The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume 5.
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Title: The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume 5.
Editor: Charles Rogers
Release date: July 25, 2007 [eBook #22142]
Language: English
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[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. V.
Alexd^{r}. Maclagan.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: Ever faithfully yours,
F. Bennoch.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL V.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
MDCCCLVII.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
ALEXANDER BAILLIE COCHRANE,
ESQ. OF LAMINGTON.
SIR,
I inscribe to you the present volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL,"
not to express approval of your political sentiments, nor to court your
patronage as a man of rank. Political science has occupied only a
limited share of my attention, and I have hitherto conducted my peculiar
studies without the favour of the great. My dedication is prompted on
these twofold grounds:--Bearing in your veins the blood of Scotland's
Illustrious Defender, you were one of the first of your order to join in
the proposal of rearing a National Monument to his memory; and while
some doubted the expediency of the course, and others stood aside
fearing a failure, you did not hesitate boldly to come forward as a
public advocate of the enterprise. Yourself a man of letters, you were
among the foremost who took an interest in the establishment of the
Scottish Literary Institute, of which you are now the President--a
society having for its main object the relief, in circumstances of
virtuous indigence, of those men of genius and learning who have
contributed by the pen to perpetuate among our countrymen that spirit of
intelligence and love of freedom which, by his sword, Sir William
Wallace first taught Scotsmen how to vindicate and maintain.
I have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your very obedient, humble servant,
CHARLES ROGERS.
_STIRLING, June 1857._
SCOTTISH LYRICS AND SCOTTISH LIFE.
BY JAMES DODDS.
Judging from a comparison of extant remains, and other means of
information now available, it may be doubted whether any country has
equalled Scotland in the number of its lyrics. By the term _lyrics_, I
mean specifically poetical compositions, meant and suitable to be sung,
with the musical measures to which they have been wedded. I include
under the term, both the compositions themselves, and their music. The
Scottish ballads are numerous, the Scottish songs all but numberless,
and the Scottish tunes an inexhaustible fountain of melody.
"And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute."
Look at the vast collections of them which have been published, and the
additions which are ever making, either from some newly-discovered
manuscript, or from oral tradition in some out-of-the-way part of the
country. The numbers, too, which have been preserved, seem to be
exceeded by the numbers that have unfortunately been lost. Who has not
in his ears the hum of many lyrics heard by him in his childhood--from
mother, or nurse, or some old crooning dame at the fireside--which are
to be found in no collection, and which are now to himself but like a
distant, unformed sound? All our collectors, whilst smiling in triumph
over the pearls which they have brought up and borne to the shore,
lament the multitude of precious things irrecoverably buried in the
depths of oblivion. Where, for instance, amid the similar wreck which
has befallen so many others, are now the ancient words pouring forth the
dirge over the "Flowers of the Forest," or those describing the tragic
horrors on the "Braes of Yarrow," or those celebrating the wondrous
attractions of the "Braw Lads o' Gala Water"? We have but the two first
lines--the touching key-note of a lover's grief, in an old song, which
has been most tamely rendered in Ramsay's version--these two lines
being--
"Alas! that I came o'er the moor,
And left my love behind me."
Only one verse has floated down of an old song, which breathes the very
soul of a lover's restless longings:--
"Aye wakin', O!
Wakin' aye an' eerie;
Sleep I canna get
For thinkin' on my dearie;
Aye wakin', O!"
Does it not at once pique and disappoint the fancy, that these two
graceful verses are all that remain of a song, where, doubtless, they
were once but two fair blossoms in a large and variegated posy:--
"Within my garden gay
The rose and lily grew;
But the pride of my garden is wither'd away,
And it 's a' grown o'er wi' rue.
"Farewell, ye fading flowers!
And farewell, bonnie Jean!
But the flower that is now trodden under foot,
In time it may bloom again."
Nay--passing from the tender to the grotesque--would it not have been
agreeable to hear something more than two lines from the lips of a lover
so stout-hearted, yet so ardent, in his own rough, blunt way, as he who
has thus commenced his song:--
"I wish my love were in a mire,
That I might pull her out again;"
or to know something more of the details of that extraordinary parish,
of which one surviving verse draws the following sombre picture:--
"Oh! what a parish!--eh! what a parish!
Oh! what a parish is that o' Dunkel':
They 've hang'd the minister, droon'd the precentor;
They 've pu'd doon the steeple, and drunk the kirk-bell."
The Scottish lyrics, lying all about, thus countless and scattered--
"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallambrosa"--
are not like those which mark and adorn the literature of many other
countries, the euphonisms of a meretricious court, or the rhymed musings
of philosophers, or conceits from Pagan mythology, or the glancing
epigrams of men of wit and of the world, or mere hunting choruses and
Bacchanalian catches of a rude squirearchy. They are the ballads, songs,
and tunes of the people. In their own language, but that language
glittering from the hidden well of poesy--in ideas which they at once
recognise as their own, because photographed from nature--these lyrics
embody the loves and thoughts of the people, the themes on which they
delight to dwell, even their passions and prejudices; and vibrate in
their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the Old
Land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence
and occupation. It is the faithful popular memory, more than anything
else, which has been the ark to save the ancient lyrics of Scotland. Not
only so, but there is reason to believe that our national lyrics have,
generally speaking, been creations of the men, and sometimes of the
women, of the people. They are the people's, by the title of origin, no
less than by the feeling of sympathy.
This, of course, is clear, as regards the great masters of the lyre who
have appeared within the period of known authorship--Ramsay, Burns,
Tannahill, Hogg, and Cunningham. The authors of the older lyrics--I mean
both compositions and tunes--are, with few exceptions, absolutely
unknown; but were there room here for discussion, it might be shewn that
all the probabilities lead up, principally, to the ancient order of
Minstrels, who from very early times were nearly as much organised and
privileged and honoured in Scotland, as ever were the troubadours in
Provence and Italy. Ellis, in the Introduction to his "Specimens of
Early English Metrical Romances," alluding to Scott's publication of
"Sir Tristrem," remarks--"He has shewn, by a reference to ancient
charters, that the Scottish minstrels of this early period enjoyed all
the privileges and distinctions possessed by the Norman trouveurs, whom
they nearly rivalled in the arts of narration, and over whom they
possessed one manifest advantage, in their familiar acquaintance with
the usual scenes of chivalry." These minstrels, like the majority of
poetic singers, were no doubt sons of the people--bold, aspiring, and
genius-lit--bursting strong from their mother earth, with all her sap
and force and fruitfulness about them. Amongst the last of the professed
minstrels was one Burn, who wonned on the Borders as late as the
commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant,
chirping ditty of "Leader Haughs and Yarrow," takes to himself this very
title of _Minstrel_.
"But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage
His grief while life endureth,
To see the changes of this age,
That fleeting time procureth.
For many a place stands in hard case,
Where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow,
With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side,
And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow."
Of this minstrel Burn there is a quaint little personal reminiscence. An
aged person at Earlstoun many years ago related, that there used to be a
portrait of the minstrel in Thirlestane Castle, near Lauder,
"representing him as a douce old man, _leading a cow by a straw-rope_."
The master of the "gay science" gradually slipping down from the clouds,
and settling quietly and doucely on the plain hard ground of ordinary
life and business! Let all pale-faced and sharp-chinned youths, who are
spasmodic poets, or who are in danger of becoming such, keep steadily
before them the picture of minstrel Burn, "leading a cow by a
straw-rope"--and go and do likewise.
But as trees and flowers can only grow and come to perfection in soils
by nature appropriate to them, so it is manifest that all this rich and
fertile growth of lyrics, of minstrelsy and music, could only spring up
amongst a people most impressionable and joyous. I speak of the Lowland
population, and especially of the Borderers, with whose habits, manners
and customs, alone I am personally acquainted; and the lingering traces
of whose old forms of life--so gay, kindly, and suggestive--I saw some
thirty years ago, just before they sank under the mammonism,
commonplace, critical apery, and cold material self-seeking, which have
hitherto been the plague of the present generation. We have become more
practical and knowing than our forefathers, but not so wise. We are now
a "fast people;" but we miss the true goal of life--that is, _sober
happiness_. Fast to smattering; fast to outward, isolated show; fast to
bankruptcy; fast to suicide; fast to some finalé of enormous and
dreadful infamy. Bah! rather the plain, honest, homely life of our
grandfathers--
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
Or rather (for every age has its own type, and old forms of life cannot
be stereotyped and reproduced), let us have a philosophic and Christian
combination of modern adventure and "gold-digging" with old-fashioned
balance of mind, and neighbourliness, and open-heartedness, and thankful
enjoyment.
Our Scottish race have been--yes, and notwithstanding modern changes,
still are--a joyous people--a people full of what I shall term _a lyric
joyousness_. I say they still are--as may be found any day up the
Ettricks, and Yarrows, and Galas--up any of our Border glens and dales.
The Borderers continue to merit the tribute paid to them in the odd but
expressive lines of Wordsworth:--
"The _pleasant men of Tiviotdale_,
Fast by the river Tweed."
From time immemorial they have been enthusiastic lovers of song and
music, and have been thoroughly imbued with their influences. Bishop
Leslie, a contemporary of the state of manners which he describes, has
recorded of them, upwards of two centuries ago--"That they take extreme
delight in their music, and in their ballads, which are composed amongst
themselves, celebrating the deeds of their ancestors, or the valour and
success of their predatory expeditions;" which latter, it must be
remembered, were esteemed, in those days, not only not criminal, but
just, honourable, and heroic. What a gush of mirth overflows in king
James' poem of "Peebles to the Play," descriptive of the Beltane or
May-day festival, four hundred years ago! at Peebles, a charming
pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the Tweed:--
"At Beltane, when ilk body bouns
To Peebles to the play,
To hear the singin' and the soun's,
The solace, sooth to say.
By firth and forest forth they wound,
They graithit them full gay:
God wot what they would do that stound,
For it was their feast-day,
They said,
Of Peebles to the play!
* * * * *
"Hop, Calye, and Cardronow
Gatherit out thick-fald,
With, _Hey and How and Rumbelow!_
The young folk were full bald.
The bagpipe blew, and they out threw
Out of the towns untald:
Lord! sic ane shout was them amang,
When they were owre the wald,
There west
Of Peebles to the play!"
Thirty years ago, the same joyousness prevailed in a thousand forms--in
hospitality, in festivity, in merry customs, in an exquisite social
sense, in the culture of the humorous and the imaginative, in
impressibility to every touch of noble and useful enthusiasm. It would
be easy to dilate upon the causes which seem to have produced this
choice joyous spirit in so unexpected a region as the far, bleak North:
but that would be a lengthened subject; and we must content ourselves at
present with the fact. And, instead of branching out into general vague
illustrations of what I mean by this lyric joyousness, I shall
_localise_ it, and embody the meaning in a sketch, light and imperfect
it must be, of a real place and a real life--such as mine own eyes
witnessed when a boy--and in the fond resuscitation of which, amidst the
usual struggles and anxieties allotted to middle age, memory and feeling
now find one of their most soothing exercises.
Let me transport the reader in imagination to the Vale of the Tweed,
that classic region--the Arcadia of Scotland, the haunt of the Muses,
the theme of so many a song, the scene of so many a romantic legend. And
there, where that most crystalline of rivers has attained the fulness of
its beauty and splendour--just before it meets and mingles in gentle
union with its scarce less beauteous sister, "sweet Teviot"--on one of
those finely swelling eminences which everywhere crown its banks, rise
the battlements of Fleurs Castle, which has long been the seat of the
Roxburghe family. It is a peerless situation; the great princely
mansion, ever gleaming on the eye of the traveller, at whatever point he
may be, in the wide surrounding landscape. It comes boldly out from the
very heart of an almost endless wood--old, wild, and luxuriant; having
no forester but nature--spreading right, left, and behind, away and
away, till lost in the far horizon. Down a short space in front, a green
undulating haugh between, roll the waters of the Tweed, with a bright
clear radiance to which the brightest burnished silver is but as dimness
and dross. On its opposite bank is a green huge mound--all that now
remains of the mighty old Roxburgh Castle, aforetime the military key of
Scotland, and within whose once towering precincts oft assembled the
royalty, and chivalry, and beauty of both kingdoms. At a little distance
to the east of Fleurs, the neat quaint abbey-town of Kelso, with its
magnificent bridge, nestles amid greenery, close to the river. And afar
to the south, the eye, tired at last with so vast a prospect, and with
such richness and variety of scenery, rests itself on the cloud-capt
range of the Cheviots, in amplitude and grandeur not unmeet to sentinel
the two ancient and famous lands.
Upwards of thirty years ago, the ducal coronet of Roxburghe was worn by
a nobleman who was then known, and is still remembered on Tweedside, as
the "Good Duke James." The history of his life, were there any one now
to tell it correctly, would be replete with interest. I cannot pretend
to authentic knowledge of it; but I know the outline as I heard it when
a child--as it used to be recited, like a minstrel's tale, by the
gray-haired cottager sitting at his door of a summer evening, or by some
faithful old servant of the castle, on a winter's night, over his flagon
of ale, at the rousing hall-fire. And from all I have ever learned
since, I judge that these country stories in the main were accurate.
He was not by birth a _Ker_--the family name of the house of
Roxburghe--descended of the awful "Habbie Ker" in Queen Mary's troublous
time, the Taille-Bois of the Borders, the Ogre-Baron of tradition, whose
name is still whispered by the peasant with a kind of _eeriness_, as if
he might start from his old den at Cessford, and pounce upon the rash
speaker. Duke James was an Innes of the "north countrie;" Banff or
Cromarty. He was some eight years of age in the dismal '45. Though his
father was Hanoverian, the "Butcher" Cumberland shewed him but little
favour in the course of his merciless ravages after Culloden. A troop of
dragoons lived at free quarters on his estate; and one of them, in mere
wanton cruelty, fired at the boy when standing at his father's door, and
the ball grazed his face. Seventy years afterwards, when he was duke,
the Ettrick Shepherd happened to dine at Fleurs. He was then collecting
his "Jacobite Relics," and the Duke asked him what was his latest
ballad? The Shepherd answered, it was a version of "Highland Laddie." He
sang it. On coming to the verse,
"Ken ye the news I hae to tell,
Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie,
Cumberland's awa' to hell,
Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie!"
the Duke burst into one of his ringing laughs--the fine, deep _Ho, ho!_
that would drown all our effeminate modern gigglings, the sound of which
lingers amongst the memories of my boyhood. "He well deserves it--he
well deserves it--the wretch! Ho, ho!"--and he shouted with laughter,
and threw himself into all the rough unceremonious humour of the ballad,
finishing off by relating his own dire experience of the doings of
Cumberland and his dragoons in the north. It seems he entered into the
army, and served in the American war. After retiring, I believe he took
up his residence in England--Devonshire, I think; his name at this time
was Sir James Norcliffe Innes. During the once-belauded "good old
times" of George III. he distinguished himself by holding and manfully
avowing opinions which were then branded as Jacobinism; and he was an
intimate friend, and I have heard an active supporter of the virtuous
and patriotic Major Cartwright. About the beginning of the present
century, the direct line of the Roxburghe Kers having failed, a
competition arose amongst a host of claimants, for the estate and
honours of that ancient House. After a most protracted and severe
litigation, which forms one of the _Causés Celebrés_ in the law-books of
Scotland, Sir James Norcliffe Innes was preferred. When approaching
fourscore, he was installed Duke of Roxburghe, and put on a coronet at
an age, long before which most part of mankind have put on their
shrouds. He put it on--ay, and for many years wore it stout and
stark--nobly, loftily, sweetly--with a dignity, simplicity,
large-heartedness, and munificence, the remembrance of which somehow
always brings to my mind that majestic line of Shakspeare, containing,
after all, only a name and title, yet sounding as the embodiment of
whatever is great and heroic in human character--
"Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster!"
I see him before me, as he lives in the recollections of childhood--as
he lives and seems to speak in Raeburn's inimitable portrait at Fleurs.
What a perfect mould of man! scarce one mark of old age in that face--no
sign of weakness or decay in that frame, which has weathered eighty
winters. He was over the middle size; straight, firm, strong built, and
compact, with the air of native lordliness and command. His countenance
was peculiarly beautiful, full and rounded as if young; fresh-coloured;
and beaming with health, spirit, and vivacity. Its almost womanly
sweetness was chastened and redeemed by the massiveness of the head, the
deep penetrating eye, and an aspect of uncommon elevation and nobleness.
Till the last, he was the very personification of the old _Dux_--the
Duke of Chivalry--the foremost leader and commander of the people. But
instead of chained mail and helmet, he was to be seen every day walking
about amongst his people in hoddin-gray coat, nankeen breeches, white
vest, and rumpled white hat--plain, easy, manly, and unaffected in all
things.
Beyond the honour of an occasional pinch of the ears, or that kind,
homely greeting which in passing he bestowed on all of us, young and
old, I did not and could not know him personally. But, from those who
did, I have always heard the highest estimate of his character,
intellectually and morally. He possessed extensive information; but
rather that of a man who had moved much about, and observed much, than
from book-lore. His understanding was of the most masculine order--in
all his views and judgments, distinguished by clearness, decision, and
energy. But his great mental characteristic seems to have been
_wisdom_--that fine, just inward sense of things, which, like poetry, is
born in a man, not acquired--the result, generally, as in his case, of
an innate power, combined with large, varied, and calming experience.
Like most men of this stamp, he had both a keen sense of the humorous,
and a racy talent for it; abounded in sententious, remarkable sayings;
and had a dash of playfulness and eccentricity which gave a zest to his
many solid excellences. The physician who attended his deathbed, often
expressed regret that he had not kept a memorandum of his many striking
observations during the short period of his illness. His character,
morally, may be summed up in its two polar qualities--justice the most
austere, generosity the most tender and boundless. Interwoven through
his whole dispositions and actions was a strong, vehement temperament,
which infused into all he said and did a vivid intensity, which would
sometimes degenerate into sallies of passion, but which, upon the whole,
raised and exalted his character to the true heroic dimensions. His
factor, a respectable Edinburgh burgess, a gunsmith by trade, whom he
had selected for no aptitude but from the freak of the name (Innes),
could not always appreciate his schemes of improvement on the estate,
which really were not based on economic considerations, but were meant
to afford large means of employment to the people. In consequence, the
duke, though he respected him greatly, would sometimes be ruffled, and
blurt out a harsh thing at his expense. Walking with him one day in the
fields, he was explaining with the most animated eloquence, where he
intended to make some drains. "But," interrupted the burgess-factor,
only thinking of the balance-sheet, "you will spend a great deal of
money." "Yes," retorted the old nobleman, with ineffable contempt; "you
have guessed my object: I _will_ spend a great deal of money." Then,
turning quick on his heel, "You know more about the barrel of an old gun
than about drains." After one of those sallies, the factor, who resided
a few miles from Fleurs, and had swallowed and forgotten the bitter
dose, was preparing, about twelve o'clock at night, to go to bed, when
there was a sharp, sudden ring at the door-bell. It was a messenger from
the duke, with a letter, in which he stated, that, in reflecting on the
incidents of the day before retiring to rest, he felt remorse for the
taunt which he had uttered; that it was the ebullition of the moment,
but cruel and unkind; and that he could not sleep until he had received
forgiveness. It may be conceived in what ardent terms the factor
replied, and with what redoubled attachment he regarded and served such
a master! This was no exceptional blink of goodness. It was only a
specimen of his habit of justice, even against himself--of his
magnanimity and generous candour--changeless as the sun.
During the just, benignant sway of the "good Duke James," perhaps Fleurs
was the happiest place of all Scotland to live in;--not a happier could
be in the wide world. To have been born and brought up there, and in
one's childhood to have had such a taste of the "golden age," I have
always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. No one can become
utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was
nurtured on the milk and honey of Fleurs, under "good Duke James."
Poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. This is no
illusion from the fancies of boyhood. Ask the old peasant of
Tweedside--a mature, hardy man then--and he will tell, with a glow on
his cheek, and a tear, due to remembrance, in his eye, "Ah! the Fleurs
was a braw place under auld Duke Jemmy!" Nature, industry, peace, mirth,
love, a kindred soul between duke and people, seemed to breathe in every
gale there, and sing in the matins and vespers of every bird. There the
_lyric joyousness_, characteristic of the Scottish people when allowed
freely to develop, expanded itself to the utmost of its power and
fervour. Fleurs was like the "Ida Vale" of Spenser:--
"In Ida vale, (who knows not Ida vale?)
When harmless Troy yet felt not Grecian spite,
An hundred shepherds wonn'd; and in the dale,
While their fair flocks the three-leaved pastures bite,
The shepherd boys, with hundred sportings light,
Gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste."
In our old, picturesque Saxon form of speech, the husband was the
"_bread-winner_." Duke James was emphatically the "_bread-giver_." To
furnish employment, to diffuse comfort and happiness amongst the
employed, was the all-absorbing object of his life. Anything that would
have ministered to his own luxury and glorification was but little
heeded. There might be pleasure-grounds more ornamental than his, walks
more trim, conservatories more gaudily replenished with exotics,
chambers more resplendent with costly furniture and pictures by the
great masters, equipage more gay and dashing--in all that belonged to
the _personnel_, he was plain and moderate; but where was there ever
such planting of forests, or cutting of timber, or building of this and
the other structure--all kinds of heavy works, employing hundreds of
hands? On many of the high labour-festivals which signalised the
calendar at Fleurs, upwards of _three hundred people_, all earning their
livelihood under his patriarchal sway, would dine together in the court,
and dance together on the velvet lawn in front of his castle. At six
o'clock on a mild summer evening, what a spectacle, to see Fleurs gate
thrown wide open, and troop after troop of labourers _debouche_!--not
worn-out, fagged, and sullen, but marching with alacrity and
cheerfulness--the younger lilting a merry song, the older and more
careful carrying home fagots of wood, gathered at their resting hours,
to supply the fire for their cheap evening meal. And all had some story
to tell of the _Duke_!--some little trait of kindness, or some of those
drolleries in which he would occasionally indulge, but ever without loss
of dignity. He used to walk for hours together beside my grandfather
whilst holding the plough--a wise and holy man, an Abraham amongst the
people--and converse with him as brother with brother, especially on the
incidents of his own life, and on matters of religion. On his coming
forward, my grandfather would take off his hat; but the duke would stop
him, and say, "Keep on your hat, James. It 's all very well to teach the
young fellows manners, but there 's no ceremony between you and me; we
are equals--two plain old men." His servants, of whatever degree, dined
together in the common hall; but some of the more aspiring "ambitioned"
(as the Yankees say) a separate table. One of them, who was supposed to
be rather a favourite, was deputed to break the project to the duke, and
obtain his consent at some propitious moment. Thinking he had him one
day in a most accommodating temper, he cautiously hinted the scheme, and
gradually waxed bolder, and disclosed all particulars, as the duke
seemed to listen with tacit approval. "Well, well," answered the duke,
carelessly, "all my servants are alike to me. You may dine at one table,
or at twenty, if you can so arrange it. But whatever the number"--here
his voice rose ominously, and his eye flashed with anger--"you, sirrah,
shall dine at the lowest!" The great question of the "tables" was
crushed. Sometimes--after the fashion of Haroun al Raschid, though not
in disguise--he would steal down quietly and unperceived, through the
out-of-the-way holes and corners of the immense castle, to see with his
own eyes what the inhabitants of the remoter regions were about. Some
dry joke, or some act of benevolence, according to circumstances, was
sure to be the result. As he was one day poking through the passages, he
suddenly encountered an enormously big, fat servant-woman, engaged in
cleaning a stair. She was steaming with perspiration. Eyeing her
curiously for a moment, "Ho, ho!" he cried (his usual introductory
exclamation), "do _you_ bake the bread?" The woman, staring in
astonishment, and, fortunately for her own self-complacency, not
understanding the point of the strange question, replied, "No, your
grace, that is not my department; I am in the laundry, and my business
is"--"Oh, never mind," said the duke, with the look of one greatly
relieved, "I am perfectly satisfied so you don't bake the bread." A
decayed gentleman, who had found harbourage at Fleurs, was staying
rather longer than convenient. It was in the depth of winter, and the
ground was covered with snow. The duke, who was an early riser in all
seasons, had been out for his morning walk; and on his return proceeded
to the gentleman's room, who was still in bed. "You lazy lie-a-bed!"
exclaimed the duke, "there 's a snow-ball for you--and there 's
another--and there 's another," and suiting the action to the word, he
discharged into the bed upon him a shower of white-looking balls; but
they happened to be, not snow-balls, but pound-notes squeezed into the
shape--report said, twenty in number. The gentleman took the practical
but benevolent hint, and departed, carrying with him the snow-balls, not
melted. In his more serious mood, he, one Sabbath, met a girl returning
from church, and inquired what church she had been attending. He then
walked with her a long time, discoursing upon the slight shades of
difference amongst the various religious denominations, and concluded,
"I shall not see it, but I believe that, in course of time, there will
be only one sheepfold under the one Shepherd."
Labour at Fleurs was a twin to mirth. We were always having festivities.
The duke was ingenious in devising reasons for them. Because he was
Scotch by origin, he celebrated all the peculiar Scottish festivals;
because he was English by residence, he celebrated all the peculiar
English festivals; because in his youth the "Old Style" of computing the
year was still used, he first of all held Old Year's Day, and New Year's
Day, and Twelfth Night, according to the new style, and then repeated
the observance all over again, according to the old style. And there was
a constant succession, the whole year through, of birth-days, and the
commemoration of public holidays and rejoicings.
"It was a merry place in days of yore."
Suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one
of its highest festivals at Fleurs. All work ceases at noon; and by two,
the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and
march in a body to the castle, preceded by Tam Anderson, the duke's
piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black
velvet breeches--a fossil specimen he of what the Border minstrel once
was, when his art was in its prime. As Tam drones away on his bagpipe
"Lumps o' Puddin'," and "Brose and Butter," they take their places at
three long tables, covering a large court. Three hundred workpeople and
their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own
people to be present. It is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery
never extended beyond the Edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and
Prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast--the
mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts,
the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale--the very fragments
of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a
twelvemonth's siege. After having "satiated themselves with eating and
drinking," like the large-stomached heroes of the antique world, they
had an hour's interval for sauntering, that healthy digestion might have
time to arrange and stow away the immense load which the vessel had just
taken in. Again, however, they marshalled to the piper's warning note,
playing, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal!" and this time marched to the
spacious, smooth, and beautiful lawn in front of the castle, where
_Givan's Band_ awaited their arrival, and the dance speedily began. The
merriment now swelled to ecstacy; lads and lasses leaped through and
through, as on the wings of zephyrs; a hundred couples bounding at once
on the green sward; the old folks chiming in the chorus of universal
laughter, and snapping their fingers to the dances in which they had no
longer the strength and nimbleness to join; the youngsters getting up
mimic reels in sly corners; and the music seeming to stir into delight
the branches of the great elms which festooned this ball-room of nature.
But was there not something awanting to complete the unity of the scene?
Where was the presiding divinity?
" ... _Deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit,
Namque erit ille mihi semper deus."
Oh, for an hour past he has been watching the rustic carnival from
yonder portico, with his gracious duchess (much his junior), his true
help-meet in everything good, courteous, and benevolent! At length he
descends into the circle, with a smile to all, a word of recognition to
this one, a light airy jest at the expense of that one, and a responsive
_hooch_ to the wild, whirling dancers. As he advances, all the pretty
girls draw themselves up to catch his eye, and to have the honour of his
hand in the dance. He strolls about, peering gently, until, in some
obscure corner, he espies a young, shy, modest damsel, the lowliest
there, whom no one is noticing, a lowly worker in the back kitchen, or
even in the fields. Her he selects--blushing with surprise and a tumult
of nameless emotions--to be Queen of the festival; he pats her on the
shoulders, whispers paternal-gallant things in her ear, and calling
lustily for "Tullochgorum" from the fiddlers, leads her gracefully
through the dance, himself--though upwards of eighty--throwing some
steps of the Highland Fling, snapping his fingers, and _hooching_ in
unison with the impassioned throng of youths around him--those young
stately plants who have grown up under the dew and shelter of his benign
protection. When the dance is finished, kissing her on the cheek, he
leads his little simple partner back to her seat, and leaves her in a
delicious vision of the good old duke, who had distinguished her,
sitting solitary and unnoticed, above all her companions, and placed the
coronal upon her brow, queen of the festival. As he returns slowly to
the castle, there is an involuntary pause in the merry-making. The
musicians lay down their bows, the youths stop short in the mazes of the
Bacchic dance, the spectators stand up uncovered, the subtle electric
chain of love and loyalty passes between duke and people, and a grand
universal "hurrah!" rings through the welkin--the outburst of gratitude,
reverence, and joy. It is touching, solemn, sublime, this pause and
outburst of feeling in the midst of the wild festal scene. Not a maiden
there but loves him as she would a father; not a stalwart hind but, if
need were, would die in defence of his old chief. "When the ear hears
him, then it blesses him; and when the eye sees him, it gives witness to
him; because he delivers the poor that cry, and the fatherless, and him
that has none to help him. The blessing of him that is ready to perish
comes upon him; and he causes the widow's heart to sing for joy. He puts
on righteousness, and it clothes him; his judgment is as a robe and a
diadem."
But eighty-six years are a heavy load on the shoulders even of a giant.
The grasshopper at length becomes a burden to the strongest and most
cheerful. News came from the Castle that our old duke was unwell, was
confined to his room, then to his bed. One morning--I remember it as if
yesterday--as I was walking through the court-yard with one of the
farm-servants, the butler looked from a window above, shook his head
mournfully, folded his arms across his breast, and bent his eyes towards
the ground. We read his meaning at a glance,--"The good Duke James was
dead!" For days and days the people gave way to a deep, even a
passionate grief, as if each had lost a beloved father, and was left to
all the loneliness and privation of an orphan's lot. The body, or rather
the coffin which enclosed it, was laid out in state; and they were
allowed to take a last farewell of their chief. His valet, a favourite
servant, stood at the head, with his handkerchief almost constantly over
his eyes, scarcely able to hide his tears. The chamber was dimly
lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no
mimicry. All walked round, slowly and solemnly--the ancients of the
hamlet, the stalwart peasantry, and the women leading the children by
the hand--all gazing intently on the spot where the dead lay, as if even
yet to catch a glimpse of that piercing eye and benignant smile. The
silence was profound, awful, but for a throbbing under-hum as of stifled
breath, broken ever and anon by a sharp sob--the "hysterica passio," the
"climbing sorrow," which even reverence and self-restraint could no
longer keep down. The day of the funeral arrived. His remains were to
be borne about twelve miles off, to Bowden, under the shadow of the
three-peaked Eildons, for there the ancient vault is where lie "the race
of the house of Roxburghe." The long, long line of mourning carriages I
well remember; but these only spoke the general respect and commonplace
regret of the neighbourhood, which are incident to such an occasion. His
_people_ in their hundreds--these were his mourners! The younger and
stronger of them, in one way or other, accompanied the death procession
to the last resting-place. The women of the place, leading the children,
went down, all weeping as they went, to a bend in the Tweed, where there
would be a last view of the funeral train. There it was!--darkly
marching on the opposite bank, winding round the mouldering hillock
which was once Roxburgh Castle, and finally disappearing--disappearing
for ever!--behind that pine-covered height! As the last of the train
floated and melted away from the horizon, we all sunk to the ground at
once, as if struck by some instantaneous current; and such a wail rose
that day as Tweed never heard; whilst an echoing voice seemed to cry
along his banks, and into the depth of his forests--"The last of the
Patriarch-Dukes has departed!"
One instance is worth a thousand dissertations. And the above thin
water-colour sketch of a _real popular life_, though presenting only one
or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more
distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of
what I mean by the lyric joyousness of the Scottish people; and is,
besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a
true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if
the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be
eternised in the memory of mankind.
It is from this soil--this sensitive and fervid national temperament--that
there has sprung up such a harvest of ballads, and songs, and
heart-moving, soul-breathing melodies. Hence the hearty old habits and
curious suggestive customs of the people: the hospitality, exuberant as
Abraham's, who sat in the tent-door bidding welcome even to the passing
traveller; the merry-meetings and "rockings" in the evening, where each
had to contribute his or her song or tale, and at the same time ply some
piece of work; the delight in their native dances, furious and whirling
as those of the Bacchantes; the "Guisarding" of the boys at Christmas,
relic of old-world plays, when the bloody melodrama finished off into
the pious benediction--
"God bless the master of the house,
The mistress also,
And all the pretty babies
That round the table go;"
the "first foot," on New Year's morning, when none must enter a house
empty-handed; the "Hogmanay," or first Monday of the new year, when the
whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the
peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence--
"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,
Dinna think that we are beggars;
We are bairns come out to play,
Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"--
the "Halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by
Burns; and the "Kirn," or Harvest Home, the wind-up of the season, the
epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. Hence it is that
under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they
all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling, or dream: they are all
inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns
the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. Every one of us, calling
up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and
schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national
characteristic. And hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and
buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances,
cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction
or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every
clime--there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to
gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their
old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the
burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones
beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott
went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made
his "Last Minstrel" sing--
"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"
Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short
space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of
Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an
age, of ideas, of a state of manners--lovely, but transitional--which
had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one
glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern
Individualism--from that form of society where thousands clustered
devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the
present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us
all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden
age--I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy--the
feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of
life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal,
overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended
the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man--the humblest
man--as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern
anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old
governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings,
like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and
courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a
quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent
primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked
in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?
Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past,
present, and future--all are divine--all are parts of a celestial
scheme--none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past
is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has
its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it
is "_our own_." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are
good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth
earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more
rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial
haloes--he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal,
fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews
the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gush from the rock.
If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous
susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness;
why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common
Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and
joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from
earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven--"a pure river of water of
life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."
CONTENTS.
PAGE
FRANCIS BENNOCH, 1
Truth and honour, 7
Our ship, 8
Auld Peter Macgowan, 10
The flower of Keir, 11
Constancy, 12
My bonnie wee wifie, 13
The bonnie bird, 14
Come when the dawn, 15
Good-morrow, 16
Oh, wae's my life, 17
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, 18
Bessie, 20
Courtship, 21
Together, 22
Florence Nightingale, 23
JOSEPH MACGREGOR, 25
Laddie, oh! leave me, 25
How blythely the pipe, 26
WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D., 28
The maid of Islay, 29
WILLIAM JERDAN, 30
The wee bird's song, 32
What makes this hour? 33
ALEXANDER BALD, 34
The lily of the vale, 35
How sweet are the blushes of morn, 35
GEORGE WILSON, 37
Mild as the morning, 37
The beacons blazed, 38
The rendezvous, 40
JOHN YOUNGER, 42
Ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew, 43
The month of June, 44
JOHN BURTT, 46
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs, 47
O! lassie I lo'e dearest, 47
CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON, 49
The bard strikes his harp, 50
Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, 51
Oh, my love 's bonnie, 52
WILLIAM DOBIE, 54
The dreary reign of winter's past, 55
ROBERT HENDRY, M.D., 57
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie, 58
HEW AINSLIE, 60
The hameward sang, 61
Dowie in the hint o' hairst, 62
On wi' the tartan, 63
The rover o' Lochryan, 64
The last look o' hame, 65
The lads an' the land far awa', 66
My bonnie wee Bell, 67
WILLIAM THOMSON, 68
The maiden to her reaping-hook, 68
ALEXANDER SMART, 71
When the bee has left the blossom, 73
Oh, leave me not, 74
Never despair, 75
JOHN DUNLOP, 77
The year that 's awa', 78
Oh, dinna ask me, 78
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power, 79
War, 80
WILLIAM BLAIR, 82
The Highland maid, 82
The Neapolitan war-song, 84
ARCHIBALD MACKAY, 85
Our auld Scots sangs, 85
My laddie lies low, 87
Jouk and let the jaw gae by, 88
Victorious be again, boys, 89
WILLIAM AIR FOSTER, 91
Fareweel to Scotia, 91
The falcon's flight, 92
The salmon run, 94
CHARLES MARSHALL, 97
The blessing on the wark, 98
Jewel of a lad, 99
Twilight joys, 100
WILLIAM WILSON, 102
Oh, blessing on her starlike een, 102
Oh! blessing on thee, land, 104
The faithless, 105
My soul is ever with thee, 106
Auld Johnny Graham, 107
Jean Linn, 108
Bonnie Mary, 109
MRS MARY MACARTHUR, 111
The missionary, 111
JOHN RAMSAY, 114
Farewell to Craufurdland, 114
JAMES PARKER, 116
The mariner's song, 116
Her lip is o' the rose's hue, 117
JOHN HUNTER, 119
The bower o' Clyde, 119
Mary, 122
In distant years, 123
ROBERT CHAMBERS, 124
Young Randal, 126
The ladye that I love, 127
Thou gentle and kind one, 128
Lament for the old Highland warriors, 129
THOMAS AIRD, 131
The swallow, 132
Genius, 133
ROBERT WHITE, 136
My native land, 137
A shepherd's life, 138
Her I love best, 140
The knight's return, 141
The bonnie Redesdale lassie, 143
The mountaineer's death, 144
WILLIAM CAMERON, 146
Sweet Jessie o' the dell, 146
Meet me on the gowan lea, 147
Morag's fairy glen, 148
Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie, 150
ALEXANDER TAIT, 151
E'ening's dewy hour, 151
CHARLES FLEMING, 153
Watty M'Neil, 153
WILLIAM FERGUSON, 155
I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, 155
Wooing song, 156
I'm wandering wide, 158
THOMAS DICK, 160
How early I woo'd thee, 160
HUGH MILLER, 161
Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go, 166
Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze, 167
ALEXANDER MACANSH, 171
The mother and child, 172
Change, 173
The tomb of the Bruce, 174
JAMES PRINGLE, 176
The ploughman, 176
WILLIAM ANDERSON, 178
Woodland song, 180
The wells o' Weary, 181
I'm naebody noo, 182
I canna sleep, 183
WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D., 185
'Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray, 186
Oh, sweet is the blossom, 187
THOMAS WATSON, 189
The squire o' low degree, 189
JAMES MACDONALD, 192
Bonnie Aggie Lang, 193
The pride o' the glen, 194
Mary, 196
JAMES BALLANTINE, 198
Naebody's bairn, 200
Castles in the air, 201
Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew, 202
Wifie, come hame, 203
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest, 204
Creep afore ye gang, 205
Ae guid turn deserves anither, 205
The nameless lassie, 206
Bonnie Bonaly, 207
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, 208
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win, 209
The widow, 209
MISS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY, 211
Craig Elachie, 212
JOHN FINLAY, 215
The noble Scottish game, 216
The merry bowling-green, 218
THOMAS TOD STODDART, 220
Angling song, 221
Let ither anglers, 222
The British oak, 223
Peace in war, 224
ALEXANDER MACLAGAN, 226
Curling song, 229
The auld meal mill, 230
The thistle, 232
The Scotch blue bell, 233
The rockin', 235
The widow, 237
The Highland plaid, 238
The flower o' Glencoe, 239
MRS JANE C. SIMPSON, 241
Gentleness, 242
He loved her for her merry eye, 244
Life and death, 245
Good-night, 246
ANDREW PARK, 248
Hurrah for the Highlands, 249
Old Scotland, I love thee! 250
Flowers of summer, 251
Home of my fathers, 252
What ails my heart? 253
Away to the Highlands, 254
I'm away, 255
There is a bonnie, blushing flower, 256
The maid of Glencoe, 257
MARION PAUL AIRD, 258
The fa' o' the leaf, 258
The auld kirkyard, 260
Far, far away, 261
WILLIAM SINCLAIR, 263
The royal Breadalbane oak, 264
Evening, 265
Mary, 266
Absence, 267
Is not the earth, 269
Oh! love the soldier's daughter dear! 270
The battle of Stirling, 272
WILLIAM MILLER, 274
Ye cowe a', 274
ALEXANDER HUME, 276
My ain dear Nell, 276
The pairtin', 278
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
PAGE
JOHN MACDONALD, D.D., 281
The missionary of St Kilda, 282
DUNCAN KENNEDY, 284
The return of peace, 285
ALLAN M'DOUGALL, 287
The song of the carline, 288
KENNETH MACKENZIE, 290
The song of the kilt, 290
JOHN CAMPBELL, 292
The storm blast, 293
JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D., 294
Light in the Highlands, 295
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
FRANCIS BENNOCH.[1]
Francis Bennoch, the son of a farmer on the property of the Duke of
Buccleuch, and of a mother whose family have been tenants on the same
estate for nearly two hundred years, was born at Drumcrool, in the
parish of Durrisdeer, and county of Dumfries, on the 25th June 1812. At
the age of sixteen, in February 1828, he arrived in London, and entered
a house of business in the city. During the nine ensuing years, he
assiduously pursued his avocation, and strove to make himself master of
the elements and practice of trade. In 1837 he commenced on his own
responsibility, and every succeeding year has advanced him in mercantile
prosperity and position. Now, at the head of the firm of Bennoch,
Twentyman, & Rigg, wholesale traders and manufacturers, there is no name
in the city more universally respected.
In the corporate body of the city of London Mr Bennoch for some years
took a prominent part as a citizen, a common councilman, and lastly as
the deputy of a ward. An independent man and a reformer of abuses, he
has so managed his opposition to measures, and even to men, as to win
the warm approval of his own friends, and the respect of the leaders of
all parties. His plans for bridging the Thames may be referred to in
proof of his patriotic devotedness to improvement.
Influenced in his youth by the genius of the locality in which he was
born, to which the Ayrshire Ploughman had left a legacy of immortal
song, succeeded by Allan Cunningham, and a number of distinguished
followers, it was not, however, till he had been two years a denizen of
the metropolis that Mr Bennoch's Scottish feeling sought to vent itself
in verse. The love of country is as inherent and vehement in the
children of the North as in the Swiss mountaineers; wheresoever they
wander from it, their hearts yearn towards the fatherland--
"Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of their sires"--
with the same cherished and enduring affection which excites in the
_Rans des Vaches_ so overpowering a sympathy. And the pastoral is
perhaps even more replete with the poetical elements than the "stern and
wild." It is amid such scenes as the Doon, the Tweed, the Teviot, the
Ettrick, the Gala, and the Nith adorn, that the jaded senses are prone
to seek recreation, and the spirit, tired with work or worn with cares,
flees rejoicingly from the world to the repose of its first breathing
and time-sweetened, boyish delights. Thus we find young Bennoch, amid
the clatter of the great city, turning to the quiet of his native valley
to sing the charms of the Nith, where he
"Had paidlet i' the burn,
And pu'd the gowans fine."
It was in the _Dumfries Courier_ that his first poetic essay found its
way to print. That journal was then edited by the veteran M'Diarmid,
himself an honour to the literature of Scotland, and no mean judge of
its poetry. A cheer from such a quarter was worth the winning, and our
aspirant fairly won it, by the five stanzas of which the following is
the last:--
"The flowers may fade upon your banks,
The breckan on the brae,
But, oh! the love I ha'e for thee
Shall never pass away.
Though age may wrinkle this smooth brow,
And youth be like a dream,
Still, still my voice to heaven shall rise
For blessings on your stream!"
But banks and braes, and straths and streams, and woods and waves,
though very dear to memory, merely come up to the painted beauties of
descriptive verse. They must be warmed through
"The dearest theme
That ever waked the poet's dream,"
and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the
delicious but inanimate charms of earth, into the glowing region of
human feeling and passion.
"In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And man below, and saints above:
For love is heaven, and heaven is love!"
Nor was this essential inspiration wanting in the breast of the young
bard. The climate of Caledonia is cold, but that the hearts of her sons
are susceptible of tropic warmth is shewn by a large proportion of her
lyric treasures. Heroism, pathos, satire, and a peculiar quaint humour,
present little more than an equal division, and the attributes of the
wholly embodied Scottish muse attest the truth of the remark on the
characteristic heat and fire which pervade her population, and excite
them to daring in war and ardour in gentler pursuits. Thus Bennoch sung
his Mary, Jessie, Bessie, Isabel, and other belles, but above all his
Margaret:--
"The moon is shining, Margaret,
Serenely bright above,
And, like my dearest Margaret,
Her every look is love!
The trees are waving, Margaret,
And balmy is the air,
Where flowers are breathing, Margaret,
Come, let us wander there.
* * * * *
Yes! there 's a hand, dear Margaret,
A heart it gives to thee;
When heaven is false, my Margaret,
Then I may faithless be."
In the volume whence the preceding quotations are taken (second edition,
1843), the principal poem is "The Storm," in which occur many passages
of singular vigour, and slighter touches of genuine poetry. Thus--
"The sea, by day so smooth and bright,
Is far more lovely seen by night,
When o'er old Ocean's wrinkled brow,
The night has hung her silver bow,
And stars in myriads ope their eyes
To guide the footsteps of the wise,
And in the deep reflected lie,
Till Ocean seems a second sky;
And ships, like wing'd aerial cars,
Are voyaging among the stars."
This is--
"Ere winter comes with icy chain,
And clanks his fetters o'er the ground."
The impersonation of Winter himself is very striking--
"Loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth,
As he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth;
The clouds were rent as the storm was driven;
He howl'd and laugh'd in the face of heaven."
The temperament and inclination cherished by the love of song, naturally
seek the companionship of similar tastes and congenial enjoyments. Thus,
in the midst of the turmoil and distractions of orders and sales,
invoices and shipments, Mr Bennoch has always found leisure to pay his
court to literature, and cultivate the society of those whose talents
adorn it. Conjoined with this, a skilful appreciation of works of art
has led him to intimate relations with many of the leading artists of
our time. The interesting Biography of Haydon affords a glimpse at the
character of some of these relations. Wherever disappointed and however
distressed, poor Haydon "claimed kindred here, and had his claim
allowed." To his mercantile friend in Wood Street he never applied in
vain. To a very considerable extent his troubles were solaced, his
difficulties surmounted, his dark despair changed to golden hope, and
the threat of the gaol brightened into another free effort of genius to
redeem itself from the thralls of law and grinding oppression. Had his
generous friend not been absent from England at the fatal time, it is
very probable that the dreadful catastrophe would have been averted; but
he only landed from the continent to receive the shocking intelligence
that all was over. Friendship could but shed the unavailing tear, but it
did not forget or neglect the dear family interests for which (in some
measure) the despairing sacrifice was made. It is to be hoped that such
an unhappy event has been somewhat compensated by the social intercourse
with talent ever hospitably cherished, not only in his pleasant home in
Blackheath Park, but amid the precious hours that could be snatched from
most active engagements in Wood Street. At either, authors and artists
are constantly met; and the brief snatches alluded to are often so
heartily occupied as to rival, if not surpass, the slower motions of the
more prolonged entertainments. Both may boast of "the feast of reason
and the flow of soul," and a crowning increase to these enjoyments is
derived from the circumstance, that Mr Bennoch's connexions with the
Continent, and more especially with the United States, contribute very
frequently to engraft upon these "re-unions" a variety of eminent
foreigners and intellectual citizens of America. It is a trite saying,
that few men can be good or useful abroad who are not happy at home. Mr
Bennoch has been fortunate in wedded life. She who is the theme of many
of his sweetest and most touching verses, is a woman whom a poet may
love and a wise man consult; in whom the sociable gentleman finds an
ever cheerful companion, and the husband a loving and devoted friend.
Among the latest of Mr Bennoch's movements in literary affairs, may be
mentioned his services on behalf of the late estimable Mary Russell
Mitford. Through his intervention the public was gratified by the issue
of "Atherton," and other tales, and also by a collected edition of her
dramatic works, which she dedicated to him as an earnest of her
affectionate regard.
Mr Bennoch is a member of the Society of Arts, the Royal Society of
Antiquaries, the Royal Society of Literature, and the Scottish Literary
Institute.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The present Memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran
William Jerdan, late of the _Literary Gazette_.
TRUTH AND HONOUR.
If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame,
There is that in the doing brings honour or shame;
There is something in running life's perilous race,
Will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee as base.
Oh, then, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a king--be thy kingship right royally shewn,
And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne;
Rely not on weapons or armies of might,
But on that which endureth,--laws loving and right.
Though a king, be a man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a noble--remember, though ancient thy blood,
The heart truly noble is that which is good;
Should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow,
Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough.
Be noble as man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If lover or husband--be faithful and kind,
For doubting is death to the sensitive mind;
Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy;
The sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy.
Love dignifies man--and, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
If a father--be firm, yet forgiving, and prove
How the child honours him who rebuketh with love.
If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be,
Remember the truthful alone are the free.
Erect in thy manhood, whatever betide,
Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide.
Then, though sickness may come, or misfortunes may fall,
There is that in thy bosom surviveth them all;
Truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale,
They are beacons of light in adversity's gale.
Oh, the manlike is godlike--no ill shall betide
While truth 's thy companion, and honour thy guide.
OUR SHIP.[2]
A song, a song, brave hearts, a song,
To the ship in which we ride,
Which bears us along right gallantly,
Defying the mutinous tide.
Away, away, by night and day,
Propelled by steam and wind,
The watery waste before her lies,
And a flaming wake behind.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home
The home of the brave and free.
With a fearless bound to the depths profound,
She rushes with proud disdain,
While pale lips tell the fears that swell,
Lest she never should rise again.
With a courser's pride she paws the tide,
Unbridled by bit I trow,
While the churlish sea she dashes with glee
In a cataract from her prow.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.
She bears not on board a lawless horde,
Piratic in thought or deed,
Yet the sword they would draw in defence of law,
In the nation's hour of need.
Professors and poets, and merchant men
Whose voyagings never cease;
From shore to shore, the wide world o'er,
Their bonds are the bonds of peace.
Then a ho and a hip, &c.
She boasts the brave, the dutiful,
The aged and the young,
And woman bright and beautiful,
And childhood's prattling tongue.
With a dip and a rise, like a bird she flies,
And we fear not the storm or squall;
For faithful officers rule the helm,
And heaven protects us all.
Then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship
That carries us o'er the sea,
Through storm and foam, to a western home,
The home of the brave and free.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Composed on board the steamship Niagara, on her voyage to New York,
in August 1849.
AULD PETER MACGOWAN.
AIR--_'The Brisk Young Lad.'_
Auld Peter MacGowan cam down the craft,
An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't;
O little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft,
When he wanted me to lo'e;
He patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin,
He praised my e'en an' sleek white skin,
Syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within
Came rattlin' out, I trew.
O sirs, but he was a canty carle,
Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl,
An' aye he spoke o' his frien' the Earl,
And thought he would conquer lo'e.
He boasted o' gear an' acres wide,
O' his bawsand youd that I should ride
When I was made his bonny wee bride,
Returning lo'e for lo'e;
That I a lady to kirk should gang,
Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang;
But I snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang,
Gin that's the best ye can do."
O sirs, but he was a silly auld man,
Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan';
An' through the town like lightning ran,
The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e.
An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft,
And raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft,
Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft,
Sin' he couldna win my lo'e.
"Far better be single," the folk a' said,
"Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;"
He will be cunning wha gars me wed,
Wi' ane that I never can lo'e;
Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad,
A canty lad, an' a dainty lad;
Oh, he maun be a spirited lad,
Wha thinks to win my lo'e.
THE FLOWER OF KEIR.
O what care I where love was born;
I know where oft he lingers,
Till night's black curtain 's drawn aside,
By morning's rosy fingers.
If you would know, come, follow me,
O'er mountain, moss, and river,
To where the Nith and Scar agree
To flow as one for ever.
Pass Kirk-o'-Keir and Clover lea,
Through loanings red with roses;
But pause beside the spreading tree,
That Fanny's bower encloses.
There, knitting in her shady grove,
Sits Fanny singing gaily;
Unwitting of the chains of love,
She 's forging for us daily.
Like light that brings the blossom forth,
And sets the corn a-growing,
Melts icy mountains in the north,
And sets the streams a-flowing;
So Fanny's eyes, so bright and wise,
Shed loving rays to cheer us,
Her absence gives us wintry skies,
'Tis summer when she 's near us!
O, saw ye ever such a face,
To waken love and wonder;
A brow with such an arch of grace,
And blue eyes shining under!
Her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles,
Are equall'd not by many;
Her look it charms, her love it warms,
The flower of Keir is Fanny.
CONSTANCY.
Oh! I have traversed lands afar,
O'er mountains high, and prairies green;
Still above me like a star,
Serene and bright thy love has been;
Still above me like a star,
To gladden, guide, and keep me free
From every ill. Oh, life were chill,
Apart, my love, apart from thee.
Other eyes might beam as bright,
And other cheeks as rosy be;
Other arms as pure and white,
And other lips as sweet to pree;
But ruddy lips, or beaming eyes,
However fond and fair to see,
I could not, would not love or prize
Apart, my love, apart from thee.
Other friendships I have known,
Friendships dear, and pure, and kind;
Liking soon to friendship grown,
Love is friendship's ore refined.
Oh, what is life, with love denied?
A scentless flower, a leafless tree;
My song with love,--my love with pride,
Are full,--my love, are full of thee.
MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE.
My bonnie wee wifie, I 'm waefu' to leave thee,
To leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll soon be returning;
Then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we 'll be!
Oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary,
The snaw 's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea;
All nature looks eerie. How can she be cheery,
Since weel she maun ken I am parted frae thee?
Oh, wae is the lammie, that 's lost its dear mammy,
An' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane;
The plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking,
Are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain.
The sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer,
The sense to the soul, an' the light to the e'e,
The bud to the blossom, sae thou 'rt to my bosom;
Oh, wae 's my heart, wifie, when parted frae thee.
There 's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing,
Should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay;
Love in our hearts glowing, its riches bestowing,
Bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away.
Let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing
The bloom frae thy cheek when thou 'rt thinking of me;
Come night and come morning, I 'll then be returning;
Nae mair, cozie wifie, we parted shall be.
THE BONNIE BIRD.
Oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird?
Oh, where wiled ye that winsome fairy?
I fear me it was where nae truth was heard,
And far frae the shrine o' guid St Mary.
I didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird,
Nor try ony wiles wi' the winsome fairy,
But won her young heart where the angels heard,
In the bowery glen of Inverary.
And what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird?
I fear me its plumes ye will ruffle sairly;
Or bring it low down to the lane kirkyard,
Where blossoms o' grace are planted early.
As life I love my bonnie, bonnie bird,
Its plumage shall never be ruffled sairly;
To the day o' doom I will keep my word,
An' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early.
Oh, whence rings out that merry, merry peal?
The laugh and the sang are cherish'd rarely;
It is--it is the bonny, bonny bird,
Wi' twa sma' voices a' piping early.
For he didna snare that bonny, bonny bird,
Nor did he beguile the winsome fairy,
He had made her his ain, where the angels heard,
At the holy shrine o' the blest St Mary.
COME WHEN THE DAWN.
Come when the dawn of the morning is breaking,
Gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain,
Come when the clamorous birds are awaking
Man unto duty and pleasure again;
Bright let your spirits be,
Breathing sweet liberty,
Drinking the rapture that gladdens the brain.
High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing,
Down in the meadows the mowers are seen,
Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming;
Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green,
Flying, pursuing,
Toying, and wooing--
Nature is now as she ever has been.
Then when the toils of the day are all over,
Gathered, delighted, set round in a ring--
Youth, with its mirthfulness--age, with its cheerfulness,
Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing,
"Bright may our spirits be--
Happy and ever free.
Blest are the joys that from innocence spring."
GOOD MORROW.[3]
Good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright,
Glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light;
Whilst still as the glorious colours decay,
Full gushes of music seem tracking their way.
Hark! hark!
Is it the sheep-bell among the ling,
Or the early milkmaid carolling?
Hark! hark!
Or is it the lark,
As he bids the sun good-morrow?--
Good-morrow;
Though every day brings sorrow.
The daylight is dying, the night drawing near,
The workers are silent; yet ringing and clear,
From the leafiest tree in the shady bowers,
Comes melody falling in silvery showers.
Hark! hark!
Is it the musical chime on the hill,
That sweetly ringeth when all is still?
Hark! hark!
Oh, sweeter than lark,
Is the nightingale's song of sorrow,
Of sorrow;
But pleasure will come to-morrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] One of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late Mary
Russell Mitford and appears in her tale of Atherton. The other stanza
was composed by Mr Bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved
friend.
OH, WAE'S MY LIFE.
Oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart,
The saut tears fill my e'e, Willie,
Nae hope can bloom this side the tomb,
Since ye hae gane frae me, Willie.
O' warl's gear I couldna' boast,
But now I'm poor indeed, Willie;
The last fond hope I leant upon,
Has fail'd me in my need, Willie.
For wealth or fame ye've left your Jean,
Forgat your plighted vow, Willie;
Can honours proud dispel the cloud,
That darkens on your brow, Willie?
Oh, was I then a thing sae mean,
For nought but beauty prized, Willie;
Caress'd a'e day, then flung away,
A fading flower despised, Willie?
Sin' love has fled, and hope is dead,
Soon my poor heart maun break, Willie;
As your ain life, oh, guard your wife--
I 'll love her for your sake, Willie.
Through my despair, oh, mony a prayer,
Will rise for her and ye, Willie;
That ye may prove to her, in love,
Mair faithfu' than to me, Willie.
HEY, MY BONNIE WEE LASSIE.
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?
I ha'e sheep, an' I ha'e kye,
I ha'e wheat, an' I ha'e rye,
An' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye,
That ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie!
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie?
Ye shall dress in damask fine,
My goud and gear shall a' be thine,
And I to ye be ever kin'.
Say,--will ye marry me, lassie?
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie,
Blythe and cheerie wee lassie,
Will ye wed a canty carle,
Bonnie, smiling wee lassie?
Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose,
Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose,
An' at the ingle warm your nose;
But come na courtin' me, carle.
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hawk an' doo shall pair, I trew,
Before I pair wi' ye, carle!
Your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes,
Ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes,
An' siller canna buy the brains
That pleasure gie to me, carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
The hound an' hare may seek ae lair,
But I'll no sleep wi' ye, carle.
I winna share your gowd wi' ye,
Your withering heart, an' watery e'e;
In death I'd sooner shrouded be
Than wedded to ye, auld carle!
Oh, ye tottering auld carle,
Silly, clavering auld carle,
When roses blaw on leafs o' snaw,
I'll bloom upon your breast, carle.
But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain,
May heaven blessings on him rain!
Though plackless, he is unco fain,
And he's the man for me, carle!
Oh, youth an' age can ne'er agree;
Though rich, you're no the man for me.
Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee;
Pray heaven to be your bride, carle.
BESSIE.
Oh, mony a year has come and gane,
An' mony a weary day,
Sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame,
I first was lured away,
To wander over unco lands,
Far, far ayont the sea;
But no to find a land like this,
The hame o' Bess an' me!
I've traversed mony a dreary land,
Across the braid, braid sea;
But, oh, my native mountain hame,
My thochts were aye wi' thee.
As certain as the sun wad rise,
And set ahint the sea,
Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers,
At morn an' nicht for thee;
When I return'd unto my hame,
The hills were clad wi' snow;
Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love,
My heart was in a glow.
Though keen the wintry north wind blew,
Like summer 'twas to me;
For, Bess, my frame was warm wi' love,
Of country, kindred, thee!
Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles
Returning sunny beams,
Than I then hailed my native hame,
Its mountains, woods, and streams.
Now we are met, my bonnie Bess,
We never mair will part;
Although to a' we seem as twa,
We only hae ae heart!
We 'll be sae loving a' the nicht,
Sae happy a' the day,
That though our bodies time may change,
Our love shall ne'er decay:
As gently as yon lovely stream
Declining years shall run,
An' life shall pass frae our auld clay,
As snow melts 'neath the sun.
COURTSHIP.
Yestreen on Cample's bonnie flood
The summer moon was shining;
While on a bank in Chrichope wood
Two lovers were reclining:
They spak' o' youth, an' hoary age,
O' time how swiftly fleeting,
Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,--
The reason of their meeting!
When Willie thoucht his heart was firm,
An' might declare its feeling,
A glance frae Bessy's starry een
Sent a' his senses reeling;
For aye when he essay'd to speak,
An' she prepared to hear him,
The thought in crimson dyed his cheek,
But words would no come near him!
'Tis ever thus that love is taught
By his divinest teacher;
He silent adoration seeks,
But shuns the prosy preacher.
Now read me right, ye gentle anes,
Nor deem my lesson hollow;
The deepest river silent rins,
The babbling brook is shallow.
TOGETHER.
Together, dearest, we have play'd,
As girl and boy together;
Through storm and calm, in sun and shade,
In spring and wintry weather.
Oh! every pang that stinging came
But made our love the dearer;
If danger lower'd--'twas all the same,
We only clung the nearer.
In riper years, when all the world
Lay bathed in light before us,
And life in rainbow hues unfurl'd
Its glowing banner o'er us,
Amid the beauty storms would rise
And flowers collapsing wither,
While open friends turned hidden foes--
Yet were we blest together.
But now the battle's fought and won,
And care with life is flying,
While, setting slowly like the sun,
Ambition's fires are dying.
We gather hope with fading strength,
And go, we know not whither,
Contented if in death at last
We sleep in peace together.
FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.
With lofty song we love to cheer
The hearts of daring men;
Applauded thus, they gladly hear
The trumpet's call again.
But now we sing of lowly deeds
Devoted to the brave,
Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds,
A hero's life may save:
And heroes saved exulting tell
How well her voice they knew;
How sorrow near it could not dwell,
But spread its wings and flew.
Neglected, dying in despair,
They lay till woman came
To soothe them with her gentle care,
And feed life's flickering flame.
When wounded sore, on fever's rack,
Or cast away as slain,
She called their fluttering spirits back
And gave them strength again.
'Twas grief to miss the passing face
That suffering could dispel;
But joy to turn and kiss the place
On which her shadow fell.[4]
When words of wrath profaning rung,
She moved with pitying grace;
Her presence still'd the wildest tongue,
And holy[5] made the place.
They knew that they were cared for then,
Their eyes forgot their tears;
In dreamy sleep they lost their pain,
And thought of early years--
Of early years, when all was fair,
Of faces sweet and pale.
They woke: the angel bending there
Was--Florence Nightingale!
FOOTNOTES:
[4] She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many
more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it
fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.--_Soldier's Letter
from the Crimea._
[5] "Before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it
was as holy as a church."--_Ibid._
JOSEPH MACGREGOR.
The writer of several good songs, which have been published with music,
Joseph Macgregor, followed the profession of an accountant in Edinburgh.
Expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrangement of the city
affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. A zealous member of
the Liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the Reform Bill
movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of
Francis Jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in Parliament.
He latterly occupied Ramsay Lodge, the residence of the poet Allan
Ramsay, where he died about the year 1845, at a somewhat advanced age.
The following songs from his pen are published by the kind permission of
Messrs Robertson & Co., musicsellers, Edinburgh.
LADDIE, OH! LEAVE ME.
Down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery,
When love's star was smilin', I met wi' my dearie;
Ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me,
But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me;
Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me."
"I 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary,
I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee;
Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.
"There 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure,
There 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure,
There 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me,
Till death break this fond heart--oh! then I maun leave thee;"
Leave thee, leave thee, &c.
The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses;
What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses!
I kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me
She yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "Oh! never leave me;"
Leave me, leave me, &c.
HOW BLYTHELY THE PIPE.
AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_
How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding,
At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied;
And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding,
When Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride.
But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming--
The battle-cry echoed, around and above
Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing;
Up, Ronald! to arms for home and your love.
All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing,
With her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear!
And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing,
Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier!
But cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden
With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove;
Where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing,
Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love!
WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D.
A native of Dumfries, William Dunbar, received his elementary education
in that town. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he was in
1805 licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. During the
vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his
probationary career, he resided chiefly in the Hebrides. At this period
he composed the popular song, entitled, "The Maid of Islay," the heroine
being a Miss Campbell of the island of Islay. In several collections the
song has been erroneously ascribed to Joseph Train. Mr Dunbar was, in
May 1807, ordained to the parish of Applegarth, Dumfriesshire. Long
reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, Dr
Dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for
the entomological series of the "Naturalist's Library." His observations
were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the
title, "The Natural History of Bees, comprehending the uses and
economical management of the British and Foreign Honey-Bee; together
with the known wild species. Illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured
from nature, with portrait and memoir of Huber." The publication has
been pronounced useful to the practical apiarian and a valuable
contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee.
In the fiftieth year of his pastorate, Dr Dunbar enjoys the veneration
of a flock, of whom the majority have been reared under his ministerial
superintendence.
THE MAID OF ISLAY.
Rising o'er the heaving billow,
Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
While with thee, on grassy pillow,
Solitude! I love to dwell.
Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing,
Oft I chant my love-lorn strain,
To the streamlet sweetly flowing,
Murmur oft a lover's pain.
'Twas for her, the Maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Not the tempest raving round me,
Lightning's flash or thunder's roll;
Not the ocean's rage could wound me,
While her image fill'd my soul.
Farewell, days of purest pleasure,
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Farewell, hours of bliss the measure,
Bliss that never can return!
Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring,
Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
On the past with sadness pond'ring,
Hope's fair visions charm no more.
WILLIAM JERDAN.
The well known editor of the _Literary Gazette_, William Jerdan, was
born at Kelso, Roxburghshire, on the 16th April 1782. The third son and
seventh child of John Jerdan, a small land proprietor and baron-bailie
under the Duke of Roxburghe, his paternal progenitors owned extensive
possessions in the south-east of Scotland. His mother, Agnes Stuart, a
woman of superior intelligence, claimed descent from the Royal House of
Stuart. Educated at the parochial school of his native town, young
Jerdan entered a lawyer's office, with a view to the legal profession.
Towards literary pursuits his attention was directed through the kindly
intercourse of the Rev. Dr Rutherford, author of the "View of Ancient
History," who then assisted the minister of Kelso, and subsequently
became incumbent of Muirkirk. In 1801 he proceeded to London, where he
was employed as clerk in a mercantile establishment. Returning to
Scotland, he entered the office of a Writer to the Signet; but in 1804
he resumed his connexion with the metropolis. Suffering from impaired
health, he was taken under the care of a maternal uncle, surgeon of the
_Gladiator_ guard-ship. On the recommendation of this relative, he
served as a seaman for a few months preceding February 1806. A third
time seeking the literary world of London, he became reporter to the
_Aurora_, a morning paper, of temporary duration. In January 1807, he
joined the _Pilot_, an evening paper. Subsequently, he was one of the
conductors of the _Morning Post_ and a reporter for the _British
Press_. Purchasing the copyright of the _Satirist_, he for a short time
edited that journal. In May 1813, he became conductor of _The Sun_, an
appointment which he retained during a period of four years, but was led
to relinquish from an untoward dispute with the publisher. He now
entered on the editorship of the _Literary Gazette_, which he conducted
till 1850, and with which his name will continue to be associated.
During a period of nearly half a century, Mr Jerdan has occupied a
prominent position in connexion with literature and politics. He was the
first person who seized Bellingham, the murderer of Percival, in the
lobby of the House of Commons. With Mr Canning he was on terms of
intimacy. In 1821 he aided in establishing the Royal Society of
Literature. He was one of the founders of the Melodist's Club, for the
promotion of harmony, and of the Garrick Club, for the patronage of the
drama. In the affairs of the Royal Literary Fund he has manifested a
deep interest. In 1830 he originated, in concert with other literary
individuals, the _Foreign Literary Gazette_, of which he became
joint-editor. About the same period, he wrote the biographical portion
of Fisher's "National Portrait Gallery." In 1852-3 appeared his
"Autobiography," in four volumes; a work containing many curious details
respecting persons of eminence. In 1852 Mr Jerdan's services to
literature were acknowledged by a pension of £100 on the Civil List, and
about the same time he received a handsome pecuniary testimonial from
his literary friends.
THE WEE BIRD'S SONG.[6]
I heard a wee bird singing,
In my chamber as I lay;
The casement open swinging,
As morning woke the day.
And the boughs around were twining,
The bright sun through them shining,
And I had long been pining,
For my Willie far away--
When I heard the wee bird singing.
He heard the wee bird singing,
For its notes were wondrous clear;
As if wedding bells were ringing,
Melodious to the ear.
And still it rang that wee bird's song;
Just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong;
While my heart beat so quick and strong--
It felt that he was near!
And he heard the wee bird singing.
We heard the wee bird singing,
After brief time had flown;
The true bells had been ringing,
And Willie was my own.
And oft I tell him, jesting, playing,
I knew what the wee bird was saying,
That morn, when he, no longer straying,
Flew back to me alone.
And we love the wee bird singing.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Here first published.
WHAT MAKES THIS HOUR?
What makes this hour a day to me?
What makes this day a year?
My own love promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here!
Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
Her tryst she ne'er would break;
She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
Then leave this heart to ache;
And make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year;
The hour she promised we should meet--
But my own love is not here.
Alas! can she inconstant prove?
Does sickness force her stay?
Or is it fate, or failing love,
That keeps my love away,
To make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year?
The hour and day we should have met--
But my own love is not here.
ALEXANDER BALD.
Alexander Bald was born at Alloa, on the 9th June 1783. His father, who
bore the same Christian name, was a native of Culross, where he was
originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity,
under the late Earl of Dundonald. He subsequently became agent for the
collieries of John Francis Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar. A book of
arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, "The
Corn-dealer's Assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable
guide for tenant farmers.
The subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. Along
with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick
Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of
his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He
established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "The
Shakspeare Club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the
presence of men of genius and learning. To the _Scots' Magazine_ he
became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant
tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the
more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the
period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town
as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. His brother, Mr Robert
Bald, is the distinguished mining engineer.
THE LILY OF THE VALE.[7]
TUNE--_'Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.'_
The lily of the vale is sweet,
And sweeter still the op'ning rose,
But sweeter far my Mary is
Than any blooming flower that blows.
Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
I'll wander oft by Mary's side;
And whisper saft the tender tale,
By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.
There will we walk at early dawn,
Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread,
And mark that splendid orb's decline.
The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop,
To deck my lovely Mary's hair;
And while I live, I vow and swear,
She'll be my chief--my only care.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] This song was originally Published in the _Scots' Magazine_ for
October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to
Allan Ramsay.
HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN.
How sweet are the blushes of morn,
And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove;
The linnet chants sweet from the thorn,
But sweeter's the smile of my love.
Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell,
Since fate has decreed we should part;
Thine image shall still with me dwell,
Though absent, you'll reign in my heart.
But by winding Devon's green bowers,
At eve's dewy hour as I rove,
I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers,
And the pride of her maidens, my love.
The music shall cease in the grove,
Thine absence the linnet shall mourn;
But the lark, in strains bearing love,
Soft warbling, shall greet thy return.
GEORGE WILSON.
George Wilson was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of
Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in
life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a
sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place
he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired
himself as a cow-herd. Passing through the various stages of rural
employment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his
eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker
in Edinburgh. On fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a
journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own
account. In 1831 he removed from Edinburgh to the village of
Corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. He
published "The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. The
following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem
worthy of preservation.
MILD AS THE MORNING.
AIR--_'Bonnie Dundee.'_
Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty,
Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar,
With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom,
To view with sad horror the carnage of war.
She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow;
Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain;
The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded,
And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain.
"Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping?
Or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe?
Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining,
To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?"
A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces,
Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore--
"Alas! Lady Mary, the mighty M'Donald,
Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more."
She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded;
The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart;
She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded,
He wanted that succour, she could not impart--
"Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven,
"Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er;
And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother,
Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more."
THE BEACONS BLAZED.
AIR--_'Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar.'_
The beacons blazed, the banners flew,
The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew,
The trusty clans their claymores drew,
To shield their Royal Charlie.
Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans,
Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens,
Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.
They, like their fathers, bold and brave,
Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive;
Of danger fearless, sworn to save
Or fa' for Royal Charlie.
Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still,
Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill,
And boldly dared, wi' right guid will,
To shield their Royal Charlie.
The forests and the rocks replied
To shouts which rung both far and wide:
Our prince is come, his people's pride--
Oh, welcome hame, Prince Charlie!
Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own;
We'll die, or seat thee on the throne,
Where many a Scottish king has shone;
The sires o' Royal Charlie.
No faithful Scot now makes a pause;
Plain truth and justice plead thy cause;
Each fearlessly his weapon draws,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.
Now, lead us on against thy foes;
Thy rightful claim all Europe knows;
We'll scatter death with all our blows,
To shield and save Prince Charlie.
Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display,
By deathless deeds in battle day,
To stretch them pale on beds of clay,
The foes of Royal Charlie.
THE RENDEZVOUS.
Warlike chieftains now assembled,
Fame your daring deeds shall tell,
Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled,
When you raised your warlike yell.
Bards shall sing when battle rages,
Scotia's sons shall victors be;
Bards shall sing in after ages,
Caledonians aye were free.
Blest be every bold avenger,
Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound;
Dreadful in the day of danger
Be each chieftain ever found.
Let the hills our swords have shielded,
Ring to every hero's praise;
And the tribes who never yielded,
Their immortal trophies raise.
Heroes brave, be ever ready,
At your king and country's call;
When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you,
Let the foe that dares you fall.
Let the harp to strains resounding,
Ring to cheer the dauntless brave;
Let the brave like roes come bounding
On to glory or a grave.
Let your laurels never-fading,
Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive;
Where your thistle springs triumphant,
There let freedom's banner wave.
JOHN YOUNGER.
John Younger, the shoemaker of St Boswells, and author of the Prize
Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of
his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in
the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. So early as his ninth
year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he
married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswells, where
he has continued to reside. Expert in his original profession, he has
long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for Tweed angling; the
latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. He holds
the office of village postmaster.
A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoys
the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage is the resort of
anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the
most noted characters of the age. Letter writing is his favourite mode
of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several
interesting volumes. He has published a poetical _brochure_ with the
title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His
Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was
published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. Of his lyrical
effusions we have selected the following from his MS. collection.
ILKA BLADE O' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.
Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down,
My ain sweet bairnies dear,
Whatever storms in life may blaw,
Take nae sic heart o' fear.
Though life's been aye a checker'd scene
Since Eve's first apple grew,
Nae blade o' grass has been forgot
O' its ain drap o' dew.
The bonnie flowers o' Paradise,
And a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne,
By bank an' brae an' lover's bower,
Adown the course o' time,
Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,--
Their annual bloom renew,
Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel
Its ain sweet drap o' dew.
The oaks and cedars of the earth
May toss their arms in air,
Or bend beneath the sweeping blast
That strips the forest bare;
The flower enfolds while storms o'erpass,
Till sunshine spreads anew,
And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass,
Its lucent drap o' dew.
The great may loll in world's wealth
And a' the pomp o' state,
While labour, bent wi' eident cares,
Maun toil baith ear and late.
The poor may gae to bed distrest,
With nae relief in view,
And rising, like ilk blade o' grass,
Shine wi' the pearl o' dew.
Oh, what a gentle hand is His
That cleeds the lilies fair,
And o' the meanest thing in life
Takes mair than mother's care!
Can ye no put your trust in Him,
With heart resign'd and true,
Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass,
Ilk blade its drap o' dew.
THE MONTH OF JUNE.
O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers
That a' our seasons yield;
Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers,
The garden, and the field;
The pathway verge by hedge and tree,
So fresh, so green, and gay,
Where every lovely blue flower's e'e
Is opening to the day.
The river banks and craggy peaks
In wilding blossoms drest;
With ivy o'er their jutting nooks
Ye screen the ouzel's nest;
From precipice, abrupt and bold,
Your tendrils flaunt in air,
With craw-flowers dangling living gold
Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.
Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest
From every prying e'e,
With fairy fingers ye invest
In woven flowers the lea;
Around the lover's blissful hour
Ye draw your leafy screen,
And shade those in your rosy bower,
Who love to muse unseen.
JOHN BURTT.
John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish
of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was
apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved
himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his
sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and
compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous
servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He
subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and
afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had
sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he
published, under the title of "Horæ Poeticæ; or, the Recreations of a
Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his
career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton
College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church,
and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed
to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the
_Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati,
he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835,
he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.
O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]
AIR--_'Banks of the Devon.'_
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave;
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.
No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast--
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.
O! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST!
O! lassie, I lo'e dearest!
Mair fair to me than fairest,
Mair rare to me than rarest,
How sweet to think o' thee.
When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'
Steals saftly o'er the lawnin',
And furls night's sable awnin',
I love to think o' thee.
An' while the honey'd dew-drap
Still trembles at the flower-tap,
The fairest bud I pu't up,
An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.
An' when by stream or fountain,
In glen, or on the mountain,
The lingering moments counting,
I pause an' think o' thee.
When the sun's red rays are streamin',
Warm on the meadow beamin',
Or o'er the loch wild gleamin',
My heart is fu' o' thee.
An' tardy-footed gloamin',
Out o'er the hills slow comin',
Still finds me lanely roamin',
And thinkin' still o' thee.
When soughs the distant billow,
An' night blasts shake the willow,
Stretch'd on my lanely pillow,
My dreams are a' o' thee.
Then think when frien's caress thee,
Oh, think when cares distress thee,
Oh, think when pleasures bless thee,
O' him that thinks o' thee.
CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON.
Charles James Finlayson was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish
of Larbert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father
during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at
school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the
fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took
delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the
cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the
horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk _trysts_, put him in
possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could
supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the
Carron Iron Works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in
scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from
Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy
of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified,
while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the
psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Resigning this
appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time
taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the
Kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk,
Edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the
respected clergyman, Dr Macknight.
Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice
of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and
proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited
the principal towns in the east and southern districts of Scotland, and
was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in
1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town.
After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kircudbright as a wine
and spirit merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of
postmaster. Having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys
the fruits of a well-earned competency. He has contributed songs to
Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song
beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and
published with music at Leipsic.
THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.
The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among,
And echo repeats to the breezes his strain;
Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng,
And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.
He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew,
When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme;
While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew,
And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.
The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise,
Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!
E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.
Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray,
Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere;
While the names that neglect thee have melted away,
As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.
PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.
Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast
An' frae the purple east smiles on the day;
Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain,
Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay;
Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes,
Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea;
But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh,
Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.
Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief--
Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie;
Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings--
Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.
Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair;
Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue;
But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create
Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.
Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies--
Aft has adversity fled frae your ray;
Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile,
That ever could beguile sorrow away;
Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green,
Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew;
Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart--
Farewell, dear Annie--a long, long adieu!
OH, MY LOVE'S BONNIE.
Oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie;
Oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me;
The smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace,
Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie.
Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin',
When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear,
And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming,
That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear.
But poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom,
That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee;
Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom,
When riches nae lasting contentment can gie.
Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover,
And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee;
For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover,
Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee.
WILLIAM DOBIE.
An accomplished antiquary, and writer of verses, William Dobie was born
in 1790, in the village of Beith, Ayrshire. Educated at the parish
school, he was in his thirteenth year apprenticed to a mechanical
profession. At the close of his apprenticeship, he commenced business in
his native district. In 1822, the munificence of a wealthy relative
enabled him to retire from his occupation, which had proved unsuitable
to his tastes. For several years he resided in London. He subsequently
made a tour through Britain, and visited the Continent. His
"Perambulations in Kintyre," a manuscript volume, is frequently quoted
by Mr Cosmo Innes, in his "Origines Parochiales Scotiæ," a valuable work
printed for the Bannatyne Club. In 1840 he prepared a history of the
parish of Kilbirnie, for the "New Statistical Account." He afterwards
published an account of the church and churchyard of Kilbirnie, in an
interesting pamphlet. Recently Mr Dobie has superintended the erection
of a monument to Sir William Wallace, on Barnweil Hill, near Kilmarnock,
which has been reared at the entire cost of William Patrick, Esq., of
Roughwood. The greater number of the many spirited inscriptions on the
monument are the composition of Mr Dobie.
THE DREARY REIGN OF WINTER 'S PAST.
AIR--_'Loch Errochside.'_
The dreary reign of Winter 's past,
The frost, the snow, the surly blast,
To polar hills are scouring fast;
For balmy Spring 's returning.
Adown Glen-Garnock's lonely vale,
The torrent's voice has ceased to wail;
But soft low notes, borne on the gale,
Dispel dull gloom and mourning.
With toil and long fatigue depress'd,
Exhausted nature sunk oppress'd,
Till waken'd from her slumbering rest,
By balmy Spring returning.
Now in flower'd vesture, green and gay,
Lovelier each succeeding day;
Soon from her face shall pass away,
Each trace of Winter's mourning.
Lo, at her mild benign command,
Life rouses up on every hand;
While bursts of joy o'er all the land,
Hail balmy Spring returning.
E'en murmuring stream and raving linn,
And solemn wood in softened din,
All join great Nature's praise to hymn,
That fled is Winter's mourning.
While all on earth, and in the skies,
In transports fervently rejoice,
Shall man refuse to raise his voice,
And welcome Spring returning?
If such ingrates exist below,
They ne'er can feel the sacred glow,
That Nature and the Muse bestow,
To cheer the gloom of mourning.
ROBERT HENDRY, M.D.
A man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical
ability, Robert Hendry was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1791.
Descended from a respectable family in Morayshire, his paternal
great-grandfather fixed his residence in Glasgow. His grandfather, after
serving as a lieutenant under the Duke of Cumberland in Holland, quitted
the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in Paisley. Under the name
of "The Hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being
lampooned by Alexander Wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior
to his embarkation for America. Of his two sons, the elder removed to
London, where he became senior Alderman, and died on the eve of his
nomination as Lord Mayor.
The grandson of "The Hollander," by his second son, the subject of this
memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a
medical practitioner. On the completion of a course of philosophical and
medical study at the University of Glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and
settled as a surgeon in his native town. Amidst due attention to his
professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits.
Besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of
the more important serials. During the year 1826, which proved so
disastrous to the manufacturing interests in Paisley, he devised a
scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were
appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. He afterwards sought the
general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and
sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of
excellent water. Declining the provostship offered him by the Town
Council, he retired a few years since to the village of Helensburgh,
where he continues to reside.
Dr Hendry was an intimate acquaintance of Tannahill; and afterwards
ranked among his friends the poet Motherwell and Robert Archibald Smith.
He has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. Latterly
his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits.
OH, LET NA GANG YON BONNIE LASSIE.
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie
Cam' to see you a' yestreen;
A winning gate 's about that lassie,
Something mair than meets the een.
Had she na baked the Christmas pasty,
Think ye it had been sae fine?
Or yet the biscuit sae delicious
That we crumpit to the wine?
Her ringlets are the gift o' nature,
Flowing gracefu' o'er her brow;
The turn, the hue o' ilka feature,
Form, and colour, nature drew.
She 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o',
Lang unwedded canna be;
Wi' kindness court the comely creature,
Cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e.
Have ye an ear can be delighted?
Like a seraph she can sing,
Wi' charming grace and witching manner,
Thrilling o'er the music string.
Her tell the tale that moves to pity,
But wi' heart and feeling speak;
Then watch the turn o' ilka feature,
Kiss the tear that weets her cheek.
She sooms na aye in silk or satin,
Flaunting like a modern belle;
Her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan,
Sweet and modest like hersel'.
The shapely robe adorns her person
That her eident hand wad sew;
The plaid sae graceful flung around her,
'Twas her tastefu' manner threw.
She 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman
To a kind weel-doing man,
Forby a tender-hearted mother--
Win the lassie if ye can.
For weel she 's worth your heart and treasure;
May your bridal day be near--
Then half a score o' bairns hereafter--
May ye live a hunder year.
HEW AINSLIE.
Hew Ainslie was born on the 5th April 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the
parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of
education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the
parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a
pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to
forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the
academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on
the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he
entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the
confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty
departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at
Roslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to
Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson,
Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerkship in the General Register
House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor
Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press.
Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his
office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of
his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of
bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made
purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following
years. He next made a trial of the Social System of Robert Owen, at New
Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he
entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers, in
Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville.
Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a
joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises
on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of
1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since followed the
occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and
has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York.
Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a
youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820
revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to
America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo
volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second
volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was
in 1855 published at New York.
THE HAMEWARD SANG.
Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth--
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.
E'en the brutes they look social,
As gif they would crack;
And the sang o' the birds
Seems to welcome me back.
Oh, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.
And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away;
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.
DOWIE IN THE HINT O' HAIRST.
Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,
At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
And the wuds are hingin' yellow;
But oh, its dowier far to see
The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',
The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e--
That darkens the weary warld on thee.
There was mickle love atween us twa--
Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;
And the thing on yird was never made,
That could hae gart us sunder.
But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--
It's comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.
There's mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten.
But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
And the dying grip she gae to me,
They're settled like eternitie--
Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.
ON WI' THE TARTAN.
Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,
The hills wild and free;
Whar' the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee?
Or the steep rocky glens,
Where the wild falcons bide?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er war in rigs?
Or the bonnie loune lee,
Where the sweet robin bigs?
Or the sang o' the lintie,
Whan wooin' his bride?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!
Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns?
Or the bonnie green howmes,
Where it cannilie rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie,
Sae snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride!
THE ROVER O' LOCHRYAN.
The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane,
Wi' his merry men sae brave;
Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel
Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.
Its no when the loch lies dead in his trough
When naething disturbs it ava;
But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide,
Or the splash o' the gray sea-maw.
Its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl
Owre the breast o' the siller sea;
That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,
An' the rover that's dear to me,
But when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud,
An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;
When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry,
As they rise frae the whitening roar.
Its then that I look to the thickening rook,
An' watch by the midnight tide;
I ken the wind brings my rover hame,
An' the sea that he glories to ride.
Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew,
Wi' the helm heft in his hand,
An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his e'e's upon Galloway's land:
"Unstent and slack each reef an' tack,
Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit;
She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,
An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.
When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,
In the tempest's angry moan,
We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift
O' the wave that heaves us on."
THE LAST LOOK O' HAME.
Bare was our burn brae,
December's blast had blawn,
The last flower was dead,
An' the brown leaf had fa'n:
It was dark in the deep glen,
Hoary was our hill;
An' the win' frae the cauld north,
Cam' heavy and chill:
When I said fare-ye-weel,
To my kith and my kin;
My barque it lay ahead,
An' my cot-house ahin';
I had nought left to tine,
I'd a wide warl' to try;
But my heart it wadna lift,
An' my e'e it wadna dry.
I look'd lang at the ha',
Through the mist o' my tears,
Where the kind lassie lived,
I had run wi' for years;
E'en the glens where we sat,
Wi' their broom-covered knowes,
Took a haud on this heart
That I ne'er can unloose.
I hae wander'd sin' syne,
By gay temples and towers,
Where the ungather'd spice
Scents the breeze in their bowers;
Oh! sic scenes I could leave
Without pain or regret;
But the last look o' hame
I ne'er can forget.
THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'.
AIR--_'My ain fireside.'_
When I think on the lads an' the land I hae left,
An' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft;
How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga',
Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'.
When I think on the days o' delight we hae seen,
When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en;
Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a',
Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa?
When I think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand,
Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band,
This world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw',
And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa'!
MY BONNIE WEE BELL.
My bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn,
Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern;
While her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood;
But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude.
When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han',
To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran';
An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell
Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell.
Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest,
In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best;
But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e,
Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie.
Some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left,
An' in houses an' mailins I'll soon be infeft;
I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel',
I'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell.
WILLIAM THOMSON.
William Thomson was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifeshire.
He has constantly resided in his native place. After obtaining an
ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a
manufacturer. Relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and
general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of Postmaster.
He composed verses at an early period. In 1825, some of his verses
appeared in the _Paisley Advertiser_, and the favour with which they
were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the
_Fife Herald_, a newspaper which had just been established in the
capital of his native county. Under the signature of _Theta_, he has
since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has
likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers
and some of the periodicals.
THE MAIDEN TO HER REAPING HOOK.
The soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook,
The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook.
When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain,
And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain,
And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn,
Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn;
How sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look,
Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook.
My Reaping Hook! my Reaping Hook! I love thee better far,
Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war;
As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee,
When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see;
Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song,
The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng;
With joy I see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook,
As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook!
They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain!
Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain;
But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace,
And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness;
While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path,
The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath.
Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook,
And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook!
ALEXANDER SMART.
Alexander Smart was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father
was a respectable shoemaker in the place. A portion of his school
education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the
Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly
satirised in his poem, entitled "Recollections of Auld Lang Syne."
Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an
illustration of Scottish school life fifty years since, we present our
author's reminiscences of the despot. "Gruesome in visage and deformed
in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person.
The recollection of his monstrous cruelties,--his cruel flagellations,--is
still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease
to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer
which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over
each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or
phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while
drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer,
I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed
worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dismissed at the usual
time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of
my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and
dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I
resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the
times. So the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' Horrible
commutation! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand,
inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in
the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight
of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size,
threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain; and so
saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my
lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further
control of the despot."
At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now
apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure
being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished
British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in
solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his
apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six
months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker
proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a
printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of
the _Montrose Chronicle_, a newspaper which was originated in his native
town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment
in the office of the _Dundee Courier_. Returning to Edinburgh, he
accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and
afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most
important printing establishments of the city.
In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but
being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He
subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published
a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "Rambling Rhymes."
This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the
author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the
commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington
Macaulay, Charles Mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A
new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was
dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey.
Smart was one of the principal contributors to "Whistle Binkie." At
different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches,
some of which have appeared in _Hogg's Instructor_. Those papers
entitled "Burns and his Ancestors," "Leaves from an Autobiography," and
"Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a
peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the
miseries of mental aberration. Latterly he has completely recovered his
health, and living in Edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his
time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more
congenial pursuits of literature.
WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM.
When the bee has left the blossom,
And the lark has closed his lay,
And the daisy folds its bosom
In the dews of gloaming gray;
When the virgin rose is bending,
Wet with evening's pensive tear,
And the purple light is blending
With the soft moon rising clear;
Meet me then, my own true maiden,
Where the wild flowers shed their bloom
And the air with fragrance laden,
Breathes around a rich perfume.
With my true love as I wander,
Captive led by beauty's power,
Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender
Hallow that delightful hour.
Give ambition dreams of glory,
Give the poet laurell'd fame,
Let renown in song and story
Consecrate the hero's name;
Give the great their pomp and pleasure,
Give the courtier place and power;
Give to me my bosom's treasure,
And the lonely gloaming hour.
OH, LEAVE ME NOT.
Oh, leave me not! the evening hour,
So soft, so still, is all our own;
The dew descends on tree and flower,
They breathe their sweets for thee alone.
Oh, go not yet! the evening star,
The rising moon, all bid thee stay;
And dying echoes, faint and far,
Invite our lingering steps to stray.
Far from the city's noisy din,
Beneath the pale moon's trembling light,
That lip to press, those smiles to win,
Will lend a rapture to the night.
Let fortune fling her favours free
To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine:
Oh, what is all the world to me,
While thus I clasp and call thee mine!
NEVER DESPAIR.
Never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering,
The sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine;
Above the black tempest his radiance is pouring
While faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine.
The journey of life has its lights and its shadows,
And Heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share;
Though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us,
And courage to conquer, we'll never despair!
Never despair! when with troubles contending,
Make labour and patience a sword and a shield,
And win brighter laurels, with courage unbending,
Than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field.
As gay as the lark in the beam of the morning,
When young hearts spring upward to do and to dare,
The bright star of promise their future adorning,
Will light them along, and they'll never despair!
The oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance,
The arm at the anvil gains muscular power,
And firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance,
Goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower;
For life is a struggle, to try and to prove us,
And true hearts grow stronger by labour and care,
While Hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,--
Look upward and onward, and never despair!
JOHN DUNLOP.
The author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of MS. poetry,
John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian
lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop of Carmyle, he was born in
November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of
Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant
in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city.
He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at
Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at
Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820.
Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed
verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. His MS.
volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a
descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous
poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. A vein of
humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is
eminently plaintive. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions
and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his
country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was
proprietor of Garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name,
became Sheriff of Renfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as
the author of "The History of Fiction."
THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.
Here's to the year that's awa'!
We will drink it in strong and in sma';
And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'.
And here's to ilk, &c.
Here's to the sodger who bled,
And the sailor who bravely did fa';
Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled
On the wings of the year that's awa'.
Their fame is alive, &c.
Here's to the friends we can trust
When the storms of adversity blaw;
May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts,
Nor depart like the year that's awa'.
May they live, &c.
OH, DINNA ASK ME.
TUNE--_'Comin' through the rye.'_
Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;
Troth, I daurna tell:
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye;
Ask it o' yoursel'.
Oh, dinna look sae sair at me,
For weel ye ken me true;
Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me,
I daurna look at you.
When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
And bonnie lassies see,
Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them,
Lest you should mind na me.
For I could never bide the lass
That ye'd lo'e mair than me;
And oh, I'm sure, my heart would break,
Gin ye'd prove false to me.
LOVE FLIES THE HAUNTS OF POMP AND POWER[9]
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power,
To find the calm retreat;
Loathing he leaves the velvet couch,
To seek the moss-grown seat.
Splendid attire and gilded crowns
Can ne'er with love accord;
But russet robes, and rosy wreathes,
His purest joys afford.
From pride, from business, and from care,
His greatest sorrows flow;
When these usurp the heart of man,
That heart he ne'er can know.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.
WAR.
TUNE--_'Where they go, where they go.'_
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war,
Bloody war;
For twenty years and more,
Bloody war.
For twenty years and more
We heard the cannons roar
To swell the tide of gore,
Bloody war!
A tyrant on a throne
We have seen,
We have seen;
A tyrant on a throne
Who thought the earth his own,
But now is hardly known
To have been.
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free,
To be free?
Who rung the loud alarm
To be free?
'Twas Britain broke the charm,
And with her red right arm
She rung the loud alarm
To be free.
The battle van she led
Of the brave,
Of the brave;
The battle van she led
Of the brave;
The battle van she led,
Till tyranny lay dead,
And glory crown'd the head
Of the brave.
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie,
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave
Where they lie;
Give honour to the brave,
And sacred be the grave,
On land or in the wave,
Where they lie.
WILLIAM BLAIR.
William Blair, author of "The Highland Maid," was, in the year 1800,
born at Dunfermline. The son of respectable parents of the industrial
class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school.
Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and
having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the
place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. Having made
some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational
employment in Dollar Academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at
the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from
the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards
succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years
Blair has been an inmate of the Dunfermline poor house.
THE HIGHLAND MAID.
Again the laverock seeks the sky,
And warbles, dimly seen;
And summer views, wi' sunny joy,
Her gowany robe o' green.
But ah! the summer's blithe return,
In flowery pride array'd,
Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn,
Or charm the Highland Maid.
My true love fell by Charlie's side,
Wi' mony a clansman dear;
That fatal day--oh, wae betide
The cruel Southron's spear!
His bonnet blue is fallen now,
And bluidy is the plaid,
That aften on the mountain's brow,
Has wrapt his Highland Maid.
My father's shieling on the hill
Is dowie now and sad;
The breezes whisper round me still,
I 've lost my Highland lad.
Upon Culloden's fatal heath,
He spake o' me, they said,
And falter'd, wi' his dying breath,
"Adieu, my Highland Maid!"
The weary nicht for rest I seek,
The langsome day I mourn;
The smile upon my wither'd cheek
Can never mair return.
But soon beneath the sod I 'll lie,
In yonder lonely glade;
And, haply, ilka passer by
Will mourn the Highland Maid.
THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SONG.[10]
TUNE--_"Brian the Brave."_
Your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield,
Soon, soon will emblazon your plain;
But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield,
And the song of the victory your strain.
Remember the fetters and chains that are wove,
And fated by slavery's decree,
Are not like the fetters of union and love,
That bind and encircle the free.
Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom,
With the glow of the patriot's fires;
And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom,
And grow dark when your freedom expires.
Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet,
And your country, with laurels in store,
Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet
When the tumult of battle is o'er.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Here printed for the first time.
ARCHIBALD MACKAY.
Archibald Mackay was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving a common
school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning
the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has
continued to prosecute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse,
he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "Drouthy Tam," which,
passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the
writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a
little work in prose and verse, entitled "Recreations of Leisure Hours."
In 1848 appeared from his pen a "History of Kilmarnock," in a
well-written octavo volume. A collection of his best songs was published
in 1855, under the title of "Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed
extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating
library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen.
OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS.
AIR--_"Traveller's Return."_
Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs,
The mournfu' and the gay;
They charm'd me by a mither's knee,
In bairnhood's happy day:
And even yet, though owre my pow
The snaws of age are flung,
The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins
Whene'er I hear them sung.
They bring the fond smile to the cheek,
Or tear-drap to the e'e;
They bring to mind auld cronies kind,
Wha sung them aft wi' glee.
We seem again to hear the voice
Of mony a lang-lost frien';
We seem again to grip the hand
That lang in dust has been.
And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs
When nature they portray!
We think we hear the wee bit burn
Gaun bickering doun the brae;
We see the spot, though far awa',
Where first life's breath we drew,
And a' the gowden scenes of youth
Seem rising to the view.
And dear I lo'e the wild war strains
Our langsyne minstrels sung--
They rouse wi' patriotic fires
The hearts of auld and young;
And even the dowie dirge that wails
Some brave but ruin'd band,
Inspires us wi' a warmer love
For hame and fatherland.
Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs--
The sangs of love and glee,
The sangs that tell of glorious deeds
That made auld Scotland free.
What though they sprung frae simple bards,
Wha kent nae rules of art?
They ever, ever yield a charm
That lingers round the heart.
MY LADDIE LIES LOW.
Alas! how true the boding voice
That whisper'd aft to me,
"Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return
To Scotland or to thee!"
Oh! true it spoke, though hope the while
Shed forth its brightest beam;
For low in death my laddie lies
By Alma's bloody stream.
I heard the village bells proclaim
That glorious deeds were done;
I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout,
"The field, the field is won!"
And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd,
Might come to me again;
But vain the thought! cold, cold he lies
On Alma's gory plain.
Oh! woe to him whose thirst for power
Has roll'd the bolts of war,
And made my laddie bleed and die
Frae hame and friends afar.
Alas! his form I ne'er shall see,
Except in fancy's dream;
For low he lies, where brave he fought,
By Alma's bloody stream.
JOUK AND LET THE JAW GAE BY.
AIR--_"Jockie's Gray Breeks."_
Oh! say not life is ever drear,
For midst its scenes of toil and care
There 's aye some joy the heart to cheer--
There 's aye some spot that 's green and fair.
To gain that spot the aim be ours,
For nocht we 'll get unless we try;
And when misfortune round us lours,
We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.
The wee bit flow'ret in the glen
Maun bend beneath the surly blast;
The birdie seeks some leafy den,
And shelters till the storm is past:
The "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell,
To some lowne spot for refuge hie;
And sae, frae ills we canna quell,
We 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by.
Yet there are ills we a' should brave--
The ills that man on man would throw;
For oh! he 's but a thowless slave,
That patient bears Oppression's woe.
But if 'tis but the taunts of pride,
Of envy's tongue that would annoy,
'Tis nobler far to turn aside,
And jouk and let the jaw gae by.
In worldly gear we may be bare,
We may hae mony a dreary hour;
But never, never nurse despair,
For ilka ane maun taste the sour:
Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power,
Wi' a' their pomp and honours high,
'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower,
And jouk to let the jaw gae by.
But mark this truth--the ills that blight
Are aft the fruits that folly brings;
Then shun the wrong, pursue the right--
Frae this the truest pleasure springs;
And fret not though dark clouds should spread
At times across life's troubled sky;
Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed--
Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by.
VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS.
Hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won,
And brighter blazes freedom's sun;
But daring deeds must yet be done
To curb Oppression's reign, boys.
Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd,
Our foes are thick'ning on the wold;
Then up! then up! be firm--be bold--
Victorious be again, boys.
The hearts--the blessings of the brave--
Of those who scorn the name of slave,
Are with you on the ocean's wave,
And on the battle-plain, boys:
Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one,
And gird your brightest armour on;
Complete the work so well begun--
Victorious be again, boys!
Though red with gore your path may be,
It leads to glorious liberty;
Remember, God is with the free,
The brave He will sustain, boys:
The tyrant fears the coming fight,
He fears the power of Truth and Right;
Then up! then up! in all your might--
Victorious be again, boys.
WILLIAM AIR FOSTER.
The author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air
Foster, was born at Coldstream on the 16th June 1801. He has followed
the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in
Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was formerly an
active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. To "Whistle
Binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and
he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript.
FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA.
Fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows,
To ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin.
Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang--
For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang;
Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.
The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,
But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;
The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.
They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.
No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!
In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.
THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.
AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_
I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,
With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;
For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,
Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.
I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure,
And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure;
While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring
Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.
When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright,
And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight;
Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,
Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.
Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,
When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;
While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,
To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.
'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,
And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,
With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;
But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.
My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,
When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,
In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.
The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,
With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.
Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings,
While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.
Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear,
And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.
No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow,
When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.
Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child,
And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild;
Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells
For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.
THE SALMON RUN.
AIR--_"The brave old Oak."_
Oh! away to the Tweed,
To the beautiful Tweed,
My much-loved native stream;
Where the fish from his hold,
'Neath some cataract bold,
Starts up like a quivering gleam.
From his iron-bound keep,
Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign sway;
Or darts like a lance,
Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.
As he roves through the tide,
Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish'd with silver and gold;
And the sweep of his flight
Seems a rainbow of light,
As again he sinks down in his hold.
With a soft western breeze,
That just thrills through the trees,
And ripples the beautiful bay;
Throw the fly for a lure--
That 's a rise! strike him sure--
A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.
Hark! the ravel line sweel,
From the fast-whirring reel,
With a music that gladdens the ear;
And the thrill of delight,
In that glorious fight,
To the heart of the angler is dear.
Hold him tight--for the leap;
Where the waters are deep,
Give out line in the far steady run;
Reel up quick, if he tire,
Though the wheel be on fire,
For in earnest to work he 's begun.
Aroused up at length,
How he rolls in his strength,
And springs with a quivering bound;
Then away with a dash,
Like the lightning's flash,
Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.
Though he strain on the thread,
Down the stream with his head,
That burst from the run makes him cool;
Then spring out for the land,
On the rod change the hand,
And draw down for the deepening pool.
Mark the gleam of his side,
As he shoots through the tide!
Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?
Fatigue now begins,
For his quivering fins
On the shallows are spread in despair.
CHARLES MARSHALL.
The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working
Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in
mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two
sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the
University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of
John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen
years. During that time the directors of the institution expressed their
approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by
increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of
liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In
1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a
probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the
North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he
adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the
Free North Church, Dunfermline.
To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as
well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has
long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of
prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "Lays
and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly
passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a
similar publication, entitled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men
and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part.
For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments,
adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish
peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. Mr Marshall
proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands
and Fathers," and to "Young Men."
THE BLESSING ON THE WARK.
I like to spring in the morning bricht,
Before the mill bell rings;
When waukening blithe in gowden licht,
My joyfu' spirit sings.
I like to hear, when the pearly tear
Gems morning's floweret cup,
The trumpet summons of chanticleer
Pipe "drowsy mortals up."
I tread as lightly as silent puss,
While a' the household sleep;
And gird me to clean and redd the house
Before the bairnies cheep.
I like to dress and mak me clean
As ony winsome bride;
And think na shame, though my face be seen,
At morn or eventide.
I like to handle, before I rin,
The word o' truth and love;
And seek, or the daily wark begin,
Gude counsel from above.
Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie
To earn my bit o' bread;
The wark spins on, and the time rins by,
Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.
JEWEL OF A LAD.
AIR--_"Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."_
As sunshine to the flowers in May,
As wild flowers to the hinny bee,
As fragrant scent o' new mown hay,
So my true love is sweet to me.
As costly jewels to the bride,
As beauty to the bridegroom's e'e--
To sailors, as fair wind and tide,
So my true love is dear to me.
As rain-draps to the thirsty earth,
As waters to the willow-tree,
As mother's joy at baby's birth,
So my true love is dear to me.
Though owning neither wealth nor lan',
He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree;
His love to God, his love to man,
His goodness makes him dear to me.
The lass that weds a warly fool
May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee;
But earthly love soon waxes cool,
And foolish fancies turn ajee.
My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace,
His loving e'e blinks bonnily,
A heavenly licht illumes his face;
Nae wonder though he 's dear to me.
TWILIGHT JOYS.
Musing, we sat in our garden bower,
In the balmy month of June,
Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour
When our daily task was done.
We spake of the friends of our early days,
Some living, some dead and gane,
And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes
Of our morning life again.
A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that,
And joyful were we to see
The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat,
So full of frolicsome glee.
They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell,
Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring--
Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well,
And we bless'd each happy thing.
In our wee dwelling the lamp of love,
Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer,
Flings light on earth, on heaven above,
Sheds glory everywhere.
This golden lamp shines clear and bright,
When the world looks dark and doure,
It brightens our morning, noon, and night,
And gladdens our gloamin' hour.
WILLIAM WILSON.
William Wilson was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of
Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in
indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour.
While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions
were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant, of Laggan, who interested
herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal
merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to
write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On
her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of
Roxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been
in business as a publisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He
has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is
well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his
earlier poems were contributed to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and
he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his
own composition.
O BLESSING ON HER STARLIKE E'EN.
O blessing on her starlike e'en,
Wi' their glance o' love divine;
And blessing on the red, red lip,
Was press'd yestreen to mine!
Her braided locks that waved sae light,
As she danced through the lofty ha',
Were like the cluds on the brow o' night,
Or the wing o' the hoodie craw.
O mony a jimp an' gentle dame,
In jewell'd pomp was there;
But she was first among them a',
In peerless beauty rare!
Her bosom is a holy shrine,
Unstain'd by mortal sin,
An' spotless as the snaw-white foam,
On the breast o' the siller linn.
Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note,
By bowery glen or brake?
Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay,
By sea or mountain lake?
Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven,
The angel's melodie?
Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres
As they swung on their path on hie?
Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love,
At the gloamin' hour yestreen;
An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide,
I would mak' that maiden my queen.
OH! BLESSING ON THEE, LAND.
Oh! blessing on thee, land
Of love and minstrel song;
For Freedom found a dwelling-place
Thy mountain cliffs among!
And still she loves to roam
Among thy heath-clad hills;
And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain
With the voice of mountain rills.
Her song is on the gale,
Her step upon the wold;
And morning diamonds brightly gem
Her braided locks of gold.
Far up the pine-wood glen,
Her sylph-like form is seen,
By hunter in the hazy dawn,
Or wandering bard at e'en.
My own dear native home,
The birthplace of the brave,
O never may thy soil be trod
By tyrant or by slave!
Then, blessing on thee, land
Of love and minstrel song;
For Freedom found a dwelling-place,
Thy mountain cliffs among!
THE FAITHLESS.
We part,--yet wherefore should I weep,
From faithless thing like thee to sever?
Or let one tear mine eyelids steep,
While thus I cast thee off for ever?
I loved thee--need I say how well?
Few, few have ever loved so dearly;
As many a sleepless hour can tell,
And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.
But late, beneath its jetty lash,
I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour,
Which wont, all witchingly, to flash
On me its light so soft and tender;
Now, from that glance I turn away,
As if its thrilling gaze could wound me;
Though not, as once, in love's young day,
When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.
The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught,
The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving;
Who, that had seen them, could have thought
That things so fair could be deceiving?
The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind,
In all their fitful moods of changing,
Are nought to wavering woman's mind,
For ever shifting, ever ranging!
Farewell! I'd rather launch my bark
Upon the angry ocean billow,
'Mid wintry winds, and tempests dark,
Than make thy faithless breast my pillow.
Thy broken vow now cannot bind,
Thy streaming tears no more can move me,
And thus I turn from thee, to find
A heart that may more truly love me.
MY SOUL IS EVER WITH THEE.
My soul is ever with thee,
My thoughts are ever with thee,
As the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea,
So turns my fond spirit to thee.
'Mid the cares of the lingering day,
When troubles around me be,
Fond Fancy for aye will be flitting away--
Away, my beloved, to thee.
When the night-pall darkly spread
O'er shadows, tower, and tree,
Then the visions of my restless bed
Are all, my beloved, of thee.
When I greet the morning beams,
When the midnight star I see,
Alone--in crowded halls--my dreams--
My dreams are for ever of thee.
As spring to the leafless spray,
As calm to the surging sea,
To the weary, rest--to the watcher, day--
So art thou, loved Mary, to me.
AULD JOHNNY GRAHAM.
Dear Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham?
The carle sae pawkie an' slee!
He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame,
An' the body has ettled at me.
Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean,
An' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree,
He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen,
An' rappit, an' soon speert for me.
I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang
Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie,
An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang,
Ere he tauld out his errand to me.
"Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land,
Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie,
An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command,
Gin' ye will look kindly on me.
"Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen,
Sax naigies that nibble the lea;
The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen,
I'se gie a', dear Tibby, to thee.
"An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stockin',
An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e;
A mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin',
When ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me.
"I 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye,
And mak' ye the licht o' my e'e;
I 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye,
As couthy as couthy can be.
"I 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn,
Ye ran up the knowe to meet me;
An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern,
Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee.
"An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair,
An' gracefu' as gracefu' can be--
Will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care
For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?"
Sae, Aunty, ye see I 'm a' in a swither,
What answer the bodie to gie--
But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither,
And let puir young Tibby abee.
JEAN LINN.
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo!
Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie!
The days that hae been, may be yet again seen,
Sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo!
Sae look na' sae lightly on me!
Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, Jean Linn!
Oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray!
Yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine,
In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May, bonnie May--
In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May.
Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn--
Ye mind when we won in Whinglen,
Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine,
An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, Jean Linn,
An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then.
Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,
Oh, then ye were a' thing to me!
An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky,
When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn,
When tentin' the owsen wi' thee.
I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,
I twined ye a bower by the burn,
But dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower,
That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn.
That fortune wad tak' sic a turn.
Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn!
Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw!
Yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard,
An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn,
An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law.
BONNIE MARY.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down;
I 'll row my apron up, an' I 'll leave the reeky town,
And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
By the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there,
An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care,
For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun',
Is the burnside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.
There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears,
Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years;
An' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun',
Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.
The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower,
But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour;
And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown,
When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down.
When the sun gaes down, &c.
When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down,
I 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down;
Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown,
And I 'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down.
MRS MARY MACARTHUR.
Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow,
published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The
Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that
publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work,
as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse.
In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for
many years been resident in Glasgow.
THE MISSIONARY.
He left his native land, and, far away
Across the waters sought a world unknown,
Though well he knew that he in vain might stray
In search of one so lovely as his own.
He left his home, around whose humble hearth
His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd--
Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,
And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.
He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,
The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;
The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,
And every charm to love and fancy dear.
All these he left, with sad but willing heart,
Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;
In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,
And the world knew not of his very name.
Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?
'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,
That often smiles its sweetest to betray,
And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!
'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!
His Master bade the obedient servant go,
And try if he in distant realms could find
Some who His name and saving grace would know.
'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears
His aged mother at their parting shed;
'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,
And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.
'Twas this that made his father calmly bear
A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,
And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,
His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.
And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,
And bent a head with age and sorrow gray--
E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,
Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.
"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes
Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;
But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,
The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.
"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal
From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;
And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,
Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"
And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest
Across the hills to where the vessel lay,
And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast
They saw the white sails bearing him away.
And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?
Did none of those who, in a favour'd land
The shelter of the gospel tree had known,
Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?
'Tis not for me to answer questions here--
Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,
And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,
Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!
JOHN RAMSAY.
The author of "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at
Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, he was early
apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards
traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connexion with the
carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in
the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; and having subsequently suffered
misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a
collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the
sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the
country, vending his volume of "Woodnotes." This creditable enterprise
has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent
society in Edinburgh.
FAREWELL TO CRAUFURDLAND.
Thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,
By foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day,
I 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain,
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring,
That trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing,
Your beauties will gladden some happier swain;
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
I 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh,
When prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high;
These prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain;
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
Soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo
Those pangs that alone the poor exile can know--
Away! like a craven why should I complain?
Farewell! for I never may see you again.
JAMES PARKER.
James Parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "Poems of
Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a
master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has
contributed verses to the periodicals.
THE MARINER'S SONG.
Oh merrily and gallantly
We sweep across the seas,
Like the wild ocean birds which ply
Their pinions on the breeze;
We quail not at the tempest's voice
When the billow dashes o'er us,
Firm as a rock, we bear the shock,
And join its dreadful chorus.
Across the foaming surge we glide
With bosoms true and brave,
It is our home--our throne of pride--
It soon may be our grave;
Yet fearlessly we rush to meet
The foe that comes before us;
The fight begun, we man the gun,
And join its thundering chorus.
Our lives may be as fierce and free
As the waves o'er which we roam,
But let not landsmen think that we
Forget our native home;
And when the winds shall waft us back
To the shores from which they bore us,
Amid the throng of mirth and song,
We'll join the jovial chorus.
HER LIP IS O' THE ROSE'S HUE.
Her lip is o' the rose's hue,
Like links o' goud her hair,
Her e'e is o' the azure blue,
An' love beams ever there;
Her step is like the mountain goat's
That climbs the stately Ben,
Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes
That haunt her native glen.
There is a sweet wee hazel bower
Where woodbine blossoms twine,
There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour,
Consented to be mine;
An' there we meet whene'er we hae
An idle hour to spen',
An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day
She met me in the glen.
Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams,
An' sweet the pearly dew,
An' lovely is the star that gleams
In gloamin's dusky brow;
But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far,
Aboon a' human ken,
Is my sweet pearl--my lovely star--
My Jeanie o' the glen.
JOHN HUNTER.
The following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a
small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "Miscellanies, by N. R.,"
which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by Mr
John Hunter, now auditor of the Court of Session.
THE BOWER O' CLYDE.
On fair Clydeside thair wonnit ane dame,
Ane dame of wondrous courtesie,
An' bonny was the kindly flame
That stremit frae her saft blue e'e.
Her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew,
That meltit to its tender licht,
Was bonnier far than the purest starre
That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht.
If ony culd luke and safely see
Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou,
Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip,
A lifeless lump was he, I trow.
But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht,
If ae moment that wicht might see
Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw,
That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie.
An' dear, dear was this bonny dame,
Dear, dear was she to me,
An' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane,
At ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e.
An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve,
Tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear,
An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame
That I breathit so warmly in her ear.
Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look,
Thair was kindness beamit in her e'e,
An' aye as she drew back her lily han',
I faund that it tremblit tenderlie.
But the time sune cam, the waesome time,
When I maun awa frae my dear,
An' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht
The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear!
Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to muve,
Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers,
An' I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde,
An' the hours stal awa unawares.
'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht,
At the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour,
An' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane,
An' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour.
The mune was up i' the clear blue skye,
The mune an' her single wee starre,
The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye,
Thair was stillness near an' farre.
Alane we sat i' the green summer bour,
I tauld her a' that was kind and dear,
An' she did na blame the words o' flame
That I breathit sae warmly in her ear.
She listenit to the luve-sang warm,
Her breast it throbbit and heavit high;
She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm
She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh.
Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips,
Ae kiss on her bonny red mow,
An' aften I prest her form to my breast,
An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true.
An' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour,
My fond heart will never forget;
Though drear is the dule I haif suffer'd sin syne,
That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet.
The parting time cam, an' the parting time past,
An' it past nae without the saut tear,
An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land
I gaed, an' I left my ain dear.
I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids
Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e,
I but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the Clyde,
An' that thocht was enough for me.
MARY.
Oh! Mary, while thy gentle cheek
Is on my breast reclining,
And while these arms around thy form
Are fondly thus entwining;
It seems as if no earthly power
Our beating hearts could sever,
And that in ecstasy of bliss
We thus could hang for ever!
Yet ah! too well, too well we know,
The fiat fate hath spoken--
The spell that bound our souls in one,
The world's cold breath hath broken.
The hours--the days--whose heavenly light
Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us,
When Love his sunshine shed around,
And strew'd his flowers before us,
Must now be but as golden dreams,
Whose loveliness hath perish'd;
Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts
Too heavenly to be cherish'd.
Yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast,
The love that once hath bound us--
The thought that looks to days long past,
Will breathe a halo round us.
IN DISTANT YEARS.
In distant years! when other arms
Around thy form are prest,
Oh! heave one fond regretful sigh
For him thy love once blest!
Oh! drop one tear from that dark eye,
That was his guiding light,
And cast the same deep tender glance,
That thrills his soul to-night.
And oh! believe, though dark his fate,
And devious his career,
The music of that gentle voice
Will tremble in his ear;
And breathing o'er his troubled soul,
Storm-tost and tempest riven,
Will still fierce passion's wild control,
And win him back to Heaven.
ROBERT CHAMBERS.
Robert Chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house
of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious
works of a national character, was born in 1802 at Peebles, where his
parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a
family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years
his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers,
the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh
with his family in 1813. While still in childhood Robert manifested a
remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and
poetry--a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on
several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and
science. Before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a
complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had
perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those
of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information
contained in a copy of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," of which his
father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to
their own resources, William became an apprentice to a bookseller in
1814; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as
a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and
which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but
always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by
the counsels of their widowed mother; how they finally went into
partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings--need
not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "Traditions
of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This
amusing work was followed by the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came
his "Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two
volumes; "Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of
"Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Biography of Distinguished Scotsmen,"
in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private
circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine
taste and feeling. William having started _Chambers's Edinburgh Journal_
in February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly
helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early
volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and
pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert
Chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other
learned bodies in Edinburgh. Among his latest detached works
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