



Produced by Susan Skinner, Ted Garvin and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









[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,
Alcaeus, 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
AEschylus and Sophocles were inwoven with the structure of their plays,
the chorus in AEschylus 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 paeans, 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 AEolian 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 paeans. Almost every
individual hero was celebrated, and these songs were made by the
acknowledged masters of the lyre, such as AEschylus 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 Alcaeus 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 Alcaeus 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
Athenaeum_, 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
Encyclopaedia;" 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 horned 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 <DW18>,
      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 <DW44> 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 <DW2> 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-Rimes, 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
L100, 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 L30,000, 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 Ambrosianae," 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 L300 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 '<DW41> 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 L75, 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 Graeme, 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 Graeme.[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 Graeme," 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 '<DW41> 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- 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 a 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 Ambrosianae," 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 aerial 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 mixed 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 AEolian 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, '<DW41> 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 '<DW41> 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 '<DW41> 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.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume
III, by Various

*** 