unsettled nature of his
flock, begged an immediate visit from his friend, Mr Morrison, who
speedily returned to Perthshire with information to the laird of
Delvine. The Frazers found the authority of the law supported by a
sufficient force; and Mr Morrison was rewarded by being presented,
through the influence of the laird of Delvine, to the parish of Petty.
Amidst professional engagements discharged with zeal and acceptance,
Morrison found leisure for the composition of verses. Two of his lyrics
are highly popular among the Gael; one of them we offer as a specimen,
and an improved version of the other will afterwards appear in the
present work. Mr Morrison died in November 1774.




MY BEAUTY DARK.

The heroine of this piece was a young lady who became the author's wife,
upon an acquaintance originally formed by the administration of the
ordinance of baptism to her in infancy.


    My beauty dark, my glossy bright,
      Dark beauty, do not leave me;
    They call thee dark, but to my sight
      Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.

    'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,[160]
      Came tirling at my door,
    The image of a lovely lass
      That haunts me evermore.

    Beside my sleeping couch she stood,
      And now she mars my rest;
    Still as I try the solemn mood,
      She hunts it from my breast.

    At lecture and at study
      That ankle white I span,
    Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,--
      A fay I seem to scan.

    Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray
      That dashes to the side,
    Or like the silver-tail'd that play
      Their gambols in the tide.

    As heaps of snow on mountain brow
      When shed the clouds their fleece,
    Or churn of waves when tempest raves,
      Thy swelling limbs in grace.

    Thy eyes are black as berries,
      Thy cheeks are waxen dyed,
    And on thy temple tarries
      The raven's dusk, my pride!

    Gives light below each slim eye-brow
      A swelling orb of blue,
    In April meads so glance the beads,
      In May the honey-dew.

    Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap,
      But sheaf-like, neatly bound
    Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream
      As bright thine ears around.

    Those raven spires of hair, that fair,
      That turret-bosom's shine!
    False friends! from me that banish'd thee,
      Who fain would call thee mine.

    No lilts I spin, their love to win,
      The viol strings I shun,
    But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear
      My wisdom, dearest one!


[160] Evidently a Valentine morning surprise.




ROBERT MACKAY.

THE HIGHLANDER'S HOME SICKNESS.

We have been favoured by Mr William Sinclair with the following spirited
translation of Mackay's first address to the fair-haired Anna, the
heroine of the "Forsaken Drover" (vol. i. p. 315). In the enclosures of
Crieff, the Highland bard laments his separation from the hills of
Sutherland, and the object of his love.


      Easy is my pillow press'd
      But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest;
      Northwards do the shrill winds blow--
      Thither do my musings go!

    Better far with thee in groves,
      Where the young deers sportive roam,
    Than where, counting cattle droves,
      I must sickly sigh for home.
    Great the love I bear for her
      Where the north winds wander free,
    Sportive, kindly is her air,
      Pride and folly none hath she!

    Were I hiding from my foes,
      Aye, though fifty men were near,
    I should find concealment close
     In the shieling of my dear.
    Beauty's daughter! oh, to see
      Days when homewards I 'll repair--
    Joyful time to thee and me--
      Fair girl with the waving hair!

    Glorious all for hunting then,
      The rocky ridge, the hill, the fern;
    Sweet to drag the deer that 's slain
      Downwards by the piper's cairn!
    By the west field 'twas I told
      My love, with parting on my tongue;
    Long she 'll linger in that fold,
      With the kine assembled long!

    Dear to me the woods I know,
      Far from Crieff my musings are;
    Still with sheep my memories go,
      On our heath of knolls afar:
    Oh, for red-streak'd rocks so lone!
      Where, in spring, the young fawns leap,
    And the crags where winds have blown--
      Cheaply I should find my sleep.



END OF VOL. II.




GLOSSARY.


_Aboon_, above.

_Ava_, at all.


_Baldron_, name for a cat.

_Bauld_, bold.

_Bawbee_, halfpenny.

_Bawsint_, a white spot on the forehead of cow or horse.

_Bawtie_, name for a dog.

_Beild_, shelter, refuge, protection.

_Ben_, the spence or parlour.

_Blethers_, nonsensical talk.

_Blewart_, a flower, the blue bottle, witch bells.

_Bob_, nosegay, bunch, or tuft; also to curtsey.

_Bobbin_, a weaver's quill or pirn.

_Bonspiel_, a match at archery, curling, golf, or foot-ball.

_Bourtree_, the elder tree or shrub.

_Braggin_, boasting.

_Braken_, the female fern (_pterisaquilina_, Linn.)

_Bree_, the eyebrow.

_Brochin_, oatmeal boiled in water till somewhat thicker than gruel.

_Brogues_, shoes made of sheepskin.

_Bught_, a pen for sheep.

_Burn_, a stream.

_Buskit_, dressed tidily.

_Buss_, a bush.


_Cairny_, heap of stones.

_Camstrarie_, froward, cross, and unmanageable.

_Cantrips_, spells, charms, incantations.

_Carline_, an old woman.

_Chap_, a blow, also a young fellow.

_Cleading_, clothing.

_Cleck_, to hatch, to breed.

_Clout_, to strike with the hand, also to mend a hole in clothes or
shoes.

_Coof_, a fool.

_Coost_, cast.

_Corrie_, a hollow in a hill.

_Cosie_, warm, snug.

_Cower_, to crouch, to stoop.

_Cranreugh_, the hoarfrost.

_Croodle_, to coo as a dove, to sing with a low voice.

_Crowdy_, meal and cold water stirred together.


_Dab_, to peck as birds do.

_Daddy_, father.

_Daff_, to make sport.

_Dantit_, subdued, tamed down.

_Dawtie_, a pet, a darling.

_Doo_, dove.

_Dool_, grief.

_Doops_, dives down.

_Downa_, expressive of inability.

_Dreeping_, dripping, wet.

_Drucket_, drenched.

_Drumly_, muddy.

_Dub_, a mire.

_Dumpish_, short and thick.


_Eild_, old.

_Eirie_, dreading things supernatural.

_Eithly_, easily.

_Ettled_, aimed.


_Fardin_, farthing.

_Feckly_, mostly.

_Fend_, to provide for oneself, also to defend.

_Fleeched_, flattered, deceived.

_Forby_, besides.

_Freenge_, fringe.

_Fremmit_, strange, foreign.


_Gabbin_, jeering.

_Ganger_, a pedestrian.

_Gar_, compel.

_Gaucie_, plump, jolly.

_Gawkie_, a foolish female.

_Gie_, give.

_Glamour_, the influence of a charm.

_Glint_, a glance.

_Gloaming_, the evening twilight.

_Glower_, to look staringly.

_Glum_, gloomy.

_Gowd_, gold.

_Graffs_, graves.

_Graith_, gear.

_Grane_, groan.

_Grat_, wept.

_Grecie_, a little pig.

_Grup_, grasp.


_Haet_, a whit.

_Hauds_, holds.

_Hecht_, called, named.

_Heftit_, familiarised to a place.

_Hie_, high.

_Hinney_, honey, also a term of endearment.

_Hirple_, to walk haltingly.

_Howe_, hollow.

_Howkit_, dug.

_Howlet_, an owl.

_Hurkle_, to bow down to.


_Ilka_, each.


_Jaupit_, bespattered.

_Jeel_, jelly.

_Jimp_, neat, slender.


_Kaim_, comb.

_Ken_, know.

_Keust_, threw off.

_Kippered_, salmon salted, hung and dried.

_Kith_, acquaintance.

_Kittle_, difficult, uncertain.

_Kye_, cows.


_Laigh_, low.

_Laith_, loth.

_Lapt_, enwrapped.

_Leeve_, live.

_Leeze me_, a term of congratulatory endearment.

_Lift_, the sky.

_Loof_, the palm of the hands.

_Lowe_, flame.

_Lucken_, webbed.

_Lugs_, ears.

_Lum_, a chimney.

_Lure_, allure.

_Lyart_, of a mixed colour, gray.


_Mawn_, mown, a basket.

_May_, maiden.

_Mense_, honour, discretion.

_Mickle_, much.

_Mim_, prim, prudish.

_Mirk_, darkness.

_Mools_, dust, the earth of the grave.

_Mullin_, crumb.

_Mutch_, woman's cap.


_Naig_, a castrated horse.

_Neive_, the fist.

_Niddered_, stunted in growth.

_Niffer_, to exchange.

_Nip_, to pinch.


_Oons_, wounds.

_Opt_, opened.

_Outower_, outover, also moreover.

_Owk_, week.

_Owsen_, oxen.


_Paitrick_, partridge.

_Pawkie_, cunning, sly.

_Pleugh_, plough.

_Pliskie_, a trick.


_Rax_, reach.

_Rede_, to counsel--advice, wisdom.

_Reefer_, river.

_Reft_, bereft, deprived.

_Rocklay_, a short cloak or surplice.

_Roke_, a distaff, also to swing.

_Rowes_, rolls.

_Runts_, the trunks of trees, the stem of colewort.


_Saughs_, willow-trees.

_Scowl_, to frown.

_Scrimpit_, contracted.

_Scroggie_, abounding with stunted bushes.

_Shanks-naigie,_ to travel on foot.

_Sheiling_, a temporary cottage or hut.

_Sinsyne_, after that period.

_Skipt_, went lightly and swiftly along.

_Sleekit_, cunning.

_Slockin_, to allay thirst.

_Smoored_, smothered.

_Soughs_, applied to the breathing a tune, also the sighing of the wind.

_Sowdie_, a heterogeneous mess.

_Speer_, ask.

_Spulzien_, spoiling.

_Squinting_, looking obliquely.

_Staigie_, the diminutive of staig, a young horse.

_Starn_, star.

_Swither_, to hesitate.


_Tane_, the one of two.

_Tent_, care.

_Tether_, halter.

_Teuch_, tough.

_Theek_, thatch.

_Thole_, to endure.

_Thraw_, to throw, to twist.

_Thrawart_, froward, perverse.

_Timmer_, timber.

_Tint_, lost.

_Toom_, empty.

_Tout_, shout.

_Tramps_, heavy-footed travellers.

_Trig_, neat, trim.

_Trow_, to make believe.

_Tyne_, lose.


_Wabster_, weaver.

_Wae_, sad, sorrowful.

_Warsled_, wrestled.

_Wat_, wet, also to know.

_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.

_Weir_, war, also to herd.

_Whilk_, which.

_Wysed_, enticed.


_Yate_, gate.

_Yeldrin_, a yellow hammer.

_Yird_, earth, soil.

_Yirthen_, earthen.


EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.



Project Gutenberg's The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume III, by Various

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[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

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

VOL. III.


ABBOTSFORD


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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Allan Cunningham.

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

       *       *       *       *       *




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

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

BY

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

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL. III


EDINBURGH:

ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
M.DCCC.LVI.


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




TO

LIEUTENANT-COLONEL
SIR JAMES EDWARD ALEXANDER,
K.L.S., AND K.ST.J.,

A DISTINGUISHED TRAVELLER, A GALLANT OFFICER, AND
A PATRIOTIC SCOTSMAN,

THIS THIRD VOLUME

OF

The Modern Scottish Minstrel

IS DEDICATED,

WITH SENTIMENTS OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE,

BY

HIS VERY OBEDIENT, FAITHFUL SERVANT,

CHARLES ROGERS.




SCOTTISH AND HELLENIC MINSTRELSY:

An Essay.

BY JAMES DONALDSON, A.M.


Men who compare themselves with their nearest neighbours are almost
invariably conceited, speak boastingly of themselves, and
disrespectfully of others. But if a man extend his survey, if he mingle
largely with people whose feelings and opinions have been modified by
quite different circumstances, the result is generally beneficial. The
very act of accommodating his mind to foreign modes of thought expands
his nature; and he becomes more liberal in his sentiments, more
charitable in his construction of deeds, and more capable of perceiving
real goodness under whatever shape it may present itself. So when a
Scotsman criticises Scotch poetry viewed by itself alone, he is apt to
be carried away by his patriotism,--he sees only the delightful side of
the subject, and he ventures on assertions which flatter himself and his
country at the expense of all other nations. If, however, we place the
productions of our own country side by side with those of another, the
excellences and the deficiencies of both are seen in stronger relief;
the contrasts strike the mind, and the heart is widened by sympathising
with goodness and beauty diversely conceived and diversely portrayed.
For this reason, we shall attempt a brief comparison of Hellenic and
Scottish songs.

Before we enter on our characterisation of these, we must glance at the
materials which we have to survey. Greek lyric poetry arose about the
beginning of the eighth century before the Christian era, and continued
in full bloom down to the time when it passed into drama on the Athenian
stage. The names of the poets are universally known, and have become,
indeed, almost part of our poetic language. Every one speaks of an
Anacreon, a Sappho, and a Pindar; and the names of Archilochus, Alcman,
Alcæus, Stesichorus, Simonides, Ibycus, and Bacchylides, if not so often
used, are yet familiar to most. Few of these lyrists belonged to Greece
proper. They belonged to Greece only in the sense in which the Greeks
themselves used the word, as including all the colonies which had gone
forth from the motherland. Most of the early Greek song-writers dwelt in
Asia Minor--some were born in the islands of the Cyclades, and some in
Southern Italy; but all of them were proud of their Greek origin, all of
them were thorough Greeks in their hearts. It is only the later bards
who were born and brought up on the Greek mainland, and most of these
lived to see the day when almost all the lyric poets took their grandest
flights in the choral odes of their dramas. These odes, however, do not
fall within the province of our comparison. The lyrical efforts both of
Æschylus and Sophocles were inwoven with the structure of their plays,
the chorus in Æschylus being generally one of the actors; and they have
their modern representatives, not in the songs of the people, but in the
arias of operas. Setting these aside, we have few genuine efforts of
the Greek lyric muse belonging to the dramatic period--the most
important being several songs sung by the Greeks at their banquets,
which have fortunately been preserved. After this era, we have no lyric
poems of the Greeks worth mentioning. The verse-writers took henceforth
to epigrams--epigrams on everything on the face of the earth. These have
been collected into the "Greek Anthology;" but the greater part of them
are contemptible in a poetic point of view. They are interesting as
throwing light on the times; but they are weak and vapid as expressions
of the beatings of the human heart, and they are full of conceits.
Besides these, there are the Anacreontic odes, known to all Greek
scholars and to a great number of English, since they have been
frequently translated. With one or two exceptions, they were all written
between the third and twelfth centuries of the Christian era, though
some scholars have boldly asserted that they were forgeries even of a
later date. Most of them seem to be expansions of lines of Anacreon.
They are in general neat, pretty, and gaysome, but tame and insincere.
There is nothing like earnestness in them, nothing like genuine deep
feeling; but thus they are all the more suited for a certain class of
lovers and drinkers, who do not wish to be greatly moved by anything
under the sun.

Scotch lyric poetry may be said to commence with the lyrics attributed
to James I., or with those of Henryson. There is clear proof, indeed,
that long before this time the Scotch were much given to song-making and
song-singing; but of these early popular lilts, almost nothing remains.
Henryson's lyrics, however, belonged more to the class that were
intended to be read than to be sung, and this is true of a considerable
number of his successors, such as Dunbar, and Maitland of Lethington,
who were learned men, and wrote with a learned air, even when writing
for the people. The Reformation, as surely as it threw down every carved
stone, shut up the mouth of every profane songster. Wedderburne's "Haly
Ballats" may have been spared for a time by the iconoclasts, because
they had helped to build up their own temple; but they could not survive
long,--they were cast in a profane mould, they were sung to profane
tunes, and away they must go into oblivion. Our song-writers, for a long
time after, are unknown minstrels, who had no character to lose by
making or singing profane songs,--they were of the people, and sang for
them. So matters continued, until, at the commencement of the eighteenth
century, Scottish songs began to be the rage both in England and
Scotland, and an eager desire arose to gather up old snatches and
preserve them. Henceforth Scotch poetry held up its head, and a few
remarkable poets won their way into the hearts of large masses of the
people. At last appeared the emancipator of Scottish song in the form of
a ploughman, stirring the deepest feelings of all classes with songs
that may be justly styled the best of all national popular songs, and
for ever settling the claims of a song-writer to one of the highest
niches in the temple of Fame.

The first thing that strikes us, on dipping into a book of Greek songs,
and then a book of Scotch, is the different position of the poets. The
Greek poet was regarded as a kind of superior being--an interpreter
between gods and men; and, supposed to be under the special protection
of Divinity, he was highly honoured and reverenced wherever he went. The
Scotch bard, on the other hand, is a poor wanderer, whose name is
unknown, who received little respect, and whose knowledge of God and
the higher purposes of life cannot be reckoned in any way great. There
may be a few exceptions. We find nobles sometimes writing popular songs,
and occasionally a learned man may have contributed strains; but these
are generally not superior either in wit, pathos, or morality, to the
verses of the unknown and hard-toiling. This striking contrast arises
from a change that had taken place in the history of song. In Greece,
all the teeming ideas of the fertile-minded people found expression in
harmonious measures, and their songs touched every chord of their varied
existence. This was partly owing to their innate love of melody, and
partly to the public life which they led. From the earliest ages, they
were fond of sweet sounds; and their continual public gatherings gave
innumerable opportunities for using their vocal powers unitedly, and
turning music to all its best and noblest purposes. They sang sacred
songs as they marched in procession to their temples; and on entering,
they hymned the praises of the gods. When they rushed on to battle, they
shouted their inspiring war-songs; and if victory crowned the fight, the
battle-field rang with their joyous pæans, and their poets tuned their
lyres in honour of the brave that had fallen. A victor in the Olympic
games would have lost one of his greatest rewards, if no poet had sung
his fame. Then, in their banquets, the Greeks amused themselves in
stringing together pretty verses, and joined in merry and jovial
drinking-songs. If there happened to be a marriage, the young people
assembled round the house, and late in the evening and early in the
morning sang the praises of bride and bridegroom, prayed for blessings
on the couple, and sometimes discussed the comparative blessedness of
single and married life. Or if a notable person happened to die, his
dirge was sung, and the poet composed an encomium on him, full of wise
reflections on destiny, and the fate that awaits all. There was, in
fact, no public occasion which the Greeks did not beautify with song.

It is entirely different with us. Our minister now performs the function
of the Greek poet at marriages and funerals. Our funeral sermons and
newspaper paragraphs have taken the place of the Greek encomiums. Our
fiddles or piano do duty instead of the Greek dithyrambs, hyporchems,
and other dancing songs. Our warriors are either left unsung, or
celebrated in verse that reads much better than it sings. The members of
the "Benevolent Pugilistic Association" do not stand so high in the
British opinion as the wrestlers of old stood in the Greek; and our
jockeys have fallen frightfully from the grand position which the Greek
racers occupied in the plains of Olympia. Very few in these days would
think the champion of England, or the winner of the Derby, worth a noble
ode full of old traditions and exalted religious aspirations. Through
various causes, song has thus come to be very circumscribed in its
limits, and to perform duty within a comparatively small sphere in
modern life.

Indeed, song in these days does exactly what the Greeks rarely
attempted: it concerns itself with private life, and especially with
that most characteristic feature of modern private life--love. Love is,
consequently, the main topic of Scottish song. It is a theme of which
neither the song-writer nor the song-singer ever wearies. It is the one
great passion with which the universal modern mind sympathises, and from
the expressions of which it quaffs inexhaustible delight. This holds
true even of the cynical people who profess a distaste for love and
lovers. For love has for them its comic side,--it appears to them
exquisitely humorous in the human weakness it causes and brings to
light; and if they do not enjoy the song in its praise, they seldom fail
to laugh heartily at the description of the plights into which it leads
its devotees.

Perhaps no country contains a richer collection of love-songs than
Scotland. We have a song for every phase of the motley-faced
passion,--from its ludicrous aspect to its highest and most rapturous
form. Every pulsation of the heart, as moved by love, has had its poetic
expression; and we have lovers pouring out the depths of their souls to
all kinds of maids, and in all kinds of situations. And maids are
represented as bodying forth their feelings, also, under the sway of
love. Many of these feminine lyrics are written by women themselves.
Some of them exult in the full return which their love meets; but for
the most part, it is a keen sorrow that forces women to poetic
composition. They thus contribute our most pathetic songs--wails
sometimes over blasted hopes and blighted love, as in "Waly, Waly;" or
over the death of a deeply-loved one, as in Miss Blamire's "Waefu'
Heart;" or over the loss of the brave who have fallen in battle, as in
Miss Jane Elliot's "Flowers of the Forest."

Peculiarly characteristic of Scotland are the songs that describe the
development of love, after the lovers have been married. Here the
comical phase is most predominant. For the most part, the Scottish
songster delights in describing the quarrels between the goodman and the
goodwife--the goodwife in the early poems invariably succeeding in
making John yield to her. Sometimes, however, there is a deeper and
purer current of feeling, to which Burns especially has given
expression. How intensely beautiful is the affection in "John Anderson,
my Jo!" And we have in "Are ye sure the news is true?" the whole
character of a very loving wife brought out by a simple incident in her
life,--the expected return of her husband. Some of these songs also have
been written by poetesses, such as Lady Nairn's exquisite "Land of the
Leal;" and really there is such delicacy, such minute accuracy in the
portrayal of a woman's feelings in "Are ye sure the news is true?" that
one cannot help thinking it must have been written by Jean Adams, or
some woman, rather than by Mickle:--

    "His very foot has music in 't,
      As he comes up the stair."

What man has an ear so delicate as to hear such music?

The contrast between Greek poetry and Scotch is very marked in this
point. There is not one Greek lyric devoted to what we should designate
love, with perhaps something like an exception in Alcman. In fact, while
moderns rarely make a tragedy or comedy, a poem or novel, without some
love-concern which is the pivot of the whole, all the great poems and
dramas of the ancients revolve on entirely different passions. Love,
such as we speak of, was of rather rare occurrence. Women were in such a
low position, that it was a condescension to notice them,--there was no
chivalrous feeling in regard to them; they were made to feel the
dominion of their absolute lords and masters. Besides this, the greater
number of them were confined to their private chambers, and seldom saw
any man who was not nearly related. Those who were on free terms of
intercourse with men, were for the most part strangers, whose morals
were low, and who could not be expected to win the respectful esteem of
true lovers. The men enjoyed the society of these--their tumbling,
dancing, singing, and lively chat; but the distance was too great to
permit that deep devotion which characterises modern love. Moreover,
when a Greek speaks of love, we have to remember that he fell in love as
often with a male companion as with a woman--he admired the beauty of a
fair youth, and he felt in his presence very much as a modern lover
feels in the presence of his sweetheart. We have, therefore, to examine
expressions of love cautiously. Anacreon says, for instance, that love
clave him with an axe, like a smith; but it seems far more likely that
the reference is to the affection excited by some charming youth.[1] We
have a specimen remaining of the nonchalant style in which he addressed
a woman, in the ode commencing "O Thracian mare!"--Schneidewin, Poet.
Lyr. Anac. fr. 47.

The great poet of Love was not Anacreon, but Sappho, whose heart and
mind were both of the finest. Her life is involved in obscurity, but it
is probable that she was a strong advocate of woman's rights in her own
land; and as she found men falling in love with other men, so she took
special pains to win the affections of the young Æolian ladies, to train
them in all the accomplishments suited to woman's nature, and to
initiate them into the art of poetry,--that art without which, she says,
a woman's memory would be for ever forgotten, and she would go to the
house of Hades, to dwell with the shadowy dead, uncared for and unknown.
We have two poems of hers which have come down to us tolerably complete,
both, we think, addressed to some of her female friends, and both
remarkably sweet, touching, and beautiful.

The Scottish songs devoted to other subjects than love are few, and
almost exclusively descriptive. Our sense of the humorous gives us a
delight in queer and odd characters, in which the Greeks probably would
not have participated. Though they had an abundance of wit, and a keen
perception of the ridiculous, no songs have reached us which are
intended to please by their pure absurdity and good-natured foolishness.
Archilochus and Hipponax wrote many a jocular song; but the fun of the
thing would have been lost, had the sting which they contained been
extracted.

Nor do the Greeks seem to have cared much for descriptive songs. They
frequently introduced their heroes into their odes, but these were ever
living, ever present to their minds; and several of the songs written on
particular occasions were probably sung when the singer had no connexion
with the events. But they lived, like boys, too much in the present, to
throw themselves back into the past. They wished to give utterance to
the feelings of the moment in their own persons, and directly; while we
are content to be mere listeners, and are often as much pleased by the
occurrences of another's life as by the sentiments of our own hearts.

We are remarkably deficient in what are called class-songs. The Greeks
had none of these, for there scarcely existed any classes but free and
slave. The people were all one--had the same interests and the same
emotions. There was far less of individuality with them than with us,
and there was still less of that feeling which divides society into
exclusive circles. A Greek turned his hand to anything that came in his
way, while division of labour has reached its utmost limit among us. We
can find, therefore, no contrast here between Greek and Scotch songs;
but we find a very marked one between Scotch and German. We have no
student-songs, very few expressive of the feelings of soldiers
(Lockhart's are almost the only), sailors, or of any other class.

Indeed, we are deficient not only in class-songs, but in social-songs.
The Scotch propensity to indulge in drink is, unfortunately, notorious;
and yet our drinking-songs of a really social nature would be comprised
in a few pages. One sings of his coggie, as if he were in the custom of
gulping his whisky all alone; many describe the boisterous carousals in
which they made fools of themselves; not a few extol the power and
properties of whisky, and incite to Bacchanalian pleasures; and we have
several good songs suitable for singing at the close of an evening
pleasantly spent, but almost none which express the feelings that
naturally well-up when one sees his friends around him, becomes
exhilarated through pleasant social intercourse, and finds the path of
life smoothed and sweetened by the aid of his brothers.

The reason of this peculiar circumstance is not far to seek. It lies in
the distinctive character of the two great classes into which the Scotch
have been divided since the Reformation, called, at the early period of
Scottish song, the Covenanters and the Cavaliers. The one party bowed
before religion, most scrupulously abstained from all worldly pleasures,
and regarded and denounced as sin, or something akin to it, every
approach to levity or frivolity. The other party was a wild rebound from
this. Sanctimoniousness was hateful in their eye; and not being able to
find a medium, they abjured religion, and rushed into the pleasures of
this life with headlong zest. The poets, in accordance with their
joy-loving natures, allied themselves to the latter class. There was
thus in Scotland a deep, dark gulf between the religious and the
poetical or beautiful, which has not yet been completely bridged over.
The consequence is, that the elder Scottish songs, of all songs, contain
the fewest references to the Divine Being. The name of God is never
mentioned unless in the caricatures of the Covenanters; and a foreigner,
taking up a book of Scottish songs written since the Reformation, and
judging of the religion of the Scotch from them alone, would be prone to
suppose that, if Scotland had any religion at all, it consisted in using
the name of the devil occasionally with respect or with dread. The
Cavaliers, in their most energetic moods, swore by him and by no other;
while the Covenanters had no songs at all, scarcely any poetry of any
kind, and doubtless would have regarded as impious the tracing of any
but the most spiritual pleasures to God. The words, for instance, which
Allan Cunningham puts into the mouth of a Covenanter, "I hae sworn by my
God, my Jeanie" (p. 17 of this volume), would still be regarded by many
people as profane.

The case was the very opposite with the Greeks. Every joy, every sorrow,
was traced to the gods. They almost never opened their lips without an
allusion to their divinities. They sang their praises in their
processions and in all their public ceremonials. Wine was a gift from a
kind and beneficent god, to cheer their hearts and soothe the sorrows of
life. And they delighted in invoking his presence, in celebrating his
adventures, and in using moderately and piously the blessings which he
bestowed on them. Then, again, when love seized them, it was a god that
had taken possession of their minds. They at once recognised a superior
power, and they worshipped him in song with heart and soul. In fact,
whatever be the subject of song, the gods are recognised as the rulers
of the destinies of men, and the causes of all their joys and sorrows.
We cannot expect such a strong infusion of the supernatural in modern
lays, but still we have enough of it in German songs to form a
remarkable contrast to Scotch. Take any German song-book, and you will
immediately come upon a recognition of a higher power as the spring of
our joys, and upon an expressed desire to use them, so as to bring us
nearer one another, and to make us more honest, upright, happy, and
contented men. Let this one verse, taken from a song of Schiller's, in
singing which a German's heart is sure to glow, suffice:--

    "Joy sparkles to us from the bowl!
      Behold the juice, whose golden colour
    To meekness melts the savage soul,
      And gives despair a hero's valour!

    "Up, brothers! Lo, we crown the cup!
      Lo, the wine flashes to the brim!
    Let the bright foam spring heavenward! 'Up!'
      TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--this glass to HIM!

_Chorus._

    "Praised by the ever-whirling ring
      Of stars and tuneful seraphim--
    TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--the Father-king
      In heaven!--this glass to Him!"[2]

We meet with the contrast in the Reformers of the respective
nations--Knox and Luther. Knox, ever stern, frowning on all the
amusements of the palace and the people, and indifferent to every
species of poetry; Luther, often drinking his mug of ale in a tavern,
making and singing his tunes and songs, and though frequently enough
tormented by devils, yet still ready to throw aside the cares of life
for a while, and enjoy himself in hearty intercourse with the various
classes of the people. Who would have expected the German Reformer to be
the author of the couplet--

    "He who loves not women, wine, and song,
    Will be a fool his whole life long."

And yet he was. And his songs, sacred though most of them be, have a
place in German song-books to this day.

Though Scottish songs seldom refer to a Divine Being, yet they are very
far from being without their noble sentiments and inspirations. On the
contrary, they have frequently sustained the moral life of a man. "Who
dare measure in doubt," says William Thom in his "Recollections," "the
restraining influences of these very songs? To us, they were all instead
of sermons.... Poets were indeed our priests. But for those, the last
relict of our moral existence would have surely passed away!"

Yet there is a marked contrast between the very aims of Scottish and
Greek song-writers. The Scottish wish merely to please, and consequently
never concern themselves with any of the deeper subjects of this life or
the life to come. There is seldom an allusion to death, or to any of the
great realities that sternly meet the gaze of a contemplative man. There
may be a few exceptions in the case of pious song-writers, like Lady
Nairn; but even such poets are shy of making songs the vehicle of what
is serious or profound. The Greeks, on the other hand, regarding their
poets as inspired, expected from them the deepest wisdom, and in fact
delighted in any verse which threw light on the great mysteries of life
and death. Thus it happens that the remains of the Greek lyric poets,
especially the later, such as Simonides and Bacchylides, are principally
of a deeply moral cast. The Greeks do not seem to have had the
extravagant rage which now prevails for merely figurative language. They
sought for truth itself, and the man became a poet who clothed living
truths in the most appropriate and expressive words.

There is a remarkable contrast between the Scotch and Greeks in their
historical songs. The lyric muse sings at great epochs, because then the
deepest emotions of the human heart are roused. But since, in Greece,
the states were small, and every emotion thrilled through all the free
citizens, there was more of determined and unanimous feeling than with
us, and consequently a greater desire to see the heroic deeds of
themselves or their fellows wedded to verse. And then, too, the poet did
not live apart; he was one of the people, a soldier and a citizen as
well as others, and animated by exactly the same feelings, though with
greater rapture. This is the reason why the Greeks abounded in songs in
honour of their brave. At the time of the resistance to the Persian
invasion, there was no end to the encomiums and pæans. Almost every
individual hero was celebrated, and these songs were made by the
acknowledged masters of the lyre, such as Æschylus and Simonides. With
us, great deeds have to wait their poets. Distance of time must first
throw around them a poetic hue; and after the hero has sunk unnoticed
into a nameless grave, the bard showers his praises on him, and his
worth is universally recognised. Or if his merits are discerned before
his death, song is not one of the appointed organs through which our
people demand that he should be praised. If a heroic action gets its
poet, the people will listen; but if it pass unsung, none will regret
it. Besides, we do not discern the poetry of the present so strongly as
the Greeks did. Everything with them seems to have been capable of
finding its way into verse. Alcman delights in speaking of his porridge,
and Alcæus of the various implements of war which adorned his hall. The
real world in which the Greeks moved had the most powerful attraction
for them. This is also, in a great measure, true of the unknown poets,
who have contributed so much to Scottish minstrelsy in the days of the
later Stuarts. There is no squeamishness about the introduction of
realities, whatever they be; and the people took delight in a mere
series of names skilfully strung together, or even in an enumeration of
household articles or dishes.[3]

This pleasure in the contemplation of the actual things around us, is
not nearly so great in modern cultivated minds. We are continually
trying to get out of ourselves, to transport ourselves to other times,
and to throw ourselves into bygone scenes and characters. Hence it is
that almost all our best historical songs, written in these days, have
their basis in the past; and the one which moves us most powerfully,
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," actually carries us back to the times
of Robert the Bruce.

It is rather singular that most of the Scottish songs which refer to our
history, are essentially aristocratic, and favourable to the divine
right of kings. The Covenanters--our true freemen--disdained the use of
the poet's pen. They uttered none of their aspirations for freedom in
song, and thus the Royalists had the whole field of song-writing to
themselves. Such was the state of matters until Burns rose from amidst
the people, and sang in his own grand way of the inherent dignity of man
as man, and of the rights of labour. It is one of the frequent
contradictions which we see in human nature, that the very same people
who sing "A Man's a Man for a' that," and "Scots wha hae," mourn over
the unfortunate fate of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and lament his disasters,
as if his succession to the throne of Scotland would have been a
blessing. Notwithstanding, however, what Burns has done, Scotland is
still deficient in songs embodying her ardent love of freedom. Liberty
and her blessings are still unsung. It was not so in Greece, especially
in Athens. The whole city echoed with hymns in its praise, and the
people wiled away their leisure in making little chants on the men who
they fancied had given the death-blow to tyranny. The scolia of
Callistratus, beginning, "I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bow," are well
known.

Few of the patriotic songs of the Greeks are extant, and it is probable
that they were not so numerous as ours. Institutions had a more powerful
hold on them than localities. They were proud of themselves as Greeks,
and of their traditions; but wherever they wandered, they carried Greece
with them, for they were part of Greece themselves. Thus we may account
for the absence of Greek songs expressive of longing for their native
land, and of attachment to their native soil. We, on the other hand,
have very many patriotic songs, full of that warm enthusiasm which every
Scotsman justly feels for his country, and containing frequently a much
higher estimate of ourselves and our position than other nations would
reckon true or fair. In these songs, we are exceedingly confined in our
sympathies. The nationality is stronger than the humanity. We have no
such songs as the German, "Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland?"

Perhaps there is no point in which the Greeks contrast with the Scotch
and all moderns more strikingly than in their mode of describing nature.
This contrast holds good only between the cultivated Greek and the
cultivated modern; for the cultivated Greek and the uncultivated
Scotsman are one in this respect. Perhaps we should state it most
correctly, if we say that the Greek never pictures natural scenery with
words--the modern often makes the attempt. There is no song like Burns's
"Birks o' Aberfeldy," or even like the "Welcome to May"[4] of early
Scottish poetry, in the Greek lyric poets. The Greek poet seizes one or
two characteristic traits in which he himself finds pleasure; but his
descriptions are not nicely shaded, minute, or calculated to bring the
landscape before the mind's eye. No doubt, the Greek was led to this
course by an instinct. For, first, his interest in inanimate nature was
nothing as compared to his strong sympathies with man. He had not
discovered that "God made the country, and man made the town." The gods,
according to his notion, ruled the destinies of man, and every thought
and device of man were inspirations from above. He saw infinitely more
of deity in his fellow-men--in his and their pleasures, pursuits, and
hopes--than in all the insentient things on the face of the earth; and
consequently he clung to men. He delighted in representations of them;
and in embodying his conceptions of the gods, he gave them the human
form as the noblest and most beautiful of all forms. Nature was merely a
background exquisitely beautiful, but not to be enjoyed without the
presence of man. And, secondly, though the Greeks may not have
enunciated the principle, that poetry is not the art suited for
picturing nature, still they probably had an instinctive feeling of its
truth. Poetry, as Lessing pointed out in his Laocoon, has the element of
time in it, and is therefore inapplicable in the description of those
things which, while composed of various parts, must be comprehended at
one glance before the right impression is produced. Look how our modern
poet goes to work! He has a fair scene before his fancy. He paints every
part of it, with no reason why one part should be placed before
another,--and as you read it, you have to piece each part together, as
in a child's dissected map; and after you have constructed the whole out
of the fragments, you have to imagine the effect. The Greek told you the
effect at once,--he gave up the attempt to picture the scene in words.
But when he had to deal with any part of nature that had life or motion
in it--in fact, any element of time--then he was as minute as the most
thorough Wordsworthian could wish. How admirably, for instance, does
Homer describe the advance of a foam-crested wave, or the rush of a
lion, the swoop of an eagle, or the trail of a serpent!

The Greeks were as much gladdened by the sight of flowers as moderns.
Did they not use them continually on all festive occasions, public and
private? But minuteness of detail was out of the question in poetry. The
poet was not to play the painter or the naturalist. And it had not yet
become the fashion to profess a mysterious inexpressible joy in the
observation of natural scenery. Nor had men as yet retired from human
society in disgust, or in search of freedom from sin, and betaken
themselves to the love of pure inanimate objects instead of the love of
sin-stained man. It had not yet become unlawful, as it did with the
Arabs afterwards, to represent the human form in sculpture. Human nature
was not looked on as so contemptible, that it would be appropriate to
represent human bodies writhing under gargoyles, as in Gothic churches,
or beneath pillars, as in Stirling Palace. The human form was then
considered diviner than the forms of lions or flowers.

In bold personification of natural objects, the Greeks could not be
easily surpassed. In reality, it was not personification with them,--it
was simply the result of the ideas they had formed regarding causation.
If a river flowed down, fringed with flowery banks, they imagined there
must be some cause for this, and so they summoned up before their fancy
a beautiful river-god crowned with a garland. Even in the more common
process of making nature pour back on us the sentiments we unconsciously
lend her, the Greeks were very far from deficient. The passage in which
Alcman describes the hills, and all the tribes of living things as
asleep,[5] and the celebrated fragment of Simonides on Danae, where she
says, "Let the deep sleep, let immeasurable evil sleep," are only two
out of very many instances that might be quoted.

Perhaps the most marked instance of the poetic instinct of the Greeks,
is their avoiding descriptions of personal beauty. Though they were
permeated by the idea, and thrillingly sensitive to it, it is easier to
tell what a Scotch poet regards as elements of beauty than what a Greek
did. A beautiful person with the Greek is a beautiful person; and that
is all he says about the matter. This is not true of the Anacreontics,
or of the Latin poets. Now, in Scotland, again, there is little feeling
of beauty of any kind. A Scottish boy wantonly mars a beautiful object
for mere fun. There is not a monument set up, not a fine building or
ornament, but will soon have a chip struck off it, if a Scotch boy can
get near it. And the Scotsman, as a general matter, sees beauty nowhere
except in a "bonnie lassie." Even then, when he comes to define what he
thinks beautiful features, he is at fault, and there are songs in praise
of the narrow waist, and other enormities--

    "She 's backet like a peacock;
      She 's breasted like a swan;
    She 's jimp about the middle,
      Her waist you weel may span--
    Her waist you weel may span;
      And she has a rolling e'e,
    And for bonnie Annie Laurie
      I 'd lay down my head and die."

It is needless to say that we are very far from having exhausted our
subject. Few contrasts could be greater than that which exists between
Greek and Scotch songs, and perhaps mainly for this reason, that
Scotland has felt so very little of the influence of Greek literature.
German poetry had its origin in a revived study of the great Greek
classics; and such a study is the very thing required to give breadth to
our character, and to supplement its most striking deficiencies.


[1] Later writers attributed to Anacreon immoralities in Paiderastia of
which they themselves were guilty, but of which there is not the
slightest trace in him, or indeed in any of the early bards. Welcker
(Sappho von einem herrschenden Vorurtheile befreit) has successfully
defended the character of Sappho from the accusations of a later age,
and it would be easy to do the same both for Alcæus and Anacreon.

[2] Schiller's Poems and Ballads, by Bulwer, vol. ii., p. 122. The whole
song should be read. Bulwer calls it a "Hymn to Joy," Schiller himself,
simply, "To Joy."

[3] There is a curious instance of this in the song, "The Blithesome
Bridal."--Chambers's "Scottish Songs," p. 71.

[4] Sibbald's "Chronicle of Scottish Poetry," vol. iii., p. 193.

[5] Campbell has translated this fragment, but he has not retained the
simplicity of the original.




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM,                                                      1
  She 's gane to dwall in heaven,                                      9
  The lovely lass of Preston mill,                                    10
  Gane were but the winter cauld,                                     12
  It's hame, and it's hame,                                           13
  The lovely lass of Inverness,                                       14
  A wet sheet and a flowing sea,                                      15
  The bonnie bark,                                                    16
  Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,                              17
  Young Eliza,                                                        19
  Lovely woman,                                                       20

EBENEZER PICKEN,                                                      22
  Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e,                                        24
  Woo me again,                                                       25

STUART LEWIS,                                                         27
  Lanark mills,                                                       30
  O'er the muir,                                                      31

DAVID DRUMMOND,                                                       34
  The bonnie lass o' Levenside,                                       36

JAMES AFFLECK,                                                        38
  How blest were the days,                                            39

JAMES STIRRAT,                                                        40
  Henry,                                                              41
  Mary,                                                               42

JOHN GRIEVE,                                                          43
  Culloden; or, Lochiel's Farewell,                                   46
  Lovely Mary,                                                        48
  Her blue rollin' e'e,                                               48

CHARLES GRAY,                                                         50
  Maggie Lauder,                                                      52
  Charlie is my darling,                                              53
  The black-e'ed lassie,                                              54
  Grim winter was howlin',                                            55

JOHN FINLAY,                                                          57
  O! come with me,                                                    59
  'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,                                   60
  I heard the evening linnet's voice,                                 61
  Oh! dear were the joys,                                             62

WILLIAM NICHOLSON,                                                    63
  The braes of Galloway,                                              65
  The hills of the Highlands,                                         66
  The banks of Tarf,                                                  67
  O! will ye go to yon burn-side?                                     68

ALEXANDER RODGER,                                                     71
  Sweet Bet of Aberdeen,                                              73
  Behave yoursel' before folk,                                        74
  Lovely maiden,                                                      76
  The peasant's fireside,                                             78
  Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"                                    79

JOHN WILSON,                                                          81
  Mary Gray's song,                                                   86
  The three seasons of love,                                          88
  Prayer to Sleep,                                                    90

DAVID WEBSTER,                                                        91
  Tak it, man; tak it,                                                92
  Oh, sweet were the hours,                                           94
  Pate Birnie,                                                        95

WILLIAM PARK,                                                         97
  The patriot's song,                                                 99

THOMAS PRINGLE,                                                      102
  Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,                                     106
  The exile's lament,                                                107
  Love and solitude,                                                 108
  Come awa', come awa',                                              109
  Dearest love, believe me,                                          110

WILLIAM KNOX,                                                        112
  The dear Land o' Cakes,                                            114
  The lament,                                                        116
  To Mary,                                                           116

WILLIAM THOM,                                                        118
  Jeanie's grave,                                                    121
  They speak o' wiles,                                               122
  The mitherless bairn,                                              123
  The lass o' Kintore,                                               124
  My hameless ha',                                                   125

WILLIAM GLEN,                                                        126
  Waes me for Prince Charlie!                                        128
  Mary of sweet Aberfoyle,                                           129
  The battle-song,                                                   131
  The maid of Oronsey,                                               134
  Jess M'Lean,                                                       136
  How eerily, how drearily,                                          137
  The battle of Vittoria,                                            139
  Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,                                  140
  Fareweel to Aberfoyle,                                             141

DAVID VEDDER,                                                        143
  Jeanie's welcome hame,                                             146
  I neither got promise of siller,                                   147
  There is a pang for every heart,                                   148
  The first of May,                                                  149
  Song of the Scottish exile,                                        150
  The tempest is raging,                                             151
  The temple of nature,                                              152

JOHN M'DIARMID,                                                      155
  Nithside,                                                          158
  Evening,                                                           159

PETER BUCHAN,                                                        162
  Thou gloomy Feberwar,                                              164

WILLIAM FINLAY,                                                      166
  The breaking heart,                                                167
  The auld emigrant's fareweel to Scotland,                          167
  O'er mountain and valley,                                          169

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART,                                                171
  Broadswords of Scotland,                                           177
  Captain Paton's lament,                                            178
  Canadian boat-song,                                                183

THOMAS MATHERS,                                                      184
  Early love,                                                        185

JAMES BROWN,                                                         186
  My Peggy's far away,                                               187
  Love brought me a bough,                                           188
  How 's a' wi' ye,                                                  189
  Oh! sair I feel the witching power,                                192

DANIEL WEIR,                                                         194
  See the moon,                                                      196
  Love is timid,                                                     196
  Raven's stream,                                                    197
  Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours,                         198
  Could we but look beyond our sphere,                               199
  In the morning of life,                                            200
  On the death of a promising child,                                 201
  The dying hour,                                                    202
  The midnight wind,                                                 203

ROBERT DAVIDSON,                                                     206
  Farewell to Caledonia,                                             207
  On visiting the scenes of early days,                              208
  To wander lang in foreign lands,                                   210

PETER ROGER,                                                         212
  Lovely Jean,                                                       214

JOHN MALCOLM,                                                        215
  The music of the night,                                            217
  The sea,                                                           218

ERSKINE CONOLLY,                                                     220
  Mary Macneil,                                                      221
  There 's a thrill of emotion,                                      222

GEORGE MENZIES,                                                      223
  The braes of Auchinblae,                                           224
  Fare thee weel,                                                    225

JOHN SIM,                                                            226
  Nae mair we 'll meet,                                              227
  Bonnie Peggy,                                                      227
  Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er,                               229

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL,                                                  230
  Jeanie Morrison,                                                   233
  Wearie's Well,                                                     236
  Wae be to the orders,                                              238
  The midnight wind,                                                 239
  He is gone! he is gone!                                            240

DAVID MACBETH MOIR,                                                  242
  Casa Wappy,                                                        245
  Farewell, our fathers' land,                                       249
  Heigh ho,                                                          250

ROBERT FRASER,                                                       252
  Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,                                        253

JAMES HISLOP,                                                        254
  The Cameronian's dream,                                            257
  How sweet the dewy bell is spread,                                 259

ROBERT GILFILLAN,                                                    261
  Manor braes,                                                       262
  Fare thee well,                                                    263
  The first rose of summer,                                          264
  The exile's song,                                                  264
  The happy days o' youth,                                           266
  'Tis sair to dream,                                                267


METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

WILLIAM ROSS,                                                        271
  The Highland May,                                                  272
  The Celt and the stranger,                                         274
  Cormac's cure,                                                     274
  The last lay of love,                                              276

LACHLAN MACVURICH,                                                   279
  The exile of Cluny,                                                280

JAMES M'LAGGAN,                                                      282
  Song of the royal Highland regiment,                               284

       *       *       *       *       *

GLOSSARY,                                                            287




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.




ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.


Allan Cunningham was born at Blackwood, in Nithside, Dumfriesshire, on
the 7th December 1784. Of his ancestry, some account has been given in
the memoir of his elder brother Thomas.[6] He was the fourth son of his
parents, and from both of them inherited shrewdness and strong
talent.[7] Receiving an ordinary elementary education at a school,
taught by an enthusiastic Cameronian, he was apprenticed in his eleventh
year to his eldest brother James as a stone-mason. His hours of leisure
were applied to mental improvement; he read diligently the considerable
collection of books possessed by his father, and listened to the
numerous legendary tales which his mother took delight in narrating at
the family hearth. A native love for verse-making, which he possessed in
common with his brother Thomas, was fostered and strengthened by his
being early brought into personal contact with the poet Burns. In 1790,
his father removed to Dalswinton, in the capacity of land-steward to Mr
Miller, the proprietor, and Burns' farm of Ellisland lay on the opposite
side of the Nith. The two families in consequence met very frequently;
and Allan, though a mere boy, was sufficiently sagacious to appreciate
the merits of the great bard. Though, at the period of Burns' death, in
1796, he was only twelve years old, the appearance and habits of the
poet had left an indelible impression on his mind.

In his fifteenth year, Allan had the misfortune to lose his father, who
had sunk to the grave under the pressure of poverty and misfortune; he
thus became necessitated to assist in the general support of the family.
At the age of eighteen he obtained the acquaintance of the Ettrick
Shepherd; Hogg was then tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of
Mitchelslack, in Nithsdale, and Cunningham, who had read some of his
stray ballads, formed a high estimate of his genius. Along with his
elder brother James, he paid a visit to the Shepherd one autumn
afternoon on the great hill of Queensberry; and the circumstances of the
meeting, Hogg has been at pains minutely to record. James Cunningham
came forward and frankly addressed the Shepherd, asking if his name was
Hogg, and at the same time supplying his own; he then introduced his
brother Allan, who diffidently lagged behind, and proceeded to assure
the Shepherd that he had brought to see him "the greatest admirer he had
on earth, and himself a young aspiring poet of some promise." Hogg
warmly saluted his brother bard, and, taking both the strangers to his
booth on the hill-side, the three spent the afternoon happily together,
rejoicing over the viands of a small bag of provisions, and a bottle of
milk, and another of whisky. Hogg often afterwards visited the
Cunninghams at Dalswinton, and was forcibly struck with Allan's
luxuriant though unpruned fancy. He had already written some ingenious
imitations of Ossian, and of the elder Scottish bards.

On the publication of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," in 1805,
Cunningham contrived to save twenty-four shillings of his wages to
purchase it, and forthwith committed the poem to memory. On perusing the
poem of "Marmion," his enthusiasm was boundless; he undertook a journey
to Edinburgh that he might look upon the person of the illustrious
author. In a manner sufficiently singular, his wish was realised.
Passing and repassing in front of Scott's house in North Castle Street,
he was noticed by a lady from the window of the adjoining house, who
addressed him by name, and caused her servant to admit him. The lady was
a person of some consideration from his native district, who had fixed
her residence in the capital. He had just explained to her the object of
his Edinburgh visit, when Scott made his appearance in the street.
Passing his own door, he knocked at that of the house from the window of
which his young admirer was anxiously gazing on his stalwart figure. As
the lady of the house had not made Scott's acquaintance, she gently laid
hold on Allan's arm, inducing him to be silent, to notice the result of
the proceeding. Scott, in a reverie of thought, had passed his own
door; observing a number of children's bonnets in the lobby, he suddenly
perceived his mistake, and, apologising to the servant, hastily
withdrew.

Cunningham's elder brother Thomas, and his friend Hogg, were already
contributors to the _Scots' Magazine_. Allan made offer of some poetical
pieces to that periodical which were accepted. He first appears in the
magazine in 1807, under the signature of _Hidallan_. In 1809, Mr Cromek,
the London engraver, visited Dumfries, in the course of collecting
materials for his "Reliques of Robert Burns;" he was directed to Allan
Cunningham, as one who, having known Burns personally, and being himself
a poet, was likely to be useful in his researches. On forming his
acquaintance, Cromek at once perceived his important acquisition with
respect to his immediate object, but expressed a desire first to examine
some of his own compositions. Allan acceded to the request, but received
only a moderate share of praise from the pedantic antiquary. Cromek
urged him to collect the elder minstrelsy of Nithsdale and Galloway as
an exercise more profitable than the composition of verses. On returning
to London, Cromek received from his young friend packets of "old songs,"
which called forth his warmest encomiums. He entreated him to come to
London to push his fortune,--an invitation which was readily accepted.
For some time Cunningham was an inmate of Cromek's house, when he was
entrusted with passing through the press the materials which he had
transmitted, with others collected from different sources; and which,
formed into a volume, under the title of "Remains of Nithsdale and
Galloway Song," were published in 1810 by Messrs Cadell and Davies. The
work excited no inconsiderable attention, though most of the readers
perceived, what Cromek had not even suspected, that the greater part of
the ballads were of modern origin. Cromek did not survive to be made
cognizant of the amusing imposition which had been practised on his
credulity.

Fortune did not smile on Cunningham's first entrance into business in
London. He was compelled to resume his former occupation as a mason, and
is said to have laid pavement in Newgate Street. From this humble
position he rose to a situation in the studio of Bubb, the sculptor; and
through the counsel of Eugenius Roche, the former editor of the
"Literary Recreations," and then the conductor of _The Day_ newspaper,
he was induced to lay aside the trowel and undertake the duties of
reporter to that journal. _The Day_ soon falling into the hands of other
proprietors, Cunningham felt his situation uncomfortable, and returned
to his original vocation, attaching himself to Francis Chantrey, then a
young sculptor just commencing business. Chantrey soon rose, and
ultimately attained the summit of professional reputation; Cunningham
continued by him as the superintendent of his establishment till the
period of his death, long afterwards.

Devoted to business, and not unfrequently occupied in the studio from
eight o'clock morning till six o'clock evening, Cunningham perseveringly
followed the career of a poet and man of letters. In 1813, he published
a volume of lyrics, entitled "Songs, chiefly in the Rural Language of
Scotland." After an interval of nine years, sedulously improved by an
ample course of reading, he produced in 1822 "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a
Dramatic Poem." In this work, which is much commended by Sir Walter
Scott in the preface to the "Fortunes of Nigel," he depicts the manners
and traditions he had seen and heard on the banks of the Nith. In 1819,
he began to contribute to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and from 1822 to 1824
wrote largely for the _London Magazine_. Two collected volumes of his
contributions to these periodicals were afterwards published, under the
title of "Traditional Tales." In 1825, he gave to the world "The Songs
of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, with an Introduction and Notes," in
four volumes 8vo. This work abounds in much valuable and curious
criticism. "Paul Jones," a romance in three volumes, was the product of
1826; it was eminently successful. A second romance from his pen, "Sir
Michael Scott," published in 1828, in three volumes, did not succeed.
"The Anniversary," a miscellany which appeared in the winter of that
year, under his editorial superintendence, obtained an excellent
reception. From 1829 to 1833, he produced for "Murray's Family Library"
his most esteemed prose work, "The Lives of the Most Eminent British
Painters, Sculptors, and Architects," in six volumes. "The Maid of
Elvar," an epic poem in the Spenserian stanza, connected with the
chivalrous enterprise displayed in the warfare between Scotland and
England, during the reign of Henry VIII., was published in 1832. His
admirable edition of the works of Robert Burns appeared in 1834, and
5000 copies were speedily sold.[8] In 1836, he published "Lord Roldan,"
a romance. From 1830 to 1834, he was a constant writer in _The
Athenæum_, to which, among many interesting articles, he contributed his
sentiments regarding the literary characters of the times, in a series
of papers entitled "Literature of the Last Fifty Years." He wrote a
series of prose descriptions for "Major's Cabinet Gallery," a "History
of the Rise and Progress of the Fine Arts," for the "Popular
Encyclopædia;" an introduction, and a few additional lives, for
"Pilkington's Painters," and a life of Thomson for Tilt's illustrated
edition of "The Seasons." He contemplated a great work, to be entitled
"Lives of the British Poets," and this design, which he did not live to
accomplish, is likely to be realised by his son, Mr Peter Cunningham.
His last publication was the "Life of Sir David Wilkie," which he
completed just two days before his death. He was suddenly seized with an
apoplectic attack, and died after a brief illness on the 29th October
1842. His remains were interred in Kensal-green Cemetery. He had
married, in July 1811, Miss Jane Walker of Preston Mill, near Dumfries,
who still survives. Of a family of four sons and one daughter, three of
the sons held military appointments in India, and the fourth, who fills
a post in Somerset House, is well known for his contributions to
literature.

Allan Cunningham ranks next to Hogg as a writer of Scottish song. He
sung of the influences of beauty, and of the hills and vales of his own
dear Scotland. His songs abound in warmth of expression, simplicity of
sentiment, and luxuriousness of fancy. Of his skill as a Scottish poet,
Hogg has thus testified his appreciation in the "Queen's Wake":--

    "Of the old elm his harp was made,
    That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade;
    No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
    For his own hand that harp had framed,
    In stolen hours, when, labour done,
    He stray'd to view the parting sun.

           *       *       *       *       *

    That harp could make the matron stare,
    Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
    Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
    And warrior pant to meet the foe;
    And long by Nith the maidens young
    Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.
    At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
    When resting on the daisied wold,
    Combing their locks of waving gold,
    Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
    Their lost, their darling Cunninghame;
    His was a song beloved in youth,
    A tale of weir, a tale of truth."

As a prose writer, Cunningham was believed by Southey to have the best
style ever attained by any one born north of the Tweed, Hume only
excepted. His moral qualities were well appreciated by Sir Walter Scott,
who commonly spoke of him as "Honest Allan." His person was broad and
powerful, and his countenance wore a fine intelligence.


[6] See vol. ii., p. 223.

[7] Besides Thomas and Allan, the other members of the family afforded
evidence of talent. James, the eldest son, with a limited education, was
intimately familiar with general literature, and occasionally
contributed to the periodicals. He began his career as a stone-mason,
and by his ability and perseverance rose to the respectable position of
a master builder. He died at Dalswinton, near Dumfries, on the 27th July
1832. John, the third brother, who died in early life, evinced a turn
for mechanism, and wrote respectable verses. Peter, the fifth son,
studied medicine, and became a surgeon in the navy; he still survives,
resident at Greenwich, and is known as the author of two respectable
works, bearing the titles, "Two Years in New South Wales," and "Hints to
Australian Emigrants." Of the five daughters, one of whom only survives,
all gave evidence of intellectual ability.

[8] Writing to Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, in January 1834, along with a
copy of the first volume, Cunningham remarks, "I hope you will like the
Life; a third of it is new, so are many of the anecdotes, and I am
willing to stand or fall as an author by it." Mr Neil, it may be added,
contributed to Cunningham a great deal of original information as to the
life of the poet, and also some of his unpublished poems.




SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.


    She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
      She 's gane to dwall in heaven:
    "Ye 're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God,
      "For dwalling out o' heaven!"

    Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?
      Oh, what 'll she do in heaven?
    She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,
      And make them mair meet for heaven.

    She was beloved by a', my lassie,
      She was beloved by a';
    But an angel fell in love wi' her,
      An' took her frae us a'.

    Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
      Lowly there thou lies;
    A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
      Nor frae it will arise!

    Fu' soon I 'll follow thee, my lassie,
      Fu' soon I 'll follow thee;
    Thou left me naught to covet ahin',
      But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

    I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
      I look'd on thy death-cold face;
    Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
      An' fading in its place.

    I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
      I look'd on thy death-shut eye;
    An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven
      Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

    Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
      Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
    But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven,
      That sang the evening psalm.

    There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
      There 's naught but dust now mine;
    My soul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
      An' why should I stay behin'?




THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.


    The lark had left the evening cloud,
      The dew was soft, the wind was lowne,
    The gentle breath amang the flowers
      Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down;
    The dappled swallow left the pool,
      The stars were blinking owre the hill,
    As I met amang the hawthorns green
      The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

    Her naked feet, amang the grass,
      Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair;
    Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,
      Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;
    Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;
      Her lips had words and wit at will,
    And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
      The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

    Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,
      Where blackcocks crow, and plovers cry?
    Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,
      Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:
    I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd lass,
      By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;"
    She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
      The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

    Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down,
      But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:"
    A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up,
      And the tears were drapping frae her e'e:
    "I hae a lad, wha 's far awa',
      That weel could win a woman's will;
    My heart 's already fu' o' love,"
      Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

    "Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
      To seek for love in a far countrie?"
    Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew:
      I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.
    I took but ane o' her comely cheek;
      "For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!
    My heart is fu' o' ither love,"
      Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

    She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands,
      And lifted up her watery e'e--
    "Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God,
      Or light is gladsome to my e'e;
    While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
      Till my last drap o' blood be still,
    My heart shall haud nae other love,"
      Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

    There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
      And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
    By lanely Cluden's hermit stream
      Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.
    Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind,
      As ever shone on vale or hill;
    But there 's a light puts them a' out,
      The lovely lass of Preston Mill.




GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.


    Gane were but the winter cauld,
      And gane were but the snaw,
    I could sleep in the wild woods,
      Where primroses blaw.

    Cauld 's the snaw at my head,
      And cauld at my feet,
    And the finger o' death 's at my een,
      Closing them to sleep.

    Let nane tell my father,
      Or my mither dear:
    I 'll meet them baith in heaven,
      At the spring o' the year.




IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.


    It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
    An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
    When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
    The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
    It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
    An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

    The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa',
    The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a':
    But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
    An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
    It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
    An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

    There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save,
    But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,
    That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,
    May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
    It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
    And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

    The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
    The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;
    But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e:
    "I 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie."
    It 's hame, an' it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,
    An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!




THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.


    There lived a lass in Inverness,
      She was the pride of a' the town;
    Blithe as the lark on gowan-tap,
      When frae the nest but newly flown.
    At kirk she won the auld folks' love,
      At dance she was the young men's een;
    She was the blithest aye o' the blithe,
      At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.

    As I came in by Inverness,
      The simmer-sun was sinking down;
    Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,
      And she was greeting through the town:
    The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,
      And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)
    "The flower o' the lads of Inverness
      Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"

    She tore her haffet-links of gowd,
      And dighted aye her comely e'e;
    "My father's head 's on Carlisle wall,
      At Preston sleep my brethren three!
    I thought my heart could haud nae mair,
      Mae tears could ever blin' my e'e;
    But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,
      A dearer ane there couldna be!

    "He trysted me o' love yestreen,
      Of love-tokens he gave me three;
    But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir,
      Oh, ne'er again to think o' me!
    The forest flowers shall be my bed,
      My food shall be the wild berrie,
    The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,
      And wauken'd again I winna be."

    Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames,
      Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e;
    Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,
      But naked corses, sad to see.
    Oh spring is blithesome to the year,
      Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;
    But oh! what spring can raise them up,
      That lie on dread Culloden-lee?

    The hand o' God hung heavy here,
      And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie;
    It struck the righteous to the ground,
      And lifted the destroyer hie.
    "But there 's a day," quo' my God in prayer,
      "When righteousness shall bear the gree;
    I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,
      And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!"




A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.


    A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
      A wind that follows fast,
    And fills the white and rustling sail,
      And bends the gallant mast;
    And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
      While, like the eagle free,
    Away the good ship flies, and leaves
      Old England on the lee.

    Oh for a soft and gentle wind!
      I hear a fair one cry;
    But give to me the snoring breeze,
      And white waves heaving high;
    And white waves heaving high, my boys,
      The good ship tight and free--
    The world of waters is our home,
      And merry men are we.

    There 's tempest in yon hornèd moon,
      And lightning in yon cloud;
    And hark the music, mariners!
      The wind is piping loud;
    The wind is piping loud, my boys,
      The lightning flashing free--
    While the hollow oak our palace is,
      Our heritage the sea.




THE BONNIE BARK.


    O come, my bonnie bark!
      O'er the waves let us go,
    With thy neck like the swan,
      And thy wings like the snow.
    Spread thy plumes to the wind,
      For a gentle one soon
    Must welcome us home,
      Ere the wane of the moon.

    The proud oak that built thee
      Was nursed in the dew,
    Where my gentle one dwells,
      And stately it grew.
    I hew'd its beauty down;
      Now it swims on the sea,
    And wafts spice and perfume,
      My fair one, to thee.

    Oh, sweet, sweet 's her voice,
      As a low warbled tune;
    And sweet, sweet her lips,
      Like the rose-bud of June.
    She looks to sea, and sighs,
      As the foamy wave flows,
    And treads on men's strength,
      As in glory she goes.

    Oh haste, my bonnie bark,
      O'er the waves let us bound,
    As the deer from the horn,
      Or the hare from the hound.
    Pluck down thy white plumes,
      Sink thy keel in the sand,
    Whene'er ye see my love,
      And the wave of her hand.





THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.


    Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
      By that pretty white hand o' thine,
    And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
      That thou would aye be mine;
    And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
      And by that kind heart o' thine,
    By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
      That thou would aye be mine.

    Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands,
      And the heart that would part sic love;
    But there 's nae hand can loose my band
      But the finger o' God above.
    Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
      And my claithing e'er sae mean,
    I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,
      Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

    Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,
      Fu' safter than the down;
    And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,
      And sweetly I 'll sleep, an' soun'.
    Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,
      Come here and kneel wi' me;
    The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
      And I canna pray without thee.

    The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,
      The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie;
    Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke,
      And a blithe auld bodie is he.
    The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame,
      Wi' the holie psalmodie,
    And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
      And I will speak o' thee.




YOUNG ELIZA.[9]


    Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow,
    This day of rest I 'll give to you,
    And clasp thy waist with many a vow,
      My loved, my young Eliza.

    'Tis not that cheek, that bosom bare,
    That high arch'd eye, that long brown hair,
    That fair form'd foot, thine angel air,--
      But 'tis thy mind, Eliza.

    Think not to charm me with thine eye,
    Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh,
    My heart 's charm'd with a nobler tie,--
      It is thy mind, Eliza.

    This heart, which every love could warm,
    Which every pretty face could charm,
    No more will beat the sweet alarm,
      But to my young Eliza.

    The peasant lad unyokes his car,
    The star of even shines bright and far,
    And lights me to the flood-torn scaur,
      To meet my young Eliza.

    There is the smile to please, where truth
    And soft persuasion fills her mouth,
    While warm with all the fire of youth,
      She clasps me, young Eliza.

    My heart's blood warms in stronger flow,
    My cheeks are tinged with redder glow,
    When sober matron, Evening slow,
      Bids me to meet Eliza.

    The bard can kindle his soul to flame,
    The patriot hunts a deathless name;
    Give me the peasant's humble fame,
      And give me young Eliza.

    The warlock glen has tint its gloom,
    The fairie burn the witching broom,
    All wear a lovelier, sweeter bloom,
      For there I meet Eliza.

    Then come that mind, so finely form'd,
    By native truth and virtue warm'd,
    With love's soft simplest lay is charm'd,
      Come to my breast, Eliza.


[9] This song, which is a juvenile production of the poet, has been
communicated by his niece, Miss Pagan of Dumfries. The heroine of the
song, Eliza Neilson, eldest daughter of the Reverend Mr Neilson of
Kirkbean, still lives, and is resident in Dumfries.




LOVELY WOMAN.[10]


    I 've rock'd me on the giddy mast,
      Through seas tempestuous foamin',
    I 've braved the toil of mountain storm,
      From dawning to the gloamin';
    Round the green bosom'd earth, sea-swept,
      In search of pleasure roamin',
    And found the world a wilderness,
      Without thee, lovely woman!

    The farmer reaps his golden fields,
      The merchant sweeps the ocean;
    The soldier's steed, gore-fetlock'd, snorts
      Through war-field's wild commotion;
    All combat in eternal toil,
      Mirk midnight, day, and gloamin',
    To pleasure Heaven's divinest gift,
      Thee, lovely, conquering woman!

    The savage in the desert dark,
      The monster's den exploring;
    The sceptre-swaying prince, who rules
      The nations round adoring;
    Nay, even the laurell'd-templed bard
      Dew-footed at the gloamin',
    Melodious wooes the world's ear,
      To please thee, lovely woman!


[10] This song appeared in the _London Magazine_, new edit., No. xxx. It
was addressed to Mrs Pagan of Curriestanes, the poet's sister, who, it
may be remarked, possessed a large share of the family talent. She died
on the 5th February 1854, and her remains rest in the Pagan family's
burying-ground, in Terregles' churchyard.




EBENEZER PICKEN.


Ebenezer Picken was the only son of a silk-weaver in Paisley, who bore
the same Christian name. He was born at the _Well-meadow_ of that town,
about the year 1769. Intending to follow the profession of a clergyman,
he proceeded to the University of Glasgow, which he attended during five
or six sessions. With talents of a high order, he permitted an
enthusiastic attachment to verse-making to interfere with his severer
studies and retard his progress in learning. Contrary to the counsel of
his father and other friends, he published, in 1788, while only in his
nineteenth year, a thin octavo volume of poems; and afterwards gave to
the gay intercourse of lovers of the muse, many precious hours which
ought to have been applied to mental improvement. Early in 1791 he
became teacher of a school at Falkirk; and on the 14th of April of the
same year appeared at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, where he delivered an
oration in blank verse on the comparative merits of Ramsay and
Fergusson, assigning the pre-eminence to the former poet. In this debate
his fellow-townsman and friend, Alexander Wilson, the future
ornithologist, advocated in verse the merits of Fergusson; and the
productions of both the youthful adventurers were printed in a pamphlet
entitled the "Laurel Disputed." In occupying the position of
schoolmaster at Falkirk, Picken proposed to raise funds to aid him in
the prosecution of his theological studies; but the circumstance of his
having formed a matrimonial union with a young lady, a daughter of Mr
Beveridge of the Burgher congregation in Falkirk, by involving him in
the expenses of a family, proved fatal to his clerical aspirations. He
accepted the situation of teacher of an endowed school at Carron, where
he remained till 1796, when he removed to Edinburgh. In the capital he
found employment as manager of a mercantile establishment, and
afterwards on his own account commenced business as a draper.
Unsuccessful in this branch of business, he subsequently sought a
livelihood as a music-seller and a teacher of languages. In 1813, with
the view of bettering his circumstances, he published, by subscription,
two duodecimo volumes of "Poems and Songs," in which are included the
pieces contained in his first published volume. His death took place in
1816.

Picken is remembered as a person of gentlemanly appearance, endeavouring
to confront the pressure of unmitigated poverty. His dispositions were
eminently social, and his love of poetry amounted to a passion. He is
commemorated in the poetical works of his early friend, Wilson, who has
addressed to him a lengthened poetical epistle. In 1818, a dictionary of
Scottish words, which he had occupied some years in preparing, was
published at Edinburgh by "James Sawers, Calton Street," and this
publication was found of essential service by Dr Jamieson in the
preparation of his "Supplement" to his "Dictionary of the Scottish
Language." Among Picken's poetical compositions are a few pieces bearing
the impress of genius.[11]


[11] Andrew Picken, the only son of Ebenezer, a person of somewhat
unprepossessing appearance, contrived to derive a tolerable livelihood
by following the conjunct occupation of an itinerant player and
portrait-painter. He was the writer of some good poetry, and about 1827
published a respectable volume of verses, entitled, "The Bedouin, and
other Poems." He soon afterwards proceeded to America.




PEGGIE WI' THE GLANCIN' E'E.


    Walkin' out ae mornin' early,
      Ken ye wha I chanced to see?
    But my lassie, gay and frisky,
      Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e.
    Phoebus, left the lap o' Thetis,
      Fast was lickin' up the dew,
    Whan, ayont a risin' hilloc,
      First my Peggie came in view.

    Hark ye, I gaed up to meet her;
      But whane'er my face she saw,
    Up her plaidin' coat she kiltit,
      And in daffin' scour'd awa'.
    Weel kent I that though my Peggie
      Ran sae fast out owre the mead,
    She was wantin' me to follow--
      Yes, ye swains, an' sae I did.

    At yon burnie I o'ertook her,
      Whare the shinin' pebbles lie;
    Whare the flowers, that fringe the border,
      Soup the stream, that wimples by.
    While wi' her I sat reclinin',
      Frae her lips I staw a kiss;
    While she blush'd, I took anither,--
      Shepherds, was there ill in this?

    Could a lass, sae sweet an' comely,
      Ever bless a lover's arms?
    Could the bonnie wife o' Vulcan
      Ever boast o' hauf the charms?
    While the zephyrs fan the meadows,
      While the flow'rets crown the lea,
    While they paint the gowden simmer,
      Wha sae blest as her an' me?




WOO ME AGAIN.

TUNE--_"On a Primrosy Bank."_


    Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth:
    Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth;
    His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain,
    But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

    He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere,
    And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear:
    My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane;
    But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

    He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind,
    But I counted his proffers as light as the wind;
    I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain;
    But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

    He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae,
    And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae;
    I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane;
    But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

    Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve,
    An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave;
    Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen,
    I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!

    Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined,
    My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind;
    But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen,
    An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.

    Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate,
    Despise not the heart you may value too late;
    Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain;
    With you it may never be sunshine again.

    The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa',
    An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw;
    Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain,
    That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.




STUART LEWIS.


Stuart Lewis, the mendicant bard, was the eldest son of an innkeeper at
Ecclefechan in Annandale, where he was born about the year 1756. A
zealous Jacobite, his father gave him the name of Stuart, in honour of
Prince Charles Edward. At the parish school, taught by one Irving, an
ingenious and learned person of eccentric habits, he received a
respectable ground-work of education; but the early deprivation of his
father, who died bankrupt, compelled him to relinquish the pursuit of
learning. At the age of fifteen, with the view of aiding in the support
of his widowed mother, with her destitute family of other five children,
he accepted manual employment from a relation in the vicinity of
Chester. Subsequently, along with a partner, he established himself as a
merchant-tailor in the town of Chester, where he remained some years,
when his partner absconded to America with a considerable amount,
leaving him to meet the demands of the firm. Surrendering his effects to
his creditors, he returned to his native place, almost penniless, and
suffering mental depression from his misfortunes, which he recklessly
sought to remove by the delusive remedy of the bottle. The habit of
intemperance thus produced, became his scourge through life. At
Ecclefechan he commenced business as a tailor, and married a young
country girl, for whom he had formed a devoted attachment. He
established a village library, and debating club, became a diligent
reader, a leader in every literary movement in the district, and a
writer of poetry of some merit. A poem on the melancholy story of "Fair
Helen of Kirkconnel," which he composed at this period, obtained a
somewhat extensive popularity. To aid his finances, he became an
itinerant seller of cloth,--a mode of life which gave him an opportunity
of studying character, and visiting interesting scenery. The pressure of
poverty afterwards induced him to enlist, as a recruit, in the Hopetoun
Fencibles; and, in this humble position, he contrived to augment his
scanty pay by composing acrostics and madrigals for the officers, who
rewarded him with small gratuities. On the regiment being disbanded in
1799, he was entrusted by a merchant with the sale of goods, as a
pedlar, in the west of England; but this employment ceased on his being
robbed, while in a state of inebriety. Still descending in the social
scale, he became an umbrella-maker in Manchester, while his wife was
employed in some of the manufactories. Some other odd and irregular
occupations were severally attempted without success, till at length,
about his fiftieth year, he finally settled into the humble condition of
a wandering poet. He composed verses on every variety of theme, and
readily parted with his compositions for food or whisky. His field of
wandering included the entire Lowlands, and he occasionally penetrated
into Highland districts. In his wanderings he was accompanied by his
wife, who, though a severe sufferer on his account, along with her
family of five or six children, continued most devoted in her attachment
to him. On her death, which took place in the Cowgate, Edinburgh, early
in 1817, he became almost distracted, and never recovered his former
composure. He now roamed wildly through the country, seldom remaining
more than one night in the same place. He finally returned to
Dumfriesshire, his native county; and accidentally falling into the
Nith, caught an inflammatory fever, of which he died, in the village of
Ruthwell, on the 22d September 1818. Lewis was slender, and of low
stature. His countenance was sharp, and his eye intelligent, though
frenzied with excitement. He always expressed himself in the language of
enthusiasm, despised prudence and common sense, and commended the
impulsive and fanciful. He published, in 1816, a small volume, entitled
"The African Slave; with other Poems and Songs." Some of his lyrics are
not unworthy of a place in the national minstrelsy.




LANARK MILLS.

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


    Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde,
      Where oft I 've spent the joyful day;
    Now, weary wand'ring on thy side,
      I pour the plaintive, joyless lay.
    To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove,
      The thought with grief my bosom fills;
    Why am I forced to leave my love,
      And wander far from Lanark Mills?

    Can I forget th' ecstatic hours,
      When ('scaped the village evening din)
    I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers,
      Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn!
    While close I clasp'd her to my breast,
      (Th' idea still with rapture thrills!)
    I thought myself completely blest,
      By all the lads of Lanark Mills.

    Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,
      Thou 'rt fled--alas! I know not where,
    And vanish'd is each blissful gleam,
      And left behind a load of care.
    Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,
      A long farewell, ye rising hills;
    No more I 'll wander on your side,
      Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.

    While Tintock stands the pride of hills,
      While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,
    So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills,
      May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee.
    A last adieu! my Mary dear,
      The briny tear my eye distils;
    While reason's powers continue clear,
      I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.




O'ER THE MUIR.[12]


    Ae morn of May, when fields were gay,
      Serene and charming was the weather,
    I chanced to roam some miles frae home,
      Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather.
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs,
        And brush the dew from vernal heather.

    I walk'd along, and humm'd a song,
      My heart was light as ony feather,
    And soon did pass a lovely lass,
      Was wading barefoot through the heather.
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        O'er the muir amang the heather;
        The bonniest lass that e'er I saw
        I met ae morn amang the heather.

    Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine,
      Than the most clear unclouded ether;
    A fairer form did ne'er adorn
      A brighter scene than blooming heather.
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        O'er the muir amang the heather;
        There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle,
        Can vie with her amang the heather.

    I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid;
      Pray sit you down, let 's talk together;
    For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear,
      You 've stole my heart amang the heather."
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        O'er the muir amang the heather;
        Ye swains, beware of yonder muir,
        You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.

    She answer'd me, right modestly,
      "I go, kind sir, to seek my father,
    Whose fleecy charge he tends at large,
      On yon green hills beyond the heather."
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        O'er the muir amang the heather;
        Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine,
        Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.

    Away she flew out of my view,
      Her home or name I ne'er could gather,
    But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine
      For that sweet lass amang the heather.
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        O'er the muir amang the heather,
        While vital heat glows in my heart,
        I 'll love the lass amang the heather.


[12] The more popular words to the same tune and chorus, beginning,
"Comin' through the Craigs o' Kyle," are believed, on the authority of
Burns, to have been the composition of Jean Glover, a girl of
respectable parentage, born at Kilmarnock in 1758, who became attached
to a company of strolling players. Lewis is said to have claimed
priority for his verses, and the point is not likely ever to be decided.
This much may be said in favour of Lewis's claims, that he had long been
the writer of respectable lyrics; while Jean Glover, though well skilled
as a musician, is not otherwise known to have composed verses. One of
the songs is evidently an echo of the other.




DAVID DRUMMOND.


David Drummond, author of "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song
formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff,
Perthshire. Along with his four brothers, he settled in Fifeshire, about
the beginning of the century, having obtained the situation of clerk in
the Kirkland works, near Leven. In 1812, he proceeded to India, and
afterwards attained considerable wealth as the conductor of an academy
and boarding establishment at Calcutta. A man of vigorous mind and
respectable scholarship, he had early cultivated a taste for literature
and poetry, and latterly became an extensive contributor to the public
journals and periodical publications of Calcutta. The song with which
his name has been chiefly associated, was composed during the period of
his employment at the Kirkland works,--the heroine being Miss Wilson,
daughter of the proprietor of Pirnie, near Leven, a young lady of great
personal attractions, to whom he was devotedly attached. The sequel of
his history, in connexion with this lady, forms the subject of a
romance, in which he has been made to figure much to the injury of his
fame. The correct version of this story, in which Drummond has been
represented as faithless to the object of his former affections, we have
received from a gentleman to whom the circumstances were intimately
known. In consequence of a proposal to become his wife, Miss Wilson
sailed for Calcutta in 1816. On her arrival, she was kindly received by
her affianced lover, who conducted her to the house of a respectable
female friend, till arrangements might be completed for the nuptial
ceremony. In the interval, she became desirous of withdrawing from her
engagement; and Drummond, observing her coldness, offered to pay the
expense of her passage back to Scotland. Meanwhile, she was seized with
fever, of which she died. Report erroneously alleged that she had died
of a broken heart on account of her lover being unfaithful, and hence
the memory of poor Drummond has been most unjustly aspersed. Drummond
died, at Calcutta, in 1845, about the age of seventy. He was much
respected among a wide circle of friends and admirers. His personal
appearance was unprepossessing, almost approaching to deformity,--a
circumstance which may explain the ultimate hesitation of Miss Wilson to
accept his hand. "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with
the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume
of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of
the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,[13] an obscure
rhymster of the capital.


[13] Glass was a house-painter in Edinburgh; he ultimately became very
dissipated, and died in circumstances of penury about 1840. He
published, in 1811, "The Album, a Collection of Poems and Songs," 12mo;
in 1814, "Scenes of Gloamin'," 12mo; and in 1816, a third volume,
entitled "Songs of Edina." The last is dedicated, by permission, to the
Duke of Gordon. In the "Scenes of Gloamin'," Glass has included the
"Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," as a song of his own composition.




THE BONNIE LASS O' LEVENSIDE.

AIR--_"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."_


    How sweet are Leven's silver streams,
    Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;
      On every bush the warblers vie,
      In strains of bosom-soothing joy.
    But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,
      And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,
    Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,
      An 't were not for my darling lassie;
        Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,
        The bonnie lass o' Levenside.

    When sober eve begins her reign,
    The little birds to cease their singing,
      The flowers their beauty to renew,
      Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;
    When far behind the Lomonds high,
      The wheels of day are downwards rowing,
    And a' the western closing sky
      Wi' varied tints of glory lowing,
        'Tis then my eager steps I guide,
        To meet the lass o' Levenside.

    The solemn sweetness nature spreads,
    The kindly hour to bliss inviting,
      Within our happy bosoms move,
      The softest sigh o' purest love;
    Reclined upon the velvet grass,
      Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,
    What words could a' my joy express,
      When clasped to her beating bosom;
        How swells my heart with rapture's tide,
        When wi' the lass o' Levenside.

    She never saw the splendid ball,
    She never blazed in courtly grandeur,
      But like her native lily's bloom,
      She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;
    The pert reply, the modish air,
      To soothe the soul were never granted,
    When modest sense and love are there,
      The guise o' art may well be wanted;
        O Fate! gi'e me to be my bride
        The bonnie lass o' Levenside.




JAMES AFFLECK.


The "Posthumous Poetical Works" of James Affleck, tailor in Biggar, with
a memoir of his life by his son, were published at Edinburgh in 1836.
Affleck was born in the village of Drummelzier, in Peeblesshire, on the
8th September 1776. His education was scanty; and after some years'
occupation as a cowherd, he was apprenticed to a tailor in his native
village. He afterwards prosecuted his trade in the parish of
Crawfordjohn, and in the town of Ayr. In 1793, he established himself as
master tailor in Biggar. Fond of society, he joined the district lodge
of freemasons, and became a leading member of that fraternity. He
composed verses for the entertainment of his friends, which he was
induced to give to the world in two separate publications. He possessed
considerable poetical talent, but his compositions are generally marked
by the absence of refinement. The song selected for the present work is
the most happy effort in his posthumous volume. His death took place at
Biggar, on the 8th September 1835.




HOW BLEST WERE THE DAYS!


    How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie!
    Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie;
    Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy,
    Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.

    Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes,
    Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes;
    The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow,
    What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.

    The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored,
    And plundering bykes was the game I adored;
    My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady,
    Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.

    The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases;
    When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces;
    But view him at once baith the husband and daddie,
    He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.

    When childhood was over my prospects were greater,
    I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature!
    The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment--
    Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.

    But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd,
    How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd!
    I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie;
    How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!




JAMES STIRRAT.


James Stirrat was born in the village of Dalry, Ayrshire, on the 28th
March 1781. His father was owner of several houses in the place, and was
employed in business as a haberdasher. Young Stirrat was educated at the
village school; in his 17th year, he composed verses which afforded some
indication of power. Of a delicate constitution, he accepted the easy
appointment of village postmaster. He died in March 1843, in his
sixty-second year. Stirrat wrote much poetry, but never ventured on a
publication. Several of his songs appeared at intervals in the public
journals, the "Book of Scottish Song," and the "Contemporaries of
Burns." The latter work contains a brief sketch of his life. He left a
considerable number of MSS., which are now in the possession of a
relative in Ayr. Possessed of a knowledge of music, he excelled in
playing many of the national airs on the guitar. His dispositions were
social, yet in society he seldom talked; among his associates, he
frequently expressed his hope of posthumous fame. He was enthusiastic in
his admiration of female beauty, but died unmarried.




HENRY.[14]

AIR--_"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."_


        Can my dearest Henry leave me?
          Why, ah! why would he deceive me?
        Whence this cold and cruel change,
          That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?

    Can he the hours of love forget,
      The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever,
    When down the burn we fondly met,
      And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?
        Will my Henry then deceive me,
          Faithless laddie, can he leave me?
        Ne'er till now did fancy dream,
          My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.

    And will he then me aye forsake?
      Must I for ever, ever lose him?
    And can he leave this heart to break,
      That swells and bursts within my bosom?
        Never, Henry, could I leave thee,
          Never could this heart deceive thee,
        Why then, laddie, me forsake,
          And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?


[14] This song and that following are printed from the original MSS.




MARY.[15]


    "In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high,
    And youthfu' love's endearing tie
    Gave rapture to the mutual sigh,
        Within the arms of Mary,
        My ain dear Mary;
    Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky,
        Could equal mine wi' Mary.

    The sacred hours like moments flew,
    Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through,
    The warl' evanish'd frae my view
        Within the arms of Mary,
        My ain dear Mary;
    Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew
        Within the arms of Mary.

    Young fancy spread her visions gay,
    Love fondly view'd the fair display,
    Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day,
        And I was rapt with Mary,
        My ain dear Mary;
    The flowers of Eden strew'd the way
        That led me to my Mary.

    But life is now a dreary waste,
    I lanely wander sair depress'd,
    For cold and lifeless is that breast
        Where throbb'd the heart of Mary,
        My ain dear Mary;
    She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest,
        And I hae lost my Mary.


[15] This song was set to music by R. A. Smith.




JOHN GRIEVE.


John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the
generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th
September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve,
minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that
place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George
Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very
young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his
residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary
education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner
and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in
a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his
friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a
wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to
Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet,
hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as
a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.

Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure
for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension
as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the
more respectable periodicals.[16] In his youth he had been a votary of
the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish
anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the
contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of
genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his
table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose
circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his
beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of
kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the
numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of
letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully
recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after
expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve,
he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I
lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance,
became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so
as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be
obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and
without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in
Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for
Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved
out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem
"Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards
in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:--

    "The bard that night who foremost came
    Was not enroll'd, nor known his name;
    A youth he was of manly mould,
    Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;
    But his fair face, and forehead high,
    Glow'd with intrusive modesty.
    'Twas said by bank of southland stream
    Glided his youth in soothing dream;
    The harp he loved, and wont to stray
    Far to the wilds and woods away,
    And sing to brooks that gurgled by
    Of maiden's form and maiden's eye;
    That when this dream of youth was past,
    Deep in the shade his harp he cast;
    In busy life his cares beguiled,
    His heart was true, and fortune smiled."

Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated
for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an
appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the
modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more
esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still
experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the
close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily
resort of the _savans_ of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the
4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were
interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few
songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle
him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]


[16] In the "Key to the Chaldee MS.," he is described as the author of
"The White Cottage, a Tale;" this was not written by him, but was the
production of one More, a native of Berwickshire, whose literary
aspirations he had promoted.

[17] For a number of particulars in this memoir, we are indebted to our
venerated friend Mr Alexander Bald, of Alloa.




CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.

AIR--_"Fingal's Lament."_


    Culloden, on thy swarthy brow
      Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;
    Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
      More than the freezing wintry air.
    For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
      And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;
    Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,
      Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.

    From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,
      How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
    How fierce the plaided Highland clans
      Rush onward with the broad claymore!
    Those hearts that high with honour heave,
      The volleying thunder there laid low;
    Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,
      When wintry winds begin to blow!

    Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?
      The braided plumes torn from thy brow,
    What must thy haughty spirit feel,
      When skulking like the mountain roe!
    While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,
      On April eve, their loves and joys,
    The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers
      To foreign lands an exile flies.

    To his blue hills that rose in view,
      As o'er the deep his galley bore,
    He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!
      I 'll never see Lochaber more!
    Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,
      My dear, my injured native land,
    In other climes thy foe shall feel
      The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.

    "Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,
      Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!
    Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,
      That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
    Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,
      Free as their own dark mountain game,
    Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
      A longing for their father's fame.

    "Shades of the mighty and the brave,
      Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!
    No trophies mark your common grave,
      Nor dirges to your memory swell.
    But generous hearts will weep your fate,
      When far has roll'd the tide of time;
    And bards unborn shall renovate
      Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."




LOVELY MARY.[18]

AIR--_"Gowd in gowpens."_


    I 've seen the lily of the wold,
    I 've seen the opening marigold,
    Their fairest hues at morn unfold,
      But fairer is my Mary.
    How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,
    With opening flowers at spring's return!
    How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!
      But sweeter is my Mary.

    Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;
    Her form 's not fairer than her mind;
    Two sister beauties rarely join'd,
      But join'd in lovely Mary.
    As music from the distant steep,
    As starlight on the silent deep,
    So are my passions lull'd asleep
      By love for bonnie Mary.


[18] This song was written during the author's first residence at Alloa.
The heroine was Miss Mary Douglas, a young lady of great personal
attractions, daughter of Captain Douglas, of the East India Company's
Marine Service, who resided in the village of Sauchie, in the vicinity.
She became the wife of a Mr Rhind, an Edinburgh gentleman, but died soon
after her marriage. Her remains were brought for interment to the
churchyard of Alloa.




HER BLUE ROLLIN' E'E.

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


    My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning
      Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;
    Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,
      As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.
    O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?
      Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?
    Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,
      An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.

    See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,
      Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,
    'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,
      An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.
    Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;
      Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;
    Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;
      Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.

    Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,
      When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;
    When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,
      A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.
    Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;
      Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;
    As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,
      In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.




CHARLES GRAY.


Charles Gray was born at Anstruther-wester, on the 10th March 1782. He
was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr
William Tennant, the author of "Anster Fair," who were both natives of
Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation; but in
1805, through the influence of Major-General Burn,[19] his maternal
uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division
of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of "Poems
and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three
years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in
establishing the "Musomanik Society of Anstruther,"--an association
which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of
respectable verses.[20] After thirty-six years' active service in the
Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full
pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he
cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in
compliance with the wishes of numerous friends, expressed in the form
of a _Round Robin_, he published a second volume of verses, with the
title of "Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo,
illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his
birthplace. In the _Glasgow Citizen_ newspaper, he subsequently
published "Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously
quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the "Songs of Scotland."

Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by
his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern
Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits; and he
enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his
lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have deservedly
attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate
the style of the great national bard. In person he was of low stature;
his gray weather-beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died,
after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. He married
early in life, and his only son is now a Captain of Marines.


[19] A memoir of this estimable individual, chiefly from materials found
in his Diary, has been published by the London Tract Society.

[20] This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled
"Bouts-Rimés, or Poetical Pastimes of a few Hobblers round the base of
Parnassus;" it is dedicated "To the Lovers of Rhyme, Fun, and
Good-Fellowship throughout the British Empire."




MAGGIE LAUDER.[21]


    The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head,
      And Winter yet did blaud her,
    When the Ranter came to Anster fair,
      And speir'd for Maggie Lauder;
    A snug wee house in the East Green,[22]
      Its shelter kindly lent her;
    Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,
      Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!

    Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,
      And to the kirk they ranted;
    He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;"
      And merry Maggie vaunted,
    That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,
      Nor blew sae weel his chanter,
    For he made Anster town to ring--
      And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?

    For a' the talk and loud reports,
      That ever gaed against her,
    Meg proves a true and carefu' wife,
      As ever was in Anster;
    And since the marriage-knot was tied,
      Rob swears he coudna want her;
    For he loves Maggie as his life,
      And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.


[21] These stanzas are an appropriate addition to the well-known song of
"Maggie Lauder," composed by Francis Semple, about 1660.

[22] The _East Green_ of Anstruther is now a low street connecting the
town with the adjoining village of Cellardyke. The site of Maggie
Lauder's house,--which is said to have been a cot of one storey,--is
pointed out in a small garden opposite a tannery, and on the north side
of the street. Maggie Lauder is the heroine of Dr Tennant's poem of
"Anster Fair."




CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.


        O Charlie is my darling,
          My darling, my darling;
        O Charlie is my darling,
          The young Chevalier!

    When first his standard caught the eye,
      His pibroch met the ear,
    Our hearts were light, our hopes were high
      For the young Chevalier.
          O Charlie is my darling, &c.

    The plaided chiefs cam frae afar,
      Nae doubts their bosoms steir;
    They nobly drew the sword for war
      And the young Chevalier!
          O Charlie is my darling, &c.

    But he wha trusts to fortune's smile
      Has meikle cause to fear;
    She blinket blithe but to beguile
      The young Chevalier!
          O Charlie is my darling, &c.

    O dark Culloden--fatal field!
      Fell source o' mony a tear;
    There Albyn tint her sword and shield,
      And the young Chevalier!
          O Charlie is my darling, &c.

    Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;"
      Her forest trees are sere;
    Her Royal Oak is gane for aye,
      The young Chevalier!
          O Charlie is my darling,
            My darling, my darling;
          O Charlie is my darling,
            The young Chevalier.




THE BLACK-E'ED LASSIE.[23]

AIR--_"My only Jo and Dearie O!"_


    Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell,
      But dinna ye be saucy, O!
    Or a' my love I winna tell
      To thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O!
    It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue,
      It 's no thy little cherrie mou';
    Its a' because thy heart 's sae true,
      My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

    It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e,
      Though few for that surpass ye, O!
    That maks ye aye sae dear to me,
      My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
    It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin,
      It 's no love's dimple on thy chin;
    Its a' thy modest worth within,
      My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

    Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,
      That a' wish to caress ye, O!
    But O! how I admire thy mind,
      My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
    I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear,
      Shine dimly through soft pity's tear;
    These are the charms that mak thee dear,
      To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!


[23] The heroine of this song subsequently became the author's wife.




GRIM WINTER WAS HOWLIN'.

AIR--_"Bonnie Dundee."_


    Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain,
    And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea;
    The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain,
    As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee.
    Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie,
    And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree;
    For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary,
    Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!

    Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river,
    I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea;
    And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever,
    Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee.
    There, glowrin' about, I saw in his station
    Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee;
    When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation,
    The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!

    O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie,
    I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be;
    I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy;
    They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee!
    O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour;
    Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be;
    And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her--
    The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!




JOHN FINLAY.


John Finlay, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born at Glasgow in
1782. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they contrived to
afford him the advantages of a good education. From the academy of Mr
Hall, an efficient teacher in the city, he was sent, in his fourteenth
year, to the University. There he distinguished himself both in the
literary and philosophical classes; he became intimately acquainted with
the Latin and Greek classics, and wrote elegant essays on the subjects
prescribed. His poetical talents first appeared in the composition of
odes on classical subjects, which were distinguished alike by power of
thought and smoothness of versification. In 1802, while still pursuing
his studies at college, he published a volume entitled "Wallace, or the
Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition[24]
appeared, with considerable additions. Soon after, he published an
edition of Blair's "Grave," with many excellent notes; produced a
learned life of Cervantes; and superintended the publication of a new
edition of Smith's "Wealth of Nations." In the hope of procuring a
situation in one of the public offices, he proceeded to London in 1807,
where he contributed many learned articles, particularly on antiquarian
subjects, to different periodicals. Disappointed in obtaining a
suitable post in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1808; and
the same year published, in two duodecimo volumes, a collection of
"Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads." This work is chiefly
valuable from some interesting notes, and an ingenious preliminary
dissertation on early romantic composition in Scotland. About this
period, Professor Richardson, of Glasgow, himself an elegant poet,
offered him the advance of sufficient capital to enable him to obtain a
share in a printing establishment, and undertook to secure for the firm
the appointment of printers to the University; he declined, however, to
undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope
of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of
1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at
Elleray, in Cumberland, to consult with him on the subject of his views.
He only reached the distance of Moffat; he was there struck with an
apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful
career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the
churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship,
and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have
adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy
aspirations, and was amply qualified for success; for his energies were
co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he
was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best
production is the poem of "Wallace," written in his nineteenth year;
though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of
external nature, and displays much vigour of versification. His lyrics
are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country.


[24] A third edition was published at Glasgow, by R. Chapman, in 1817.




O! COME WITH ME.

TUNE--_"Roslin Castle."_


    O! come with me, for the queen of night
    Is throned on high in her beauty bright:
    'Tis now the silent hour of even,
    When all is still in earth an' heaven;
    The cold flowers which the valleys strew
    Are sparking bright wi' pearly dew,
    And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum,
    Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.

    The opening blue-bell--Scotland's pride--
    In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;
    The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,
    The wild thyme, and the primrose pale,
    Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,
    Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make,
    And bind them 'mid the locks that flow
    In rich luxuriance from thy brow.

    O, love, without thee, what were life?
    A bustling scene of care and strife;
    A waste, where no green flowery glade
    Is found for shelter or for shade.
    But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share
    We can with calm composure bear;
    For the darkest nicht o' care and toil.
    Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.




'TIS NOT THE ROSE UPON THE CHEEK.


    'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,
      Nor eyes in langour soft that roll,
    That fix the lover's timid glance,
      And fire his wilder'd soul.

    But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,
      Diffusing soft a joy all holy;
    So soothing to the heart of love,
      And yet so melancholy.

    The note that falters on the tongue,
      Sweet as the dying voice of eve,
    That calms the throbbing breast of pain,
      Yet makes it love to grieve!

    The hand, alternate fiery warm
      And icy cold, the bursting sigh,
    The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,
      Pale cheek and burning eye.

    These, these the magic circle twine,
      The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;
    'Till scarce a son of earth he seems,
      But lives in what he sees.




I HEARD THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE.

AIR--_"Gramachree."_


    I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among,
    Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song;
    So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul,
    The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.

    I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade,
    And mingled in the melody that Isabella made;
    Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart,
    Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.

    I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky,
    Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye;
    Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year,
    Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.

    All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved,
    How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved!
    Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more,
    As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.




OH! DEAR WERE THE JOYS.

AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I love dear."_


    Oh! dear were the joys that are past!
    Oh! dear were the joys that are past!
    Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn,
    Or a cloud of the night on the blast!

    How dear was the breath of the eve,
    When bearing thy fond faithless sigh!
    And the moonbeam how dear that betray'd
    The love that illumined thine eye!

    Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine,
    Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light;
    But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky,
    It hid the pale queen of the night.

    Thou hast broken thy plighted faith,
    And broken a fond lover's heart;
    Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray
    I would trust more than thee and thy art!

    I am wretched to think on the past--
    Even hope now my peace cannot save;
    Thou hast given to my rival thy hand,
    But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.




WILLIAM NICHOLSON.


William Nicholson, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in
the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the
occupation of a carrier; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a
tavern. Of a family of eight children, William was the youngest; he
inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much
intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with
his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from
engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling
merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which,
sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became
popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan
of Ruthwell, and Dr Alexander Murray, the famous philologist, these
gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a
personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers; and in 1814 appeared as
the author of "Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of
Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised
£100, but this sum was diminished by certain imprudent excesses. With
the balance, he republished some tracts on the subject of Universal
Redemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826 he
proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham
and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was
engaged for a short time as assistant to a cattle-driver. In 1828, he
published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Henry,
now Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his
life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a
gaberlunzie; he played at merrymakings on his bagpipes, for snuff and
whisky. For sometime his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of
Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board at Kirk-Andrews, in
his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849.
He was rather above the middle size, and well formed. His countenance
was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy
eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song-writer he claims a
place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life
will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled
"The Country Lass," in the same measure as the "Queen's Wake," contains
much simple and graphic delineation of life; while the ballad of "The
Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true
to nature.




THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.

TUNE--_"White Cockade."_


    O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,
    And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie--
    Thy former friens and sweethearts a',
    And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?
         O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,
         And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;
         There 's lordly seats, and livins braw,
         Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!

    There 's stately woods on mony a brae,
    Where burns and birds in concert play;
    The waukrife echo answers a',
    Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
         O Gallowa' braes, &c.

    The simmer shiel I 'll build for thee
    Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee,
    Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',
    Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
         O Gallowa' braes, &c.

    When autumn waves her flowin' horn,
    And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,
    I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw,
    To join the dance in Gallowa'.
         O Gallowa' braes, &c.

    At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight,
    And lanely, langsome is the night,
    Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw,
    Play "A' the way to Gallowa'."
         O Gallowa' braes, &c.

    Should fickle fortune on us frown,
    Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;
    Content should shield our haddin' sma',
    Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.
         Come while the blossom 's on the broom,
         And heather bells sae bonnie bloom;
         Come let us be the happiest twa
         On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!




THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

TUNE--_"Ewe Bughts, Marion."_


    Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,
      And visit our haughs and our glens?
    There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's,
      That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.

    'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses,
      Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;
    But the heather its sweet scent discloses,
      And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.

    See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin',
      Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;
    There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
      Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.

    Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
      Whan shepherds return frae the hill,
    Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',
      While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.

    Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams,
      That points owre the quivering stream;
    But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
      And kinder the blinks o' her een.




THE BANKS OF TARF.

TUNE--_"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."_


    Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes
    Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows;
    And mony a greenwood cluster grows,
    And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!
    Below a spreadin' hazle lea,
    Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see,
    While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,
    I met my bonnie Annie, O!

    Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,
    Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;
    But O! her e'e, o' azure blue,
    Was past expression bonnie, O!
    Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,
    That lightly wanton'd wi' the air;
    But vain were a' my rhymin' ware
    To tell the charms o' Annie, O!

    While smilin' in my arms she lay,
    She whisperin' in my ear did say,
    "Oh, how could I survive the day,
    Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?"
    "While spangled fish glide to the main,
    While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,
    Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,
    I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"

    The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,
    And ripplin' raised the spray alang;
    We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang,
    The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!
    Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay,
    And blithe the blinks o' summer day;
    I fear nae winter cauld and blae,
    If blest wi' love and Annie, O!




O! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE.

TUNE--_"Will ye walk the woods with me?"_


    O! will ye go to yon burn side,
      Amang the new-made hay;
    And sport upon the flowery swaird,
      My ain dear May?

    The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,
      Whar lambkins lightly play,
    The wild bird whistles to his mate,
      My ain dear May.

    The waving woods, wi' mantle green,
      Shall shield us in the bower,
    Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May,
      O' mony a bonnie flower.
    My father maws ayont the burn,
      My mammy spins at hame;
    And should they see thee here wi' me,
      I 'd better been my lane.

    The lightsome lammie little kens
      What troubles it await--
    Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,
      The fause bird lea'es its mate.
    The flowers will fade, the woods decay,
      And lose their bonnie green;
    The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,
      Before that it be e'en.

    Ilk thing is in its season sweet;
      So love is in its noon:
    But cankering time may soil the flower,
      And spoil its bonnie bloom.
    Oh, come then, while the summer shines,
      And love is young and gay;
    Ere age his withering, wintry blast
      Blaws o'er me and my May.

    For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks,
      Or haud the halesome plough;
    And nightly clasp thee to my breast,
      And prove aye leal and true.
    The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,
      She had nae mair to say,
    But gae her hand and walk'd alang,
      The youthfu', bloomin' May.




ALEXANDER RODGER.


Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder,
Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village
inn; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to
Hamburgh. Alexander was apprenticed in his twelfth year to a silversmith
in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country, in 1797, he joined his
maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a
weaver. He married in his twenty-second year; and contrived to add to
the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons
in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led in 1819 to
afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of
promoting disaffection and revolt. The connexion was attended with
serious consequences; he was convicted of revolutionary practices, and
sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the
Barrowfield Works, as an inspector of cloths used for printing and
dyeing. He held this office during eleven years; he subsequently acted
as a pawnbroker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different
newspapers. In 1836 he became assistant in the publishing office of the
_Reformers' Gazette_, a situation which he held till his death. This
event took place on the 26th September 1846.

Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of "Poems
and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are
disfigured by coarse political allusions. Several of his songs are of a
high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of
external nature than of the domestic affections; and, himself possessed
of a lively sympathy with the humbler classes, he took delight in
celebrating the simple joys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the
pathetic, his muse sometimes assumed a sportive gaiety, when the laugh
is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation; he was
fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836,
about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained him at a public
festival and handed him a small box of sovereigns; and some admiring
friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome
monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow.




SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.


    How brightly beams the bonnie moon,
      Frae out the azure sky;
    While ilka little star aboon
      Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.
    How calm the eve, how blest the hour!
      How soft the silvan scene!
    How fit to meet thee, lovely flower,
      Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

    Now let us wander through the broom,
      And o'er the flowery lea;
    While simmer wafts her rich perfume,
      Frae yonder hawthorn tree:
    There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest,
      Where we 've sae aften been;
    Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast--
      Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

    How sweet to view that face so meek--
      That dark expressive eye--
    To kiss that lovely blushing cheek--
      Those lips of coral dye!
    But O! to hear thy seraph strains,
      Thy maiden sighs between,
    Makes rapture thrill through all my veins--
      Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

    O! what to us is wealth or rank?
      Or what is pomp or power?
    More dear this velvet mossy bank--
      This blest ecstatic hour!
    I 'd covet not the monarch's throne,
      Nor diamond-studded Queen,
    While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,
      Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!




BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

AIR--_"Good-morrow to your night-cap."_


        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk;
      And dinna be sae rude to me,
        As kiss me sae before folk.

    It wad na gie me meikle pain,
    'Gin we were seen and heard by nane
    To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,
      But, guid sake! no before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk;
      Whate'er you do when out o' view,
        Be cautious aye before folk.

    Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
    And what a great affair they 'll mak
    O' naething but a simple smack
      That 's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
      Nor gie the tongue o' auld or young
        Occasion to come o'er folk.

    It 's no through hatred o' a kiss
    That I sae plainly tell you this;
    But, losh! I tak it sair amiss
      To be sae teased before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk;
      When we 're our lane ye may tak ane,
        But fient a ane before folk.

    I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as free
    As ony modest lass should be;
    But yet it doesna do to see
      Sic freedom used before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk;
      I 'll ne'er submit again to it--
        So mind you that--before folk.

    Ye tell me that my face is fair;
    It may be sae--I dinna care--
    But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair
      As ye hae done before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk;
      Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
        But aye be douce before folk.

    Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,
    Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
    At ony rate, it 's hardly meet,
      To pree their sweets before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk;
      Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place,
        But surely no before folk.

    But, gin you really do insist
    That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
    Gae get a licence frae the priest,
      And mak me yours before folk.
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
        Behave yoursel' before folk,
      And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane,
        Ye may tak ten before folk.[25]


[25] "The Answer" is of inferior merit, and has therefore been omitted.




LOVELY MAIDEN.


    Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping?
      Wake, and fly with me, my love,
    While the moon is proudly sweeping,
      Through the ether fields above;
    While her mellow'd light is streaming
      Full on mountain, moon, and lake.
    Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming?
      'Tis thy true-love calls awake.

    All is hush'd around thy dwelling,
      Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep;
    Hark! the clock the hour is knelling,
      Wilt thou then thy promise keep?
    Yes, I hear her softly coming,
      Now her window 's gently raised;
    There she stands, an angel blooming,
      Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!

    Fear not, love, thy rigid father
      Soundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine;
    'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder,
      To his care thyself resign!
    Now my arms enfold a treasure,
      Which for worlds I 'd not forego;
    Now our bosoms feel that pleasure,
      Faithful bosoms only know.

    Long have our true-loves been thwarted,
      By the stern decrees of pride,
    Which would doom us to be parted,
      And make thee another's bride;
    But behold, my steeds are ready,
      Soon they 'll post us far away;
    Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady,
      Long before the dawn of day.




THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.

AIR--_"For lack o' gowd."_


    How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,
    Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside;
    Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee,
    Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside!
    Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside;
    Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside;
    In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,
    To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.

    When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,
    What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside,
    A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles
    At their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside;
    And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,
    In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,
    Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,
    He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.

    When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside,
    And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,
    She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,
    While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.
    When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,
    And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,
    With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,
    As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.

    And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,
    What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside?
    With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,
    Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside.
    Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside;
    Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside;
    May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,
    Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.




AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAREWELL."


    Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"
      'T would pierce my bosom through;
    And to this heart 't were death's dread knell,
      To hear thee sigh "Adieu."
    Though soul and body both must part,
      Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever,
    For more to me than soul thou art,
      And oh! I 'll quit thee never.

    Whate'er through life may be thy fate,
      That fate with thee I 'll share,
    If prosperous, be moderate;
      If adverse, meekly bear;
    This bosom shall thy pillow be,
      In every change whatever,
    And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee,
      But oh! forsake thee, never.

    One home, one hearth, shall ours be still,
      And one our daily fare;
    One altar, too, where we may kneel,
      And breathe our humble prayer;
    And one our praise, that shall ascend,
      To one all-bounteous Giver;
    And one our will, our aim, our end,
      For oh! we 'll sunder never.

    And when that solemn hour shall come,
      That sees thee breathe thy last,
    That hour shall also fix my doom,
      And seal my eyelids fast.
    One grave shall hold us, side by side,
      One shroud our clay shall cover;
    And one then may we mount and glide,
      Through realms of love, for ever.




JOHN WILSON.


John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers,
and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the
minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was
born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old
building, bore the name of _Prior's Croft_; it was taken down in 1787,
when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley,
which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father.
His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native
town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in
Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial
clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns,
and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four
parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of _Blackwood's
Magazine_. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University
of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek
Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was
to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished
Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly
indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In
1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a
gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in
every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and
strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical
studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by
producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by
the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he
became master of a fortune of about £30,000, which accrued to him from
his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at
Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of
Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During
the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric
adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained
unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of
singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of
strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies;
he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his
companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a
wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter
of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and
amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He
had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought
more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn
of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The
Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice
of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of
Palms," a poem in four cantos.

Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his
original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry.
But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the
management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary
matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of
the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally
towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the
capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law
courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as
a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature
prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not
succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a
dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches,
entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and
"The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."

On the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, in 1817, Wilson was one
of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and
on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and
Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was
commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that
periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the
editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood
himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the
Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by
the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of
Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a
position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He
possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and
drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical
literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public
attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his
criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. _Blackwood's Magazine_
attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the
essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literary
_nom-de-guerre_, became a monthly treasure of interest and
entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianæ," a series of dialogues
on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in _Blackwood_ from
1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two
octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion with
_Blackwood's Magazine_, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected
in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."

Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private
life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular
incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring
adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the
summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously
entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake
Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake,"
have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent
pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of
kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this
excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe
shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first
president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the
following year a civil-list pension of £300 was, on the recommendation
of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In
1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to
resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in
Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a
public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a
thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his
memory.

Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an
admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his
works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to
the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in
the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished
son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no
Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and
deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a
vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of
nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found
philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream.
Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is
still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always
lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be
remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack
incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether
critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness
of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of
absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty;
and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a
contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the
English language is understood.




MARY GRAY'S SONG.


    I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow,
      When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd;
    But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow,
      Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.

    I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,
      But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see,
    On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,
      Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.

    By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken,
      That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor;
    Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,
      And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!

    Sic silence--sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!
      I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;
    I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children,
      Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.

    I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming,
      Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive;
    Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,
      For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.

    I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing,
      Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din;
    But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,
      And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.

    I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming,
      Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute;
    'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming,
      Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.

    To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage,
      The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;
    The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,
      And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!

    Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom
      Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;
    Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,
      And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.

    Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming
      On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;
    The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,
      But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.

    The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,
      I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth;
    Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,
      And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

    The morning smiled on--but nae kirk-bell was ringing,
      Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;
    The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing,
      And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.

    I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,
      The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,
    And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling
      Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

    The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;
      The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;
    At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;
      At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

    Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,
      And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,
    When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,
      And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.

    But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,
      And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,
    To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices
      When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!




THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.


    With laughter swimming in thine eye,
    That told youth's heart-felt revelry;
    And motion changeful as the wing
    Of swallow waken'd by the spring;
    With accents blithe as voice of May,
    Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;
    Circled by joy like planet bright
    That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,
    Thy image such, in former time,
    When thou, just entering on thy prime,
    And woman's sense in thee combined
    Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
    First taught'st my sighing soul to move
    With hope towards the heaven of love!

    Now years have given my Mary's face
    A thoughtful and a quiet grace:
    Though happy still, yet chance distress
    Hath left a pensive loveliness;
    Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,
    And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
    Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
    Shower blessings on a darling child;
    Thy motion slow and soft thy tread,
    As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
    And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
    That tells thy heart is all my own,
    Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years,
    With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

    By thy glad youth and tranquil prime
    Assured, I smile at hoary Time;
    For thou art doom'd in age to know
    The calm that wisdom steals from woe;
    The holy pride of high intent,
    The glory of a life well spent.
    When, earth's affections nearly o'er,
    With Peace behind and Faith before,
    Thou render'st up again to God,
    Untarnish'd by its frail abode,
    Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn
    From bands of sister seraphim,
    Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
    Open in immortality.




PRAYER TO SLEEP.


    O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head
    For one little hour on thy lover's bed,
    And none but the silent stars of night
    Shall witness be to our delight?

    Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be
    Of the eider-down that is spread for thee,
    So I in my sorrow must lie alone,
    For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.

    Music to thee I know is dear;
    Then the saddest of music is ever here,
    For Grief sits with me in my cell,
    And she is a syren who singeth well.

    But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs,
    And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers,
    When the bells of merriment are ringing,
    And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

    Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,
    No rival hast thou in my solitude,
    Be mine, my love! and we two will lie
    Embraced for ever, or awake to die!

    Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour,
      Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow;
    But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,
      And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.




DAVID WEBSTER.


David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was
the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who
occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined
for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his
juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and
continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of
the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he
was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be
admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the
concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the
delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In
1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the
title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful,
and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The
songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his
manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]


[26] The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical
sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles
Fleming, of Paisley.




TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.

TUNE--_"Brose and Butter."_


    When I was a miller in Fife,
      Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer
    Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife,
      To help to be brose to your supper.
    Then my conscience was narrow and pure,
      But someway by random it racket;
    For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,
      While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
        Hey for the mill and the kill,
          The garland and gear for my cogie,
        Hey for the whisky and yill,
          That washes the dust frae my craigie.

    Although it 's been lang in repute
      For rogues to mak rich by deceiving,
    Yet I see that it does not weel suit
      Honest men to begin to the thieving;
    For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,
      Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;
    Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,
      Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
        Hey for the mill, &c.

    A man that 's been bred to the plough,
      Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;
    Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough
      After kenning what 's said by the happer.
    I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,
      Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?
    But when I grew dry for a horn,
      It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.
        Hey for the mill, &c.

    The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks,
      Cause they kent that I liked a bicker;
    Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,
      Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.
    I had lang been accustom'd to drink,
      And aye when I purposed to quat it,
    That thing wi' its clappertie clink
      Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.
        Hey for the mill, &c.

    But the warst thing I did in my life,
      Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,
    Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife
      A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;
    I have aye had a voice a' my days,
      But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;
    Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please
      The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.
        Hey the mill, &c.

    Now, miller and a' as I am,
      This far I can see through the matter,
    There 's men mair notorious to fame,
      Mair greedy than me or the muter;
    For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,
      Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,
    Had some speaking happer within,
      That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.
        Hey for the mill, &c.




OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

AIR--_"Gregor Arora."_


    Oh, sweet were the hours
      That I spent wi' my Flora,
    In yon gay shady bowers,
      Roun' the linn o' the Cora!

    Her breath was the zephyrs
      That waft frae the roses,
    And skim o'er the heath
      As the summer day closes.

    I told her my love-tale,
      Which seem'd to her cheering;
    Then she breathed on the soft gale
      Her song so endearing.

    The rock echoes ringing
      Seem'd charm'd wi' my story;
    And the birds, sweetly singing,
      Replied to my Flora.

    The sweet zephyr her breath
      As it wafts frae the roses,
    And skims o'er the heath
      As the summer day closes.




PATE BIRNIE.[27]


    Our minstrels a', frae south to north,
    To Edin cam to try their worth,
    And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth,
      Whase name was Patie Birnie.
    This Patie, wi' superior art,
    Made notes to ring through head and heart,
    Till citizens a' set apart
      Their praise to Patie Birnie.
        Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth,
        Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth,
        Aye when she would enhance her worth,
          To sing o' Patie Birnie.

    His merits mak _Auld Reekie_[28] ring,
    Mak rustic poets o' him sing;
    For nane can touch the fiddle-string
      Sae weel as Patie Birnie.
    He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad,
    Maks youngsters a rin louping mad,
    Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad,
      Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.

    The witching tones o' Patie's therm,
    Mak farmer chiels forget their farm,
    Sailors forget the howling storm,
      When dancing to Pate Birnie.
    Pate maks the fool forget his freaks,
    Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes,
    And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks,
      And follow Patie Birnie.

    When Patie taks his strolling rounds,
    To feasts or fairs in ither towns,
    Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun,
      To hear the famous Birnie.
    The crabbit carles forget to snarl,
    The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel,
    And gilphies forget the stock and horle,
      And dance to Patie Birnie.


[27] Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in
Kinghorn, Fifeshire.

[28] An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the
Scottish poets.




WILLIAM PARK.


William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew
Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of
Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James,
who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of
verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as
a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted
as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a
situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and
editor of a newspaper, called the _St George's Chronicle_. In the year
1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of
French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at
Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and
was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an
ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather
relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek
employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the
farm of Cassock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the
service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29] minister of Eskdalemuir, and
continued to occupy the position of _minister's man_ till the death of
that clergyman, many years afterwards.

From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The
parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their
inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription
library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native
of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet
suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a
volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo.
About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to _Blackwood's
Magazine_, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers.
On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a
son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton,
and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary
tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the _Dumfries
Standard_ newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was
seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the
5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their
numerous family, some have emigrated to America.

Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song,"
which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the
national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a
passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.


[29] William Brown, D.D., author of "Antiquities of the Jews." Lond.,
1825, 2 vols. 8vo.




THE PATRIOT'S SONG.


    Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,
      Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,
    For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,
      And a thousand endearments forego?

    Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?
      Must I friendship's just claims disallow?
    No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,
      As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.

    'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound
      In the wide-spreading plains of the west;
    That there an asylum of peace shall be found
      Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.

    That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride
      In the forest unfading and deep;
    That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,
      Encircling broad realms in its sweep.

    But is there a spot in that far distant land
      Where fancy or feeling may dwell?
    Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,
      Untouch'd by Society's spell?

    Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,
      As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,
    Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere--
      I have found 'mong these mountains a home.

    How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,
      As it streams from the eye of the morn!
    And how comely the garment that evening wears
      When the day of its glories is shorn!

    Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,
      Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;
    The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,
      By the bravest, was trodden before.

    Nor is there a field--not a foot of thy soil,
      In dale or in mountain-land dun,
    Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,
      Ere concord its conquest had won.

    The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,
      It comes from the glen on the gale,
    For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,
      And their names are revered in the vale.

    How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,
      O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,
    Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,
      When the banner of truth was display'd!

    And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,
      And soothing their tones to the soul,
    Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,
      Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.

    While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste,
      A gaudier garb may assume,
    My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste,
      And thy glories immortally bloom.

    No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay!
      The scorn of the stranger to brave;
    O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray,
      And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.




THOMAS PRINGLE.


Thomas Pringle was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in
Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors
had been tenants for a succession of generations. By an accident in
infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the
use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of
Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of
Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading,
and during his attendance at college he formed the resolution of
adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment
of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals
of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811--in connexion with his
ingenious friend, Robert Story, the present minister of Roseneath--a
poem entitled, "The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of
public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's
Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of
Sir Walter Scott for Hogg's "Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a
proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede
the _Scots' Magazine_, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he
united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then
becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwood the
proposal was well received; a periodical was originated under the title
of the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, and Pringle relinquished his post
in the Register House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the
first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from
Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An
interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the
materials being kindly supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The
occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher,
however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had
commenced so prosperously; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle
from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the
magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal: a new
series, under the title of _Blackwood's Magazine_, appeared in October,
under the literary superintendence of Wilson; while, in the August
preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr
Constable, _The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_, as a new
series of the _Scots' Magazine_. In the first number of Mr Blackwood's
new series appeared the celebrated "Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade,
chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and
which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards
cancelled.

Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the
editorship of _The Star_, a bi-weekly newspaper; but he was led soon to
renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the
"Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems;" but finding, in spite of every
effort, that he was unable to support himself by literature, he resumed,
early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House.

When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the
married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the
comfortable maintenance of his family. He formed the resolution of
emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his
wife's relatives and his own consented to accompany him. In February
1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other
relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on
the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned
them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the
upper part of the valley of Baaviars river, a tributary of the Great
Fish river. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden,
Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably
settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary
employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government library, with a
salary of £75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing
educational establishment. He now established a periodical, which he
designated the _South African Commercial Advertiser_, and became editor
of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But
misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures: in consequence
of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to
abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the
administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the
colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826; and failing to
obtain from the home government a reparation of his losses in the
colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from
literature. An article which he had written on slavery, in the _New
Monthly Magazine_, led to his appointment as secretary to the
Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents
and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became
unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June
1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile
seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th
December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in
Bunhill-field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his
poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory.

As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification,
perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough
patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish
scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition,
and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially
uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions; and to this
peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person
he was under the middle height; his countenance was open and benignant,
with a well developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere
religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch
Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow.




FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.


    Our native land--our native vale--
      A long, a last adieu;
    Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
      And Cheviot's mountains blue!

    Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
      Ye streams renown'd in song;
    Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
      Our hearts have loved so long!

    Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes,
      Where thyme and harebells grow;
    Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,
      O'erhung with birk and sloe!

    The mossy cave and mouldering tower,
      That skirt our native dells;
    The martyr's grave and lover's bower,
      We bid a sad farewell!

    Home of our love--our fathers' home--
      Land of the brave and free--
    The sail is flapping on the foam
      That bears us far from thee!

    We seek a wild and distant shore,
      Beyond the western main;
    We leave thee to return no more,
      Nor view thy cliffs again!

    Our native land--our native vale--
      A long, a last adieu!
    Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
      And Scotland's mountains blue!




THE EXILE'S LAMENT.


    By the lone Mankayana's margin gray
      A Scottish maiden sung;
    And mournfully pour'd her melting lay
      In Teviot's border-tongue:
        O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,
          And the birk in Clifton dale;
        And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
          By the briery banks o' Cayle!

    Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom
      May enchant the traveller's eye;
    But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,
      To the exile who comes to die!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

    Far round and round spreads the howling waste,
      Where the wild beast roams at will;
    And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
      Where the savage lurks to kill!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

    Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green
      My dreaming fancy strays;
    But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
      That scowls on my aching gaze!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

    Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,
      On Scotland's peaceful strand,
    Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
      In this wild and weary land!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.




LOVE AND SOLITUDE.


    I love the free ridge of the mountain,
      When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;
    I love the old ash by the fountain,
      When noon's summer fervours are high:
    And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloaming
      Adown the dim valley glides slowly along,
    And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,
      A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.

    When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters
      Over ocean her silvery light,
    And the whisper of woodlands and waters
      Comes soft through the silence of night--
    I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger,
      A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,
    And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,
      The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.

    Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,
      Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh--
    I yearn for the sympathies glowing,
      When hearts to each other reply!
    Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion,
      To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;
    O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion,
      With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!




COME AWA', COME AWA'.


    Come awa', come awa',
      An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie;
    Leave your southren wooers a',
      My winsome bride to be, lassie!
    Lands nor gear I proffer you,
      Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie;
    But I 've a heart that 's leal and true,
      And a' that heart is thine, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      And see the kindly north, lassie,
    Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair,
      And by the Links o' Forth, lassie!
    And when we tread the heather-bell,
      Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,
    You 'll view the land o' flood and fell,
      The noble north countrie, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      And leave your southland hame, lassie;
    The kirk is near, the ring is here,
      And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie!
    Rock and reel and spinning-wheel,
      And English cottage trig, lassie;
    Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel
      The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      I ken your heart is mine, lassie,
    And true love shall make up for a'
      For whilk ye might repine, lassie!
    Your father he has gi'en consent,
      Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie;
    O that our feet were on the bent,
      An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;
    My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,
      By bonnie Avondhu, lassie!
    There 's birk and slae on ilka brae,
      And brackens waving fair, lassie,
    And gleaming lochs and mountains gray--
      Can aught wi' them compare, lassie?
        Come awa', come awa', &c.




DEAREST LOVE, BELIEVE ME!


    Dearest love, believe me,
      Though all else depart,
    Nought shall e'er deceive thee
      In this faithful heart.
    Beauty may be blighted--
      Youth must pass away;
    But the vows we plighted
      Ne'er shall know decay.

    Tempests may assail us
      From affliction's coast,
    Fortune's breeze may fail us
      When we need it most;
    Fairest hopes may perish,
      Firmest friends may change,
    But the love we cherish
      Nothing shall estrange.

    Dreams of fame and grandeur
      End in bitter tears;
    Love grows only fonder
      With the lapse of years;
    Time, and change, and trouble,
      Weaker ties unbind,
    But the bands redouble
      True affection twined.




WILLIAM KNOX.


William Knox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at
Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August
1789. His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a
country gentleman, Mr Pott of Todrig, in Selkirkshire; and of this
marriage, William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish
school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of
Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of Wrae, near
Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but his habits were not those of a thriving
farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his
lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he
returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the
family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to
Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his
attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public
journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published
"The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of
Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics,
entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of
Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional
pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of
Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.

Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue
gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis,
and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of
thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely
pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural
paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of
his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his
poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale
entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several
compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by
his executors.

Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was
fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits
in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated
his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary
reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious
anecdotes.




THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.


    O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends,
    Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds;
    Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west,
    And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast.
    Here social pleasure enlivens each heart,
    And friendship is ready its warmth to impart;
    The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes,
    To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.

    Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills,
    Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills;
    Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers,
    There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours.
    Though our island is beat by the storms of the north,
    There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth;
    There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes
    From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes.

    O valour! thou guardian of freedom and truth,
    Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth!
    Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade
    The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid.
    And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend
    To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land;
    Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes,
    When call'd in defence of the dear land of cakes.

    Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud,
    When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud,
    See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay,
    And leave to our foemen the pride of the day?
    No, by heavens we will stand to our honour and trust!
    Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust,
    Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks,
    Beneath the brown heath of the dear land of cakes.

    O, peace to the ashes of those that have bled
    For the land where the proud thistle raises its head!
    O, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth,
    In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth!
    Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains,
    And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins;
    Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes,
    For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes.

    Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart,
    From our word, from our trust, let us never depart;
    Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd,
    And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound;
    And still to our bosom be honesty dear,
    And still to our loves and our friendships sincere;
    And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes,
    May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes.




THE LAMENT.


    She was mine when the leaves of the forest were green,
      When the rose-blossoms hung on the tree;
    And dear, dear to me were the joys that had been,
      And I dreamt of enjoyments to be.

    But she faded more fast than the blossoms could fade,
      No human attention could save;
    And when the green leaves of the forest decay'd,
      The winds strew'd them over her grave.




TO MARY.


    Farewell! and though my steps depart
      From scenes for ever dear,
    O Mary! I must leave my heart
      And all my pleasures here;
    And I must cherish in my mind,
      Where'er my lot shall be,
    A thought of her I leave behind--
      A hopeless thought of thee.

    O Mary! I can ne'er forget
      The charm thy presence brought;
    No hour has pass'd since first we met,
      But thou hast shared my thought.
    At early morn, at sultry noon,
      Beneath the spreading tree,
    And, wandering by the evening moon,
      Still, still I think of thee.

    Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream,
      And bid me grieve no more,
    But at the morn's returning gleam,
      I sorrow'd as before;
    Yet thou shalt still partake my care,
      And when I bend the knee,
    And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer,
      I will remember thee.

    Farewell! and when my steps depart,
      Though many a grief be mine,
    And though I may conceal my own,
      I 'll weep to hear of thine.
    Though from thy memory soon depart
      Each little trace of me,
    'Tis only in the grave this heart
      Can cease to think of thee.




WILLIAM THOM.


William Thom, commonly styled "The Inverury Poet," was born at Aberdeen
in 1789. His father, who was a shopkeeper, dying during his infancy, he
was placed by his mother at a school taught by a female, from whom he
received the greater amount of his juvenile education. At the age of
ten, he was put to a cotton-factory, where he served an apprenticeship
of four years. He was subsequently employed, during a period of nearly
twenty years, in the large weaving-factory of Gordon, Barron, & Co. In
1827, he removed to Dundee; and shortly after to the village of Newtyle,
in Strathmore, at both of these places working as a hand-loom weaver.
Thrown out of employment, in consequence of a stagnation in the
manufacturing world, he was subjected, in his person and family, to much
penury and suffering. At length, disposing of his articles of household
furniture, he purchased a few wares, and taking his wife and children
along with him, commenced the precarious life of a pedlar. In his
published "Recollections," he has supplied a heart-rending narrative of
the privations attendant on his career as a wanderer; his lodgings were
frequently in the farmer's barn, and, on one of these occasions, one of
his children perished from cold and starvation. The contents of his pack
becoming exhausted, he derived the means of subsistence by playing on
the flute, and disposing of copies of verses. After wandering over a
wide district as a pedlar, flute-player, and itinerant poet, he resumed
his original occupation of weaving in Kinross. He subsequently sought
employment as a weaver in Aberdeen, where he remained about a year. In
1840 he proceeded to Inverury; and it was while he was resident in this
place that his beautiful stanzas, entitled "The Blind Boy's Pranks,"
appeared in the columns of the _Aberdeen Herald_ newspaper. These verses
were copied into many of the public journals: they particularly arrested
the attention of Mr Gordon of Knockespock, a landed proprietor in
Aberdeenshire, who, ascertaining the indigent circumstances of the
author, transmitted to him a handsome donation, and desired to form his
personal acquaintance. The poet afterwards accompanied Mr Gordon to
London, who introduced him as a man of genius to the fashionable and
literary circles of the metropolis. In 1844 he published a small volume
of poems and songs, with a brief autobiography, under the title of
"Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver." This volume was well
received; and on a second visit to London, Thom was entertained at a
public dinner by many distinguished literary persons of the metropolis.
From admirers, both in India and America, he received pecuniary
acknowledgments of his genius. He now attempted to establish himself in
London in connexion with the press, but without success. Returning to
Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee; where, after a period of
distress and penury, he breathed his last on the 29th February 1848, in
his 59th year. His remains were interred in the public cemetery of the
town; and it is pleasing to add, that an enthusiastic admirer of his
genius has planted flowers upon his grave. Though long in publishing,
Thom early wrote verses; in Gordon, Barron, & Co.'s factory in
Aberdeen, his fellow-workmen were astonished and interested by the power
and vigour of his poems. That he did not publish sooner, is probably
attributable to his lengthened career of poverty, and his carelessness
regarding intellectual honours.

In respect of pure and simple pathos, some of his lyrics are unequalled
among the compositions of any of the national bards. Than "The
Mitherless Bairn," it may be questioned whether there is to be found in
the language any lyrical composition more delicately plaintive. It is
lamentable to think that one who could write so tenderly should, by a
dissolute life, have been the author of many of his own misfortunes, and
a constant barrier to every attempt for his permanent elevation in the
social circle. In person, he was rather below the middle stature; his
countenance was thoughtful, but marked with the effects of bodily
suffering. Owing to a club-foot, his gait was singularly awkward. He
excelled in conversation, and his manner was pleasing and conciliatory.




JEANIE'S GRAVE.


    I saw my true-love first on the banks of queenly Tay,
    Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away;
    I feasted on her deep, dark eye, and loved it more and more,
    For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before!

    I heard my true-love sing, and she taught me many a strain,
    But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again.
    In all our friendless wanderings--in homeless penury--
    Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me.

    I saw my true-love fade--I heard her latest sigh;
    I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye:
    Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave
    The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave.

    Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed,
    And I 'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread;
    For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
    Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.




THEY SPEAK O' WILES.

AIR--_"Gin a bodie meet a bodie."_


    They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles,
      An' ruin in her e'e;
    I ken they bring a pang at whiles
      That 's unco sair to dree;
    But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss,
      The first fond fa'in' tear,
    Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends,
      An' tints o' heaven here.

    When two leal hearts in fondness meet,
      Life's tempests howl in vain;
    The very tears o' love are sweet
      When paid with tears again.
    Shall hapless prudence shake its pow,
      Shall cauldrife caution fear,
    Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe,
      That lichts a heaven here!

    What though we 're ca'd a wee before
      The stale "three score an' ten,"
    When Joy keeks kindly at your door,
      Aye bid her welcome ben.
    About yon blissfu' bowers above
      Let doubtfu' mortals speir;
    Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love,"
      Since love makes heaven here.




THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.[30]


    When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame
    By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
    Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
    'Tis the puir doited loonie--the mitherless bairn!

    The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed,
    Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
    His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
    An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

    Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
    O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
    But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
    That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

    Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed
    Now rests in the mools whare her mammie is laid;
    The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
    An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

    Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth,
    Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
    Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
    Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

    Oh! speak him na' harshly--he trembles the while,
    He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
    In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
    That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!


[30] An Inverury correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following
narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn;' I quote his own
words--'When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to
my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a
bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', "Ye hussie, will ye kick a
mitherless bairn!" I hobbled up the stair, and wrote the sang afore
sleepin'.'"




THE LASS O' KINTORE.

AIR--_"Oh, as I was kiss'd yestreen."_


    At hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone,
    I 'm dull on the Ury, an' droop by the Don;
    Their murmur is noisy, and fashious to hear,
    An' the lay o' the lintie fa's dead on my ear.
    I hide frae the morn, and whaur naebody sees;
    I greet to the burnie, an' sich to the breeze;
    Though I sich till I 'm silly, an' greet till I dee,
    Kintore is the spot in this world for me.
      But the lass o' Kintore, oh! the lass o' Kintore,
      Be warned awa' frae the lass o' Kintore;
      There 's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore
      Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore.

    They bid me forget her, oh! how can it be?
    In kindness or scorn she 's ever wi' me;
    I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue,
    An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue.
    I try to forget her, but canna forget,
    I 've liked her lang, an' I aye like her yet;
    My poor heart may wither, may waste to its core,
    But forget her, oh never! the lass o' Kintore!
      Oh the wood o' Kintore, the holmes o' Kintore!
      The love-lichtin' e'e that I ken at Kintore;
      I 'll wander afar, an' I 'll never look more
      On the gray glance o' Peggy, or bonnie Kintore!




MY HAMELESS HA'.


    Oh! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha'?
    The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa';
        An' aye the nicht sae drearie,
          Ere the dowie morn daw,
        Whan I canna win to see you,
          My Jamie, ava'.

    Though mony miles between us, an' far, far frae me,
    The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld warl's e'e,
        Its leaves may waste and wither,
          But its branches winna fa';
        An' hearts may haud thegither,
          Though frien's drap awa'.

    Ye promised to speak o' me to the lanesome moon,
    An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun';
        I doat upon that moon
          Till my very heart fills fu',
        An' aye yon birdie's tune
          Gars me greet for you.

    Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'?
    A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa'!
        'Tween leavin' o' you, Jamie,
          An' ills that sorrow me,
        I 'm wearie o' the warl',
          An' carena though I dee.




WILLIAM GLEN.[31]


William Glen, whose name simply has hitherto been known to the lovers of
Scottish song, is entitled to an honourable place in the song-literature
of his country. His progenitors were persons of consideration in the
county of Renfrew.[32] His father, Alexander Glen, a Glasgow merchant in
the Russian trade, married Jane Burns, sister of the Rev. Dr Burns,
minister of Renfrew; and of a family of three sons, the poet was the
eldest. He was born in Queen Street, Glasgow, on the 14th of November
1789. In 1803, when the regiment of Glasgow Volunteer Sharp-shooters was
formed, he joined the corps as a lieutenant. He afterwards followed the
mercantile profession, and engaged in the West India trade. For some
time he resided in one of the West India islands. In 1814 he became one
of the managers of the "Merchants' House" of Glasgow, and also a
director of the "Chamber of Commerce and Manufactures." During the same
year, being unfortunate in merchandise, he was induced to abandon the
concerns of business. He afterwards derived the means of support from an
uncle who resided in Russia; but his circumstances were ultimately much
clouded by misfortune. During the last eight years of his career, his
summers were spent at Reinagour, in the parish of Aberfoyle, where he
resided with an uncle of his wife. After several years of delicate
health, he died in Edwin Place, Gorbals, Glasgow, in December 1826. His
widow and daughter continue to reside at Craigmuick, parish of
Aberfoyle.

William Glen was about six feet in height; his person, which was
originally slender, afterwards became portly. He was of a fair
complexion, and his countenance generally wore a smile. His manners were
pleasing, and he cherished a keen relish for congenial society. In 1815
he published a thin duodecimo volume of verses, entitled "Poems, chiefly
Lyrical;" but the majority of his metrical compositions seem to have
been confined to his repositories. A quarto volume of his MSS., numbered
"Volume Third," is now in the possession of Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow,
who has kindly made it available in the preparation of this work.
Interspersed with the poetry in the MS. volume, are pious reflections on
the trials and disappointments incident to human life; with some
spirited appeals to those fair ones who at different times had attracted
the poet's fancy. Of his songs inserted in the present work, seven have
been printed from the MS. volume, and the two last from the printed
volume. Four of the songs have not been previously published. The whole
are pervaded by simplicity and exquisite pathos. The song, "Waes me for
Prince Charlie," is one of the most touching and popular of modern
Jacobite ditties.


[31] To Mr James C. Roger, of Glasgow, we have to acknowledge our
obligations for much diligent inquiry on the subject of this memoir.

[32] Allanus Glen, _armiger_, is witness to an instrument conveying the
fishing of Crockat-shot to the "Monks of Pasly," in 1452. James Glen,
the successor of this person, obtained from Robert, abbot of Paisley,
the lands of Bar, Bridge-end, and Lyntehels, within the Lordship of
Paisley. James Glen of Bar joined the troops of Queen Mary at the battle
of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Regent, but was
restored in 1573 by the treaty of Perth. Archibald Glen, a younger son
of the proprietor of Bar, was minister of Carmunnock, and died in
February 1614. Of two sons, Robert, the eldest, succeeded him in the
living of Carmunnock; the other, named Thomas, was a prosperous trader
in the Saltmarket of Glasgow; he died in 1735. His son Alexander was the
poet's father.




WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.[33]

TUNE--_"Johnnie Faa."_


    A wee bird cam to our ha' door,
      He warbled sweet an' clearly,
    An' aye the owercome o' his sang
      Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."
    Oh! whan I heard the bonnie soun',
      The tears cam drappin' rarely;
    I took my bannet aff my head,
      For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

    Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird,
      Is that a sang ye borrow?
    Are thae some words ye 've learnt by heart,
      Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?"
    "Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang,
      "I 've flown sin' mornin' early,
    But sic' a day o' wind and rain!--
      Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

    "On hills that are by right his ain,
      He roves a lanely stranger;
    On every side he 's press'd by want,
      On every side is danger.
    Yestreen I saw him in a glen,
      My heart maist burstit fairly,
    For sadly changed indeed was he--
      Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

    "Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd
      Loud o'er the hills an' valleys;
    An' whare wast that your Prince lay down,
      Whase hame should been a palace?
    He row'd him in a Highland plaid,
      Which cover'd him but sparely,
    An' slept beneath a bush o' broom--
      Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie."

    But now the bird saw some red-coats,
      An' he shook his wings wi' anger:
    "Oh! this is no a land for me,
      I 'll tarry here nae langer."
    He hover'd on the wing a while,
      Ere he departed fairly;
    But weel I mind the farewell strain
      Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."


[33] This song is understood to be a favourite with her present Majesty.




MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.[34]


    The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow,
      The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene;
    As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
      An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane.
    Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,
      An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile;
    But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic,
      An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood,
      Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
    An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
      An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
    Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
      Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile;
    Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling,
      Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    Now far in the east the sun slowly rising,
      Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree;
    And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising,
      As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee.
    But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
      The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd;
    I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
      And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning,
      An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine;
    White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning,
      An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.
    Were I as free as an Indian chieftain,
      Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while;
    But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
      An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,
      An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before;
    Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers,
      An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.
    Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden,
      (Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile),
    Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden,
      Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.


[34] This song was composed while the author resided in the West Indies.
It is here printed for the first time.




THE BATTLE-SONG.[35]


      Raise high the battle-song
        To the heroes of our land;
      Strike the bold notes loud and long
        To Great Britain's warlike band.
    Burst away like a whirlwind of flame,
      Wild as the lightning's wing;
      Strike the boldest, sweetest string,
      And deathless glory sing--
          To their fame.

      See Corunna's bloody bed!
        'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene;
      There the imperial eagle fled,
        And there our chief was slain.
    Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast,
      High honour seal'd his doom,
      And eternal laurels bloom
      Round the poor and lowly tomb
          Of his rest.

      Strong was his arm of might,
        When the war-flag was unfurl'd;
      But his soul when peace shone bright,
        Beam'd love to all the world.
    And his name, through endless ages shall endure;
      High deeds are written fair,
      In that scroll, which time must spare,
      And thy fame 's recorded there--
          Noble Moore.

      Yonder 's Barossa's height
        Rising full upon my view,
      Where was fought the bloodiest fight
        That Iberia ever knew,
    Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led.
      With bay'nets levell'd low,
      They rush'd upon the foe,
      Like an avalanche of snow
          From its bed.

      Sons of the "Lonely Isle,"
        Your native courage rose,
      When surrounded for a while
        By the thousands of your foes.
    But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war,
      He resistless led ye on,
      Till the bloody field was won,
      And the dying battle-groan
          Sunk afar.

      Our song Balgowan share,
        Home of the chieftain's rest;
      For thou art a lily fair
        In Caledonia's breast.
    Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain,
      For beauty there doth dwell,
      In the mountain, flood, or fell,
      And throws her witching spell
          O'er the scene.

      But not Balgowan's charms
        Could hire the chief to stay;
      For the foe were up in arms,
        In a country far away.
    He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame;
      Ages may pass by,
      Fleet as the summer's sigh,
      But thy name shall never die--
          Gallant Græme.[36]

      Strike again the boldest strings,
        To our great commander's praise;
      Who to our memory brings
        "The deeds of other days."
    Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain;
      The blaze of hope illumes
      Iberia's deepest glooms,
      And the eagle shakes his plumes
          There in vain.

      High is the foemen's pride,
        For they are sons of war;
      But our chieftain rolls the tide,
        Of battle back afar.
    A braver hero in the field ne'er shone;
      Let bards with loud acclaim,
      Heap laurels on his fame,
      "Singing glory" to the name
          Of Wellington.

      Could I with soul of fire
        Guide my wild unsteady hand,
      I would strike the quivering wire,
        Till it rung throughout the land.
    Of all its warlike heroes would I sing;
      Were powers to soar thus given,
      By the blast of genius driven,
      I would sweep the highest heaven
          With my wing.

      Yet still this trembling flight
        May point a bolder way,
      Ere the lonely beam of night
        Steals on my setting day.
    Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree;
      And when I come again,
      Thou wilt not sound in vain,
      For I 'll strike thy highest strain--
          Bold and free.


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

[36] The "gallant Græme," Lord Lynedoch, on hearing this song at a
Glasgow theatre, was so moved by the touching reference of the poet to
his achievements, and the circumstances of his joining the army, that he
openly burst into tears.




THE MAID OF ORONSEY.[37]


    Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain,
      Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows;
    Sweet bird, oh! warble it again,
      Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes;
    Oh! lull me with it to repose,
      I 'll dream of her who 's far away,
    And fancy, as my eyelids close,
      Will meet the maid of Oronsey.

    Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,
      Sweet bird, thou 'dst leave thy native grove,
    And fly to bring my soul relief,
      To where my warmest wishes rove;
    Soft as the cooings of the dove,
      Thou 'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
    And melt to pity and to love
      The bonnie maid of Oronsey.

    Well may I sigh and sairly weep,
      The song sad recollections bring;
    Oh! fly across the roaring deep,
      And to my maiden sweetly sing;
    'Twill to her faithless bosom fling
      Remembrance of a sacred day;
    But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
      And far 's the isle of Oronsey.

    Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear,
      I 'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
    And thou wilt find me sitting here,
      Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
    Then high on airy pinions borne,
      Thou 'lt chant a sang o' love an' wae,
    An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn,
      Of the sweet maid of Oronsey.

    And when around my weary head,
      Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie,
    Death shall eternal poppies spread,
      An' close for aye my tearfu' eye;
    Perch'd on some bonnie branch on high,
      Thou 'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
    And soothe my "spirit, passing by"
      To meet the maid of Oronsey.


[37] Printed for the first time.




JESS M'LEAN.[38]


    Her eyes were red with weeping,
      Her lover was no more,
    Beneath the billows sleeping,
      Near Ireland's rocky shore;
    She oft pray'd for her Willy,
      But it was all in vain,
    And pale as any lily
      Grew lovely Jess M'Lean.

    She sat beside some willows
      That overhung the sea,
    And as she view'd the billows,
      She moan'd most piteously;
    The storm in all its rigour
      Swept the bosom of the main,
    And shook the sylph-like figure
      Of lovely Jess M'Lean.

    Her auburn hair was waving
      In ringlets on the gale,
    And the tempest join'd its raving,
      To the hapless maiden's wail;
    Wild was the storm's commotion,
      Yet careless of the scene,
    Like the spirit of the ocean
      Sat lovely Jess M'Lean.

    She look'd upon her bosom
      Where Willy's picture hung,
    'Twas like a rosy blossom
      On a bed of lilies flung;
    She kiss'd the red cheeks over,
      And look'd, and kiss'd again;
    Then told the winds her lover
      Was true to Jess M'Lean.

    But a blast like bursting thunder
      Bent down each willow tree,
    Snapp'd the picture clasp asunder,
      And flung it in the sea;
    She started from the willows
      The image to regain,
    And low beneath the billows
      Lies lovely Jess M'Lean.

    Her bones are changed to coral
      Of the purest virgin white,
    Her teeth are finest pearl,
      And her eyes are diamonds bright;
    The breeze oft sweeps the willows
      In a sad and mournful strain,
    And moaning o'er the billows
      Sings the dirge of Jess M'Lean.


[38] Printed for the first time.




HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY.


    How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,
    When my love 's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine;
    Three years hae come an' gane, sin' first he said to me,
    That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live an' dee;
    The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild an' drear,
    An' every hour that passes by I water wi' a tear.

    I kiss my bonnie baby, I clasp it to my breast,
    Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace, it's father hath me press'd!
    An' whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies on my knee,
    The crystal draps upon its cheeks will fa' frae ilka ee;
    Oh! mony a, mony a burning tear upon its cheeks will fa',
    For oh! its like my bonnie love, and he is far awa'.

    Whan the spring time had gane by, an' the rose began to blaw,
    An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie shaw;
    'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart,
    An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae me part;
    But though he 's in a foreign land far, far across the sea,
    I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.

    Ye wastlin win's upon the main blaw wi' a steady breeze,
    And waft my Jamie hame again across the roaring seas;
    Oh! whan he clasps me in his arms in a' his manly pride,
    I 'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the warl' beside;
    Then blaw a steady gale, ye win's, waft him across the sea,
    And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn an' me.




THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.[39]

AIR--_"Whistle o'er the lave o 't."_


    Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
    High glory gie to gallant Graham,
    Heap laurels on our marshal's fame
      Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
    Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,
    An' raised her stately form again,
    Whan the British lion shook his mane
      On the mountains of Vittoria.

    Let blustering Suchet crousely crack,
    Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
    An' Jourdan wish his baton back
      He left upon Vittoria.
    If e'er they meet their worthy king,
    Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
    An' some Scots piper play the spring
      He blew them at Vittoria.

    Gie truth and honour to the Dane,
    Gie German's monarch heart and brain,
    But aye in sic a cause as Spain
      Gie Britain a Vittoria.
    The English rose was ne'er sae red,
    The shamrock waved whare glory led,
    An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head
      In joy upon Vittoria.

    Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
    Whare thousands fought an' many fell,
    But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell
      At the battle of Vittoria.
    The Paris maids may ban them a',
    Their lads are maistly wede awa',
    An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw
      They lie upon Vittoria.

    Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave,
    Let all their trophies for them wave,
    And green be our Cadogan's grave
      Upon thy fields, Vittoria.
    Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain,
    And fill a bumper up again,
    Pledge to the leading star o' Spain,
      The hero of Vittoria.


[39] At the battle of Vittoria, the 71st, or Glasgow Regiment, bore a
distinguished part. On this song, celebrating their achievements, being
produced at the Glasgow theatre, it was received with rapturous
applause; it was nightly called for during the season.




BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY.

AIR--_"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty."_


    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      Blink over the burn to me;
    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee;
    Though father and mither forbade it,
      Forbidden I wadna be;
    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.

    The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud,
      Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,
    Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn,
      Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue;
    Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,
      Disclosing a pearly row;
    Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosom
      Is white as the mountain snow.

    But it isna her beauty that hauds me,
      A glitterin' chain winna lang bind;
    'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,
      An' the graces adornin' her mind;
    She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeam
      Is dear to the summer's morn,
    An' she says, though her father forbade it,
      She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.

    Her father's a canker'd auld carle,
      He swears he will ne'er gie consent;
    Such carles should never get daughters,
      Unless they can mak them content;
    But she says, though her father forbade it,
      Forbidden she winna be;
    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.




FAREWEEL TO ABERFOYLE.

AIR--_"Highland Plaid."_


    My tortured bosom long shall feel
    The pangs o' this last sad fareweel;
    Far, far to foreign lands I stray,
    To spend my hours in deepest wae;
    Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,
    Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!

    An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love,
    Into whatever lands I rove,
    Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
    The warmest tear ere wet my eye;
    An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
    I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.

    When far upon the raging sea,
    As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,
    When sweepin' storms the ship assail,
    I 'll bless the music o' the gale,
    An' think, while listenin' a' the while,
    I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.

    Kitty, my only love, fareweel;
    What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,
    While straying through the Indian groves,
    Weepin' our woes or early loves;
    I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
    Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!




DAVID VEDDER.


David Vedder was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness,
Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both
his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose
the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank
of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to
Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first officer of
an armed cruiser, and in five years afterwards was raised to the post of
tide-surveyor. He first discharged the duties of this office at
Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith.

A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable
relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the
muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier
compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers; but
before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into
the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and
other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation
as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume,
under the title of "Orcadian Sketches." This work, a _melange_ of prose
and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse; and several
of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description.
In 1839, he edited the "Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced
with an interesting memoir.

Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir
of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide
circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected
poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the
letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled "Lays and Lithographs,"
published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh, the
distinguished lithographer. His last work was a new English version of
the quaint old story of "Reynard the Fox," which was published with
elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials
he was in the habit of contributing; articles from his pen adorned the
pages of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary
Journal_, the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_, the _Christian Herald_,
_Tait's Magazine_, and _Chambers's Journal_. He wrote the letterpress
for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George
Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and
Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in
the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the
Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue
officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died
at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year.
His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.

Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive
proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by
exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits,
he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries.
Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward
nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable
specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised
by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in
humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces
breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with
devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of
his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos
and genuine simplicity.




JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.


    Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre,
      While plaudits shake the vaulted fane;
    Let warriors rush through flood and fire,
      A never-dying name to gain;
    Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing,
      Pursue some high or holy theme:
    Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing
      My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!

    Sweet is the morn of flowery May,
      When incense breathes from heath and wold--
    When laverocks hymn the matin lay,
      And mountain peaks are bathed in gold--
    And swallows, frae some foreign strand,
      Are wheeling o'er the winding stream;
    But sweeter to extend my hand,
      And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!

    Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog,
      Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes;
    And baudrons, on the ingle rug,
      Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums."
    The mavis, frae our apple-tree,
      Shall warble forth a joyous strain;
    The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy
      Shall welcome Jeanie hame again!

    Like dew-drops on a fading rose,
      Maternal tears shall start for thee,
    And low-breathed blessings rise like those
      Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy.
    Come to my arms, my timid dove!
      I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more;
    The fountain of thy father's love
      Is welling all its banks out o'er!




I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER.

AIR--_"Todlin' hame."_


    I neither got promise of siller nor land
    With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand;
    But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride,
    And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside.
        My ain fireside, my dear fireside,
        There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!

    Ambition once pointed my view towards rank,
    To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank:
    'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride
    My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside.
        My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
        My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!

    Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air;
    And purity reigns in her bosom so fair;
    She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride,
    Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside.
        My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
        There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!

    Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam,
    I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home;
    Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide,
    What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside?
        My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside,
        There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!




THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.

AIR--_"Gramachree."_


    There is a pang for every heart,
      A tear for every eye;
    There is a knell for every ear,
      For every breast a sigh.
    There 's anguish in the happiest state,
      Humanity can prove;
    But oh! the torture of the soul
      Is unrequited love!

    The reptile haunts the sweetest bower,
      The rose blooms on the thorn;
    There 's poison in the fairest flower
      That greets the opening morn.
    The hemlock and the night-shade spring
      In garden and in grove;
    But oh! the upas of the soul
      Is unrequited love!

    Ah! lady, thine inconstancy
      Hath made my peace depart;
    The unwonted coldness of thine eye
      Hath froze thy lover's heart.
    Yet with the fibres of that heart
      Thine image dear is wove;
    Nor can they sever till I die
      Of unrequited love!




THE FIRST OF MAY.

AIR--_"The Braes of Balquhidder."_


    Now the beams of May morn
      On the mountains are streaming,
    And the dews on the corn
      Are like diamond-drops gleaming;
    And the birds from the bowers
      Are in gladness ascending;
    And the breath of sweet flowers
      With the zephyrs is blending.

    And the rose-linnet's thrill,
      Overflowing with gladness,
    And the wood-pigeon's bill,
      Though their notes seem of sadness;
    And the jessamine rich
      Its soft tendrils is shooting,
    From pear and from peach
      The bright blossoms are sprouting.

    And the lambs on the lea
      Are in playfulness bounding,
    And the voice of the sea
      Is in harmony sounding;
    And the streamlet on high
      In the morning beam dances,
    For all Nature is joy
      As sweet summer advances.

    Then, my Mary, let 's stray
      Where the wild-flowers are glowing,
    By the banks of the Tay
      In its melody flowing;
    Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,
      Like a sweet mountain blossom,
    For 'tis bright like thy brow,
      And 'tis pure as thy bosom!




SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.


    Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
      And the grapes in clusters blush;
    And the cooling silver streams
      From their sylvan fountains rush;
    There is music in the grove,
      And there 's fragrance on the gale;
    But there 's nought so dear to me
      As my own Highland vale.

    Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
      Of the dew and sunlight born,
    And the azure violet,
      Spread their beauties to the morn;
    So does the hyacinth,
      And the lily pure and pale;
    But I love the daisy best
      In my own Highland vale.

    Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!
      'Tis the nightingale complains;
    Oh! the soul of music breathes
      In those more than plaintive strains;
    But they 're not so dear to me
      As the murmur of the rill,
    And the bleating of the lambs
      On my own Highland hill.

    Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,
      And the juicy fruits may blush,
    And the beauteous birds may sing,
      And the crystal streamlets rush;
    And the verdant meads may smile,
      And the cloudless sun may beam,
    But there 's nought beneath the skies
      Like my own Highland home.




THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.

AIR--_"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."_


    The tempest is raging
      And rending the shrouds;
    The ocean is waging
      A war with the clouds;
    The cordage is breaking,
      The canvas is torn,
    The timbers are creaking--
      The seamen forlorn.

    The water is gushing
      Through hatches and seams;
    'Tis roaring and rushing
      O'er keelson and beams;
    And nought save the lightning
      On mainmast or boom,
    At intervals brightening
      The palpable gloom.

    Though horrors beset me,
      And hurricanes howl,
    I may not forget thee,
      Beloved of my soul!
    Though soon I must perish
      In ocean beneath,
    Thine image I 'll cherish,
      Adored one! in death.




THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]


    Talk not of temples--there is one
      Built without hands, to mankind given;
    Its lamps are the meridian sun,
      And all the stars of heaven;
    Its walls are the cerulean sky,
      Its floor the earth so green and fair;
    The dome is vast immensity--
      All nature worships there!

    The Alps array'd in stainless snow,
      The Andean ranges yet untrod,
    At sunrise and at sunset glow
      Like altar-fires to God.
    A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
      As if with hallow'd victims rare;
    And thunder lifts its voice in praise--
      All nature worships there!

    The ocean heaves resistlessly,
      And pours his glittering treasure forth;
    His waves--the priesthood of the sea--
      Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,
    And there emit a hollow sound,
      As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;
    On every side 'tis holy ground--
      All nature worships there!

    The grateful earth her odours yield
      In homage, Mighty One! to thee;
    From herbs and flowers in every field,
      From fruit on every tree,
    The balmy dew at morn and even
      Seems like the penitential tear,
    Shed only in the sight of heaven--
      All nature worships there!

    The cedar and the mountain pine,
      The willow on the fountain's brim,
    The tulip and the eglantine,
      In reverence bend to Him;
    The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
      From tower, and tree, and middle air;
    The rushing river murmurs praise--
      All nature worships there!

    Then talk not of a fane, save one
      Built without hands, to mankind given;
    Its lamps are the meridian sun,
      And all the stars of heaven.
    Its walls are the cerulean sky,
      Its floor the earth so green and fair,
    The dome is vast immensity--
      All nature worships there!


[40] This admirable composition was an especial favourite of Dr Thomas
Chalmers, who was in the habit of quoting it to his students in the
course of his theological prelections.




JOHN M'DIARMID.


The son of the Rev. Hugh M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church,
Glasgow, John M'Diarmid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a
respectable elementary education; but, deprived of his father at an
early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some
time he acted as clerk in connexion with a bleachfield at Roslin, and
subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He
now attended some classes in the University, while his other spare time
was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed
in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the
College debating societies he improved himself as a public speaker, and
subsequently took an active part in the discussions of the "Forum." Fond
of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of
Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling
interest in the public mind; the consequence was, the immediate
establishment of his reputation. His services were sought by several of
the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of the _Edinburgh
Review_ offered to receive contributions from his pen. In 1816 he
compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver and Boyd, and
towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles
Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In
January 1817, he accepted the editorship of the _Dumfries and Galloway
Courier_--a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruthwell,
chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had
hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual.

As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the
promptitude and business-habits which, in connexion with literary
ability, are essential for such an office. The _Dumfries Courier_, which
had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his
management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was
more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with
illustrations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth
stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural
improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to
cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of
Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. "The Scrap-Book," a
work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse,
appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823
he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the "Vicar of
Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. The _Dumfries Magazine_
was originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of
its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he
published "Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the
illustration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and
Galloway. "The Picture of Dumfries," an illustrated work, appeared in
1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway
poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered
the editorship of the _Caledonian Mercury_, the first established of
the Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He
ultimately became sole proprietor of the _Courier_, which, under his
superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial
newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his
fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November
1852, in his sixty-third year.

A man of social and generous dispositions, M'Diarmid was esteemed among
a wide circle of friends; he was in habits of intimacy with Sir Walter
Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, Lockhart, the Ettrick Shepherd, Dr Thomas
Gillespie, and many others of his distinguished contemporaries. To his
kindly patronage, many young men of genius were indebted for positions
of honour and emolument. An elegant prose-writer, his compositions in
verse are pervaded by a graceful smoothness and lively fancy.




NITHSIDE.

AIR--_"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."_


    When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree,
    The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee;
    The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied,
    How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!

    When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown,
    And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown,
    To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride,
    How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!

    When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue,
    And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue;
    While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide,
    Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!

    When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee,
    And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea;
    And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride,
    How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!

    When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear,
    The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year;
    And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide,
    Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!

    And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow,
    And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below,
    You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide,
    Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!




EVENING.


    Hush, ye songsters! day is done,
    See how sweet the setting sun
    Gilds the welkin's boundless breast,
    Smiling as he sinks to rest;
    Now the swallow down the dell,
    Issuing from her noontide cell,
    Mocks the deftest marksman's aim
    Jumbling in fantastic game:
    Sweet inhabitant of air,
    Sure thy bosom holds no care;
    Not the fowler full of wrath,
    Skilful in the deeds of death--
    Not the darting hawk on high
    (Ruthless tyrant of the sky!)
    Owns one art of cruelty
    Fit to fell or fetter thee,
    Gayest, freest of the free!

    Ruling, whistling shrill on high,
    Where yon turrets kiss the sky,
    Teasing with thy idle din
    Drowsy daws at rest within;
    Long thou lov'st to sport and spring
    On thy never-wearying wing.
    Lower now 'midst foliage cool
    Swift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool,
    Where the speckled trout at play,
    Rising, shares thy dancing prey,
    While the treach'rous circles swell
    Wide and wider where it fell,
    Guiding sure the angler's arm
    Where to find the puny swarm;
    And with artificial fly,
    Best to lure the victim's eye,
    Till, emerging from the brook,
    Brisk it bites the barbed hook;
    Struggling in the unequal strife,
    With its death, disguised as life,
    Till it breathless beats the shore
    Ne'er to cleave the current more!

    Peace! creation's gloomy queen,
    Darkest Night, invests the scene!
    Silence, Evening's handmaid mild,
    Leaves her home amid the wild,
    Tripping soft with dewy feet,
    Summer's flowery carpet sweet,
    Morpheus--drowsy power--to meet.
    Ruler of the midnight hour,
    In thy plenitude of power,
    From this burthen'd bosom throw
    Half its leaden load of woe.
    Since thy envied art supplies
    What reality denies,
    Let thy cheerless suppliant see
    Dreams of bliss inspired by thee--
    Let before his wond'ring eyes
    Fancy's brightest visions rise--
    Long lost happiness restore,
    None can need thy bounty more.




PETER BUCHAN.


The indefatigable collector of the elder national minstrelsy, Peter
Buchan, was born in Peterhead in the year 1790. Of a somewhat
distinguished descent, he was on the father's side remotely connected
with the noble house of Buchan, and his mother was a lineal descendant
of the Irvines of Drum, an old powerful family in Aberdeenshire. Though
he was disposed to follow a seafaring life, and had obtained a
commission in the Navy, he abandoned his early intentions at the urgent
solicitation of his parents, and thereafter employed himself as a
copperplate engraver, and was the inventor of an ingenious revolving
press for copperplate printing. At Edinburgh and Stirling, he afterwards
qualified himself for the business of a letterpress printer, and in 1816
opened a printing-office in his native town. In 1819, he compiled the
"Annals of Peterhead," a duodecimo volume, which he printed at a press
of his own contrivance. His next publication appeared shortly after,
under the title, "An Historical Account of the Ancient and Noble Family
of Keith, Earls-Marischal of Scotland."

After a period of residence in London, where he held for some time a
remunerative situation, Buchan returned to his native town. In the
metropolis, he had been painfully impressed by the harsh treatment
frequently inflicted on the inferior animals, and as a corrective for
the evil, he published at Peterhead, in 1824, a treatise, dedicated to
his son, in which he endeavoured to prove that brutes are possessed of
souls, and are immortal. His succeeding publication, which appeared in
1828, proved the most successful effort of his life; it was entitled,
"Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto
Unpublished, with Explanatory Notes," Edinburgh, two vols. 8vo. This
work occupied upwards of ten years in preparation. Among his other
publications may be enumerated, a volume of "Poems and Songs," printed
in 1814; "The Peterhead Smugglers, an original Melodrama," published in
1834; "The Eglinton Tournament, &c.;" "Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads;"
and the "Wanderings of Prince Charles Stuart and Miss Flora Macdonald,"
the latter being published from an old MS.

At different periods Buchan resided in Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Glasgow.
For a short period he owned the small property of Buchanstone, near
Dennyloanhead, Stirlingshire, which being sold, he proceeded to Ireland
in 1852, where he resided for some time at Strandhill, county of
Leitrim. In the early part of 1854, he went to London, with the view of
effecting arrangements for the publication of another volume of "Ancient
Scottish Ballads;" he was there seized with illness, of which he died on
the 19th September of the same year. His remains were interred in the
beautiful cemetery of Norwood, near London.

Mr Buchan was justly esteemed as a zealous and industrious collector of
the elder Scottish minstrelsy. His labours received the special
commendation of Sir Walter Scott, and he was a frequent guest at
Abbotsford. He was also honoured with diplomas of membership from some
of the leading literary societies of Scotland and England. Two
unpublished volumes of his "Ballad Collections" are now in the
possession of Dr Charles Mackay of London, and may at a future period be
submitted to the public. His son, the Rev. Dr Charles Forbes Buchan,
minister of Fordoun, is the author of several theological publications.




THOU GLOOMY FEBERWAR.[41]


    Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,
      Oh! gin thou wert awa'!
    I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,
      I 'm wae to see thy snaw;
    For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman,
      The lad I lo'e sae dear,
    Has vow'd to come and see me
      In the spring o' the year.

    A silken ban' he gae me,
      To bin' my gowden hair;
    A siller brooch and tartan plaid,
      A' for his sake to wear;
    And oh! my heart was like to break,
      (For partin' sorrow 's sair)
    As he vow'd to come and see me
      In the spring o' the year.

    Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky,
      I wander out alane,
    Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins,
      Around the trystin' stane;
    'Twas there he press'd me to his heart,
      And kiss'd awa' the tear,
    As he vow'd to come and see me
      In the spring o' the year.

    Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw,
      And cleed anew the wuds;
    Ye laverocks lilt your cheerie sangs,
      Amang the fleecy cluds;
    Till Feberwar and a' his train,
      Affrighted disappear,
    I 'll hail wi' you the blithesome change,
      The spring-time o' the year.


[41] The first stanza of this song is the composition of Robert
Tannahill.




WILLIAM FINLAY.


William Finlay was the son of an operative shawl manufacturer in
Paisley, where he was born in 1792. He received a classical education at
the Grammar-school, and was afterwards apprenticed to his father's
trade. For a period of twenty years he prosecuted the labours of the
loom; but finding the occupation injurious to his health, he accepted
employment in the cotton mills of Duntocher. He afterwards obtained a
situation in a printing-office in Paisley, where he remained during
eight years. Ultimately, he was employed at Nethercraigs' bleachfield,
at the base of Gleniffer braes, about two miles to the south of Paisley.
He died of fever on the 5th November 1847, leaving a family of five
children.

Finlay was in the practice of contributing verses to the local prints.
In 1846, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Poems, Humorous and
Sentimental." His poetical characteristics are simplicity and pathos,
combined with considerable power of satirical drollery. Delighting in
music, and fond of society, he was occasionally led to indulge in
excesses, of which, at other times, he was heartily ashamed, and which
he has feelingly lamented in some of his poems. Few Scottish poets have
more touchingly depicted the evils of intemperance.




THE BREAKING HEART.


    I mark'd her look of agony,
      I heard her broken sigh,
    I saw the colour leave her cheek,
      The lustre leave her eye;
    I saw the radiant ray of hope
      Her sadden'd soul forsaking;
    And, by these tokens, well I knew
      The maiden's heart was breaking.

    It is not from the hand of Heaven
      Her bitter grief proceeds;
    'Tis not for sins that she hath done,
      Her bosom inly bleeds;
    'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soul
      In shades of dark despair,
    But man--deceitful man--whose hand
      A thorn hath planted there.




THE AULD EMIGRANT'S FAREWEEL TO SCOTLAND.


    Land of my fathers! night's dark gloom
      Now shades thee from my view--
    Land of my birth! my hearth, my home,
      A long, a last adieu!
    Thy sparkling streams, thy plantin's green,
      That ring with melodie,
    Thy flowery vales, thy hills and dales,
      Again I 'll never see.

    How aft have I thy heathy hills
      Climb'd in life's early day!
    Or pierced the dark depths of thy woods
      To pu' the nit or slae;
    Or lain beneath the spreading thorn,
      Hid frae the sun's bright beams,
    While on my raptured ear was borne
      The music of thy streams!

    And aft, when frae the schule set free,
      I 've join'd a merry ban',
    Whase hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee,
      Fresh as the morning's dawn,
    And waunert, Cruikston, by thy tower,
      Or through thy leafy shaw,
    The livelang day, nor thocht o' hame
      Till nicht began to fa'.

    But now the buoyancy o' youth,
      And a' its joys are gane--
    My children scatter'd far and wide,
      And I am left alane;
    For she who was my hope and stay,
      And soothed me when distress'd,
    Within the narrow house of death
      Has lang been laid at rest.

    And puirtith's cloud doth me enshroud;
      Sae, after a' my toil,
    I 'm gaun to lay my puir auld clay
      Within a foreign soil.
    Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotia dear!
      A last fareweel to thee!
    Thy tinkling rills, thy heath-clad hills,
      Again I 'll never see!




O'ER MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY.


    O'er mountain and valley
      Morn gladly did gleam;
    The streamlets danced gaily
      Beneath its bright beam;
    The daisies were springing
      To life at my feet;
    The woodlands were ringing
      With melody sweet.

    But the sky became low'ring,
      And clouds big with rain,
    Their treasures outpouring,
      Soon deluged the plain.
    The late merry woodlands
      Grew silent and lone;
    And red from the muirlands
      The river rush'd down.

    Thus life, too, is chequer'd
      With sunshine and gloom;
    Of change 'tis the record--
      Now blight and now bloom.
    Oft morn rises brightly,
      With promise to last,
    But long, long ere noontide
      The sky is o'ercast.

    Yet much of the trouble
      'Neath which mortals groan,
    They contrive to make double
      By whims of their own.
    Oh! it makes the heart tingle
      With anguish to think,
    That our own hands oft mingle
      The bitters we drink.




JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.


John Gibson Lockhart, the distinguished editor of the _Quarterly
Review_, and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was born in the Manse of
Cambusnethan, on the 14th of June 1794. From both his parents he
inherited an honourable descent. His father, John Lockhart, D.D., was
the second son of William Lockhart of Birkhill, the head of an old
family in Lanarkshire, lineally descended from Sir Stephen Lockhart of
Cleghorn, a member of the Privy Council, and armour-bearer to James III.
His mother was Elizabeth Gibson, daughter of the Rev. John Gibson,
senior minister of St Cuthbert's, Edinburgh; her maternal grandmother
was the Honourable Mary Erskine, second daughter of Henry, third Lord
Cardross, and sister of David, ninth Earl of Buchan. In 1796, Dr
Lockhart was translated from Cambusnethan to the College church,
Glasgow; and the early education of his son was consequently conducted
in that city.

During the third year of his attendance at the Grammar-school, young
Lockhart, though naturally possessed of a sound constitution, was seized
with a severe illness, which, it was feared, might terminate in
pulmonary consumption. After a period of physical prostration, he
satisfactorily rallied, when it was found by his teacher that he had
attained such proficiency in classical learning, during his confinement,
as to be qualified for the University, without the usual attendance of
a fourth session at the Grammar-school. At the University of Glasgow,
his progress fully realised his excellent promise in the academy. The
youngest member of his various classes, he was uniformly a successful
competitor for honours. He gave indication of poetical ability in a
metrical translation of a part of Lucan's "Pharsalia," which was
rewarded with a prize, and received warm encomiums from the professors.
On one of the Snell Exhibitions to Baliol College, Oxford, becoming
vacant, during the session of 1808-9, it was unanimously conferred on
him by the faculty. Entering Baliol College in 1809, his classical
attainments were such, that Dr Jenkins, the master of the college, was
led to predict that he would reflect honour on that institution, and on
the University of Glasgow. At his graduation, on the completion of his
attendance at Baliol, he realised the expectations of his admiring
preceptor; the youngest of all who graduated on the occasion, being in
his eighteenth year, he was numbered in the _first class_,--an honour
rarely attained by the most accomplished Oxonians. In the choice of a
profession he evinced considerable hesitation; but was at length induced
by a relative, a member of the legal faculty, to qualify himself for
practice at the Scottish Bar. Besides affording a suitable scope for his
talents and acquirements, it was deemed that the Parliament House of
Edinburgh had certain hereditary claims on his services. Through his
paternal grandmother, he was descended from Sir James Lockhart of Lee,
Lord Justice-Clerk in the reign of Charles II., and father of the
celebrated Sir George Lockhart of Carnwath, Lord President of the Court
of Session; and of another judge, Sir John Lockhart, Lord Castlehill.

Having completed a curriculum of classical and philosophical study at
Oxford, and made a tour on the Continent, Lockhart proceeded to
Edinburgh, to prosecute the study of Scottish law. In 1816 he passed
advocate. Well-skilled in the details of legal knowledge, and in the
preparation of written pleadings, he lacked a fluency of utterance, so
entirely essential to success as a pleader at the Bar. He felt his
deficiency, but did not strive to surmount it. Joining himself to a
literary circle, of which John Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd were the
more conspicuous members, he resolved to follow the career of a man of
letters. In 1817, he became one of the original contributors to
_Blackwood's Magazine_; and by his learned and ingenious articles
essentially promoted the early reputation of that subsequently popular
periodical. In 1819 appeared his first separate publication, entitled,
"Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,"--a work of three octavo volumes, in
which an imaginary Doctor Morris humorously and pungently delineates the
manners and characteristics of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen
of the period; and which, by exciting some angry criticism, attracted
general attention to the real author.[42] In May of the previous year,
at the residence in Edinburgh of Mr Home Drummond of Blair-Drummond, he
was introduced to the personal acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. Their
acquaintance ripened into a speedy intimacy; and on the 29th April 1820,
Lockhart became the son-in-law of his illustrious friend, by espousing
his eldest daughter, Sophia. Continuing to furnish sparkling
contributions to _Blackwood's Magazine_, Lockhart now began to exhibit
powers of prolific authorship. In the course of a few years he produced
"Valerius," a tale descriptive of ancient Rome; "Reginald Dalton," a
novel founded on his personal experiences at Oxford; the interesting
romance of "Matthew Wald," and "Adam Blair," a Scottish story. The last
of these works, it may be interesting to notice, took origin in the
following manner. During a visit to his parents at Glasgow, his father
had incidentally mentioned, after dinner, that Mr Adam, a former
minister of Cathcart, had been deprived for certain immoralities, and
afterwards reponed, at the entreaty of his parishioners, on the death of
the individual who had succeeded him after his deposition. On hearing
the narrative, Lockhart retired to his apartment and drew up the plan of
his tale, which was ready for the press within the short space of three
weeks. In 1823, he became known as an elegant versifier, by the
publication of his translations from the "Spanish Ballads." He
subsequently published a "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte," in "Murray's
Family Library;" and produced a "Life of Robert Burns," for "Constable's
Miscellany." At this period he chiefly resided in Edinburgh, spending
some of the summer months at Chiefswood, a cottage about two miles from
Abbotsford. But Lockhart's growing reputation ere long secured him a
more advantageous and lucrative position. In 1825, he was appointed to
the editorship of the _Quarterly Review_; and thus, at the age of
thirty-one, became the successor of Gifford, in conducting one of the
most powerful literary organs of the age. He now removed to London. On
the 15th of June 1834, the degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred
on him by the University of Oxford.

During the last illness of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart was eminently
dutiful in his attendance on the illustrious sufferer. As the literary
executor of the deceased, he was zealous even to indiscretion; his
"Life of Scott," notwithstanding its ill-judged personalities, is one of
the most interesting biographical works in the language. His own latter
history affords few materials for observation; he frequented the higher
literary circles of the metropolis, and well sustained the reputation of
the _Quarterly Review_. He retired from his editorial duties in 1853,
having suffered previously from impaired health. The progress of his
malady was accelerated by a succession of family trials and
bereavements, which preyed heavily on his mind. His eldest son, John
Hugh Lockhart (the Hugh Littlejohn of Scott's "Tales of a Grandfather,")
died in 1831; his amiable wife in 1837; and of his two remaining
children, a son and a daughter, the former, Walter Scott Lockhart Scott,
Lieutenant, 16th Lancers, who had succeeded to the estate of Abbotsford
on the death of his uncle, the second Sir Walter Scott, died in 1853. In
1847, his daughter and only surviving child was married to James Robert
Hope, Esquire, Q.C., son of General the Honourable Sir Alexander Hope,
and nephew of the late Earl of Hopetoun, of peninsular fame; and shortly
before her father's death, this lady, along with her husband, abjured
the Protestant faith.

In the autumn of 1853, in accordance with the advice of his medical
advisers, Lockhart proceeded to Italy; but on his return the following
summer, he appeared rather to have lost than gained strength. Arranging
his affairs in London, he took up his abode with his elder brother, Mr
Lockhart, M.P., at Milton-Lockhart, on the banks of the Clyde, and in
the parish adjoining that of his birth. Here he suffered an attack of
cholera, which much debilitated his already wasted strength. In October
he was visited by Dr Ferguson of London, who conveyed him to Abbotsford
to be tended by his daughter; there he breathed his last on the 25th
November 1854, in his 61st year. His remains were interred in Dryburgh
Abbey, beside those of his illustrious father-in-law, with whom his name
will continue to be associated. The estate of Abbotsford is now in the
possession of his daughter and her husband, who, in terms of the
Abbotsford entail, have assumed the name of Scott. Their infant
daughter, Mary Monica, along with her mother, are the only surviving
lineal representatives of the Author of "Waverley."

Possessed of a vigorous intellect, varied talents, and accurate
scholarship, Lockhart was impatient of contradiction, and was prone to
censure keenly those who had offended him. To strangers his manners were
somewhat uninviting, and in society he was liable to periods of
taciturnity. He loved the ironical and facetious; and did not scruple to
indulge in ridicule even at the expense of his intimate associates. With
many peculiarities of manner, and a temper somewhat fretful and
impulsive, we have good authority for recording, that many unfortunate
men of genius derived support from his bounty. Ardent in temperament, he
was severe in resenting a real or fancied wrong; but among those to whom
he gave his confidence, he was found to be possessed of affectionate and
generous dispositions. He has complained, in a testamentary document,
that his course of procedure was often misunderstood, and the complaint
is probably well-founded. He was personally of a handsome and agreeable
presence, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.


[42] In his Life of Scott, Lockhart states that "Peter's Letters" "were
not wholly the work of one hand."




BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND.[43]

TUNE--_"Oh, the roast beef of Old England."_


    Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea,
    Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
    Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
      Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
      And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.

    Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave--
    Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,
    Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.
      Oh, the broadswords, &c.

    Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,
    Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore;
    Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
      Oh, the broadswords, &c.

    Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim,
    We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,
    The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.
      All the broadswords, &c.

    Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth--
    Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north;
    Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth.
      All the broadswords, &c.

    The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
    Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;
    For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
      Oh, the broadswords, &c.

    Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
    Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
    Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
      Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
      And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.


[43] This song, with several others of ephemeral interest, was composed
by Lockhart, to be sung at the mess of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry, of
which he was a member. Of the songs produced for these festive
occasions, a collection for private circulation was printed in 1825, at
the Ballantyne press, with the title, "Songs of the Edinburgh Troop,"
pp. 28. In this collection, the "Broadswords" song bears date July 1821;
it was published with music in 1822, in the third volume of Thomson's
Collection.




CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.[44]


      Touch once more a sober measure,
        And let punch and tears be shed,
      For a prince of good old fellows,
        That, alack-a-day! is dead;
      For a prince of worthy fellows,
        And a pretty man also,
      That has left the Saltmarket,
        In sorrow, grief, and woe.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      His waistcoat, coat, and breeches
        Were all cut off the same web,
      Of a beautiful snuff-colour,
        Of a modest genty drab;
      The blue stripe in his stocking,
        Round his neat slim leg did go,
      And his ruffles of the cambric fine,
        They were whiter than the snow.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      His hair was curled in order,
        At the rising of the sun,
      In comely rows and buckles smart,
        That about his ears did run;
      And before there was a toupee,
        That some inches up did grow,
      And behind there was a long queue,
        That did o'er his shoulders flow.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      And whenever we forgather'd,
        He took off his wee three-cockit;
      And he proffer'd you his snuff-box,
        Which he drew from his side-pocket;
      And on Burdett or Bonaparte
        He would make a remark or so,
      And then along the plainstones
        Like a provost he would go.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      In dirty days he picked well
        His footsteps with his rattan;
      Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck
        On the shoes of Captain Paton.
      And on entering the coffee-room
        About two, all men did know
      They would see him with his _Courier_
        In the middle of the row.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Now and then, upon a Sunday,
        He invited me to dine
      On a herring and a mutton chop,
        Which his maid dress'd very fine.
      There was also a little Malmsay,
        And a bottle of Bordeaux,
      Which, between me and the captain,
        Pass'd nimbly to and fro!
    Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Or, if a bowl was mentioned,
        The captain he would ring,
      And bid Nelly run to the Westport,
        And a stoup of water bring.
      Then would he mix the genuine stuff,
        As they made it long ago,
      With limes that on his property
        In Trinidad did grow!
    Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e!

      And then all the time he would discourse
        So sensible and courteous,
      Perhaps talking of last sermon
        He had heard from Dr Porteous;
      Of some little bit of scandal
        About Mrs So-and-So,
      Which he scarce could credit, having heard
        The _con._ but not the _pro._!
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Or when the candles were brought forth,
        And the night was fairly setting in,
      He would tell some fine old stories
        About Minden-field or Dettingen;
      How he fought with a French major,
        And dispatch'd him at a blow,
      While his blood ran out like water
        On the soft grass below!
    Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!

      But at last the captain sickened,
        And grew worse from day to day,
      And all miss'd him in the coffee-room,
        From which now he staid away;
      On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk
        Made a melancholy show,
      All for wanting of the presence
        Of our venerable beau!
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      And in spite of all that Cleghorn
        And Corkindale could do,
      It was plain, from twenty symptoms,
        That death was in his view;
      So the captain made his test'ment,
        And submitted to his foe,
      And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk--
        'Tis the way we all must go!
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Join all in chorus, jolly boys,
        And let punch and tears be shed,
      For this prince of good old fellows
        That, alack-a-day! is dead;
      For this prince of worthy fellows--
        And a pretty man also--
      That has left the Saltmarket
        In sorrow, grief, and woe!
    For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!


[44] This humorous elegy was first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_
for September 1819. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow.
The son of Dr David Paton, a physician in that city, he obtained a
commission in a regiment raised in Scotland for the Dutch service. He
afterwards resided with his two maiden sisters, and an old servant
Nelly, in a tenement opposite the Old Exchange at the Cross, which had
been left him by his father. The following graphic account of the
Captain, we transcribe from Dr Strang's interesting work, "Glasgow and
its Clubs," recently published:--"Every sunshine day, and sometimes even
amid shower and storm, about the close of the past and the commencement
of the present century, was the worthy Captain in the Dutch service seen
parading the _plainstanes_, opposite his own residence in the Trongate,
donned in a suit of snuff-coloured brown or 'genty drab,' his long spare
limbs encased in blue striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, and
sporting ruffles of the finest cambric at his wrists, while adown his
back hung a long queue, and on his head was perched a small three-cocked
hat, which, with a _politesse tout à fait Francais_, he invariably took
off when saluting a friend. Captain Paton, while a denizen of the camp,
had studied well the noble art of fence, and was looked upon as a most
accomplished swordsman, which might easily be discovered from his happy
but threatening manner of holding his cane, when sallying from his own
domicile towards the coffee-room, which he usually entered about two
o'clock, to study the news of the day in the pages of the _Courier_. The
gallant Captain frequently indulged, like Othello, in speaking--

'Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the
imminent deadly breach.'

And of his own brave doings on the tented field, 'at Minden and at
Dettingen,' particularly when seated round a bowl of his favourite cold
punch, made with limes from his own estate in Trinidad, and with water
newly drawn from the Westport well." It remains to be added, that this
"prince of worthy fellows" died in July 1807, at the age of sixty-eight.




CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.[45]

_From the Gaelic._


    Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
      Sing, long ago, the song of other shores;
    Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
      All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:
        Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand;
        But we are exiles from our fathers' land!

    From the lone shieling of the misty island
      Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas;
    Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
      And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

    We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
      Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream,
    In arms around the patriach-banner rally,
      Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Come, foreign rage!--let discord burst in slaughter!
      Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore!
    The hearts that would have given their blood like water
      Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar!
        Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand;
        But we are exiles from our fathers' land!


[45] This simple and interesting lyric appears in No. XLVI. of the
"Noctes Ambrosianæ," and has, we believe, on sufficient grounds, been
attributed to Lockhart.




THOMAS MATHERS.


Thomas Mathers, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire,
in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest
branches, he chose the seafaring life, and connected himself with the
merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord
Byron,--a circumstance which he was in the habit of narrating with
enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a
fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His
future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much
alleviated, however, by the invocation of the muse. He contributed
verses for a series of years to several of the public journals; and his
compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the
ambition of publishing a volume of poems; and the desire at length was
gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed
a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Musings in Verse, by Sea and Shore,"
which, however, had only been put into shape when the author was called
to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th
September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry
is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a
song-writer, the following lyric, entitled "Early Love," is a favourable
specimen.




EARLY LOVE.


    There 's nae love like early love,
      Sae lasting an' sae leal;
    It wins upon the youthfu' heart,
      An' sets its magic seal.
    The die that 's cast in early life,
      Is nae vain airy dream;
    But makes thee still in after years
      The subject of my theme.

    But years o' shade an' sunshine
      Have flung alternately
    Their fleeting shadows as they pass'd
      Athwart life's changing sky.
    Like troubled waters, too, the mind
      'S been ruffled an' distress'd;
    But with the placid calm return'd
      Thine image to my breast.

    Still I hae seen a fairer face,
      Though fairer anes are few,
    An' I hae marked kinder smiles
      Than e'er I gat frae you.
    But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen,
      Leave not a trace behind;
    While early love has forged chains
      The freest heart to bind.

    The mind from tyrant fetters
      Is free as air to rove;
    But powerful are the links that chain
      The heart to early love.
    Affections, like the ivy
      In nature's leafy screen,
    Entwine the boughs o' early love
      Wi' foliage "ever green."




JAMES BROWN.


James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of
Lanarkshire, on the 1st of July 1796. His father, the miller of
Libberton-mill, was a person of superior intelligence, and his mother,
Grizzel Anderson, was esteemed for her amiable dispositions. Deprived of
his father while only six years old, he was early apprenticed to a
hand-loom weaver. On the completion of his indenture, he removed to
Symington, a village situate at the base of Tintock hill. His leisure
hours were devoted to reading and an extensive correspondence with his
friends. He formed a club for literary discussion, which assembled
periodically at his house. Enthusiastic in his love of nature, he
rejoiced in solitary rambles on the heights of Tintock and Dungavel; he
made a pilgrimage to the Border and Ettrick Forest. In 1823 he removed
to Glasgow, where he was employed in the warehouse of a manufacturing
firm; he afterwards became agent of the house at Biggar, where he died
on the 12th September 1836. Though the writer of much poetry of merit,
Brown was indifferent to literary reputation; and chiefly intrusted his
compositions to the keeping of his friends. His songs in the present
work have been recovered by his early friend, Mr Scott Riddell, who has
supplied these particulars of his life. Austere in manner, he was
possessed of genial and benevolent dispositions; he became ultimately
impressed with earnest religious convictions.




MY PEGGY 'S FAR AWAY.


    Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde,
    A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied,
    Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae,
    For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.

    Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha',
    Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa';
    My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May,
    But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.

    Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde,
    And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side,
    How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day,
    Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang,
    And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang,
    A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae,
    Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn,
    Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return;
    I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring,
    Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring,
    E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms,
    Might add to, but tak not away from her charms,
    The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean,
    And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen,
    But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er,
    And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?
    It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay,
    And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.




LOVE BROUGHT ME A BOUGH.


    Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green
    That waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen;
    And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue,
    It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew;
    It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear,
    That false was the lassie my bosom held dear;
    Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue--
    If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!

    Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mind
    The days that are gane, when my lassie was kind,
    A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now,
    My soul was enraptured--I canna tell how.
    Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been,
    And why should I start at the glance o' her een,
    Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?--
    If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!

    Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill,
    I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill,
    I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air,
    And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair;
    She says I deceived her, how can it be sae?
    The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae,
    And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue,
    Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.

    She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing,
    Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring.
    Gae fame to the hero, and gowd to the Jew,
    And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few;
    A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined,
    And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind,
    I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do,
    For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.




HOW 'S A' WI' YE.

AIR--_"Jenny's Bawbee."_


    Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed,
    A bannet happ'd my daddie's head,
    Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread,
      Folk scunner'd a' at tea;
    When cronies met they didna stand,
    To rule their words by manners grand,
    But warmly clasping hand in hand,
      Said, How 's a' wi' ye.

    But now there 's nought but shy finesse,
    And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress,
    That scarce a hand a hand will press
      Wi' ought o' feeling free;
    A cauldrife pride aside has laid
    The hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid,
    And a' is changed since neebors said
      Just, How 's a' wi' ye.

    Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood,
    The maiden's gown was worset guid,
    And kept her ringlets in a snood
      Aboon her pawkie e'e;
    Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun',
    She flaunts it in her silken gown,
    That scarce ane dare by glen or town
      Say, How 's a' wi' ye.

    I watna how they manage now
    Their brides in lighted ha's to woo,
    But it is caulder wark, I trow,
      Than e'er it was wi' me;
    Aye true unto the trysts we set,
    When we among the hawthorns met,
    Love-warm, true love wad scarce us let
      Say, How 's a' wi' ye.

    Wae-worth their haughty state and style,
    That drive true feeling frae our isle!
    In saxty years o' care and toil,
      What ferlies do we see!
    The lowliest heart a pride displays,
    Unkent in our ain early days,
    Ilk kind and canty thing decays,
      Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.

    When back we look on bygane years,
    Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears,
    The cauld mool mony a bosom bears,
      Ance dear to you and me;
    Yet I will neither chafe nor chide,
    While ane comes to my ingle side,
    Whose bosom glows wi' honest pride
      At, How 's a' wi' ye.

    Newfangled guffs may things arrange
    For further and still further change,
    But strange things shall to me be strange,
      While I can hear and see.
    And when I gang, as I 'll do soon,
    To join the leal in hames aboon,
    I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon,
      Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.




OH! SAIR I FEEL THE WITCHING POWER.

TUNE--_"Miller of Dron," improved set._


    Oh, sair I feel the witching power
      O' that sweet pawkie e'e,
    And sair I 'll rue the luckless hour
      That e'er it shone on me;
    Unless sic love as wounds this heart
      Come frae that heart again,
    And teach for aye the kindly ray
      To blink on me alane.
    Thy modest cheek aye mantling glows
      Whene'er I talk o' love,
    As rainbow rays upon the rose
      Its native sweets improve;
    Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower,
      And gloamin' vails the glen,
    Will ye gang to the birken bower
      When nane on earth can ken?
    Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
      Heartfelt pleasures len',
    And oh! how fain to meet alane,
      When nane on earth can ken!

    Amang the lave I manna speak,
      And when I look the while,
    The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seek
      Their watching to beguile;
    But leave, dear lassie, leave them a',
      And frae this heart sae leal
    Thou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw,
      It canna mair conceal.
    My plaid shall shield thy peerless charms
      Frae evening's fanning gale,
    And saft shall be my circling arms,
      And true my simple tale;
    And seated by the murmuring brook,
      Within the flowery den,
    If love 's reveal'd in word or look,
      There 's nane on earth can ken.
    Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
      Heartfelt pleasures len',
    And oh! how fain to meet alane,
      When nane on earth can ken.

    There 's music in the lighted ha',
      And looks in laughing een,
    That seem affection forth to show,
      That less is felt than seen.
    But silent in the faithfu' heart
      The charm o' love shall reign,
    Or words shall but its power impart
      To make it mair our ain.
    Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,
      And spendthrifts hae their glee,
    Not a' the state o' a' the great,
      Shall draw a wish frae me;
    Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,
      Far frae the haunts o' men,
    Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,
      The world can never ken.
    Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
      Heartfelt pleasures len',
    And aye how fain we 'll meet again,
      When nane on earth can ken.




DANIEL WEIR.


Daniel Weir was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father,
John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that
town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate
constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in
1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in
Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own
account.

Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted
his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses.
To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith, he contributed several
respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in
Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of
"The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These
collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he
published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume,
illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his
thirty-fifth year.

Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of
expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational
talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many
persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was
familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their
best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he
had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with
a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the
humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to
his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather
mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his
person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was
dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit upon the
recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of
mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action,
he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his
devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He
left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion."




SEE THE MOON.


    See the moon o'er cloudless Jura
      Shining in the lake below;
    See the distant mountain tow'ring
      Like a pyramid of snow.
    Scenes of grandeur--scenes of childhood--
      Scenes so dear to love and me!
    Let us roam by bower and wildwood--
      All is lovelier when with thee.

    On Leman's breast the winds are sighing;
      All is silent in the grove;
    And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning,
      Sparkle like the eye of love.
    Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless;
      Blessed night to love and me!
    Let us roam by bower and fountain--
      All is lovelier when with thee.




LOVE IS TIMID.


        Love is timid, love is shy,
        Can you tell me, tell me why?
    Ah! tell me why true love should be
      Afraid to meet the kindly smile
    Of him she loves, from him would flee,
      Yet thinks upon him all the while?
        Can you tell me, tell me why
        Love is timid, love is shy?

        Love is timid, love is shy,
        Can you tell me, tell me why?
    True love, they say, delights to dwell
      In some sequester'd, lonely bow'r,
    With him she loves, where none can tell
      Her tender look in passion's hour.
        Can you tell me, tell me why
        Love is timid, love is shy?

        Love is timid, love is shy,
        Can you tell me, tell me why?
    Love, like the lonely nightingale,
      Will pour her heart, when all is lone;
    Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,
      Her notes to any, but to one.
        Can you tell me, tell me why
        Love is timid, love is shy?




RAVEN'S STREAM.


    My love, come let us wander
    Where Raven's streams meander,
    And where, in simple grandeur,
      The daisy decks the plain.
    Peace and joy our hours shall measure;
    Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!
    Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,
    Raven's braes will be, my dearie.

    The silver moon is beaming,
    On Clyde her light is streaming;
    And, while the world is dreaming,
      We 'll talk of love, my dear.
    None, my Jean, will share this bosom,
    Where thine image loves to blossom;
    And no storm will ever sever
    That dear flow'r, or part us ever.




OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.

AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_


    Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours
        Ne'er come again--
    Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers,
        And primrose plain!
        With other days,
        Ambitious rays
      May flash upon our mind;
    But give me back the morn of life,
      With fond thoughts twined;
    As it sweetly broke on bower and hill,
      And youth's gay mind!

    Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot
        On life's dark sea,
    And memory hails that sacred spot
        Where'er we be;
        It leaves all joys,
        And fondly sighs
      As youth comes on the mind,
    And looks upon the morn of life
      With fond thoughts, &c.

    When age will come, with locks of gray,
        To quench youth's spark,
    And its stream runs cold along the way
        Where all seems dark,
        'Twill smiling gaze,
        As memory's blaze
      Breaks on its wavering mind;
    But 'twill never bring the morn of life,
      With fond thoughts, &c.




COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.


    Could we but look beyond our sphere,
      And trace, along the azure sky,
    The myriads that were inmates here
      Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high--
    Then might we tell of those who see
    Our wand'rings from eternity!

    But human frailty cannot gaze
      On such a cloud of splendid light
    As heaven's sacred court displays,
      Of blessed spirits clothed in white,
    Who from the fears of death are free,
    And look from an eternity.

    They look, but ne'er return again
      To tell the secrets of their home;
    And kindliest tears for them are vain--
      For never, never shall they come,
    Till Time's pale light begin to flee
    Before a bright eternity!

    Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,
      Within the golden porch of heaven,
    And see those spirits which appear
      Like stars upon the robe of even!
    But no! unseen to us they see
    Our wanderings from eternity!

    The crimes of men which Heaven saw,
      And pitied with a parent's eye,
    Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw
      In mercy from its home on high;
    They look, but all they know or see
    Is silent as eternity!

    At noonday hour, or midnight deep,
      No bright inhabitant draws nigh;
    And though a parent's offspring weep,
      No whisper echoes from the sky;
    Though friends may gaze, yet all they see
    Is known but in eternity!

    Yet we may look beyond our sphere
      On One who shines among the throng;
    And we by faith may also hear
      The triumphs of a glorious song;
    And while we gaze on Him, we see
    The path to this eternity!




IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.


    In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile
      Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;
    We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,
      Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!

    But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,
      Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;
    While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,
      Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!

    Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain,
      Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;
    Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain
      A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

    Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,
      Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;
    For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,
      Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!




ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.


    Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,
      Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;
    'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,
      And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,
      Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;
    While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,
      No more to revisit this valley of tears:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,
      The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,
    And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,
      Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
      Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;
    But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,
      Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,
      Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;
    Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more
      Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,
      When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?
    Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
      When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!




THE DYING HOUR.


    Why does the day, whose date is brief,
      Smile sadly o'er the western sea?
    Why does the brown autumnal leaf
      Hang restless on its parent tree?
    Why does the rose, with drooping head,
      Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
    Their golden time of life had fled--
      It was their dying hour!

    Why does the swan's melodious song
      Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
    Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
      Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
    Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
      To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
    Their time was past--they lived to die--
      It was their dying hour!

    Why does the dolphin change its hues,
      Like that aërial child of light?
    Why does the cloud of night refuse
      To meet the morn with beams so bright?
    Why does the man we saw to-day,
      To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
    All earth can give must pass away--
      It was their dying hour!




THE MIDNIGHT WIND.


    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
    The mournful music of the mind,
      The echo of a tear;
    And still methought the hollow sound
      Which, melting, swept along,
    The voice of other days had found,
      With all the powers of song.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And thought of friends untrue--
    Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,
      That nought could e'er undo;
    Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright--
      Of joys which fancy gave--
    Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light
      Were darken'd in the grave.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind
      When all was still as death;
    When nought was heard before, behind--
      Not e'en the sleeper's breath.
    And I have sat at such an hour
      And heard the sick man's sigh;
    Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,
      At that lone moment die.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And wept for others' woe;
    Nor could the heart such music find
      To bid its tear-drops flow.
    The melting voice of one we loved,
      Whose voice was heard no more,
    Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,
      Still breathing as before.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And sat beside the dead,
    And felt those movings of the mind
      Which own a secret dread.
    The ticking clock, which told the hour,
      Had then a sadder chime;
    And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r,
      Which sung the dirge of time.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      When, o'er the new-made grave
    Of one whose heart was true and kind,
      Its rudest blasts did rave.
    Oh! there was something in the sound--
      A mournful, melting tone--
    Which led the thoughts to that dark ground
      Where he was left alone.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And courted sleep in vain,
    While thoughts like these have oft combined
      To rack the wearied brain.
    And even when slumber, soft and deep,
      Has seen the eyelid close,
    The restless soul, which cannot sleep,
      Has stray'd till morning rose.




ROBERT DAVIDSON.


Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in
1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth
year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he
devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning
scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at
their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden
ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued
through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the
composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft
visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the
day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of
verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published,
in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title,
"Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a
well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty;
and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the
parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the
church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both
in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a
place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent,
and industrious.




FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.


    Adieu! a lang and last adieu,
      My native Caledonia!
    For while your shores were in my view,
      I steadfast gazed upon ye, O!
    Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold,
    Fit emblem of your sons of old,
    Whose valour, more than mines of gold,
      Has honour'd Caledonia.

    I think how happy I could be,
      To live and die upon ye, O!
    Though distant many miles from thee,
      My heart still hovers o'er ye, O!
    My fancy haunts your mountains steep,
    Your forests fair, an' valleys deep,
    Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep
      To gladden Caledonia.

    Still mem'ry turns to where I spent
      Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O!
    Though by misfortune from it rent,
      It 's dearer still than ony, O!
    In vain I 'm told our vessel hies
    To fertile fields an' kindly skies;
    But still they want the charm that ties
      My heart to Caledonia.

    My breast had early learn'd to glow
      At name of Caledonia;
    Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe,
      She never bow'd to ony, O!
    A land of heroes, famed an' brave--
    A land our fathers bled to save,
    Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave--
      Adieu to Caledonia!




ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS.


    Ye daisied glens and briery braes,
    Haunts of my happy early days,
    Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes
                And flow'rets fair,
    Before my heart was scathed wi' waes
                Or worldly care.

    Now recollection's airy train
    Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain,
    And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain,
                Like friends appear,
    That, lang, lang lost, now found again,
                Are doubly dear.

    But many a dauted object 's fled;
    Low lies my once paternal shed;
    Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread
                The ruin'd heap;
    Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread,
                The echoes sleep.

    Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams,
    When warm'd with summer's glowing beams,
    Have often laved my tender limbs,
                When my employ
    Was chasing childhood's airy whims
                From joy to joy.

    Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray,
    I 've often join'd in cheerful play,
    Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay,
                Whose magic art,
    Remember'd at this distant day,
                Still warms the heart.

    Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost!
    Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd,
    By adverse winds and currents cross'd,
                By watching worn,
    Some landed on that silent coast,
                Ne'er to return!

    Howe'er the path of life may lie,
    If poorly low, or proudly high,
    When scenes of childhood meet our eye,
                Their charms we own,
    And yield the tribute of a sigh
                To days long gone.




TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS.

AIR--_"Auld Langsyne."_


    To wander lang in foreign lands,
      It was my destinie;
    I joyful was at my return,
      My native hills to see.
    My step grew light, my heart grew fain,
      I thought my cares to tine,
    Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot
      Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.

    I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green
      Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh;
    Likewise the bank aboon the burn,
      Where broom and hawthorns grew.
    A lonely tree, whose aged trunk
      The ivy did entwine,
    Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met,
      In cheerful sports langsyne.

    I mixèd with the village train,
      Yet still I seem'd alane;
    Nae kindly hand did welcome me,
      For a' my friends were gane.
    Those friends who oft in foreign lands
      Did haunt this heart o' mine,
    And brought to mind the happy days
      I spent wi' them langsyne.

    In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca',
      I braved the billows' roar;
    I 've now seen thirty simmer suns
      Blink on a distant shore;
    And I have stood where honour call'd,
      In the embattled line,
    And there left many gallant lads,
      The cronies o' langsyne.

    I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear,
      Yet still I fortune blame;
    I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days,
      And now I 'm ane at hame.
    I have nae friend but what my gowd
      Can draw to mammon's shrine;
    But how unlike the guileless hearts
      That wish'd me weel langsyne!




PETER ROGER.


Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at
Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to,
the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous
communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much
information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these
volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792.
For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the
banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles,
where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at
Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of
his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate
acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:--

     "Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man....
     He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite
     natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He
     was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and
     passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very
     interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in
     the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the
     society of his friends. He might almost be said to
     revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and
     accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he
     lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side
     between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently
     visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the
     Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few
     minutes' _crack_ with his 'friend Peter,' as he called
     him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev.
     Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon
     of the district upon his widely-extended rounds--Dr
     Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam
     Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud--whose
     appearance would be the welcome signal for the
     'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite.
     And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost
     self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might
     enable them 'to stand before kings.'

     "My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of
     my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening
     spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious
     and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among
     the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his
     door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves
     turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his
     chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the
     hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the
     coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his
     sister was attending to the preparation of some
     creature-comforts--for he was a man of some substance,
     and hospitable withal--you would be conducted into his
     little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the
     Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the
     lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some
     favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill
     and execution which would have done little dishonour to
     _Picus_ himself, some simple native melody upon his
     Scotch flute. The _in-door_ entertainment consisted of
     varied conversation, embracing the subjects of
     literature, politics, and theology, largely
     interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his
     numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the
     treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious
     shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive
     features. His conversation would glide most naturally,
     and without any intentional effort that was apparent,
     into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down
     the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable
     psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air--and he
     could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual
     exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly
     outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and
     purest piety, as made the heart glad.

     "Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the
     energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the
     temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and
     continued to the end of his days a most rigid total
     abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits.
     Altogether, he was one of those self-taught,
     large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom
     Scotland may well be proud."




LOVELY JEAN.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell."_


    'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw,
      An' fair as summer's rosy beam,
    There 's ane the bonniest o' them a',
      That dwells by Manor's mountain stream.
    Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face,
      An' ilka time new beauties seen;
    For aye some new discover'd grace
      Endears to me my lovely Jean.

    An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang,
      When a' alane she gently strays
    The yellow waving broom amang,
      That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes--
    Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear,
      Afar in yonder bower sae green,
    The mavis quits her lay to hear
      A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.

    But it 's no her peerless face nor form,
      It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear,
    That keeps my love to her sae warm,
      An' maks her every day mair dear;
    It 's just the beauties o' her mind,
      Her easy, winning, modest mien,
    Her truth and constancy, which bind
      My heart and soul to lovely Jean.




JOHN MALCOLM.


John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of
the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795.
Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to
proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period
when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was
besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d
Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign.
Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his
right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active
service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his
abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He
contributed to _Constable's Magazine_, and other periodicals. For one of
the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of
the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the
death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the _Edinburgh Weekly Journal_.
In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently
contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the _Edinburgh
Literary Journal_. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from
his pen, under the title of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he
undertook the editorship of the _Edinburgh Observer_ newspaper, which he
held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary
complaint, in September 1835.

Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was
especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry,
which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of
versification.




THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.


            The music of the night,
            Upon its lonely flight
    Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands;
            That muffled music seems
            Like voices heard in dreams,
    Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.

            Amid the stillness round,
            As 'twere the shade of sound,
    Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones;
            Such as from trembling wire
            Of sweet Æolian lyre,
    With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.

            Oh! melting on the ear,
            What solemn chords are there!
    The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh;
            And thine, majestic main!
            Great Nature's organ strain,
    Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.

            And songs unsung by day--
            The nightingale's lone lay.
    From lady's bower, the lover's serenade;
            And dirge of hermit-bird
            From haunts of ruin heard,
    The only voice that wails above the dead.

            To them that sail the deep,
            When winds have sunk to sleep,
    The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on;
            Say, does their mystic hum,
            So vague and varied, come
    From distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?

            In them might fancy's ear
            Earth's dying echoes hear,
    Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods;
            Or songs of festal halls,
            Or sound of waterfalls,
    Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.

            Joy breathes in morning song,
            And happy things among
    Her choral bowers wake matins of delight;
            But dearer unto me
            The dirge-like harmony
    Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.




THE SEA.


            The sea--the deep, deep sea--
            That awful mystery!
    Was there a time of old ere it was born,
            Or e'er the dawn of light,
            Coeval with the night--
    Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?

            Till the Great Spirit's word
            Its sullen waters heard,
    And their wild voices, through the void profound,
            Gave deep responsive roar;
            But silent never more
    Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!

            Earth's echoes faint and die;
            Sunk down into a sigh,
    Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way;
            And desert silence reigns
            Upon the mighty plains
    Where battles' thunders peal'd--and where are they?

            But still from age to age
            Upon its pilgrimage,
    When many a glorious strain the world hath flown;
            And while her echoes sleep
            In darkness, the great deep,
    Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.




ERSKINE CONOLLY.


Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796.
At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary
elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn,
bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a
bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of
several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he
removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas
Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into
partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and
after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account.
He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable
dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much
beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet,
though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication.
His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the _Edinburgh
Intelligencer_ of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for
deep feeling and genuine tenderness.




MARY MACNEIL.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_


    The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
      Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;
    An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',
      As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.
    A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,
      Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;
    And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
      The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.

    Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,
      That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;
    Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
      Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
    She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;
      She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;
    She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,
      To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.

    But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
      Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;
    An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
      Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.
    The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';
      The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';
    The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';
      An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!




THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.


    There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,
    When the object of untold affection we meet,
    But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,
    As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.

    There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,
    When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;
    But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,
    Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.

    There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,
    When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,
    Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,
    The longest, the last of terrestrial things.




GEORGE MENZIES.


George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on
the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On
completing his education at a country school, he became, in his
fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in
different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the
Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the
counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in
various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in
different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a
succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and
editor of the _Woodstock Herald_ newspaper. After a short illness, he
died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his
fifty-first year.

Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote
respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In
1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled,
"Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five
years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life,
in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.




THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.


    As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,
    As gay the grove, the vale as green;
    But, oh! the days that we have seen
      Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!

    Oh! we have often fondly stray'd
    In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,
    And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd
      On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!

    Since then, full many a year and day
    With me have slowly pass'd away,
    Far from the braes of Auchinblae,
      And far from love and thee, Mary!

    And we must part again, my dear,
    It is not mine to linger here;
    Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear,
      We meet not here again, Mary!

    For on Culloden's bloody field,
    Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd--
    Last night to me it was reveal'd
      Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!

    And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine
    Upon the heights of Galloquhine,
    A thousand victims at the shrine
      Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!

    Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come--
    I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,
    With thee my heart remains at home--
      Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!




FARE THEE WEEL.


    Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie;
    Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!
    Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
    Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

    By yon starry heavens I vow it!
    By my love!--(I mayna rue it)--
    By this hour in which we sever!
    I will love but thee for ever.

    Should the hand of death arrest me,
    Think my latest prayer hath blest thee;
    As the parting pang draws nearer,
    I will love thee aye the dearer.

    Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish--
    'Tis a spark that winna perish;
    Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
    Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.




JOHN SIM.


John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father,
James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and
was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made
rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University
of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his
diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice
of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few
months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate
with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances,
he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th
January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island
about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise
date of his death is unknown.

Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was
selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He
published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat
imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are
pervaded by genial sentiment.




NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.

AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_


    Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side--
    Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side--
    Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day,
    Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.

    Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side,
    O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side;
    Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair
    Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.

    Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side,
    Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side;
    And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow,
    Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.




BONNIE PEGGY.[46]

AIR--_"Bonnie lassie, O."_


    Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O!
    On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
      Where the waters smoothly rin,
      Far aneath the roarin' linn,
    Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O!
    When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O!
    In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O!
      And a sky of azure blue,
      Deck'd with stars of golden hue,
    Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O!
    When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!
    On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!
      We have heard in echoes die,
      While the wave that rippled by,
    Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!

    Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!
    Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!
      Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast
      To my beating heart I press'd,
    Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!
    Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!
    Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!
      Oh! never again, I ween,
      Will we meet at summer e'en
    On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
    Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!
    As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!
      Then with bosom, oh, how light,
      Had I hail'd the coming night,
    And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!


[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin
Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously
ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then
under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and
professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was
published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim
in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of
these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter
from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work,
Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song--by the poet
Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to
the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the
earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with
music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to
adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the
absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the
production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See
Memoir of Mr Lyle, _postea_.)




NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]

_Gaelic Air._


    Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er--
      The war of pride and love;
    And, Mary, now we meet no more,
      Unless we meet above.

    Too well thou know'st how much I loved!
      Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!
    But all these hopes are blighted now,
      They point but to despair.

    Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,
      I haste to India's shore;
    For here how can I longer stay,
      And call thee mine no more?

    Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er;
      And though I still must love,
    Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,
      Oh, may we meet above!


[47] This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was
attached, and who had agreed to marry him on an improvement in his
worldly circumstances. A desire speedily to gain her hand is said to
have been the cause of his proceeding to the West Indies. The prediction
in the song was sadly realised.




WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.


William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October
1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of
the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron,
Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on
the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name
was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the
parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a
considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His
parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he
became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in
Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of
Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley,
being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth
year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and
in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which
he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a
more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the
Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session
of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the
appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.

From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours
to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his
fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful
ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose
and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818,
he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work
published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and
last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of
songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many
valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song
and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto
volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"--a work which
considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly
correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the _Paisley
Magazine_, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one
year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy
is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of
the _Paisley Advertiser_, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he
exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the _Glasgow Courier_,
a more influential journal in the same political interests.

On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his
literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a
public journalist. To _The Day_, a periodical published in the city in
1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and
about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of
Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson.
Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions
into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical."
In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating
an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow;
but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He
died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November
1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the
Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been
erected to his memory.

Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large
and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his
cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and
surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often
taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He
was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of
spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he
was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His
claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is
unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not
written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the
greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his
characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian
ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and
successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An
excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy,
was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.




JEANIE MORRISON.[48]


    I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
      Through mony a weary way,
    But never, never can forget
      The luve o' life's young day!
    The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en,
      May weel be black gin Yule;
    But blacker fa' awaits the heart
      Where first fond luve grows cule.

    O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
      The thochts o' bygane years
    Still fling their shadows owre my path,
      And blind my een wi' tears;
    They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears;
      And sair and sick I pine,
    As memory idly summons up
      The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

    'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
      'Twas then we twa did part;
    Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule,
      Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
    'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
      To leir ilk ither lear;
    And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
      Remember'd evermair.

    I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
      When sitting on that bink,
    Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
      What our wee heads could think.
    When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
      Wi' ae buik on our knee,
    Thy lips were on thy lesson--but
      My lesson was in thee.

    Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
      How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
    Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said
      We cleek'd thegither hame?
    And mind ye o' the Saturdays
      (The schule then skailt at noon)
    When we ran aff to speel the braes--
      The broomy braes o' June?

    My head rins round and round about,
      My heart flows like a sea,
    As ane by ane the thoughts rush back
      O' schule-time and o' thee.
    Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
      Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
    When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
      Like simmer blossoms sprang!

    Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
      The deavin', dinsome toun,
    To wander by the green burnside,
      And hear its waters croon?
    The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
      The flowers burst round our feet,
    And in the gloamin o' the wood,
      The throssil whusslit sweet.

    The throssil whusslit in the wood,
      The burn sang to the trees,
    And we, with nature's heart in tune,
      Concerted harmonies;
    And on the knowe abune the burn,
      For hours thegither sat
    In the silentness o' joy, till baith
      Wi' very gladness grat.

    Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
      Tears trickled doun your cheek,
    Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
      Had ony power to speak!
    That was a time, a blessed time,
      When hearts were fresh and young,
    When freely gush'd all feelings forth,
      Unsyllabled--unsung!

    I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
      Gin I hae been to thee
    As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
      As ye hae been to me!
    Oh, tell me gin their music fills
      Thine heart, as it does mine;
    Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
      Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

    I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
      I 've borne a weary lot;
    But in my wanderings, far or near,
      Ye never were forgot.
    The fount that first burst frae this heart,
      Still travels on its way;
    And channels deeper as it rins,
      The luve o' life's young day.

    Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
      Since we were sinder'd young,
    I 've never seen your face, nor heard
      The music o' your tongue;
    But I could hug all wretchedness,
      And happy could I die,
    Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
      O' bygane days and me!


[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch,
still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable
brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her
seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months
occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which
she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was
totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the
editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she
made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good
capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to
fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her
temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison
became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who
died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now
(Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never
met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of
his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been
published for several years before she became aware that she was the
heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's
juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and
amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal
beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.




WEARIE'S WELL.


    In a saft simmer gloamin',
      In yon dowie dell,
    It was there we twa first met,
      By Wearie's cauld well.
    We sat on the broom bank,
      And look'd in the burn,
    But sidelang we look'd on
      Ilk ither in turn.

    The corncraik was chirming
      His sad eerie cry,
    And the wee stars were dreaming
      Their path through the sky;
    The burn babbled freely
      Its love to ilk flower,
    But we heard and we saw nought
      In that blessed hour.

    We heard and we saw nought,
      Above or around;
    We felt that our luve lived,
      And loathed idle sound.
    I gazed on your sweet face
      Till tears fill'd my e'e,
    And they drapt on your wee loof--
      A warld's wealth to me.

    Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing
      On bare holm and lea,
    And the cauld wind is strippin'
      Ilk leaf aff the tree.
    But the snaw fa's not faster,
      Nor leaf disna part
    Sae sune frae the bough, as
      Faith fades in your heart.

    You 've waled out anither
      Your bridegroom to be;
    But can his heart luve sae
      As mine luvit thee?
    Ye 'll get biggings and mailins,
      And mony braw claes;
    But they a' winna buy back
      The peace o' past days.

    Fareweel, and for ever,
      My first luve and last;
    May thy joys be to come--
      Mine live in the past.
    In sorrow and sadness
      This hour fa's on me;
    But light, as thy luve, may
      It fleet over thee!




WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.


    Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa',
    And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa',
    Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
    For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.

    The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day,
    And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray;
    The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see,
    But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.

    Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
    Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth!
    And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e,
    When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.

    I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen
    A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in;
    But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie,
    And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

    I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,
    But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring;
    I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
    Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.

    My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me,
    And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be;
    But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e,
    Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.




THE MIDNIGHT WIND.


    Mournfully, oh, mournfully
      This midnight wind doth sigh,
    Like some sweet plaintive melody
      Of ages long gone by:
    It speaks a tale of other years--
      Of hopes that bloom'd to die--
    Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
      And loves that mouldering lie.

    Mournfully, oh, mournfully
      This midnight wind doth moan;
    It stirs some chord of memory,
      In each dull heavy tone:
    The voices of the much-loved dead
      Seem floating thereupon--
    All, all my fond heart cherished,
      Ere death hath made it lone.

    Mournfully, oh, mournfully
      This midnight wind doth swell,
    With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
      Hope's passionate farewell.
    To the dreamy joys of early years,
      Ere yet grief's canker fell
    On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears
      Start at that parting knell!




HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!


    He is gone! he is gone!
      Like the leaf from the tree,
    Or the down that is blown
      By the wind o'er the lea.
    He is fled--the light-hearted!
    Yet a tear must have started
    To his eye when he parted
      From love-stricken me!

    He is fled! he is fled!
      Like a gallant so free--
    Plumed cap on his head,
      And sharp sword by his knee;
    While his gay feathers flutter'd,
    Surely something he mutter'd--
    He at least must have utter'd
      A farewell to me!

    He 's away! he 's away!
      To far lands o'er the sea,
    And long is the day
      Ere home he can be;
    But where'er his steed prances
    Amid thronging lances,
    Sure he 'll think of the glances
      That love stole from me!

    He is gone! he is gone!
      Like the leaf from the tree,
    But his heart is of stone
      If it ne'er dream of me;
    For I dream of him ever--
    His buff-coat and beaver,
    And long sword, oh! never
      Are absent from me!




DAVID MACBETH MOIR.


David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His
elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the
Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical
classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year
obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a
respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice
in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and
about the same age contributed some prose essays to the _Cheap
Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he
published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession
of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for
_Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_. Soon after the establishment of
_Blackwood's Magazine_, he became one of its more conspicuous
contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally
subscribed by his literary _nom de guerre_, the Greek letter Delta
([Greek: Delta]), long continued a source of much interest to the
readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his
poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other
Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally
supplied in a series of chapters to _Blackwood_, and afterwards
published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an
author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of
Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled,
"Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further
publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant
Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic
Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered,
at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures
on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards
published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a
large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health,
he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive
benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching;
he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only
his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the
burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his
memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir
regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his
literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his
inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his
style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness,
dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the
plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a
genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in
stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious
aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His
mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were
pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his
chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He
had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still
survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo
volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood,
under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an
interesting memoir.




CASA WAPPY.[49]


    And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
      Our fond, dear boy--
    The realms where sorrow dare not come,
      Where life is joy?
    Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
    Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
    Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Despair was in our last farewell,
      As closed thine eye;
    Tears of our anguish may not tell
      When thou didst die;
    Words may not paint our grief for thee,
    Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
    Of our unfathom'd agony,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Thou wert a vision of delight
      To bless us given;
    Beauty embodied to our sight,
      A type of heaven.
    So dear to us thou wert, thou art
    Even less thine own self than a part
    Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Thy bright, brief day knew no decline--
      'Twas cloudless joy;
    Sunrise and night alone were thine,
      Beloved boy!
    This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
    That found thee prostrate in decay;
    And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
      Earth's undefiled,
    Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
      Our dear, sweet child!
    Humbly we bow to fate's decree;
    Yet had we hoped that time should see
    Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Do what I may, go where I will,
      Thou meet'st my sight;
    There dost thou glide before me still,
      A form of light.
    I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
    I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
    Till, oh! my heart is like to break,
                                  Casa Wappy!

           *       *       *       *       *

    The nursery shews thy pictured wall,
      Thy bat, thy bow,
    Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
      But where art thou?
    A corner holds thine empty chair;
    Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there,
    But speak to us of our despair,
                                  Casa Wappy!

           *       *       *       *       *

    We mourn for thee when blind, blank night
      The chamber fills;
    We pine for thee when morn's first light
      Reddens the hills;
    The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea--
    All--to the wallflower and wild pea--
    Are changed--we saw the world through thee,
                                  Casa Wappy!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
      In life's spring-bloom,
    Down to the appointed house below--
      The silent tomb.
    But now the green leaves of the tree,
    The cuckoo, and "the busy bee,"
    Return, but with them bring not thee,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    'Tis so! but can it be--(while flowers
      Revive again)--
    Man's doom in death--that we and ours
      For aye remain?
    Oh! can it be that o'er the grave
    The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave,
    Yet God forget our child to save?
                                  Casa Wappy!

    It cannot be; for were it so
      Thus man could die,
    Life were a mockery--thought were woe,
      And truth a lie--
    Heaven were a coinage of the brain--
    Religion frenzy--virtue vain,
    And all our hopes to meet again,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
      With beam of love,
    A star--death's uncongenial wild--
      Smiling above!
    Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
    The skyward path, the seraph's road,
    That led thee back from man to God,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
      Fond, fairest boy,
    That heaven is God's, and thou art there
      With him in joy!
    There past are death and all its woes,
    There beauty's stream for ever flows,
    And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
                                  Casa Wappy!

    Farewell, then--for a while farewell,
      Pride of my heart!
    It cannot be that long we dwell
      Thus torn apart--
    Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
    And dark howe'er life's night may be,
    Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee,
                                  Casa Wappy!


[49] This touching elegiac poem (which is not unsuitable for music) was
written by Mr Moir on the death of his favourite child, Charles
Bell--familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy"--who died in February 1838,
at the age of four and a half years.




FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.


    Farewell, our fathers' land,
      Valley and fountain!
    Farewell, old Scotland's strand,
      Forest and mountain!
    Then hush the drum and hush the flute,
    And be the stirring bagpipe mute--
    Such sounds may not with sorrow suit--
      And fare thee well, Lochaber!

    This plume and plaid no more will see,
    Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
    Nor even the broadswords which Dundee
    Bade flash at Killiecrankie.
        Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

    Now when of yore, on bank and brae,
    Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay;
    Far downward scowls Bennevis gray,
      On sheep-walks spreading lonely.
        Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

    For now we cross the stormy sea,
    Ah! never more to look on thee,
    Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free,
      From Etive glens to Morven.
        Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

    Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe;
    The household sword shall eat the sheath,
    While rave the wild winds o'er the heath
      Where our gray sires are sleeping.
        Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.




HEIGH-HO!


    A pretty young maiden sat on the grass--
      Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
    And by a blithe young shepherd did pass,
      In the summer morning so early.
    Said he, "My lass, will you go with me,
    My cot to keep and my bride to be;
    Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
      And I will love you rarely?"

    "O! no, no, no!" the maiden said--
      Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
    And bashfully turn'd aside her head,
      On that summer morning so early.
    "My mother is old, my mother is frail,
    Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;
    I dare not list to any such tale,
      For I love my kind mother rarely."

    The shepherd took her lily-white hand--
      Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
    And on her beauty did gazing stand,
      On that summer morning so early.
    "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave
    Alone in her frail old age to grieve;
    But my home can hold us all, believe--
      Will that not please thee fairly?"

    "O! no, no, no! I am all too young"--
      Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
    "I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
      On a summer morning so early."
    But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
    Oft she strove to go, but she never went;
    And at length she fondly blush'd consent--
      Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.




ROBERT FRASER.


Robert Fraser was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the
24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various
schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a
wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of
four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an
ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was prosperous in
merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially
to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He
was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed
both in prose and verse to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and other
periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and
in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, when
he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a
lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His "Poetical Remains," with a
memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months
after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is
pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable
power.




OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL.


    Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
      How weel I canna tell;
    Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd,
      Lang ere I wist mysel'.
    At the school amang the lave,
      If I wrestled or I ran,
    I cared na' for the prize,
      If she saw me when I wan.

    Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
      When thae gleesome days were gane;
    'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude,
      To match her saw I nane.
    Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam,
      Wi' its cumber an' its toil,
    My day-tide dool was a' forgot,
      In her blithe e'enin' smile.

    Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain;
      An' though mony cam to woo,
    Wha to won her wad been fain,
      Yet to me she aye was true.
    She grat wi' very joy
      When our waddin' day was set;
    An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled,
      She 's my darling lassie yet.




JAMES HISLOP.


James Hislop, a short-lived poet of considerable promise, was born of
humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798.
Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety
and worth, he taught himself to read. When little more than a child, he
became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his
birth-place. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling,
which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had
already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he
became a shepherd and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of
Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene
of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II.
and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous
Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the
peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the
persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of
poetry; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of "The
Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed
to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the
neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of indiscriminate
reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his
twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but
tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact
sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble
pastoral associates; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove
to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by
teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to
the _Edinburgh Magazine_, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and
especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the
Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this
gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been
interested by his poetry.

The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to
the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed "The
Cameronian's Dream," which appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for
February 1821, and attracted much attention. He now commenced teaching
in Edinburgh; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr
Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about
to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to
mental improvement; and on his return from a three years' cruise along
the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the
_Edinburgh Magazine_, a series of papers, under the title of "Letters
from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In
1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaintance of Allan
Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and J. G. Lockhart. For some time, he
reported to one of the London newspapers; but this employment proving
uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had
reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal
acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with
some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an
extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London--an office which,
at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the
"Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good
Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands,
Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the
island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with
fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop,
proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th
December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character,
Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply
lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been
described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather
than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of
"The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of
his country.




THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.


    In a dream of the night, I was wafted away
    To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay;
    Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
    Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

    'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
    When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
    And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
    All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.

    'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
    Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;
    On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew
    Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.

    And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud,
    The song of the lark was melodious and loud;
    And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
    Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

    And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
    The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
    Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
    And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

    But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings--
    Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings--
    And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
    For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

    'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
    Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying;
    For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
    And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

    Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd,
    But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed;
    With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation,
    They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

    The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing,
    The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
    But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter,
    As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.

    Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
    Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded;
    Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending,
    They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.

    The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
    The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
    The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling,
    As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

    When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
    A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
    Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
    And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.

    A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining,
    All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
    And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
    Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

    On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding;
    Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
    Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye--
    A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!




HOW SWEET THE DEWY BELL IS SPREAD.


    How sweet the dewy bell is spread
      Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin'
    The heathery locks o' deepenin' red,
      Around the mountain brow aye wavin'!
    Here, on the sunny mountain side,
      Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither;
    Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed,
      Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.

    Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid,
      Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye;
    And now, aneath my tartan plaid,
      How blest I lie wi' you aside me!
    And art thou happy--dearest, speak--
      Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie?
    Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek,
      Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.

    The saftness o' the gentle dove,
      Its eyes in dying sweetness closin',
    Is like thae languid eyes o' love,
      Sae fondly on my heart reposin'.
    When simmer suns the flowers expand,
      In a' their silken beauties shinin',
    They 're no sae saft as thy white hand,
      Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.

    While thus, aneath my tartan plaid,
      Sae warmly to my lips I press ye;
    That hinnied bloom o' dewy red
      Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie!
    Reclined on love's soft crimson bed,
      Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither;
    Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread,
      How happy, happy 'mang the heather!




ROBERT GILFILLAN.


A respectable contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan
was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble
circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was
required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support
of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a
turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his
thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith;
and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native
town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as
clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the
office of Collector of Poor's-rates in Leith, and continued to hold this
appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December
1850, in his fifty-second year.

A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished
among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed
through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music,
and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for
graceful simplicity.




MANOR BRAES.

TUNE--_"Logan Water."_


    Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,
    And Castlehill's white wa's appear,
    I spent ae day, aboon a' days,
    By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
    The purple heath was just in bloom,
    And bonnie waved the upland broom,
    The flocks on flowery braes lay still,
    Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.

    'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,
    Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,
    I met a maiden fair to see,
    Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;
    Her beauty to the mind did bring
    A morn where summer blends wi' spring,
    So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,
    'Twas bliss to look--to linger there!

    Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,
    Wi' love to win and sense to charm,
    So much of nature, nought of art,
    She 'll live enthroned within my heart!
    Aboon her head the laverock sang,
    And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;
    Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,
    By Manor stream an' Manor braes.

    I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair
    Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care?
    She said her heart frae love was free,
    But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.
    The parting cam, as partings come,
    Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb;
    Yet I 'll return, ere many days,
    To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.




FARE THEE WELL.

TUNE--_"Roy's Wife."_


    Fare thee well, for I must leave thee;
      But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
    Happier days may yet be mine,
      At least I wish them thine--believe me!

    We part--but by those dew-drops clear,
      My love for thee will last for ever;
    I leave thee--but thy image dear,
      Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.
                        Fare thee well, &c.

    Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow--
      One farewell smile before we sever;
    The only balm for parting woe
      Is--fondly hope 'tis not for ever.
                        Fare thee well, &c.

    Though dark and dreary lowers the night,
      Calm and serene may be the morrow;
    The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,
      Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
        Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,
          But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
        Happier days may yet be mine,
          At least I wish them thine--believe me!




THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.


    'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
    With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
    It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne--
    'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

    Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,
    Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
    The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
    But tidings of summer the young roses bring.

    Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),
    Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
    Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,
    The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.

    Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,
    But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;
    And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair--
    Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.




THE EXILE'S SONG.

TUNE--_"My ain Countrie."_


    Oh! why left I my hame,
      Why did I cross the deep?
    Oh! why left I the land
      Where my forefathers sleep?
    I sigh for Scotia's shore,
      And I gaze across the sea;
    But I canna get a blink
      O' my ain countrie!

    The palm-tree waveth high,
      And fair the myrtle springs,
    And to the Indian maid
      The bulbul sweetly sings;
    But I dinna see the broom
      Wi' its tassels on the lea,
    Nor hear the lintie's sang
      O' my ain countrie!

    Oh! here no Sabbath bell
      Awakes the Sabbath morn,
    Nor song of reapers heard
      Amang the yellow corn;
    For the tyrant's voice is here,
      And the wail of slaverie,
    But the sun of freedom shines
      In my ain countrie!

    There 's a hope for every woe,
      And a balm for every pain;
    But the first joys o' our heart
      Come never back again.
    There 's a track upon the deep,
      And a path across the sea,
    But the weary ne'er return
      To their ain countrie!




THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.


    Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,
    And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;
    An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,
    When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?

    They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,
    But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears;
    Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,
    For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.

    I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn,
    For the blithe happy days that never can return;
    When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,
    An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.

    Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet,
    Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet;
    The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,
    As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.

    Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain--
    There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;
    Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee!
    The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.




'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.


    'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
      That waking we sall never see;
    Yet oh! how kindly was the smile
      My laddie in my sleep gave me!
    I thought we sat beside the burn
      That wimples down the flowery glen,
    Where, in our early days o' love,
      We met that ne'er sall meet again.

    The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,
      And gladden'd wi' his parting ray
    The woodland wild and valley green,
      Fast fading into gloamin' gray.
    He talk'd of days o' future joy,
      And yet my heart was haflins sair;
    For when his eye it beam'd on me,
      A withering death-like glance was there!

    I thought him dead, and then I thought
      That life was young and love was free;
    For o'er our heads the mavis sang,
      And hameward hied the janty bee!
    We pledged our love and plighted troth,
      But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave;
    When, starting from my dream, I found
      His troth was plighted to the grave!

    I canna weep, for hope is fled,
      And nought would do but silent mourn,
    Were 't no for dreams that should na come,
      To whisper back my love's return.
    'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
      That waking we sall never see;
    Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile
      My laddie in my sleep gave me!




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




WILLIAM ROSS.


William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic
Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He
received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed
during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of
Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the
calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of
general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish
school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age
of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (_uisg-bea_) in
several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief
theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose
coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to
the too susceptible poet.




THE HIGHLAND MAY.


I.

    Let the maids of the Lowlands
    Vaunt their silks and their Hollands,
    In the garb of the Highlands
          Oh give me my dear!
    Such a figure for grace!
    For the Loves such a face!
    And for lightness the pace
          That the grass shall not stir.
           *       *       *       *       *


II.

    Lips of cherry confine
    Teeth of ivory shine,
    And with blushes combine
          To keep us in thrall.
    Thy converse exceeding
    All eloquent pleading,
    Thy voice never needing
          To rival the fall
    Of the music of art,--
    Steal their way to the heart,
    And resistless impart
          Their enchantment to all.


III.

    When _Beltane_ is over,
    And summer joys hover,
    With thee a glad rover
          I 'll wander along,
    Where the harp-strings of nature
    Are strung by each creature,
    And the sleep shall be sweeter
          That lulls to their song,
    There, bounding together,
    On the lawn of the heather,
    And free from the tether,
          The heifers shall throng.


IV.

    There shall pasture the ewes,
    There the spotted goats browse,
    And the kids shall arouse
          In their madness of play;
    They shall butt, they shall fight,
    They shall emulate flight,
    They shall break with delight
          O'er the mountains away.
    And there shall my Mary
    With her faithful one tarry,
    And never be weary
          In the hollows to stray.


V.

    While a concert shall cheer us,
    For the bushes are near us;
    And the birds shall not fear us,
          We 'll harbour so still.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Strains the mavis his throat,
    Lends the cuckoo her note,
    And the world is forgot
          By the side of the hill.




THE CELT AND THE STRANGER.


    The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerie
      Is the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50]
    Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither,
      Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!

    Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying;
    The half is behind, but the better is straying
    The shade of the hills and the copses away in,
      And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.

    I know why it wanders,--it is to be treading
      Where long I frequented the haunts of my dear,
    The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading,
      With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.

    It is to be tending where heifers are wending,
    And the birds, with the music of love, are contending;
    And rapture, its passion to innocence lending,
      Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.


[50] This song was written in Edinburgh.




CORMAC'S CURE.

     The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for
     his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her
     husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained
     in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and
     had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter.
     On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to
     his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate
     resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the
     lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly
     weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who,
     with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look
     for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree
     who were possessed of equal charms. With the same
     uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the
     resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own
     music. Ross applies the story to his own case.

    Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile,
    And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while--
    "Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown,
    In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."

    When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear,
    Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here!
    Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow,
    As rosy on the lip, is there--then, why so frantic thou?"

    The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured,
    Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured:
    But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain,
    And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.

    Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along,
    As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song,
    Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide,
    A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.

    But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael,
    Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.
    And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look
    Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?

    Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told,
    That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.
    His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss--
    He almost thought he heard her sigh, "_Come back again to bliss!_"




THE LAST LAY OF LOVE.

     This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably
     when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of
     consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his
     mistress to another lover.


    Reft the charm of the social shell
      By the touch of the sorrowful mood;
    And already the worm, in her cell,
      Is preparing the birth of her brood.

    She blanches the hue of my cheek,
      And exposes my desperate love;
    Nor needs it that death should bespeak
      The hurt no remeid can remove.

    The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace,
      Even that has withdrawn from the scene;
    And, now, not a breeze can displace
      A leaf from its summit of green

    So prostrate and fallen to lie,
      So far from the branch where it hung,
    As, in dust and in helplessness, I,
      From the hope to which passion had clung.

    Yet, benison bide! where thy choice
      Deems its bliss and its treasure secure,
    May the months in thy blessings rejoice,
      While their rise and their wane shall endure!

    For me, a poor warrior, in blood
      By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone,
    The glow of ambition subdued,
      The weapons of rivalry gone.

    Yet, cruel to mock me, the base
      Who scoff at the name of the bard,
    To scorn the degree of my race,
      Their toil and their travail, is hard.

    Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew
      A furrow unstraight or unpaid;
    And the other, to righteousness true,
      Hung even the scales of his trade.

    And I--ah! they should not compel
      To waken the theme of my praise;
    I can boast over hundreds, to tell
      Of a chief in the conflict of lays.

    And now it is over--the heart
      That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd,
    In the song-fight shall never take part,
      And weakness gives warning to yield.

    As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud
      That is raised by the dash of the spray
    When waters are battling aloud,
      Bewilderment bears me away.

    And to measure the song in its charm,
      Or to handle the viol with skill,
    Or beauty with carols to warm,
      Gone for ever, the power and the will.

    No never, no never, ascend
      To the mountain-pass glories, shall I,
    In the cheer of the chase to unbend;
      Enough, it is left but to die.

    And yet, shall I go to my rest,
      Where the dead of my brothers repair--
    To the hall of the bards, not unblest,
      That their worthies before me are there?




LACHLAN MACVURICH.


This bard, known by his territorial designation of "Strathmassie," lived
during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its
close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant
of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease
of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and
forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman,
James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with
that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor,
and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his
work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved,
"Strathmassie" evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is
nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his
namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which,
in the opinion of many, constitutes all that we have in the name of
Ossian.




THE EXILE OF CLUNY.

     The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the
     heights of Benalder, where he entertained his
     unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the
     adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for
     France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that
     loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie"
     seems to have caught, in the following verses, some
     characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful
     dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest
     courage in warfare.


    Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,
      Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;
    And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,
      Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.
    The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,
      And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,
    And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,
      Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.

    He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;
      At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;
    Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!
      In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.
    When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial
      Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:
    "Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;
      "Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."

    What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?
      When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;
    As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,
      As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.
    So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury
      To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;
    So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,
      So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.

    Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,
      Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;
    The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,
      But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.
    Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb
      And sureness of sinew? and--for the stout blow--
    'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,
      Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.

    Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasing
      With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;
    With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,
      Following on for the right in the havoc of life.
    To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
      His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;
    And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak
      His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.




JAMES M'LAGGAN.


James M'Laggan was the son of a small farmer at Ballechin, in the parish
of Logierait, Perthshire, where he was born in 1728. Educated at the
University of St Andrews, he received license as a probationer of the
Established Church. Through the influence of the Duke of Atholl, he was
appointed to the Chapel of Ease, at Amulree, in Perthshire, and
subsequently to the chaplainship of the 42d Regiment, his commission to
the latter office bearing date the 15th of June 1764. His predecessor in
the chaplainship was Dr Adam Ferguson, author of the "History of the
Roman Republic," who was also a native of the parish of Logierait.

Than Mr M'Laggan, few could have been better qualified for the duties of
chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was intimately conversant with the
language, character, and partialities of the Gael, and was possessed of
much military ardour, as well as Christian devotedness. He accompanied
the regiment to America, and was present in several skirmishes during
the War of Independence. Anecdotes are still recounted of the humour and
spirit with which he maintained an influence over the minds of his
flock; and Stewart, in his "History of the Highlands," has described him
as having essentially contributed to form the character of the Highland
soldier, then in the novitiate of his loyalty and efficiency in the
national service. In 1776, while stationed with his regiment in Glasgow,
he had the freedom of the city conferred on him by the corporation.
After discharging the duties of military chaplain during a period of
twenty-four years, he was in 1788 presented by the Duke of Atholl to the
parish of Blair-Athole, Perthshire. He died in 1805, in the
seventy-seventh year of his age.

A pious and exemplary clergyman, Mr M'Laggan is still kindly remembered
in the scene of his parochial ministrations. An accomplished Gaelic
scholar, and with a strong admiration of the poetry of the Gael, he
recovered, from the recitation of many aged persons, large portions of
the poetry of Ossian, prior to the publication of the collections of
Macpherson.[51] He composed some spirited Gaelic lyrics during the
period of his connexion with the army, but the greater portion of his
poetry still remains in MS. A collection of Gaelic songs under his
editorial superintendence was published anonymously.

Mr M'Laggan was of fair and ruddy complexion, and was under the middle
stature. He was fond of humour, and his dispositions were singularly
benevolent. In youth, he was remarkable for his skill in athletic
exercises. He married a daughter of the Rev. James Stewart, minister of
Killin, the originator of the translation of the Scriptures into the
Gaelic language. Of a family of four sons and three daughters, one son
and two daughters still survive; his eldest son, the Rev. James
M'Laggan, D.D., was successively minister of the parishes of
Auchtergaven and Kinfauns, in Perthshire, and ultimately Free Church
Professor of Divinity in Aberdeen.


[51] Macpherson afterwards consulted Mr M'Laggan's "Collection of
Ossianic Remains" (see report on Ossian, App. 153).




SONG OF THE ROYAL HIGHLAND REGIMENT.


    For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bear
      To the warriors dear of the muir and the valley--
    The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,
      With the curtal coat, and the sweeping _eil-e_.
    In their belts array'd, where the dark blue blade
      Is hung, with the dirk at the side;
    When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,
      Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.

    The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,
      The race of the wight of hand;
    Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,
      When the Murdoch's high blood takes command.
    With Loudon to lead ye, the wise and the steady,
      The daring in fight and the glorious,
    Like the lightning ye 'll rush, with the sword's bright flash,
      And return to your mountains victorious.

    Oh, sons of the Lion! your watch is the wild-lands,
      The garb of the Highlands is mingled with blue,
    Though the target and bosses are bright in the Highlands,
      The axe in your hands might be blunted well, too.
    Then forward--and see ye be huntsmen true,
      And, as erst the red deer felling,
    So fell ye the Gaul, and so strike ye all
      The tribes in the backwoods dwelling.

    Where ocean is roaring, let top-sails be towering,
      And sails to the motion of helm be flying;
    Though high as the mountain, or smooth as the fountain,
      Or fierce as the boiling floods angrily crying,
    Though the tide with a stroke be assailing the rock;
      Oh, once let the pibroch's wild signal be heard,
    Then the waves will come bending in dimples befriending,
      And beckoning the friends of their country on board.
    The ocean-tide 's swelling, its fury is quelling,
      In salute of thunder proclaiming your due;
    And, methinks, that the hum of a welcome is come,
      And is warbling the Jorram to you.

    When your levy is landed, oh, bright as the pearls
      Shall the strangers who welcome you, gladly and greeting
    Speak beautiful thoughts; aye, the beautiful girls
      From their eyes shall the tears o'er the ruby be meeting,
    And encounter ye, praying, from the storm and the slaying,
      "From the stranger, the enemy, save us, oh save!
    From rapine and plunder, oh tear us asunder,--
      Our noble defenders are ever the brave!"

    "If the fondest ye of true lovers be,"
      So cries each trembling beauty,
    "Be bold in the fight, and give transport's delight
      To your friends and the fair, by your duty."
        "Oh, yes!" shall the beautiful hastily cry;
        "Oh, yes!" in a word, shall the valiant reply;
    "By our womanly faith we pledge you for both,
    For where'er we contract, and where'er we betroth,
        We vow with the daring to die!"

    Faithful to trust is the lion-like host
      Whom the dawn of their youth doth inure
    To hunger's worst ire, and to action's bold fire,
      And to ranging the wastes of the moor.
    Accustom'd so well to each enterprise snell,
      Be the chase or the warfare their quarry;
    Aye ever they fight the best, for the right
      To the strike of the swords, when they hurry.




GLOSSARY.


_Ahin'_, behind.

_Auld-farrant_, sagacious, cunning.

_Baudrons_, a cat.

_Beltane_, the 1st of May.

_Bield_, shelter.

_Bink_, a bank of earth.

_Birk_, birch.

_Blae_, blue.

_Blaud_, a flat piece of anything, to slap.

_Blinket_, looked kindly.

_Bonnie_, beautiful.

_Burnie_, a small rivulet.

_Byke_, a bee-hive.

_Cannily_, gently, dexterously.

_Cauldrife_, coldish.

_Chanter_, the drone of a bagpipe.

_Cleugh_, a cliff.

_Clutch_, seize.

_Coble_, a fishing-boat.

_Couthilie_, kindly.

_Crack_, to converse.

_Cuiff_, a blockhead.

_Daffin'_, diversion.

_Dautit_, fondled, caressed.

_Dighted_, wiped.

_Doited_, very stupid.

_Donnart_, stupified.

_Dow_, wither.

_Dowie_, sad, worn with grief.

_Dree_, suffer, endure.

_Dreich_, tedious.

_Dunt_, a knock.

_Eerie_, dreading things supernatural.

_Fashious_, troublesome.

_Fause_, false.

_Ferlies_, wonders.

_Flate_, scolded.

_Flow_, a small quantity.

_Gar_, compel.

_Gauds_, trinkets.

_Gawkie_, a thoughtless person.

_Gif_, if.

_Gilphie_, a half-grown person, a romping lad.

_Glaiks_, foolish talk.

_Gowd_, gold.

_Gree_, agree.

_Greet_, weep.

_Haddin_, a farmer's stock.

_Haffit-links_, a necklace.

_Haflins_, nearly half, partly.

_Haps_, outer garments.

_Haud_, hold.

_Hinnied_, honied.

_Hodden_, a coarse kind of cloth.

_Hummel_, humble.

_Kame_, comb.

_Ken_, know.

_Kilt_, to truss up the clothes.

_Kye_, cattle.

_Laigh_, low.

_Leal_, loyal, true.

_Lear_, learning.

_Lick_, wipe, beat.

_Lift_, the sky.

_Litheless_, listless.

_Loonie_, a little fellow.

_Loupin'_, leaping.

_Losh_, an exclamation of surprise.

_Lowne_, warm.

_Maen_, moan, complain.

_Mailin_, a tax, a rent.

_Maw_, to mow, the stomach.

_Meikle_, much.

_Mim_, prim.

_Mirk_, dark.

_Muter_, multure, ground corn.

_Neivefu'_, a handful.

_Newfangled_, newfashioned.

_Nit_, a nut.

_Owre_, over.

_Pow_, the head.

_Pree_, to taste, to kiss.

_Puirtith_, poverty.

_Racket_, stretched.

_Scaur_, to scare, a wound.

_Scoured_, burnished, ran.

_Scunner'd_, disgusted.

_Shiel_, a temporary cottage or hut.

_Siccan_, such.

_Siching_, sighing.

_Skailt_, emptied, scattered.

_Souch_, the sighing of the wind, the breathing of a tune.

_Speer'd_, inquired.

_Steer_, stir.

_Syne_, then, since.

_Tauld_, told.

_Tentie_, heedful, cautious.

_Tentin'_, leading.

_Tint_, lost.

_Trantlooms_, odds and ends.

_Wauken_, awaken.

_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.

_Waunert_, wandered.

_Wean_, a child.

_Wee_, little.

_Weel-faur'd_, well-favoured.

_Weir_, war, to herd.

_Whusslit_, whistled.

_Wooster-trystes_, wool-markets.

_Yird_, earth, soil.


END OF VOL. III.


EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.






[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

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

VOL. IV.


CAMPBELL


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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Henry Scott Riddell.

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

       *       *       *       *       *




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

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

BY

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

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL IV.

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

MDCCCLVII.


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




TO

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

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

THIS FOURTH VOLUME

OF

The Modern Scottish Minstrel

IS DEDICATED,

WITH SINCERE REGARD AND ESTEEM,

BY

HIS VERY FAITHFUL SERVANT,

CHARLES ROGERS.




THE INFLUENCE OF BURNS

ON

SCOTTISH POETRY AND SONG:

An Essay.

BY THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.


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

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

    "Placed far amid the melancholy main,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "Speak of passion, but of passion past."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CONTENTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROBERT POLLOK,                                                       103
  The African maid,                                                  105

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

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

JOHN TWEEDIE,                                                        120
  Saw ye my Annie?                                                   121

THOMAS ATKINSON,                                                     122
  Mary Shearer,                                                      124

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THOMAS BRYDSON,                                                      172
  All lovely and bright,                                             173

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING,                                           235
  The wild rose blooms,                                              236

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.

                                                                    PAGE

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

JOHN BROWN,                                                          286
  The sisters of Dunolly,                                            287

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

GLOSSARY,                                                            295




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.




HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

To this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that Mr Riddell
is possessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the
Scottish lyre. He has viewed the national character where it is to be
seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most
favourable to its development. He has lived, too, among scenes the best
calculated to foster the poetic temperament. "He has got," wrote
Professor Wilson, "a poet's education: he has lived the greater part of
his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and
beautiful solitudes of nature." Sufficiently imaginative, he does not,
like his minstrel predecessor the Ettrick Shepherd, soar into the
regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless
world. He sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of
Caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life.
His style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to
nature. Several of his songs, such as "Scotland Yet," "The Wild Glen sae
Green," "The Land of Gallant Hearts," and "The Crook and Plaid," will
find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is read or sung.

In 1855, Mr Riddell executed a translation of the Gospel of Matthew into
the Scottish language by command of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a
performance of which only a limited number of copies have been printed
under the Prince's auspices. At present, he is engaged in preparing a
romance connected with Border history.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A flock of sheep.

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

[3] "Songs of the Ark, with other Poems." Edin. 1831. 8vo.

[4] "The Christian Politician, or the Right Way of Thinking." Edinburgh,
1844, 8vo. This work, now nearly out of print, we would especially
commend to the favourable attention of the Religious Tract Society.--ED.

[5] "Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.




THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

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


    When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest,
    And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast,
    I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen,
    And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

    I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane,
    Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane,
    There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween
    Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.

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

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

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

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




SCOTIA'S THISTLE.


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

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

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

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




THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.


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

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

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




THE YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.


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

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

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

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




WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN.


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

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

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




OUR AIN NATIVE LAND.


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

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

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

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




THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.


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

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




FLORA'S LAMENT.


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

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

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




WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_


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

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




SCOTLAND YET.[6]


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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.


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

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

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




OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_


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

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

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

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

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




THE BOWER OF THE WILD.


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

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

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




THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_


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

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

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

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

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




WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.


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

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

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

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




THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.


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

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

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




WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.


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

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

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

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




OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

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


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

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

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




OUR MARY.[7]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.


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

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




SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

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


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.




CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR--_"Tullymet."_


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

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




HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE?


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

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

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




BRUCE'S ADDRESS.


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

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

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




REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION.


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

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

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




WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?


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

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

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




JAMES KING.


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

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

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




THE LAKE IS AT REST.


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

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

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

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




LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

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


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

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

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

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




ISOBEL PAGAN.


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




CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]


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

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

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

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

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

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


FOOTNOTES:

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




JOHN MITCHELL.


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

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




BEAUTY.


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

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

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

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




TO THE EVENING STAR.


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

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




OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.


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

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

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




THE LOVE-SICK MAID.


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

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

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




ALEXANDER JAMIESON.


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




THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

_"Russian Air."_


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

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

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


FOOTNOTES:

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




A SIGH AND A SMILE.

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


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

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

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

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




JOHN GOLDIE.


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

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

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




AND CAN THY BOSOM?

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


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

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

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




SWEET'S THE DEW.


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

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

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




ROBERT POLLOK.


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

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




THE AFRICAN MAID.


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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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




J. C. DENOVAN.


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




OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!


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

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

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




JOHN IMLAH.


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

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




KATHLEEN.

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


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

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

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




HIELAN' HEATHER.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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




FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Kinloch."_


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

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

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




THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.


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

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

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




KATHERINE AND DONALD.


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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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




THE GATHERING.[12]


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




MARY.

AIR--_"The Dawtie."_

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




JOHN TWEEDIE.


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

FOOTNOTES:

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




SAW YE MY ANNIE?


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

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

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

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




THOMAS ATKINSON.


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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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




MARY SHEARER.


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

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

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

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




WILLIAM GARDINER.


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

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




O SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME![15]


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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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





ROBERT HOGG.


Robert Hogg was born in the parish of Stobo, about the close of the
century. His father was William Hogg, eldest brother of the Ettrick
Shepherd. William Hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted
man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. Receiving a
classical education at the grammar-school of Peebles, Robert proceeded
to the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the
Church. Abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press,
or reader in the printing-office of Messrs Ballantyne. John Wilson, the
future vocalist, was his yoke-fellow in office. His official duties were
arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in
prose and verse, to the periodicals. His literary talents attracted the
favourable notice of Mr J. G. Lockhart, who, on being appointed, in
1825, to conduct the _Quarterly Review_, secured his services as
secretary or literary assistant. He therefore proceeded to London, but
as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in
his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his
former situation. For a short period he acted as amanuensis to Sir
Walter Scott, while the "Life of Napoleon" was in progress. According to
his own account,[16] this must have been no relief from his ordinary
toils, for Sir Walter was at his task from early morning till almost
evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. When _Chambers's
Edinburgh Journal_ was commenced, Hogg was asked by his former
schoolfellow, Mr Robert Chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant
editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received; but this
office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give
satisfaction, he was led to decline. He was an extensive contributor,
both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular
periodical; but before the work had gone further, his health began to
give way, and he retired to his father's house in Peeblesshire, where he
died in 1834. He left a young wife and one child.

Robert Hogg was of low stature and of retiring manners. He was fond of
humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of
heart. His compositions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary
periodical literature. He contributed songs to the "Scottish and Irish
Minstrels" and "Select Melodies" of R. A. Smith; and a ballad, entitled
"The Tweeddale Raide," composed in his youth, was inserted by his uncle
in the "Mountain Bard." Those which appear in the present work are
transcribed from a small periodical, entitled "The Rainbow," published
at Edinburgh, in 1821, by R. Ireland; and from the Author's Album, in
the possession of Mr Henry Scott Riddell, to whom it was presented by
his parents after his decease. In the "Rainbow," several of Hogg's
poetical pieces are translations from the German, and from the Latin of
Buchanan. All his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression,
but they are defective in startling originality and power.[17]

FOOTNOTES:

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

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




QUEEN OF FAIRIE'S SONG.


    Haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me,
    Over the holme so green, over the lea,
    Over the corrie, and down by the lake,
    Cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake,
    Stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea:
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

    Come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill;
    Come at the dead of night when all is still;
    Come over mountain steep, come over brae,
    Through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray;
    Come from the forest glade and greenwood tree;
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

    Were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae,
    Were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray,
    Were ye by sunny dell up in the ben,
    Or by the braken howe far down the glen,
    Or by the river side; where'er ye be,
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night,
    Haste to your revel sports gleesome and light,
    To bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the Leven,
    And dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven,
    Then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea;
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!




WHEN AUTUMN COMES.


    When autumn comes an' heather bells
    Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells,
    An' corn that waves on lowland dales
        Is yellow ripe appearing;

    Bonnie lassie will ye gang
    Shear wi' me the hale day lang;
    An' love will mak' us eithly bang
        The weary toil o' shearing?

    An' if the lasses should envy,
    Or say we love, then you an' I
    Will pass ilk ither slyly by,
        As if we werena caring.

    But aye I wi' my heuk will whang
    The thistles, if in prickles strang
    Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang,
        When we gang to the shearing.

    An' aye we'll haud our rig afore,
    An' ply to hae the shearing o'er,
    Syne you will soon forget you bore
        Your neighbours' jibes and jeering.

    For then, my lassie, we'll be wed,
    When we hae proof o' ither had,
    An' nae mair need to mind what's said
        When we're thegither shearing.




BONNIE PEGGIE, O!


    Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
    Down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie Peggie, O!
        When the siller burn rins clear,
        When the rose blooms on the brier,
    An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, O!

    I hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, O!
    You hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, O!
        My heart's been sick and sair,
        But it shall be sae nae mair,
    I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, O!

    You hae said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, O!
    An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, O!
        Let the world gae as it will,
        Be it weel or be it ill,
    Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, O!

    Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
    Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, O!
        Nae mair my love is cross'd,
        Sorrow's sairest pang is past,
    I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, O!




A WISH BURST.


    Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea,
      With the winds and waves for guides,
    From all the wants of Nature free
      And all her ties besides.
    Beyond where footstep ever trode
      Would I hold my onward way,
    As wild as the waves on which I rode,
      And fearless too as they.

    The angry winds with lengthen'd sweep
      Were music to mine ear;
    I'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep
      Close round me without fear.
    When winter storms burst from the cloud
      And trouble the ocean's breast,
    I'd joy me in their roaring loud,
      And mid their war find rest.

    By islands fair in the ocean placed,
      With waves all murmuring round,
    My wayward course should still be traced,
      And still no home be found.
    When calm and peaceful sleeps the tide,
      And men look out to sea,
    My bark in silence by should glide,
      Their wonder and awe to be.

    When sultry summer suns prevail,
      And rest on the parching land,
    The cool sea breeze would I inhale,
      O'er the ocean breathing bland.
    A restless sprite, that likes delight,
      In calm and tempest found,
    'Twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea
      For ever and aye to bound.




I LOVE THE MERRY MOONLIGHT.[18]


    I love the merry moonlight,
      So wooingly it dances,
    At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers,
      On which the fresh dew glances.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      On lake and pool so brightly
    It pours its beams, and in the stream's
      Rough current leaps so lightly.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      It ever shines so cheerily
    When night clouds flit, that, but for it,
      Would cast a shade so drearily.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      For when it gleams so mildly
    The passions rest that rule the breast
      At other times so wildly.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      For 'neath it I can borrow
    Such blissful dreams, that this world seems
      Without a sin or sorrow.


FOOTNOTES:

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




OH, WHAT ARE THE CHAINS OF LOVE MADE OF?[19]


    Oh, what are the chains of Love made of,
      The only bonds that can,
    As iron gyves the body, thrall
      The free-born soul of man?

    Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun,
      Or have you power to seize,
    And round your hand, like threads of silk,
      Wind up the wandering breeze?

    Can you collect the morning dew
      And, with the greatest pains,
    Beat every drop into a link,
      And of these links make chains?

    More fleeting in their nature still,
      And less substantial are
    Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew,
      Smile, sigh, and tear--by far.

    And yet of these Love's chains are made,
      The only bonds that can,
    As iron gyves the body, thrall
      The free-born soul of man.


FOOTNOTES:

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




JOHN WRIGHT.


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




AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.


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

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

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

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

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




THE MAIDEN FAIR.


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

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

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




THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.


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

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

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

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




THE WRECKED MARINER.


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

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

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

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

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

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




JOSEPH GRANT.


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

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

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

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




THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.


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

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

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




LOVE'S ADIEU.


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

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

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

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




DUGALD MOORE.


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

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




RISE, MY LOVE.


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

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

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

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




JULIA.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




LUCY'S GRAVE.


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

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

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

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

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

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




THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.


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

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




THE FIRST SHIP.


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

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

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

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




WEEP NOT.


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

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




TO THE CLYDE.


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

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

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

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

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




REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.


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

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




THE ARABY MAID.


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

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

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

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

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




THE MAIDEN'S VOW.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




I LOVE THE SEA.


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

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




GEORGE ALLAN.


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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]


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


II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)

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


III.--(CLANSMEN.)

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.


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

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

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




LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.


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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




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


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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Printed for the first time.




THOMAS BRYDSON.


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

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




ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.


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

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

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

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




CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.


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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.


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

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

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

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




THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.


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

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

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

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

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

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




ROBERT MILLER.


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




WHERE ARE THEY?


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

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

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

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




LAY OF THE HOPELESS.


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

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

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

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

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




ALEXANDER HUME.


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

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

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

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

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

    "Musical as is Apollo's lute,"

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

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

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

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

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




MY WEE, WEE WIFE.

AIR--_"The Boatie Rows."_


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

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

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




O POVERTY!

AIR--_"The Posie."_


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

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

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

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

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




NANNY.

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


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

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




MY BESSIE.

AIR--_"The Posie."_


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

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

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

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

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




MENIE HAY.

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


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

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

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

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

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




I 'VE WANDER'D ON THE SUNNY HILL.


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

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

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

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




OH! YEARS HAE COME.


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

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

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

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




MY MOUNTAIN HAME.

AIR--_"Gala Water."_

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

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

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

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




THOMAS SMIBERT.


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

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




THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[25] Admiral Sir Charles Napier.




OH! BONNIE ARE THE HOWES.


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

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

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

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




OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.


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

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

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

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

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

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




JOHN BETHUNE.


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




WITHER'D FLOWERS.


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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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




A SPRING SONG.


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

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

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

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

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

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




ALLAN STEWART.


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

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




THE SEA-BOY.

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


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

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

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

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




MENIE LORN.


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

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

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




THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

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


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

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

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

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




THE LAND I LOVE.


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

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

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

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

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




ROBERT L. MALONE.


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




THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

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


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

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

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

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

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




HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




PETER STILL.


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

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




JEANIE'S LAMENT.

AIR--_"Lord Gregory."_


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

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

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

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




YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.

AIR--_"John Todd."_


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

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

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

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

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

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




THE BUCKET FOR ME.


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

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

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

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




ROBERT NICOLL.


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

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

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




ORDÉ BRAES.


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

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

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

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

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




THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.


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

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

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

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




THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.


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

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

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

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

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




THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.


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

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

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

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

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




BONNIE BESSIE LEE.


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

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

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

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


FOOTNOTES:

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




ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING.


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




THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS.

TUNE--_"Caledonia."_


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

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




ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE.[28]


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




THE WELLS O' WEARIE.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




ALEXANDER LAING.


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

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




AE HAPPY HOUR.

AIR--_"The Cock Laird."_


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

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

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




LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME.

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


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

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

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

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




LASS OF LOGIE.

AIR--_"Lass of Arranteenie."_


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

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

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

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




MY AIN WIFE.

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


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

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

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

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




THE MAID O' MONTROSE.

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


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

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

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

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




JEAN OF ABERDEEN.

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


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

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

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




THE HOPELESS EXILE.

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


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

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




GLEN-NA-H'ALBYN.[29]

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


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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




ALEXANDER CARLILE.


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




WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30]


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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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




MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES.


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

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

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

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

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

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




THE VALE OF KILLEAN.


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

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

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

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

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

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




JOHN NEVAY.


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

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




THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.


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

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

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

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

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

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

    Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,
      An' bricht smile in thine e'e--
    The bonnie bark is in the bay,
      I 'm coming hame to thee;
    I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,
      Wi' mony a pearl fine,
    An' I will lay them in thy lap,
      For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.




THOMAS LYLE.


Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a
native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in
the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the
year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained
till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The
latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his
favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to
great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his
peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession,
or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life,
having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the
habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly
passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these
airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which
it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his
botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin,
about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was
led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song,
"Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of
being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his
college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he
contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song
appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised
alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr
John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did
not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr
Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to
the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the
index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33]
and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie,
music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his
representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the
piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the
authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being
submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his
claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after
invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of
his numerous musical publications.

In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song
literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient
Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce
Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the
more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir
William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of
various merit by the editor.

Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of
twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow,
where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of
the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present
time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring
dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written
verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will,
however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and
simple lyrics.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] The former words to this air commenced, "Oh, the shearing's no for
you, bonnie lassie, O!"

[32] The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included
within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a
very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song.

[33] See vol. iii., p. 226.




KELVIN GROVE.


    Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!
    Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!
      Where the rose in all her pride,
      Paints the hollow dingle side,
    Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!

    Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!
    To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!
      Where the glens rebound the call
      Of the roaring water's fall,
    Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!

    O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!
    When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!
      There the May pink's crimson plume
      Throws a soft but sweet perfume
    Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!

    Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!
    As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!
      Yet with fortune on my side,
      I could stay thy father's pride,
    And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!

    But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!
    On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!
      Ere yon golden orb of day
      Wake the warblers on the spray,
    From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!

    Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!
    And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!
      To the river winding clear,
      To the fragrant-scented breer,
    Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!

    When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!
    Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!
      Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear
      Of thy lover on his bier,
    To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!




THE TRYSTING HOUR.


    The night-wind's Eolian breezes,
      Chase melody over the grove,
    The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
      Float rosy the woodlands above;
    Then tarry no longer, my true love,
      The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
    'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
      When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

    So stilly the evening is closing,
      Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
    Eolian whispers reposing
      Breathe softly, I hear my love call;
    Yes, the light fairy step of my true love
      The night breeze is wafting to me;
    Over heathbell and violet blue, love,
      Perfuming the shadowy lea.




HARVEST SONG.[34]


    The harvest morning breaks
      Breathing balm, and the lawn
    Through the mist in rosy streaks
      Gilds the dawn,
    While fairy troops descend,
    With the rolling clouds that bend
    O'er the forest as they wend
      Fast away, when the day
      Chases cloudy wreaths away
        From the land.

    The harvest breezes swell,
      And the song pours along,
    From the reapers in the dell,
      Joyous throng!
    The tiny gleaners come,
    Picking up their harvest home,
    As they o'er the stubble roam,
      Dancing here, sporting there,
      All the balmy sunny air
        Is full of song.

    The harvest evening falls,
      While each flower round the bower,
    Breathing odour, now recalls
      The lover's hour.
    The moon enthroned in blue
    Lights the rippling lake anew,
    And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!
      From the glen again, again,
      Wakes the stillness of the scene
        On my adieu.


FOOTNOTES:

[34] Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.




JAMES HOME.


James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was
born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south
of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been
engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He
resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition
to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.

Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the
composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an
enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and
poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been
popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o'
Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His
compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's
tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and
fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown
Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,--a work which only reached a single
number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits,
Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine
complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He
enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected
office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.




MARY STEEL.


    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When the lark begins to sing,
    And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts
      Are welcoming the spring:
    When the merle and the blackbird build their nest
      In the bushy forest tree,
    And a' things under the sky seem blest,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee.

    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When the simmer spreads her flowers,
    And the lily blooms and the ivy twines
      In beauty round the bowers;
    When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,
      And the lambs sport o'er the lea,
    And every heart 's in its happiest mood,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee.

    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When har'st blithe days begin,
    And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,
      The foremost rig to win;
    When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,
      Where light-hair'd lasses be,
    And mony a tale o' love is tauld,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee.

    I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
      When the winter winds rave high,
    And the tempest wild is pourin' doun
      Frae the dark and troubled sky:
    When a hopeless wail is heard on land,
      And shrieks frae the roaring sea,
    And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,
      My thoughts shall be o' thee!




OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?


    Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,
      And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?
    Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,
      When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?

    Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,
      The hours we have spent together?
    Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet
      Shine on as brightly as ever!

    Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,
      So fraught with the heart's full feeling?
    As we clung to each other in the last embrace,
      The soul of love revealing!

    Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,
      Where the farewell word was spoken?
    Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,
      The vow and the promise broken?

    Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;
      Though other arms caress thee,
    Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,
      And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--

    Yet never again on thy warm young cheek
      Will breathe a soul more warm than mine,
    And never again will a lover speak
      Of love more pure to thine.




THE MAID OF MY HEART.

AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_


    When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,
    The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,
    I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
    Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

    When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,
    But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,
    And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,
    Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.

    Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,
    Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;
    Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
    Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.




SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.


    Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,
    Where the maiden's step is light and free;
    Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,
    Awake the joys of the rosy morn.

    There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,
    That tells how the foamy billows break;
    There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,
    That tells of dreary solitude.

    But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,
    Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,
    Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain
    I ne'er in this world can wake again.

    The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,
    And fresh tears gush from their briny source,
    As if I had hail'd in the passing wind
    The all I have loved and left behind.




THIS LASSIE O' MINE.[35]

TUNE--_"Wattie's Ramble."_


    O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?
    Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
    Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
    Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.

    It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
    It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien--
    But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e
    That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.

    To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
    When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
    To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss--
    On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

    I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
    When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;
    I have felt every joy which illumines the breast
    When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.

    But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
    In life's early day, when the bosom is warm,
    When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,
    On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as
the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found
the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p.
201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the
authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having
been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles,
Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author,
introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianæ_, in the
"Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this
periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that
the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as
to the authorship of our best songs!




JAMES TELFER.


James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born
about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed,
in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Passionate in his
admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some
of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at
Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he
inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose
tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected
edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at
London in 1852, with the title of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been
a contributor to the provincial journals.

Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of
compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the
narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years
he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with
emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to
support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with
his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters,
some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting
speculations.




OH, WILL YE WALK THE WOOD WI' ME?[36]


    "Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?
      Oh, will ye walk the green?
    Or will ye sit within mine arms,
      My ain kind Jean?"

    "It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee,
      Nor yet will I the green;
    And as for sitting in your arms,
      It 's what I dinna mean."

    "Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,
      And weel may I compleen;
    But since that better mayna be,
      I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."

    "Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh,
      Ye saw her late yestreen;
    Ye'll find in her a lightsome love
      Ye winna find in Jean."

    "Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh
      I carena to be seen;
    Her lightsome love I'd freely gie
      For half a blink frae Jean."

    "Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,
      I ken for her ye green;
    Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd--
      Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."

    "For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds
      I dinna care a preen;
    The purse o' gowd I weel could want,
      If I could hae my Jean."

    "Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee;
      Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green;
    But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk,
      And mak' me aye your Jean."

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments
of an older ditty.--_Note by the Author._




I MAUN GAE OVER THE SEA.


    "Sweet summer now is by,
    And cauld winter is nigh,
      The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree;
    The hills are white wi' snaw,
    And the frosty winds blaw,
      And I maun gie over the sea, Mary,
      And I maun gie over the sea.

    "But winter will gang by,
    And summer come wi' joy,
      And Nature again will be free;
    And wooers you will find,
    And mair ye 'll never mind
      The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary,
      The laddie that 's over the sea."

    "Oh, Willie, since it 's sae,
    My heart is very wae
      To leave a' my friends and countrie;
    But wi' thee I will gang,
    Though the way it be lang,
      And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie,
      And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."

    "The way is vera far,
    And terrible is war,
      And great are the hardships to dree;
    And if I should be slain,
    Or a prisoner ta'en,
      My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary?
      My jewel, what would come o' thee?

    "Sae at hame ye maun bide,
    And should it sae betide
      That a bride to another ye be,
    For ane that lo'ed ye dear
    Ye 'll whiles drap a tear;
      I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary,
      I 'll aften do the same for thee."

    The rowan tear down fell,
    Her bosom wasna well,
      For she sabbit most wofullie;
    "Oure the yirth I wad gang,
    And never count it lang,
      But I fear ye carena for me, Willie,
      But I fear ye carena for me."

    Nae langer could he thole,
    She tore his vera soul,
      He dighted her bonnie blue e'e;
    "Oh, what was it you said,
    Oh my ain loving maid?
      I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary,
      I 'll never love a woman but thee!"

    The fae is forced to yield,
    And freedom has the field;
      "Away I will ne'er gang frae thee;
    Only death shall us part,
    Keep sic thoughts frae my heart,
      But never shall part us the sea, Mary,
      But never shall part us the sea."





METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




EVAN MACLACHLAN.


One of the most learned of the modern Gaelic song-writers, Evan
Maclachlan, was born in 1775, in a small hut called Torracaltuin, in the
district of Lochaber. After struggling with many difficulties in
obtaining the means of education, he qualified himself for the duties of
an itinerating tutor. In this capacity it was his good fortune to live
in the families of the substantial tenantry of the district, two of
whom, the farmers at Clunes and Glen Pean, were led to evince an
especial interest in his welfare. The localities of those early patrons
he has celebrated in his poetry. Another patron, the Chief of Glengarry,
supplied funds to enable him to proceed to the university, and he was
fortunate in gaining, by competition, a bursary or exhibition at King's
College, Aberdeen. For a Greek ode, on the generation of light, he
gained the prize granted for competition to the King's College by the
celebrated Dr Claudius Buchanan. Having held, during a period of years,
the office of librarian in King's College, he was in 1819 elected
master of the grammar school of Old Aberdeen. His death took place on
the 29th March 1822. To the preparation of a Gaelic dictionary he
devoted the most important part of his life. Subsequent to his decease,
the work was published in two quarto volumes, by the Highland Society,
under the editorial care of Dr Mackay, formerly of Dunoon. The chief
amusement of Maclachlan's leisure hours was executing translations of
Homer into Gaelic. His translation of the third book of the Iliad has
been printed. Of his powers as a Gaelic poet, an estimate may be formed
from the following specimens in English verse.




A MELODY OF LOVE.

     The first stanza of this song was the composition of a
     lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic,
     and afterwards produced the following version of the
     whole in English.


    Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,
    Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore:
    Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,
    Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.

    As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow,
    The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
    Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display
    When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.

    As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove,
    Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love:
    Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,
    Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.

    The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,
    Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn:
    But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain,
    When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.

    When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,
    While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,
    Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove,
    And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.




THE MAVIS OF THE CLAN.

     These verses are allegorical. In the character of a
     song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his
     nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his
     own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving
     the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds
     to give an account of his flight to a strange but
     hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs
     among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and
     cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This
     piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic
     bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character
     of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the
     Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister--of
     Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum--of Macleod, and
     many others.


    Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early,
    And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely;
    No raven I, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak,
    No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek.
    I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have fared
    For ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared:
    Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn,
    And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn;
    Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care,
    And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.

    When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's[37] silver stream
    Glanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam,
    The flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd,
    As in a cradle-bed I lay, and all my woes were still'd.
    But changes will come over us, and now a stranger I
    Among the glades of Cluaran[38] must imp my wings and fly;
    Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove,
    Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.

    By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day,
    Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray,
    The comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure,
    And I, can I refrain to swell their diapason's measure?
    With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd,
    Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd,
    While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir,
    That in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire.
    O happy tribe of choristers! no interruption mars
    The concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jars
    A string of all your harping, nor of your voices trill
    Notes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.

    The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad,
    It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd,
    Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads
    (A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads.
    Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather,
    Whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither;
    Dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the side
    Of my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.

    Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son--
    I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run,
    I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece,
    Defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze.
    The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well,
    Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell!
    The flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far,
    As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star!
    I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I see
    The beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.

    Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine,
    The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine;
    And, 'mid the Highlands rude, I see the frequent furrows swell,
    With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.

       *       *       *       *       *

    And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shade
    That bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd;
    The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather,
    Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;
    For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;
    'T is time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wild-wood strain.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] The stream that flows through Glen Pean.

[38] The Gaelic name of Clunes, where the bard was entertained for many
years of his tutor life.




THE THREE BARDS OF COWAL.[39]




JOHN BROWN.


One of the bards of Cowal is believed to have been born in the parish of
Inverchaolain about 1750; his family name was Brun or Broun, as
distinguished from the Lowland Brown, which he assumed. He first
appeared as a poet by the publication, at Perth, in 1786, of a small
volume of Gaelic poetry, dedicated to the Duke of Montrose. The
subsequent portion of his career seems to have been chiefly occupied in
genealogical researches. In 1792 he completed, in two large sheets, his
"Historical and Genealogical Tree of the Royal Family of Scotland;" of
which the second edition bears the date 1811. This was followed by
similar genealogical trees of the illustrious family of Graham, of the
noble house of Elphinstone, and other families. In these productions he
uniformly styles himself, "Genealogist to his R. H. the Prince of Wales,
for Scotland." Brown died at Edinburgh in the beginning of the year
1821. He had formed a respectable connexion by marriage, under
circumstances which he has commemorated in the annexed specimen of his
poetry, but his latter years were somewhat clouded by misfortune. He is
remembered as a solicitor for subscriptions to his genealogical
publications.

FOOTNOTES:

[39] Cowal is that portion of Argyllshire bordering the Frith of Clyde,
and extending inland to the margin of Lochfine.




THE SISTERS OF DUNOLLY.

     The poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters,
     but without the consent of her relatives, who
     ultimately induced her to wed another. After a lapse of
     time the bard transferred his affection to another
     daughter of the same distinguished family, and being
     successful, was compensated for his former trials.


    The sundown had mantled Ben Nevis with night,
    And the stars were attired in the glory of light,
    And the hope of the lover was shining as day,
    When Dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away.

    Away she has gone at the touch of the helm,
    And the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm--
    But, would that his strength as his purpose was true,
    At Dunolly, Culloden were battled anew!

    Yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time,
    The kindred of Cowal would meet at the prime,
    And the _Brunach_[40] would joy, in the succour they gave,
    To win him a bride, or to win him a grave.

    My lost one! I'm not like the laggard thou'st found,
    Whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound;
    In the flush of my health and my penniless youth,
    I could well have rewarded thine honour and truth.

    Five years they have pass'd, and the Brunach has shaken
    The burden of woe that his spirit was breaking;
    A sister is salving a sister's annoy,
    And the eyes of the Brunach are treasured with joy.

    A bride worth the princesses England is rearing,
    Comes forth from Dunolly, a star reappearing;
    If my heart in Dunolly was garner'd before,
    In Dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more.

    The lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mild
    That in friendship or charity never beguiled,
    She is mine--to Dunduala[41] that traces her stem,
    As for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them,
    Though Donald[42] the gracious be head of her line,
    And "our exiled and dear"[43] in her pedigree shine.

    Then hearken, ye men of the country I love!
    Despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love,
    Ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly,
    May ye find, like the Brunach, another Dunolly.

FOOTNOTES:

[40] Brunach--The Brown, viz., the poet himself.

[41] The Macdougalls of Dunolly claim descent from the Scoto-Irish kings
who reigned in Dunstaffnage.

[42] Supposed to be the first of our Christian kings.

[43] Prince Charles Edward.




CHARLES STEWART, D.D.


The Rev. Dr Stewart was born at Appin, Argyllshire, in 1751. His mother
was a daughter of Edmonstone of Cambuswallace, the representative of an
old and distinguished family in the counties of Perth and Stirling; and
his father was brother of Stewart of Invernachoil, who was actively
engaged in the cause of Prince Charles Edward, and has been
distinguished in the romance of Waverley as the Baron of Bradwardine.
This daring Argyllshire chief, whom Scott represents as being fed in the
cave by "Davie Gellatly," was actually tended in such a place of
concealment by his own daughter, a child about ten years old.

On receiving license, Dr Stewart soon attained popularity as a preacher.
In 1779, being in his twenty-eighth year, he was ordained to the
pastoral charge of the parish of Strachur, Argyllshire. He died in the
manse of Strachur on the 24th of May 1826, in the seventy-fifth year of
his age, and the forty-seventh of his ministry. A tombstone was erected
to his memory in the parochial burying-ground, by the members of the
kirk-session. Possessed of superior talents, a vast fund of humour, and
a delightful store of traditional information, he was much cherished by
a wide circle of admiring friends. Faithful in the discharge of the
public duties of his office, he was distinguished among his parishioners
for his private amenities and acts of benevolence. He was the author
only of one song, but this has attained much favour among the Gael.




LUINEAG--A LOVE CAROL.


    No homeward scene near me,
    No comrade to cheer me,
    I cling to my dearie,
      And sigh till I marry.
        Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
          Ra-ill O,
        Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
          Was ever a May like my fairy?

    My youth with the stranger,[44]
    Next on mountains a ranger,
    I pass'd--but no change, here,
      Will sever from Mary.

    What ringlets discover
    Their gloss thy brows over--
    Forget thee! thy lover,
      Ah, first shall they bury.

    Thy aspect of kindness,
    Thy graces they bind us,
    And, like Feili,[45] remind us
      Of a heaven undreary.

    Than the treasures of Spain
    I would toil more to gain
    Thy love--but my pain,
      Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!

    When the shell is o'erflowing,
    And its dew-drops are glowing,
    No, never, thy snow on
      A slander shall tarry.

    When viols are playing,
    And dancers are Maying,
    My eyes may be straying,
      But my soul is with Mary.

    That white hand of thine
    Might I take into mine,
    Could I ever repine,
      Or from tenderness vary?

    No, never! no, never!
    My troth on 't for ever,
    Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
      My being to Mary.

FOOTNOTES:

[44] Invernahyle removed with his family to Edinburgh, and became very
intimate with the father of Sir Walter Scott. He seems to have made a
great impression on the future poet.

[45] Festivals, saint-days.




ANGUS FLETCHER.


Angus Fletcher was born at Coirinti, a wild and romantic spot on the
west bank of Loch Eck, in June 1776. His education was chiefly conducted
at the parish school of Kilmodan, Glendaruel. From Glendaruel he went to
Bute, in 1791, where he was variously employed till May 1804, when he
was elected schoolmaster of Dunoon, his native parish. His death took
place at Dunoon in 1852. The first of the two following songs was
contributed anonymously to the _Weekly Journal_ newspaper, whence it was
transferred by Turner into his Gaelic collection. It soon became popular
in the Highlands, and the authorship came to be assigned to different
individuals. Fletcher afterwards announced himself as the author, and
completely established his claim. He was the author of various metrical
compositions both in Gaelic and English.




THE CLACHAN OF GLENDARUEL.


        Thy wily eyes, my darling,
          Thy graces bright, my jewel,
        Have grieved me since our parting
          At the kirk of Glendaruel.

    'Twas to the Kirkton wending
      Bright eyes encounter'd duty,
    And mavis' notes were blending
      With the rosy cheeks of beauty.

    Oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist,
      Her arms, her instep queenly;
    And her sweet parting lips are graced
      With rows of ivory inly.

    When busy tongues are railing,
      Lown is her word unsaucy,
    And with modest grace unfailing
      She trips it o'er the causey.

    Should royalty prefer me,
      Preferment none I crave,
    But to live a shepherd near thee,
      On the howes of Corrichnaive.

    Would fortune crown my wishes--
      The shealing of the hill,
    With my darling, and the rushes
      To couch on, were my will.

    I hear, but not instruction,
      Though faithful lips are pleading--
    I read thy eyes' perfection,
      On their dew of mildness feeding.

    My hand is swiftly scrolling,
      In the courts of reverend men;[46]
    But, ah! my restless soul in
      Is triumphing my Jean.

    I fear, I fear their frowning--
      But though they chased me over
    Where Holland's flats[47] are drowning,
      I 'll live and die thy lover.

FOOTNOTES:

[46] The poet waxes professional. He was session-clerk and clerk-depute
of presbytery.

[47] The war was raging in Holland, under the command of the Duke of
York. The bard threatens to exchange the pen for the sword.




THE LASSIE OF THE GLEN.

     Versified from the Gaelic Original by the Author.


    Beneath a hill 'mang birken bushes,
      By a burnie's dimplit linn,
    I told my love with artless blushes
      To the lassie o' the glen.

        Oh! the birken bank sae grassy,
          Hey! the burnie's dimplit linn;
        Dear to me 's the bonnie lassie
          Living in yon rashy glen!

    Lanely Ruail! thy stream sae glassy
      Shall be aye my fav'rite theme,
    For on thy banks my Highland lassie
      First confess'd a mutual flame.

    What bliss to sit, and nane to fash us,
      In some sweet wee bow'ry den!
    Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
      Wi' the lassie o' the glen!

    And though I wander now unhappy,
      Far frae scenes we haunted then,
    I'll ne'er forget the bank sae grassy,
      Nor the lassie o' the glen.




GLOSSARY.


_Aboon_, above.

_Aumry_, a store-place.

_Baum_, balm.

_Beuk_, book.

_Bicker_, a drinking vessel.

_Burnie_, a small stream.

_Caller_, cool.

_Cled_, clad.

_Clud_, cloud.

_Couthy_, frank.

_Daffin'_, merry-making.

_Dighted_, wiped.

_Doit_, a small coin.

_Doitet_, dotard.

_Douf_, sad.

_Dree_, endure.

_Dwine_, dwindle.

_Fauld_, fold.

_Fleechit_, cajoled.

_Fykes_, troubles, anxieties.

_Gaed_, went.

_Gar_, compel.

_Gate_, way.

_Glour_, look earnestly.

_Grannie_, grandmother.

_Grat_, wept.

_Grit_, great.

_Haill_, whole.

_Haud_, hold, keep.

_Heuk_, reaping-hook.

_Hie_, high.

_Hinny_, honey.

_Hizzie_, _Hussy_, a thoughtless girl.

_Ken_, know.

_Knows_, knolls, hillocks.

_Laith_, loth.

_Lift_, firmament.

_Lowin'_, burning.

_Minnie_, mother.

_Parochin'_, parish.

_Pu'_, pull.

_Roos'd_, praised.

_Sabbit_, sobbed.

_Scour_, search.

_Slee_, sly.

_Speerin'_, inquiring.

_Swiggit_, swallowed.

_Syne_, then.

_Thole_, endure.

_Toom_, empty.

_Troth_, truth, vow.

_Trow_, believe.

_Tyne_, lose.

_Unco_, uncommon.

_Wag_, shake.

_Waur_, worse.

_Ween_, guess.

_Yirth_, earth.

_Yowes_, ewes.


END OF VOL. IV.

BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.







[Illustration:

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.

VOL. V.


Alexd^{r}. Maclagan.


EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Ever faithfully yours,

F. Bennoch.]

       *       *       *       *       *




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 V.

EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.

MDCCCLVII.


EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.




TO

ALEXANDER BAILLIE COCHRANE,

ESQ. OF LAMINGTON.


SIR,

I inscribe to you the present volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL,"
not to express approval of your political sentiments, nor to court your
patronage as a man of rank. Political science has occupied only a
limited share of my attention, and I have hitherto conducted my peculiar
studies without the favour of the great. My dedication is prompted on
these twofold grounds:--Bearing in your veins the blood of Scotland's
Illustrious Defender, you were one of the first of your order to join in
the proposal of rearing a National Monument to his memory; and while
some doubted the expediency of the course, and others stood aside
fearing a failure, you did not hesitate boldly to come forward as a
public advocate of the enterprise. Yourself a man of letters, you were
among the foremost who took an interest in the establishment of the
Scottish Literary Institute, of which you are now the President--a
society having for its main object the relief, in circumstances of
virtuous indigence, of those men of genius and learning who have
contributed by the pen to perpetuate among our countrymen that spirit of
intelligence and love of freedom which, by his sword, Sir William
Wallace first taught Scotsmen how to vindicate and maintain.

I have the honour to be,
    Sir,
        Your very obedient, humble servant,
            CHARLES ROGERS.

_STIRLING, June 1857._




SCOTTISH LYRICS AND SCOTTISH LIFE.

BY JAMES DODDS.


Judging from a comparison of extant remains, and other means of
information now available, it may be doubted whether any country has
equalled Scotland in the number of its lyrics. By the term _lyrics_, I
mean specifically poetical compositions, meant and suitable to be sung,
with the musical measures to which they have been wedded. I include
under the term, both the compositions themselves, and their music. The
Scottish ballads are numerous, the Scottish songs all but numberless,
and the Scottish tunes an inexhaustible fountain of melody.

    "And now 'twas like all instruments,
      Now like a lonely flute;
    And now it is an angel's song,
      That makes the heavens be mute."

Look at the vast collections of them which have been published, and the
additions which are ever making, either from some newly-discovered
manuscript, or from oral tradition in some out-of-the-way part of the
country. The numbers, too, which have been preserved, seem to be
exceeded by the numbers that have unfortunately been lost. Who has not
in his ears the hum of many lyrics heard by him in his childhood--from
mother, or nurse, or some old crooning dame at the fireside--which are
to be found in no collection, and which are now to himself but like a
distant, unformed sound? All our collectors, whilst smiling in triumph
over the pearls which they have brought up and borne to the shore,
lament the multitude of precious things irrecoverably buried in the
depths of oblivion. Where, for instance, amid the similar wreck which
has befallen so many others, are now the ancient words pouring forth the
dirge over the "Flowers of the Forest," or those describing the tragic
horrors on the "Braes of Yarrow," or those celebrating the wondrous
attractions of the "Braw Lads o' Gala Water"? We have but the two first
lines--the touching key-note of a lover's grief, in an old song, which
has been most tamely rendered in Ramsay's version--these two lines
being--

    "Alas! that I came o'er the moor,
      And left my love behind me."

Only one verse has floated down of an old song, which breathes the very
soul of a lover's restless longings:--

    "Aye wakin', O!
      Wakin' aye an' eerie;
    Sleep I canna get
      For thinkin' on my dearie;
    Aye wakin', O!"

Does it not at once pique and disappoint the fancy, that these two
graceful verses are all that remain of a song, where, doubtless, they
were once but two fair blossoms in a large and variegated posy:--

    "Within my garden gay
      The rose and lily grew;
    But the pride of my garden is wither'd away,
      And it 's a' grown o'er wi' rue.

    "Farewell, ye fading flowers!
      And farewell, bonnie Jean!
    But the flower that is now trodden under foot,
      In time it may bloom again."

Nay--passing from the tender to the grotesque--would it not have been
agreeable to hear something more than two lines from the lips of a lover
so stout-hearted, yet so ardent, in his own rough, blunt way, as he who
has thus commenced his song:--

    "I wish my love were in a mire,
      That I might pull her out again;"

or to know something more of the details of that extraordinary parish,
of which one surviving verse draws the following sombre picture:--

    "Oh! what a parish!--eh! what a parish!
      Oh! what a parish is that o' Dunkel':
    They 've hang'd the minister, droon'd the precentor;
      They 've pu'd doon the steeple, and drunk the kirk-bell."

The Scottish lyrics, lying all about, thus countless and scattered--

    "Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
    In Vallambrosa"--

are not like those which mark and adorn the literature of many other
countries, the euphonisms of a meretricious court, or the rhymed musings
of philosophers, or conceits from Pagan mythology, or the glancing
epigrams of men of wit and of the world, or mere hunting choruses and
Bacchanalian catches of a rude squirearchy. They are the ballads, songs,
and tunes of the people. In their own language, but that language
glittering from the hidden well of poesy--in ideas which they at once
recognise as their own, because photographed from nature--these lyrics
embody the loves and thoughts of the people, the themes on which they
delight to dwell, even their passions and prejudices; and vibrate in
their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the Old
Land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence
and occupation. It is the faithful popular memory, more than anything
else, which has been the ark to save the ancient lyrics of Scotland. Not
only so, but there is reason to believe that our national lyrics have,
generally speaking, been creations of the men, and sometimes of the
women, of the people. They are the people's, by the title of origin, no
less than by the feeling of sympathy.

This, of course, is clear, as regards the great masters of the lyre who
have appeared within the period of known authorship--Ramsay, Burns,
Tannahill, Hogg, and Cunningham. The authors of the older lyrics--I mean
both compositions and tunes--are, with few exceptions, absolutely
unknown; but were there room here for discussion, it might be shewn that
all the probabilities lead up, principally, to the ancient order of
Minstrels, who from very early times were nearly as much organised and
privileged and honoured in Scotland, as ever were the troubadours in
Provence and Italy. Ellis, in the Introduction to his "Specimens of
Early English Metrical Romances," alluding to Scott's publication of
"Sir Tristrem," remarks--"He has shewn, by a reference to ancient
charters, that the Scottish minstrels of this early period enjoyed all
the privileges and distinctions possessed by the Norman trouveurs, whom
they nearly rivalled in the arts of narration, and over whom they
possessed one manifest advantage, in their familiar acquaintance with
the usual scenes of chivalry." These minstrels, like the majority of
poetic singers, were no doubt sons of the people--bold, aspiring, and
genius-lit--bursting strong from their mother earth, with all her sap
and force and fruitfulness about them. Amongst the last of the professed
minstrels was one Burn, who wonned on the Borders as late as the
commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant,
chirping ditty of "Leader Haughs and Yarrow," takes to himself this very
title of _Minstrel_.

    "But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage
      His grief while life endureth,
    To see the changes of this age,
      That fleeting time procureth.
    For many a place stands in hard case,
      Where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow,
    With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side,
      And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow."

Of this minstrel Burn there is a quaint little personal reminiscence. An
aged person at Earlstoun many years ago related, that there used to be a
portrait of the minstrel in Thirlestane Castle, near Lauder,
"representing him as a douce old man, _leading a cow by a straw-rope_."
The master of the "gay science" gradually slipping down from the clouds,
and settling quietly and doucely on the plain hard ground of ordinary
life and business! Let all pale-faced and sharp-chinned youths, who are
spasmodic poets, or who are in danger of becoming such, keep steadily
before them the picture of minstrel Burn, "leading a cow by a
straw-rope"--and go and do likewise.

But as trees and flowers can only grow and come to perfection in soils
by nature appropriate to them, so it is manifest that all this rich and
fertile growth of lyrics, of minstrelsy and music, could only spring up
amongst a people most impressionable and joyous. I speak of the Lowland
population, and especially of the Borderers, with whose habits, manners
and customs, alone I am personally acquainted; and the lingering traces
of whose old forms of life--so gay, kindly, and suggestive--I saw some
thirty years ago, just before they sank under the mammonism,
commonplace, critical apery, and cold material self-seeking, which have
hitherto been the plague of the present generation. We have become more
practical and knowing than our forefathers, but not so wise. We are now
a "fast people;" but we miss the true goal of life--that is, _sober
happiness_. Fast to smattering; fast to outward, isolated show; fast to
bankruptcy; fast to suicide; fast to some finalé of enormous and
dreadful infamy. Bah! rather the plain, honest, homely life of our
grandfathers--

    "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
      Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
    Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life,
      They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."

Or rather (for every age has its own type, and old forms of life cannot
be stereotyped and reproduced), let us have a philosophic and Christian
combination of modern adventure and "gold-digging" with old-fashioned
balance of mind, and neighbourliness, and open-heartedness, and thankful
enjoyment.

Our Scottish race have been--yes, and notwithstanding modern changes,
still are--a joyous people--a people full of what I shall term _a lyric
joyousness_. I say they still are--as may be found any day up the
Ettricks, and Yarrows, and Galas--up any of our Border glens and dales.
The Borderers continue to merit the tribute paid to them in the odd but
expressive lines of Wordsworth:--

    "The _pleasant men of Tiviotdale_,
      Fast by the river Tweed."

From time immemorial they have been enthusiastic lovers of song and
music, and have been thoroughly imbued with their influences. Bishop
Leslie, a contemporary of the state of manners which he describes, has
recorded of them, upwards of two centuries ago--"That they take extreme
delight in their music, and in their ballads, which are composed amongst
themselves, celebrating the deeds of their ancestors, or the valour and
success of their predatory expeditions;" which latter, it must be
remembered, were esteemed, in those days, not only not criminal, but
just, honourable, and heroic. What a gush of mirth overflows in king
James' poem of "Peebles to the Play," descriptive of the Beltane or
May-day festival, four hundred years ago! at Peebles, a charming
pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the Tweed:--

    "At Beltane, when ilk body bouns
      To Peebles to the play,
    To hear the singin' and the soun's,
      The solace, sooth to say.
    By firth and forest forth they wound,
      They graithit them full gay:
    God wot what they would do that stound,
      For it was their feast-day,
                       They said,
      Of Peebles to the play!

           *       *       *       *       *

    "Hop, Calye, and Cardronow
      Gatherit out thick-fald,
    With, _Hey and How and Rumbelow!_
      The young folk were full bald.
    The bagpipe blew, and they out threw
      Out of the towns untald:
    Lord! sic ane shout was them amang,
      When they were owre the wald,
                       There west
      Of Peebles to the play!"

Thirty years ago, the same joyousness prevailed in a thousand forms--in
hospitality, in festivity, in merry customs, in an exquisite social
sense, in the culture of the humorous and the imaginative, in
impressibility to every touch of noble and useful enthusiasm. It would
be easy to dilate upon the causes which seem to have produced this
choice joyous spirit in so unexpected a region as the far, bleak North:
but that would be a lengthened subject; and we must content ourselves at
present with the fact. And, instead of branching out into general vague
illustrations of what I mean by this lyric joyousness, I shall
_localise_ it, and embody the meaning in a sketch, light and imperfect
it must be, of a real place and a real life--such as mine own eyes
witnessed when a boy--and in the fond resuscitation of which, amidst the
usual struggles and anxieties allotted to middle age, memory and feeling
now find one of their most soothing exercises.

Let me transport the reader in imagination to the Vale of the Tweed,
that classic region--the Arcadia of Scotland, the haunt of the Muses,
the theme of so many a song, the scene of so many a romantic legend. And
there, where that most crystalline of rivers has attained the fulness of
its beauty and splendour--just before it meets and mingles in gentle
union with its scarce less beauteous sister, "sweet Teviot"--on one of
those finely swelling eminences which everywhere crown its banks, rise
the battlements of Fleurs Castle, which has long been the seat of the
Roxburghe family. It is a peerless situation; the great princely
mansion, ever gleaming on the eye of the traveller, at whatever point he
may be, in the wide surrounding landscape. It comes boldly out from the
very heart of an almost endless wood--old, wild, and luxuriant; having
no forester but nature--spreading right, left, and behind, away and
away, till lost in the far horizon. Down a short space in front, a green
undulating haugh between, roll the waters of the Tweed, with a bright
clear radiance to which the brightest burnished silver is but as dimness
and dross. On its opposite bank is a green huge mound--all that now
remains of the mighty old Roxburgh Castle, aforetime the military key of
Scotland, and within whose once towering precincts oft assembled the
royalty, and chivalry, and beauty of both kingdoms. At a little distance
to the east of Fleurs, the neat quaint abbey-town of Kelso, with its
magnificent bridge, nestles amid greenery, close to the river. And afar
to the south, the eye, tired at last with so vast a prospect, and with
such richness and variety of scenery, rests itself on the cloud-capt
range of the Cheviots, in amplitude and grandeur not unmeet to sentinel
the two ancient and famous lands.

Upwards of thirty years ago, the ducal coronet of Roxburghe was worn by
a nobleman who was then known, and is still remembered on Tweedside, as
the "Good Duke James." The history of his life, were there any one now
to tell it correctly, would be replete with interest. I cannot pretend
to authentic knowledge of it; but I know the outline as I heard it when
a child--as it used to be recited, like a minstrel's tale, by the
gray-haired cottager sitting at his door of a summer evening, or by some
faithful old servant of the castle, on a winter's night, over his flagon
of ale, at the rousing hall-fire. And from all I have ever learned
since, I judge that these country stories in the main were accurate.

He was not by birth a _Ker_--the family name of the house of
Roxburghe--descended of the awful "Habbie Ker" in Queen Mary's troublous
time, the Taille-Bois of the Borders, the Ogre-Baron of tradition, whose
name is still whispered by the peasant with a kind of _eeriness_, as if
he might start from his old den at Cessford, and pounce upon the rash
speaker. Duke James was an Innes of the "north countrie;" Banff or
Cromarty. He was some eight years of age in the dismal '45. Though his
father was Hanoverian, the "Butcher" Cumberland shewed him but little
favour in the course of his merciless ravages after Culloden. A troop of
dragoons lived at free quarters on his estate; and one of them, in mere
wanton cruelty, fired at the boy when standing at his father's door, and
the ball grazed his face. Seventy years afterwards, when he was duke,
the Ettrick Shepherd happened to dine at Fleurs. He was then collecting
his "Jacobite Relics," and the Duke asked him what was his latest
ballad? The Shepherd answered, it was a version of "Highland Laddie." He
sang it. On coming to the verse,

    "Ken ye the news I hae to tell,
      Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie,
    Cumberland's awa' to hell,
      Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie!"

the Duke burst into one of his ringing laughs--the fine, deep _Ho, ho!_
that would drown all our effeminate modern gigglings, the sound of which
lingers amongst the memories of my boyhood. "He well deserves it--he
well deserves it--the wretch! Ho, ho!"--and he shouted with laughter,
and threw himself into all the rough unceremonious humour of the ballad,
finishing off by relating his own dire experience of the doings of
Cumberland and his dragoons in the north. It seems he entered into the
army, and served in the American war. After retiring, I believe he took
up his residence in England--Devonshire, I think; his name at this time
was Sir James Norcliffe Innes. During the once-belauded "good old
times" of George III. he distinguished himself by holding and manfully
avowing opinions which were then branded as Jacobinism; and he was an
intimate friend, and I have heard an active supporter of the virtuous
and patriotic Major Cartwright. About the beginning of the present
century, the direct line of the Roxburghe Kers having failed, a
competition arose amongst a host of claimants, for the estate and
honours of that ancient House. After a most protracted and severe
litigation, which forms one of the _Causés Celebrés_ in the law-books of
Scotland, Sir James Norcliffe Innes was preferred. When approaching
fourscore, he was installed Duke of Roxburghe, and put on a coronet at
an age, long before which most part of mankind have put on their
shrouds. He put it on--ay, and for many years wore it stout and
stark--nobly, loftily, sweetly--with a dignity, simplicity,
large-heartedness, and munificence, the remembrance of which somehow
always brings to my mind that majestic line of Shakspeare, containing,
after all, only a name and title, yet sounding as the embodiment of
whatever is great and heroic in human character--

    "Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster!"

I see him before me, as he lives in the recollections of childhood--as
he lives and seems to speak in Raeburn's inimitable portrait at Fleurs.
What a perfect mould of man! scarce one mark of old age in that face--no
sign of weakness or decay in that frame, which has weathered eighty
winters. He was over the middle size; straight, firm, strong built, and
compact, with the air of native lordliness and command. His countenance
was peculiarly beautiful, full and rounded as if young; fresh-coloured;
and beaming with health, spirit, and vivacity. Its almost womanly
sweetness was chastened and redeemed by the massiveness of the head, the
deep penetrating eye, and an aspect of uncommon elevation and nobleness.
Till the last, he was the very personification of the old _Dux_--the
Duke of Chivalry--the foremost leader and commander of the people. But
instead of chained mail and helmet, he was to be seen every day walking
about amongst his people in hoddin-gray coat, nankeen breeches, white
vest, and rumpled white hat--plain, easy, manly, and unaffected in all
things.

Beyond the honour of an occasional pinch of the ears, or that kind,
homely greeting which in passing he bestowed on all of us, young and
old, I did not and could not know him personally. But, from those who
did, I have always heard the highest estimate of his character,
intellectually and morally. He possessed extensive information; but
rather that of a man who had moved much about, and observed much, than
from book-lore. His understanding was of the most masculine order--in
all his views and judgments, distinguished by clearness, decision, and
energy. But his great mental characteristic seems to have been
_wisdom_--that fine, just inward sense of things, which, like poetry, is
born in a man, not acquired--the result, generally, as in his case, of
an innate power, combined with large, varied, and calming experience.
Like most men of this stamp, he had both a keen sense of the humorous,
and a racy talent for it; abounded in sententious, remarkable sayings;
and had a dash of playfulness and eccentricity which gave a zest to his
many solid excellences. The physician who attended his deathbed, often
expressed regret that he had not kept a memorandum of his many striking
observations during the short period of his illness. His character,
morally, may be summed up in its two polar qualities--justice the most
austere, generosity the most tender and boundless. Interwoven through
his whole dispositions and actions was a strong, vehement temperament,
which infused into all he said and did a vivid intensity, which would
sometimes degenerate into sallies of passion, but which, upon the whole,
raised and exalted his character to the true heroic dimensions. His
factor, a respectable Edinburgh burgess, a gunsmith by trade, whom he
had selected for no aptitude but from the freak of the name (Innes),
could not always appreciate his schemes of improvement on the estate,
which really were not based on economic considerations, but were meant
to afford large means of employment to the people. In consequence, the
duke, though he respected him greatly, would sometimes be ruffled, and
blurt out a harsh thing at his expense. Walking with him one day in the
fields, he was explaining with the most animated eloquence, where he
intended to make some drains. "But," interrupted the burgess-factor,
only thinking of the balance-sheet, "you will spend a great deal of
money." "Yes," retorted the old nobleman, with ineffable contempt; "you
have guessed my object: I _will_ spend a great deal of money." Then,
turning quick on his heel, "You know more about the barrel of an old gun
than about drains." After one of those sallies, the factor, who resided
a few miles from Fleurs, and had swallowed and forgotten the bitter
dose, was preparing, about twelve o'clock at night, to go to bed, when
there was a sharp, sudden ring at the door-bell. It was a messenger from
the duke, with a letter, in which he stated, that, in reflecting on the
incidents of the day before retiring to rest, he felt remorse for the
taunt which he had uttered; that it was the ebullition of the moment,
but cruel and unkind; and that he could not sleep until he had received
forgiveness. It may be conceived in what ardent terms the factor
replied, and with what redoubled attachment he regarded and served such
a master! This was no exceptional blink of goodness. It was only a
specimen of his habit of justice, even against himself--of his
magnanimity and generous candour--changeless as the sun.

During the just, benignant sway of the "good Duke James," perhaps Fleurs
was the happiest place of all Scotland to live in;--not a happier could
be in the wide world. To have been born and brought up there, and in
one's childhood to have had such a taste of the "golden age," I have
always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. No one can become
utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was
nurtured on the milk and honey of Fleurs, under "good Duke James."
Poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. This is no
illusion from the fancies of boyhood. Ask the old peasant of
Tweedside--a mature, hardy man then--and he will tell, with a glow on
his cheek, and a tear, due to remembrance, in his eye, "Ah! the Fleurs
was a braw place under auld Duke Jemmy!" Nature, industry, peace, mirth,
love, a kindred soul between duke and people, seemed to breathe in every
gale there, and sing in the matins and vespers of every bird. There the
_lyric joyousness_, characteristic of the Scottish people when allowed
freely to develop, expanded itself to the utmost of its power and
fervour. Fleurs was like the "Ida Vale" of Spenser:--

    "In Ida vale, (who knows not Ida vale?)
      When harmless Troy yet felt not Grecian spite,
    An hundred shepherds wonn'd; and in the dale,
      While their fair flocks the three-leaved pastures bite,
    The shepherd boys, with hundred sportings light,
      Gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste."

In our old, picturesque Saxon form of speech, the husband was the
"_bread-winner_." Duke James was emphatically the "_bread-giver_." To
furnish employment, to diffuse comfort and happiness amongst the
employed, was the all-absorbing object of his life. Anything that would
have ministered to his own luxury and glorification was but little
heeded. There might be pleasure-grounds more ornamental than his, walks
more trim, conservatories more gaudily replenished with exotics,
chambers more resplendent with costly furniture and pictures by the
great masters, equipage more gay and dashing--in all that belonged to
the _personnel_, he was plain and moderate; but where was there ever
such planting of forests, or cutting of timber, or building of this and
the other structure--all kinds of heavy works, employing hundreds of
hands? On many of the high labour-festivals which signalised the
calendar at Fleurs, upwards of _three hundred people_, all earning their
livelihood under his patriarchal sway, would dine together in the court,
and dance together on the velvet lawn in front of his castle. At six
o'clock on a mild summer evening, what a spectacle, to see Fleurs gate
thrown wide open, and troop after troop of labourers _debouche_!--not
worn-out, fagged, and sullen, but marching with alacrity and
cheerfulness--the younger lilting a merry song, the older and more
careful carrying home fagots of wood, gathered at their resting hours,
to supply the fire for their cheap evening meal. And all had some story
to tell of the _Duke_!--some little trait of kindness, or some of those
drolleries in which he would occasionally indulge, but ever without loss
of dignity. He used to walk for hours together beside my grandfather
whilst holding the plough--a wise and holy man, an Abraham amongst the
people--and converse with him as brother with brother, especially on the
incidents of his own life, and on matters of religion. On his coming
forward, my grandfather would take off his hat; but the duke would stop
him, and say, "Keep on your hat, James. It 's all very well to teach the
young fellows manners, but there 's no ceremony between you and me; we
are equals--two plain old men." His servants, of whatever degree, dined
together in the common hall; but some of the more aspiring "ambitioned"
(as the Yankees say) a separate table. One of them, who was supposed to
be rather a favourite, was deputed to break the project to the duke, and
obtain his consent at some propitious moment. Thinking he had him one
day in a most accommodating temper, he cautiously hinted the scheme, and
gradually waxed bolder, and disclosed all particulars, as the duke
seemed to listen with tacit approval. "Well, well," answered the duke,
carelessly, "all my servants are alike to me. You may dine at one table,
or at twenty, if you can so arrange it. But whatever the number"--here
his voice rose ominously, and his eye flashed with anger--"you, sirrah,
shall dine at the lowest!" The great question of the "tables" was
crushed. Sometimes--after the fashion of Haroun al Raschid, though not
in disguise--he would steal down quietly and unperceived, through the
out-of-the-way holes and corners of the immense castle, to see with his
own eyes what the inhabitants of the remoter regions were about. Some
dry joke, or some act of benevolence, according to circumstances, was
sure to be the result. As he was one day poking through the passages, he
suddenly encountered an enormously big, fat servant-woman, engaged in
cleaning a stair. She was steaming with perspiration. Eyeing her
curiously for a moment, "Ho, ho!" he cried (his usual introductory
exclamation), "do _you_ bake the bread?" The woman, staring in
astonishment, and, fortunately for her own self-complacency, not
understanding the point of the strange question, replied, "No, your
grace, that is not my department; I am in the laundry, and my business
is"--"Oh, never mind," said the duke, with the look of one greatly
relieved, "I am perfectly satisfied so you don't bake the bread." A
decayed gentleman, who had found harbourage at Fleurs, was staying
rather longer than convenient. It was in the depth of winter, and the
ground was covered with snow. The duke, who was an early riser in all
seasons, had been out for his morning walk; and on his return proceeded
to the gentleman's room, who was still in bed. "You lazy lie-a-bed!"
exclaimed the duke, "there 's a snow-ball for you--and there 's
another--and there 's another," and suiting the action to the word, he
discharged into the bed upon him a shower of white-looking balls; but
they happened to be, not snow-balls, but pound-notes squeezed into the
shape--report said, twenty in number. The gentleman took the practical
but benevolent hint, and departed, carrying with him the snow-balls, not
melted. In his more serious mood, he, one Sabbath, met a girl returning
from church, and inquired what church she had been attending. He then
walked with her a long time, discoursing upon the slight shades of
difference amongst the various religious denominations, and concluded,
"I shall not see it, but I believe that, in course of time, there will
be only one sheepfold under the one Shepherd."

Labour at Fleurs was a twin to mirth. We were always having festivities.
The duke was ingenious in devising reasons for them. Because he was
Scotch by origin, he celebrated all the peculiar Scottish festivals;
because he was English by residence, he celebrated all the peculiar
English festivals; because in his youth the "Old Style" of computing the
year was still used, he first of all held Old Year's Day, and New Year's
Day, and Twelfth Night, according to the new style, and then repeated
the observance all over again, according to the old style. And there was
a constant succession, the whole year through, of birth-days, and the
commemoration of public holidays and rejoicings.

    "It was a merry place in days of yore."

Suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one
of its highest festivals at Fleurs. All work ceases at noon; and by two,
the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and
march in a body to the castle, preceded by Tam Anderson, the duke's
piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black
velvet breeches--a fossil specimen he of what the Border minstrel once
was, when his art was in its prime. As Tam drones away on his bagpipe
"Lumps o' Puddin'," and "Brose and Butter," they take their places at
three long tables, covering a large court. Three hundred workpeople and
their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own
people to be present. It is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery
never extended beyond the Edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and
Prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast--the
mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts,
the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale--the very fragments
of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a
twelvemonth's siege. After having "satiated themselves with eating and
drinking," like the large-stomached heroes of the antique world, they
had an hour's interval for sauntering, that healthy digestion might have
time to arrange and stow away the immense load which the vessel had just
taken in. Again, however, they marshalled to the piper's warning note,
playing, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal!" and this time marched to the
spacious, smooth, and beautiful lawn in front of the castle, where
_Givan's Band_ awaited their arrival, and the dance speedily began. The
merriment now swelled to ecstacy; lads and lasses leaped through and
through, as on the wings of zephyrs; a hundred couples bounding at once
on the green sward; the old folks chiming in the chorus of universal
laughter, and snapping their fingers to the dances in which they had no
longer the strength and nimbleness to join; the youngsters getting up
mimic reels in sly corners; and the music seeming to stir into delight
the branches of the great elms which festooned this ball-room of nature.
But was there not something awanting to complete the unity of the scene?
Where was the presiding divinity?

    " ... _Deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit,
    Namque erit ille mihi semper deus."

Oh, for an hour past he has been watching the rustic carnival from
yonder portico, with his gracious duchess (much his junior), his true
help-meet in everything good, courteous, and benevolent! At length he
descends into the circle, with a smile to all, a word of recognition to
this one, a light airy jest at the expense of that one, and a responsive
_hooch_ to the wild, whirling dancers. As he advances, all the pretty
girls draw themselves up to catch his eye, and to have the honour of his
hand in the dance. He strolls about, peering gently, until, in some
obscure corner, he espies a young, shy, modest damsel, the lowliest
there, whom no one is noticing, a lowly worker in the back kitchen, or
even in the fields. Her he selects--blushing with surprise and a tumult
of nameless emotions--to be Queen of the festival; he pats her on the
shoulders, whispers paternal-gallant things in her ear, and calling
lustily for "Tullochgorum" from the fiddlers, leads her gracefully
through the dance, himself--though upwards of eighty--throwing some
steps of the Highland Fling, snapping his fingers, and _hooching_ in
unison with the impassioned throng of youths around him--those young
stately plants who have grown up under the dew and shelter of his benign
protection. When the dance is finished, kissing her on the cheek, he
leads his little simple partner back to her seat, and leaves her in a
delicious vision of the good old duke, who had distinguished her,
sitting solitary and unnoticed, above all her companions, and placed the
coronal upon her brow, queen of the festival. As he returns slowly to
the castle, there is an involuntary pause in the merry-making. The
musicians lay down their bows, the youths stop short in the mazes of the
Bacchic dance, the spectators stand up uncovered, the subtle electric
chain of love and loyalty passes between duke and people, and a grand
universal "hurrah!" rings through the welkin--the outburst of gratitude,
reverence, and joy. It is touching, solemn, sublime, this pause and
outburst of feeling in the midst of the wild festal scene. Not a maiden
there but loves him as she would a father; not a stalwart hind but, if
need were, would die in defence of his old chief. "When the ear hears
him, then it blesses him; and when the eye sees him, it gives witness to
him; because he delivers the poor that cry, and the fatherless, and him
that has none to help him. The blessing of him that is ready to perish
comes upon him; and he causes the widow's heart to sing for joy. He puts
on righteousness, and it clothes him; his judgment is as a robe and a
diadem."

But eighty-six years are a heavy load on the shoulders even of a giant.
The grasshopper at length becomes a burden to the strongest and most
cheerful. News came from the Castle that our old duke was unwell, was
confined to his room, then to his bed. One morning--I remember it as if
yesterday--as I was walking through the court-yard with one of the
farm-servants, the butler looked from a window above, shook his head
mournfully, folded his arms across his breast, and bent his eyes towards
the ground. We read his meaning at a glance,--"The good Duke James was
dead!" For days and days the people gave way to a deep, even a
passionate grief, as if each had lost a beloved father, and was left to
all the loneliness and privation of an orphan's lot. The body, or rather
the coffin which enclosed it, was laid out in state; and they were
allowed to take a last farewell of their chief. His valet, a favourite
servant, stood at the head, with his handkerchief almost constantly over
his eyes, scarcely able to hide his tears. The chamber was dimly
lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no
mimicry. All walked round, slowly and solemnly--the ancients of the
hamlet, the stalwart peasantry, and the women leading the children by
the hand--all gazing intently on the spot where the dead lay, as if even
yet to catch a glimpse of that piercing eye and benignant smile. The
silence was profound, awful, but for a throbbing under-hum as of stifled
breath, broken ever and anon by a sharp sob--the "hysterica passio," the
"climbing sorrow," which even reverence and self-restraint could no
longer keep down. The day of the funeral arrived. His remains were to
be borne about twelve miles off, to Bowden, under the shadow of the
three-peaked Eildons, for there the ancient vault is where lie "the race
of the house of Roxburghe." The long, long line of mourning carriages I
well remember; but these only spoke the general respect and commonplace
regret of the neighbourhood, which are incident to such an occasion. His
_people_ in their hundreds--these were his mourners! The younger and
stronger of them, in one way or other, accompanied the death procession
to the last resting-place. The women of the place, leading the children,
went down, all weeping as they went, to a bend in the Tweed, where there
would be a last view of the funeral train. There it was!--darkly
marching on the opposite bank, winding round the mouldering hillock
which was once Roxburgh Castle, and finally disappearing--disappearing
for ever!--behind that pine-covered height! As the last of the train
floated and melted away from the horizon, we all sunk to the ground at
once, as if struck by some instantaneous current; and such a wail rose
that day as Tweed never heard; whilst an echoing voice seemed to cry
along his banks, and into the depth of his forests--"The last of the
Patriarch-Dukes has departed!"

One instance is worth a thousand dissertations. And the above thin
water-colour sketch of a _real popular life_, though presenting only one
or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more
distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of
what I mean by the lyric joyousness of the Scottish people; and is,
besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a
true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if
the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be
eternised in the memory of mankind.

It is from this soil--this sensitive and fervid national temperament--that
there has sprung up such a harvest of ballads, and songs, and
heart-moving, soul-breathing melodies. Hence the hearty old habits and
curious suggestive customs of the people: the hospitality, exuberant as
Abraham's, who sat in the tent-door bidding welcome even to the passing
traveller; the merry-meetings and "rockings" in the evening, where each
had to contribute his or her song or tale, and at the same time ply some
piece of work; the delight in their native dances, furious and whirling
as those of the Bacchantes; the "Guisarding" of the boys at Christmas,
relic of old-world plays, when the bloody melodrama finished off into
the pious benediction--

    "God bless the master of the house,
      The mistress also,
    And all the pretty babies
      That round the table go;"

the "first foot," on New Year's morning, when none must enter a house
empty-handed; the "Hogmanay," or first Monday of the new year, when the
whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the
peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence--

    "Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,
    Dinna think that we are beggars;
    We are bairns come out to play,
    Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"--

the "Halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by
Burns; and the "Kirn," or Harvest Home, the wind-up of the season, the
epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. Hence it is that
under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they
all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling, or dream: they are all
inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns
the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. Every one of us, calling
up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and
schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national
characteristic. And hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and
buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances,
cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction
or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every
clime--there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to
gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their
old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the
burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones
beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott
went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made
his "Last Minstrel" sing--

    "By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
    Though none should guide my feeble way;
    Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
    Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
    Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"

Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short
space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of
Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an
age, of ideas, of a state of manners--lovely, but transitional--which
had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one
glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern
Individualism--from that form of society where thousands clustered
devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the
present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us
all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden
age--I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy--the
feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of
life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal,
overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended
the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man--the humblest
man--as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern
anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old
governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings,
like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and
courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a
quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent
primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked
in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?

Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past,
present, and future--all are divine--all are parts of a celestial
scheme--none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past
is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has
its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it
is "_our own_." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are
good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth
earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more
rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial
haloes--he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal,
fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews
the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gush from the rock.
If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous
susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness;
why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common
Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and
joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from
earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven--"a pure river of water of
life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE
FRANCIS BENNOCH,                                                       1
  Truth and honour,                                                    7
  Our ship,                                                            8
  Auld Peter Macgowan,                                                10
  The flower of Keir,                                                 11
  Constancy,                                                          12
  My bonnie wee wifie,                                                13
  The bonnie bird,                                                    14
  Come when the dawn,                                                 15
  Good-morrow,                                                        16
  Oh, wae's my life,                                                  17
  Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,                                          18
  Bessie,                                                             20
  Courtship,                                                          21
  Together,                                                           22
  Florence Nightingale,                                               23

JOSEPH MACGREGOR,                                                     25
  Laddie, oh! leave me,                                               25
  How blythely the pipe,                                              26

WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D.,                                                 28
  The maid of Islay,                                                  29

WILLIAM JERDAN,                                                       30
  The wee bird's song,                                                32
  What makes this hour?                                               33

ALEXANDER BALD,                                                       34
  The lily of the vale,                                               35
  How sweet are the blushes of morn,                                  35

GEORGE WILSON,                                                        37
  Mild as the morning,                                                37
  The beacons blazed,                                                 38
  The rendezvous,                                                     40

JOHN YOUNGER,                                                         42
  Ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew,                       43
  The month of June,                                                  44

JOHN BURTT,                                                           46
  O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs,                                      47
  O! lassie I lo'e dearest,                                           47

CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON,                                              49
  The bard strikes his harp,                                          50
  Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest,                                        51
  Oh, my love 's bonnie,                                              52

WILLIAM DOBIE,                                                        54
  The dreary reign of winter's past,                                  55

ROBERT HENDRY, M.D.,                                                  57
  Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie,                                  58

HEW AINSLIE,                                                          60
  The hameward sang,                                                  61
  Dowie in the hint o' hairst,                                        62
  On wi' the tartan,                                                  63
  The rover o' Lochryan,                                              64
  The last look o' hame,                                              65
  The lads an' the land far awa',                                     66
  My bonnie wee Bell,                                                 67

WILLIAM THOMSON,                                                      68
  The maiden to her reaping-hook,                                     68

ALEXANDER SMART,                                                      71
  When the bee has left the blossom,                                  73
  Oh, leave me not,                                                   74
  Never despair,                                                      75

JOHN DUNLOP,                                                          77
  The year that 's awa',                                              78
  Oh, dinna ask me,                                                   78
  Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,                            79
  War,                                                                80

WILLIAM BLAIR,                                                        82
  The Highland maid,                                                  82
  The Neapolitan war-song,                                            84

ARCHIBALD MACKAY,                                                     85
  Our auld Scots sangs,                                               85
  My laddie lies low,                                                 87
  Jouk and let the jaw gae by,                                        88
  Victorious be again, boys,                                          89

WILLIAM AIR FOSTER,                                                   91
  Fareweel to Scotia,                                                 91
  The falcon's flight,                                                92
  The salmon run,                                                     94

CHARLES MARSHALL,                                                     97
  The blessing on the wark,                                           98
  Jewel of a lad,                                                     99
  Twilight joys,                                                     100

WILLIAM WILSON,                                                      102
  Oh, blessing on her starlike een,                                  102
  Oh! blessing on thee, land,                                        104
  The faithless,                                                     105
  My soul is ever with thee,                                         106
  Auld Johnny Graham,                                                107
  Jean Linn,                                                         108
  Bonnie Mary,                                                       109

MRS MARY MACARTHUR,                                                  111
  The missionary,                                                    111

JOHN RAMSAY,                                                         114
  Farewell to Craufurdland,                                          114

JAMES PARKER,                                                        116
  The mariner's song,                                                116
  Her lip is o' the rose's hue,                                      117

JOHN HUNTER,                                                         119
  The bower o' Clyde,                                                119
  Mary,                                                              122
  In distant years,                                                  123

ROBERT CHAMBERS,                                                     124
  Young Randal,                                                      126
  The ladye that I love,                                             127
  Thou gentle and kind one,                                          128
  Lament for the old Highland warriors,                              129

THOMAS AIRD,                                                         131
  The swallow,                                                       132
  Genius,                                                            133

ROBERT WHITE,                                                        136
  My native land,                                                    137
  A shepherd's life,                                                 138
  Her I love best,                                                   140
  The knight's return,                                               141
  The bonnie Redesdale lassie,                                       143
  The mountaineer's death,                                           144

WILLIAM CAMERON,                                                     146
  Sweet Jessie o' the dell,                                          146
  Meet me on the gowan lea,                                          147
  Morag's fairy glen,                                                148
  Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,                                  150

ALEXANDER TAIT,                                                      151
  E'ening's dewy hour,                                               151

CHARLES FLEMING,                                                     153
  Watty M'Neil,                                                      153

WILLIAM FERGUSON,                                                    155
  I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,                                155
  Wooing song,                                                       156
  I'm wandering wide,                                                158

THOMAS DICK,                                                         160
  How early I woo'd thee,                                            160

HUGH MILLER,                                                         161
  Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go,                                   166
  Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze,                              167

ALEXANDER MACANSH,                                                   171
  The mother and child,                                              172
  Change,                                                            173
  The tomb of the Bruce,                                             174

JAMES PRINGLE,                                                       176
  The ploughman,                                                     176

WILLIAM ANDERSON,                                                    178
  Woodland song,                                                     180
  The wells o' Weary,                                                181
  I'm naebody noo,                                                   182
  I canna sleep,                                                     183

WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D.,                                185
  'Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray,                          186
  Oh, sweet is the blossom,                                          187

THOMAS WATSON,                                                       189
  The squire o' low degree,                                          189

JAMES MACDONALD,                                                     192
  Bonnie Aggie Lang,                                                 193
  The pride o' the glen,                                             194
  Mary,                                                              196

JAMES BALLANTINE,                                                    198
  Naebody's bairn,                                                   200
  Castles in the air,                                                201
  Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew,                      202
  Wifie, come hame,                                                  203
  The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest,             204
  Creep afore ye gang,                                               205
  Ae guid turn deserves anither,                                     205
  The nameless lassie,                                               206
  Bonnie Bonaly,                                                     207
  Saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,                            208
  The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win,                   209
  The widow,                                                         209

MISS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY,                                             211
  Craig Elachie,                                                     212

JOHN FINLAY,                                                         215
  The noble Scottish game,                                           216
  The merry bowling-green,                                           218

THOMAS TOD STODDART,                                                 220
  Angling song,                                                      221
  Let ither anglers,                                                 222
  The British oak,                                                   223
  Peace in war,                                                      224

ALEXANDER MACLAGAN,                                                  226
  Curling song,                                                      229
  The auld meal mill,                                                230
  The thistle,                                                       232
  The Scotch blue bell,                                              233
  The rockin',                                                       235
  The widow,                                                         237
  The Highland plaid,                                                238
  The flower o' Glencoe,                                             239

MRS JANE C. SIMPSON,                                                 241
  Gentleness,                                                        242
  He loved her for her merry eye,                                    244
  Life and death,                                                    245
  Good-night,                                                        246

ANDREW PARK,                                                         248
  Hurrah for the Highlands,                                          249
  Old Scotland, I love thee!                                         250
  Flowers of summer,                                                 251
  Home of my fathers,                                                252
  What ails my heart?                                                253
  Away to the Highlands,                                             254
  I'm away,                                                          255
  There is a bonnie, blushing flower,                                256
  The maid of Glencoe,                                               257

MARION PAUL AIRD,                                                    258
  The fa' o' the leaf,                                               258
  The auld kirkyard,                                                 260
  Far, far away,                                                     261

WILLIAM SINCLAIR,                                                    263
  The royal Breadalbane oak,                                         264
  Evening,                                                           265
  Mary,                                                              266
  Absence,                                                           267
  Is not the earth,                                                  269
  Oh! love the soldier's daughter dear!                              270
  The battle of Stirling,                                            272

WILLIAM MILLER,                                                      274
  Ye cowe a',                                                        274

ALEXANDER HUME,                                                      276
  My ain dear Nell,                                                  276
  The pairtin',                                                      278


METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.


                                                                    PAGE

JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.,                                                281
  The missionary of St Kilda,                                        282

DUNCAN KENNEDY,                                                      284
  The return of peace,                                               285

ALLAN M'DOUGALL,                                                     287
  The song of the carline,                                           288

KENNETH MACKENZIE,                                                   290
  The song of the kilt,                                              290

JOHN CAMPBELL,                                                       292
  The storm blast,                                                   293

JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D.,                                                294
  Light in the Highlands,                                            295




THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.




FRANCIS BENNOCH.[1]


Francis Bennoch, the son of a farmer on the property of the Duke of
Buccleuch, and of a mother whose family have been tenants on the same
estate for nearly two hundred years, was born at Drumcrool, in the
parish of Durrisdeer, and county of Dumfries, on the 25th June 1812. At
the age of sixteen, in February 1828, he arrived in London, and entered
a house of business in the city. During the nine ensuing years, he
assiduously pursued his avocation, and strove to make himself master of
the elements and practice of trade. In 1837 he commenced on his own
responsibility, and every succeeding year has advanced him in mercantile
prosperity and position. Now, at the head of the firm of Bennoch,
Twentyman, & Rigg, wholesale traders and manufacturers, there is no name
in the city more universally respected.

In the corporate body of the city of London Mr Bennoch for some years
took a prominent part as a citizen, a common councilman, and lastly as
the deputy of a ward. An independent man and a reformer of abuses, he
has so managed his opposition to measures, and even to men, as to win
the warm approval of his own friends, and the respect of the leaders of
all parties. His plans for bridging the Thames may be referred to in
proof of his patriotic devotedness to improvement.

Influenced in his youth by the genius of the locality in which he was
born, to which the Ayrshire Ploughman had left a legacy of immortal
song, succeeded by Allan Cunningham, and a number of distinguished
followers, it was not, however, till he had been two years a denizen of
the metropolis that Mr Bennoch's Scottish feeling sought to vent itself
in verse. The love of country is as inherent and vehement in the
children of the North as in the Swiss mountaineers; wheresoever they
wander from it, their hearts yearn towards the fatherland--

    "Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
    Land of the mountain and the flood,
    Land of their sires"--

with the same cherished and enduring affection which excites in the
_Rans des Vaches_ so overpowering a sympathy. And the pastoral is
perhaps even more replete with the poetical elements than the "stern and
wild." It is amid such scenes as the Doon, the Tweed, the Teviot, the
Ettrick, the Gala, and the Nith adorn, that the jaded senses are prone
to seek recreation, and the spirit, tired with work or worn with cares,
flees rejoicingly from the world to the repose of its first breathing
and time-sweetened, boyish delights. Thus we find young Bennoch, amid
the clatter of the great city, turning to the quiet of his native valley
to sing the charms of the Nith, where he

    "Had paidlet i' the burn,
      And pu'd the gowans fine."

It was in the _Dumfries Courier_ that his first poetic essay found its
way to print. That journal was then edited by the veteran M'Diarmid,
himself an honour to the literature of Scotland, and no mean judge of
its poetry. A cheer from such a quarter was worth the winning, and our
aspirant fairly won it, by the five stanzas of which the following is
the last:--

    "The flowers may fade upon your banks,
      The breckan on the brae,
    But, oh! the love I ha'e for thee
      Shall never pass away.
    Though age may wrinkle this smooth brow,
      And youth be like a dream,
    Still, still my voice to heaven shall rise
      For blessings on your stream!"

But banks and braes, and straths and streams, and woods and waves,
though very dear to memory, merely come up to the painted beauties of
descriptive verse. They must be warmed through

                 "The dearest theme
    That ever waked the poet's dream,"

and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the
delicious but inanimate charms of earth, into the glowing region of
human feeling and passion.

    "In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
    In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
    In halls, in gay attire is seen;
    In hamlets, dances on the green.
    Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
    And man below, and saints above:
    For love is heaven, and heaven is love!"

Nor was this essential inspiration wanting in the breast of the young
bard. The climate of Caledonia is cold, but that the hearts of her sons
are susceptible of tropic warmth is shewn by a large proportion of her
lyric treasures. Heroism, pathos, satire, and a peculiar quaint humour,
present little more than an equal division, and the attributes of the
wholly embodied Scottish muse attest the truth of the remark on the
characteristic heat and fire which pervade her population, and excite
them to daring in war and ardour in gentler pursuits. Thus Bennoch sung
his Mary, Jessie, Bessie, Isabel, and other belles, but above all his
Margaret:--

    "The moon is shining, Margaret,
      Serenely bright above,
    And, like my dearest Margaret,
      Her every look is love!
    The trees are waving, Margaret,
      And balmy is the air,
    Where flowers are breathing, Margaret,
      Come, let us wander there.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Yes! there 's a hand, dear Margaret,
      A heart it gives to thee;
    When heaven is false, my Margaret,
      Then I may faithless be."

In the volume whence the preceding quotations are taken (second edition,
1843), the principal poem is "The Storm," in which occur many passages
of singular vigour, and slighter touches of genuine poetry. Thus--

    "The sea, by day so smooth and bright,
    Is far more lovely seen by night,
    When o'er old Ocean's wrinkled brow,
    The night has hung her silver bow,
    And stars in myriads ope their eyes
    To guide the footsteps of the wise,
    And in the deep reflected lie,
    Till Ocean seems a second sky;
    And ships, like wing'd aerial cars,
    Are voyaging among the stars."

This is--

    "Ere winter comes with icy chain,
    And clanks his fetters o'er the ground."

The impersonation of Winter himself is very striking--

    "Loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth,
    As he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth;
    The clouds were rent as the storm was driven;
    He howl'd and laugh'd in the face of heaven."

The temperament and inclination cherished by the love of song, naturally
seek the companionship of similar tastes and congenial enjoyments. Thus,
in the midst of the turmoil and distractions of orders and sales,
invoices and shipments, Mr Bennoch has always found leisure to pay his
court to literature, and cultivate the society of those whose talents
adorn it. Conjoined with this, a skilful appreciation of works of art
has led him to intimate relations with many of the leading artists of
our time. The interesting Biography of Haydon affords a glimpse at the
character of some of these relations. Wherever disappointed and however
distressed, poor Haydon "claimed kindred here, and had his claim
allowed." To his mercantile friend in Wood Street he never applied in
vain. To a very considerable extent his troubles were solaced, his
difficulties surmounted, his dark despair changed to golden hope, and
the threat of the gaol brightened into another free effort of genius to
redeem itself from the thralls of law and grinding oppression. Had his
generous friend not been absent from England at the fatal time, it is
very probable that the dreadful catastrophe would have been averted; but
he only landed from the continent to receive the shocking intelligence
that all was over. Friendship could but shed the unavailing tear, but it
did not forget or neglect the dear family interests for which (in some
measure) the despairing sacrifice was made. It is to be hoped that such
an unhappy event has been somewhat compensated by the social intercourse
with talent ever hospitably cherished, not only in his pleasant home in
Blackheath Park, but amid the precious hours that could be snatched from
most active engagements in Wood Street. At either, authors and artists
are constantly met; and the brief snatches alluded to are often so
heartily occupied as to rival, if not surpass, the slower motions of the
more prolonged entertainments. Both may boast of "the feast of reason
and the flow of soul," and a crowning increase to these enjoyments is
derived from the circumstance, that Mr Bennoch's connexions with the
Continent, and more especially with the United States, contribute very
frequently to engraft upon these "re-unions" a variety of eminent
foreigners and intellectual citizens of America. It is a trite saying,
that few men can be good or useful abroad who are not happy at home. Mr
Bennoch has been fortunate in wedded life. She who is the theme of many
of his sweetest and most touching verses, is a woman whom a poet may
love and a wise man consult; in whom the sociable gentleman finds an
ever cheerful companion, and the husband a loving and devoted friend.

Among the latest of Mr Bennoch's movements in literary affairs, may be
mentioned his services on behalf of the late estimable Mary Russell
Mitford. Through his intervention the public was gratified by the issue
of "Atherton," and other tales, and also by a collected edition of her
dramatic works, which she dedicated to him as an earnest of her
affectionate regard.

Mr Bennoch is a member of the Society of Arts, the Royal Society of
Antiquaries, the Royal Society of Literature, and the Scottish Literary
Institute.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The present Memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran
William Jerdan, late of the _Literary Gazette_.




TRUTH AND HONOUR.


    If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame,
    There is that in the doing brings honour or shame;
    There is something in running life's perilous race,
    Will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee as base.
      Oh, then, be a man--and, whatever betide,
      Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

    If a king--be thy kingship right royally shewn,
    And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne;
    Rely not on weapons or armies of might,
    But on that which endureth,--laws loving and right.
      Though a king, be a man--and, whatever betide,
      Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

    If a noble--remember, though ancient thy blood,
    The heart truly noble is that which is good;
    Should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow,
    Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.
      Be noble as man--and, whatever betide,
      Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

    If lover or husband--be faithful and kind,
    For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;
    Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy;
    The sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy.
      Love dignifies man--and, whatever betide,
      Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

    If a father--be firm, yet forgiving, and prove
    How the child honours him who rebuketh with love.
    If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be,
    Remember the truthful alone are the free.
      Erect in thy manhood, whatever betide,
      Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.

    Then, though sickness may come, or misfortunes may fall,
    There is that in thy bosom surviveth them all;
    Truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale,
    They are beacons of light in adversity's gale.
      Oh, the manlike is godlike--no ill shall betide
      While truth 's thy companion, and honour thy guide.




OUR SHIP.[2]


    A song, a song, brave hearts, a song,
      To the ship in which we ride,
    Which bears us along right gallantly,
      Defying the mutinous tide.
    Away, away, by night and day,
      Propelled by steam and wind,
    The watery waste before her lies,
      And a flaming wake behind.
        Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
          That carries us o'er the sea,
        Through storm and foam, to a western home
          The home of the brave and free.

    With a fearless bound to the depths profound,
      She rushes with proud disdain,
    While pale lips tell the fears that swell,
      Lest she never should rise again.
    With a courser's pride she paws the tide,
      Unbridled by bit I trow,
    While the churlish sea she dashes with glee
      In a cataract from her prow.
        Then a ho and a hip, &c.

    She bears not on board a lawless horde,
      Piratic in thought or deed,
    Yet the sword they would draw in defence of law,
      In the nation's hour of need.
    Professors and poets, and merchant men
      Whose voyagings never cease;
    From shore to shore, the wide world o'er,
      Their bonds are the bonds of peace.
        Then a ho and a hip, &c.

    She boasts the brave, the dutiful,
      The aged and the young,
    And woman bright and beautiful,
      And childhood's prattling tongue.
    With a dip and a rise, like a bird she flies,
      And we fear not the storm or squall;
    For faithful officers rule the helm,
      And heaven protects us all.
        Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
          That carries us o'er the sea,
        Through storm and foam, to a western home,
          The home of the brave and free.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Composed on board the steamship Niagara, on her voyage to New York,
in August 1849.




AULD PETER MACGOWAN.

AIR--_'The Brisk Young Lad.'_


    Auld Peter MacGowan cam down the craft,
    An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't;
    O little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft,
        When he wanted me to lo'e;
    He patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin,
    He praised my e'en an' sleek white skin,
    Syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within
        Came rattlin' out, I trew.
    O sirs, but he was a canty carle,
    Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl,
    An' aye he spoke o' his frien' the Earl,
        And thought he would conquer lo'e.

    He boasted o' gear an' acres wide,
    O' his bawsand youd that I should ride
    When I was made his bonny wee bride,
        Returning lo'e for lo'e;
    That I a lady to kirk should gang,
    Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang;
    But I snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang,
        Gin that's the best ye can do."
    O sirs, but he was a silly auld man,
    Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan';
    An' through the town like lightning ran,
        The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.

    An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft,
    And raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft,
    Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft,
        Sin' he couldna win my lo'e.
    "Far better be single," the folk a' said,
    "Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;"
    He will be cunning wha gars me wed,
        Wi' ane that I never can lo'e;
    Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad,
    A canty lad, an' a dainty lad;
    Oh, he maun be a spirited lad,
        Wha thinks to win my lo'e.




THE FLOWER OF KEIR.


    O what care I where love was born;
      I know where oft he lingers,
    Till night's black curtain 's drawn aside,
      By morning's rosy fingers.
    If you would know, come, follow me,
      O'er mountain, moss, and river,
    To where the Nith and Scar agree
      To flow as one for ever.

    Pass Kirk-o'-Keir and Clover lea,
      Through loanings red with roses;
    But pause beside the spreading tree,
      That Fanny's bower encloses.
    There, knitting in her shady grove,
      Sits Fanny singing gaily;
    Unwitting of the chains of love,
      She 's forging for us daily.

    Like light that brings the blossom forth,
      And sets the corn a-growing,
    Melts icy mountains in the north,
      And sets the streams a-flowing;
    So Fanny's eyes, so bright and wise,
      Shed loving rays to cheer us,
    Her absence gives us wintry skies,
     'Tis summer when she 's near us!

    O, saw ye ever such a face,
      To waken love and wonder;
    A brow with such an arch of grace,
      And blue eyes shining under!
    Her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles,
      Are equall'd not by many;
    Her look it charms, her love it warms,
      The flower of Keir is Fanny.




CONSTANCY.


    Oh! I have traversed lands afar,
      O'er mountains high, and prairies green;
    Still above me like a star,
      Serene and bright thy love has been;
    Still above me like a star,
      To gladden, guide, and keep me free
    From every ill. Oh, life were chill,
      Apart, my love, apart from thee.

    Other eyes might beam as bright,
      And other cheeks as rosy be;
    Other arms as pure and white,
      And other lips as sweet to pree;
    But ruddy lips, or beaming eyes,
      However fond and fair to see,
    I could not, would not love or prize
      Apart, my love, apart from thee.

    Other friendships I have known,
      Friendships dear, and pure, and kind;
    Liking soon to friendship grown,
      Love is friendship's ore refined.
    Oh, what is life, with love denied?
      A scentless flower, a leafless tree;
    My song with love,--my love with pride,
      Are full,--my love, are full of thee.




MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE.


    My bonnie wee wifie, I 'm waefu' to leave thee,
      To leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me;
    Come night and come morning, I 'll soon be returning;
      Then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we 'll be!
    Oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary,
      The snaw 's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea;
    All nature looks eerie. How can she be cheery,
      Since weel she maun ken I am parted frae thee?

    Oh, wae is the lammie, that 's lost its dear mammy,
      An' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane;
    The plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking,
      Are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain.
    The sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer,
      The sense to the soul, an' the light to the e'e,
    The bud to the blossom, sae thou 'rt to my bosom;
      Oh, wae 's my heart, wifie, when parted frae thee.

    There 's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing,
      Should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay;
    Love in our hearts glowing, its riches bestowing,
      Bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away.
    Let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing
      The bloom frae thy cheek when thou 'rt thinking of me;
    Come night and come morning, I 'll then be returning;
      Nae mair, cozie wifie, we parted shall be.




THE BONNIE BIRD.


    Oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird?
      Oh, where wiled ye that winsome fairy?
    I fear me it was where nae truth was heard,
      And far frae the shrine o' guid St Mary.

    I didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird,
      Nor try ony wiles wi' the winsome fairy,
    But won her young heart where the angels heard,
      In the bowery glen of Inverary.

    And what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird?
      I fear me its plumes ye will ruffle sairly;
    Or bring it low down to the lane kirkyard,
      Where blossoms o' grace are planted early.

    As life I love my bonnie, bonnie bird,
      Its plumage shall never be ruffled sairly;
    To the day o' doom I will keep my word,
      An' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early.

    Oh, whence rings out that merry, merry peal?
      The laugh and the sang are cherish'd rarely;
    It is--it is the bonny, bonny bird,
      Wi' twa sma' voices a' piping early.

    For he didna snare that bonny, bonny bird,
      Nor did he beguile the winsome fairy,
    He had made her his ain, where the angels heard,
      At the holy shrine o' the blest St Mary.




COME WHEN THE DAWN.


    Come when the dawn of the morning is breaking,
      Gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain,
    Come when the clamorous birds are awaking
      Man unto duty and pleasure again;
        Bright let your spirits be,
        Breathing sweet liberty,
      Drinking the rapture that gladdens the brain.

    High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing,
      Down in the meadows the mowers are seen,
    Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming;
      Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green,
        Flying, pursuing,
        Toying, and wooing--
      Nature is now as she ever has been.

    Then when the toils of the day are all over,
      Gathered, delighted, set round in a ring--
    Youth, with its mirthfulness--age, with its cheerfulness,
      Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing,
        "Bright may our spirits be--
        Happy and ever free.
      Blest are the joys that from innocence spring."




GOOD MORROW.[3]


    Good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright,
    Glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light;
    Whilst still as the glorious colours decay,
    Full gushes of music seem tracking their way.
                Hark! hark!
    Is it the sheep-bell among the ling,
    Or the early milkmaid carolling?
                Hark! hark!
                Or is it the lark,
    As he bids the sun good-morrow?--
                Good-morrow;
    Though every day brings sorrow.

    The daylight is dying, the night drawing near,
    The workers are silent; yet ringing and clear,
    From the leafiest tree in the shady bowers,
    Comes melody falling in silvery showers.
                Hark! hark!
    Is it the musical chime on the hill,
    That sweetly ringeth when all is still?
                Hark! hark!
                Oh, sweeter than lark,
    Is the nightingale's song of sorrow,
                Of sorrow;
    But pleasure will come to-morrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] One of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late Mary
Russell Mitford and appears in her tale of Atherton. The other stanza
was composed by Mr Bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved
friend.




OH, WAE'S MY LIFE.


    Oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart,
      The saut tears fill my e'e, Willie,
    Nae hope can bloom this side the tomb,
      Since ye hae gane frae me, Willie.
    O' warl's gear I couldna' boast,
      But now I'm poor indeed, Willie;
    The last fond hope I leant upon,
      Has fail'd me in my need, Willie.

    For wealth or fame ye've left your Jean,
      Forgat your plighted vow, Willie;
    Can honours proud dispel the cloud,
      That darkens on your brow, Willie?
    Oh, was I then a thing sae mean,
      For nought but beauty prized, Willie;
    Caress'd a'e day, then flung away,
      A fading flower despised, Willie?

    Sin' love has fled, and hope is dead,
      Soon my poor heart maun break, Willie;
    As your ain life, oh, guard your wife--
      I 'll love her for your sake, Willie.
    Through my despair, oh, mony a prayer,
      Will rise for her and ye, Willie;
    That ye may prove to her, in love,
      Mair faithfu' than to me, Willie.




HEY, MY BONNIE WEE LASSIE.


        Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
        Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
        Will ye wed a canty carle,
          Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?

    I ha'e sheep, an' I ha'e kye,
    I ha'e wheat, an' I ha'e rye,
    An' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye,
      That ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie!
        Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
        Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
        Will ye wed a canty carle,
          Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?

    Ye shall dress in damask fine,
    My goud and gear shall a' be thine,
    And I to ye be ever kin'.
      Say,--will ye marry me, lassie?
        Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
        Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
        Will ye wed a canty carle,
          Bonnie, smiling wee lassie?

    Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose,
    Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose,
    An' at the ingle warm your nose;
      But come na courtin' me, carle.
        Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
        Silly, clavering auld carle,
        The hawk an' doo shall pair, I trew,
          Before I pair wi' ye, carle!

    Your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes,
    Ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes,
    An' siller canna buy the brains
      That pleasure gie to me, carle!
        Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
        Silly, clavering auld carle,
        The hound an' hare may seek ae lair,
          But I'll no sleep wi' ye, carle.

    I winna share your gowd wi' ye,
    Your withering heart, an' watery e'e;
    In death I'd sooner shrouded be
      Than wedded to ye, auld carle!
        Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
        Silly, clavering auld carle,
        When roses blaw on leafs o' snaw,
          I'll bloom upon your breast, carle.

    But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain,
    May heaven blessings on him rain!
    Though plackless, he is unco fain,
      And he's the man for me, carle!
        Oh, youth an' age can ne'er agree;
        Though rich, you're no the man for me.
        Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee;
          Pray heaven to be your bride, carle.




BESSIE.


    Oh, mony a year has come and gane,
      An' mony a weary day,
    Sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame,
      I first was lured away,
    To wander over unco lands,
      Far, far ayont the sea;
    But no to find a land like this,
      The hame o' Bess an' me!

    I've traversed mony a dreary land,
      Across the braid, braid sea;
    But, oh, my native mountain hame,
      My thochts were aye wi' thee.
    As certain as the sun wad rise,
      And set ahint the sea,
    Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers,
      At morn an' nicht for thee;

    When I return'd unto my hame,
      The hills were clad wi' snow;
    Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love,
      My heart was in a glow.
    Though keen the wintry north wind blew,
      Like summer 'twas to me;
    For, Bess, my frame was warm wi' love,
      Of country, kindred, thee!

    Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles
      Returning sunny beams,
    Than I then hailed my native hame,
      Its mountains, woods, and streams.
    Now we are met, my bonnie Bess,
      We never mair will part;
    Although to a' we seem as twa,
      We only hae ae heart!

    We 'll be sae loving a' the nicht,
      Sae happy a' the day,
    That though our bodies time may change,
      Our love shall ne'er decay:
    As gently as yon lovely stream
      Declining years shall run,
    An' life shall pass frae our auld clay,
      As snow melts 'neath the sun.




COURTSHIP.


    Yestreen on Cample's bonnie flood
      The summer moon was shining;
    While on a bank in Chrichope wood
      Two lovers were reclining:
    They spak' o' youth, an' hoary age,
      O' time how swiftly fleeting,
    Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,--
      The reason of their meeting!

    When Willie thoucht his heart was firm,
      An' might declare its feeling,
    A glance frae Bessy's starry een
      Sent a' his senses reeling;
    For aye when he essay'd to speak,
      An' she prepared to hear him,
    The thought in crimson dyed his cheek,
      But words would no come near him!

    'Tis ever thus that love is taught
      By his divinest teacher;
    He silent adoration seeks,
      But shuns the prosy preacher.
    Now read me right, ye gentle anes,
      Nor deem my lesson hollow;
    The deepest river silent rins,
      The babbling brook is shallow.




TOGETHER.


    Together, dearest, we have play'd,
      As girl and boy together;
    Through storm and calm, in sun and shade,
      In spring and wintry weather.
    Oh! every pang that stinging came
      But made our love the dearer;
    If danger lower'd--'twas all the same,
      We only clung the nearer.

    In riper years, when all the world
      Lay bathed in light before us,
    And life in rainbow hues unfurl'd
      Its glowing banner o'er us,
    Amid the beauty storms would rise
      And flowers collapsing wither,
    While open friends turned hidden foes--
      Yet were we blest together.

    But now the battle's fought and won,
      And care with life is flying,
    While, setting slowly like the sun,
      Ambition's fires are dying.
    We gather hope with fading strength,
      And go, we know not whither,
    Contented if in death at last
      We sleep in peace together.




FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.


    With lofty song we love to cheer
      The hearts of daring men;
    Applauded thus, they gladly hear
      The trumpet's call again.
    But now we sing of lowly deeds
      Devoted to the brave,
    Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds,
      A hero's life may save:
    And heroes saved exulting tell
      How well her voice they knew;
    How sorrow near it could not dwell,
      But spread its wings and flew.

    Neglected, dying in despair,
      They lay till woman came
    To soothe them with her gentle care,
      And feed life's flickering flame.
    When wounded sore, on fever's rack,
      Or cast away as slain,
    She called their fluttering spirits back
      And gave them strength again.
    'Twas grief to miss the passing face
      That suffering could dispel;
    But joy to turn and kiss the place
      On which her shadow fell.[4]

    When words of wrath profaning rung,
      She moved with pitying grace;
    Her presence still'd the wildest tongue,
      And holy[5] made the place.
    They knew that they were cared for then,
      Their eyes forgot their tears;
    In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
      And thought of early years--
    Of early years, when all was fair,
      Of faces sweet and pale.
    They woke: the angel bending there
      Was--Florence Nightingale!

FOOTNOTES:

[4] She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many
more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it
fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.--_Soldier's Letter
from the Crimea._

[5] "Before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it
was as holy as a church."--_Ibid._




JOSEPH MACGREGOR.


The writer of several good songs, which have been published with music,
Joseph Macgregor, followed the profession of an accountant in Edinburgh.
Expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrangement of the city
affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. A zealous member of
the Liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the Reform Bill
movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of
Francis Jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in Parliament.
He latterly occupied Ramsay Lodge, the residence of the poet Allan
Ramsay, where he died about the year 1845, at a somewhat advanced age.
The following songs from his pen are published by the kind permission of
Messrs Robertson & Co., musicsellers, Edinburgh.




LADDIE, OH! LEAVE ME.


    Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery,
    When love's star was smilin', I met wi' my dearie;
    Ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me,
    But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me;
        Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me."

    "I 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie,
    I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary,
    I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee;
    Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;"
                        Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

    "There 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure,
    There 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure,
    There 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me,
    Till death break this fond heart--oh! then I maun leave thee;"
                        Leave thee, leave thee, &c.

    The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses;
    What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses!
    I kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me
    She yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "Oh! never leave me;"
                        Leave me, leave me, &c.




HOW BLYTHELY THE PIPE.

AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_


    How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding,
      At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied;
    And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding,
      When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride.
    But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming--
      The battle-cry echoed, around and above
    Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing;
      Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.

    All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing,
      With her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear!
    And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing,
      Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier!
    But cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden
      With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove;
    Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing,
      Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!




WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D.


A native of Dumfries, William Dunbar, received his elementary education
in that town. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he was in
1805 licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. During the
vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his
probationary career, he resided chiefly in the Hebrides. At this period
he composed the popular song, entitled, "The Maid of Islay," the heroine
being a Miss Campbell of the island of Islay. In several collections the
song has been erroneously ascribed to Joseph Train. Mr Dunbar was, in
May 1807, ordained to the parish of Applegarth, Dumfriesshire. Long
reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, Dr
Dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for
the entomological series of the "Naturalist's Library." His observations
were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the
title, "The Natural History of Bees, comprehending the uses and
economical management of the British and Foreign Honey-Bee; together
with the known wild species. Illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured
from nature, with portrait and memoir of Huber." The publication has
been pronounced useful to the practical apiarian and a valuable
contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee.

In the fiftieth year of his pastorate, Dr Dunbar enjoys the veneration
of a flock, of whom the majority have been reared under his ministerial
superintendence.




THE MAID OF ISLAY.


    Rising o'er the heaving billow,
      Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
    While with thee, on grassy pillow,
      Solitude! I love to dwell.
    Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing,
      Oft I chant my love-lorn strain,
    To the streamlet sweetly flowing,
      Murmur oft a lover's pain.

    'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay,
      Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
    'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye
      Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
    Not the tempest raving round me,
      Lightning's flash or thunder's roll;
    Not the ocean's rage could wound me,
      While her image fill'd my soul.

    Farewell, days of purest pleasure,
      Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
    Farewell, hours of bliss the measure,
      Bliss that never can return!
    Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring,
      Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
    On the past with sadness pond'ring,
      Hope's fair visions charm no more.




WILLIAM JERDAN.


The well known editor of the _Literary Gazette_, William Jerdan, was
born at Kelso, Roxburghshire, on the 16th April 1782. The third son and
seventh child of John Jerdan, a small land proprietor and baron-bailie
under the Duke of Roxburghe, his paternal progenitors owned extensive
possessions in the south-east of Scotland. His mother, Agnes Stuart, a
woman of superior intelligence, claimed descent from the Royal House of
Stuart. Educated at the parochial school of his native town, young
Jerdan entered a lawyer's office, with a view to the legal profession.
Towards literary pursuits his attention was directed through the kindly
intercourse of the Rev. Dr Rutherford, author of the "View of Ancient
History," who then assisted the minister of Kelso, and subsequently
became incumbent of Muirkirk. In 1801 he proceeded to London, where he
was employed as clerk in a mercantile establishment. Returning to
Scotland, he entered the office of a Writer to the Signet; but in 1804
he resumed his connexion with the metropolis. Suffering from impaired
health, he was taken under the care of a maternal uncle, surgeon of the
_Gladiator_ guard-ship. On the recommendation of this relative, he
served as a seaman for a few months preceding February 1806. A third
time seeking the literary world of London, he became reporter to the
_Aurora_, a morning paper, of temporary duration. In January 1807, he
joined the _Pilot_, an evening paper. Subsequently, he was one of the
conductors of the _Morning Post_ and a reporter for the _British
Press_. Purchasing the copyright of the _Satirist_, he for a short time
edited that journal. In May 1813, he became conductor of _The Sun_, an
appointment which he retained during a period of four years, but was led
to relinquish from an untoward dispute with the publisher. He now
entered on the editorship of the _Literary Gazette_, which he conducted
till 1850, and with which his name will continue to be associated.

During a period of nearly half a century, Mr Jerdan has occupied a
prominent position in connexion with literature and politics. He was the
first person who seized Bellingham, the murderer of Percival, in the
lobby of the House of Commons. With Mr Canning he was on terms of
intimacy. In 1821 he aided in establishing the Royal Society of
Literature. He was one of the founders of the Melodist's Club, for the
promotion of harmony, and of the Garrick Club, for the patronage of the
drama. In the affairs of the Royal Literary Fund he has manifested a
deep interest. In 1830 he originated, in concert with other literary
individuals, the _Foreign Literary Gazette_, of which he became
joint-editor. About the same period, he wrote the biographical portion
of Fisher's "National Portrait Gallery." In 1852-3 appeared his
"Autobiography," in four volumes; a work containing many curious details
respecting persons of eminence. In 1852 Mr Jerdan's services to
literature were acknowledged by a pension of £100 on the Civil List, and
about the same time he received a handsome pecuniary testimonial from
his literary friends.




THE WEE BIRD'S SONG.[6]


    I heard a wee bird singing,
      In my chamber as I lay;
    The casement open swinging,
      As morning woke the day.
    And the boughs around were twining,
    The bright sun through them shining,
    And I had long been pining,
      For my Willie far away--
    When I heard the wee bird singing.

    He heard the wee bird singing,
      For its notes were wondrous clear;
    As if wedding bells were ringing,
      Melodious to the ear.
    And still it rang that wee bird's song;
    Just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong;
    While my heart beat so quick and strong--
      It felt that he was near!
    And he heard the wee bird singing.

    We heard the wee bird singing,
      After brief time had flown;
    The true bells had been ringing,
      And Willie was my own.
    And oft I tell him, jesting, playing,
    I knew what the wee bird was saying,
    That morn, when he, no longer straying,
      Flew back to me alone.
    And we love the wee bird singing.


FOOTNOTES:

[6] Here first published.




WHAT MAKES THIS HOUR?


    What makes this hour a day to me?
      What makes this day a year?
    My own love promised we should meet--
      But my own love is not here!
    Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
      Her tryst she ne'er would break;
    She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
      Then leave this heart to ache;
        And make the hour a day to me,
          And make the day a year;
        The hour she promised we should meet--
          But my own love is not here.

    Alas! can she inconstant prove?
      Does sickness force her stay?
    Or is it fate, or failing love,
      That keeps my love away,
    To make the hour a day to me,
      And make the day a year?
    The hour and day we should have met--
      But my own love is not here.




ALEXANDER BALD.


Alexander Bald was born at Alloa, on the 9th June 1783. His father, who
bore the same Christian name, was a native of Culross, where he was
originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity,
under the late Earl of Dundonald. He subsequently became agent for the
collieries of John Francis Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar. A book of
arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, "The
Corn-dealer's Assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable
guide for tenant farmers.

The subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. Along
with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick
Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of
his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He
established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "The
Shakspeare Club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the
presence of men of genius and learning. To the _Scots' Magazine_ he
became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant
tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the
more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the
period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town
as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. His brother, Mr Robert
Bald, is the distinguished mining engineer.




THE LILY OF THE VALE.[7]

TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_


    The lily of the vale is sweet,
      And sweeter still the op'ning rose,
    But sweeter far my Mary is
      Than any blooming flower that blows.
    Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
      I'll wander oft by Mary's side;
    And whisper saft the tender tale,
      By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.

    There will we walk at early dawn,
      Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
    At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread,
      And mark that splendid orb's decline.
    The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,
      To deck my lovely Mary's hair;
    And while I live, I vow and swear,
      She'll be my chief--my only care.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for
October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to
Allan Ramsay.




HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN.


    How sweet are the blushes of morn,
      And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove;
    The linnet chants sweet from the thorn,
      But sweeter's the smile of my love.

    Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell,
      Since fate has decreed we should part;
    Thine image shall still with me dwell,
      Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.

    But by winding Devon's green bowers,
      At eve's dewy hour as I rove,
    I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers,
      And the pride of her maidens, my love.

    The music shall cease in the grove,
      Thine absence the linnet shall mourn;
    But the lark, in strains bearing love,
      Soft warbling, shall greet thy return.




GEORGE WILSON.


George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of
Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in
life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a
sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place
he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired
himself as a cow-herd. Passing through the various stages of rural
employment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his
eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker
in Edinburgh. On fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a
journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own
account. In 1831 he removed from Edinburgh to the village of
Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He
published "The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. The
following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem
worthy of preservation.




MILD AS THE MORNING.

AIR--_'Bonnie Dundee.'_


    Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty,
      Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar,
    With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom,
      To view with sad horror the carnage of war.
    She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow;
      Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain;
    The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded,
      And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.

    "Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping?
      Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe?
    Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining,
      To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?"
    A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces,
      Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore--
    "Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald,
      Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."

    She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded;
      The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart;
    She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded,
      He wanted that succour, she could not impart--
    "Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven,
      "Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er;
    And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother,
      Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."




THE BEACONS BLAZED.

AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_


    The beacons blazed, the banners flew,
    The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew,
    The trusty clans their claymores drew,
        To shield their Royal Charlie.

        Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans,
        Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens,
        Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns,
            To shield and save Prince Charlie.

    They, like their fathers, bold and brave,
    Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive;
    Of danger fearless, sworn to save
        Or fa' for Royal Charlie.

    Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still,
    Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill,
    And boldly dared, wi' right guid will,
        To shield their Royal Charlie.

    The forests and the rocks replied
    To shouts which rung both far and wide:
    Our prince is come, his people's pride--
        Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!

    Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own;
    We'll die, or seat thee on the throne,
    Where many a Scottish king has shone;
        The sires o' Royal Charlie.

    No faithful Scot now makes a pause;
    Plain truth and justice plead thy cause;
    Each fearlessly his weapon draws,
        To shield and save Prince Charlie.

    Now, lead us on against thy foes;
    Thy rightful claim all Europe knows;
    We'll scatter death with all our blows,
        To shield and save Prince Charlie.

    Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display,
    By deathless deeds in battle day,
    To stretch them pale on beds of clay,
        The foes of Royal Charlie.




THE RENDEZVOUS.


    Warlike chieftains now assembled,
      Fame your daring deeds shall tell,
    Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled,
      When you raised your warlike yell.
        Bards shall sing when battle rages,
          Scotia's sons shall victors be;
        Bards shall sing in after ages,
          Caledonians aye were free.

    Blest be every bold avenger,
      Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound;
    Dreadful in the day of danger
      Be each chieftain ever found.

    Let the hills our swords have shielded,
      Ring to every hero's praise;
    And the tribes who never yielded,
      Their immortal trophies raise.

    Heroes brave, be ever ready,
      At your king and country's call;
    When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you,
      Let the foe that dares you fall.

    Let the harp to strains resounding,
      Ring to cheer the dauntless brave;
    Let the brave like roes come bounding
      On to glory or a grave.

    Let your laurels never-fading,
      Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive;
    Where your thistle springs triumphant,
      There let freedom's banner wave.




JOHN YOUNGER.


John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize
Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of
his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in
the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth
year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he
married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where
he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has
long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the
latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds
the office of village postmaster.

A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys
the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of
anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the
most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode
of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several
interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the
title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His
Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was
published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical
effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.




ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.


    Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down,
      My ain sweet bairnies dear,
    Whatever storms in life may blaw,
      Take nae sic heart o' fear.
    Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
      Since Eve's first apple grew,
    Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
      O' its ain drap o' dew.

    The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
      And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
    By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
      Adown the course o' time,
    Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,--
      Their annual bloom renew,
    Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
      Its ain sweet drap o' dew.

    The oaks and cedars of the earth
      May toss their arms in air,
    Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
      That strips the forest bare;
    The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass,
      Till sunshine spreads anew,
    And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass,
      Its lucent drap o' dew.

    The great may loll in world's wealth
      And a' the pomp o' state,
    While labour, bent wi' eident cares,
      Maun toil baith ear and late.
    The poor may gae to bed distrest,
      With nae relief in view,
    And rising, like ilk blade o' grass,
      Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.

    Oh, what a gentle hand is His
      That cleeds the lilies fair,
    And o' the meanest thing in life
      Takes mair than mother's care!
    Can ye no put your trust in Him,
      With heart resign'd and true,
    Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass,
      Ilk blade its drap o' dew.




THE MONTH OF JUNE.


    O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers
      That a' our seasons yield;
    Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers,
      The garden, and the field;
    The pathway verge by hedge and tree,
      So fresh, so green, and gay,
    Where every lovely blue flower's e'e
      Is opening to the day.

    The river banks and craggy peaks
      In wilding blossoms drest;
    With ivy o'er their jutting nooks
      Ye screen the ouzel's nest;
    From precipice, abrupt and bold,
      Your tendrils flaunt in air,
    With craw-flowers dangling living gold
      Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.

    Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest
      From every prying e'e,
    With fairy fingers ye invest
      In woven flowers the lea;
    Around the lover's blissful hour
      Ye draw your leafy screen,
    And shade those in your rosy bower,
      Who love to muse unseen.




JOHN BURTT.


John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish
of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was
apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved
himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his
sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and
compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous
servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He
subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and
afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had
sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he
published, under the title of "Horæ Poeticæ; or, the Recreations of a
Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his
career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton
College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church,
and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed
to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the
_Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati,
he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835,
he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.




O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

AIR--_'Banks of the Devon.'_


    O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,
      Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;
    What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
      The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
    Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
      Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
    Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
      The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.

    No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander,
      And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
    No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
      For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
    No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast--
      I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
    Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
      And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.




O! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST!


    O! lassie, I lo'e dearest!
    Mair fair to me than fairest,
    Mair rare to me than rarest,
      How sweet to think o' thee.
    When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
    Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
    And furls night's sable awnin',
      I love to think o' thee.

    An' while the honey'd dew-drap
    Still trembles at the flower-tap,
    The fairest bud I pu't up,
      An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.
    An' when by stream or fountain,
    In glen, or on the mountain,
    The lingering moments counting,
      I pause an' think o' thee.

    When the sun's red rays are streamin',
    Warm on the meadow beamin',
    Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
      My heart is fu' o' thee.
    An' tardy-footed gloamin',
    Out o'er the hills slow comin',
    Still finds me lanely roamin',
      And thinkin' still o' thee.

    When soughs the distant billow,
    An' night blasts shake the willow,
    Stretch'd on my lanely pillow,
      My dreams are a' o' thee.
    Then think when frien's caress thee,
    Oh, think when cares distress thee,
    Oh, think when pleasures bless thee,
      O' him that thinks o' thee.




CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON.


Charles James Finlayson was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish
of Larbert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father
during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at
school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the
fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took
delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the
cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the
horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk _trysts_, put him in
possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could
supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the
Carron Iron Works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in
scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from
Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy
of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified,
while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the
psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Resigning this
appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time
taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the
Kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk,
Edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the
respected clergyman, Dr Macknight.

Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice
of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and
proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited
the principal towns in the east and southern districts of Scotland, and
was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in
1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town.
After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kircudbright as a wine
and spirit merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of
postmaster. Having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys
the fruits of a well-earned competency. He has contributed songs to
Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song
beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and
published with music at Leipsic.




THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.


    The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among,
      And echo repeats to the breezes his strain;
    Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng,
      And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.
    He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew,
      When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme;
    While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew,
      And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.

    The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise,
      Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!
    E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
      And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
    Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
      Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
    They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
      That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.

    Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
      And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
    They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
      Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
    Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray,
      Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere;
    While the names that neglect thee have melted away,
      As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.




PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.


    Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast
      An' frae the purple east smiles on the day;
    Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain,
      Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay;
    Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes,
      Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea;
    But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh,
      Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.

    Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief--
      Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie;
    Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings--
      Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.
    Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair;
      Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue;
    But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create
      Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.

    Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies--
      Aft has adversity fled frae your ray;
    Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile,
      That ever could beguile sorrow away;
    Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green,
      Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew;
    Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart--
      Farewell, dear Annie--a long, long adieu!




OH, MY LOVE'S BONNIE.


        Oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie;
          Oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me;
        The smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace,
          Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie.

    Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin',
      When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear,
    And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming,
      That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear.

    But poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom,
      That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee;
    Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom,
      When riches nae lasting contentment can gie.

    Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover,
      And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee;
    For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover,
      Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee.




WILLIAM DOBIE.


An accomplished antiquary, and writer of verses, William Dobie was born
in 1790, in the village of Beith, Ayrshire. Educated at the parish
school, he was in his thirteenth year apprenticed to a mechanical
profession. At the close of his apprenticeship, he commenced business in
his native district. In 1822, the munificence of a wealthy relative
enabled him to retire from his occupation, which had proved unsuitable
to his tastes. For several years he resided in London. He subsequently
made a tour through Britain, and visited the Continent. His
"Perambulations in Kintyre," a manuscript volume, is frequently quoted
by Mr Cosmo Innes, in his "Origines Parochiales Scotiæ," a valuable work
printed for the Bannatyne Club. In 1840 he prepared a history of the
parish of Kilbirnie, for the "New Statistical Account." He afterwards
published an account of the church and churchyard of Kilbirnie, in an
interesting pamphlet. Recently Mr Dobie has superintended the erection
of a monument to Sir William Wallace, on Barnweil Hill, near Kilmarnock,
which has been reared at the entire cost of William Patrick, Esq., of
Roughwood. The greater number of the many spirited inscriptions on the
monument are the composition of Mr Dobie.




THE DREARY REIGN OF WINTER 'S PAST.

AIR--_'Loch Errochside.'_


    The dreary reign of Winter 's past,
    The frost, the snow, the surly blast,
    To polar hills are scouring fast;
      For balmy Spring 's returning.
    Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,
    The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;
    But soft low notes, borne on the gale,
      Dispel dull gloom and mourning.

    With toil and long fatigue depress'd,
    Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,
    Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,
      By balmy Spring returning.
    Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,
    Lovelier each succeeding day;
    Soon from her face shall pass away,
      Each trace of Winter's mourning.

    Lo, at her mild benign command,
    Life rouses up on every hand;
    While bursts of joy o'er all the land,
      Hail balmy Spring returning.
    E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,
    And solemn wood in softened din,
    All join great Nature's praise to hymn,
      That fled is Winter's mourning.

    While all on earth, and in the skies,
    In transports fervently rejoice,
    Shall man refuse to raise his voice,
      And welcome Spring returning?
    If such ingrates exist below,
    They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,
    That Nature and the Muse bestow,
      To cheer the gloom of mourning.




ROBERT HENDRY, M.D.


A man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical
ability, Robert Hendry was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1791.
Descended from a respectable family in Morayshire, his paternal
great-grandfather fixed his residence in Glasgow. His grandfather, after
serving as a lieutenant under the Duke of Cumberland in Holland, quitted
the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in Paisley. Under the name
of "The Hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being
lampooned by Alexander Wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior
to his embarkation for America. Of his two sons, the elder removed to
London, where he became senior Alderman, and died on the eve of his
nomination as Lord Mayor.

The grandson of "The Hollander," by his second son, the subject of this
memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a
medical practitioner. On the completion of a course of philosophical and
medical study at the University of Glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and
settled as a surgeon in his native town. Amidst due attention to his
professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits.
Besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of
the more important serials. During the year 1826, which proved so
disastrous to the manufacturing interests in Paisley, he devised a
scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were
appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. He afterwards sought the
general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and
sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of
excellent water. Declining the provostship offered him by the Town
Council, he retired a few years since to the village of Helensburgh,
where he continues to reside.

Dr Hendry was an intimate acquaintance of Tannahill; and afterwards
ranked among his friends the poet Motherwell and Robert Archibald Smith.
He has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. Latterly
his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits.




OH, LET NA GANG YON BONNIE LASSIE.


    Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie
      Cam' to see you a' yestreen;
    A winning gate 's about that lassie,
      Something mair than meets the een.
    Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,
      Think ye it had been sae fine?
    Or yet the biscuit sae delicious
      That we crumpit to the wine?

    Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,
      Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;
    The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,
      Form, and colour, nature drew.
    She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',
      Lang unwedded canna be;
    Wi' kindness court the comely creature,
      Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.

    Have ye an ear can be delighted?
      Like a seraph she can sing,
    Wi' charming grace and witching manner,
      Thrilling o'er the music string.
    Her tell the tale that moves to pity,
      But wi' heart and feeling speak;
    Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,
      Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.

    She sooms na aye in silk or satin,
      Flaunting like a modern belle;
    Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,
      Sweet and modest like hersel'.
    The shapely robe adorns her person
      That her eident hand wad sew;
    The plaid sae graceful flung around her,
      'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.

    She 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman
      To a kind weel-doing man,
    Forby a tender-hearted mother--
      Win the lassie if ye can.
    For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;
      May your bridal day be near--
    Then half a score o' bairns hereafter--
      May ye live a hunder year.




HEW AINSLIE.


Hew Ainslie was born on the 5th April 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the
parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of
education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the
parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a
pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to
forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the
academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on
the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he
entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the
confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty
departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at
Roslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to
Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson,
Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerkship in the General Register
House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor
Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press.

Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his
office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of
his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of
bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made
purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following
years. He next made a trial of the Social System of Robert Owen, at New
Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he
entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers, in
Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville.
Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a
joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises
on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of
1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since followed the
occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and
has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York.

Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a
youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820
revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to
America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo
volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second
volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was
in 1855 published at New York.




THE HAMEWARD SANG.


    Each whirl of the wheel,
      Each step brings me nearer
    The hame of my youth--
      Every object grows dearer.
    Thae hills and thae huts,
      And thae trees on that green,
    Losh! they glower in my face
      Like some kindly auld frien'.

    E'en the brutes they look social,
      As gif they would crack;
    And the sang o' the birds
      Seems to welcome me back.
    Oh, dear to our hearts
      Is the hand that first fed us,
    And dear is the land
      And the cottage that bred us.

    And dear are the comrades
      With whom we once sported,
    And dearer the maiden
      Whose love we first courted.
    Joy's image may perish,
      E'en grief die away;
    But the scenes of our youth
      Are recorded for aye.




DOWIE IN THE HINT O' HAIRST.


    Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,
      At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,
    When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
      And the wuds are hingin' yellow;
    But oh, its dowier far to see
    The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',
    The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e--
    That darkens the weary warld on thee.

    There was mickle love atween us twa--
      Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;
    And the thing on yird was never made,
      That could hae gart us sunder.
    But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,
    And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--
    It's comfort, though, to weary men,
    That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.

    There's mony things that come and gae,
      Just kent, and just forgotten;
    And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
      Gin anither year lie rotten.
    But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
    And the dying grip she gae to me,
    They're settled like eternitie--
    Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.




ON WI' THE TARTAN.


    Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,
      The hills wild and free;
    Whar' the sang o' the shepherd
      Gars a' ring wi' glee?
    Or the steep rocky glens,
      Where the wild falcons bide?
    Then on wi' the tartan,
      And, fy, let us ride!

    Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,
      That ne'er war in rigs?
    Or the bonnie loune lee,
      Where the sweet robin bigs?
    Or the sang o' the lintie,
      Whan wooin' his bride?
    Then on wi' the tartan,
      And, fy, let us ride!

    Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,
      That loups amang linns?
    Or the bonnie green howmes,
      Where it cannilie rins,
    Wi' a cantie bit housie,
      Sae snug by its side?
    Then on wi' the tartan,
      And, fy, let us ride!




THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN.


    The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,
      Wi' his merry men sae brave;
    Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel
      Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.
    Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough
      When naething disturbs it ava;
    But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,
      Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.

    Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl
      Owre the breast o' the siller sea;
    That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,
      An' the rover that's dear to me,
    But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,
      An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;
    When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,
      As they rise frae the whitening roar.

    Its then that I look to the thickening rook,
      An' watch by the midnight tide;
    I ken the wind brings my rover hame,
      An' the sea that he glories to ride.
    Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,
      Wi' the helm heft in his hand,
    An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
      As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:

    "Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,
      Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;
    She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,
      An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.
    When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,
      In the tempest's angry moan,
    We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift
      O' the wave that heaves us on."




THE LAST LOOK O' HAME.


    Bare was our burn brae,
      December's blast had blawn,
    The last flower was dead,
      An' the brown leaf had fa'n:
    It was dark in the deep glen,
      Hoary was our hill;
    An' the win' frae the cauld north,
      Cam' heavy and chill:

    When I said fare-ye-weel,
      To my kith and my kin;
    My barque it lay ahead,
      An' my cot-house ahin';
    I had nought left to tine,
      I'd a wide warl' to try;
    But my heart it wadna lift,
      An' my e'e it wadna dry.

    I look'd lang at the ha',
      Through the mist o' my tears,
    Where the kind lassie lived,
      I had run wi' for years;
    E'en the glens where we sat,
      Wi' their broom-covered knowes,
    Took a haud on this heart
      That I ne'er can unloose.

    I hae wander'd sin' syne,
      By gay temples and towers,
    Where the ungather'd spice
      Scents the breeze in their bowers;
    Oh! sic scenes I could leave
      Without pain or regret;
    But the last look o' hame
      I ne'er can forget.




THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'.

AIR--_'My ain fireside.'_


    When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,
    An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;
    How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',
    Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.

    When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,
    When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;
    Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',
    Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?

    When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,
    Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,
    This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',
    And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!




MY BONNIE WEE BELL.


    My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,
    Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;
    While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;
    But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.

    When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',
    To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';
    An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell
    Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.

    Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,
    In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;
    But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,
    Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.

    Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,
    An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;
    I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',
    I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.




WILLIAM THOMSON.


William Thomson was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifeshire.
He has constantly resided in his native place. After obtaining an
ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a
manufacturer. Relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and
general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of Postmaster.
He composed verses at an early period. In 1825, some of his verses
appeared in the _Paisley Advertiser_, and the favour with which they
were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the
_Fife Herald_, a newspaper which had just been established in the
capital of his native county. Under the signature of _Theta_, he has
since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has
likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers
and some of the periodicals.




THE MAIDEN TO HER REAPING HOOK.


    The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,
    The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.
    When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,
    And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,
    And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,
    Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;
    How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,
    Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.

    My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,
    Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;
    As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,
    When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;
    Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,
    The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;
    With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,
    As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!

    They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!
    Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain;
    But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,
    And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;
    While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,
    The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.
    Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook,
    And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!




ALEXANDER SMART.


Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father
was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school
education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the
Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly
satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne."
Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an
illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our
author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed
in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person.
The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,--his cruel flagellations,--is
still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease
to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer
which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over
each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or
phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while
drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer,
I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed
worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual
time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of
my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and
dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I
resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the
times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible
commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand,
inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in
the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight
of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size,
threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so
saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my
lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further
control of the despot."

At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now
apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure
being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished
British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in
solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his
apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six
months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker
proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a
printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of
the _Montrose Chronicle_, a newspaper which was originated in his native
town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment
in the office of the _Dundee Courier_. Returning to Edinburgh, he
accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and
afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most
important printing establishments of the city.

In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but
being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He
subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published
a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes."
This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the
author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the
commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington
Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A
new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was
dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.

Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At
different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches,
some of which have appeared in _Hogg's Instructor_. Those papers
entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and
"Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a
peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the
miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his
health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his
time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more
congenial pursuits of literature.




WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.


    When the bee has left the blossom,
      And the lark has closed his lay,
    And the daisy folds its bosom
      In the dews of gloaming gray;
    When the virgin rose is bending,
      Wet with evening's pensive tear,
    And the purple light is blending
      With the soft moon rising clear;

    Meet me then, my own true maiden,
      Where the wild flowers shed their bloom
    And the air with fragrance laden,
      Breathes around a rich perfume.
    With my true love as I wander,
      Captive led by beauty's power,
    Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
      Hallow that delightful hour.

    Give ambition dreams of glory,
      Give the poet laurell'd fame,
    Let renown in song and story
      Consecrate the hero's name;
    Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
      Give the courtier place and power;
    Give to me my bosom's treasure,
      And the lonely gloaming hour.




OH, LEAVE ME NOT.


    Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,
      So soft, so still, is all our own;
    The dew descends on tree and flower,
      They breathe their sweets for thee alone.
    Oh, go not yet! the evening star,
      The rising moon, all bid thee stay;
    And dying echoes, faint and far,
      Invite our lingering steps to stray.

    Far from the city's noisy din,
      Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,
    That lip to press, those smiles to win,
      Will lend a rapture to the night.
    Let fortune fling her favours free
      To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:
    Oh, what is all the world to me,
      While thus I clasp and call thee mine!




NEVER DESPAIR.


    Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,
      The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;
    Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring
      While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.
    The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,
      And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;
    Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,
      And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!

    Never despair! when with troubles contending,
      Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,
    And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,
      Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.
    As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,
      When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,
    The bright star of promise their future adorning,
      Will light them along, and they'll never despair!

    The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,
      The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,
    And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,
      Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;
    For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,
      And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,
    While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,--
      Look upward and onward, and never despair!




JOHN DUNLOP.


The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry,
John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian
lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in
November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of
Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant
in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city.
He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at
Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at
Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.

Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed
verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS.
volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a
descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous
poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of
humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is
eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions
and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his
country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was
proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name,
became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as
the author of "The History of Fiction."




THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.


    Here's to the year that's awa'!
      We will drink it in strong and in sma';
    And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
      While swift flew the year that's awa'.
              And here's to ilk, &c.

    Here's to the sodger who bled,
      And the sailor who bravely did fa';
    Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled
      On the wings of the year that's awa'.
              Their fame is alive, &c.

    Here's to the friends we can trust
      When the storms of adversity blaw;
    May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,
      Nor depart like the year that's awa'.
              May they live, &c.




OH, DINNA ASK ME.

TUNE--_'Comin' through the rye.'_


    Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;
      Troth, I daurna tell:
    Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;
      Ask it o' yoursel'.

    Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,
      For weel ye ken me true;
    Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,
      I daurna look at you.

    When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
      And bonnie lassies see,
    Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,
      Lest you should mind na me.

    For I could never bide the lass
      That ye'd lo'e mair than me;
    And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,
      Gin ye'd prove false to me.




LOVE FLIES THE HAUNTS OF POMP AND POWER[9]


    Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
    To find the calm retreat;
    Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,
    To seek the moss-grown seat.

    Splendid attire and gilded crowns
    Can ne'er with love accord;
    But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,
    His purest joys afford.

    From pride, from business, and from care,
    His greatest sorrows flow;
    When these usurp the heart of man,
    That heart he ne'er can know.


FOOTNOTES:

[9] This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.




WAR.

TUNE--_'Where they go, where they go.'_


    For twenty years and more,
            Bloody war,
            Bloody war;
    For twenty years and more,
            Bloody war.
    For twenty years and more
    We heard the cannons roar
    To swell the tide of gore,
            Bloody war!

    A tyrant on a throne
            We have seen,
            We have seen;
    A tyrant on a throne
    Who thought the earth his own,
    But now is hardly known
            To have been.

    Who rung the loud alarm
            To be free,
            To be free?
    Who rung the loud alarm
            To be free?
    'Twas Britain broke the charm,
    And with her red right arm
    She rung the loud alarm
            To be free.

    The battle van she led
            Of the brave,
            Of the brave;
    The battle van she led
            Of the brave;
    The battle van she led,
    Till tyranny lay dead,
    And glory crown'd the head
            Of the brave.

    Give honour to the brave
            Where they lie,
            Where they lie;
    Give honour to the brave
            Where they lie;
    Give honour to the brave,
    And sacred be the grave,
    On land or in the wave,
            Where they lie.




WILLIAM BLAIR.


William Blair, author of "The Highland Maid," was, in the year 1800,
born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial
class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school.
Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and
having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the
place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made
some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational
employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at
the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from
the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards
succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years
Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.




THE HIGHLAND MAID.


    Again the laverock seeks the sky,
      And warbles, dimly seen;
    And summer views, wi' sunny joy,
      Her gowany robe o' green.
    But ah! the summer's blithe return,
      In flowery pride array'd,
    Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,
      Or charm the Highland Maid.

    My true love fell by Charlie's side,
      Wi' mony a clansman dear;
    That fatal day--oh, wae betide
      The cruel Southron's spear!
    His bonnet blue is fallen now,
      And bluidy is the plaid,
    That aften on the mountain's brow,
      Has wrapt his Highland Maid.

    My father's shieling on the hill
      Is dowie now and sad;
    The breezes whisper round me still,
      I 've lost my Highland lad.
    Upon Culloden's fatal heath,
      He spake o' me, they said,
    And falter'd, wi' his dying breath,
      "Adieu, my Highland Maid!"

    The weary nicht for rest I seek,
      The langsome day I mourn;
    The smile upon my wither'd cheek
      Can never mair return.
    But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie,
      In yonder lonely glade;
    And, haply, ilka passer by
      Will mourn the Highland Maid.




THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SONG.[10]

TUNE--_"Brian the Brave."_


    Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield,
      Soon, soon will emblazon your plain;
    But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield,
      And the song of the victory your strain.
    Remember the fetters and chains that are wove,
      And fated by slavery's decree,
    Are not like the fetters of union and love,
      That bind and encircle the free.

    Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom,
      With the glow of the patriot's fires;
    And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom,
      And grow dark when your freedom expires.
    Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet,
      And your country, with laurels in store,
    Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet
      When the tumult of battle is o'er.


FOOTNOTES:

[10] Here printed for the first time.




ARCHIBALD MACKAY.


Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common
school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning
the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has
continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse,
he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "Drouthy Tam," which,
passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the
writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a
little work in prose and verse, entitled "Recreations of Leisure Hours."
In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a
well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published
in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed
extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating
library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.




OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.

AIR--_"Traveller's Return."_


    Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,
      The mournfu' and the gay;
    They charm'd me by a mither's knee,
      In bairnhood's happy day:
    And even yet, though owre my pow
      The snaws of age are flung,
    The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins
      Whene'er I hear them sung.

    They bring the fond smile to the cheek,
      Or tear-drap to the e'e;
    They bring to mind auld cronies kind,
      Wha sung them aft wi' glee.
    We seem again to hear the voice
      Of mony a lang-lost frien';
    We seem again to grip the hand
      That lang in dust has been.

    And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs
      When nature they portray!
    We think we hear the wee bit burn
      Gaun bickering doun the brae;
    We see the spot, though far awa',
      Where first life's breath we drew,
    And a' the gowden scenes of youth
      Seem rising to the view.

    And dear I lo'e the wild war strains
      Our langsyne minstrels sung--
    They rouse wi' patriotic fires
      The hearts of auld and young;
    And even the dowie dirge that wails
      Some brave but ruin'd band,
    Inspires us wi' a warmer love
      For hame and fatherland.

    Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs--
      The sangs of love and glee,
    The sangs that tell of glorious deeds
      That made auld Scotland free.
    What though they sprung frae simple bards,
      Wha kent nae rules of art?
    They ever, ever yield a charm
      That lingers round the heart.




MY LADDIE LIES LOW.


    Alas! how true the boding voice
      That whisper'd aft to me,
    "Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return
      To Scotland or to thee!"
    Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while
      Shed forth its brightest beam;
    For low in death my laddie lies
      By Alma's bloody stream.

    I heard the village bells proclaim
      That glorious deeds were done;
    I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,
      "The field, the field is won!"
    And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,
      Might come to me again;
    But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies
      On Alma's gory plain.

    Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power
      Has roll'd the bolts of war,
    And made my laddie bleed and die
      Frae hame and friends afar.
    Alas! his form I ne'er shall see,
      Except in fancy's dream;
    For low he lies, where brave he fought,
      By Alma's bloody stream.




JOUK AND LET THE JAW GAE BY.

AIR--_"Jockie's Gray Breeks."_


    Oh! say not life is ever drear,
      For midst its scenes of toil and care
    There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer--
      There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.
    To gain that spot the aim be ours,
      For nocht we 'll get unless we try;
    And when misfortune round us lours,
      We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

    The wee bit flow'ret in the glen
      Maun bend beneath the surly blast;
    The birdie seeks some leafy den,
      And shelters till the storm is past:
    The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell,
      To some lowne spot for refuge hie;
    And sae, frae ills we canna quell,
      We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.

    Yet there are ills we a' should brave--
      The ills that man on man would throw;
    For oh! he 's but a thowless slave,
      That patient bears Oppression's woe.
    But if 'tis but the taunts of pride,
      Of envy's tongue that would annoy,
    'Tis nobler far to turn aside,
      And jouk and let the jaw gae by.

    In worldly gear we may be bare,
      We may hae mony a dreary hour;
    But never, never nurse despair,
      For ilka ane maun taste the sour:
    Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power,
      Wi' a' their pomp and honours high,
    'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower,
      And jouk to let the jaw gae by.

    But mark this truth--the ills that blight
      Are aft the fruits that folly brings;
    Then shun the wrong, pursue the right--
      Frae this the truest pleasure springs;
    And fret not though dark clouds should spread
      At times across life's troubled sky;
    Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed--
      Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.




VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS.


    Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won,
    And brighter blazes freedom's sun;
    But daring deeds must yet be done
      To curb Oppression's reign, boys.
    Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd,
    Our foes are thick'ning on the wold;
    Then up! then up! be firm--be bold--
      Victorious be again, boys.

    The hearts--the blessings of the brave--
    Of those who scorn the name of slave,
    Are with you on the ocean's wave,
      And on the battle-plain, boys:
    Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one,
    And gird your brightest armour on;
    Complete the work so well begun--
      Victorious be again, boys!

    Though red with gore your path may be,
    It leads to glorious liberty;
    Remember, God is with the free,
      The brave He will sustain, boys:
    The tyrant fears the coming fight,
    He fears the power of Truth and Right;
    Then up! then up! in all your might--
      Victorious be again, boys.




WILLIAM AIR FOSTER.


The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air
Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed
the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in
Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an
active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle
Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and
he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.




FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA.


    Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,
    To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
    To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
    To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.

    Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang--
    For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang;
    Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
    A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.

    The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,
    But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;
    The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
    Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

    They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
    Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
    For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined
    Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

    No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!
    In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
    'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
    'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.




THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.

AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_


    I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,
    With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;
    For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,
    Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.

    I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure,
    And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure;
    While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring
    Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.

    When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright,
    And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight;
    Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,
    Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.

    Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,
    When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;
    While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,
    To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.

    'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,
    And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,
    With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;
    But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.

    My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
    Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,
    When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,
    In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.

    The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,
    With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.
    Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,
    While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.

    Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear,
    And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.
    No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,
    When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.

    Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,
    And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;
    Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells
    For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.




THE SALMON RUN.

AIR--_"The brave old Oak."_


      Oh! away to the Tweed,
      To the beautiful Tweed,
    My much-loved native stream;
      Where the fish from his hold,
      'Neath some cataract bold,
    Starts up like a quivering gleam.

      From his iron-bound keep,
      Far down in the deep,
    He holds on his sovereign sway;
      Or darts like a lance,
      Or the meteor's glance,
    Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.

      As he roves through the tide,
      Then his clear glitt'ring side
    Is burnish'd with silver and gold;
      And the sweep of his flight
      Seems a rainbow of light,
    As again he sinks down in his hold.

      With a soft western breeze,
      That just thrills through the trees,
    And ripples the beautiful bay;
      Throw the fly for a lure--
      That 's a rise! strike him sure--
    A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.

      Hark! the ravel line sweel,
      From the fast-whirring reel,
    With a music that gladdens the ear;
      And the thrill of delight,
      In that glorious fight,
    To the heart of the angler is dear.

      Hold him tight--for the leap;
      Where the waters are deep,
    Give out line in the far steady run;
      Reel up quick, if he tire,
      Though the wheel be on fire,
    For in earnest to work he 's begun.

      Aroused up at length,
      How he rolls in his strength,
    And springs with a quivering bound;
      Then away with a dash,
      Like the lightning's flash,
    Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.

      Though he strain on the thread,
      Down the stream with his head,
    That burst from the run makes him cool;
      Then spring out for the land,
      On the rod change the hand,
    And draw down for the deepening pool.

      Mark the gleam of his side,
      As he shoots through the tide!
    Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?
      Fatigue now begins,
      For his quivering fins
    On the shallows are spread in despair.




CHARLES MARSHALL.


The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working
Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in
mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two
sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the
University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of
John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen
years. During that time the directors of the institution expressed their
approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by
increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of
liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In
1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a
probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the
North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he
adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the
Free North Church, Dunfermline.

To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as
well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has
long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of
prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "Lays
and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly
passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a
similar publication, entitled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men
and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part.
For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments,
adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish
peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. Mr Marshall
proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands
and Fathers," and to "Young Men."




THE BLESSING ON THE WARK.


    I like to spring in the morning bricht,
      Before the mill bell rings;
    When waukening blithe in gowden licht,
      My joyfu' spirit sings.

    I like to hear, when the pearly tear
      Gems morning's floweret cup,
    The trumpet summons of chanticleer
      Pipe "drowsy mortals up."

    I tread as lightly as silent puss,
      While a' the household sleep;
    And gird me to clean and redd the house
      Before the bairnies cheep.

    I like to dress and mak me clean
      As ony winsome bride;
    And think na shame, though my face be seen,
      At morn or eventide.

    I like to handle, before I rin,
      The word o' truth and love;
    And seek, or the daily wark begin,
      Gude counsel from above.

    Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie
      To earn my bit o' bread;
    The wark spins on, and the time rins by,
      Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.




JEWEL OF A LAD.

AIR--_"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."_


    As sunshine to the flowers in May,
      As wild flowers to the hinny bee,
    As fragrant scent o' new mown hay,
      So my true love is sweet to me.

    As costly jewels to the bride,
      As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e--
    To sailors, as fair wind and tide,
      So my true love is dear to me.

    As rain-draps to the thirsty earth,
      As waters to the willow-tree,
    As mother's joy at baby's birth,
      So my true love is dear to me.

    Though owning neither wealth nor lan',
      He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree;
    His love to God, his love to man,
      His goodness makes him dear to me.

    The lass that weds a warly fool
      May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;
    But earthly love soon waxes cool,
      And foolish fancies turn ajee.

    My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,
      His loving e'e blinks bonnily,
    A heavenly licht illumes his face;
      Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.




TWILIGHT JOYS.


    Musing, we sat in our garden bower,
      In the balmy month of June,
    Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour
      When our daily task was done.

    We spake of the friends of our early days,
      Some living, some dead and gane,
    And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes
      Of our morning life again.

    A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that,
      And joyful were we to see
    The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat,
      So full of frolicsome glee.

    They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell,
      Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring--
    Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well,
      And we bless'd each happy thing.

    In our wee dwelling the lamp of love,
      Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer,
    Flings light on earth, on heaven above,
      Sheds glory everywhere.

    This golden lamp shines clear and bright,
      When the world looks dark and doure,
    It brightens our morning, noon, and night,
      And gladdens our gloamin' hour.




WILLIAM WILSON.


William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of
Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in
indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour.
While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions
were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested
herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal
merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to
write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On
her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of
Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been
in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He
has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is
well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his
earlier poems were contributed to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and
he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his
own composition.




O BLESSING ON HER STARLIKE E'EN.


    O blessing on her starlike e'en,
      Wi' their glance o' love divine;
    And blessing on the red, red lip,
      Was press'd yestreen to mine!

    Her braided locks that waved sae light,
      As she danced through the lofty ha',
    Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,
      Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.

    O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,
      In jewell'd pomp was there;
    But she was first among them a',
      In peerless beauty rare!

    Her bosom is a holy shrine,
      Unstain'd by mortal sin,
    An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,
      On the breast o' the siller linn.

    Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note,
      By bowery glen or brake?
    Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,
      By sea or mountain lake?

    Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,
      The angel's melodie?
    Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres
      As they swung on their path on hie?

    Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,
      At the gloamin' hour yestreen;
    An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,
      I would mak' that maiden my queen.




OH! BLESSING ON THEE, LAND.


    Oh! blessing on thee, land
      Of love and minstrel song;
    For Freedom found a dwelling-place
      Thy mountain cliffs among!
    And still she loves to roam
      Among thy heath-clad hills;
    And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain
      With the voice of mountain rills.

    Her song is on the gale,
      Her step upon the wold;
    And morning diamonds brightly gem
      Her braided locks of gold.
    Far up the pine-wood glen,
      Her sylph-like form is seen,
    By hunter in the hazy dawn,
      Or wandering bard at e'en.

    My own dear native home,
      The birthplace of the brave,
    O never may thy soil be trod
      By tyrant or by slave!
    Then, blessing on thee, land
      Of love and minstrel song;
    For Freedom found a dwelling-place,
      Thy mountain cliffs among!




THE FAITHLESS.


    We part,--yet wherefore should I weep,
      From faithless thing like thee to sever?
    Or let one tear mine eyelids steep,
      While thus I cast thee off for ever?
    I loved thee--need I say how well?
      Few, few have ever loved so dearly;
    As many a sleepless hour can tell,
      And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.

    But late, beneath its jetty lash,
      I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour,
    Which wont, all witchingly, to flash
      On me its light so soft and tender;
    Now, from that glance I turn away,
      As if its thrilling gaze could wound me;
    Though not, as once, in love's young day,
      When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.

    The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught,
      The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving;
    Who, that had seen them, could have thought
      That things so fair could be deceiving?
    The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind,
      In all their fitful moods of changing,
    Are nought to wavering woman's mind,
      For ever shifting, ever ranging!

    Farewell! I'd rather launch my bark
      Upon the angry ocean billow,
    'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark,
      Than make thy faithless breast my pillow.
    Thy broken vow now cannot bind,
      Thy streaming tears no more can move me,
    And thus I turn from thee, to find
      A heart that may more truly love me.




MY SOUL IS EVER WITH THEE.


    My soul is ever with thee,
      My thoughts are ever with thee,
    As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea,
      So turns my fond spirit to thee.

    'Mid the cares of the lingering day,
      When troubles around me be,
    Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away--
      Away, my beloved, to thee.

    When the night-pall darkly spread
      O'er shadows, tower, and tree,
    Then the visions of my restless bed
      Are all, my beloved, of thee.

    When I greet the morning beams,
      When the midnight star I see,
    Alone--in crowded halls--my dreams--
      My dreams are for ever of thee.

    As spring to the leafless spray,
      As calm to the surging sea,
    To the weary, rest--to the watcher, day--
      So art thou, loved Mary, to me.




AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM.


    Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham?
      The carle sae pawkie an' slee!
    He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame,
      An' the body has ettled at me.

    Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean,
      An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree,
    He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen,
      An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.

    I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang
      Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie,
    An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang,
      Ere he tauld out his errand to me.

    "Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land,
      Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie,
    An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command,
      Gin' ye will look kindly on me.

    "Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen,
      Sax naigies that nibble the lea;
    The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen,
      I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.

    "An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin',
      An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e;
    A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin',
      When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.

    "I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye,
      And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e;
    I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye,
      As couthy as couthy can be.

    "I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn,
      Ye ran up the knowe to meet me;
    An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern,
      Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.

    "An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair,
      An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be--
    Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care
      For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"

    Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither,
      What answer the bodie to gie--
    But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither,
      And let puir young Tibby abee.




JEAN LINN.


    Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo!
      Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie!
    The days that hae been, may be yet again seen,
      Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo!
      Sae look na' sae lightly on me!

    Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn!
      Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray!
    Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine,
      In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May--
      In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.

    Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn--
      Ye mind when we won in Whinglen,
    Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine,
      An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn,
      An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.

    Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,
      Oh, then ye were a' thing to me!
    An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky,
      When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn,
      When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.

    I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,
      I twined ye a bower by the burn,
    But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower,
      That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn.
      That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.

    Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn!
      Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!
    Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard,
      An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn,
      An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.




BONNIE MARY.


    When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
    I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down;
    I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town,
    And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.

    By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there,
    An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care,
    For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun',
    Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down.
                            When the sun gaes down, &c.

    There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears,
    Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years;
    An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun',
    Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down.
                            When the sun gaes down, &c.

    The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower,
    But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour;
    And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown,
    When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
                            When the sun gaes down, &c.

    When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
    I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down;
    Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown,
    And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.




MRS MARY MACARTHUR.


Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow,
published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The
Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that
publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work,
as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse.
In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for
many years been resident in Glasgow.




THE MISSIONARY.


    He left his native land, and, far away
      Across the waters sought a world unknown,
    Though well he knew that he in vain might stray
      In search of one so lovely as his own.

    He left his home, around whose humble hearth
      His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd--
    Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,
      And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.

    He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,
      The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;
    The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,
      And every charm to love and fancy dear.

    All these he left, with sad but willing heart,
      Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;
    In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,
      And the world knew not of his very name.

    Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?
      'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,
    That often smiles its sweetest to betray,
      And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!

    'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!
      His Master bade the obedient servant go,
    And try if he in distant realms could find
      Some who His name and saving grace would know.

    'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears
      His aged mother at their parting shed;
    'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,
      And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.

    'Twas this that made his father calmly bear
      A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,
    And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,
      His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.

    And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,
      And bent a head with age and sorrow gray--
    E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,
      Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.

    "And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes
      Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;
    But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,
      The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.

    "I bid thee go, though human tears will steal
      From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;
    And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,
      Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"

    And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest
      Across the hills to where the vessel lay,
    And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast
      They saw the white sails bearing him away.

    And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?
      Did none of those who, in a favour'd land
    The shelter of the gospel tree had known,
      Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?

    'Tis not for me to answer questions here--
      Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,
    And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,
      Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!




JOHN RAMSAY.


The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at
Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early
apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards
traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the
carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in
the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and having subsequently suffered
misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a
collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the
sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the
country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise
has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent
society in Edinburgh.




FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.


    Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,
    By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,
    I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,
    Farewell! for I never may see you again.

    Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,
    That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,
    Your beauties will gladden some happier swain;
    Farewell! for I never may see you again.

    I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh,
    When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high;
    These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain;
    Farewell! for I never may see you again.

    Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo
    Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know--
    Away! like a craven why should I complain?
    Farewell! for I never may see you again.




JAMES PARKER.


James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "Poems of
Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a
master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has
contributed verses to the periodicals.




THE MARINER'S SONG.


    Oh merrily and gallantly
      We sweep across the seas,
    Like the wild ocean birds which ply
      Their pinions on the breeze;
    We quail not at the tempest's voice
      When the billow dashes o'er us,
    Firm as a rock, we bear the shock,
      And join its dreadful chorus.

    Across the foaming surge we glide
      With bosoms true and brave,
    It is our home--our throne of pride--
      It soon may be our grave;
    Yet fearlessly we rush to meet
      The foe that comes before us;
    The fight begun, we man the gun,
      And join its thundering chorus.

    Our lives may be as fierce and free
      As the waves o'er which we roam,
    But let not landsmen think that we
      Forget our native home;
    And when the winds shall waft us back
      To the shores from which they bore us,
    Amid the throng of mirth and song,
      We'll join the jovial chorus.




HER LIP IS O' THE ROSE'S HUE.


    Her lip is o' the rose's hue,
      Like links o' goud her hair,
    Her e'e is o' the azure blue,
      An' love beams ever there;
    Her step is like the mountain goat's
      That climbs the stately Ben,
    Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes
      That haunt her native glen.

    There is a sweet wee hazel bower
      Where woodbine blossoms twine,
    There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour,
      Consented to be mine;
    An' there we meet whene'er we hae
      An idle hour to spen',
    An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day
      She met me in the glen.

    Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams,
      An' sweet the pearly dew,
    An' lovely is the star that gleams
      In gloamin's dusky brow;
    But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far,
      Aboon a' human ken,
    Is my sweet pearl--my lovely star--
      My Jeanie o' the glen.




JOHN HUNTER.


The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a
small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "Miscellanies, by N. R.,"
which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr
John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.




THE BOWER O' CLYDE.


    On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame,
      Ane dame of wondrous courtesie,
    An' bonny was the kindly flame
      That stremit frae her saft blue e'e.

    Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew,
      That meltit to its tender licht,
    Was bonnier far than the purest starre
      That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.

    If ony culd luke and safely see
      Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou,
    Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip,
      A lifeless lump was he, I trow.

    But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht,
      If ae moment that wicht might see
    Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw,
      That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.

    An' dear, dear was this bonny dame,
      Dear, dear was she to me,
    An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane,
      At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.

    An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve,
      Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear,
    An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame
      That I breathit so warmly in her ear.

    Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look,
      Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e,
    An' aye as she drew back her lily han',
      I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.

    But the time sune cam, the waesome time,
      When I maun awa frae my dear,
    An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht
      The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!

    Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve,
      Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers,
    An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde,
      An' the hours stal awa unawares.

    'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht,
      At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour,
    An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane,
      An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.

    The mune was up i' the clear blue skye,
      The mune an' her single wee starre,
    The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye,
      Thair was stillness near an' farre.

    Alane we sat i' the green summer bour,
      I tauld her a' that was kind and dear,
    An' she did na blame the words o' flame
      That I breathit sae warmly in her ear.

    She listenit to the luve-sang warm,
      Her breast it throbbit and heavit high;
    She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm
      She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.

    Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips,
      Ae kiss on her bonny red mow,
    An' aften I prest her form to my breast,
      An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.

    An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour,
      My fond heart will never forget;
    Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne,
      That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.

    The parting time cam, an' the parting time past,
      An' it past nae without the saut tear,
    An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land
      I gaed, an' I left my ain dear.

    I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids
      Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e,
    I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde,
      An' that thocht was enough for me.




MARY.


    Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek
      Is on my breast reclining,
    And while these arms around thy form
      Are fondly thus entwining;
    It seems as if no earthly power
      Our beating hearts could sever,
    And that in ecstasy of bliss
      We thus could hang for ever!

    Yet ah! too well, too well we know,
      The fiat fate hath spoken--
    The spell that bound our souls in one,
      The world's cold breath hath broken.
    The hours--the days--whose heavenly light
      Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us,
    When Love his sunshine shed around,
      And strew'd his flowers before us,

    Must now be but as golden dreams,
      Whose loveliness hath perish'd;
    Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts
      Too heavenly to be cherish'd.
    Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast,
      The love that once hath bound us--
    The thought that looks to days long past,
      Will breathe a halo round us.




IN DISTANT YEARS.


    In distant years! when other arms
      Around thy form are prest,
    Oh! heave one fond regretful sigh
      For him thy love once blest!
    Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye,
      That was his guiding light,
    And cast the same deep tender glance,
      That thrills his soul to-night.

    And oh! believe, though dark his fate,
      And devious his career,
    The music of that gentle voice
      Will tremble in his ear;
    And breathing o'er his troubled soul,
      Storm-tost and tempest riven,
    Will still fierce passion's wild control,
      And win him back to Heaven.




ROBERT CHAMBERS.


Robert Chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house
of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious
works of a national character, was born in 1802 at Peebles, where his
parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a
family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years
his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers,
the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh
with his family in 1813. While still in childhood Robert manifested a
remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and
poetry--a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on
several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and
science. Before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a
complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had
perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those
of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information
contained in a copy of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," of which his
father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to
their own resources, William became an apprentice to a bookseller in
1814; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as
a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and
which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but
always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by
the counsels of their widowed mother; how they finally went into
partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings--need
not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "Traditions
of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This
amusing work was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came
his "Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two
volumes; "Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of
"Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Biography of Distinguished Scotsmen,"
in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private
circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine
taste and feeling. William having started _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_
in February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly
helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early
volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and
pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert
Chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other
learned bodies in Edinburgh. Among his latest detached works is a
volume, of a geological character, on the "Ancient Sea Margins of
Scotland;" also, "Tracings of Iceland," the result of a visit to that
interesting island in the summer of 1855. Living respected in Edinburgh,
in the bosom of his family, and essentially a self-made man, Mr Robert
Chambers is peculiarly distinguished for his kindly disposition and
unobtrusive manners--for his enlightened love of country, and diligence
in professional labours, uniting, in a singularly happy manner, the man
of refined literary taste with the man of business and the useful
citizen.




YOUNG RANDAL.

TUNE--_'There grows a bonnie brier bush.'_


    Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',
    Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa',
    'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa,
    That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'.

    It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie,
    To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie,
    That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee,
    And monie mae friends in the North Countrie.

    He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha',
    His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa',
    And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa',
    And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'.

    "Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir,
    "Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?"
    "Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear,
    To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear."

    Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'--
    Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa',
    And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high,
    Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky.

    Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame--
    A sair altert man was he when he came hame;
    Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name--
    And gray, gray cheeks did Randal come hame.

    He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring,
    And down came a ladye to see him come in,
    And after the ladye came bairns feifteen:
    "Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean?"

    "Whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame,
    "Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?"
    "Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?"
    "In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same."

    He turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e,
    And a heart as sair as sair could be;
    He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee,
    And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee.

    Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie,
    And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie,
    And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be,
    For they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie.




THE LADYE THAT I LOVE.


    Were I a doughty cavalier
      On fire for high-born dame,
    With sword and lance I would not fear
      To win a warrior's fame.
    But since no more stern deeds of blood
      The gentle fair may move,
    I 'll woo in softer better mood
      The ladye that I love.

    For helmet bright with steel and gold,
      And plumes that flout the sky,
    I 'll wear a soul of hardier mould,
      And thoughts that sweep as high.
    For scarf athwart my corslet cast,
      With her fair name y-wove;
    I 'll have her pictured in my breast,
      The ladye that I love.

    No crested steed through battle throng
      Shall bear me bravely on,
    But pride shall make my spirit strong,
      Where honours may be won.
    Amidst the great of mind and heart,
      My prowess I will prove,
    And thus I 'll win, by gentler art,
      The ladye that I love.




THOU GENTLE AND KIND ONE.


    Thou gentle and kind one,
      Who com'st o'er my dreams,
    Like the gales of the west,
      Or the music of streams;
    Oh, softest and dearest,
      Can that time e'er be,
    When I could be forgetful
      Or scornful of thee?

    No! my soul might be dark,
      Like a landscape in shade,
    And for thee not the half
      Of its love be display'd,
    But one ray of thy kindness
      Would banish my pain,
    And soon kiss every feature
      To brightness again.

    And if, in contending
      With men and the world,
    My eye might be fierce,
      Or my brow might be curl'd;
    That brow on thy bosom
      All smooth'd would recline,
    And that eye melt in kindness
      When turn'd upon thine.

    If faithful in sorrow,
      More faithful in joy--
    Thou shouldst find that no change
      Could affection destroy;
    All profit, all pleasure,
      As nothing would be,
    And each triumph despised
      Unpartaken by thee.




LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND WARRIORS.


    Oh, where are the pretty men of yore?
      Oh, where are the brave men gone?
    Oh, where are the heroes of the north?
      Each under his own gray stone.
    Oh, where now the broad bright claymore?
      Oh, where are the trews and plaid?
    Oh, where now the merry Highland heart?
      In silence for ever laid.
            Och on a rie, och on a rie,
              Och on a rie, all are gone;
            Och on a rie, the heroes of yore,
              Each under his own gray stone.

    The chiefs that were foremost of old,
      Macdonald and brave Lochiel,
    The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham,
      With their clansmen true as steel;
    Who follow'd and fought with Montrose,
      Glencairn, and bold Dundee;
    Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all,
      And would aye rather fa' than flee.
            Och on a rie, &c.

    The hills that our brave fathers trod
      Are now to the stranger a store;
    The voice of the pipe and the bard
      Shall awaken never more.
    Such things it is sad to think on--
      They come like the mist by day--
    And I wish I had less in this world to leave,
      And be with them that are away.
            Och on a rie, &c.




THOMAS AIRD.


Thomas Aird, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets,
was born in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received
the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools; and
went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the
University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he published a little treatise,
entitled "Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in
Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to
_Blackwood's Magazine_, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the
recommendation of his steadfast friend Professor Wilson, appointed
editor of the _Dumfries Herald_, a conservative journal newly started in
Dumfries. The paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor
still. In 1845 he published "The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish
Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery,
character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In
1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known
"Delta" of _Blackwood's Magazine_), and prefixed it to an edition of
Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the
generous instructions of the Messrs Blackwood. In 1856 a new edition of
Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully
revised; Messrs Blackwood being the publishers.




THE SWALLOW.


    The little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea,
    The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be;
    How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard--
    Oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward!

    Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew,
    And glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you;
    And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home--
    What can molest thy airy nest? Sleep till the morrow come.

    The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing,
    And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing;
    The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen,
    When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen.

    The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love,
    To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,
    Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves,
    For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.




GENIUS.


    Eye of the brain and heart,
    O Genius, inner sight,
    Wonders from thee familiar start,
    In thy decisive light.
    Wide and deep the eye must go,
    The process of our world to know.
    Old mountains grated to the sea,
    Sow the young seed of isles to be.
    States dissolve, that Nature's plan
    May bear the broadening type of man.
    Passes ne'er the Past away;
    Child of the ages springs to-day.
    Life, death, and life! but circling change,
    Still working to a higher range!
    Make thee all science, Genius, clear
    Our world; all Muses, grace and cheer.
    And may the ideal thou hast shewn,
    With joy peculiar be thine own;
    For thee the starry belts of time,
    The inner laws, the heavenly chime;
    Thine storm and rack--the forests crack,
    The sea gives up her secrets hoary;
    And Beauty thine, on loom divine,
    Weaving the rainbow's woof of glory.

    Power of the civic heart,
    More than a power to know,
    Genius, incarnated in Art,
    By thee the nations grow.
    Lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage,
    Lit up the Oriental age.
    Persuasive groves, and musical,
    Of love the illumined mountains all.
    Eagles and rods, and axes clear,
    Forum and amphitheatre;
    These in thy plastic forming hand,
    Forth leapt to life the classic Land.
    Old and new, the worlds of light,
    Who bridged the gulf of Middle Night?
    See the purple passage rise,
    Many arch'd of centuries;
    Genius built it long and vast,
    And o'er it social knowledge pass'd.
    Far in the glad transmitted flame,
    Shinar, knit to Britain, came;
    Their state by thee our fathers free,
    O Genius, founded deep and wide,
    Majestic towers the fabric ours,
    And awes the world from side to side.

    Mart of the ties of blood,
    Mart of the souls of men!
    O Christ! to see thy Brotherhood
    Bought to be sold again,
    Front of hell, to trade therein.
    Genius face the giant sin;
    Shafts of thought, truth-headed clear,
    Temper'd all in Pity's tear,
    Every point and every tip,
    In the blood of Jesus dip;
    Pierce till the monster reel and cry,
    Pierce him till he fall and die.
    Yet cease not, rest not, onward quell,
    Power divine and terrible!
    See where yon bastion'd Midnight stands,
    On half the sunken central lands;
    Shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame
    Sing as they pierce the blot of shame,
    Till all the dark economies
    Become the light of blessed skies.
    For this, above in wondering love,
    To Genius shall it first be given,
    To trace the lines of past designs,
    All confluent to the finish'd Heaven.




ROBERT WHITE.


Robert White, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric
poetry, is a native of Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were
spent at Otterburn, in Redesdale, where his father rented a farm.
Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with
the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. While still a
young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _Newcastle
Magazine_. In 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable
tradesman in Newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years.
Latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with
sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes.

Besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and
some of the periodicals, Mr White is the author of several publications.
In 1829 appeared from his pen "The Tynemouth Nun," an elegantly
versified tale; in 1853, "The Wind," a poem; and in 1856, "England," a
poem. He has contributed songs to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of
Scottish Song." At present he has in the press a "History of the Battle
of Otterburn," prepared from original sources of information.




MY NATIVE LAND.


    Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
      Are thy majestic hills;
    And sweet as purest melody
      The music of thy rills.
    The wildest cairn, the darkest dell,
      Within thy rocky strand,
    Possess o'er me a living spell--
      Thou art my native land.

    Loved country, when I muse upon
      Thy dauntless men of old,
    Whose swords in battle foremost shone--
      Thy Wallace brave and bold;
    And Bruce who, for our liberty,
      Did England's sway withstand;
    I glory I was born in thee,
      Mine own ennobled land!

    Nor less thy martyrs I revere,
      Who spent their latest breath
    To seal the cause they held so dear,
      And conquer'd even in death.
    Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
      No bigot's stern command
    Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
      My dear devoted land.

    And thou hast ties around my heart,
      Attraction deeper still--
    The gifted poet's sacred art,
      The minstrel's matchless skill.
    Yea; every scene that Burns and Scott
      Have touch'd with magic hand
    Is in my sight a hallow'd spot,
      Mine own distinguish'd land!

    Oh! when I wander'd far from thee,
      I saw thee in my dreams;
    I mark'd thy forests waving free,
      I heard thy rushing streams.
    Thy mighty dead in life came forth,
      I knew the honour'd band;
    We spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth--
      My high exalted land!

    Now if the lonely home be mine
      In which my fathers dwelt,
    And I can worship at the shrine
      Where they in fervour knelt;
    No glare of wealth, or honour high,
      Shall lure me from thy strand;
    Oh, I would yield my parting sigh
      In thee, my native land!




A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.


    Eliza fair, the mirth of May
      Resounds from glen and tree;
    Yet thy mild voice, I need not say,
      Is dearer far to me.
    And while I thus a garland cull,
      To grace that brow of thine,
    My cup of pure delight is full--
      A shepherd's life be mine!

    Believe me, maid, the means of wealth,
      Howe'er profuse they be,
    Produce not pleasure that in health
      Is shared by you and me!
    'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy
      We find a heart like thine,
    That objects grateful glad the eye--
      A shepherd's life be mine!

    O mark, Eliza, how the flowers
      Around us sweetly spring;
    And list how in these woodland bowers
      The birds with rapture sing;
    Behold that vale whose streamlet clear
      Flows on in waving line;
    Can Paradise more bright appear?
      A shepherd's life be mine!

    Now, dearest, not the morning bright,
      That dawns o'er hill and lea,
    Nor eve, with all its golden light,
      Can charm me without thee.
    To feel the magic of thy smile--
      To catch that glance of thine--
    To talk to thee of love the while,
      A shepherd's life be mine!




HER I LOVE BEST.


    Thou morn full of beauty
      That chases the night,
    And wakens all Nature
      With gladness and light,
    When warbles the linnet
      Aloof from its nest,
    O scatter thy fragrance
      Round her I love best!

    Ye hills, dark and lofty,
      That near her ascend,
    If she in her pastime
      Across thee shall wend,
    Let every lone pathway
      In wild flowers be drest,
    To welcome the footsteps
      Of her I love best!

    Thou sun, proudly sailing
      O'er depths of the sky,
    Dispensing beneath thee
      Profusion and joy,
    Until in thy splendour
      Thou sink'st to the west,
    Oh, gaze not too boldly
      On her I love best!

    Ye wild roving breezes,
      I charge you, forbear
    To wantonly tangle
      The braids of her hair;
    Breathe not o'er her rudely,
      Nor sigh on her breast,
    Nor kiss you the sweet lip
      Of her I love best!

    Thou evening, that gently
      Steals after the day,
    To robe with thy shadow
      The landscape in gray,
    O fan with soft pinion
      My dearest to rest!
    And calm be the slumber
      Of her I love best!

    Ye angels of goodness,
      That shield us from ill,
    The purest of pleasures
      Awarding us still,
    As near her you hover,
      Oh, hear my request!
    Pour blessings unnumber'd
      On her I love best!




THE KNIGHT'S RETURN.


    Fair Ellen, here again I stand--
      All dangers now are o'er;
    No sigh to reach my native land
      Shall rend my bosom more.
    Ah! oft, beyond the heaving main,
      I mourn'd at Fate's decree;
    I wish'd but to be back again
      To Scotland and to thee.

    O Ellen, how I prized thy love
      In foreign lands afar!
    Upon my helm I bore thy glove
      Through thickest ranks of war:
    And as a pledge, in battle-field,
      Recall'd thy charms to me;
    I breath'd a prayer behind my shield
      For Scotland and for thee.

    I scarce can tell how eagerly
      My eyes were hither cast,
    When, faintly rising o'er the sea,
      These hills appear'd at last.
    My very breast, as on the shore
      I bounded light and free,
    Declared by throbs the love I bore
      To Scotland and to thee.

    Oh, long, long has the doom been mine
      In other climes to roam;
    Yet have I seen no form like thine,
      No sweeter spot than home;
    Nor ask'd I e'er another heart
      To feel alone for me:
    O Ellen, never more I'll part
      From Scotland and from thee!




THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE.


    The breath o' spring is gratefu',
      As mild it sweeps alang,
    Awakening bud an' blossom
      The broomy braes amang,
    And wafting notes o' gladness
      Frae ilka bower and tree;
    Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
      Is sweeter still to me.

    How bright is summer's beauty!
      When, smilin' far an' near,
    The wildest spots o' nature
      Their gayest livery wear;
    And yellow cups an' daisies
      Are spread on ilka lea;
    But the bonnie Redesdale lassie
      Mair charming is to me.

    Oh! sweet is mellow autumn!
      When, wide oure a' the plain,
    Slow waves in rustlin' motion
      The heavy-headed grain;
    Or in the sunshine glancin',
      And rowin' like the sea;
    Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie
      Is dearer far to me!

    As heaven itsel', her bosom
      Is free o' fraud or guile;
    What hope o' future pleasure
      Is centred in her smile!
    I wadna lose for kingdoms
      The love-glance o' her e'e;
    Oh! the bonnie Redesdale lassie
      Is life and a' to me!




THE MOUNTAINEER'S DEATH.


    I pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move,
    Let me look back and see the place that I so dearly love.
    I am not old in years, yet still, where'er I chanced to roam,
    The strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home:
    There saw I first the light of heaven--there, by a mother's knee,
    In time of infancy and youth, her love supported me:
    All that I prize on earth is now my aching sight before,
    And glen and brae, and moorland gray, I'll witness never more.

    Beneath yon trees, that o'er the cot their deep'ning shadows fling,
    My father first reveal'd to me the exile of our king;
    Upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword,
    With charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord.
    And I remember when I went, unfriended and alone,
    Amidst a world I never loved--ay! yonder is the stone
    At which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore--
    Stone, seat and tree are dear to me--I'll see them never more!

    Yon hawthorn bower beside the burn I never shall forget;
    Ah! there my dear departed maid and I in rapture met:
    What tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal!
    How glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel!
    And when above our hapless Prince the milk-white flag was flung,
    While hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung,
    We parted there; from her embrace myself I wildly tore;
    Our hopes were vain--I came again, but found her never more.

    Oh! thank you for your gentleness--now stay one minute still;
    There is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill;
    I mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep--
    There, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep.
    And must I in a land afar from home and kindred lie?
    Forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer--'tis better now to die!
    My limbs grow faint--I fain would rest--my eyes are darkening o'er;
    Slow flags my breath; now, this is death--adieu, for evermore!




WILLIAM CAMERON.


William Cameron was born on the 3d December 1801, in the parish of
Dunipace, and county of Stirling. His father was employed successively
in woollen factories at Dumfries, Dalmellington, and Dunipace. He
subsequently became proprietor of woollen manufactories at Slamannan,
Stirlingshire, and at Blackburn and Torphichen, in the county of
Linlithgow. While receiving an education with a view to the ministry,
the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his
prospects, and he was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster
at the village of Armadale, parish of Bathgate. In 1836 he resigned this
situation, and removed to Glasgow, where he has since prosperously
engaged in mercantile concerns. Of the various lyrics which have
proceeded from his pen, "Jessie o' the Dell" is an especial favourite.
The greater number of his songs, arranged with music, appear in the
"Lyric Gems of Scotland," a respectable collection of minstrelsy
published in Glasgow.




SWEET JESSIE O' THE DELL.


    O bright the beaming queen o' night
      Shines in yon flow'ry vale,
    And softly sheds her silver light
      O'er mountain, path, and dale.
    Short is the way, when light 's the heart
      That 's bound in love's soft spell;
    Sae I 'll awa' to Armadale,
      To Jessie o' the Dell,
          To Jessie o' the Dell,
            Sweet Jessie o' the Dell;
          The bonnie lass o' Armadale,
            Sweet Jessie o' the Dell.

    We 've pu'd the primrose on the braes
      Beside my Jessie's cot,
    We 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes,
      In that sweet rural spot.
    The wee short hours danced merrily,
      Like lambkins on the fell;
    As if they join'd in joy wi' me
      And Jessie o' the Dell.

    There's nane to me wi' her can vie,
      I 'll love her till I dee;
    For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye,
      And kind as kind can be.
    This night in mutual kind embrace,
      Oh, wha our joys may tell;
    Then I 'll awa' to Armadale,
      To Jessie o' the Dell.




MEET ME ON THE GOWAN LEA.


    Meet me on the gowan lea,
      Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
    Meet me on the gowan lea,
      My ain, my artless Mary.

    Before the sun sink in the west,
    And nature a' hae gane to rest,
    There to my fond, my faithful breast,
      Oh, let me clasp my Mary.
          Meet me on the gowan lea,
            Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary;
          Meet me on the gowan lea,
            My ain, my artless Mary.

    The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell,
    The lintie in the bosky dell,
    Nae blyther than your bonnie sel',
      My ain, my artless Mary.
          Meet me, &c.

    We 'll join our love notes to the breeze
    That sighs in whispers through the trees,
    And a' that twa fond hearts can please
      Will be our sang, dear Mary.
          Meet me, &c.

    There ye shall sing the sun to rest,
    While to my faithfu' bosom prest;
    Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest,
      As me and my dear Mary.
          Meet me, &c.




MORAG'S FAIRY GLEN.


    Ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love,
      Rins roarin' to the sea,
    And tumbles o'er it's rocky bed,
      Like spirit wild and free.
    The mellow mavis tunes his lay,
      The blackbird swells his note,
    And little robin sweetly sings
      Above the woody grot.
        There meet me, love, by a' unseen,
          Beside yon mossy den,
        Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
          In Morag's fairy glen;
        Oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve,
          In Morag's fairy glen.

    Come when the sun, in robes of gold,
      Sinks o'er yon hills to rest,
    An' fragrance floating in the breeze
      Comes frae the dewy west.
    And I will pu' a garland gay,
      To deck thy brow sae fair;
    For many a woodbine cover'd glade
      An' sweet wild flower is there.

    There 's music in the wild cascade,
      There 's love amang the trees,
    There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae,
      An' balm upon the breeze;
    There 's a' of nature and of art,
      That maistly weel could be;
    An' oh, my love, when thou art there,
      There 's bliss in store for me.




OH! DINNA CROSS THE BURN, WILLIE.


        Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,
        Dinna cross the burn,
        For big 's the spate, and loud it roars;
        Oh, dinna cross the burn.
    Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht,
      And sair they wad you blame;
    Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht--
      Indeed, you 're no gaun hame.
    The thunder-storm howls in the glen,
      The burn is rising fast;
    Bide only twa-three hours, and then
      The storm 'll a' be past.
        Oh, dinna cross, &c.

    Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht,
      Oh, bide till mornin' here;
    My faither, he 'll see a' things richt,
      And ye 'll hae nocht to fear.
    See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there,
      The rains in torrents pour;
    And see the lightning's dreadful glare,
      Hear how the thunders roar!
        Oh, dinna cross, &c.

    Away he rode, no kind words could
      His mad resolve o'erturn;
    He plunged into the foaming flood,
      But never cross'd the burn!
    And now though ten long years have pass'd
      Since that wild storm blew by--
    Oh! still the maniac hears the blast,
      And still her crazy cry,
        Oh, dinna cross, &c.




ALEXANDER TAIT.


Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation
of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He
has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat,
Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose
and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.




E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR--_'Roslin Castle.'_


    When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene,
    And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green;
    When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower,
    How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

    When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade,
    The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade;
    When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower,
    Be 't mine to meet the lass I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

    When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray,
    And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray;
    Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower,
    To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

    The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky,
    The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye;
    But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power,
    Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!




CHARLES FLEMING.


A handloom weaver in Paisley, of which place he is a native, Charles
Fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits
of elegant literature. He has long been a contributor to the public
journals.




WATTY M'NEIL.


    When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades,
    Whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades,
    In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel
    To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.

    The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door;
    His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor:
    Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal--
    Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.

    His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun--
    A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han';
    His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel,
    The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.

    He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes,
    How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose;
    And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel'
    Waved glorious--'twas noble, says Watty M'Neil.

    Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools,
    He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools;
    Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel
    Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.




WILLIAM FERGUSON.


The author of several esteemed and popular songs, William Ferguson,
follows the avocation of a master plumber in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh.
Born within the shadow of the Pentlands, near the scene of Ramsay's
"Gentle Shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. He has
contributed copiously to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish
Song."




I 'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.


    I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
      In spring time o' the year;
    When saft'ning winds begin to woo
      The primrose to appear;
    When daffodils begin to dance,
      And streams again flow free;
    And little birds are heard to pipe,
      On the sprouting forest tree.

    I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
      When summer days are lang,
    When nature's heart is big wi' joy,
      Her voice laden wi' sang;
    When shepherds pipe on sunny braes,
      And flocks roam at their will,
    And auld and young, in cot an' ha',
      O' pleasure drink their fill.

    I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
      When autumn's yellow fields,
    That wave like seas o' gowd, before
      The glancin' sickle yields;
    When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit--
      A glorious sight to see!--
    And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep
      Out owre the withering lea.

    I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May,
      When, through the naked trees,
    Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side,
      Sweeps wild the frosty breeze;
    When tempests roar, and billows rise,
      Till nature quakes wi' fear,
    And on the land, and on the sea,
      Wild winter rules the year.




WOOING SONG.


    The spring comes back to woo the earth,
      Wi' a' a lover's speed;
    The wee birds woo their lovin' mates,
      Around our very head!
    But I 've nae skill in lover-craft--
      For till I met wi' you,
    I never sought a maiden's love,
      I never tried to woo.

    I 've gazed on many a comely face,
      And thought it sweet an' fair;
    But wi' the face the charm would flee,
      And never move me mair.
    But miles away, your bonnie face
      Is ever in my view,
    Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me,
      Half daurin' me to woo.

    At hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme;
      I doat my time away;
    I dream o'er a' your charms by night,
      And worship them by day.
    But when they glad my langin' e'en,
      As they are gladden'd now,
    My courage flees like frighted bird;
      I daurna mint to woo.

    My head thus lying on your lap,
      Your hand aneath my cheek;
    Love stounds my bosom through and through,
      But yet I canna speak.
    My coward heart wi' happiness,
      Wi' bliss is brimin' fu';
    But, oh! its fu'ness mars my tongue,
      I haena power to woo.

    I prize your smile, as husbandman
      The summer's opening bloom,
    And could you frown, I dread it mair,
      Than he the autumn's gloom.
    My life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip,
      On that calm, sunny brow;
    And, oh! my dead hangs on them baith,
      Unless you let me woo.

    Oh! lift me to your bosom, then,
      Lay your warm cheek to mine;
    And let me round that lovesome waist
      My arms enraptured twine;
    That I may breathe my very soul,
      In ae lang lovin' vow;
    And a' the while in whispers low,
      You 'll learn me, love, to woo!




I 'M WANDERING WIDE.


    I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
      But yet my heart 's at hame,
    Fu' cozie by my ain fire-cheek,
      Beside my winsome dame.
    The weary winds howl lang an' loud;
      But 'mid their howling drear,
    Words sweeter far than honey blabs
      Fa' saftly on my ear.

    I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
      I 'm wand'ring wide an' far;
    But love, to guide me back again,
      Lights up a kindly star.
    The lift glooms black aboon my head,
      Nae friendly blink I see;
    But let it gloom--twa bonnie e'en
      Glance bright to gladden me.

    I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
      I 'm wand'ring wide and late,
    And ridgy wreaths afore me rise,
      As if to bar my gate;
    Around me swirls the sleety drift,
      The frost bites dour an' keen;
    But breathings warm, frae lovin' lips,
      Come ilka gust atween.

    I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
      I 'm wand'ring wide an' wild,
    Alang a steep and eerie track,
      Where hills on hills are piled;
    The torrent roars in wrath below,
      The tempest roars aboon;
    But fancy broods on brighter scenes,
      And soughs a cheerin' tune.

    I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night,
      I 'm wand'ring wide my lane,
    And mony a langsome, lanesome mile,
      I 'll measure e'er it 's gane;
    But lanesome roads or langsome miles,
      Can never daunton me,
    When I think on the welcome warm
      That waits me, love, frae thee.




THOMAS DICK.


A native of Paisley, Thomas Dick was originally engaged as a weaver in
that town. He afterwards became a bookseller, and has since been
employed in teaching and other avocations. He is the author of a number
of songs which appear in "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish
Song;" and also of several tales which have been published separately,
and in various periodicals.




HOW EARLY I WOO'D THEE.

AIR--_'Neil Gow's Lament for his Brother.'_


    How early I woo'd thee, how dearly I lo'ed thee;
      How sweet was thy voice, how enchanting thy smile;
    The joy 'twas to see thee, the bliss to be wi' thee,
      I mind, but to feel now their power to beguile.
    I gazed on thy beauty, and a' things about thee,
      Seem'd too fair for earth, as I bent at thy shrine;
    But fortune and fashion, mair powerfu' than passion,
      Could alter the bosom that seem'd sae divine!

    Anither may praise thee, may fondle and fraize thee;
      And win thee wi' words, when his heart's far awa';
    But, oh, when sincerest, when warmest, and dearest,
      His vows--will my truth be forgot by thee a'?
    'Midst pleasure and splendour thy fancy may wander,
      But moments o' solitude ilk ane maun dree;
    Then feeling will find thee, and mem'ry remind thee,
      O' him wha through life gaes heart-broken for thee.




HUGH MILLER.


The celebrated geologist, and editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, Hugh
Miller, was born at Cromarty on the 10th October 1802. In his fifth year
he had the misfortune to lose his father, who, being the captain of a
small trading vessel, perished in a storm at sea. His widowed mother was
aided by two industrious unmarried brothers in providing for her family,
consisting of two daughters, and the subject of this Memoir. With a
rudimentary training in a private school, taught by a female, he became
a pupil in the grammar school. Perceiving his strong aptitude for
learning, and vigorous native talent, his maternal uncles strongly urged
him to study for one of the liberal professions; but, diffident of
success in more ambitious walks, he resolved to follow the steps of his
progenitors in a life of manual labour. In his sixteenth year he
apprenticed himself to a stone-mason. The profession thus chosen proved
the pathway to his future eminence; for it was while engaged as an
operative stone-hewer in the old red sandstone quarries of Cromarty,
that he achieved those discoveries in that formation which fixed a new
epoch in geological science. Poetical composition in evening hours
relieved the toils of labour, and varied the routine of geological
inquiry. In the prosecution of an ornamental branch of his
profession--that of cutting and lettering grave-stones--he in 1828
proceeded to Inverness. Obtaining the friendship of Mr Robert
Carruthers, the ingenious editor of the _Inverness Courier_, the columns
of that journal were adorned by his poetical contributions. In 1829
these were issued from the _Courier_ office, in a duodecimo volume, with
the title, "Poems Written in the Leisure Hours of a Journeyman Mason."
By the press the work was received with general favour; and the author,
in evidence that his powers as a prose-writer were not inferior to his
efforts as a poet, soon re-appeared in the columns of the _Courier_, as
the contributor of various letters on the Northern Fisheries. These
letters proved so attractive that their republication in the form of a
pamphlet was forthwith demanded.

The merits of the Cromarty stone-mason began to attract some general
attention. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, who had an occasional residence in
Morayshire, afforded him patronage; and the venerable Principal Baird of
Edinburgh, to whom he was introduced, recommended him to quit the
mallet, and seek literary employment in the capital. Such gratifying
encouragement and friendly counsel, though not immediately acted upon,
were not without advantage in stimulating his enterprise. Before
relinquishing, however, a craft at which he could at least earn a
sufficiency for his immediate wants, he resolved to test his
capabilities as a writer by a further literary attempt.

Cromarty and its vicinity abounded in legends of curious interest,
respecting the times of religious persecutions, and of the rebellions in
the cause of the Stuarts, and these Miller had carefully stored up from
the recitations of the aged. The pen of Scott had imparted a deep
interest to the traditions of other localities; and it seemed not
unlikely that the legends of Cromarty, well told, would attract some
share of attention. Success attended this further adventure,
proportioned to its unquestionable merit--the "Scenes and Legends of the
North of Scotland," which emanated from the publishing house of the
Messrs Black of Edinburgh, confirmed and widely extended the reputation
of the author.

From handling the workman's tools, a sudden transition to the constant
use of the pen of the _litterateur_ is, under the most favourable
circumstances, not to be desired. It was the lot of Hugh Miller to
engage in an intermediate employment, and to acquire, in a manner
peculiarly appropriate, that knowledge of business, and acquaintance
with the transactions of life, which are so necessary to those who,
through the medium of the press, seek to direct public opinion. Shortly
after the publication of his "Scenes and Legends," a branch of the
Commercial Bank was opened at Cromarty, and the accountantship was
offered to him by the agent. Entering on the duties, after a short
preliminary training in the Bank's offices at Edinburgh and Linlithgow,
he subsequently added to his domestic comfort by uniting himself in
marriage with Miss Lydia Fraser, a young lady of literary tastes, to
whom he had for some time borne an attachment. His official emoluments
amounted to nearly a hundred pounds a-year; these were considerably
augmented by his contributing legendary tales for _The Tales of the
Border_, and writing occasional articles to _Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal_. The _veto_ controversy was now extensively agitating the
Established Church, and, having long supported the popular view, he at
length resolved to come forward more conspicuously as the advocate of
what he strongly regarded as the rights of the people. He embodied his
sentiments in the shape of a letter to Lord Brougham, and, having
transmitted his MS. to Mr Robert Paul, the manager of the Commercial
Bank, it was by that gentleman submitted to Dr Candlish. Perceiving the
consummate ability of the writer, that able divine not only urged the
publication of his letter, but recommended his immediate nomination as
the editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, which had just been projected by
some of the Edinburgh clergy. The offer of the editorship was
accordingly made, and, being accepted, the first number of the newspaper
was, early in 1840, issued under his superintendence.

As a controversial writer, and the able exponent of his peculiar views
of ecclesiastical polity, Hugh Miller at once attained a first rank
among contemporary editors. Many persons who were unconcerned about the
Scottish Church question, or by whom his sentiments on that subject were
disapproved, could not withhold an expressed admiration of the singular
power with which his views were supported, and of the classic style in
which they were conveyed. For some years prior to undertaking the
editorship, he had devoted much of his spare time to the preparation of
a geological work; and he now, in the columns of his newspaper, in a
series of chapters, presented to the public that valuable contribution
to geological science, since so well known as his work on "The Old Red
Sandstone." To the scientific world, by opening up the fossil treasures
of a formation hitherto understood to be peculiarly destitute of organic
remains, this publication claimed an especial interest, which was
enhanced by the elegance of the diction. His subsequent publications
fully sustained his fame. A work on the physical and social aspects of
the sister kingdom, entitled "First Impressions of England and its
People," was followed by "The Footprints of the Creator," the latter
being a powerful reply to the work entitled "Vestiges of the Natural
History of Creation." In 1854 he published a most interesting narrative
of his early struggles and experiences, with the title, "My Schools and
Schoolmasters." "The Testimony of the Rocks," a work on which he
bestowed intense labour, and which may be regarded as his masterpiece,
was published in March 1857, about three months subsequent to his
demise; but all the sheets had undergone his final revision.

For some years his health had been declining; in early manhood he
suffered severely from a pulmonary affection, known as the "mason's
disease," and he never thoroughly recovered. A singular apprehension of
personal danger, inconsistent with the general manliness of his
character, induced him for many years never to go abroad without
fire-arms. He studied with pertinacious constancy, seldom enjoying the
salutary relaxations of society. He complained latterly that his sleep
was distracted by unpleasant dreams, while he was otherwise a prey to
painful delusions. The eye of affection discovered that the system had
been overtaxed; but eminent medical counsel deemed that cessation from
literary toil would produce an effectual cure. The case was much more
serious; a noble intellect was on the very brink of ruin. On the night
of the 24th December 1856, he retired to rest sooner than was his usual,
as the physician had prescribed. With redoubled vehemence he had
experienced the distractions of disordered reason; he rose in a frenzy
from his bed, and, having written a short affectionate letter to his
wife, pointed his revolver pistol to his breast. He fired in the region
of the heart, and his death must have been instantaneous. The melancholy
event took place in his residence of Shrub Mount, Portobello, and his
remains now rest in the Grange Cemetery, Edinburgh. As a geologist it is
not our province to pronounce his eulogy; he was one of the most elegant
and powerful prose-writers of the century, and he has some claims, as
the following specimens attest, to a place among the national poets.




SISTER JEANIE, HASTE, WE 'LL GO.[11]


      Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
      To where the white-starr'd gowans grow,
      Wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue,
    The snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue.

      Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
      To where the blossom'd lilacs grow,
      To where the pine-tree, dark an' high,
    Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.

      Jeanie, mony a merry lay
      Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day;
      Flits on light wing the dragon-flee,
    And hums on the flowerie the big red bee.

      Down the burnie wirks its way
      Aneath the bending birken spray,
      An' wimples roun' the green moss-stane,
    An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.

      Jeanie, come! thy days o' play
      Wi' autumn tide shall pass away;
      Sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast,
    Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast.

      Though to thee a spring shall rise,
      An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes;
      An' though, through many a cloudless day,
    My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay;

      He wha grasps thy little hand
      Nae langer at thy side shall stand,
      Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae
    Lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way.

      Dost thou see yon yard sae green,
      Speckled wi' mony a mossy stane?
      A few short weeks o' pain shall fly,
    An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie.

      Then thy mither's tears awhile
      May chide thy joy an' damp thy smile;
      But soon ilk grief shall wear awa',
    And I 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'.

      Dinna think the thought is sad;
      Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad;
      When cauld my heart and closed my e'e,
    Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a
severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early
grave. They were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at
this period was his companion in his walks.




OH, SOFTLY SIGHS THE WESTLIN' BREEZE.


    Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze
      Through floweries pearl'd wi' dew;
    An' brightly lemes the gowden sky,
      That skirts the mountain blue.
    An' sweet the birken trees amang,
      Swells many a blithesome lay;
    An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice
      Comes soundin' up the brae.

    But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring
      Can glad my wearied e'e;
    Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom
      Gies ought o' joy to me.
    Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,
      An' sad the mavis sang,
    An' little heart hae I to roam
      These leafy groves amang.

    She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!
      An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;
    The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!
      Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.
    What ither choice does fate afford,
      Than just to mourn and dee,
    Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,
      The beam that bless'd my e'e?

    At gloamin' hour alang the burn,
      Alane she lo'ed to stray,
    To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,
      An' haw-flower purple gray.
    Their siller leaves the willows waved
      As pass'd that maiden by;
    An' sweeter burst the burdies' sang
      Frae poplar straight an' high.

    Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'en
      These birken trees amang,
    To bless the bonnie face that turn'd
      To where the mavis sang;
    An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path,
      To catch my Myra's e'e;
    Oh, soon this winding dell became
      A blissful haunt to me.

    Nae mair a wasting form within,
      A wretched heart I bore;
    Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone,
      The warl' I wander'd o'er.
    Not then like now my life was wae,
      Not then this heart repined,
    Nor aught of coming ill I thought,
      Nor sigh'd to look behind.

    Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray,
      An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire,
    Th' expected meed that maiden's smile,
      I strung my rustic lyre.
    That lyre a pitying Muse had given
      To me, for, wrought wi' toil,
    She bade, wi' its simple tones,
      The weary hours beguile.

    Lang had it been my secret pride,
      Though nane its strains might hear;
    For ne'er till then trembled its chords
      To woo a list'ning ear.
    The forest echoes to its voice
      Fu' sad, had aft complain'd,
    Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain,
      Murmur'd the midnight wind.

    Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised
      The wild and artless strain;
    In pride I strung my lyre anew,
      An' waked its chords again.
    The sound was sad, the sparkling tear
      Arose in Myra's e'e,
    An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap,
      Than a' the warl' could gie.

    To wean the heart frae warldly grief,
      Frae warldly moil an' care,
    Could maiden smile a lovelier smile,
      Or drap a tend'rer tear?
    But now she 's gane,--dark, dark an' drear,
      Her lang, lang sleep maun be;
    But, ah! mair drear the years o' life
      That still remain to me!

    Whan o'er the raging ocean wave
      The gloom o' night is spread,
    If lemes the twinkling beacon-light,
      The sailor's heart is glad;
    In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm,
      If sinks the waning ray,
    Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul,
      O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.




ALEXANDER MACANSH.


The author of "The Social Curse, and other Poems," Alexander Macansh,
was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven apprenticed to a
flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight
years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in
his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, which demanded
his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become
familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more
esteemed Latin classics. He likewise formed an intimate acquaintance
with mathematical science. Of decided poetical tastes, he contributed
verses to _Tait's Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and the
_Scotsman_ newspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume
of poems, entitled "The Social Curse, and other Poems," which has
secured him a local reputation. Continuing to reside in Dunfermline, he
has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the
provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the
district institutions. To Mr Joseph Paton, of Dunfermline, so well known
for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support
and kindly encouragement. Mr Macansh labours under severe physical
debility.




THE MOTHER AND CHILD.


    The mother, with her blooming child,
      Sat by the river pool,
    Deep in whose waters lay the sky,
      So stilly beautiful.
    She held her babe aloft, to see
      Its infant image look
    Up joyous, laughing, leaping from
      The bosom of the brook.

    And as it gazed upon the stream,
      The wondering infant smiled,
    And stretched its little hands, and tried
      To clasp the shadow'd child,
    Which, in that silent underwold,
      With eager gesture strove
    To meet it with a brother-kiss,
      A brother-clasp of love.

    Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,
      ('Twas thus the mother sung;)
    The shrew, Experience, has not yet
      With envious gesture flung
    Aside the enchanted veil which hides
      Life's pale and dreary look;
    An angel lurks in every stream,
      A heaven in every brook.

    Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child,
      Ere drop the tears of woe
    Upon that mirror, scattering all
      Those glorious shapes, and show
    A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st
      An angel, breathing, living--
    A shallow pebbly brook which thou
      Hast fondly deem'd a heaven.




CHANGE.


    Change! change! the mournful story
      Of all that 's been before;
    The wrecks of perish'd glory
      Bestrewing every shore:
    The shatter'd tower and palace,
      In every vale and glen,
    In broken language tell us
      Of the fleeting power of men.

    Change! change! the plough is sweeping
      O'er some scene of household mirth,
    The sickle hand is reaping
      O'er some ancient rural hearth--
    Where the mother and the daughter
      In the evenings used to spin,
    And where little feet went patter,
      Full often out and in.

    Change! change! for all things human,
      Thrones, powers of amplest wing,
    Have their flight, and fall in common
      With the meanest mortal thing--
    With beauty, love, and passion,
      With all of earthly trust,
    With life's tiniest wavelet dashing,
      Curling, breaking into dust.

    Where arose in marble grandeur
      The wall'd cities of the past,
    The sullen winds now wander
      O'er a ruin-mounded waste.
    Low lies each lofty column;
      The owl in silence wings
    O'er floors, where, slow and solemn,
      Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.

    Still change! Go thou and view it,
      All desolately sunk,
    The circle of the Druid,
      The cloister of the monk;
    The abbey boled and squalid,
      With its bush-maned, staggering wall;
    Ask by whom these were unhallow'd--
      Change, change hath done it all.




THE TOMB OF THE BRUCE.


    Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes
      O'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base,
    O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes,
      Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race.
    How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying,
      Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews,
    The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion,
      Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!

    Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him,
      Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile,
    And sterner the music that storm'd around him,
      Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle,
    When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending,
      And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose,
    His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending,
      Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.

    I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming--
      Let our country be free, or with freedom expire;
    I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming
      The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire.
    Still onward it blazes, that red constellation,
      In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce:
    Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation
      From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.

    But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder
      Of battle to him is now silent and o'er,
    And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder,
      Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more.
    Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled,
      Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse,
    Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world--
      Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?




JAMES PRINGLE.


James Pringle was born in the parish of Collessie, Fifeshire, on the
11th December 1803. At the parochial school of Kettle having received an
ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a
mill-wright. For many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the
district of his nativity. His present residence is in the Den of
Lindores, in the parish of Abdie. From his youth he has cherished an
enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. In 1853, he published
a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems and Songs on Various Subjects."




THE PLOUGHMAN.


    Blithe be the mind of the ploughman,
      Unruffled by passion or guile;
    And fair be the face of the woman
      Who blesses his love with a smile.

    His clothing, though russet and homely,
      With royalty's robe may compare;
    His cottage, though simple, is comely,
      For peace and contentment are there.

    Let monarchs exult in their splendour,
      When courtiers obsequiously bow;
    But are not their greatness and grandeur
      Sustain'd by the toils of the plough?

    The soldier may glory discover
      In havock which warfare hath made;
    For the shout of his fame rises over
      The vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.

    Though pride, in her trappings so dainty,
      May sneer with contemptuous air;
    Fertility, pleasure, and plenty,
      Still follow the track of the share.

    And long may the heart of the ploughman
      In virtue and vigour beat high;
    His calling, though simple and common,
      Our wants and our comforts supply.




WILLIAM ANDERSON.


William Anderson, an accomplished biographical and genealogical writer,
and author of "Landscape Lyrics," a volume of descriptive poetry, was
born at Edinburgh on the 10th December 1805. His father, James Anderson,
supervisor of Excise at Oban, Argyleshire, died there in 1812. His
mother was the daughter of John Williams, author of "The Mineral
Kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. His brother, Mr John
Anderson, surgeon, Royal Lanarkshire Militia, was the author of the
"Historical and Genealogical Memoirs of the House of Hamilton."

Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 1820 was
apprenticed to a merchant in Leith; but not liking the employment, he
was afterwards placed in the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the
view of studying the law. Having a strong bent towards literature, he
began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the
press. In 1830 he published a volume of poems designated, "Poetical
Aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse,
entitled, "Odd Sketches." Proceeding to London in 1831, he formed the
acquaintance of Maginn, Allan Cunningham, and other eminent men of
letters. Towards the close of that year he joined the _Aberdeen
Journal_, and in 1835 edited for a short time the _Advertiser_, another
newspaper published in that city. He returned to London in 1836, and
resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals.
His "Landscape Lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume. In 1840 he
commenced writing the lives of distinguished Scotsmen, and the result of
his researches appeared in 1842, in a valuable work, entitled, "The
Popular Scottish Biography." Previous to the appearance of this volume,
he published at London, "The Gift for All Seasons," an annual, which
contained contributions from Campbell, Sheridan Knowles, the Countess of
Blessington, Miss Pardoe, and other writers of reputation. In 1842 he
returned to Scotland, to edit _The Western Watchman_, a weekly journal
published at Ayr. In 1844 he became connected with the _Witness_
newspaper; but in the following year removed to Glasgow, to assist in
the establishment of the first Scottish daily newspaper. With that
journal, the _Daily Mail_, he continued two years, till severe nocturnal
labour much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon
literary pursuits. He has been a contributor to _Tait's Magazine_, and
was intrusted with the literary superintendence of Major De Renzy's
"Poetical Illustrations and Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," a
work to which he contributed several poems. He has edited Lord Byron's
works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious Memoir
of the poet. Besides a number of smaller works, he is the editor of five
volumes, forming a series, entitled, "Treasury of Discovery, Enterprise,
and Adventure;" "Treasury of the Animal World;" "Treasury of Ceremonies,
Manners, and Customs;" "Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art;" and
"Treasury of History and Biography." "The Young Voyager," a poem
descriptive of the search after Franklin, with illustrations, intended
for children, appeared in 1855. He contributed the greater number of the
biographical notices of Scotsmen inserted in "The Men of the Time" for
1856. A large and important national work, devoted to the biography,
history, and antiquities of Scotland, has engaged his attention for some
years, and is in a forward state for publication.

As a writer of verses, Mr Anderson is possessed of considerable power of
fancy, and a correct taste. His song, beginning "I'm naebody noo," has
been translated into the German language.




WOODLAND SONG.


    Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me,
      Will you go to the woodlands with me--
    When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still,
      Save the sound of the far dashing sea?

    For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill,
      I love to lie lone on the hill,
    When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie,
      And all nature around me is still.

    Then my fancy is ever awake, awake,
      My fancy is never asleep;
    Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake,
      Like a ship far away on the deep.

    And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie;
      I love 'neath the green boughs to lie;
    And see far above, like the smiling of love,
      A glimpse now and then of the sky.

    When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear,
      When the hum of the forest I hear,--
    'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there,
      And its breathings I ever revere.

    I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod,
      I kneel myself down on the sod,
    'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe
      In lowliness up to my God.

    Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind,
      Then peace doth descend on my mind;
    And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope,
      For both then become more refined.

    Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be,
      My spirit shall never repine,
    If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea,
      If the hum of the forest be mine.




THE WELLS O' WEARY.


    Down in the valley lone,
      Far in the wild wood,
    Bubble forth springs, each one
      Weeping like childhood;
    Bright on their rushy banks,
      Like joys among sadness,
    Little flowers bloom in ranks--
      Glimpses of gladness.

    Sweet 'tis to wander forth,
      Like pilgrims at even;
    Lifting our souls from earth
      To fix them on Heaven;
    Then in our transport deep,
      This world forsaking:
    Sleeping as angels sleep,
      Mortals awaking!




I 'M NAEBODY NOO.


    I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane,
    When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain,
    Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise--
    And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!

    Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang,
    Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang,
    Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee;
    But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!

    Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack,
    Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak';
    But whanever the water grew scant at the well,
    I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!

    Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer;
    And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer;
    I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,
    In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.

    The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie,
    I thoucht a' the time was intended for me;
    But whanever the end o' my money they saw,
    Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'.

    My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near,
    Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear;
    I 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true,
    But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I 'm naebody noo.




I CANNA SLEEP.


    I canna sleep a wink, lassie,
      When I gang to bed at night,
    But still o' thee I think, lassie,
      Till morning sheds its light.
    I lie an' think o' thee, lassie,
      And I toss frae side to side,
    Like a vessel on the sea, lassie,
      When stormy is the tide.

    My heart is no my ain, lassie,
      It winna bide wi' me;
    Like a birdie it has gane, lassie,
      To nestle saft wi' thee.
    I canna lure it back, lassie,
      Sae keep it to yoursel';
    But oh! it sune will break, lassie,
      If you dinna use it well.

    Where the treasure is, they say, lassie,
      The spirit lingers there;
    An' mine has fled away, lassie--
      You needna ask me where.
    I marvel oft if rest, lassie,
      On my eyes and heart would bide,
    If I thy troth possess'd, lassie,
      And thou wert at my side.




WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D.


An accomplished theologian and historical writer, William Hetherington
was born on the Galloway side of the valley of the Nith, about the year
1805. With an average education at the parish school, he entered the
University of Edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. Amidst
studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of
verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of
his nativity. These appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, entitled,
"Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland."
Having obtained licence as a probationer of the Established Church, he
was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of
Torphichen in the Presbytery of Linlithgow. He joined the Free Church in
1843, and was afterwards translated to St Andrews. In 1848 he became
minister of Free St Paul's Church, Edinburgh.

Besides his poetical work, Dr Hetherington has published, "The Fulness
of Time," "History of the Church of Scotland," "The Minister's Family,"
and several separate lectures on different subjects. He was, during the
first four years of its existence, editor of the _Free Church Magazine_.
Formerly a frequent contributor to the more esteemed religious
periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for the _British and
Foreign Evangelical Review_.




'TIS SWEET WI' BLITHESOME HEART TO STRAY.


    'Tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray,
    In the blushing dawn o' infant day;
    But sweeter than dewy morn can be,
    Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
        An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,
        An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
        The half o' my life I 'd gladly gie
        For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.

    The garish sun has sunk to rest;
    The star o' gloaming gilds the west;
    The gentle moon comes smiling on,
    And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown:
        Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me!
        The whispering night-breeze calls on thee;
        Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea,
        An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me.

    For wealth let warldlings cark and moil,
    Let pride for empty honours toil,
    I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie
    For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee.
        An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee,
        An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee;
        Earth's stores and titles a' I 'd gie
        For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee.




O SWEET IS THE BLOSSOM.


    O sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree,
    The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree,
    When the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea,
    Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.

    Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,
    An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;
    But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me,
    As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree.

    Oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften I hae been,
    An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen;
    But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee,
    In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.

    Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen,
    And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain;
    But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me,
    While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.

    Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die,
    And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky;
    Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea,
    Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:

    But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine,
    For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine,
    An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,
    Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.




THOMAS WATSON.


Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems,
published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some
time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a
house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.




THE SQUIRE O' LOW DEGREE.


    My luve 's a flower in garden fair,
      Her beauty charms the sicht o' men;
    And I 'm a weed upon the wolde,
      For nane reck how I fare or fen'.
    She blooms in beild o' castle wa',
      I bide the blast o' povertie;
    My covert looks are treasures stown--
      Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

    My luve is like the dawn o' day,
      She wears a veil o' woven mist;
    And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd,
      Lies paling on her maiden breast;
    Her kirtle at her jimpy waist,
      Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'
    She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare--
      And how culd my luve think o' me?

    My cloak is o' the Friesland gray,
      My doublet o' the gay Walloon,
    I wear the spurs o' siller sheen,
      And yet I am a landless loon;
    I ride a steed o' Flanders breed,
      I beare a sword upon my theigh,
    And that is a' my graith and gear--
      Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

    My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume,
      Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween,
    The happie dimples dent her cheeks,
      And diamonds low in her dark e'en;
    Her haire is o' the gowden licht,
      But dark the fringes o' her bree;
    Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart--
      But how culd my luve think o' me?

    My luve is tended like a queen,
      She sits among her maidens fair;
    There 's ane to send, and ane to sew,
      And ane to kame her gowden hair;
    The lutestrings luve her fingers sma',
      Her lips are steept in melodie;
    My heart is fu'--my e'en rin ower--
      Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?

    My luve she sits her palfrey white,
      Mair fair to see than makar's dream
    O' faery queen on moonbeam bricht,
      Or mermaid on the saut sea faem.
    A belted knicht is by her side,
      I 'm but a squire o' low degree;
    A baron halds her bridle-rein--
      And how culd my luve think o' me?

    But I will don the pilgrim's weeds,
      And boune me till the Holy Land,
    A' for the sake o' my dear luve,
      To keep unstain'd my heart and hand.
    And when this world is gane to wreck,
      Wi' a' its pride and vanitie,
    Within the blessed bouris o' heaven,
      We then may meet--my luve and me.




JAMES MACDONALD.


A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in
September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, and county of Stirling. His
father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Of unwonted
juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles,
whose circumstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal
education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he
afterwards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in
1822, to the university of Glasgow. Intended by his relations for the
ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during
three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the
study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. After
teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the
press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having
suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the
appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health
continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of Catrine,
in Ayrshire: he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted
teacher of Sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two
collections of hymns for their use.




BONNIE AGGIE LANG.


    Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang,
    Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang;
    It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose,
    It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows,
    It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing,
    Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.

    But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free
    O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be;
    Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream,
    The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream,
    I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue,
    For weel I ken her heart is mine--the fountain whar it sprung.

    Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour;
    The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower,
    The weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh,
    E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by;
    I press'd her milk-white han' in mine--she smiled as angels smile,
    But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile.

    I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow,
    An' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou';
    I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose,
    An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose.
    The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me,
    An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e.

    I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay,
    I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May,
    I 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee,
    An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea;
    But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride,
    As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie by my side.




THE PRIDE O' THE GLEN.


    Oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley,
      And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree;
    The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer,
      And modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e;
    Mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle,
      Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den,"
    I met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty,
      By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.

    She 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin,
      An blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea;
    Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection,
      And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e.
    The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures,
      The heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree;
    They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom,
      When alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le.

    I 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud,
      The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea;
    The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht,
      And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie.
    I 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's,
      And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheen
    Wi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air,
      And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.

    I 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers,
      A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes,
    And breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm,
      Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies;
    Yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning,
      Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again,
    Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie,
      That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride of the glen.

    The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers,
      The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free;
    The weary heart langs for the morning rays comin',
      The oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty.
    But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer,
      Is the day that I 'll ca' the young lassie my ain;
    Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I 'll be happy,
      On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.




MARY.


    The winter's cauld and cheerless blast
      May rob the feckless tree, Mary,
    And lay the young flowers in the dust,
      Whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, Mary.
    It canna chill my bosom's hopes--
      It canna alter thee, Mary;
    The summer o' thy winsome face
      Is aye the same to me, Mary.

    The gloom o' life, its cruel strife,
      May wear me fast awa', Mary;
    An' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse,
      Amang the drifting snaw, Mary.
    Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh,
      I 'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary;
    And deem the wild and raging storm,
      A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.

    My heart can lie in ruin's dust,
      And fortune's winter dree, Mary;
    While o'er it shines the diamond ray,
      That glances frae thine e'e, Mary.
    The rending pangs and waes o' life,
      The dreary din o' care, Mary,
    I 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee,
      My lanely lot to share, Mary.

    As o'er yon hill the evening star
      Is wilin' day awa', Mary;
    Sae sweet and fair art thou to me,
      At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary.
    It gars me greet wi' vera joy,
      Whene'er I think on thee, Mary,
    That sic a heart sae true as thine,
      Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.




JAMES BALLANTINE.


James Ballantine, one of the most successful of living Scottish song
writers, was born in 1808 at the West Port of Edinburgh. Of this
locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared
to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has given a graphic
description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished
recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh"
half-doored shops he "gat schulin' and sport." He lost his father, who
was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of
the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early
training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her
children the advantage of an ordinary education. James Ballantine must,
however, be considered as a self-taught man. Beyond the training which
he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own
indefatigable exertions.

By his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy,
to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family.
He was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and
very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing
up to manhood, he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational
advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life,
and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for
the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. At a
subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on
glass, and he has long been well-known as one of the most distinguished
of British artists in that department. At the period Mr Ballantine began
his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in
character; and the position to which it has of late years attained is
chiefly owing to his good taste and archæological researches. When the
designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of
Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine
Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were
exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. A few
years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been
translated and published in Germany, where it retains its popularity. Mr
Ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere
with the exercise of his chosen avocations; "he has," in the words of
Lord Cockburn, "made the business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace
the business."

Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some
of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth
year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of "Whistle
Binkie." In 1843 his well-known work, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was
published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie.
This production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. His second
work, "The Miller of Deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and
ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an
edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously
given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his
genius, and will procure him a prominent place in his country's
literature. Mr Ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the
beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of
the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and
simple character.




NAEBODY'S BAIRN.


    She was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn,
    She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn,
    Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn,
    For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn.

    Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava,
    Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma',
    She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern,
    For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn.

    Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair,
    She never compleened, though her young heart was sair,
    And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn
    Whiles glist in the blue e'e o' Naebody's bairn.

    Though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth,
    Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth;
    And when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern,
    Heaven couldna but tak again Naebody's bairn.

    She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw,
    Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa,
    And lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starn
    Shines on the greensward that haps Naebody's bairn!




CASTLES IN THE AIR.


    The bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase,
    Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face;
    Laughin' at the fuffin low--what sees he there?
    Ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air!

    His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow,
    Are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe,
    He 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
    Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

    He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon,
    He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun;
    Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare,
    Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air.

    For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?
    He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men,
    A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,--
    There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air.

    Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld;
    His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;
    His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care
    Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air.

    He 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light;
    But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night;
    Aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare,
    Hearts are broken--heads are turn'd--wi' castles in the air.




ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.


    Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
    An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind,
    Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through,
    For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

    Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been,
    Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en,
    Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you,
    For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

    In lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky
    Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry,
    The genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew,
    An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

    Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie,
    An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,
    Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
    But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.




WIFIE, COME HAME.


              Wifie, come hame,
              My couthie wee dame!
              Oh, but ye 're far awa,
              Wifie, come hame!
    Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,
      Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e,
    Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',
      A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.
    Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,
      Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,
    Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air,
      Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

              Wifie, come hame,
              My couthie wee dame!
              Oh, my heart wearies sair,
              Wifie, come hame!
    Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie,
      Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;
    Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,
      Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.
    Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,
      Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree;
    Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye,
      Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.




THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.


    Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken,
    For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben;
    And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest,
    The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

    The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day,
    The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay;
    The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test--
    The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

    The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun,
    Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun;
    The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest--
    The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

    Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow,
    And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low;
    The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best--
    The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.




CREEP AFORE YE GANG.


    Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang;
    Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang;
      Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
      Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.

    Creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn
    To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;
      Better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang,
      Duntin' a' your wee brow--creep afore ye gang.

    Ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither,
    Watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither;
      Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,
      An' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet--creep afore ye gang.

    The wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee;
    Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie;
      They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang--
      Creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang.




AE GUDE TURN DESERVES ANITHER.


    Ye mauna be proud, although ye be great,
      The puirest bodie is still your brither;
    The king may come in the cadger's gate--
      Ae gude turn deserves anither.

    The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay,
      Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither;
    Let ilk help ither to climb the brae--
      Ae gude turn deserves anither.

    The highest among us are unco wee,
      Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegither;
    Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!--
      Ae gude turn deserves anither.

    Life is a weary journey alane,
      Blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither;
    Mutual gi'ing is mutual gain--
      Ae gude turn deserves anither.




THE NAMELESS LASSIE.


    There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name,
    There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame;
    Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree,
    Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me.

    She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair,
    Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare;
    While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea--
    For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!

    Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw,
    An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a';
    But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e,
    Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.

    Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain,
    An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain;
    The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee,
    Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.




BONNIE BONALY.


    Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream,
    Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream;
    Falling where silver light gleams on its breast,
    Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest,
    Flooding with music its own tiny valley,
    Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly.

    Proudly Bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers,
    Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers;
    Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom;
    Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom;
    Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally,
    Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly.

    Pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest,
    Peerless Edina expands her white breast,
    Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene,
    Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between;
    Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily;
    Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly.




SAFT IS THE BLINK O' THINE E'E, LASSIE.


    Oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,
      Saft is the blink o' thine e'e;
    An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb,
      As kindly it glints upon me.

    The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie,
      Are gowden, as gowden may be;
    Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun,
      When he 's just going to drap in the sea.

    Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie,
      As sweet as a body may pree;
    And fondly I 'll pree that wee hinny mou',
      E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me.

    Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie,
      As fair as a body may see;
    An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand,
      At e'en when thou partest wi' me.

    Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie,
      Thy heart is sae kind and sae free;
    My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy,
      Wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e.




THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN.


    Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on,
    Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone;
    To stand idle by is a profitless sin:
    The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

    The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower,
    The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower,
    The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn:
    The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

    There 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought,
    Health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought;
    In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin:
    The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.

    Let every man aim in his heart to excel,
    Let every man ettle to fend for himsel';
    Aye nourish ye stern independence within:
    The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win.




THE WIDOW.


    The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane,
    Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain;
    For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o',
    Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.

    She looks a' around her, and what sees she there
    But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?
    She looks in within, and she feels in her breast
    A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.

    The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers,
    She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears;
    And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa',
    But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.

    The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide,
    When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side;
    He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears,
    An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.

    Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face,
    She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace;
    Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high,
    You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.




MRS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY.


The accomplished author of some poetical works, Mrs Eliza A. H. Ogilvy,
is the daughter of Abercromby Dick, Esq., who for many years held an
appointment in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company.
Her childhood was passed in Scotland, under the care of her paternal
uncle, Sir Robert Dick of Tullymett, who, at the head of his division,
fell at the battle of Sobraon. After a period of residence in India, to
which she had gone in early youth, she returned to Britain. In 1843, she
was united in marriage to David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the old
Scottish family of Inverquharity. Several years of her married life have
been spent in Italy; at present she resides with her husband and
children at Sydenham, Kent. "A Book of Scottish Minstrelsy," being a
series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the Scottish Highlands,
appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. She
has since published "Traditions of Tuscany," and "Poems of Ten Years."




CRAIG ELACHIE.


    Blue are the hills above the Spey,
    The rocks are red that line his way;
    Green is the strath his waters lave,
    And fresh the turf upon the grave
    Where sleep my sire and sisters three,
    Where none are left to mourn for me:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    The roofs that shelter'd me and mine
    Hold strangers of a Sassenach line;
    Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew
    The friendly forms of long ago;
    The rooks upon the old yew-tree
    Would e'en have stranger notes to me:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    The cattle feeding on the hills,
    We tended once o'er moors and rills,
    Like us have gone; the silly sheep
    Now fleck the brown sides of the steep,
    And southern eyes their watchers be,
    And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Where are the elders of our glen,
    Wise arbiters for meaner men?
    Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye,
    Who track'd the roe against the sky;
    The quick of hand, of spirit free?
    Pass'd, like a harper's melody:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Where are the maidens of our vale,
    Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael?
    Changed are they all, and changed the wife,
    Who dared, for love, the Indian's life;
    The little child she bore to me
    Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey,
    Shaggy the western forests gray;
    Wild is the corri's autumn roar,
    Wilder the floods of this far shore;
    Dark are the crags of rushing Dee,
    Darker the shades of Tennessee:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn,
    Since first amid the mountains born;
    Great rock, whose sterile granite heart
    Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart,
    The river sporting at thy knee,
    On thy stern brow no change can see:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground,
    By Scottish mountains flank'd around,
    Though we uprooted, cast away
    From the warm bosom of Strathspey,
    Flung pining by this western sea,
    The exile's hopeless lot must dree:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise,
    Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies;
    In these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear,
    New scenes shall wear old names so dear;
    And while our axes fell the tree,
    Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!

    Here can no treacherous chief betray
    For sordid gain our new Strathspey;
    No fearful king, no statesmen pale,
    Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael.
    With arm'd wrist and kilted knee,
    No prairie Indian half so free:
    Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie!




JOHN FINLAY.


John Finlay was born at Glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in
the respectable firm of R. G. Finlay & Co., manufacturers in that city.
Amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long
been keenly devoted to the principal national games--curling, angling,
bowling, quoiting, and archery--in all of which he has frequently
carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country.
To impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different
societies of which he is a member, Mr Finlay was led to become a
song-writer. There is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite
games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. Some of his songs have
obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are
peculiarly cultivated.




THE NOBLE SCOTTISH GAME.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_


    The King is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon,
    The elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun';
    He lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound,
    He chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground;
    He calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave,
    He stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave;
    He calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame,
    An' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble Scottish game!

    The hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw,
    An' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw;
    The wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld;
    The sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld;
    The farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom,
    Auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom;
    The miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame,
    When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

    It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,
    It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;
    The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
    When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
    The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
    At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
    The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
    Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

    The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
    The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
    Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
    An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
    Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
    To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
    When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame--
    There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!




THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_


    The gloomy days are gone
      With the blasts o' winter keen;
    The flowers are blooming fair,
      And the trees are budding green;
    The lark is in the sky,
      With his music ringing loud,
    Raining notes of joy
      From the sunny Summer cloud--
    Springing at the dawn
      With the blushing light of day,
    And quivering with delight
      In the morning's golden ray;
    But there 's rapture dearer far
      In the warm and social power
    Of the merry bowling-green,
      In the happy evening hour!

    The lights and shades of life,
      Like an April day, are seen,
    'Mid the melting sunny showers,
      On the lively bowling-green.
    The Spring and Autumn meet
      When the old and young are there,
    And mirth and wisdom chase
      From the heart the thoughts of care.
    When the creaking wheels of life
      Are revolving weak and slow,
    And the dashing tide of hope
      May be ebbing dark and low,
    The sons of wealth and toil
      Feel the sweet and soothing power
    Of the merry bowling-green,
      In the charming leisure hour!

    The streams of life run on
      Till they fall into the sea;
    And the flowers are left behind,
      With their fragrance on the lea.
    The circling flight of time
      Will soon make the young folk old;
    And pleasure dances on
      Till the springs of life grow cold.
    We 'll taste the joys of life
      As the hours are gliding fast,
    And learn to live and love
      From the follies of the past;
    And remember with delight,
      When misfortunes intervene,
    The happy days we 've spent
      On the merry bowling-green.




THOMAS TOD STODDART.


Thomas Tod Stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling,
was born on the 14th February 1810 in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the
chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is said to have written the "History
of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several
distinguished services: he was present at Lord Howe's victory at the
landing in Egypt; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many
desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was
educated at a Moravian establishment at Fairfield, near Manchester, and
subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the
University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a
tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful
competitor in Professor Wilson's class, for a poem on "Idolatry." He was
an early contributor to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding
the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering
upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many
years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and
the recreation of angling. In 1831, he published "The Deathwake, or
Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, "Angling
Reminiscences;" in 1839, "Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, "Abel
Massinger; or the Aëronaut, a Romance." The second of these
publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "The Angler's
Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general
favour. The volume of "Songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along
with a tragedy, entitled "The Crown Jewel," and "The Aëronaut," both
still in MS., may be expected. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every
opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and
enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament.




ANGLING SONG.


    Bring the rod, the line, the reel!
    Bring, oh, bring the osier creel!
    Bring me flies of fifty kinds,
    Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds,
        All things right and tight,
          All things well and proper,
        Trailer red and bright,
          Dark and wily dropper;
        Casts of midges bring,
          Made of plover hackle,
        With a gaudy wing,
          And a cobweb tackle.

    Lead me where the river flows,
    Shew me where the alder grows,
    Reel and rushes, moss and mead,
    To them lead me--quickly lead,
        Where the roving trout
          Watches round an eddy,
        With his eager snout
          Pointed up and ready,
        Till a careless fly,
          On the surface wheeling,
        Tempts him, rising sly
          From his safe concealing.

    There, as with a pleasant friend,
    I the happy hours will spend,
    Urging on the subtle hook,
    O'er the dark and chancy nook,
        With a hand expert
          Every motion swaying,
        And on the alert
          When the trout are playing;
        Bring me rod and reel,
          Flies of every feather,
        Bring the osier creel,
          Send me glorious weather!




LET ITHER ANGLERS.


    Let ither anglers choose their ain,
      An' ither waters tak' the lead;
    O' Hieland streams we covet nane,
      But gie to us the bonnie Tweed!
    An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn
      That steals into its valley fair--
    The streamlets that at ilka turn,
      Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.

    The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,
      An' Manor wi' its mountain rills,
    An' Etterick, whose waters twine
      Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;
    An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,
      An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed;
    Their kindred valleys a' unite
      Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.

    There 's no a hole abune the Crook,
      Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,
    Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,
      That daunders through the flowrie heath,
    But ye may fin' a subtle troot,
      A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead,
    An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot,
      Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.

    Frae Holylee to Clovenford,
      A chancier bit ye canna hae,
    So gin ye tak' an' angler's word,
      Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae,
    An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand
      Yer birzy hackles black and reid;
    The saft sough o' a slender wand
      Is meetest music for the Tweed!




THE BRITISH OAK.


    The oak is Britain's pride!
      The lordliest of trees,
    The glory of her forest side,
      The guardian of her seas!
    Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,
      To brave the wintry breeze.

    Our hearts shall never quail
      Below the servile yoke,
    Long as our seamen trim the sail,
      And wake the battle smoke--
    Long as they stem the stormy gale,
      On planks of British oak!

    Then in its native mead,
      The golden acorn lay;
    And watch with care the bursting seed,
      And guard the tender spray;
    England will bless us for the deed,
      In some far future day!

    Oh! plant the acorn tree
      Upon each Briton's grave;
    So shall our island ever be,
      The island of the brave--
    The mother-nurse of liberty,
      And empress o'er the wave!




PEACE IN WAR.


    Peace be upon their banners!
      When our war-ships leave the bay--
    When the anchor is weigh'd,
        And the gales
        Fill the sails,
      As they stray--
    When the signals are made,
    And the anchor is weigh'd,
    And the shores of England fade
      Fast away!

    Peace be upon their banners,
      As they cross the stormy main!
    May they no aggressors prove,
        But unite,
        Britain's right
      To maintain;
    And, unconquer'd, as they move,
    May they no aggressors prove;
    But to guard the land we love,
      Come again!

    Long flourish England's commerce!
      May her navies ever glide,
    With concord in their lead,
        Ranging free
        Every sea,
      Far and wide;
    And at their country's need,
    With thunders in their lead,
    May the ocean eagles speed
      To her side!




ALEXANDER MACLAGAN.[12]


Alexander Maclagan was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d of April 1811.
His father, Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning
this occupation, he settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in
business, he removed to Edinburgh, with a young family of three
children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. Catherine
Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of
Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the
period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his
fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where
three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable
to bestow upon his son Alexander the liberal education which his strong
natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of
knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of
ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he
remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to
undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the
son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with
whom he served six years. About this time he produced many excellent
drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the
Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation
precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. His
leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. So
early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library
as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry.

In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with the
_Edinburgh Literary Journal_, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a
contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick
Shepherd, Professor Wilson, William Tennant, and William Motherwell, who
severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he
worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his
eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. In 1831, he
commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound,
Edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to London
in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the
metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunningham, and was, through
his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well
known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately
interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much
disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as
manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued
two years. He afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational
pursuits.

In 1841, Maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which
immediately attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey. He invited
the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor.
On the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, "Sketches from
Nature, and other Poems," the critic wrote to the poet in these words,
"I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a
great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more
solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was
one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his
Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in
Lord Cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of
the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved, however, most
uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened
arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of
being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In
1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner
in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a
similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been
shewn him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Rev. Dr
Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he
had conferred on him by the Queen a small Civil List pension.

Mr Maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "Ragged and Industrial
School Rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation.
Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in
the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of
thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. In social
life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he
has told with singular simplicity and tenderness.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of
Mr Maclagan's personal history.




CURLING SONG.


    Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,
    A health to a' that love the name;
    Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,
      The pastime o' the free, boys.
    While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,
    We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,
    And sing its praises loud and lang--
      The roarin' rink for me, boys.
          Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,
          A health to a' that love the name;
          Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;
            The roarin' rink for me, boys.

    Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,
    Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;
    Let wily fisher prove his powers
      At the flinging o' the flee, boys.
    But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,
    Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,
    Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel--
      The roarin' rink for me, boys.

    In ancient days--fame tells the fact--
    That Scotland's heroes werena slack
    The heads o' stubborn foes to crack,
      And mak' the feckless flee, boys.
    Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,
    They aften tried the curlin' charm
    To cheer the heart and nerve the arm--
      The roarin' rink for me, boys.

    May love and friendship crown our cheer
    Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear;
    We hae this nicht some heroes here,
      We aye are blythe to see, boys.
    A' brithers brave are they, I ween,
    May fickle Fortune, slippery queen,
    Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean--
      The roarin' rink for me, boys.

    May health an' strength their toils reward,
    And should misfortune's gales blow hard,
    Our task will be to plant a guard
      Or guide them to the tee, boys.
    Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,
    Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,
    Here 's three times three for beef an' greens--
      The roarin' rink for me, boys.

    A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,
    A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,
    A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,
      A glorious sicht to see, boys--
    Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';
    Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;
    Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah--
      The roarin' rink for me, boys.




THE AULD MEAL MILL.


    The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
    Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;
    Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,
    Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

    The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,
    Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;
    Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill
    That ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.

    When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,
    The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;
    The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,
    Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.

    The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,
    The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;
    The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,
    Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.

    Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weel
    When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;
    But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will
    The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.

    There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill--
    They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill--
    But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still
    Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.

    When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,
    Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;
    The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,
    A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.

    Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,
    The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;
    Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill--
    There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.

    At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,
    Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';
    Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until
    The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.

    I hae listen'd to music--ilk varying tone,
    Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;
    But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
    As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.

    Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!
    Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!
    Bless the miller--wha often, wi' heart and good-will,
    Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.

    The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
    Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;
    Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,
    Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.




THE THISTLE.


    Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
    The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
    A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers--
    The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!

    'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
    When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;
    'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
    For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!
                Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

    Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land--
    On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand--
    On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,
    May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!
                Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

    Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause;
    Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause;
    How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,
    And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?
      Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
      The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
      A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers--
      The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!




THE SCOTCH BLUE BELL.


      The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
        The dear blue-bell for me!
      Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell
        For a' the flowers I see.

    I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,
      I hail thee, floweret fair;
    Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,
      Or wavest mid mountain air--
    Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,
      Or fountain's flowery brink:
    Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,
      The deer descend to drink.
                The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

    Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook
      Beside love's trystin' tree;
    I see thee bend to kiss the brook,
      That kindly kisseth thee.
    'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen,
      Blithe noddin' o'er her brow,
    Meet marrows to her lovely een
      O' deep endearin' blue!
                The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

    When e'enin's gowden curtains hing
      O'er moor and mountain gray,
    Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring
      A dirge to deein' day;
    But when the licht o' mornin' wakes
      The young dew-drooket flowers,
    I hear amid their merry peals,
      The mirth o' bridal hours!
                The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

    How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd,
      The mountain's heather crest,
    There aft wi' thee hae I array'd
      My Mary's maiden breast;
    Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells,
      Her bosom fa' and rise,
    Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells,
      'Neath summer's deep blue skies.
                The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

    Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws,
      I seek the blue-bell grot;
    An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's
      Sae sweet, I leave it not;
    An' when upon my tremblin' breast,
      Reclines my maiden fair,
    Thou know'st full well that I am blest,
      And free frae ilka care.

      The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
        The dear blue-bell for me!
      Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell,
        For a' the flowers I see.




THE ROCKIN'.


    The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht,
    The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht,
    An' happy hearts are here the nicht,
      To haud a rantin' rockin'!

    There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care;
    There 's Mary, wi' the modest air;
    An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair,
      Will a' be at the rockin'.

    There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel;
    There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel;
    An' Meg, sae daft about a reel,
      Will a' be at the rockin'.

    The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht;
    The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht;
    The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht,
      Will a' be at the rockin'.

    The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e,
    Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee;
    The wonder-workin' dominie,
      Will a' be at the rockin'.

    The miller, wi' his mealy mou',
    Wha kens sae weel the way to woo--
    His faither's pipes frae Waterloo
      He 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.

    The souter, wi' his bristly chin,
    Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin;
    The curly-headed whupper-in,
      Will a' be at the rockin'.

    There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld,
    There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld,
    There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld;
      Sae prove our merry rockin'.

    The tales they tell, the sangs they sing,
    Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring,
    And some will dance the Highland fling,
      Right blithely at the rockin'.

    Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire,
    Fond friendship will each soul inspire,
    An' mirth will get her heart's desire
      O' rantin', at the rockin'.

    When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,
    When days come dark whilk promised fair,
    To cheer the gloom, just come an' share
      The pleasures o' our rockin'.




THE WIDOW.


    Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,
    Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;
    Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.

    Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel,
    Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;
    Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,
    The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;
    Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,
    Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;
    Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,
    The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;
    The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,
    That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,
    Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'--
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,
    Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';
    Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,
    On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;
    When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,
    The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.

    The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,
    I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;
    Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,
    Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod,
    To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God,
    What she utters to Him is no kent to ane,
    But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

    Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours,
    When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers;
    When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains,
    To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.




THE HIGHLAND PLAID.


    What though ye hae nor kith nor kin',
      An' few to tak' your part, love;
    A happy hame ye'll ever fin'
      Within my glowing heart, love.
    So! while I breathe the breath o' life,
      Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye;
    My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
      Creep closer, my wee dearie!

    The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud,
      May speak o' ghaists an' witches,
    An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts
      Through bogs an' droonin' ditches;
    There's no ae imp in a' the host
      This nicht will daur come near ye;
    My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
      Creep closer, my wee dearie!

    Why do you heave sic heavy sighs,
      Why do ye sab sae sair, love?
    Altho' beneath my rustic plaid
      An earl's star I wear love,
    I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth,
      And as a queen revere thee;
    My Highland plaid is warm an' wide--
      Creep closer, my wee deerie!




THE FLOWER O' GLENCOE.


    Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains,
      An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below,
    The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains--
      The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe;
    But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes
      That flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes,
    For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes,
      I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

    Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin',
      'Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe;
    Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin',
      My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.
    An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger,
    Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger
    O' famine and death in the land o' the stranger,
      Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

    But success crown'd our toils--ye hae a' heard the story,
      How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low--
    I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory,
      An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.
    Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure;
    Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure;
    Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure--
      The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.




MRS JANE C. SIMPSON.


Jane Cross Bell, better known by her assumed name of "Gertrude," is the
daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in
Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in
the _Greenock Advertiser_, while her father for a short time resided in
that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the
_Edinburgh Literary Journal_ she afterwards contributed numerous
poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and
verse to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, then under the able editorship
of the Rev. Dr Gardner. In 1836, "Gertrude" published a small volume of
tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a
duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work,
"Woman's History," appeared in 1848.

In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and
has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic
avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson
continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary
pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more
ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.




GENTLENESS.


    Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,
    'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;
    The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,
    In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!

    What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,
    And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;
    'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,
    And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!

    Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,
    Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;
    A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood--
    Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!

    No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,
    Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,
    And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,
    And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.

    An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,
    And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand--
    Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,
    Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!

    I long'd to weep--I strove to speak--no words came from my tongue,
    Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;
    The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;
    I could have borne to meet thy wrath--'twas death to see thee kind!

    'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,
    A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;
    But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,
    The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!
    O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!
    It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;
    I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine,
    But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!




HE LOVED HER FOR HER MERRY EYE.


    He loved her for her merry eye,
      That, like the vesper star,
    In evening's blue and deepening sky,
      Shed light and joy afar!

    He loved her for her golden hair,
      That o'er her shoulders hung;
    He loved her for her happy voice,
      The music of her tongue.

    He loved her for her airy form
      Of animated grace;
    He loved her for the light of soul,
      That brighten'd in her face.

    He loved her for her simple heart,
      A shrine of gentle things;
    He loved her for her sunny hopes,
      Her gay imaginings.

    But not for him that bosom beat,
      Or glanced that merry eye,
    Beneath whose diamond light he felt
      It would be heaven to die.

    He never told her of his love,
      He breathed no prayer--no vow;
    But sat in silence by her side,
      And gazed upon her brow.

    And when, at length, she pass'd away,
      Another's smiling bride,
    He made his home 'mid ocean's waves--
      He died upon its tide.




LIFE AND DEATH.


    To live in cities--and to join
      The loud and busy throng,
    Who press with mad and giddy haste,
      In pleasure's chase along;
    To yield the soul to fashion's rules,
      Ambition's varied strife;
    Borne like a leaf upon the stream--
      Oh! no--this is not life!

    To pass the calm and pleasant hours,
      By wild wood, hill, and grove,
    And find a heaven in solitude,
      With one we deeply love;
    To know the wealth of happiness,
      That each to each can give,
    And feel no power can sever us--
      Ah! this it is to live!

    It is not death, when on the couch
      Of sickness we are laid,
    With all our spirit wasted,
      And the bloom of youth decay'd;
    To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
      And pant for failing breath;
    Then break at length life's feeble hain--
      Oh, no! this is not death!

    To part from one beneath whose smiles
      We long were used to dwell,
    To hear the lips we love pronounce
      A passionate farewell;
    To catch the last _too_ tender glance
      Of an adoring eye,
    And weep in solitude of heart--
      Ah! this it is to die!




GOOD NIGHT.


    Good night! the silver stars are clear,
      On evening's placid brow;
    We have been long together, love--
      We must part now.

    Good night! I never can forget
      This long bright summer day,
    We pass'd among the woods and streams,
      Far, far away!

    Good night! we have had happy smiles,
      Fond dreams, and wishes true,
    And holier thoughts and communings,
      And weeping too.

    Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend
      Again so sweet a time,
    Alone with Nature and with thee,
      In my life's prime!

    Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,
      Take thou this faded flower,
    And lay it next thy heart, against
      Our meeting hour.

    Good night! the silver stars are clear,
      Thy homeward way to light;
    Remember this long summer day--
      Good night! good night!




ANDREW PARK.


The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew,
on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school,
he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his
fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while
resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of
Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a
hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own
account. At this period he published several additional volumes of
poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of
cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London,
to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in
the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the
stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a
bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he
finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived
principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited
Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a
narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the
East."

Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public,
that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared
in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one
of his poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a
narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his
numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of
his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a
handsome volume, royal octavo.




HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS.


    Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,
    The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;
    Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast
    Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.

    'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,
    As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;
    And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,
    In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.

    'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,
    Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;
    For there it has might that can war with its power,
    In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.

    I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
    I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;
    But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms--
    Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!




OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE!


    Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
    Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
    Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
    Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

    Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas,
    Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze;
    Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high,
    Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky!
    For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
    Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
    Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
    Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

    O name not the land where the olive-tree grows,
    Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose;
    But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head,
    O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed.
    For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
    Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
    Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
    Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!

    Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold,
    Who wielded their brands in the battles of old,
    Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land,
    With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand!
    For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
    Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
    Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
    Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!




FLOWERS OF SUMMER.


    Flowers of summer, sweetly springing,
      Deck the dewy lap of earth;
    Birds of love are fondly singing
      In their gay and jocund mirth:
    Streams are pouring from their fountains,
      Echoing through each rugged dell;
    Heather bells adorn the mountains,
      Bid the city, love! farewell.

    See the boughs are rich in blossom,
      Through each sunlit, silent grove;
    Cast all sorrow from thy bosom--
      Freedom is the soul of love!
    Let us o'er the valleys wander,
      Nor a frown within us dwell,
    And in joy see Nature's grandeur--
      Bid the city, love! farewell.

    Morning's sun shall then invite us
      By the ever sparkling streams;
    Evening's fall again delight us
      With its crimson-coloured beams.
    Flowers of summer sweetly springing,
      Deck the dewy lap of earth;
    Birds of love are loudly singing,
      In their gay and jocund mirth.




HOME OF MY FATHERS.


    Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur,
      In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee;
    In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander,
      And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me!
    I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping,
      Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below;
    The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping,
      Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow.
    Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
      Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

    Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly;
      Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay!
    Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly,
      Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray!
    Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory,
      And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves,
    Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story,
      Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves!
    Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
      Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!

    Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather,
      The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen,
    The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither,
      But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men!
    Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee,
      And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea--
    Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee,
      Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee!
    Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
      Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!




WHAT AILS MY HEART?


    What ails my heart--what dims my e'e?
      What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie?
    Ye werena aye sae cauld to me;
      Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie.
    I 'm wae to see you, like a flower
      Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie,
    Droop farer down frae hour to hour,
      An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.

    I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true,
      She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie;
    She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue;
      If sae--ye still are free, Jamie.
    I winna tak your hand and heart,
      If there is ane mair dear, Jamie;
    I 'd sooner far for ever part
      With thee--though wi' a tear, Jamie.

    Then tell me your doubts and your fears,
      Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie;
    Are ye afraid o' coming years,
      O' darker days to me, Jamie?
    I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy,
      They 'll come alike to me, Jamie;
    Misfortune's hand may all destroy,
      Except my love for thee, Jamie.




AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS.


    Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing,
      Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
    And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
      And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
    Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning,
      Though England's proud structures enrapture the view;
    Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning,
      Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue.
        Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
          Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
        And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
          And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

    Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory,
      His foot in the sea and his head in the sky;
    His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary,
      And round him, and round him the elements fly.
    The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing,
      The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by;
    When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring
      'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh!
        Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
          Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
        And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
          And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!




I 'M AWAY.


    I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
    With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
    Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream,
    To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam.
    I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind
    All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind;
    The music of birds and the murmur of rills,
    Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills.
      How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
      Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
      I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
      With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

    Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth!
    No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth!
    Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high,
    Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky!
    Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod,
    Which minstrels of yore often made their abode--
    Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales,
    That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.
      How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
      Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
      I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
      With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!




THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.


    There is a bonnie, blushing flower--
      But ah! I darena breathe the name;
    I fain would steal it frae its bower,
      Though a' should think me sair to blame.
    It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,
      Like brightest star where ither's shine;
    Fain would I place it in my breast,
      And make this bonnie blossom mine.

    At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er
      I see this fair, this fav'rite flower,
    My heart beats high with wish sincere,
      To wile it frae its bonnie bower!
    But oh! I fear to own its charms,
      Or tear it frae its parent stem;
    For should it wither in mine arms,
      What would revive my bonnie gem?

    Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'--
      That flower can never fade with me,
    That frae the wintry winds that blaw
      Round each neglected bud is free!
    No, it shall only bloom more fair,
      When cherished and adored by me;
    And a' my joy, and a' my care,
      This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!




THE MAID OF GLENCOE.

TUNE--_"Come under my plaidie."_


    Once more in the Highlands I wander alone,
    Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown;
    By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen,
    Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again.
    Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur,
    Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know;
    But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander--
    Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!

    Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay,
    I felt she had stole my affections away;
    The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree,
    But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.
    The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain,
    The hours glided by without languor or woe,
    As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains--
    My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!

    The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime,
    Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time!
    And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart,
    Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art.
    And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood,
    Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow,
    A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood--
    'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.




MARION PAUL AIRD.


The accomplished and amiable author of "Heart Histories" and other
poems, Marion Paul Aird, is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors
were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother,
a niece of Hamilton Paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a
race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth,
Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in
Kilmarnock. She early studied the British poets, and herself wrote
verses. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics,
entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in
1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "Heart
Histories." She has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. Her
poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See vol. ii., p. 120.




THE FA' O' THE LEAF.


    'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin',
      The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae;
    The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in',
      Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.

    Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters,
      No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea;
    Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters
      The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.

    The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie,
      When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray;
    But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie
      Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."

    How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather,
      Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';"
    An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither,
      Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:

    But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely,
      Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast;
    The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by,"
      An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."

    The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted,
      An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn;
    An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted,
      An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:

    But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin',
      An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night!
    When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin',
      Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.

    The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie,
      Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa',
    An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie,
      May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.

    Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer,"
      Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath;
    But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer
      Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?

    How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en,
      When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa';
    When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'--
      But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!




THE AULD KIRK-YARD.


    Calm sleep the village dead
      In the auld kirk-yard;
    But softly, slowly tread
      In the auld kirk-yard;
    For the weary, weary rest,
    Wi' the green turf on their breast,
    And the ashes o' the blest
      Flower the auld kirk-yard.

    Oh! many a tale it hath,
      The auld kirk-yard,
    Of life's crooked thorny path
      To the auld kirk-yard.
    But mortality's thick gloom
    Clouds the sunny world's bloom,
    Veils the mystery of doom,
      In the auld kirk-yard.

    A thousand memories spring
      In the auld kirk-yard,
    Though time's death-brooding wing
      Shade the auld kirk-yard.
    The light of many a hearth,
    Its music and its mirth,
    Sleep in the deep dark earth
      Of the auld kirk-yard.

    Nae dreams disturb their sleep
      In the auld kirk-yard;
    They hear nae kindred weep
      In the auld kirk-yard.
    The sire, with silver hair,
    The mother's heart of care,
    The young, the gay, the fair,
      Crowd the auld kirk-yard.

    So live that ye may lie
      In the auld kirk-yard,
    Wi' a passport to the sky
      Frae the auld kirk-yard;
    That when thy sand is run,
    And life's weary warfare done,
    Ye may sing o' victory won
      Where there 's nae kirk-yard.




FAR, FAR AWAY.

TUNE--_"Long, long ago."_


    Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly
      Far, far away; far, far away;
    Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky,
      Far, far away; far, far away;
    Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow,
    Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow,
    Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow,
      Far, far away; far away.

    There never trembles a sigh of regret,
      Far, far away; far, far away;
    Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set,
      Far, far away; far, far away;
    There I from sorrow for ever would rest,
    Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast;
    Tears never fall in the homes of the blest,
      Far, far away; far away.

    Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part,
      Far, far away; far, far away;
    One is their temple, their home, and their heart,
      Far, far away; far, far away;
    The river of crystal, the city of gold,
    The portals of pearl, such glory unfold,
    Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told,
      Far, far away; far away.

    List! what yon harpers on golden harps play;
      Come, come away; come, come away;
    Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
      Come, come away; come, come away:
    Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you,
    Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
    Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
      Come, come away; come away.




WILLIAM SINCLAIR.


A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811.
His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he
became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick
Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment
enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into
contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of
bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He
afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His
official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had
the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.

Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's
apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular
periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in
_Blackwood's Magazine_. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first
edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo
volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the
Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a
conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr
Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation
of reporter to one of the local journals.




THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.


    Thy queenly hand, Victoria,
      By the mountain and the rock,
    Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills
      A Royal British Oak;
    Oh, thou guardian of the free!
    Oh, thou mistress of the sea!
    Trebly dear shall be the ties
      That shall bind us to thy name,
    Ere this Royal Oak shall rise
      To thy fame, to thy fame!

    The oak hath scatter'd terror
      O'er our foemen from our ships,
    They have given the voice of England's fame
      In thunders from their lips;
    'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!
    It shall wave among the hills!
    And the rallying cry shall wake
      Nigh the planted of thy hand,
    That the loud acclaim may break
      O'er the land, o'er the land!

    While it waves unto the tempest,
      It shall call thy name to mind,
    And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be
      Like the rushing of the wind!
    Arise! ye Gaels, arise!
    Let the echoes ring your cries,
    By our mountain's rocky throne,
      By Victoria's name adored--
    We shall reap her enemies down
      With the sword, with the sword!

    Oh, dear among the mountains
      Shall thy kindly blessing be;
    Though rough may be our mien we bear
      A loyal heart to thee!
    'Neath its widely spreading shade
    Shall the gentle Highland maid
    Teach the youths, who stand around,
      Like brave slips from Freedom's tree,
    That thrice sacred is the ground
      Unto thee, unto thee!

    In the bosom of the Highlands
      Thou hast left a glorious pledge,
    To the honour of our native land,
      In every coming age:
    By thy royal voice that spoke
    On the soil where springs the oak--
    By the freedom of the land
      That can never bear a slave--
    The Breadalbane Oak shall stand
      With the brave, with the brave!




EVENING.


    Oh, how I love the evening hour,
      Its calm and tranquil sky,
    When the parting sun from a sea of gold
      Is passing silently;
    And the western clouds--bright robes of heaven--
    Rest gently on the breast of even!

    How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure,
      How peaceful and serene!
    There is a promise and a hope
      Enthroned o'er all the scene;
    While, blushing, with resplendent pride,
    The bright sun lingers on the tide.

    The zephyrs on the waveless sea
      Are wrapt in silent sleep,
    And there is not a breath to wake
      The slumbers of the deep--
    Peace sits on her imperial throne,
    And sounds of sadness there are none!

    Methinks I hear in distance harps
      By heavenly seraphs strung,
    And in the concave of the sky
      The holy vespers sung!
    Oh, thou great Source of light and power,
    We bless thee for the evening hour!




MARY.


    If there 's a word that whispers love
      In gentlest tones to hearts of woe,
    If there 's a name more prized above,
      And loved with deeper love below,
                              'Tis Mary.

    If there 's a healing sound beneath
      To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour,
    If there 's a name that angels breathe
      In silence with a deeper power,
                              'Tis Mary.

    It softly hangs on many a tongue
      In ladies' bower and sacred fane,
    The sweetest name by poets sung--
      The high and consecrated strain--
                              Is Mary.

    And Scotia's Bard--life's holiest dream
      Was his, the silent heavens above,
    When on the Bible o'er the stream
      He vowed his early vows of love
                              To Mary.

    Oh, with the sweet repose of even,
      By forest lone, by fragrant lea,
    And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven,
      How dear shall the remembrance be
                              Of Mary!

    Scotland and Mary are entwined
      With blooming wreath of fadeless green,
    And printed on the undying mind;
      For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen,
                              Was Mary.

    By the lone forest and the lea,
      When smiles the thoughtful evening star,
    Though other names may dearer be,
      The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far,
                              Is Mary.




ABSENCE.


    The fields, the streams, the skies are fair,
    There 's freshness in the balmy air,
    A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods,
    And pleasure fills thy solitudes,
    And sweets are strewn where'er we rove--
    But thou art not the land we love.

    How glorious, from the eastern heaven,
    The fulness of the dawn is given!
    How fair on ocean's glowing breast
    Sleeps the soft twilight of the west!
    All radiant are thy stars above--
    But thou art not the land we love.

    Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam,
    Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream;
    From morn to noon, from noon to even,
    Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven,
    From field and forest, vale and grove--
    But thou art not the land we love.

    To high and free imaginings
    Thy master minstrels swept the strings,
    The brave thy sons to triumph led,
    Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead,
    And Liberty thy chaplet wove--
    But thou art not the land we love.

    From the far bosom of the sea
    A flood of brightness rests on thee,
    And stately to the bending skies
    Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise:
    Thy heavens--how fair they smile above!
    But thou art not the land we love.

    Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand,
    The mountains of our native land!
    Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free,
    And their rejoicing minstrelsy!
    The heath below, the blue above,
    The altars of the land we love!




IS NOT THE EARTH.


    Is not the earth a burial place
      Where countless millions sleep,
    The entrance to the abode of death,
      Where waiting mourners weep,
    And myriads at his silent gates
      A constant vigil keep?

    The sculptor lifts his chisel, and
      The final stroke is come,
    But, dull as the marble lip he hews,
      His stiffened lip is dumb;
    Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work,
      He hath called to a holier home!

    The soldier bends his gleaming steel,
      He counts his laurels o'er,
    And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win
      On many a foreign shore;
    But his Master declares with a sterner voice,
      He shall break a lance no more!

    The mariner braved the deluge long,
      He bow'd to the sweeping blast,
    And smiled when the frowning heavens above
      Were the deepest overcast;
    He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky--
      He hath laid him down at last.

    Far in the sea's mysterious depths
      The lowly dead are laid,
    Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice
      Their burial service said?
    Have not the quiring tempests rung
      The dirges of the dead?

    The vales of our native land are strewn
      With a thousand pleasant things;
    The uplands rejoicing in the light
      Of the morning's flashing wings;
    Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns--
      The resting-place of kings!

    And man outpours his heart to heaven,
      And "chants his holiest hymn,"
    But anon his frame is still and cold,
      And his sparkling eyes are dim--
    And who can tell but the home of death
      Is a happier home to him?




OH, LOVE THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER DEAR![14]


      Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
    He fell on Balaklava's plain,
      Yet ere he found a soldier's bier
    He blest his beauteous child again;
    Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain,
      War's deadly lightning swiftly fell,
    On--on the squadron charged amain
      Amidst that storm of shot and shell!
        Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
          A jewel in his heart was she,
        Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
          And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

      Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
    Even like a knight of old romance,
      Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear,
    Heard but the bugle sound--advance!
    And paler droops the flower of France,
      And brighter glows proud England's rose,
    As charge they on with sabre-glance,
      And thunders thickening as they close!
        Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

      Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
    And be thy grateful kindness shewn;
      And still her father's name revere,
    For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own;
    And tell his deeds in battle done,
      And how he fearless faced the foe,
    And urged the snorting war-horse on
      With death above, around, below!
        Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

      Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
    Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine;
      Her father's glorious deeds appear,
    And laurels round her brow entwine;
    In that full eye, that seems divine,
      Her sire's commanding ardour glows;
    His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine,
      Within his daughter's bosom flows!
        Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
          A jewel in his heart was she,
        Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
          And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair
to the present work.




THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.


          To Scotland's ancient realm
            Proud Edward's armies came,
          To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm
            Our martial force in shame:
    "It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried;
    "It shall not be!" his chiefs replied;
        "By the name our fathers gave her,
    Our steel shall drink the crimson stream,
    We 'll all her dearest rights redeem--
        Our own broadswords shall save her!"

          With hopes of triumph flush'd,
            The squadrons hurried o'er
          Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd
            Like wild waves to the shore:
    "They come--they come!" was the gallant cry;
    "They come--they come!" was the loud reply;
        "O strength, thou gracious Giver!
    By Love and Freedom's stainless faith,
    We 'll dare the darkest night of death--
        We 'll drive them back for ever!"

          All o'er the waving broom,
            In chivalry and grace,
          Shone England's radiant spear and plume,
            By Stirling's rocky base:
    And, stretching far beneath the view,
    Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew,
        When, like a torrent rushing,
    O God! from right and left the flame
    Of Scottish swords like lightning came,
        Great Edward's legions crushing!

          High praise, ye gallant band,
            Who, in the face of day,
          With a daring heart and a fearless hand,
            Have cast your chains away!
    The foemen fell on every side--
    In crimson hues the Forth was dyed--
        Bedew'd with blood the heather,
    While cries triumphal shook the air--
    "Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare,
        Wherever Scotsmen gather!"

          Though years like shadows fleet
            O'er the dial-stone of Time,
          Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat
            With the throb of manhood's prime!
    Still shall the valour, love, and truth,
    That shone on Scotland's early youth,
        From Scotland ne'er dissever;
    The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern
    Shall wave around her Wallace cairn,
        And bless the brave for ever!




WILLIAM MILLER.


The writer of Nursery Songs in "Whistle Binkie," William Miller, was
born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the
profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "Ye cowe a'," which
we subjoin, amply entitles him to a place among the minstrels of his
country.




YE COWE A'.

AIR--_"Comin' through the rye."_


    I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade
    And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said;
    But nae reply my lassie gied--I blamed the waterfa';
    Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'!
          Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'!
    I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!"

    I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove,
    Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love;
    Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa';
    Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!
           Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"
    To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!"

    I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell,
    Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well;
    Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma',
    And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!
        Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
    Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!"

    "I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried,
    And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride."
    Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;"
    "The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'!
        Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
    But wilfu' folk maun hae their way--oh, ye cowe a'!"




ALEXANDER HUME.


Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. He is
employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. As a musical
composer he has attained considerable eminence. The following popular
songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition.




MY AIN DEAR NELL.


    Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee;
    Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me;
    Though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell,
    I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell.
    Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days,
    When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes;
    When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell,
    To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell!

    How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea,
    Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree;
    Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell--
    Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell!
    And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear,
    We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear;
    We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell,
    For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!

    They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair
    Is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair,
    Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell,
    For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell!
    Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee,
    Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me,
    As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell--
    Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!




THE PAIRTIN'.


    Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,
      Hame, and frien's, and country dear;
    Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee,
      Happier days may soon be here.
    See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
      Soon shall bear me o'er the sea,
    Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding
      Calls me far frae love and thee.

    Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;
      Streams run backward frae the sea;
    Cauld in death maun be this bosom,
      Ere it cease to throb for thee.
    Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',
      Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';
    Ae last time thy loved form pressin'--
      Think o' me when far awa'.




METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.




JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.


The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic
preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic
Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish
of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of
remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or
visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his
professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved
thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume
of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred
lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the
Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.




THE MISSIONARY OF ST KILDA.

    The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald
    on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "_The
    Hirt_" or "_Hirta_," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was
    blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.


    I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire,
    And the missionary spirit within me is on fire;
    But needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea,
    Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me;
    The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare,
    Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair.
    And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near,
    Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear?
    It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main
    Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain!
    But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim,
    Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim.
    Oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say,
    'Twere better than that brow to face that I were leagues away.
    But no, not so! what fears should daunt,--for what welcomes e'er outran
    The welcome that I bring with me, my call from God and man?
    Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering,
    And, by His power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing,
    And scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spake
    Their welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take.
    And he, believe me, has his best protection by his side
    Who bears the call of God and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide;
    And, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd,
    When I told the men of Hirt the news I brought them from their God!




DUNCAN KENNEDY.


Duncan Kennedy was born about the year 1758. His father was gardener to
Mr M'Lachlan of Kilanahanach, in the parish of Glassary, Argyleshire. In
his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which
was then conducted by an able classical scholar. At an early age he was
qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his
native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming
acquainted with "Iain Bàn Maor" the Gaelic poet, and enjoyed the
privilege of listening to the eminent Daniel Campbell and other pious
ministers in the surrounding parishes. He was promoted to the parish
school of Kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published
his collection of "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." During his summer
vacations he travelled over the districts of Kintyre, Argyle, and Lorn,
in search of legends concerning the Fingalians, and was successful in
collecting a mass of information, which in Gaelic verse he styled "Sean
dana." The MS. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a
neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a
circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical
order. From Kilmelford parish school, Kennedy in 1790 removed to
Glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in
mercantile pursuits. At one period he realised about £10,000, but he was
latterly unfortunate and indigent. During his old age he was allowed a
small pension from "The Glasgow Merchants' Home." Several years
subsequent to 1830 he resided at Ardrisaig in Argyleshire. His death
took place at Glasgow in 1836. He has left a MS. ready for publication,
entitled "The Ark of Ancient Knowledge." His volume of hymns has passed
into a second edition.




THE RETURN OF PEACE.


    With a breezy burst of singing
      Blow we out the flames of rage!
    Europe's peace, through Europe ringing,
      Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge.
              Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
                Faldar, aldar, aldar, e';
              Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
                Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.

    Every musket to the guard-house,
      And its lead to furlough send--
    To the tilling of the meadows
      Every gallant bayonet bend.

    See, a lusty fleet is steering
      Homewards, to the shore of peace;
    And brave hearts, a host, are nearing
      To the expectant dear's embrace.

    See the kilted Highlander
      As from Egypt's battles come--
    Westlander and Norlander,
      Eager for the sight of home.

    Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,
      Shelterless and sad no more,
    Quite a little army gathers,
      Shouting welcomes from the shore.

    All the echoes are in motion,
      All the sheilings ring with glee,
    Since, of peace, the paths of ocean
      Give the news a passage free.

    The birds the dash of oars was scaring--
      Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,
    To their wonted branch repairing,
      Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

    Seem the woods to dance a measure,
      Nodding as the notes inspire--
    And their branches, as with pleasure,
      Add their music to the choir.

    Of the streamlet, every murmur
      Sweetly swells the song of peace,
    Chanting, with each vocal charmer,
      Joys that bloom and wars that cease.




ALLAN M'DOUGALL.


Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of
Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had
the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his
subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to
Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the
vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to
his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he
was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the
vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel
Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate.
His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished
his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is
popular in the Highlands.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.




THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.


          O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
          O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
          O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
            And but a poor wittol to see.

    If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',
    The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',
    A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',
      She 's a shame and sorrow to me.
    If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,
    Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,
    Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,
      And the talk of the clachan are we.

    She 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small,
    If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;
    Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,
      Are ready to greet my return.
    Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,
    I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,
    I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever--
      Short while would suffice me to mourn.

    It was not her face, or dress, or riches,
    It was not a heart pierced through with stitches--
    'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches
      That brought me a bargain like Janet.
    O when, in the spring I return from the plough,
    And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,
    Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,
      Or a kick, if her foot is within it.

    No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,
    No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;
    Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing
      The core of my heart with her bother.
    For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,
    As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,
    And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,
      For a hag can you shew such another?

    No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,
    At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,
    The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,
      And leave the reception for me.
          O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
          O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
          O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
            And but a poor wittol to see!




KENNETH MACKENZIE.


Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness.
By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well
educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman
in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief
to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he
quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers
to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of
Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an
officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted
the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of
his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced
age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings
of hospitality.




THE SONG OF THE KILT.


    My darling is the philabeg,
    With scarlet hosen for the leg,
    And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
          And the head blue-bonneted.

    The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
    Confusion take the breechen gear,
    My limbs be fetterless and bare,
          And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

    Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free,
    When it sends me bounding on the lea,
    Or up the brae so merrily,
          There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

    Give me the plaid, and on the hill
    I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
    And not a shiver from the chill
          Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.

    And for the tartan's lively flame,
    In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
    Alike it pleases lass and dame--
          Unmatched its glories ever yet.

    Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
    With weapon trim the glens to tread,
    And rise a stag of foremost head,
          Then let him tent my culiver.

    And when I marshal to the feast,
    With deer-skin belt around my waist,
    And in its fold a dirk embraced,
          Then Roland match shall Oliver.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.

[17] Highland garb.




JOHN CAMPBELL.


John Campbell (Ian Bàn), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire,
was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same
county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any
knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with
the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages
in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred
lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan
Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much
popularity among the Gael.




THE STORM BLAST.


    Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives
    The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives
    The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls
    Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.
    It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,
    And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.
    Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,
    And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?
    That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?
    The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.
    Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain;
    A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!
    Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all
    The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.




JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D.


The Rev. James Macgregor, D.D., Presbyterian minister at Nova Scotia,
was born in 1762, in the vicinity of Comrie, Perthshire. He entered on
ministerial duty in Nova Scotia shortly after becoming a probationer,
and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close
of his life. He died at Pictou on the 1st of March 1830, in his 68th
year. Dr Macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in Gaelic. His
general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his
receiving the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the University of
Glasgow.




LIGHT IN THE HIGHLANDS.[18]


    Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael,
    Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil,
    Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray;
    But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.

    Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,
    Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;
    Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,
    To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.
    Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scale
    Will mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,
    As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;
    Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,
    And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home.
    No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud--
    No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.

    O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,
    When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old,
    In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear;
    Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,
    That sympathy or fondness ask,--and the sad world is fain
    To welcome its return to love and innocence again.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful
expedition to the Highlands, for the purpose of establishing the General
Assembly's Schools.


END OF VOL. V.


EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.




[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, vol. 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.