The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume 6.
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Title: The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume 6.
Editor: Charles Rogers
Release date: August 3, 2007 [eBook #22229]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, VOLUME 6. ***
Produced by Susan Skinner, Ted Garvin and the Online
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[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. VI.
PAISLEY
Birth Place of Tannahill, Alexander Wilson, John Wilson, &c.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: [Handwritten: Ever yours truly,
Chas. Mackay.]]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL VI.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
MDCCCLVII.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
CHARLES BAILLIE, ESQ.,
SHERIFF OF STIRLINGSHIRE,
CONVENER OF THE ACTING COMMITTEE FOR REARING
A NATIONAL MONUMENT
TO THE
ILLUSTRIOUS DEFENDER OF SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE,
THIS SIXTH VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SENTIMENTS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT AND ESTEEM,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION, xi
OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG. BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, xx
CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D., 1
Love aweary of the world, 8
The lover's second thoughts on world weariness, 9
A candid wooing, 11
Procrastinations, 12
Remembrances of nature, 13
Believe, if you can, 15
Oh, the happy time departed, 17
Come back! come back! 17
Tears, 18
Cheer, boys, cheer, 20
Mourn for the mighty dead, 21
A plain man's philosophy, 22
The secrets of the hawthorn, 24
A cry from the deep waters, 25
The return home, 26
The men of the North, 28
The lover's dream of the wind, 29
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD, 31
Bonnie Mary Hay, 33
Scotland, I have no home but thee, 33
GEORGE DONALD, 35
The spring time o' life, 36
The scarlet rose-bush, 37
HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, 39
My life is one long thought of thee, 40
Why is my spirit sad? 41
Geordie Young, 42
My fairy Ellen, 44
A bachelor's complaint, 45
WILLIAM BENNET, 47
Blest be the hour of night, 48
The rose of beauty, 49
I 'll think on thee, love, 50
There 's music in a mother's voice, 51
The brig of Allan, 52
GEORGE OUTRAM, 54
Charge on a bond of annuity, 55
HENRY INGLIS, 59
Weep away, 59
JAMES MANSON, 61
Ocean, 61
The hunter's daughter, 63
An invitation, 63
Cupid and the rose-bud, 64
Robin Goodheart's carol, 65
JAMES HEDDERWICK, 67
My bark at sea, 68
Sorrow and song, 69
The land for me, 70
The emigrants, 72
First grief, 73
The linnet, 76
WILLIAM BROCKIE, 78
Ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair, 78
ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN, 80
The lang winter e'en, 80
THOMAS YOUNG, 81
Antoinette; or, The Falls, 81
ROBERT WILSON, 84
Away, away, my gallant bark, 84
Love, 85
EDWARD POLIN, 87
A good old song, 88
ALEXANDER BUCHANAN, 89
I wander'd alane, 89
Katie Blair, 91
DAVID TAYLOR, 92
My ain gudeman, 92
ROBERT CATHCART, 94
Mary, 94
WILLIAM JAMIE, 96
Auld Scotia's sangs, 96
JOHN CRAWFORD, 98
My auld wifie Jean, 102
The land o' the bonnet and plaid, 103
Sing on, fairy Devon, 104
Ann o' Cornylee, 105
My Mary dear, 106
The waes o' eild, 107
JOHN STUART BLACKIE, 109
Song of Ben Cruachan, 115
The braes of Mar, 117
My loves, 118
Liking and loving, 120
WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P., 121
Ruth, 122
Shallum, 126
THOMAS C. LATTO, 127
The kiss ahint the door, 128
The widow's ae bit lassie, 129
The yellow hair'd laddie, 130
Tell me, dear, 131
WILLIAM CADENHEAD, 133
Do you know what the birds are singing, 134
An hour with an old love, 135
ALLAN GIBSON, 137
The lane auld man, 138
The wanderer's return, 139
THOMAS ELLIOTT, 141
Up with the dawn, 142
Clyde boat song, 143
Dimples and a', 144
Bubbles on the blast, 145
A serenade, 146
A song of little things, 147
My ain mountain land, 148
When I come hame at e'en, 149
WILLIAM LOGAN, 151
Jeanie Gow, 151
JAMES LITTLE, 153
Our native hills again, 154
Here 's a health to Scotia's shore, 155
The days when we were young, 156
Lizzy Frew, 158
COLIN RAE BROWN, 159
Charlie 's comin', 160
The widow's daughter, 161
ROBERT LEIGHTON, 163
My muckle meal-pock, 163
JAMES HENDERSON, 165
The wanderer's deathbed, 165
The song of Time, 167
The Highland hills, 168
My native land, 169
JAMES MACLARDY, 171
The sunny days are come, my love, 172
Oh, my love was fair, 173
ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON, 176
Day dream, 177
Fair as a star of light, 179
Nature musical, 180
ISABELLA CRAIG, 182
Our Helen, 182
Going out and coming in, 184
My Mary an' me, 185
A song of summer, 186
ROBERT DUTHIE, 187
Song of the old rover, 187
Boatman's song, 189
Lisette, 190
ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON, 192
Things must mend, 193
The wee blink that shines in a tear, 194
Flowers of my own loved clime, 195
JAMES MACFARLAN, 196
Isabelle, 197
Household gods, 198
Poor companions, 199
WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL, 201
Lament of Wallace, 202
Oh! what is in this flaunting town, 203
MARGARET CRAWFORD, 205
My native land, 206
The emigrant's farewell, 207
The stream of life, 207
Day-dreams of other years, 209
Affection's faith, 211
GEORGE DONALD, JUN., 212
Our ain green shaw, 212
Eliza, 213
JOHN JEFFREY, 215
War-cry of the Roman insurrectionists, 216
PATRICK SCOTT, 218
The exile, 218
JOHN BATHURST DICKSON, 220
The American flag, 221
EVAN M'COLL, 222
The hills of the heather, 223
JAMES D. BURNS, 224
Rise, little star, 224
Though long the wanderer may depart, 225
GEORGE HENDERSON, 227
I canna leave my native land, 228
HORATIUS BONAR, D.D., 229
The meeting-place, 230
Trust not these seas again, 233
JOHN HALLIDAY, 234
The auld kirk bell, 234
The auld aik-tree, 236
JAMES DODDS, 238
Trial and death of Robert Baillie of Jervieswoode, 239
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
DUNCAN MACFARLAN, 249
The beauty of the shieling, 250
JOHN MUNRO, 251
The Highland welcome, 252
JOHN MACDONALD, JUN., 254
Mary, the fair of Glensmole, 254
EVAN M'COLL, 256
The child of promise, 256
INDEX, 257
INTRODUCTION.
As if pointing to a condition of primeval happiness, Poetry has been the
first language of nations. The Lyric Muse has especially chosen the land
of natural sublimity, of mountain and of flood; and such scenes she has
only abandoned when the inhabitants have sacrificed their national
liberties. Edward I., who massacred the Minstrels of Wales, might have
spared the butchery, as their strains were likely to fall unheeded on
the ears of their subjugated countrymen. The martial music of Ireland is
a matter of tradition; on the first step of the invader the genius of
chivalric song and melody departed from Erin. Scotland retains her
independence, and those strains which are known in northern Europe as
the most inspiriting and delightful, are recognised as the native
minstrelsy of Caledonia. The origin of Scottish song and melody is as
difficult of settlement as is the era or the genuineness of Ossian.
There probably were songs and music in Scotland in ages long prior to
the period of written history. Preserved and transmitted through many
generations of men, stern and defiant as the mountains amidst which it
was produced, the Minstrelsy of the North has, in the course of
centuries, continued steadily to increase alike in aspiration of
sentiment and harmony of numbers.
The spirit of the national lyre seems to have been aroused during the
war of independence,[1] and the ardour of the strain has not since
diminished. The metrical chronicler, Wyntoun, has preserved a stanza,
lamenting the calamitous death of Alexander III., an event which proved
the commencement of the national struggle.
"Quhen Alysandyr oure kyng wes dede,
That Scotland led in luve and le,
Away wes sons of ale and brede,
Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle:
Oure gold wes changyd into lede.
Cryst, borne in-to virgynyte
Succour Scotland and remede,
That stad is in perplexyte."
The antiquity of these lines has been questioned, and it must be
admitted that the strain is somewhat too dolorous for the times. Stung
as they were by the perfidious dealings of their own nobility, and the
ruthless oppression of a neighbouring monarch, the Minstrels sought
every opportunity of astirring the patriotic feelings of their
countrymen, while they despised the efforts of the enemy, and
anticipated in enraptured paeans their defeat. At the siege of Berwick in
1296, when Edward I. began his first expedition against Scotland, the
Scottish Minstrels ridiculed the attempt of the English monarch to
capture the place in some lines which have been preserved. The ballad of
"Gude Wallace" has been ascribed to this age; and if scarcely bearing
the impress of such antiquity, it may have had its prototype in another
of similar strain. Many songs, according to the elder Scottish
historians, were composed and sung among the common people both in
celebration of Wallace and King Robert Bruce.
The battle of Bannockburn was an event peculiarly adapted for the
strains of the native lyre. The following Bardic numbers commemorating
the victory have been preserved by Fabyan, the English chronicler:--
"Maydens of Englande,
Sore may ye morne,
For your lemmans, ye
Haue lost at Bannockysburne.
With heue-a-lowe,
What weneth the king of England,
So soon to have won Scotland?
Wyth rumbylowe."
Rhymes in similar pasquinade against the south were composed on the
occasion of the nuptials of the young Prince, David Bruce, with the
daughter of Edward II., which were entered into as a mean of cementing
the alliance between the two kingdoms.
After the oblivion of a century, the Scottish Muse experienced a revival
on the return, in 1424, of James I. from his English captivity to occupy
the throne. Of strong native genius, and possessed of all the learning
which could be obtained at the period, this chivalric sovereign was
especially distinguished for his skill in music and poetry. By Tassoni,
the Italian writer, he has been designated a composer of sacred music,
and the inventor of a new kind of music of a plaintive character. His
poetical works which are extant--"The King's Quair," and "Peblis to the
Play"--abound not only in traits of lively humour, but in singular
gracefulness. To his pen "Christ's Kirk on the Green" may also be
ascribed. The native minstrelsy was fostered and promoted by many of his
royal successors. James III., a lover of the arts and sciences,
delighted in the society of Roger, a musician; James IV. gave frequent
grants to Henry the Minstrel, cherished the poet Dunbar, and himself
wrote verses; James V. composed "The Gaberlunzie Man" and "The Jollie
Beggar," ballads which are still sung; Queen Mary loved music, and wrote
verses in French; and James VI., the last occupant of the Scottish
throne, sought reputation as a writer both of Latin and English poetry.
Under the patronage of the Royal House of Stewart, epic and lyric poetry
flourished in Scotland. The poetical chroniclers Barbour, Henry the
Minstrel, and Wyntoun, are familiar names, as are likewise the poets
Henryson, Dunbar, Gavin Douglas, and Sir David Lyndsay. But the authors
of the songs of the people have been forgotten. In a droll poem entitled
"Cockelby's Sow," ascribed to the reign of James I., is enumerated a
considerable catalogue of contemporary lyrics. In the prologue to Gavin
Douglas' translation of the AEneid of Virgil, written not later than
1513, and in the celebrated "Complaynt of Scotland," published in 1549,
further catalogues of the popular songs have been preserved.
The poetic gift had an influence upon the Reformation both of a
favourable and an unfavourable character. By exposing the vices of the
Popish clergy, Sir David Lyndsay and the Earl of Glencairn essentially
tended to promote the interests of the new faith; while, on the event of
the Reformation being accomplished, the degraded condition of the Muse
was calculated to undo the beneficial results of the ecclesiastical
change. The Church early attempted to remedy the evil by sanctioning the
replacement of profane ditties with words of religious import. Of this
nature the most conspicuous effort was Wedderburne's "Book of Godly and
Spiritual Ballads," a work more calculated to provoke merriment than to
excite any other feeling.
On the union of the Crowns a new era arose in the history of the
Scottish Muse. The national spirit abated, and the poets rejoiced to
write in the language of their southern neighbours. In the time of
Barbour, the Scottish and English languages were almost the same; they
were now widely dissimilar, and the Scottish poets, by writing English
verse, required to translate their sentiments into a new tongue. Their
poetry thus became more the expression of the head than the utterance of
the heart. The national bards of this period, the Earl of Stirling, Sir
Robert Aytoun, and Drummond of Hawthornden, have, amidst much elegant
versification, left no impression on the popular mind. Other poets of
that and the succeeding age imitated Buchanan, by writing in Latin
verse. Though a considerable portion of our elder popular songs may be
fairly ascribed to the seventeenth century, the names of only a few of
the writers have been preserved. The more conspicuous song writers of
this century are Francis Semple, Lord Yester, Lady Grizzel Baillie, and
Lady Wardlaw.
The taste for national song was much on the wane, when it was restored
by the successful efforts of Allan Ramsay. He revived the elder ballads
in his "Evergreen," and introduced contemporary poets in his "Tea Table
Miscellany." The latter obtained a place on the tea table of every lady
of quality, and soon became eminently popular. Among the more
conspicuous promoters of Scottish song, about the middle of last
century, were Mrs Alison Cockburn, Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, Sir
Gilbert Elliot, Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik, Dr Austin, Dr Alexander
Geddes, Alexander Ross, James Tytler, and the Rev. Dr Blacklock. The
poet Robert Fergusson, though peculiarly fond of music, did not write
songs. Scottish song reached its climax on the appearance of Robert
Burns, whose genius burst forth meteor-like amidst circumstances the
most untoward. He so struck the chord of the Scottish lyre, that its
vibrations were felt in every bosom. The songs of Caledonia, under the
influence of his matchless power, became celebrated throughout the
world. He purified the elder minstrelsy, and by a few gentle, but
effective touches, completely renovated its fading aspects. "He could
glide like dew," writes Allan Cunningham, "into the fading bloom of
departing song, and refresh it into beauty and fragrance." Contemporary
with Burns, being only seven years his junior, though upwards of half a
century later in becoming known, Carolina Oliphant, afterwards Baroness
Nairn, proved a noble coadjutor and successor to the rustic bard in
renovating the national minstrelsy. Possessing a fine musical ear, she
adapted her lyrics with singular success to the precise sentiments of
the older airs, and in this happy manner was enabled rapidly to
supersede many ribald and vulgar ditties, which, associated with
stirring and inspiring music, had long maintained a noxious popularity
among the peasantry. Of Burns' immediate contemporaries, the more
conspicuous were, John Skinner, Hector Macneill, John Mayne, and Richard
Gall. Grave as a pastor, Skinner revelled in drollery as a versifier;
Macneill loved sweetness and simplicity; Mayne, with a perception of the
ludicrous, was plaintive and sentimental; Gall was patriotic and
graceful.
Sir Walter Scott, the great poet of the past half century, if his
literary qualifications had not been so varied, had obtained renown as a
writer of Scottish songs; he was thoroughly imbued with the martial
spirit of the old times, and keenly alive to those touches of nature
which give point and force to the productions of the national lyre.
Joanna Baillie sung effectively the joys of rustic social life, and
gained admission to the cottage hearth. Lady Anne Barnard aroused the
nation to admiration by one plaintive lay. Allan Cunningham wrote the
Scottish ballad in the peculiar rhythm and with the power of the older
minstrels. Alike in mirth and tenderness, Sir Alexander Boswell was
exquisitely happy. Tannahill gave forth strains of bewitching sweetness;
Hogg, whose ballads abound with supernatural imagery, evinced in song
the utmost pastoral simplicity; Motherwell was a master of the
plaintive; Robert Nicoll rejoiced in rural loves. Among living
song-writers, Charles Mackay holds the first place in general
estimation--his songs glow with patriotic sentiment, and are redolent in
beauties; in pastoral scenes, Henry Scott Riddell is without a
competitor; James Ballantine and Francis Bennoch have wedded to
heart-stirring strains those maxims which conduce to virtue. The
Scottish Harp vibrates to sentiments of chivalric nationality in the
hands of Alexander Maclagan, Andrew Park, Robert White, and William
Sinclair. Eminent lyrical simplicity is depicted in the strains of
Alexander Laing, James Home, Archibald Mackay, John Crawford, and Thomas
C. Latto. The best ballad writers introduced in the present work are
Robert Chambers, John S. Blackie, William Stirling, M.P., Mrs Ogilvy,
and James Dodds.[2] Amply sustained is the national reputation in female
lyric poets, by the compositions of Mrs Simpson, Marion Paul Aird,
Isabella Craig, and Margaret Crawford. The national sports are
celebrated with stirring effect by Thomas T. Stoddart, William A.
Foster, and John Finlay. Sacred poetry is admirably represented by such
lyrical writers as Horatius Bonar, D.D., and James D. Burns. Many
thrilling verses, suitable for music, though not strictly claiming the
character of lyrics, have been produced by Thomas Aird, so distinguished
in the higher walks of Poetry, Henry Glassford Bell, James Hedderwick,
Andrew J. Symington, and James Macfarlan.
Of the collections of the elder Scottish Minstrelsy, the best catalogue
is supplied by Mr David Laing in the latest edition of Johnson's Musical
Museum. Of the modern collections we would honourably mention, "The Harp
of Caledonia," edited by John Struthers (3 vols. 12mo); "The Songs of
Scotland, Ancient and Modern" (4 vols. 8vo), edited by Allan Cunningham;
"The Scottish Songs" (2 vols. 12mo), edited by Robert Chambers; and,
"The Book of Scottish Song," edited by Alexander Whitelaw. Most of these
works contain original songs, but the amplest collections of these are
M'Leod's "Original National Melodies," and the several small volumes of
"Whistle Binkie."[3] The more esteemed modern collections with music are
"The Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith[4] (6 vols. 8vo); "The
Songs of Scotland, adapted to their appropriate Melodies arranged with
Pianoforte Accompaniments," edited by G. F. Graham, Edinburgh: 1848 (3
vols. royal 8vo); "The Select Songs of Scotland, with Melodies, &c."
Glasgow: W. Hamilton, 1855 (1 vol. 4to); "The Lyric Gems of Scotland, a
Collection of Scottish Songs, Original and Selected, with Music,"
Glasgow: 1856 (12mo). Of district collections of Minstrelsy, "The Harp
of Renfrewshire," published in 1820, under the editorship of Motherwell,
and "The Contemporaries of Burns," containing interesting biographical
sketches and specimens of the Ayrshire bards, claim special
commendation.
The present collection proceeds on the plan not hitherto attempted in
this country, of presenting memoirs of the song writers in connexion
with their compositions, thus making the reader acquainted with the
condition of every writer, and with the circumstances in which his
minstrelsy was given forth. In this manner, too, many popular songs, of
which the origin was generally unknown, have been permanently connected
with the names of their authors. In the preparation of the work,
especially in procuring materials for the memoirs and biographical
notices, the editor has been much occupied during a period of four
years. The translations from the Gaelic Minstrelsy have been supplied,
with scarcely an exception, by a gentleman, a native of the Highlands,
who is well qualified to excel in various departments of literature.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as the Rhymer, lived in the reign
of Alexander III. No lyric of his composition has been preserved.
[2] The ballads of Professor Aytoun, it is hardly necessary to remark,
would have been an ornament to any age.
[3] The publisher of this meritorious little work, Mr David Robertson of
Glasgow, was a native of Port of Menteith, Perthshire; he died at
Glasgow on the 6th of October 1854. Mr Robertson maintained an extensive
correspondence with the humbler bards, and succeeded in recovering many
interesting lyrics, which would otherwise have perished. He was also
reputed as the publisher of the facetious collection of anecdotes which
appeared under the title of the "Laird of Logan."
[4] Robert Archibald Smith, so justly celebrated in connexion with the
modern history of Scottish Music, was born at Reading, Berkshire, on the
16th November 1780. In his twentieth year he settled in Paisley, where
he formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, whose best songs he
subsequently set to music. In 1823, he became precentor in St George's
Church, Edinburgh, on the recommendation of its celebrated pastor, the
late Dr Andrew Thomson. His numerous musical works continue to be held
in high estimation. His death took place at Edinburgh on the 3d January
1829.
OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG:
WITH
REMARKS ON THE GENIUS
OF
LADY NAIRN, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, AND ROBERT TANNAHILL.
BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.
Songs are the household literature of the Scottish people; they are
especially so as regards the rural portion of the population. Till of
late years, when collections of song have become numerous, and can be
procured at a limited price, a considerable trade was carried on by
itinerant venders of halfpenny ballads. Children who were distant from
school, learned to read on these; and the aged experienced satisfaction
in listening to words and sentiments familiar to them from boyhood. That
the Scots, a thoughtful and earnest people, should have evinced such a
deep interest in minstrelsy, is explained in the observation of Mr
Carlyle, that "serious nations--all nations that can still listen to the
mandates of Nature--have prized song and music as the highest." Deep
feeling, like powerful thought, seeks and finds relief in expression;
the wisdom of Divine benevolence has so arranged, that what brings
relief to one, generally affords peace or pleasure to another. And,
further, where there is a susceptibility, a capacity of enjoyment, there
will be efforts made in order to its gratification. The human heart
loves the things of romance, and in the exercise of its native
privilege, delights to feel. Scottish song has been written in harmony
with nature, scenery, and circumstances; and fledged in its own
melodies, which seem no less the outpouring of native sensibility, has
borne itself onward from generation to generation.
Respecting these airs or melodies, a few remarks may be offered. The
genius of our mountain land, as if prompted alike by thought and
feeling, has in these wrought a spell of matchless power--a fascination,
which, reaching the hearts both of old and young, maintains an
imperishable sway over them. One has said,--
"'Tis not alone the scenes of glen and hill,
And haunts and homes beside the murmuring rill;
Nor all the varied beauties of the year,
That so can Scotland to our hearts endear--
The merry both and melancholy strain,
Their power assert, and o'er the spirit reign;
Indebted more to nature than to art,
They reach the ear to fascinate the heart;
And waken hope that, animating, cheers,
Or bathe our being in the flow of tears."
Native, as well as foreign writers, assert that King James the First was
the inventor of a new kind of music, which they further characterise as
being sweet and plaintive. These terms certainly indicate the leading
features of Scottish music. There is something not only of wild
sweetness, but touches of pathos even in its merriest measures. Though
termed a new kind of music, however, it was not new. The king took up
the key-note of the human heart--the primitive scale, or what has been
defined the scale of nature, and produced some of those wild and
plaintive strains which we now call Scottish melodies. His poetry was
descriptive of, and adapted to the feelings, customs, and manners of his
countrymen; and he followed, doubtless, the same course in the music
which he composed. By his skill and education, he rendered his
compositions more regular and palpable, than those songs and their airs
which had been framed and sung by the sad-hearted swain on the hill, or
the love-lorn maiden in the green wood.
Not in music only, but in the words of song, some of the Scottish kings
had such a share as to stamp the art and practice of song-writing with
royal sanction. Thus encouraged, the native minstrelsy was fostered by
the whole community, receiving accessions from succeeding generations. A
people who, along with their heroic leader, possessed sufficient courage
to face, with such appalling odds, the foe at Bannockburn--who, at an
after date, fought at Flodden against both their better wit and will,
rather than gainsay their king--and who, in more recent times, protected
him whom they regarded as their rightful prince, at the risk of life and
fortune, were not likely to fail in advancing what royalty had loved,
especially when it was deemed so essential to their happiness. The
poetic spirit entered in and arose out of the heart of the people. The
song and air produced in the court, represented the sentiment of the
cottage. It is still the same. Rights and privileges have been lost,
manners and customs have changed, but song, the forthgiving of the
heart, does not on the heart quit its claim.
Within the modern period, the harp of Caledonia gives forth similar
utterances in the hands of Lady Nairn, the Ettrick Shepherd, and Robert
Tannahill. Different in station and occupations--even in motives to
composition--these three great lyrists were each deeply influenced by
that peculiar acquaintance with Scottish feeling which, brilliantly
illustrated by their genius, has deeply impressed their names on the
national heart.
Lady Nairn, highly born and educated, delighted to sympathise with the
people. If among these she found the forthgivings of human nature less
sophisticated, the principles upon which she proceeded impelled her to
write for the humbler classes of society, and the result has been that
she has written for all. In every class human nature is essentially the
same; and though hearts may have wandered far from the primitive truths
which belong to the life and character of mankind in common, they may
yet be brought back by that which tells winningly upon them--by that
which awakens native feeling and early associations. There is much of
this kind of efficiency in song, when song is what it ought to be. If,
when the true standard is adhered to by those who exercise their powers
in producing it, and who have been born and bred in circumstances of
life so different, it can establish a unity of sentiment--it must
necessarily effect, in a greater or less degree, the same thing among
those who learn and sing the lays which they produce. And, indeed, it
would seem a truth that, by the congenial influences of song, the hearts
of a nation are more united--more willing to be subdued into
acquiescence and equality, than by any other merely human
instrumentality.
If, in Scotland till of late years, writing for fortune was rather than
otherwise regarded as disreputable, writing for fame was never so
accounted. But even than for fame Lady Nairn had a higher motive. She
knew that the minstrels of ruder times had composed, and, through the
aid of the national melodies, transmitted to posterity strains ill
fitted to promote the interests of sound morality, yet that the love of
these sweet and wild airs made the people tenacious of the words to
which they were wedded. Her principal, if not her sole object, was to
disjoin these, and to supplant the impurer strains. Doubtless that
capacity of genius, which enabled her to write as she has done, might,
as an inherent stimulus, urge her to seek gratification in the exercise
of it; but, even in this case, the virtue of her main motive underwent
no diminution. She was well aware how deeply the Scottish heart imbibed
the sentiments of song, so that these became a portion of its nature, or
of the principles upon which the individuals acted, however
unconsciously, amid the intercourse of life. Lessons could thus be
taught, which could not, perhaps, be communicated with the same effect
by any other means. This pleasing agency of education in the school of
moral refinement Lady Nairn has exercised with genial tact and great
beauty; and, liberally as she bestowed benefactions on her fellow-kind
in many other respects, it may be said no gifts conferred could bear in
their beneficial effects a comparison to the songs which she has
written. Her strains thrilled along the chords of a common nature,
beguiling ruder thought into a more tender and generous tone, and
lifting up the lower towards the loftier feeling. If feeling constitutes
the nursery of much that is desirable in national character, it is no
less true that well assorted and confirmed nationality will always prove
the most trustworthy and lasting safeguard of freedom. It is the
combination of heart--the universal unity of sentiment--which renders a
people powerful in the preservation of right and privilege, home and
hearth; and few things of merely human origin will serve more thoroughly
to promote such unity, than the songs of a song-loving people. The
continual tendency of these is to imbue all with the same sentiment, and
to awaken, and keep awake, those sympathies which lead mankind to a
knowledge of themselves individually, and of one another in general,
thus preventing the different grades of society from diverging into
undue extremes of distinction. Nor ought the observation to be omitted,
that if a lady of high standing in society, of genius, refined taste and
feeling, and withal of singular purity of heart, could write songs that
the inhabitants of her native land could so warmly appreciate as by
their singing to render them popular, it would evince no inconsiderable
worth in that people that she could so sympathise and so identify
herself with them.
From the position and circumstances of Lady Nairn, those of the Ettrick
Shepherd were entirely different. Hogg was one of the people. To write
songs calculated to be popular, he needed only to embody forth in poetic
shape what he felt and understood from the actual experiences of life
amid the scenes and circumstances in which he had been born and bred;
his compeers, forming that class of society in which it has been thought
the nature of man wears least disguise, were his first patrons. He
required, therefore, less than Lady Nairn the exercise of that sympathy
by which we place ourselves in the circumstances of others, and know how
in these, others think and feel. His poetic effusions were homely and
graphic, both in their sprightful humour and more tender sentiment. They
were sung by the shepherd on the hill, and the maiden at the hay-field,
or when the _kye cam' hame_ at "the farmer's ingle," and in the _bien_
cottage of the _but_ and _ben_, where at eventide the rustics delighted
to meet. As experience gave him increased command over the hill harp,
his ambition to produce strains of greater beauty and refinement also
increased. By and by his minstrel numbers manifested a vigour and
perfection which rendered them the admiration of persons of higher rank,
and more competent powers of judgment.
If, with the very simple and seemingly insignificant weapon of Scottish
song, the Baroness Nairn "stooped," the Shepherd stood up "to conquer."
Both adhered to the dictates of nature, and in both cases the result was
the same; nor could the most marked inconveniences which circumstances
imposed hinder that result. A time comes when false things shew their
futility, and things depending upon truth assert their supremacy. The
difference between the authoress and the author lay in those external
circumstances of station and position which could not long, much less
always, be of avail. Their minds were directed by a power of nature to
do essentially the same thing; the difference only being that each did
it in her and his own way. We may suppose that while Lady Nairn in her
baronial hall wrote--
"Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
Safely ower the friendly main,
Mony a heart will break in twa
Should he ne'er come back again;"
the Ettrick Shepherd seated on "a moss-gray stane," or a heather-bush,
and substituting his knee for his writing desk, might be furnishing
forth for the world's entertainment the lament, commencing--
"Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
And down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing alane,
Wi' the dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e."
Or when the lady was producing "The land o' the leal," a lay which has
reached and sunk so deeply into all hearts, the Shepherd might be
singing among the wild mountains the affecting and popular ditty, the
truth of which touched his own heart so powerfully, of "The moon was a'
waning," or saying to the skylark--
"Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea;
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh! to abide in the desert with thee!"
Tannahill has likewise written a number of songs which have been
deservedly admired, loved, and sung. Allan Cunningham used to say, that
if he could only succeed in writing two songs which the inhabitants of
his native land would continue to sing, he would account it sufficient
fame. Tannahill has accomplished this, and much more. In temperament, as
well as circumstances, he differed widely both from Lady Nairn and the
Ettrick Shepherd. Amiable and good in all her ways, Lady Nairn's career
appears to have been lovely and alluring as the serene summer eve; the
Shepherd was rich as autumn, in the enjoyment of life itself, and all
that life could bring; but Tannahill's nature was cloudy, sensitive, and
uncertain as the April day. Lady Nairn, ambitious of doing good and
promoting happiness, dwelt, in heart at least, "among her own people,"
giving and receiving alike those charms of unbroken delight which spring
from the kindness of the kind, and fearing nothing so much as public
notoriety. Hogg loved fame, yet took no pains to secure it. Fame,
nevertheless, reached him; but when found, it was with him a possession
much resembling the child's toy. His heart to the last appeared too
deeply imbued with the unsuspicious simplicity and carelessness of the
boy to have much concern about it. On this point Tannahill was morbidly
sensitive; his was an unfortunate cast of temperament, which, deepening
more and more, surrounded him with imaginary evils, and rendered life
insupportable. Lady Nairn was too modest not to be distrustful of the
extent of her genius, and presumed only to exercise it in composing
words to favourite melodies. The genius of Tannahill was more
circumscribed, and he was consequently more timid and painstaking. Hogg,
ambitious of originality, was bold and reckless. He had the power of
assuming many distinct varieties of style, his mind, taking the tone of
the subject entered upon, as easily as the musician passes from one note
to another. In education, Tannahill had the advantage over the Shepherd,
but in nothing else. The Shepherd's occupation was much more calculated
to inspire him with the feelings, and more fitted in everything to urge
to the cultivation of poetry, than the employment at which Tannahill was
doomed to labour. The beauty and grandeur of nature, solemn and sublime,
surround the path of him who tends the flocks. Though occasionally
called upon to face the blast, and wrestle with the storm, he still
experiences a charm. But when the broad earth is green below, and the
wide bending sky blue above, the voice of nature in the sounding of
streams, the song of birds, and the bleating of sheep differ widely from
what the susceptible and poetic mind is destined to experience amidst
the clanking din of shuttles in the dingy, narrow workshop of the
handloom weaver. Here the breath of the light hill breeze cannot come;
the form is bowed down, and the cheek is pale. Life, however buoyant and
aspiring at first, necessarily ere long becomes saddened and subdued. To
poor Tannahill it became a burden--more than he could bear. Yet it was
among these circumstances that he contrived to compose those chaste and
beautiful songs which have delighted, and still continue to delight, the
hearts of so many. Though not marked with much that can be termed
strikingly original, this, instead of militating against them, may have
told in their favour. Wayward conceits, fanciful thoughts and
expressions in songs, are like the hectic hue on the cheek of the
unhealthy; it may appear to give a surpassing beauty, but it is a beauty
which forebodes decay. "Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie?" may be regarded as
the most original of Tannahill's songs. It is more ardent in tone, and
in every respect more poetic, than his other lyrics. The imagery is not
only striking, but true to nature, though in maintaining the simple and
tender, it does more than approach the sublime. His style is uniformly
distinguished by a chaste simplicity, and well sustained power.
In these observations, we have pointed to that affinity of mind which
unites in sentiment those possessing it, in spite of worldly
distinctions. And song, too, we have found, is a prevalent and
far-pervading agency, which become the mean of binding together a
nation's population on the ground of that which is true to nature. It,
therefore, does so in a manner more congenial and pleasurable than most
other ties which bind; those of interest and necessity may be stronger,
indeed, but these ties being much more selfish, are also, in most
instances, much less harmonious. Song-writing is the highest attribute
of poetic genius. The epic poet has to do with the exercise of energies,
which produce deeds that are decided, together with the operation of
passions and feelings which are borne into excess. These are more easily
depicted than the gentler sentiments and feelings, together with the
lights and shades of national character which constitute the materials
of song. Nor will strains which set forth the actions of mankind as
operating in excess, ever be so popular as simple song. Though
communities are liable to periods of excitement, this is not their
natural condition. Songs founded upon such, may be popular while the
excitement lasts, but not much longer. Philosophers and inquiring
individuals may revert to and dwell upon them, but the generality of the
people will renounce them. Those who linger over them, will do so
through a disposition to ascertain the causes which gave them birth, and
how far these were natural in the circumstances. He who sings, feels
that the same ardour cannot be re-awakened; and the sentiments which the
poet has expressed become as things that are false and foolish.
Nearly all the poems of Burns proceed on the same principles upon which
popular song proceeds. He approved himself considerably original and
singularly interesting, by taking up and saying, in the language best
suited for the purpose, what his countrymen had either already, to one
extent or other, thought and felt, or were, at his suggestion, fully
prepared to think and feel. It is thus that song becomes the truest
history of a people; they, properly speaking, have rarely any other
historian than the poet. History, in its stateliness, does not deign to
dwell upon their habits, their customs and manners, and, therefore,
cannot unfold their usual modes of thinking and feeling; it only notices
those more anomalous emergencies when the ebullitions of high passion
and excitement prevail; and such not being the natural condition of any
people, a true representation of their real character is not given. If
song equally tends to strengthen the bonds of nationality, it is also
that from which the true cast of a land's inhabitants can be gathered.
From habits and training, together with the native shades of peculiar
character, there is in human nature great variety; so, consequently, is
there also in song, for perhaps it might be difficult to fix upon one of
these peculiarities, whether of outward manner or inward disposition,
which song has not taken up and illustrated in its own way. Every song,
of course, has an aim or leading sentiment pervading it. It either tells
a tale calculated to interest human nature and revive feeling, or sets
forth a sentiment which human nature entertains, so that it shall be
turned to better account. This involves the field which song has it in
its power to cultivate and improve. But neither the pure moralist, nor
the accomplished critic, must expect a very great deal to be done on
this field at once. The song-writer has difficulties to contend with,
both in regard to those by whom he would have his songs sung, and the
airs to which he writes them. If in the latter case he would willingly
substitute classical and sounding language for monosyllables and
contracted words, the measures which the air require will not allow him;
and should he suddenly lift up and bear high the standard of moral
refinement, those who should attend may fail to appreciate the movement,
and refuse to follow him. If he can contrive, therefore, to interest and
entertain with what is at least harmless, it is much, considering how
wide a field even one popular song occupies, and how many of an
undesirable kind it may meanwhile displace and eventually supersede. The
tide of evil communications cannot be barred back at once, and song
remedy the evil which song in its impurer state has done. Nor is the
critic, who weighs these disadvantages, likely to pronounce a very
decided judgment upon the superiority and inferiority of songs, whether
in general or individually.
Few of the different classes of society may view them in the same light,
and estimate them on the same grounds that he does. If he _thinks_, the
people _feel_; and they overturn his decisions by the songs which they
adopt and render popular. It is by no means so much the correct beauty
of the composition, as the suitableness of the sentiment, which insures
their patronage. Few of the songs of Burns are so correctly and
elegantly composed as "The lass of Ballochmyle;" yet few of his songs
have been more rarely sung.
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D.[5]
Our first volume contained the portrait of Sir Walter Scott; our sixth
and concluding volume is adorned by the portrait of Charles Mackay. In
these distinguished men there is not only a strong mental similarity,
but also a striking physical resemblance. Those who are curious in such
matters will do well to compare the two portraits. The one was the most
prolific and popular writer at the commencement of the century; the
other is the most prolific and popular song-writer of the present day.
Wherever the English language is heard and patriotic songs are sung,
Charles Mackay will be present in his verse. He rejoices in his English
songs; but Scotland claims him as a son.
Charles Mackay is of ancient and honourable extraction. His paternal
ancestors were the Mackays of Strathnaver, in Sutherlandshire; while, on
the mother's side, he is descended from the Roses of Kilravock, near
Inverness, for many centuries the proprietors of one of the most
interesting feudal strongholds in the Highlands. The Mrs Rose of
Kilravock, whose name appears in the "Correspondence" of Burns, was
Charles Mackay's maternal grandmother.
He was born at Perth in 1814; but his early years were spent in London,
his parents having removed to the metropolis during his infancy. There
he received the rudiments of an education which was completed in the
schools of Belgium and Germany. His relation, General Mackay, intended
that he should adopt the military profession; but family arrangements
and other circumstances prevented the fulfilment of that intention.
The poetical faculty cannot be acquired; it must be born with a man,
growing with his growth, and strengthening with his strength, until
developed by the first great impulse that agitates his being, and
generally that is love. There are versifiers innumerable who are not
poets, but there are no poets whose hearts remain unstirred by the
exciting passion of irrepressible love, when song becomes the written
testimony of the inner life. Whether it was so with Charles Mackay we
have not ascertained, nor have we cared to inquire. His love-songs,
however, are exquisitely touching, and among the purest compositions in
the language. Certain it is that the poetical power was early
manifested; for we find that, in 1836, he gave his first poems to the
public. The unpretending volume attracted the attention of John Black,
who was then the distinguished editor of the _Morning Chronicle_. Ever
ready to recognise genius wherever it could be found, and always
prepared to lend a hand to lift into light the unobtrusive author who
laboured in the shade, he offered young Mackay a place on the paper,
which was accepted, and filled with such ability that he was rapidly
promoted to the responsible position of sub-editor. He soon became one
of the marked men of the time in connexion with the press; and, in 1844,
he undertook the editorship of the _Glasgow Argus_, a journal devoted to
the advocacy of advanced liberal opinions.
This paper he conducted for three years, and returned to London, where
he received the appointment of editor of the _Illustrated London News_,
a situation which, considering the peculiar character of the paper, he
fills with consummate tact. Some of the great organs of public opinion
may thunder forth embittered denunciations, others, in the silkiest
tone, will admonish so gently that they half approve the misconduct of
people in power if their birth happens to have been sufficiently
elevated. The distinguishing characteristics of the political articles
written by Charles Mackay are their manly and thoroughly independent
spirit, avoiding alike fulsome adulation and indiscriminate abuse. His
censure and his praise are always governed by strictest impartiality.
Whether he condemns or whether he applauds he secures the respect even
of those from whom he differs the most. It is no small merit to possess
such a power in the conflict and strife of politics. We happen to know a
circumstance which speaks volumes on this subject. The peculiarities of
the press of England were being discussed in the presence of a foreign
nobleman, of high rank and political influence, who expressed himself to
this effect:--"Some of your newspapers are _feared_, some simply
tolerated, some detested, and some merit our contempt, but the
_Illustrated London News_ is respected. It is admitted everywhere, it is
read everywhere; and, although it is sometimes severe, its very severity
is appreciated, because it is the expression of earnest conviction and
sterling good sense; the result is, that it has, on the Continent, a
wider influence than any paper published in England."
Mackay's works have been numerous and various. Without presuming to be
perfectly accurate, we shall attempt a list of his several publications.
His first, as we have already stated, was a small volume of "Poems,"
published in 1836. This was followed by the "Hope of the World," a poem,
in heroic verse, published in 1839. Soon afterwards appeared "The Thames
and its Tributaries," a most suggestive, agreeable, and gossiping book.
In 1841 appeared his "Popular Delusions," a work of considerable merit;
and next came, in 1842, his romance of "Longbeard, Lord of London," so
well conceived and cleverly executed, that an archaeologist of
considerable pretensions mistook it for a genuine historical record of
the place on which it was written. His next work, and up till that
period his noblest poem, "The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality,"
appeared in 1843. As there is no hesitation in his thought, there is no
vagueness in his language; it is terse, clear, and direct in every
utterance. An enemy to spasms in every form, he abhors the Spasmodic
School of Poets. If the true poet be the seer--the far seer into
futurity--he should see his way clear before him. He should write
because he has a thought to utter, and ought to utter it in the clearest
and the fittest language, and this is the principle which manifestly
governs the compositions of Charles Mackay. The "Salamandrine" lifted
his works high in the poetic scale, and permanently fixed him, not only
in the ranks, but marked him as a leader of the host of eminent British
poets. His residence in Scotland enabled him to visit many places famous
in Scottish history. The results were his "Legends of the Isles,"
published in 1845 and his "Voices from the Mountains" in 1846. A few
months before the publication of the last named volume, the University
of Glasgow conferred upon him the degree of LL.D.
When the London _Daily News_ was started, he contributed some stirring
lyrics, under the title of "Voices from the Crowd." They arrested the
attention of the public, and tended greatly to popularise and establish
the reputation of that journal. In 1847 appeared his "Town Lyrics," a
series of ballads which harrowed the soul by laying bare many of the
secret miseries of the town. In 1850 was published his exquisite poem of
"Egeria," probably the most refined and artistic of all his productions;
and in 1856 he gave to the world "The Lump of Gold," and "Under Green
Leaves," two volumes of charming poetry; the first tracing the evils
that flow from unrestrained cupidity; the second the delights of the
country, under every circumstance that can or does occur. Latterly he
has composed some popular airs, set to his own lyrics; thus giving to
the melody he has conceived the immortality of his verse. With the late
Sir Henry Bishop he was associated in re-arranging a hundred of the
choicest old English melodies. The music has been re-arranged; and many
a lovely air, inadmissible to cultivated society from its being
associated with vulgar or debasing words, has been re-admitted to the
social circle, and is fast floating into public favour in union with the
words composed by Mackay.
Here we stop. This is not the time, nor is it the place, to discuss,
with any great elaboration, the merits or peculiarities of Charles
Mackay as an author. We have to do with him as the most successful of
song-writers. Two of his songs, perhaps not among his best, have
obtained a world-wide popularity. His "Good Time Coming," and his
"Cheer, Boys, Cheer," have been ground to death by barrel-organs, but
only to experience a resurrection to immortality. On the wide sea, amid
the desert, across the prairies, in burning India, in far Australia, and
along the frozen steppes of Russia are floating those imperishable airs
suggested by the "Lyrics" whose names they bear. The soldier and the
sailor, conscious of impending danger, think of beloved ones at home;
unconsciously they hum a melody, and comfort is restored. The emigrant,
forced by various circumstances to leave his native land, where, instead
of inheriting food and raiment, he had experienced hunger, nakedness,
and cold, endeavours to express his feelings, and is discovered crooning
over the tune that correctly interprets his emotions, and thrills his
heart with gladness. The poet's song has become incorporated with the
poor man's nature. You may see that it fills his eyes with tears; but
they are not of sorrow. His cheek is flushed with hope, and a radiant
expectation, founded on experience, which seems to illuminate and gild
his future destiny. Marvellous, indeed, are the influences of a true
song; and while they are rare, they are by fashion rarely appreciated.
In it are embodied the best thoughts in the best language. By it the
best of every class in every clime are swayed. In it they find
expression for sensations, which, but for the poet, might have slumbered
unexpressed till the day of doom.
Whether we think of Charles Mackay as a journalist, as a novelist, as a
poet, or as a musician, he wins our admiration in all. Possessing, as he
does in a high degree, a fine imagination, allied to the kindliest
feelings springing from a sensitive and considerate heart, he is beloved
by his friends, and cares little for the vulgar admiration of the
crowd. The pomp, and circumstance, and self-exaltation, so current
now-a-days, he utterly despises. But the kindliness, the glowing
sympathies of a few kindred spirits gladden him and make him happy.
Though modest and retiring in his disposition, he has no shamefacedness.
His conversation is like his verse; there is neither tinsel nor glitter,
but genuine, solid stuff. Something that bears examination; something
you can take up and handle; something to brood over and reflect upon;
something that wins its way by its truthfulness, and compels you to
accept it as a principle; something that sticks close, and springs up in
the future a very fountain of pure and unadulterated joy; from all this
it will be inferred that no man can remain long in his company without
feeling that he is not only a wiser, but a better man for the privilege
enjoyed. He is still in the prime of life and the maturity of his
intellect. May we not, in concluding this slight notice of his life and
character, express a hope which we know to be a general one--that he may
yet live to write many more poems and many more songs, as good or better
than those which he has already given to the world?
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The present Memoir has been prepared, at our request, by Francis
Bennoch, Esq.
LOVE AWEARY OF THE WORLD.
Oh! my love is very lovely,
In her mind all beauties dwell;
She, robed in living splendour,
Grace and modesty attend her,
And I love her more than well.
But I 'm weary, weary, weary,
To despair my soul is hurl'd;
I am weary, weary, weary,
I am weary of the world!
She is kind to all about her,
For her heart is pity's throne;
She has smiles for all men's gladness,
She has tears for every sadness,
She is hard to me alone.
And I 'm weary, weary, weary,
From a love-lit summit hurl'd;
I am weary, weary, weary,
I am weary of the world!
When my words are words of wisdom
All her spirit I can move,
At my wit her eyes will glisten,
But she flies and will not listen
If I dare to speak of love.
Oh! I 'm weary, weary, weary,
By a storm of passions whirl'd;
I am weary, weary, weary,
I am weary of the world!
True, that there are others fairer--
Fairer?--No, that cannot be--
Yet some maids of equal beauty,
High in soul and firm in duty,
May have kinder hearts than she.
Why, by heart, so weary, weary,
To and fro by passion whirl'd?--
Why so weary, weary, weary,
Why so weary of the world?
Were my love but passing fancy,
To another I might turn;
But I 'm doom'd to love unduly
One who will not answer truly,
And who freezes when I burn.
And I 'm weary, weary, weary,
To despair my soul is hurl'd;
I am weary, weary, weary,
I am weary of the world!
THE LOVER'S SECOND THOUGHTS ON WORLD WEARINESS.
Heart! take courage! 'tis not worthy
For a woman's scorn to pine,
If her cold indifference wound thee,
There are remedies around thee
For such malady as thine.
Be no longer weary, weary,
From thy love-lit summits hurl'd;
Be no longer weary, weary,
Weary, weary of the world!
If thou must be loved by woman,
Seek again--the world is wide;
It is full of loving creatures,
Fair in form, and mind, and features--
Choose among them for thy bride.
Be no longer weary, weary,
To and fro by passion whirl'd;
Be no longer weary, weary,
Weary, weary of the world!
Or if Love should lose thy favour,
Try the paths of honest fame,
Climb Parnassus' summit hoary,
Carve thy way by deeds of glory,
Write on History's page thy name.
Be no longer weary, weary,
To the depth of sorrow hurl'd;
Be no longer weary, weary,
Weary, weary of the world!
Or if these shall fail to move thee,
Be the phantoms unpursued,
Try a charm that will not fail thee
When old age and grief assail thee--
Try the charm of doing good.
Be no longer weak and weary,
By the storms of passion whirl'd;
Be no longer weary, weary,
Weary, weary of the world!
Love is fleeting and uncertain,
And can bate where it adored,
Chase of glory wears the spirit,
Fame not always follows merit,
Goodness is its own reward.
Be no longer weary, weary,
From thine happy summit hurl'd;
Be no longer weary, weary,
Weary, weary of the world!
A CANDID WOOING.
I cannot give thee all my heart,
Lady, lady,
My faith and country claim a part,
My sweet lady;
But yet I 'll pledge thee word of mine
That all the rest is truly thine;--
The raving passion of a boy,
Warm though it be, will quickly cloy--
Confide thou rather in the man
Who vows to love thee all he can,
My sweet lady.
Affection, founded on respect,
Lady, lady,
Can never dwindle to neglect,
My sweet lady;
And, while thy gentle virtues live,
Such is the love that I will give.
The torrent leaves its channel dry,
The brook runs on incessantly;
The storm of passion lasts a day,
But deep, true love endures alway,
My sweet lady.
Accept then a divided heart,
Lady, lady,
_Faith_, _Friendship_, _Honour_, each have part,
My sweet lady.
While at one altar we adore,
_Faith_ shall but make us love the more;
And _Friendship_, true to all beside,
Will ne'er be fickle to a bride;
And _Honour_, based on manly truth,
Shall love in age as well as youth,
My sweet lady.
PROCRASTINATIONS.
If Fortune with a smiling face
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up?
To-day, my love, to-day.
But should she frown with face of care,
And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve--if grieve we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
If those who 've wrong'd us own their faults
And kindly pity pray,
When shall we listen and forgive?
To-day, my love, to-day.
But if stern Justice urge rebuke,
And warmth from memory borrow,
When shall we chide--if chide we dare?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
If those to whom we owe a debt
Are harm'd unless we pay,
When shall we struggle to be just?
To-day, my love, to-day.
But if our debtor fail our hope,
And plead his ruin thorough,
When shall we weigh his breach of faith?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
If Love, estranged, should once again
His genial smile display,
When shall we kiss his proffer'd lips?
To-day, my love, to-day,
But, if he would indulge regret,
Or dwell with bygone sorrow,
When shall we weep--if weep we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
For virtuous acts and harmless joys
The minutes will not stay;
We 've always time to welcome them
To-day, my love, to-day.
But care, resentment, angry words,
And unavailing sorrow
Come far too soon, if they appear
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.
REMEMBRANCES OF NATURE.
I remember the time, thou roaring sea,
When thy voice was the voice of Infinity--
A joy, and a dread, and a mystery.
I remember the time, ye young May flowers,
When your odours and hues in the fields and bowers
Fell on my soul as on grass the showers.
I remember the time, thou blustering wind,
When thy voice in the woods, to my youthful mind,
Seem'd the sigh of the earth for human kind.
I remember the time, ye suns and stars,
When ye raised my soul from its mortal bars
And bore it through heaven on your golden cars.
And has it then vanish'd, that happy time?
Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime
Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime?
Ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain,
When the world and its facts oppress my brain,
In the world of spirit I rove--I reign.
I feel a deep and a pure delight
In the luxuries of sound and sight--
In the opening day, in the closing night.
The voices of youth go with me still,
Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill,
In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill.
Every flower is a lover of mine,
Every star is a friend divine:
For me they blossom, for me they shine.
To give me joy the oceans roll,
They breathe their secrets to my soul,
With me they sing, with me condole.
Man cannot harm me if he would,
I have such friends for my every mood
In the overflowing solitude.
Fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir
To put disunion or hate of her
'Twixt Nature and her worshipper.
Sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies!
Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes!
Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries!
Sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod!
Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod!
Ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of God.
BELIEVE IF YOU CAN.
_Music by the Author._
Hope cannot cheat us,
Or Fancy betray;
Tempests ne'er scatter
The blossoms of May;
The wild winds are constant,
By method and plan;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!
Young Love, who shews us
His midsummer light,
Spreads the same halo
O'er Winter's dark night;
And Fame never dazzles
To lure and trepan;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!
Friends of the sunshine
Endure in the storm;
Never they promise
And fail to perform.
And the night ever ends
As the morning began;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!
Words softly spoken
No guile ever bore;
Peaches ne'er harbour
A worm at the core;
And the ground never slipp'd
Under high-reaching man;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can!
Seas undeceitful,
Calm smiling at morn,
Wreck not ere midnight
The sailor forlorn.
And gold makes a bridge
Every evil to span;
Oh! believe me, believe me,
Believe if you can.
OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED!
_Air by Sir H. R. Bishop._
Oh, the happy time departed!
In its smile the world was fair;
We believed in all men's goodness;
Joy and hope were gems to wear;
Angel visitants were with us,
There was music in the air.
Oh, the happy time departed!
Change came o'er it all too soon;
In a cold and drear November
Died the leafy wealth of June;
Winter kill'd our summer roses;
Discord marr'd a heavenly tune.
Let them pass--the days departed--
What befell may ne'er befall;
Why should we with vain lamenting
Seek a shadow to recall?
Great the sorrows we have suffer'd--
Hope is greater than them all.
COME BACK! COME BACK!
Come back! come back! thou youthful Time,
When joy and innocence were ours,
When life was in its vernal prime,
And redolent of sweets and flowers.
Come back--and let us roam once more,
Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways,
And gather garlands as of yore--
Come back--come back--ye happy days!
Come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then
To cherish faith in love and truth,
For nothing in dispraise of men
Had sour'd the temper of our youth.
Come back--and let us still believe
The gorgeous dream romance displays,
Nor trust the tale that men deceive--
Come back--come back--ye happy days!
Come back!--oh, freshness of the past,
When every face seem'd fair and kind,
When sunward every eye was cast,
And all the shadows fell behind.
Come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn
Their own Decembers into Mays;
The secret be it ours to learn--
Come back--come back--ye happy days!
TEARS.
_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._
O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,
Ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow;
I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring,
And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.
O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;
Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun;
The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,
And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.
O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,
I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.
Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,
And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.
O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain;
The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;
Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand,
It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.
There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,
And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.
Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago--
O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.
CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!
Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow;
Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!
Hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow--
Let us forget the darkness of to-day!
So farewell, England! much as we may love thee,
We 'll dry the tears that we have shed before;
Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?
So farewell, England! farewell evermore!
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand;
Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour,
Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!
Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing,
To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast;
The world shall follow in the track we 're going,
The star of empire glitters in the west.
Here we had toil and little to reward it,
But there shall plenty smile upon our pain;
And ours shall be the mountain and the forest,
And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain.
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!
Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand!
Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour,
Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!
MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.
_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._
Mourn for the mighty dead,
Mourn for the spirit fled,
Mourn for the lofty head--
Low in the grave.
Tears such as nations weep
Hallow the hero's sleep;
Calm be his rest, and deep--
Arthur the brave!
Nobly his work was done;
England's most glorious son,
True-hearted Wellington,
Shield of our laws.
Ever in peril's night
Heaven send such arm of might--
Guardian of truth and right--
Raised in their cause!
Dried be the tears that fall;
Love bears the warrior's pall,
Fame shall his deeds recall--
Britain's right hand!
Bright shall his memory be!
Star of supremacy!
Banner of victory!
Pride of our land.
A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.
_Music by the Author._
I 've a guinea I can spend,
I 've a wife, and I 've a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I 've a cottage of my own,
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.
I love the song of birds,
And the children's early words,
And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.
I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But ever when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown,
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for human kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.
So, if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I 've parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I 've a hundred pounds a-year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.
THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.
_Music by the Author._
No one knows what silent secrets
Quiver from thy tender leaves;
No one knows what thoughts between us
Pass in dewy moonlight eves.
Roving memories and fancies,
Travellers upon Thought's deep sea,
Haunt the gay time of our May-time,
O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!
Lovely was she, bright as sunlight,
Pure and kind, and good and fair,
When she laugh'd the ringing music
Rippled through the summer air.
"If you love me--shake the blossoms!"
Thus I said, too bold and free;
Down they came in showers of beauty,
Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!
Sitting on the grass, the maiden
Vow'd the vow to love me well;
Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly,
No one but myself can tell.
Widely spreads the smiling woodland,
Elm and beech are fair to see;
But thy charms they cannot equal,
O thou happy hawthorn-tree!
A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.
From the deep and troubled waters
Comes the cry;
Wild are the waves around me--
Dark the sky:
There is no hand to pluck me
From the sad death I die.
To one small plank, that fails me,
Clinging low,
I am dash'd by angry billows
To and fro;
I hear death-anthems ringing
In all the winds that blow.
A cry of suffering gushes
From my lips
As I behold the distant
White-sail'd ships
O'er the white waters gleaming
Where the horizon dips.
They pass; they are too lofty
And remote,
They cannot see the spaces
Where I float.
The last hope dies within me,
With the gasping in my throat.
Through dim cloud-vistas looking,
I can see
The new moon's crescent sailing
Pallidly:
And one star coldly shining
Upon my misery.
There are no sounds in nature
But my moan,
The shriek of the wild petrel
All alone,
And roar of waves exulting
To make my flesh their own.
Billow with billow rages,
Tempest trod;
Strength fails me; coldness gathers
On this clod;
From the deep and troubled waters
I cry to _Thee_, my God!
THE RETURN HOME.
The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds,
And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds;
The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky,
And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,--
And faintly stealing,
Booming, pealing,
Chime from the city the echoing bells;
And louder, clearer,
Softer, nearer,
Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells;
And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.
How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain,
In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again,
Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn,
And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn;
And 'mid the wild wood,
Dear to childhood,
Gather'd the berries that grew by the way;
But all our gladness
Died in sadness,
Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;--
But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past--
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.
We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now
With a deeper emotion than words can avow;
Wherever in absence our feet might delay,
We had never a joy like the joy of to-day;
And home returning,
Fondly yearning,
Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore--
England! England!
Beautiful England!
Peace be around thee, and joy evermore!
And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.
THE MEN OF THE NORTH.
Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud
Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud;
Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West
May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast;
The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,
In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm:
Fair though they be,
There 's an isle in the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth--
The lords of the world are the Men of the North!
Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes;
Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do--
Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!"
Winter and storm only nerve us the more,
And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door:
Strong shall we be
In our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth,
We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!
Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,
In the face of the slave and the coward may shine;
Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,
And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.
Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,
Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil:
Proud let us be
Of our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth--
Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!
THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.
I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp
Untouch'd by mortal hand,
And I the voiceless, sweet west wind,
A roamer through the land.
I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings,
And lo! my common air,
Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee,
And turn'd to music rare.
I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom,
And I the gale of spring,
That sought the odours of thy breath,
And bore them on my wing.
No poorer thou, but richer I--
So rich, that far at sea,
The grateful mariners were glad,
And bless'd both thee and me.
I dream'd thou wert the evening star,
And I a lake at rest,
That saw thine image all the night
Reflected on my breast.
Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth!
Be Harp and Rose of May;--
I need thy music in my heart,
Thy fragrance on my way.
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.
Archibald Crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit,
was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was
placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With no
greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given
to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of
literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the
works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best
translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned
to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of
Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In
honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness
during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "Bonnie Mary
Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become
extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of
Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period
he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the
Honourable East India Company, which, however, he respectfully declined.
In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with
less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of
the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this
business for that of auctioneer and general merchant.
The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up,
and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every
opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite
studies. With the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however
seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled
"St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This
composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in
vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was
attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the
printer. To the columns of the _Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier_ he now
began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the
West of Scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with
the title, "Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by
subscription. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were
published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable and Co.; but the
subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the
profits of the sale. Crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next
started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled _The Correspondent_, but the
publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar
periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under
his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly
contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a
weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on
the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty,
social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as
a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong
intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second
son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.
BONNIE MARY HAY.
Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet,
For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet;
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek;
O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.
Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me,
When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree;
To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den,
And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?
Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me,
When thou art couthie, kind, and free;
There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky,
My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.
Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay,
But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae;
But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true,
How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.
SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!
Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains,
Are famous in story--the birth-place of song;
Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest,
Well may thy pilgrims long for their home.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!
Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes
To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave;
Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime,
For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!
GEORGE DONALD.
George Donald was born at Glasgow on the 19th January 1800. His parents
being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory
so early as his eighth year. A limited attendance at school he
supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. He
began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth
year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the
Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of
extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of
satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading
dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most
unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to
engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of
young children without any means of support, he became a reckless
wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the
expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady;
and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of
sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon
returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he
supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He
contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in
America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of
the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently
printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was
fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the
_Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor.
After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of
Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for
the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson
of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he
composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five
books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a
sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life,
he died in Christian hope.
THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.
AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_
The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,
And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,
While furthy autumn plenty breathes,
And blessings in abundance showers.
E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,
Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,
But there's a season worth them a',
And that's the spring-time o' the year.
In spring the farmer ploughs the field
That yet will wave wi' yellow corn,
In spring the birdie bigs its bield
In foggy bank or budding thorn;
The burn and brae, the hill and dell,
A song of hope are heard to sing,
And summer, autumn, winter, tell,
Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.
Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life,
When seed is sown wi' care and toil,
And hopes are high, and fears are rife,
Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.
I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,
By precept and example baith,
And may the hand that guides us here
Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!
But soon the time may come when you
Shall miss a mother's tender care,
A sinfu' world to wander through,
Wi' a' its stormy strife to share;
Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang,
Let fortune smile or thrawart be,
Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang--
If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.
THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.
AIR--_"There grows a bonnie brier bush."_
Come see my scarlet rose-bush
My father gied to me,
That's growing in our window-sill
Sae fresh and bonnilie;
I wadna gie my rose-bush
For a' the flowers I see,
Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd,
Sae dear it is to me.
I set it in the best o' mould
Ta'en frae the moudie's hill,
And covered a' the yird wi' moss
I gather'd on the hill;
I saw the blue-bell blooming,
And the gowan wat wi' dew,
But my heart was on my rose-bush set,
I left them where they grew.
I water 't ilka morning
Wi' meikle pride and care,
And no a wither'd leaf I leave
Upon its branches fair;
Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,
And four are on the stem,
Three rosebuds and six roses blawn--
'Tis just a perfect gem!
Come, see my bonnie, blooming bush
My father gied to me,
Wi' roses to the very top,
And branches like a tree.
It grows upon our window-sill,
I watch it tentilie;
O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bush
For a' the flowers I see.
HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.
Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His
mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart.
He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in
Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied
at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his
commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary
pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of
Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions
have since appeared. About the same time he established the _Edinburgh
Literary Journal_, which he conducted for several years with much
acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old
Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and
Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are
out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and
associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has
resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of
Lanarkshire.
MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE.
Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone,
Remember days of bliss gone by?
Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone,
E'er for our distant streamlets sigh?
Beneath thy own glad sun and sky,
Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me?
She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply,
"My life is one long thought of thee."
Sweet girl! I would not have it so;
My destiny must not be thine,
For wildly as the wild waves flow,
Will pass this fleeting life of mine.
"And let thy fate be weal or woe,
My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free;
And well the watchful angels know
My life is one long thought of thee."
Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers
Be with me in my hour of need,
When round me throng the cold world's cares,
And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed!
"Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed?
For full of joy thy years shall be;
And mine shall share the blissful meed,
For life is one long thought of thee."
WHY IS MY SPIRIT SAD?
Why is my spirit sad?
Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year,
With something that it used to hold more dear
Than aught that now remains;
Because the past, like a receding sail,
Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale
O'er vacant waters reigns!
Why is my spirit sad?
Because no more within my soul there dwell
Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell
With innocent delight;
Because I am aweary of the strife
That with hot fever taints the springs of life,
Making the day seem night!
Why is my spirit sad?
Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,
Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread--
The paths of young romance;
Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,
Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes--
The Eden of their glance.
Why is my spirit sad?
Have not the beautiful been ta'en away--
Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay--
Wither'd in root and stem?
I see that others, in whose looks are lit
The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,
But not--but not like them!
I would not be less sad;
My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow
The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;
The present is around me;
Would that the future were both come and gone,
And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,
Crush'd feelings could not wound me!
GEORDIE YOUNG.
I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
I 'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.
What ails ye at the minister?--
A douce and sober lad;
I trow it is na every day
That siclike can be had.
I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;
I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.
Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee--
Ye needna look sae scared--
For wha kens but at Holylee
Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?
I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.
Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It 's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!
He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,
For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.
The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above,
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?
Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gate
That Geordie Young comes by!
His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.
MY FAIRY ELLEN.
Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where
Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming?
Is it on some rich bank of flowers
Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?
Or is it on yonder silver lake
Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling?
Or is it among those ancient trees
Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?
Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,
The best of my beams are for ever dwelling
In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,
And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.
Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how
Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning,
When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,
And violets wild each glade adorning?
Is it in kissing the glittering stream,
O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?
Is it in sipping the nectar that lies
In the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling?
Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,
His voice with a musical melody swelling,
All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play
That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.
White little lily! pray tell me when
Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee?
Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,
And all the boys and butterflies know thee;
Is it at dawn or at sunset hour
That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?
One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,
Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?
Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,
My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,
To live in the sight, and to die on the breast
Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.
Oh! would that I were the moon myself,
Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;
Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem
Slily around that dear neck wreathing!
Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,
Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,
My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,
For merely the smallest of all her kisses!
And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!
I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,
Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both
In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!
A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.
They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,
They 're going one by one;
They 're taking wives to tame their lives,
Their jovial days are done;
I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree;
They've all grown grave, domestic men,
They look askance on me.
I hate to see them sober'd down,
The merry boys and true,
I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew;
I care not for their married cheer,
Their puddings and their soups,
And middle-aged relations round,
In formidable groups.
And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face,
And at the table's upper end
Conduct herself with grace,
I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
The caution and the state,
I hate to see my friend grow vain
Of furniture and plate.
Oh, give me back the days again,
When we have wander'd free,
And stole the dew from every flower,
The fruit from every tree;
The friends I loved they will not come,
They've all deserted me;
They sit at home and toast their toes,
Look stupid and sip tea.
Alas! alas! for years gone by,
And for the friends I've lost;
When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chill'd by early frost.
If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door,
Unless he quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.
WILLIAM BENNET.
William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of
Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while
apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth
year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and
led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular
contributor to the _Dumfries Courier_, edited by the ingenious John
M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _Dumfries
Magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In
December 1826, he became editor of the _Glasgow Free Press_, which
supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill
struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from
the Whig party, and established the _Glasgow Constitutional_, the
editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a
periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write
verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title,
"Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish
Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;"
and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of
Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.
Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in
Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and
has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is
understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.
BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.
Blest be the hour of night,
When, his toils over,
The swain, with a heart so light,
Meets with his lover!
Sweet the moon gilds their path,
Arm in arm straying;
Clouds never rise in wrath,
Chiding their staying.
Gently they whisper low:
Unseen beside them,
Good angels watch, that no
Ill may betide them.
Silence is everywhere,
Save when the sighing
Is heard, of the breeze's fall,
Fitfully dying.
How the maid's bosom glows,
While her swain 's telling
The love, that 's been long, she knows,
In his heart swelling!
How, when his arms are thrown
Tenderly round her,
Fears she, in words to own
What he hath found her!
When the first peep of dawn
Warns them of parting,
And from each dewy lawn
Blythe birds are starting,
Fondly she hears her swain
Vow, though they sever,
Soon they shall meet again,
Mated for ever.
THE ROSE OF BEAUTY.
Amang the breezy heights and howes
Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly,
A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,
A Rose I lo'e most dearly.
Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun
How blooms my Rose divinely!
And lang ere blaws the winter wun',
This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.
May heaven's dew aye freshly weet
My Rose at ilka gloamin',
And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet
Be near it ever roamin'!
I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,
And hae my Rose brought thither;
And then, in that lowne sunny spot,
We'll bloom and fade thegither.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] A beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the Annan,
between Ecclefechan and Lockerbie.
I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE.
I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark
Hath borne thee far across the deep;
And, as the sky is bright or dark,
'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;
For oh, when winds and waters keep
In trust so dear a charge as thee,
My anxious fears can never sleep
Till thou again art safe with me!
I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour
Of twilight comes, with pensive mood,
And silence, like a spell of power,
Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;
And as the mingling shadows brood
Still closer o'er the lonely sea,
Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,
I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.
Then haply on the breeze's wing,
That to me steals across the wave,
Some angel's voice may answer bring
That list'ning heaven consents to save.
And oh, the further boon I crave
Perchance may also granted be,
That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave
The wanderer's perils on the sea!
THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.
There 's music in a mother's voice,
More sweet than breezes sighing;
There 's kindness in a mother's glance,
Too pure for ever dying.
There 's love within a mother's breast,
So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,
And for her own a tender care,
That 's ever, ever growing.
And when a mother kneels to heaven,
And for her child is praying,
Oh, who shall half the fervour tell
That burns in all she 's saying!
A mother, when she, like a star,
Sets into heaven before us,
From that bright home of love, all pure,
Still minds and watches o'er us.
THE BRIG OF ALLAN.
Come, memory, paint, though far away,
The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,
The upland wood, the hill-top gray,
Whereon the sky seems fallin';
Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row
Of shelter'd cots, the woods below,
Where Airthrie's healing waters flow
By bonny Brig of Allan.
Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,
The Roman eagles could not climb,
And Stirling, crown'd in after time
With Royalty's proud dwallin';
These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,
Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,
Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep
At bonny Brig of Allan.
Oh, lovely, when the rising sun
Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,
And silver Forth's calm breast upon
The golden beams are fallin'!
Then, trotting down to join his flood,
Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,
How bright, in morning's joyous mood,
Appears the stream of Allan!
Upon its banks how sweet to stray,
With rod and line, the livelong day,
Or trace each rural charm, away
From cark of every callin'!
There dove-like, o'er my path would brood
The spirit pure of solitude;
For native each rapt, genial mood
Is to the beauteous Allan.
Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright
As is its cloudless summer light,
Be still its maids, the soul's delight
Of every truthful callan'!
Be health around it ever spread,
To light the eye, to lift the head,
And joy on every heart be shed
That beats by Brig of Allan!
GEORGE OUTRAM.
The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed
for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of
Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and
manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish
bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an
orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber
counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _Glasgow Herald_,
and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of
his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the
16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred
in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.
Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a
limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth
and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was
especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which
are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General
Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.
CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY.[7]
AIR--_"Duncan Davidson."_
I gaed to spend a week in Fife,
An unco week it proved to be,
For there I met a waesome wife,
Lamenting her viduity.
Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell;
And, I was sae left to mysel,
I sell't her an annuity.
The bargain lookit fair eneugh,
She just was turned o' saxty-three;
I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh
By human ingenuity.
But years have come, and years have gane,
And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane;
The auld wife 's growing young again
Since she got her annuity.
She 's crined awa to bane an' skin,
But that it seems is nought to me;
She 's like to live, although she 's in
The last stage o' tenuity.
She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,
An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,
But comes--as sure as Christmas comes--
To ca' for her annuity.
She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,
As spunkie as a growin' flea;
An' there she sits upon my back
A livin' perpetuity.
She hurkles by her ingle side,
An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide;
Lord kens how lang she yet may bide
To ca' for her annuity.
I read the tables drawn wi' care
For an Insurance Company;
Her chance o' life was stated there
Wi' perfect perspicuity.
But tables here, or tables there,
She 's lived ten years beyond her share;
An 's like to live a dozen mair
To ca' for her annuity.
I gat the loon that drew the deed,
We spell'd it ower richt carefully;
In vain he yerk'd his souple head
To find an ambiguity.
It 's dated, tested, a' complete;
The proper stamp, nae word delete;
And diligence, as on decreet,
May pass for her annuity.
* * * * *
I thought that grief might gar her quit,
Her only son was lost at sea;
But aff her wits behuved to flit
An' leave her in fatuity.
She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet
For a' the tellin' she can get;
But catch the doited wife forget
To ca' for her annuity.
If there 's a sough o' cholera
Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she!
She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',
In siccan superfluity!
She doesna need--she's fever proof--
The pest walked o'er her very roof;
She tauld me sae, and then her loof
Held out for her annuity.
Ae day she fell, her arm she brak,
A compound fracture as could be;
Nae leech the cure wad undertak,
Whate'er was the gratuity.
It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail,
It does as weel in bits as hale;
But I 'm a broken man mysel'
Wi' her and her annuity.
Her broozled flesh and broken banes
Are weel as flesh and banes can be,
She beats the taeds that live in stanes
An' fatten in vacuity!
They die when they 're exposed to air,
They canna thole the atmosphere;
But her! expose her onywhere,
She lives for her annuity.
* * * * *
The water-drap wears out the rock
As this eternal jade wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.
It 's pay me here, an' pay me there,
An' pay me, pay me evermair;
I 'll gang demented wi' despair;
I 'm _charged_ for her annuity.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] This facetious composition, in the original form, extends to
considerably greater length.
HENRY INGLIS.
Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and
was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were
spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire.
Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the
High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the
close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal
pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published
"Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work,
entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr
Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of
the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.
The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr
Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on
the field of Preston in 1745.
WEEP AWAY.
Weep away, heart, weep away!
Let no muleteer
Be afraid
To weep; for a brave heart may
Lament for a dear,
Fickle maid.
The lofty sky weeps in cloud,
The earth weeps in dews
From its core;
The diamond brooks weep aloud,
The flowers change the hues
Which they wore.
The grass mourns in the sunbeam,
In gums weep the trees
And in dye;
And if mourn meadow and stream--
Inanimate these--
May not I?
The wood-pigeon mourns his mate,
The caged birds bewail
Freedom gone;
Shall not man mourn over fate?
Dumb sorrow assail
Him alone?
Then weep on, heart, weep away!
Let no muleteer
Be afraid
To weep; for a brave heart may
Lament for a dear,
Fickle maid.
JAMES MANSON.
James Manson, one of the conductors of the _Glasgow Herald_, has
composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr
Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year
1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he
wrought industriously during a course of years.
OCEAN.
_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._
ON SHORE--CALM.
Summer Ocean,
Placid Ocean,
Soft and sweet thy lullaby;
Shadows lightly,
Sunbeams brightly,
Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.
Resting gently on thy bosom,
Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings,
While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom,
Float around the strain the skylark sings.
Love's emotion,
Summer Ocean,
Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies,
Glances brightly,
Dances lightly
Till the fond illusion flies.
AT SEA--STORM.
Winter Ocean,
Furious Ocean,
Fierce and loud thy choral lay:
Storm-clouds soaring,
Whirlwinds roaring
O'er thy breast in madness play.
Homeless petrels shriek their omen
Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar;
Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen
Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.
War's commotion,
Winter Ocean,
Like thyself, when tempest driven,
By passion hurl'd,
Would wreck the world,
And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.
THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.
_Set to Music by Herr Kuecken._
When loud the horn is sounding
Along the distant hills,
Then would I rove, ne'er weary,
The Hunter's Daughter near me,
By flowery margin'd rills.
'Mid stately pines embosom'd
There stands the Hunter's cot,
From which this maiden daily
At morning peeps so gaily,
Contented with her lot.
This Hunter and his Daughter
Make everything their prey;
He slays the wild roe bounding,
Her eyes young hearts are wounding--
No shafts so sure as they!
AN INVITATION.
_Music arranged by Julius Siligmann._
The skylark sings his matin lay,
The waking flowers at dawning day,
With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come!
Oh, haste, Love, come with me,
To the wild wood come with me.
Hark, the wing'd warblers singing,
Come with me;
Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging,
Wait for thee!
The sunlight sleeps upon the lea,
And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea,
The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come!
Oh, haste, Love, come with me,
To the wild wood come with me--
Come and gather luscious berries,
Come with me;
Clustering grapes and melting cherries
Wait for thee!
My bird of love, my beauteous flower,
Come, reign the queen of yonder bower,
'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come!
Oh, haste, then, come with me,
To the wild wood come with me.
Life's first fairest hours are fleeting--
Come with me;
Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting
Wait for thee!
CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.
_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._
Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose,
(_Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._)
With fond delight his bosom glows,
(_How softly fall the flakes of snow._)
Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips
Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips,
Then nearer to the Rose he trips;
(_The stately oak will soon lie low._)
Young Love was fond and bashful too,
(_Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._)
He sigh'd and knew not what to do;
(_Life like an arrow flies away._)
Then whispering low his cherish'd wish,
The Rose-bud trembled on her bush,
While redder grew her maiden blush;
(_Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._)
To pull this Rose young Love then tried;
(_'Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._)
Her blush of hope she strove to hide;
(_Joy soars aloft on painted wing._)
Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast,
He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd
Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest;
(_'Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._)
ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.
TUNE--_"The Brave Old Oak."_
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,
And joyous songs abound;
Our log burns high, but it glows less bright
Than the eyes which sparkle round.
The merry laugh, and the jocund tale,
And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe,
Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale
That wreaths the new fallen snow.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,
And joyous thoughts abound;
The log burns high, but it glows less bright
Than the eyes which sparkle round.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire
Forgets his weight of years;
He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire
Beams through his unbidden tears.
With tremulous tenor he joins the strain--
The song of his manhood's prime;
For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again,
While his aged head nods time.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart
Beats high with a new delight,
And youths and maidens, with guileless art,
Make merry the livelong night.
The time flies on with gladsome cheer,
And welcomes pass around--
'Tis the warmest night of all the year,
Though winter hath chain'd the ground.
'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.
JAMES HEDDERWICK.
James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_, was
born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same
Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early
age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his
father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than
mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and
occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to
sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London,
in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London
University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than
twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the
_Scotsman_ newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political
writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those
lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his
personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the
_Scotsman_, were copied into _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_, and have
since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these,
entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a
writer in _Fraser's Magazine_. Others have found their way, in an
anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry."
In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the
_Glasgow Citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an
honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at
a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading
individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick
little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in
Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the
Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844
he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for
general circulation.
MY BARK AT SEA.
Away, away, like a child at play,
Like a living ocean-child,
Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way
To the billows' music wild;
The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,
And the waves around her leap,
As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,
She dances o'er the deep!
Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,
She lies with folded wing,
But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,
She moves a joyous thing!
And away she flies all gleaming bright,
While a wave in lofty pride,
Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,
Is bounding by her side!
For her glorious path the sea she hath,
And she wanders bold and free,
And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath
Are her mighty minstrelsy!
A queen the crested waves among,
A light and graceful form,
She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,
Like the genius of the storm!
SORROW AND SONG.
Weep not over poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song,
And of gentle fancies.
Rills o'er rocky beds are borne
Ere they gush in whiteness;
Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn
Ere they shew their brightness.
Sweetest gleam the morning flowers
When in tears they waken;
Earth enjoys refreshing showers
When the boughs are shaken.
Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought
In its deepest waters;
From the darkest mines are brought
Gems for beauty's daughters.
Through the rent and shiver'd rock
Limpid water breaketh;
'Tis but when the chords are struck
That their music waketh.
Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,
All their sweets surrender;
Gold must brook the fiery test
Ere it shew its splendour.
When the twilight, cold and damp,
Gloom and silence bringeth,
Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,
And the night-bird singeth.
Stars come forth when Night her shroud
Draws as Daylight fainteth;
Only on the tearful cloud
God his rainbow painteth.
Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,
Mourn not his mischances;
Sorrow is the source of song
And of gentle fancies.
THE LAND FOR ME.
I 've been upon the moonlit deep
When the wind had died away,
And like an Ocean-god asleep
The bark majestic lay;
But lovelier is the varied scene,
The hill, the lake, the tree,
When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen;
The land! the land! for me.
The glancing waves I 've glided o'er
When gently blew the breeze;
But sweeter was the distant shore,
The zephyr 'mong the trees.
The murmur of the mountain rill,
The blossoms waving free,
The song of birds on every hill;
The land! the land! for me.
The billows I have been among
When they roll'd in mountains dark,
And Night her blackest curtain hung
Around our heaving bark;
But give me, when the storm is fierce,
My home and fireside glee,
Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce;
The land! the land! for me.
And when around the lightning flash'd
I 've been upon the deep,
And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd
Adown the liquid steep;
But now that I am safe on shore,
There let me ever be;
The sea let others wander o'er;
The land! the land! for me.
THE EMIGRANTS.
The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary,
And eerie the face of the fast-falling night,
But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery
With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.
When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!
We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;
Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish
The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.
Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,
Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell;
From kindred and friends they had parted for ever,
But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.
We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;
We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers,
But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking,
A past of delight and a future of tears.
And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,
On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell,
Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas,
And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.
More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,
As we shut out the night and its darkness once more;
But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy,
Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.
So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender,
Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea,
Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,
To gild the far land where their homes were to be.
In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,
Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep!
But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming,
And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.
And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever,
A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell;
'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river,
And startling the night with their cries of farewell.
FIRST GRIEF.
They tell me first and early love
Outlives all after dreams;
But the memory of a first great grief
To me more lasting seems;
The grief that marks our dawning youth
To memory ever clings,
And o'er the path of future years
A lengthen'd shadow flings.
Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour
When to my father's home
Death came--an uninvited guest--
From his dwelling in the tomb!
I had not seen his face before,
I shudder'd at the sight,
And I shudder still to think upon
The anguish of that night!
A youthful brow and ruddy cheek
Became all cold and wan;
An eye grew dim in which the light
Of radiant fancy shone.
Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,
The eye was fix'd and dim;
And one there mourn'd a brother dead
Who would have died for him!
I know not if 'twas summer then,
I know not if 'twas spring,
But if the birds sang on the trees
I did not hear them sing!
If flowers came forth to deck the earth
Their bloom I did not see;
I look'd upon one wither'd flower,
And none else bloom'd for me!
A sad and silent time it was
Within that house of woe,
All eyes were dull and overcast,
And every voice was low!
And from each cheek at intervals
The blood appear'd to start,
As if recall'd in sudden haste
To aid the sinking heart!
Softly we trod, as if afraid
To mar the sleeper's sleep,
And stole last looks of his pale face
For memory to keep!
With him the agony was o'er,
And now the pain was ours,
As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose
Like odour from dead flowers!
And when at last he was borne afar
From the world's weary strife,
How oft in thought did we again
Live o'er his little life!
His every look--his every word--
His very voice's tone--
Came back to us like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!
The grief has pass'd with years away
And joy has been my lot;
But the one is oft remember'd,
And the other soon forgot.
The gayest hours trip lightest by,
And leave the faintest trace;
But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears
Time never can efface!
THE LINNET.
Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves;
Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat;
How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,
While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,
And the summer in the heavens is afloat!
Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings;
Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills!
In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,
As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,
Giving gladness to the music of the rills!
Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound;
Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day!
There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,
Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,
And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!
Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!
Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while?
Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,
To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,
Or waiting for her lover at the stile?
Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary?
Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows?
The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,
Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,
With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!
WILLIAM BROCKIE.
William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He
entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small
periodical, entitled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently
edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of
the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a
short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the
_Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from
impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy
at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in
fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety
of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem,
entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."
YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.
What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain?
I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.
There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie;
I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.
We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair;
Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare;
In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain,
An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.
We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung;
The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young;
An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind--
Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung.
Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share,
But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair;
Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part,
An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.
While we live for each other, our lot will be blest;
An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd;
We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien,
An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.
A couple that strive to be honest and fair
May be rich without siller, and guid without lear;
Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue,
Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.
ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.
Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall,
in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825,
at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.
THE LANG WINTER E'EN.
Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair;
The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare;
To the cot wee robin returns for a screen
Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.
But charms there are still, though nature has nane,
When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane,
Then round the fireside social hearts do convene,
And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.
O' warldly wealth I hae got little share,
Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care;
Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien',
To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.
The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear,
Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear,
But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean
In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.
THOMAS YOUNG.
The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems,"
a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas
Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven,
Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he
accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the
_Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change
occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he
remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable
appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to
proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with
an annual salary of L300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he
afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at
Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.
ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.
By Niagara's flood
Antoinette stood,
And watch'd the wild waves rush on,
As they leapt below
Into vapoury snow,
Or fell into flakes of foam.
The sun's last beams
Fell in golden gleams
On water and wave-girt isle,
And in tinge all fair
Dipp'd the girl's bright hair
And heighten'd her happy smile.
Away--away!
In wild ecstasy
She threads the abyss's brink,
Where waters--black--
Of the cataract
Into drifted snow-waves sink.
A father's eye
Looketh anxiously
On the freaks of his favour'd child,
Till her spirit appals
His soul, and he calls
"Antoinette" in accents wild.
A bolder heart
Loves the girl's free sport,
And he grasps her by the gown,
Then tosseth her high
In the twilight sky--
But, heavens! she falleth down!
She sinks in the wave;
He swimmeth to save!
Oh, never was mortal arm
More manfully braced,
As it grasps her slim waist,
And struggles in frantic alarm!
In vain does he strike--
The fresh waves break,
And the doom'd ones are downward borne!
Yet the swimmer's eye
Seemeth still to defy
The might of the merciless storm.
More loud than before
Is the cataract's roar,
And the furrow'd wave is bright
With many a pearl
From the shining swirl
Of the water's lucid light.
And down below
Is the woolly snow
Of Niagara's wrathful bed,
But the lip of the bold
Hath never told
The secrets that there lie hid.
A strong arm, press'd
Round a maiden's waist
On the doleful morrow is seen,
And her oozy hair
Laves his forehead bare
With the waft of the wavy stream.
ROBERT WILSON.
Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He
practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed
many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a
duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S.
His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of
France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on
subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at
Aberdour, Fifeshire.
AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.
Away, away, my gallant bark!
The waves are white and high;
And fast the long becalmed clouds
Are sailing in the sky.
The merry breeze which wafts them on,
And chafes the billow's spray,
Will urge thee in thy watery flight:
My gallant bark, away!
Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,
Are spread thy winged sails,
To soar above the mountain waves,
And scoop their glassy vales;
And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,
Thy azure journey o'er,
The shadow of thy folded wings
Upon the sunny shore.
Away, away, my gallant bark!
Across the billow's foam;
I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,
The quiet haunts of home;
The green fields of my fatherland
For many a stormy bay;
The blazing hearth for beacon-light:
My gallant bark, away!
LOVE.
What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!
Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,
Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,
That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.
And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,
Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;
And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,
And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.
With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,
And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;
And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,
And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.
And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;
But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?
Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,
And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.
EDWARD POLIN.
A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the
29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a
pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he
extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became
sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the
editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving
unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the
literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The
vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain
to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were
observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended
with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to
restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a
hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had
attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's
churchyard, Cripplegate, London.
A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of
speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was
intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his
MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to
the world.
A GOOD OLD SONG.
I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies,
And have revell'd amid their flowers;
I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,
And dream'd in Italian bowers,
While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime
Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears,
But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time
When my heart could respond with its tears.
Then sing me a song, a good old song--
Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand--
But a simple song, a good old song
Of my own dear fatherland.
I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay
All, all they would have me adore
Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say
Can be equall'd on earth never more.
And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,
Though they move not my heart through mine ears,
But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"
Can alone claim my tribute of tears.
I have come from a far and a foreign clime
To mine own loved haunts once more,
With a yearning for all of my childhood's time
And the dear home-sounds of yore;
And here, if there yet be love for me,
Oh, away with those stranger lays,
And now let my only welcome be
An old song of my boyhood's days.
ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.
Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie,
Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in
Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses,
and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on
business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise,
he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on
the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been
celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication,
entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS.
in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.
I WANDER'D ALANE.
AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_
I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',
The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';
The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',
A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;
Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,
While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,
An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',
Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.
I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',
An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,
I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'--
Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;
I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,
I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;
My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,
An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.
The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,
The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,
An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,
It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.
I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,
An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life--
For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me
As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.
Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,
Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;
Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me--
I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.
I wander me aften to break melancholy,
On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,
Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;
Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.
KATIE BLAIR.[8]
I 've met wi' mony maidens fair
In kintras far awa,
I 've met wi' mony here at hame,
Baith bonny dames an' braw;
But nane e'er had the power to charm
My love into a snare
Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e
An' smile o' Katie Blair.
She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,
Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,
Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves
While merrily they row.
They drouk the lily an' the rose,
An' mony flowerets fair,
Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet
As winsome Katie Blair.
She is a queen owre a' the flowers
O' garden an' o' lea--
Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is
Than a' their balms to me.
As licht to morn she's a' to me,
My bosom's only care;
An' worthy o' the truest love
Is winsome Katie Blair.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Printed from the Author's MS.
DAVID TAYLOR.
David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and
county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the
village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a
tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has
been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems
and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs.
Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.
MY AIN GUDEMAN.
O dear, dear to me
Is my ain gudeman,
For kindly, frank, an' free
Is my ain gudeman.
An' though thretty years ha'e fled,
An' five sin' we were wed,
Nae bitter words I 've had
Wi' my ain gudeman.
I 've had seven bonnie bairns
To my ain gudeman,
An' I 've nursed them i' their turns
For my ain gudeman;
An' ane did early dee,
But the lave frae skaith are free,
An' a blessin' they 're to me
An' my ain gudeman.
I cheerie clamb the hill
Wi' my ain gudeman;
An', if it 's Heaven's will,
Wi' my ain gudeman,
In life's calm afternoon,
I wad toddle cannie doun,
Syne at the foot sleep soun'
Wi' my ain gudeman.
ROBERT CATHCART.
Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver
in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he
published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early
Blossom."
MARY
Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,
Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;
Sweeter far thy love in bloom,
Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.
When the woods in silence sleep,
And is hid in dusk the steep,
When the flowers in sorrow weep
I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.
When love plays in rosy beams
Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,
Then thine e'e a language gleams
Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary.
When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,
Silence reigns o'er us the while,
Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,
Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.
When our hands are join'd in love,
Ne'er to part again, Mary,
Till death ance mair his arrows prove
And tak us for his ain, Mary;
Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!
In a hallow'd hour like this,
We in rapture join to kiss
And taste o' heaven again, Mary.
WILLIAM JAMIE.
William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of
Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish
school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during
his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a
blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From
early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at
Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the
Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent
publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other
Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The
Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly
dependent for subsistence.
AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.
Although the lays o' ither lands
Ha'e mony an artfu' air,
They want the stirrin' melody
An auld man lo'es to hear.
Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms
Which maks the bosom fain;
And to her sons, that 's far awa',
Wi' thochts o' hame again.
Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,
They fondly bring to min'
The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,
Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.
Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,
For weel I lo'e to hear--
Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"
And "Bush aboon Traquair."
Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"
Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;
And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's--
Oh! sing, and I'll admire!
For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs
Sung owre and owre wi' glee;
And the mair I hear their artless strains
They dearer grow to me.
Enchanting strains again they bring,
Fond memory glints alang
To humble bards wha woke the lyre,
And wove the patriot's sang.
Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,
The sangs o' youth and glee;
They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,
Which made our country free.
JOHN CRAWFORD.
A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and
power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at
Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had
witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With
only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on
his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a
house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since
prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius,
he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has
sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a
small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches
of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord
Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss
Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an
originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is
the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and
stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has
given to a poor invalid?"
Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at
present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled,
"Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical
epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.
The days, when write wad minstrel men
To ane anither thus, are gone,
And days ha'e come upon us when
Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
But I will love the fashion old
While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
And joy when I my tale have told
Anent the Bard of Alloa.
Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
Far mair through nature's power than art's,
Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
Might reach and gladden other hearts;
Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
And say't alike in cot and ha'--
Sublime thro' pure simplicity
Is he--the Bard of Alloa.
Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
And make to mankind their appeal;
'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
The swains shall sing them on the hill,
The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
The gifted Bard of Alloa.
E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
And clouted hose, and pinafores,
Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
Sae shall they sing anent themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.
Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.
Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?
Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn.
Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--
Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
Your strains like him of Alloa.
Possess maun he a poet's heart,
And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
Wha deftly plays the generous part
That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
Into a sordid sink--like yours--
But bless the Bard of Alloa.
Ah! little ye may trow or ken
The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
When she begins her face to thraw,
That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
As his that sounds frae Alloa.
And as for me, ere this I'd lain
Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
Had it not made the joys my ain
When a' life's other joys were gane.
If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
Unknown, my early joys I sung,
When cares and woes wad life belay,
How could my harp away be flung?
The dearest power in life below,
Is life's ain native power of song,
As he alone can truly know,
To whom it truly may belong.
Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
And lighted up the rays o' hope,
Ay, and it up shall light them still.
Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,
Ambition win the wreath o' fame,
Wealth gies reputed wit and power,
And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.
But be my meed the generous heart,
For nought can charm this heart o' mine,
Like those who own the undying art
That gies a claim to Ossian's line.
Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale
Be every heart belonging thee,--
The day whan fortune gies ye kale
Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.
Ilk son o' song is dear to me;
And though thy face I never saw,
I'll honour till the day I dee
The gifted Bard o' Alloa.
MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.
AIR--_"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."_
My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,
As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;
For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen
When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.
The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,
And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;
For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen
When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.
A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,
Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,
When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.
An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.
Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,
Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,
When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,
Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.
Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain
That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;
But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween
The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.
I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,
The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;
But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,
And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.
Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,
A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,
A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',
Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.
The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,
'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,
An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,
He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.
Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;
Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;
The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,
And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.
The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,
Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;
And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',
And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.
THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.
Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,
The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;
Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade--
The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.
Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,
Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;
There Freedom in triumph an altar has made
For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.
A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,
To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:
Shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade
Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?
Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!
The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;
And honour'd forever be matron and maid
In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.
Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,
O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,
Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade--
Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.
SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]
Sing on, fairy Devon,
'Mong gardens and bowers,
Where love's feast lies spread
In an Eden o' flowers.
What visions o' beauty
My mind has possess'd,
In thy gowany dell
Where a seraph might rest.
Sing on, lovely river,
To hillock and tree
A lay o' the loves
O' my Jessie and me;
For nae angel lightin',
A posie to pu',
Can match the fair form
O' the lassie I lo'e.
Sweet river, dear river,
Sing on in your glee,
In thy pure breast the mind
O' my Jessie I see.
How aft ha'e I wander'd,
As gray gloamin' fell,
Rare dreamin's o' heaven
My lassie to tell.
Sing on, lovely Devon,
The sang that ye sung
When earth in her beauty
Frae night's bosom sprung,
For lanesome and eerie
This warld aye would be
Did clouds ever fa'
Atween Jessie and me.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Written for the present work.
ANN O' CORNYLEE.
GAELIC AIR--_"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."_
I 'll twine a gowany garland
Wi' lilies frae the spring;
The fairest flowers by Clutha's side
In a' their bloom I 'll bring.
I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade
My lassie's scornfu' e'e--
For oh, I canna bide the frown
O' Ann o' Cornylee.
Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed
My lowly lot maun cheer,
A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe
Is a' my worldly gear;
A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,
Is a' I ha'e to gie;
A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn
O' Ann o' Cornylee.
The linty 'mang the yellow broom,
The laverock in the lift
Ha'e never sang the waes o' love
O' hope and joy bereft;
Nor has the mavis ever sang
The ills I ha'e to dree,
For lovin' o' a paughty maid,
Fair Ann o' Cornylee.
MY MARY DEAR.[10]
TUNE--_"Annie Laurie."_
The gloamin' star was showerin'
Its siller glories doun,
And nestled in its mossy lair
The lintie sleepit soun';
The lintie sleepit soun',
And the starnies sparklet clear,
When on a gowany bank I sat
Aside my Mary dear.
The burnie wanders eerie
Roun' rock and ruin'd tower,
By mony a fairy hillock
And mony a lanely bower;
Roun' mony a lanely bower,
Love's tender tale to hear,
Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd
And won my Mary dear.
Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness
Frae me for ever ta'en!
Wi' summer's flowery loveliness
Ye come na back again!
Ye come na back again,
The waefu' heart to cheer,
For lang the greedy grave has closed
Aboon my Mary dear.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Written for the present work.
THE WAES O' EILD.
(_For an old Gaelic air._)
The cranreuch 's on my heid,
The mist 's now on my een,
A lanesome life I lead,
I'm no what I ha'e been.
Ther 're runkles on my broo,
Ther 're furrows on my cheek,
My wither'd heart fills fu'
Whan o' bygane days I speak.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care--
Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,
Oh, let me gang there.
I ance was fu' o' glee,
And wha was then sae gay,
Whan dreamin' life wad be
But ae lang simmer day?
My feet, like lichtnin', flew
Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring,
They gimply staucher noo
Aneath a feckless thing.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary o' care--
Whare my first luve lies cauld,
Oh, let me lie there.
The ourie breath o' eild
Has blown ilk frien' frae me;
They comena near my beild
I ha'e dauted on my knee;
They hand awa their heids,
My frailties no to see;
My blessing on them, ane and a'--
I 've naething else to gie.
For I 'm weary,
I 'm weary,
I 'm weary and worn--
To the friens o' my youth
I maun soon, soon return.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE.[11]
John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh,
was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally
come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the
Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the
grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the
boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the
ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to
expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College.
He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh--and
then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he
proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where
he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of
German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen
months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to
the study of archaeology. His first publication testifies to his success
in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico
sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in the _Annali del
Instituto Archaeologico, Roma_, 1831.
Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his
return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The
study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the
profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied
himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at
this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled,
"Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with
Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the
Society for Archaeological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken
upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work
of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed
entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of
this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible
only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully
succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface,
"The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation
depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere _transposing_, but a
_re-casting_, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first
and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited--to seize, if
possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to
give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or
every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there
can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be
desired--full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and
reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that
Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of
the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are
very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still
animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious
information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages,
gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates'
Library.
The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a
German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied
in reviewing German books for the _Foreign Quarterly Review_. He was
also a contributor to _Blackwood_, _Tait_, and the _Westminster Review_.
The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or
religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on
Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems
to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of
Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as
almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is
reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig
campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been
written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and
Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves
especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of
Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse
of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor--asserting that he was a
bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his
stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the _Westminster_,
on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness.
The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way
very satisfactory to an English reader.
In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal
College, Aberdeen--a post which he held for eleven years. To this new
labour he gave himself with all his heart, and was eminently
successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate
knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under
the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and
general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses.
Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his
students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of
the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he
formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all
its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this
period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in
educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced
his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and
he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of
his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and
he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he
advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first
met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he
has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several
Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he
then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no
longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His
principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish
people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical
institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities;
3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.
Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh,
Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the
newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of
education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his
review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in the _Foreign
Quarterly_, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of
Languages."
During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin
and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published
in the _Classical Museum_. One of the contributions to that journal was
published separately--"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients."
It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing
accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the
accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It
is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article,
"On Prometheus," clears AEschylus from the charge of impiety, because he
appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the
"Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical
studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek
literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time
were translations of Horace and AEschylus. Translations of several odes
of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all
the dramas of AEschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the
Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archaeologist, "the friends of
his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now
universally admitted to be the best complete translation of AEschylus in
English.
In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University.
In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of
educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in
Aberdeen. His last _brochure_ on the subject is a letter to the Town
Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland."
Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity
to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous
rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or
speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that
assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in the
_North British Review_.
His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was
"The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological
Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is
for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the
reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one
known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is
consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in
Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a
fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the
results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the
_North British_ on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the
_Westminster_ on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an
introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time
he has written principally in _Blackwood_ and the _North British_,
discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new
German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers
may be mentioned his reviews, in the _North British_, of his friend
Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos' Life. His articles more
especially relating to his own department are AEschylus and Homer, in the
_Encyclopaedia Britannica_, an article on accents in the _Cambridge
Philological_, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."
In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of
Scottish poets--"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems."
The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse
to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths,
gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about
them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his
other works--deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and
manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything
that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all
falsehood.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq.,
Edinburgh.
SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.
Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
With his peak so high
He cleaves the sky
That smiles on his old gray crown,
While the mantle green,
On his shoulders seen,
In many a fold flows down.
He looks to the north, and he renders
A greeting to Nevis Ben;
And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,
Gives Cruachan greeting again.
O'er dread Glencoe
The greeting doth go
And where Etive winds fair in the glen;
And he hears the call
In his steep north wall,
"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."
When the north winds their forces muster,
And ruin rides high on the storm,
All calm, in the midst of their bluster,
He stands with his forehead enorm.
When block on block,
With thundering shock,
Comes hurtled confusedly down,
No whit recks he,
But laughs to shake free
The dust from his old gray crown.
And while torrents on torrents are pouring
Down his sides with a wild, savage glee,
And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,
And the soft lake swells to a sea,
He smiles through the storm,
And his heart grows warm
As he thinks how his streams feed the plains
And the brave old Ben
Grows young again,
And swells with his lusty veins.
For Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
Ere Adam was made
He rear'd his head
Sublime o'er the green winding glen;
And when flame wraps the sphere,
O'er earth's ashes shall peer
The peak of the old granite Ben.
THE BRAES OF MAR.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From you my feet must travel far,
Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
Thou lone green glen where I was born,
Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.
From thee my heart is rudely torn,
And I shall see thee never!
The braes of Mar with heather glow,
The healthful breezes o'er them blow,
The gushing torrents from them flow,
That swell the rolling river.
Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,
On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,
My widow'd eyne no more shall see
Your birchen bowers for ever!
Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui
Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,
Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
In you the rich may stalk the deer,
Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;
But oh, the poor man's heart is drear
To part from you for ever!
May God forgive our haughty lords,
For whom our fathers drew their swords;
No tear for us their pride affords,
No bond of love they sever.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar--
The friendless poor is banished far
From your green glens for ever!
MY LOVES.
Name the leaves on all the trees,
Name the waves on all the seas,
Name the notes of all the groves--
Thus thou namest all my loves.
I do love the dark, the fair,
Golden ringlets, raven hair,
Eye that swims in sunny light,
Glance that shoots like lightning bright.
I do love the stately dame
And the sportive girl the same;
Every changeful phase between
Blooming cheek and brow serene.
I do love the young, the old,
Maiden modest, virgin bold,
Tiny beauties, and the tall--
Earth has room enough for all.
Which is better--who can say?--
Lucy grave or Mary gay?
She who half her charms conceals?
She who sparkles while she feels?
Why should I confine my love?
Nature bids us freely rove;
God hath scatter'd wide the fair,
Blooms and beauties everywhere.
Paris was a pedant fool,
Meting beauty by a rule:
Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he
Should have chosen all the three.
I am wise, life's every bliss
Thankful tasting; and a kiss
Is a sweet thing, I declare,
From a dark maid or a fair.
LIKING AND LOVING.
Liking is a little boy
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing:
Love 's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.
Liking hovers round and round,
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants his foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it:
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.
Liking 's ever on the wing,
From new blooms new sweets to bring;
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still:
Love 's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to thee still.
WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.
William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of
Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of
Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been
extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The
representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous
supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother,
who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is
descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution
of 1688.
Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College,
Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he
afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical
_brochure_. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a
visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but
were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume
in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present
work with the author's permission.
During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention
to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a
work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of
Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of
the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several
editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His
latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.
In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of
Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the
general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest
in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering
lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.
RUTH.
The golden smile of morning
On the hills of Moab play'd,
When at the city's western gate
Their steps three women stay'd.
One laden was with years and care,
A gray and faded dame,
Of Judah's ancient lineage,
And Naomi her name;
And two were daughters of the land,
Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,
Their faces wearing still the bloom,
Their eyes the light of youth;
But all were childless widows,
And garb'd in weeds of woe,
And their hearts were full of sorrow,
And fast their tears did flow.
For the Lord God from Naomi
Her spouse and sons had taken,
And she and these that were their wives,
Are widow'd and forsaken;
And wish or hope her bosom knows
None other but to die,
And lay her bones in Bethlehem,
Where all her kindred lie.
So gives she now upon the way
To Jordan's western waters
Her farewell kisses and her tears
Unto her weeping daughters:
"Sweet daughters mine, now turn again
Unto your homes," she said,
"And for the love ye bear to me,
The love ye bear the dead,
The Lord with you deal kindly,
And give you joy and rest
And send to each a faithful mate
To cheer her widow'd breast."
Then long and loud their weeping was,
And sore was their lament,
And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,
And back to Moab went;
But gentle Ruth to Naomi
Did cleave with close embrace,
And earnest spoke, with loving eyes
Up-gazing in her face--
"Entreat me not to leave thee,
Nor sever from thy side,
For where thou goest I will go,
Where thou bidest I will bide,
Thy people still my people,
And thy God my God shall be,
And where thou diest I will die,
And make my grave with thee."
So Naomi, not loath, was won
Unto her gentle will;
And thence, with faces westward set,
They fared o'er plain and hill;
The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem
Rose fair upon their sight,
A rock-built town with towery crown,
In evening's purple light,
Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,
And spread along the brook,
White fields, with barley waving,
That woo'd the reaper's hook.
* * * * *
Now for the sunny harvest field
Sweet Ruth her mother leaves,
And goes a-gleaning after
The maids that bind the sheaves.
And the great lord of the harvest
Is of her husband's race,
And looks upon the lonely one
With gentleness and grace;
And he loves her for the brightness
And freshness of her youth,
And for her unforgetting love,
Her firm enduring truth--
The love and truth that guided Ruth
The border mountains o'er,
Where her people and her own land
She left for evermore.
So he took her to his home and heart,
And years of soft repose
Did recompense her patient faith,
Her meekly-suffer'd woes;
And she became the noblest dame
Of palmy Palestine,
And the stranger was the mother
Of that grand and glorious line
Whence sprang our royal David,
In the tide of generations,
The anointed king of Israel,
The terror of the nations:
Of whose pure seed hath God decreed
Messiah shall be born,
When the day-spring from on high shall light
The golden lands of morn;
Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale
Of tenderness and truth--
Of the gentle deed of Boaz
And the tender love of Ruth.
SHALLUM.
Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him
Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;
Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him
Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.
But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,
Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;
His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,
No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.
And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,
King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;
For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,
Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.
THOMAS C. LATTO.
A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in
1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the
elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his
fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during
five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the
writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the
Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William
E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a
period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the
situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered
into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating
to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile
concerns at New York.
Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of
"Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's
Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition,
appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made
several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in
_Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.
THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.
TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_
There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,
Whiles mair than in a score;
But wae betak' the stouin smack
I took ahint the door.
O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht
I ne'er was in afore;
Fou brawly did my mither hear
The kiss ahint the door.
The wa's are thick--ye needna fear;
But, gin they jeer and mock,
I 'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or wyte the rusty lock.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.
We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin' coal;
An' as for me, I could hae crept
Into a mouse's hole.
The mither look't--saffs how she look't!--
Thae mithers are a bore,
An' gleg as ony cat to hear
A kiss ahint the door.
Their 's meikle bliss, &c.
The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,
As weel micht been in Rome,
For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,
An' never fash'd his thumb;
But, titterin' in a corner, stood
The gawky sisters four--
A winter's nicht for me they micht
Hae stood ahint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.
"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"
The bauld gudewife began;
Wi' that a foursome yell got up--
I to my heels and ran.
A besom whiskit by my lug,
An' dishclouts half-a-score:
Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,
At kissin 'hint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.
THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.
TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_
Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen
On Kenly banks sae grassy, O!
Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,
Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;
The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
They glintit slee--the moon and she--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!--
On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:
She is a dear wee lassie, O!
How rapture's pulse was beating fast
As Mary to my heart I claspt!
Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last--
I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!
She nestled close, like croodlin' doo--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Unto my breast again, again,
I prest her guileless heart sae fain;
Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My heart wad break gin I should tyne
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;
The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright
On me and her, my soul's delight,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,
The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;
Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,
The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.
The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,
The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;
They close for the struggle where many shall fall,
But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.
He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,
No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;
The Camerons gather around him alone--
He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.
The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight--
A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;
But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust!
The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe--
The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe;
But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,
For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.
The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,
From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;
They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?
The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.
The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe--
There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;
But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away--
The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.
TELL ME, DEAR.
AIR--_"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."_
Tell me dear! in mercy speak,
Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?
Faint the rose is on thy cheek,
But still the rose is there, lassie!
Away, away each dark foreboding,
Heavy days with anguish clouding,
Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,
Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!
Day and night I've tended thee,
Watching, love, thy changing e'e;
Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,
Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!
Willie, lay thy cheek to mine--
Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!
Never mair may lip o' thine
Press where it hath lain, laddie!
Hark! I hear the angels calling,
Heavenly strains are round me falling,
But the stroke--thy soul appalling--
'Tis my only pain, laddie!
Yet the love I bear to thee
Shall follow where I soon maun be;
I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me--
We part to meet again, laddie!
Lay thine arm beneath my head--
Grieve na sae for me, laddie!
I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,
But no a tear frae thee, laddie!
Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,
When the sun's last beam is shedding,
Where no earthly foot is treading,
By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!
Though my sleep be wi' the dead,
Frae on high my soul shall speed,
And hover nightly round thy head,
Although thou wilt na see, laddie.
WILLIAM CADENHEAD.
William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a
limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in
his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and
ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired
him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in
verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In
1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which,
affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation.
Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the
local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the
title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of
Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan,
appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable
and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his
native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?
Do you know what the birds are singing?
Can you tell their sweet refrains,
When the green arch'd woods are
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