VI.
Though my anger may feign it requites thy disdain, And vaunts in thy absence, it threatens in vain-- All in vain! for thy image in fondness returns, And o'er thy sweet likeness expectancy burns; And I hope--yes, I hope once more, Till my hope waxes high as a tower[99] in its soar.
[95] "Anne"--Rob's first love, the heroine of the piece. "Similar in interest to the Highland Mary of Burns, is the yellow-haired Anne of Rob Donn."--"Life," p. 18.
[96] "Isabel"--the daughter of Ian Macechan, the subject of other verses.
[97] "Unsummon'd of thee." The idea is rather quaintly expressed in the original thus--"Though thou hast sent me no summons, love has, of his own accord, acted the part of a catchpole (or sheriff's officer), and will not release me." Such are the homely fancies introduced into some of the most passionate strains of the Gaelic muse.
[98] Alluding to his absence, and delay in his courtship.
[99] Rather more modest than the classic's "feriam sidera vertice."
ISABEL MACKAY--THE MAID ALONE.
TO A PIOBRACH TUNE.
This is one of those lyrics, of which there are many in Gaelic poetry, that are intended to imitate pipe music. They consist of three parts, called Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath. The first is a slow, monotonous measure, usually, indeed, a mere repetition of the same words or tones; the second, a livelier or brisker melody, striking into description or narrative; the third, a rapid finale, taxing the reciter's or performer's powers to their utmost pitch of expedition. The heroine of the song is the same Isabel who is introduced towards the commencement of the "Forsaken Drover;" and it appears, from other verses in Mackay's collection, that it was not her fate to be "alone" through life. It is to be understood that when the verses were composed, she was in charge of her father's extensive pastoral _manége_, and not a mere milk-maid or dairy-woman.
URLAR.
Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye, And Isabel Mackay is alone; Isabel Mackay is with the milk kye, And Isabel Mackay is alone, &c. Seest thou Isabel Mackay with the milk kye, At the forest foot--and alone?
SIUBHAL.
By the Virgin and Son![100] Thou bride-lacking one, If ever thy time Is coming, begone, The occasion is prime, For Isabel Mackay Is with the milk kye At the skirts of the forest, And with her is none. By the Virgin and Son, &c.
Woe is the sign! It is not well With the lads that dwell Around us, so brave, When the mistress fine Of Riothan-a-dave Is out with the kine, And with her is none. O, woe is the sign, &c.
Whoever he be That a bride would gain Of gentle degree, And a drove or twain, His speed let him strain To Riothan-a-dave, And a bride he shall have. Then, to her so fain! Whoever he be, &c.
And a bride he shall have, The maid that's alone. Isabel Mackay, &c. Oh, seest not the dearie So fit for embracing, Her patience distressing, The bestial a-chasing, And she alone!
'Tis a marvellous fashion That men should be slack, When their bosoms lack An object of passion, To look such a lass on, Her patience distressing, The bestial a-chasing, In the field, alone.
CRUNLUATH (FINALE).
Oh, look upon the prize, sirs, That where yon heights are rising, The whole long twelvemonth sighs in, Because she is alone. Go, learn it from my minstrelsy, Who list the tale to carry, The maiden shuns the public eye, And is ordain'd to tarry 'Mid stoups and cans, and milking ware, Where brown hills rear their ridges bare, And wails her plight the livelong year, To spend the day alone.
[100] A common Highland adjuration.
EVAN'S ELEGY.
Mackay was benighted on a deer-stalking expedition, near a wild hut or shealing, at the head of Loch Eriboll. Here he found its only inmate a poor asthmatic old man, stretched on his pallet, apparently at the point of death. As he sat by his bed-side, he "crooned," so as to be audible, it seems, to the patient, the following elegiac ditty, in which, it will be observed, he alludes to the death, then recent, of Pelham, an eminent statesman of George the Second's reign. As he was finishing his ditty, the old man's feelings were moved in a way which will be found in the appended note. This is one of Sir Walter Scott's extracts in the _Quarterly_, and is now attempted in the measure of the original.
How often, Death! art waking The imploring cry of Nature! When she sees her phalanx breaking, As thou'dst have all--grim feature! Since Autumn's leaves to brownness, Of deeper shade were tending, We saw thy step, from palaces, To Evan's nook descending. Oh, long, long thine agony! A nameless length its tide; Since breathless thou hast panted here, And not a friend beside. Thine errors what, I judge not; What righteous deeds undone; But if remains a se'ennight, Redeem it, dying one!
Oh, marked we, Death! thy teachings true, What dust of time would blind? Such thy impartiality To our highest, lowest kind. Thy look is upwards, downwards shot, Determined none to miss; It rose to Pelham's princely bower, It sinks to shed like this! Oh, long, long, &c.! So great thy victims, that the noble Stand humbled by the bier; So poor, it shames the poorest To grace them with a tear. Between the minister of state And him that grovels there, Should one remain uncounselled, Is there one whom dool shall spare? Oh, long, long, &c.! The hail that strews the battle-field Not louder sounds its call, Than the falling thousands round us Are voicing words to all. Hearken! least of all the nameless; Evan's hour is going fast; Hearken! greatest of earth's great ones-- Princely Pelham's hour is past. Oh, long, long, &c.! Friends of my heart! in the twain we see A type of life's declining; 'Tis like the lantern's dripping light, At either end a-dwining. Where was there one more low than thou-- Thou least of meanest things?[101] And where than his was higher place Except the throne of kings? Oh, long, long, &c.!
[101] At this humiliating apostrophe, the beggar is reported to have instinctively raised his staff--an action which the bard observed just in time to avoid its descent on his back.
DOUGAL BUCHANAN.
Dougal Buchanan was born at the Mill of Ardoch, in the beautiful valley of Strathyre, and parish of Balquhidder, in the year 1716. His parents were in circumstances to allow him the education of the parish school; on which, by private application, he so far improved, as to be qualified to act as teacher and catechist to the Highland locality which borders on Loch Rannoch, under the appointment of the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge. Never, it is believed, were the duties of a calling discharged with more zeal and efficiency. The catechist was, both in and out of the strict department of his office, a universal oracle,[102] and his name is revered in the scene of his usefulness in a degree to which the honours of canonization could scarcely have added. Pious, to the height of a proverbial model, he was withal frank, cheerful, and social; and from his extraordinary command of the Gaelic idiom, and its poetic phraseology, he must have lent an ear to many a song and many a legend[103]--a nourishment of the imagination in which, as well as in purity of Gaelic, his native Balquhidder was immeasurably inferior to the Rannoch district of his adoption.
The composition of hymns, embracing a most eloquent and musical paraphrase of many of the more striking inspirations of scriptural poetry, seems to have been the favourite employment of his leisure hours. These are sung or recited in every cottage of the Highlands where a reader or a retentive memory is to be found.
Buchanan's life was short. He was cut off by typhus fever, at a period when his talents had begun to attract a more than local attention. It was within a year after his return from superintending the press of the first version of the Gaelic New Testament, that his lamented death took place. His command of his native tongue is understood to have been serviceable to the translator, the Rev. James Stewart of Killin, who had probably been Buchanan's early acquaintance, as they were natives of the same district. This reverend gentleman is said to have entertained a scheme of getting the catechist regularly licensed to preach the gospel without the usual academical preparation. The scheme was frustrated by his death, in the summer of 1768.
We know of no fact relating to the development of the poetic vein of this interesting bard, unless it be found in the circumstance to which he refers in his "Diary,"[104] of having been bred a violent Jacobite, and having lived many years under the excitement of strong, even vindictive feelings, at the fate of his chief and landlord (Buchanan of Arnprior and Strathyre), who, with many of his dependents, and some of the poet's relations, suffered death for their share in the last rebellion. While he relates that the power of religion at length quenched this effervescence of his emotions, it may be supposed that ardent Jacobitism, with its common accompaniment of melody, may have fostered an imagination which every circumstance proves to have been sufficiently susceptible. It may be added, as a particular not unworthy of memorial in a poet's life, that his remains are deposited in perhaps the most picturesque place of sepulture in the kingdom--the peninsula of Little Leny, in the neighbourhood of Callander; to which his relatives transferred his body, as the sepulchre of many chiefs and considerable persons of his clan, and where it is perhaps matter of surprise that his Highland countrymen have never thought of honouring his memory with some kind of monument.
The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105] have been omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being mere amplifications of Scripture--wonderful, indeed, in point of vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models.
[102] "Statistical Account of Fortingall."--Stat. Acc., x., p. 549.
[103] The same account observes that though none of his works are published but his sacred compositions, he composed "several songs on various subjects."
[104] Published at Glasgow, 1836.
[105] These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and "The Good and Wicked Pastor."
A CLAGIONN.
THE SKULL.
As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave Lo! a featureless skull on the ground; The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp, While I turn it around and around. Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express Of the bystander nigh, a thought; Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both, Nor passes emotion its throat. No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace Its brow, and no ear for my song; Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death The raised features hath flatten'd along. The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam-- The intelligent sight, are no more; But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil, Come hither their dwellings to bore. No lineament here is left to declare If monarch or chief art thou; Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave That on dunghill expires, is as low. Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath Who tenants my hand, unfold; That my voice may not die without a reply, Though the ear it addresses is cold. Say, wert thou a May,[106] of beauty a ray, And flatter'd thine eye with a smile? Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net, The hearts of the youth to wile? Alas every charm that a bosom could warm Is changed to the grain of disgust! Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her Gracefulness all in the dust! Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe Acknowledge thy rule o'er them-- A magistrate true, to all dealing their due, And just to redress or condemn? Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold In the scales of thy partial decree; While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd, And appeal'd their distresses to thee? Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power To extinguish the fever of ail? And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried O'er omnipotent death to prevail? Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'd Thy hope when the need was thine own; What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healing When the hours of thy portion were flown? Or--wert thou a hero, a leader to glory, While armies thy truncheon obey'd; To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering In flight, left their mountains of dead? Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade, When came onwards in battle array The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms, To sack and to rifle their prey? How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while Besieging, the reptile is vain, And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find His defence in the lodge of thy brain! Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been, Some, the organ where music repair'd; In rabble and rout they come in and come out At the gashes their fangs have bared.
* * * * *
Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land, Represented by nakedness, here? Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind, Nor all unimparted thy gear; Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou! To leanness their countenances grew-- 'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for right Required, to a moment, its due; While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied To cover their head from the chill, And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand, As cold blows the blast of the hill. Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown, Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid; All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke! While but claims their obeisance the dead.
* * * * *
Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such, That death must have lent them his sting-- So daring they were, so reckless of fear, As heaven had wanted a king? Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spy In the haunt of thy venomous jaws, Its slander display, as poisons its prey The devilish snake in the grass? That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd, The inflexible shackles of death; And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail Where its slaver once harbour'd beneath. And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urn And expired, with impenitent groan; To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part, And then to appear--at the Throne! Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take To the Judge of thy actions the way, And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse, Thy sentence of termless dismay.
* * * * *
The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ, To brass-links the veins of thy frame Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow Like the anvil that melts not in flame! But wert thou the mould of a champion bold For God and his truth and his law? Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each sense Is broken--each gem with a flaw-- Be comforted thou! For rising in air Thy flight shall the clarion obey; And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd, If they will, by the creatures of prey.
[106] Maiden or virgin--_orig._
AM BRUADAR.
THE DREAM.
We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The Skull." In the original they are touched in phraseology scarcely unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.
As lockfasted in slumber's arms I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race When every spectral object charms, To melt, like shadow, in the chase),
A vision came; mine ear confess'd Its solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught! Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest, Or fills the world thy crave of thought?
* * * * *
"Since fell transgression ravaged here And reft Man's garden-joys away, He weeps his unavailing tear, And straggles, like a lamb astray.
"With shrilling bleat for comfort hie To every pinfold, humankind; Ah, there the fostering teat is dry, The stranger mother proves unkind.
"No rest for toil, no drink for drought, For bosom-peace the shadow's wing-- So feeds expectancy on nought, And suckles every lying thing.
"Some woe for ever wreathes its chain, And hope foretells the clasp undone; Relief at handbreadth seems, in vain Thy fetter'd arms embrace--'tis gone!
"Not all that trial's lore unlearns Of all the lies that life betrays, Avails, for still desire returns-- The last day's folly is to-day's.
"Thy wish has prosper'd--has its taste Survived the hour its lust was drown'd; Or yields thine expectation's zest To full fruition, golden-crown'd?
"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom, 'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven-- Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb, When to the grasping hand 'tis given.
"Go, search the world, wherever woe Of high or low the bosom wrings, There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe, Is answer'd from the breast of kings.
"From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud, From every heart its sigh is roll'd; The rose's stalk is fang'd--one shroud Is both the sting's and honey's fold.
"Is wealth thy lust--does envy pine Where high its tempting heaps are piled? Look down, behold the fountain shine, And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!
"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale, And falls an insect[107] in its toil? The creature turns thy life-blood pale, And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.
"When high thy fellow-mortal soars, His state is like the topmost nest-- It swings with every blast that roars, And every motion shakes its crest.
"And if the world for once is kind, Yet ever has the lot its bend; Where fortune has the crook inclined, Not all thy strength or art shall mend.
"For as the sapling's sturdy stalk, Whose double twist is crossly strain'd, Such is thy fortune--sure to baulk At this extreme what there was gain'd.
"When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd, 'Twas vain who hoarded its supply, Not all his miser care avail'd His neighbour's portion to outvie.
"So, blended all that nature owns, So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless-- With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans; With courtly luxury, distress.
"Lift up the balance--heap with gold, Its other shell vile dust shall fill; And were a kingdom's ransom told, The scales would want adjustment still.
"Life has its competence--nor deem That better than enough were more; Sure it were phantasy to dream With burdens to assuage thy sore.
"It is the fancy's whirling strife That breeds thy pain--to-day it craves, To-morrow spurns--suffices life When passion asks what passion braves?
"Should appetite her wish achieve, To herd with brutes her joy would bound; Pleased other paradise to leave, Content to pasture on the ground.
"But pride rebels, nor towers alone Beyond that confine's lowly sphere-- Seems as from the Eternal Throne It aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.
"'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare; But, seek we to our bliss the way, Let us to Heaven our path refer, Believe, and worship, and obey.
"That choice is all--to range beyond Nor must, nor needs; provision, grace, In these He gives, who sits enthroned, Salvation, competence, and peace."
The instructive vision pass'd away, But not its wisdom's dreamless lore; No more in shadow-tracks I stray, And fondle shadow-shapes no more.
[107] _Orig._--The venomous red spider.
DUNCAN MACINTYRE.
Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced. Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible. And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,--the late Dr Stewart of Luss,--who, when a young man, became acquainted with this extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's father was minister.
Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724, and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City Guard.
Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.
MAIRI BHAN OG.
MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.
My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary, My life-time love, my own! The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie Was bound to me alone, By covenant true, and ritual holy, Gave happiness all but divine; Nor needed there more to transport me wholly, Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.
* * * * *
'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted Was far, but I rivall'd the wind, The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted, That force can never unbind. I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd, While I gain'd a love and a bride, I heard my heart, and could tell each second, As its pulses struck on my side.
* * * * *
I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me, And said that no salve could save; She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me, For herself to my breast she gave.
* * * * *
Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee For chasing away, away, My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing, And teaching no more to stray. I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying, All shapely from branch to stem, My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying To cull the fairest from them; One branch of perfume, in blossom all over, Bent lowly down to my hand, And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover, To me, the least of the band. I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in, Where the stream's transparence ran, Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in, Shone bright as the gloss of the swan. Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection With such a prize to my share! My love is a ray, a morning reflection, Beside me she sleeps, a star.
[108] Gaelic, "gealag"--descriptive of the salmon, from its glossy brightness.
BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT.
Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality--the dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small risk,--although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance, and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.
URLAR.
The noble Otter hill! It is a chieftain Beinn,[109] Ever the fairest still Of all these eyes have seen. Spacious is his side; I love to range where hide, In haunts by few espied, The nurslings of his den. In the bosky shade Of the velvet glade, Couch, in softness laid, The nimble-footed deer; To see the spotted pack, That in scenting never slack, Coursing on their track, Is the prime of cheer. Merry may the stag be, The lad that so fairly Flourishes the russet coat That fits him so rarely. 'Tis a mantle whose wear Time shall not tear; 'Tis a banner that ne'er Sees its colours depart: And when they seek his doom, Let a man of action come, A hunter in his bloom, With rifle not untried: A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint, To strike a trusty dint, And make the gun-lock glint With a flash of pride. Let the barrel be but true, And the stock be trusty too, So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew, Shall be purple-dyed. He should not be novice bred, But a marksman of first head, By whom that stag is sped, In hill-craft not unskill'd; So, when Padraig of the glen Call'd his hounds and men, The hill spake back again, As his orders shrill'd; Then was firing snell, And the bullets rain'd like hail, And the red-deer fell Like warrior on the field.
SIUBHAL.
Oh, the young doe so frisky, So coy, and so fair, That gambols so briskly, And snuffs up the air; And hurries, retiring, To the rocks that environ, When foemen are firing, And bullets are there. Though swift in her racing, Like the kinsfolk before her, No heart-burst, unbracing Her strength, rushes o'er her. 'Tis exquisite hearing Her murmur, as, nearing, Her mate comes careering, Her pride, and her lover;-- He comes--and her breathing Her rapture is telling; How his antlers are wreathing, His white haunch, how swelling! High chief of Bendorain, He seems, as adoring His hind, he comes roaring To visit her dwelling. 'Twere endless my singing How the mountain is teeming With thousands, that bringing Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming, With his hind, and her gala Of younglings, that follow O'er mountain and beala,[112] All lightsome are beaming. When that lightfoot so airy, Her race is pursuing, Oh, what vision saw e'er a Feat of flight like her doing? She springs, and the spreading grass Scarce feels her treading, It were fleet foot that sped in Twice the time that she flew in. The gallant array! How the marshes they spurn, In the frisk of their play, And the wheelings they turn,-- As the cloud of the mind They would distance behind, And give years to the wind, In the pride of their scorn! 'Tis the marrow of health In the forest to lie, Where, nooking in stealth, They enjoy her[113] supply,-- Her fosterage breeding A race never needing, Save the milk of her feeding, From a breast never dry. Her hill-grass they suckle, Her mammets[114] they swill, And in wantonness chuckle O'er tempest and chill; With their ankles so light, And their girdles[115] of white, And their bodies so bright With the drink of the rill. Through the grassy glen sporting In murmurless glee, Nor snow-drift nor fortune Shall urge them to flee, Save to seek their repose In the clefts of the knowes, And the depths of the howes Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]
URLAR.
In the forest den, the deer Makes, as best befits, his lair, Where is plenty, and to spare, Of her grassy feast. There she browses free On herbage of the lea, Or marsh grass, daintily, Until her haunch is greased. Her drink is of the well, Where the water-cresses swell, Nor with the flowing shell Is the toper better pleased. The bent makes nobler cheer, Or the rashes of the mere, Than all the creagh that e'er Gave surfeit to a guest. Come, see her table spread; The _sorach_[117] sweet display'd The _ealvi_,[118] and the head Of the daisy stem; The _dorach_[119] crested, sleek, And ringed with many a streak, Presents her pastures meek, Profusely by the stream. Such the luxuries That plump their noble size, And the herd entice To revel in the howes. Nobler haunches never sat on Pride of grease, than when they batten On the forest links, and fatten On the herbs of their carouse. Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming, When the supper-time Calls all their hosts from roaming, To see their social prime; And when the shadows gather, They lair on native heather, Nor shelter from the weather Need, but the knolls behind. Dread or dark is none; Their 's the mountain throne, Height and slope their own, The gentle mountain kind; Pleasant is the grace Of their hue, and dappled dress, And an ark in their distress, In Bendorain dear they find.
SIUBHAL.
So brilliant thy hue With tendril and flow'ret, The grace of the view, What land can o'erpower it? Thou mountain of beauty, Methinks it might suit thee, The homage of beauty To claim as a queen. What needs it? Adoring Thy reign, we see pouring The wealth of their store in Already, I ween. The seasons--scarce roll'd once, Their gifts are twice told-- And the months, they unfold On thy bosom their dower, With profusion so rare, Ne'er was clothing so fair, Nor was jewelling e'er Like the bud and the flower Of the groves on thy breast, Where rejoices to rest His magnificent crest, The mountain-cock, shrilling In quick time, his note; And the clans of the grot With melody's note, Their numbers are trilling. No foot can compare, In the dance of the green, With the roebuck's young heir; And here he is seen With his deftness of speed, And his sureness of tread, And his bend of the head, And his freedom of spring! Over corrie careers he, The wood-cover clears he, And merrily steers he With bound, and with fling,-- As he spurns from his stern The heather and fern, And dives in the dern[120] Of the wilderness deep; Or, anon, with a strain, And a twang of each vein He revels amain 'Mid the cliffs of the steep. With the burst of a start When the flame of his heart Impels to depart, How he distances all! Two bounds at a leap, The brown hillocks to sweep, His appointment to keep With the doe, at her call. With her following, the roe From the danger of ken Couches inly, and low, In the haunts of the glen; Ever watchful to hear, Ever active to peer, Ever deft to career,-- All ear, vision, and limb. And though Cult[121] and Cuchullin, With their horses and following, Should rush to her dwelling, And our prince[122] in his trim, They might vainly aspire Without rifle and fire To ruffle or nigh her, Her mantle to dim. Stark-footed, lively, Ever capering naively With motion alive, aye, And wax-white, in shine, When her startle betrays That the hounds are in chase, The same as the base Is the rocky decline-- She puffs from her chest, And she ambles her crest And disdain is express'd In her nostril and eye;-- That eye--how it winks! Like a sunbeam it blinks, And it glows, and it sinks, And is jealous and shy! A mountaineer lynx, Like her race that 's gone by.
CRUNLUATH (FINALE).
Her lodge is in the valley--here No huntsman, void of notion, Should hurry on the fallow deer, But steal on her with caution;-- With wary step and watchfulness To stalk her to her resting place, Insures the gallant wight's success, Before she is in motion. The hunter bold should follow then, By bog, and rock, and hollow, then, And nestle in the gulley, then, And watch with deep devotion The shadows on the benty grass, And how they come, and how they pass; Nor must he stir, with gesture rash, To quicken her emotion. With nerve and eye so wary, sir, That straight his piece may carry, sir, He marks with care the quarry, sir, The muzzle to repose on; And now, the knuckle is applied, The flint is struck, the priming tried, Is fired, the volley has replied, And reeks in high commotion;-- Was better powder ne'er to flint, Nor trustier wadding of the lint-- And so we strike a telling dint, Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]
[109] Anglicised into _Ben_.
[110] The deer.
[111] Stag of the first head.
[112] Pass.
[113] Any one who has heard a native attempt the Lowland tongue for the first time, is familiar with the personification that turns every inanimate object into _he_ or _she_. The forest is here happily personified as a nurse or mother.
[114] Bog-holes.
[115] Stripings.
[116] _Gaelic_--Easan-an-tsith.
[117] Primrose.
[118] St John's wort.
[119] A kind of cress, or marshmallow.
[120] _Anglice_--dark.
[121] _Gaelic_--Caoillt; who, with Cuchullin, makes a figure in traditional Gaelic poetry.
[122] _Gaelic_--King George.
[123] Literally--"From the barrel of Nic-Coisean." This was the poet's favourite gun, to which his muse has addressed a separate song of considerable merit.
THE BARD TO HIS MUSKET.[124]
Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain, of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride, thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.
Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal May happen to a Highlan' man; Though he fall in love he soon may feel He cannot get the fancied one; The first I loved in time that 's past, I courted twenty years, ochone! But she forsook me at the last, And Duncan then was left alone.
To Edinbro' I forthwith hied To seek a sweetheart to my mind, An', if I could, to find a bride For the fause love I left behind; Said Captain Campbell of the Guard, "I ken a widow secretly, An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd, To put her, Duncan, in your way."
As was his wont, I trow, did he Fulfil his welcome promise true, He gave the widow unto me, And all her portion with her too; And whosoe'er may ask her name, And her surname also may desire, They call her Janet[125]--great her fame-- An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.
She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free, No vexing gloom or look at hand, As high in rank and in degree As any lady in the land; She 's my support and my relief, Since e'er she join'd me, any how; Great is the cureless cause of grief To him who has not got her now!
Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite, Altho' she liveth still at ease-- An' allow the crested stags to fight And wander wheresoe'er they please, A young wife I have chosen now, Which I repent not any where, I am not wanting wealth, I trow, Since ever I espoused the fair.
I pass my word of honour bright-- Most excellent I do her call; In her I ne'er, in any light, Discover'd any fault at all. She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound, Without a hidden fault, my friend; In her, defect I never found, Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.
When needy folk are pinch'd, alas! For money in a great degree; Ah, George's daughter--generous lass-- Ne'er lets my pockets empty be; She keepeth me in drink, and stays By me in ale-houses and all, An' at once, without a word, she pays For every stoup I choose to call!
An' every turn I bid her do She does it with a willing grace; She never tells me aught untrue, Nor story false, with lying face; She keeps my rising family As well as I could e'er desire, Although no labour I do try, Nor dirty work for love or hire.
I labour'd once laboriously, Although no riches I amass'd; A menial I disdain'd to be, An' keep my vow unto the last. I have ceased to labour in the lan', Since e'er I noticed to my wife, That the idle and contented man Endureth to the longest life.
'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed-- In whom I faithfully believe, She 's able still to earn my bread, An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive; I 'll have no lack of linens fair, An' plenty clothes to serve my turn, An' trust me that all worldly care Now gives me not the least concern.
[124] The "Auld Town Guard" of Edinburgh, which existed before the Police Acts came into operation, was composed principally of Highlandmen, some of them old pensioners. Their rendezvous, or place of resort, was in the vicinity of old St Giles's Church, where they might generally be found smoking, snuffing, and speaking in the true Highland vernacular. Archie Campbell, celebrated by Macintyre as "Captain Campbell," was the last, and a favourable specimen of this class of civic functionaries. He was a stout, tall man; and, dressed in his "knee breeks and buckles, wi' the red-necked coat, and the cocked hat," he considered himself of no ordinary importance. He had a most thorough contempt for grammar, and looked upon the Lord Provost as the greatest functionary in the world. He delighted to be called "the Provost's right-hand man." Archie is still well remembered by many of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, as he was quite a character in the city. In dealing with a prisoner, Archie used to impress him with the idea that he could do great things for him by merely speaking to "his honour the Provost;" and when locking a prisoner up in the Tolbooth, he would say sometimes--"There, my lad, I cannot do nothing more for you!" He took care to give his friends from the Highlands a magnificent notion of his great personal consequence, which, of course, they aggrandised when they returned to the hills.
[125] A byeword for a regimental firelock.
[126] A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and elsewhere.
JOHN MACODRUM.
Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,--of whom, after a distinguished career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.
Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian, in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have," quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."
Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald, lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains--a fact that brings the time in which he flourished down to 1766.
His poem entitled the "Song of Age," is admired by his countrymen for its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of versification.
ORAN NA H-AOIS,
THE SONG OF AGE.
Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay, The notes would betray the languor of woe; My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below. The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare, And offers us ne'er the respite of peace, Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan, For under the sun is no hope of release. 'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside; How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower The arm of our power, and the step of our pride. As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale, The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky, So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress, Old age, with that face of aversion to joy. Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead, And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age; Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve-- In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage. To leap with the best, or the billow to breast, Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain; On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127] The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain. Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies; The friends of our love at thy call must remove,-- What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise? They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store, Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind; Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us, Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind. Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face To hasten its race on the route to the tomb, To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear, Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb; Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd, Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone! To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies, Even sympathy dies--and thy helper is none. We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'd Thy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose; Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair, And the ivory[128] tare from its sockets' repose. Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould, Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim; What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track, And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb! Thou leper of fear--thou niggard of cheer-- Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found? Thou contempt of the brave--oh, rather the grave, Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound. Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray, Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom; Thou bane of delight--when thy shivering plight, And thy grizzle of white,[129] and thy crippleness, come To beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor, And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread; All unwelcome they call--from the hut to the hall The confession of all is, "_'Tis time he were dead_!"
The picturesque portion of the description here terminates. With respect to the moral and religious application, it is but just to the poet to say, that before the close he appeals in pathetic terms to the young, warning them not to boast of their strength, or to abuse it; and that he concludes his lay with the sentiment, that whatever may be the ills of "age," there are worse that await an unrepenting death, and a suffering eternity.
[127] Alluding to the plagues.
[128] The teeth.
[129] _Gaelic_--Matted, rough, gray beard.
NORMAN MACLEOD;
OR, TORMAID BAN.
Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had his _marrow_ in a Highland bard, nearly his contemporary, whose one effort was attended with more lasting popularity than the sole oration of that celebrated person. The clan song of the Mackenzies is the composition in question, and its author is now ascertained to have been a gentleman, or farmer of the better class, of the name of Norman Macleod, a native of Assynt[130] in Sutherland. The most memorable particular known of this person, besides the production of his poetic effort, is his having been the father of a Glasgow professor,[131] whom we remember occupying the chair of Church History in the university in very advanced age, about 1814, assisted by a helper and successor; and of another son, who was the respected minister of Rogart till towards the end of last century.
The date of "Caberfae" is not exactly ascertained. It was composed during the exile of Lord Seaforth, but, we imagine, before the '45, in which he did not take part, and while Macshimei (Lord Lovat) still passed for a Whig. In Mackenzie's excellent collection (p. 361), a later date is assigned to the production.
The Seaforth tenantry, who (after the manner of the clans) privately supported their chief in his exile, appear to have been much aggrieved by some proceedings of the loyalist, Monro of Fowlis, who, along with his neighbour of Culloden and Lovat, were probably acting under government commission, in which the interests of the crown were seconded by personal or family antagonism. The loyal family of Sutherland, who seem by grant or lease to have had an interest in the estates, also come in for a share of the bard's resentment.
All this forms the subject of "Caberfae," which, without having much meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated "Lillibulero," to animate armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be imagined. The repetition of "the Staghead, when rises his cabar on," which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,--being a simple allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant. The cabar is the horn, or, rather, the "tine of the first-head,"--no ignoble emblem, certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity. The difficulty of the measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader's indulgence.
[130] In Stat. Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.
[131] Hugh Macleod.
CABERFAE,
THE STAGHEAD.[132]
A health to Caberfae, A toast, and a cheery one, That soon return he may, Though long and far his tarrying. The death of shame befal me, Be riven off my eididh[133] too, But my fancy hears thy call--we Should all be _up and ready, O_! 'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen, Thine arm, inaction scorning, Assign their dues to the Munroes, Their _welcome_ in the morning. Nor stood the Cátach[134] to his bratach[135] For dread of a belabouring, When up gets the Staghead, And raises his cabar on.
Woe to the man of Folais,[136] When he to fight must challenge thee; Nor better fared the Roses[137] That lent _Monro_ their valiancy. The Granndach[138] and the Frazer,[139] They tarried not the melee in; Fled Forbes,[140] in dismay, sir, Culloden-wards, undallying. Away they ran, while firm remain, Not one to three, retiring so, The earl,[141] the craven, took to haven, Scarce a pistol firing, O! Mackay[142] of Spoils, his heart recoils, He cries in haste his cabul[143] on, He flies--as soars the Staghead, And raises his cabar on.
Like feather'd creatures flying, That in the hill-mist shiver, In haste for refuge hieing, To the meadow or the river-- So, port they sought, and took to boat, Bewailing what had happened them, To trust was rash, the missing flash Of the rusty guns that weapon'd them. The coracle of many a skull, The relics of his neighbour, on, Monro retreats[144]--for Staghead Is raising his cabar on.
I own my expectation,-- 'Tis this has roused my apathy, That He who rules creation May change the dismal hap of thee, And hasten to restore thee In safety from thy danger, To thine own, in joy and glory, To save us from the stranger. With princely grace to give redress, Nor a taunt to suffer back again; The fell Monro has felt thy blow, And should he dare attack again, Then as he flew, he 'll run anew, The flames to quench he 'll labour on, Of castle fired--when Staghead High raises his cabar on!
I 've seen thee o'er the lowly, A gracious chieftain ever, The Cátach[145] self below thee, And the Gallach[145] cower'd for cover; But ever more their striving, When claim'd respect thine eye, Thy scourge corrected, driving To other lands to fly. Thy loyal crew of clansmen true, No panic fear shall turn them, With steel-cap, blade, and _skene_ array'd, Their banning foes they spurn them. Clan-Shimei[146] then may dare them, They 'll fly, had each a sabre on, Needs but a look--when Staghead Once raises his cabar on.
Mounts not the wing a fouler thing, Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147] O! Inglorious chief! to boast the thief, That forays with the beagle, O! For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148] My song shall raise the mountain-deer; The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns, He loves the cress, the fountain cheer. His lodge is in the forest;-- While carion-flesh enticing Thy greedy maw, thou buriest Thou kite of prey! thy claws in The putrid corse of famish'd horse, The greedy hound a-striving To rival thee in gluttony, Both at the bowels riving. Thou called the _true bird_![149]--Never, Thou foster child of evil,[150] ha! How ill match with thy feather[151] The talons[152] of thy devilry! But when thy foray preys on Our harmless flocks, so dastardly, How often has the shepherd With trusty baton master'd thee; Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight, Else, not alone, belabouring, He 'd gored thee with the Staghead, Up-raising his cabar on.[153]
Woe worth the world, deceiver-- So false, so fair of seeming! We 've seen the noble Siphort[154] With all his war-notes[155] screaming; When not a chief in Albain, Mac-Ailein's[156] self though backing him, Could face his frown--as Staghead Arose with his cabar on.
To join thy might, when call'd the right, A gallant army springing on, Would rise, from Assint to the crags Of Scalpa, rescue bringing on. Each man upon, true-flinted gun, Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean; With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157] When up rose thy cabar on!
Came too the men of Muideart,[158] While stream'd their flag its bravery; Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159] That havock'd on the cavalry. Macalister,[160] Mackinnon, With many a flashing trigger there, The foemen rushing in on, Resistless shew'd their vigour there. May fortune free thee--may we see thee Again in Bràun,[161] the turreted, Girt with thy clan! And not a man But will get the scorn he merited. Then wine will play, and usquebae From flaggons, and from badalan,[162] And pipers scream--when Staghead High raises his cabar on.
[132] Applicable both to the chief and his crest.
[133] Literally, "_the dress_," (pron. _eidi_,) _i.e._, Highland garb, not yet abolished.
[134] Sutherlanders, or Caithness men.
[135] Banner.
[136] Monro of Fowlis.
[137] Rose of Kilravock and his clan.
[138] Grant of Grant.
[139] Lovat.
[140] Of Culloden.
[141] Of Sutherland.
[142] Lord Reay.
[143] Steed. The Celtic "Cabul" and Latin "Caballus" correspond.
[144] Here the bard is a little obscure; but he seems to mean that the Monroes made their escape over the skulls of the dead, as if they were boats or coracles by which to cross or get away from danger.
[145] The Caithness and Sutherland men.
[146] Lovat's men.
[147] The eagle being the crest of the Monro.
[148] The _eagle_; the crest of Monro of Fowlis. The filthy and cruel habits of this predatory bird are here contrasted with the forest-manners of the stag in a singular specimen of clan vituperation.
[149] _Fioreun_, the name of the eagle, signifying true bird.
[150] Literally--Accursed by Moses, or the Mosaic law.
[151] The single eagle's feather crested the chieftain's bonnet.
[152] Literally--If thy feather is noble, thy claws are (of) the devil!
[153] This picture of the eagle is not much for edification--nor another hit at the lion of the Macdonalds, then at feud with the Seaforth. The former is abridged, and the latter omitted; as also a lively detail of the _creagh_, in which the Monroes are reproached with their spoilages of cheese, butter, and winter-mart beef.
[154] Seaforth.
[155] Literally--Bagpipes.
[156] Macallammore: Argyle.
[157] Macdonald of Sleat.
[158] Clanranald's country.
[159] Literally--Of blue steel.
[160] Mac-Mhic-Alister, the patronymic of Glengary.
[161] Castle Brahan, Seaforth's seat.
[162] _Gaelic_--Barrels of liquor, properly _bùidealan_.
END OF VOL. I.
GLOSSARY.
_A-low_, on fire.
_Ava_, at all.
_Ayont_, beyond.
_Ban_, swear.
_Bang_, to change place hastily.
_Bangster_, a violent person.
_Bawks_, the cross-beams of a roof.
_Bein_, good, suitable.
_Bicker_, a dish for holding liquor.
_Boddle_, an old Scottish coin--value the third of a penny.
_Boggie_, a marsh.
_Brag_, vaunt.
_Braw_, gaily dressed.
_Busk_, to attire oneself.
_Buss_, bush.
_Cantie_, cheerful.
_Castocks_, the pith of stalks of cabbages.
_Caw_, to drive.
_Chat_, talk.
_Chuckies_, chickens.
_Chuffy_, clownish.
_Clavering_, talking idly.
_Cleeding_, clothing.
_Clishmaclavers_, idle talk.
_Clocksie_, vivacious.
_Cock-up_, a hat or cap turned up before.
_Coft_, purchased.
_Cogie_, a hollow wooden vessel.
_Coozy_, warm.
_Cosie_, snug, comfortable.
_Cowt_, cattle.
_Creel_, a basket.
_Croft_, a tenement of land.
_Croon_, to make a plaintive sound.
_Crouse_, brisk.
_Crusie_, a small lamp.
_Cuddle_, embrace.
_Curpin_, the crupper of a saddle.
_Cuttie_, a short pipe.
_Daff_, sport.
_Daut_, caress.
_Daud_, blow.
_Daunder_, to walk thoughtlessly.
_Dautit_, fondled.
_Dirdum_, tumult.
_Disjasket_, having appearance of decay.
_Doited_, stupid.
_Dool_, grief.
_Dorty_, a foolish urchin.
_Douf_, dull.
_Dowie_, sad.
_Draigle_, draggle.
_Dringing_, delaying.
_Drone_, sound of bagpipes.
_Dung_, defeated.
_Eerie_, timorous.
_Eident_, wary.
_Elf_, a puny creature.
_Fashious_, troublesome.
_Fauld_, a fold.
_Ferlies_, remarkable things.
_Fleyt_, frightened.
_Fogie_, a stupid old person.
_Foumart_, a pole-cat.
_Fraise_, flattery.
_Frumpish_, crumpled.
_Gabbit_, a person prone to idle talk.
_Gart_, compelled.
_Giggle_, unmeaning laughter.
_Gin_, if.
_Girse_, grass.
_Glaikit_, stupid.
_Glamrie_, the power of enchantment.
_Glower_, stare.
_Grusome_, frightful.
_Grist_, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.
_Gutchir_, grandfather.
_Gutters_, mud, wet dust.
_Hain_, save, preserve.
_Hap_, cover.
_Havens_, endowments.
_Henny_, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.
_Hinkum_, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.
_Howe_, a hollow.
_Hyne_, hence.
_Kail_, cabbages, colewort.
_Kebbuck_, a cheese.
_Keil_, red clay, used for marking.
_Ken_, know.
_Kenspeckle_, having a singular appearance.
_Leal_, honest, faithful.
_Leese me_, pleased am I with.
_Lyart_, gray-haired.
_Loof_, the palm of the hand.
_Lowin_, warm.
_Lucky, A_, an old woman.
_Luntin_, smoking.
_Mailin_, a farm.
_Maukin_, a hare.
_Mirk_, dark.
_Mishanter_, a sorry scrape.
_Mittens_, gloves without fingers.
_Mouldie_, crumbling.
_Mouls_, the earth of the grave.
_Mows_, easy.
_Mutch_, a woman's cap.
_Neip_, a turnip.
_Neive_, the closed fist.
_Nippen_, carried off surreptitiously.
_Ouk_, week.
_Owerlay_, a cravat.
_Perk_, push.
_Perlins_, women's ornaments.
_Poortith_, poverty.
_Preed_, tasted.
_Randy_, a scold, a shrew.
_Rate_, slander.
_Rink_, run about.
_Routh_, abundance.
_Rummulgumshin_, common sense.
_Sabbit_, sobbed.
_Scant_, scarce.
_Scartle_, a graip or fork.
_Scrimply_, barely.
_Scug_, shelter.
_Seer_, sure.
_Shaw_, a plantation.
_Shiel_, a sheep shed.
_Skeigh_, timorous.
_Skiffin_, moving lightly.
_Smeddum_, sagacity.
_Snooded_, the hair bound up.
_Spaewife,_ a female fortune-teller.
_Spence_, a larder.
_Steenies_, guineas.
_Sud_, should.
_Sumph_, a soft person.
_Swankie_, a clever young fellow.
_Sweir_, indolent.
_Syne_, then.
_Tabbit_, benumbed.
_Tapsle-teerie_, topsyturvy.
_Ted_, toad.
_Thairms_, strings.
_Thowless_, thoughtless.
_Thraw_, twist.
_Tint_, lost.
_Tirl_, to uncover.
_Tocher_, dowry.
_Toss_, toast.
_Towmond_, a year.
_Trig_, neat, trim.
_Tryst_, appointment.
_Tyced_, made diversion.
_Vauntit_, boasted.
_Weel_, will.
_Whigmigmorum_, political ranting.
_Wile_, choice.
_Wist_, wished.
_Wizen_, the throat.
_Wow_, vow.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.
[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D. F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. II.
ALTRIVE. _THE RESIDENCE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD._
EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:
[Signature: James Hogg]
THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD
Lithographed from an original Portrait in the possession of his widow by Schenck & McFarlane, Edinburgh.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D. F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
M.DCCC.LVI.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PAUL'S WORK.
TO
JOHN BROWN, ESQ., OF MARLIE.
My dear Sir,
I dedicate to you this second volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL," as a sincere token of my estimation of your long continued and most disinterested friendship, and of the anxiety you have so frequently evinced respecting the promotion of my professional views and literary aspirations.
I have the honour to be, My dear Sir, your most obliged, and very faithful servant, CHARLES ROGERS.
Argyle House, Stirling, _December 1855._
INTRODUCTION
TO
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.[1]
The suspicion which arose in regard to the authenticity of Ossian, subsequent to his appearance in the pages of Macpherson, has unjustly excited a misgiving respecting the entire poetry of the Gael. With reference to the elder poetry of the Highlands, it has now been established[2] that at the period of the Reformation, the natives were engrossed with the lays and legends of Bards and Seanachies,[3] of which Ossian, Caoillt, and Cuchullin were the heroes. These romantic strains continued to be preserved and recited with singular veneration. They were familiar to hundreds in different districts who regarded them as relics of their ancestors, and would as soon have mingled the bones of their fathers with the dust of strangers, as ventured on the alteration of a single passage. Many of the reciters of this elder poetry were writers of verses,[4] yet there is no instance of any attempt to alter or supersede the originals. Nor could any attempt have succeeded. There are specimens which exist, independent of those collected by Macpherson, which present a peculiarity of form, and a Homeric consistency of imagery, distinct from every other species of Gaelic poetry.
Of an uncertain era, but of a date posterior to the age of Ossian, there is a class of compositions called _Ur-sgeula_,[5] or _new-tales_, which may be termed the productions of the sub-Ossianic period. They are largely blended with stories of dragons and other fabulous monsters; the best of these compositions being romantic memorials of the Hiberno-Celtic, or Celtic Scandinavian wars. The first translation from the Gaelic was a legend of the _Ur-sgeula_. The translator was Ierome Stone,[6] schoolmaster of Dunkeld, and the performance appeared in the _Scots Magazine_ for 1700. The author had learned from the monks the story of Bellerophon,[7] along with that of Perseus and Andromeda, and from these materials fabricated a romance in which the hero is a mythical character, who is supposed to have given name to Loch Fraoch, near Dunkeld. Belonging to the same era is the "Aged Bard's Wish,"[8] a composition of singular elegance and pathos, and remarkable for certain allusions to the age and imagery of Ossian. This has frequently been translated. Somewhat in the Ossianic style, but of the period of the _Ur-sgeula_ are two popular pieces entitled _Mordubh_[9] and _Collath_. Of these productions the imagery is peculiarly illustrative of the character and habits of the ancient Gael, while they are replete with incidents of the wars which the Albyn had waged with their enemies of Scandinavia. To the same period we are disposed to assign the "Song of the Owl," though it has been regarded by a respectable authority[10] as of modern origin. Of a portion of this celebrated composition we subjoin a metrical translation from the pen of Mr William Sinclair.
The Bard, expelled from the dwellings of men by plunderers according to one account, by a discontented helpmate according to another, is placed in a lone out-house, where he meets an owl which he supposes himself to engage in an interchange of sentiment respecting the olden time:--
HUNTER.
O wailing owl of Strona's vale! We wonder not thy night's repose Is mournful, when with Donegal In distant years thou first arose: O lonely bird! we wonder not, For time the strongest heart can bow, That thou should'st heave a mournful note, Or that thy sp'rit is heavy now!
OWL.
Thou truly sayest I lone abide, I lived with yonder ancient oak, Whose spreading roots strike deep and wide Amidst the moss beside the rock; And long, long years have gone at last, And thousand moons have o'er me stole, And many a race before me past, Still I am Strona's lonely owl!
HUNTER.
Now, since old age has come o'er thee, Confess, as to a priest, thy ways; And fearless tell thou unto me The glorious tales of bygone days.
OWL.
Rapine and falsehood ne'er I knew, Nor grave nor temples e'er have torn, My youthful mate still found me true-- Guiltless am I although forlorn! I 've seen brave Britto's son, the wild, The powerful champion, Fergus, too, Gray-haired Foradden, Strona's child-- These were the heroes great and true!
HUNTER.
Thou hast well began, but tell to me, And say what further hast thou known! E'er Donegal abode with thee, In the Fersaid these all were gone!
OWL.
Great Alexander of the spears, The mightiest chief of Albyn's race, Oft have I heard his voice in cheers From the green hill-side speed the chase; I saw him after Angus brave-- Nor less a noble warrior he-- Fersaid his home, his work he gave Unto the Mill of Altavaich.
HUNTER.
From wild Lochaber, then, the sword With war's dread inroads swept apace; Where, gloomy-brow'd and ancient bird, Was then thy secret hiding-place?
OWL.
When the fierce sounds of terror burst, And plunder'd herds were passing on, I turn'd me from the sight accurst Unto the craig Gunaoch lone; Some of my kindred by the lands Of Inch and Fersaid sought repose, Some by Loch Laggan's lonely sands, Where their lamenting cries arose!
Here follows a noble burst of poetical fervour in praise of the lonely rock, and the scenes of the huntsman's youth. The green plains, the wild harts, the graceful beauty of the brown deer, and the roaring stag, with the banners, ensigns, and streamers of the race of Cona,--all share in the poet's admiration. The following constitutes the exordium of the poem:--
Oh rock of my heart! for ever secure, The rock where my childhood was cherish'd in love, The haunt of the wild birds, the stream flowing pure, And the hinds and the stags that in liberty rove; The rock all encircled by sounds from the grove, Oh, how I delighted to linger by thee, When arose the wild cry of the hounds as they drove, The herds of wild deer from their fastnesses free! Loud scream'd the eagles around thee, I ween, Sweet the cuckoos and the swans in their pride, More cheering the kid-spotted fawns that were seen, With their bleating, that sweetly arose by thy side, I love thee, O wild rock of refuge! of showers, Of the leaves and the cresses, all glorious to me, Of the high grassy heights and the beautiful bowers Afar from the smooth shelly brink of the sea!
The termination of the Sub-Ossianic period brings us to another epoch in the history of Gaelic poetry. The Bard was now the chieftain's retainer, at home a crofter and pensioner,[11] abroad a follower of the camp. We find him cheering the rowers of the galley, with his _birlinn_ chant, and stirring on the fight with his _prosnuchadh catha_, or battle-song. At the noted battle of Harlaw,[12] a piece was sung which has escaped the wreck of that tremendous slaughter, and of contemporary poetry. It is undoubtedly genuine; and the critics of Gaelic verse are unanimous in ascribing to it every excellence which can belong either to alliterative art, or musical excitement. Of the battle-hymn some splendid specimens have been handed down; and these are to be regarded with an amount of confidence, from the apparent ease with which the very long "Incitement to Battle," in the "Garioch Battle-Storm," as Harlaw is called, was remembered. Collections of favourite pieces began to be made in writing about the period of the revival of letters. The researches of the Highland Society brought to light a miscellany, embracing the poetical labours of two contemporaries of rank, Sir Duncan Campbell[13] of Glenurchay, and Lady Isabel Campbell. From this period the poet's art degenerates into a sort of family chronicle. There were, however, incidents which deserved a more affecting style of memorial; and this appears in lays which still command the interest and draw forth the tears of the Highlander. The story of the persecuted Clan Gregor supplies many illustrations, such as the oft-chanted _Macgregor na Ruara_,[14] and the mournful melodies of Janet Campbell.[15] In the footsteps of these exciting subjects of poetry, came the inspiring Montrose wars, which introduce to our acquaintance the more modern class of bards; of these the most conspicuous is, Ian Lom[16] or Manntach. This bard was a Macdonald; he hung on the skirts of armies, and at the close of the battle sung the triumph or the wail, on the side of his
## partisans.[17] To the presence of this person the clans are supposed to
have been indebted for much of the enthusiasm which led them to glory in the wars of Montrose. His poetry only reaches mediocrity, but the success which attended it led the chiefs to seek similar support in the Jacobite wars; and very animated compositions were the result of their encouragement. Mathieson, the family bard of Seaforth, Macvuirich, the pensioner of Clanranald, and Hector the Lamiter, bard of M'Lean, were pre-eminent in this department. The Massacre of Glencoe suggested numerous elegies. There is one remarkable for pathos by a clansman who had emigrated to the Isle of Muck, from which circumstance he is styled "Am Bard Mucanach."
The knights of Duart and Sleat, the chiefs of Clanranald and Glengarry, the Lochaber seigniory of Lochiel, and the titled chivalry of Sutherland and Seaforth,[18] formed subjects of poetic eulogy. Sir Hector Maclean, Ailein Muideartach, and the lamented Sir James Macdonald obtained the same tribute. The second of these Highland favourites could not make his manly countenance, or stalwart arm, visible in hall, barge, or battle,[19] without exciting the enthusiastic strain of the enamoured muse of one sex, or of the admiring minstrel of the other. In this department of poetry, some of the best proficients were women. Of these Mary M'Leod, the contemporary of Ian Lom, is one of the most musical and elegant. Her chief, _The M'Leod_, was the grand theme of her inspiration. Dora Brown[20] sung a chant on the renowned Col-Kitto, as he went forth against the Campbells to revenge the death of his father; a composition conceived in a strain such as Helen Macgregor might have struck up to stimulate to some deed of daring and vindictive enterprise.
Of the modern poetry of the Gael, Macpherson has expressed himself unfavourably; he regarded the modern Highlanders as being incapable of estimating poetry otherwise than in the returning harmony of similar sounds. They were seduced, he remarks, by the charms of rhyme; and admired the strains of Ossian, not for the sublimity of the poetry, but on account of the antiquity of the compositions, and the detail of facts which they contained. On this subject a different opinion has been expressed by Sir Walter Scott. "I cannot dismiss this story," he writes, in his last introduction to his tale of the "Two Drovers," "without resting attention for a moment on the light which has been thrown on the character of the Highland Drover, since the time of its first appearance, by the account of a drover poet, by name Robert Mackay, or, as he was commonly called, Rob Donn, _i.e._, Brown Robert; and certain specimens of his talents, published in the ninetieth number of the _Quarterly Review_. The picture which that paper gives of the habits and feelings of a class of persons with which the general reader would be apt to associate no ideas but those of wild superstition and rude manners, is in the highest degree interesting; and I cannot resist the temptation of quoting two of the songs of this hitherto unheard-of poet of humble life.... Rude and bald as these things appear in a verbal translation, and rough as they might possibly appear, even were the originals intelligible, we confess we are disposed to think they would of themselves justify Dr Mackay (editor of Mackay's Poems) in placing this herdsman-lover among the true sons of song."
Of that department of the Gaelic Minstrelsy admired by Scott and condemned by Macpherson, the English reader is presented in the present work with specimens, to enable him to form his own judgment. These specimens, it must however be remembered, not only labour under the ordinary disadvantages of translations, but have been rendered from a language which, in its poetry, is one of the least transfusible in the world. Yet the effort which has been made to retain the spirit, and preserve the rhythm and manner of the originals, may be sufficient to establish that the honour of the Scottish Muse has not unworthily been supported among the mountains of the Gael. Some of the compositions are Jacobite, and are in the usual warlike strain of such productions, but the majority sing of the rivalries of clans, the emulation of bards, the jealousies of lovers, and the honour of the chiefs. They likewise abound in pictures of pastoral imagery; are redolent of the heath and the wildflower, and depict the beauties of the deer forest.
The various kinds of Highland minstrelsy admit of simple classification. The _Duan Mor_ is the epic song; its subdivisions are termed _duana_ or _duanaga_. Strings of verse and incidents ([Greek: Rhapsôdia]) were intended to form an epic history, and were combined by successive bards for that purpose. The battle-song (_Prosnuchadh-catha_) was the next in importance. The model of this variety is not to be found in any of the Alcaic or Tyrtæan remains. It was a dithyrambic of the wildest and most passionate enthusiasm, inciting to carnage and fury. Chanted in the hearing of assembled armies, and sometimes sung before the van, it was intended as an incitement to battle, and even calculated to stimulate the courage of the general. The war-song of the Harlaw has been already noticed; it is a rugged tissue of alliteration, every letter having a separate division in the remarkable string of adjectives which are connected to introduce a short exordium and grand finale. The _Jorram_, or boat-song, some specimens of which attracted the attention of Dr Johnson,[21] was a variety of the same class. In this, every measure was used which could be made to time with an oar, or to mimic a wave, either in motion or sound. Dr Johnson discovered in it the proceleusmatic song of the ancients; it certainly corresponds in real usage with the poet's description:--
"Stat margine puppis, Qui voce alternos nautarum temperet ictus, Et remis dictet sonitum pariterque relatis, Ad numerum plaudet resonantia cærula tonsis."
Alexander Macdonald excels in this description of verse. In a piece called Clanranald's _Birlinn_, he has summoned his utmost efforts in timing the circumstances of a voyage with suitable metres and descriptions. A happy imitation of the boat-song has been rendered familiar to the English reader by Sir Walter Scott, in the "Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho! ieroe," of the "Lady of the Lake." The _Luineag_, or favourite carol of the Highland milkmaid, is a class of songs entirely lyrical, and which seldom fails to please the taste of the Lowlander. Burns[22] and other song-writers have adopted the strain of the _Luineag_ to adorn their verses. The _Cumha_, or lament, is the vehicle of the most pathetic and meritorious effusions of Gaelic poetry; it is abundantly interspersed with the poetry of Ossian.
Among the Gael, blank verse is unknown, and for rhyme they entertain a passion.[23] They rhyme to the same set of sounds or accents for a space of which the recitation is altogether tedious. Not satisfied with the final rhyme, their favourite measures are those in which the middle syllable corresponds with the last, and the same syllable in the second line with both; and occasionally the final sound of the second line is expected to return in every alternate verse through the whole poem. The Gael appear to have been early in possession of these coincidences of termination which were unknown to the classical poets, or were regarded by them as defects.[24] All writers on Celtic versification, including the Irish, Welsh, Manx, and Cornish varieties, are united in their testimony as to the early use of rhyme by the Celtic poets, and agree in assigning the primary model to the incantations of the Druids.[25] The lyrical measures of the Gael are various, but the scansion is regular, and there is no description of verse familiar to English usage, from the Iambic of four syllables, to the slow-paced Anapæstic, or the prolonged Alexandrine, which is not exactly measured by these sons and daughters of song.[26] Every poetical composition in the language, however lengthy, is intended to be sung or chanted. Gaelic music is regulated by no positive rules; it varies from the wild chant of the battle-song to the simple melody of the milkmaid. In Johnson's "Musical Museum," Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology," Thomson's "Collection," and Macdonald's "Airs," the music of the mountains has long been familiar to the curious in song, and lover of the national minstrelsy.[27]
[1] We are indebted for these observations on the Highland Muse to the learned friend who has supplied the greater number of the translations from the Gaelic poets, which appear in the present work.
[2] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 16-20.
[3] Genealogists or Antiquaries.
[4] Letter from Sir James Macdonald to Dr Blair.
[5] M'Callum's "Collection," p. 207. See also Smith's "Sean Dana, or Gaelic Antiquities;" Gillies' "Collection" and Clark's "Caledonian Bards."
[6] Highland Society's Report on Ossian, pp. 99, 105, 112.
[7] Boswell's "Life of Johnson," p. 320, Croker's edition, 1847.
[8] "Poems by Mrs Grant of Laggan," p. 395, Edinburgh, 1803, 8vo. The original is to be found in the Gaelic collections.
[9] Mrs Grant's Poems, p. 371; Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 1.
[10] See Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 249. The original is contained in Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets."
[11] See Johnson's "Journey to the Western Islands."
[12] Stewart's Collection, p. 1.
[13] Report on Ossian, p. 92. Sir Duncan Campbell fell at the battle of Flodden, Lady Campbell afterwards married Gilbert, Earl of Cassillis.
[14] Mrs Grant's "Highland Superstitions," vol. ii. p. 196.
[15] Mrs Ogilvie's "Highland Minstrelsy." For the original see Turner's Collection, p. 186.
[16] Reid's "Bibliotheca Scotica Celtica." Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 36.
[17] Napier's "Memoirs of Montrose." In this work will be found a very spirited translation of Ian Lom's poem on the battle of Innerlochy.
[18] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," pp. 24, 59, 77, 77, 151; Turner's "Gaelic Collection," _passim._
[19] See the beautiful verses translated by the Marchioness of Northampton from "Ha tighinn fodham," in "Albyn's Anthology," or Croker's "Boswell."
[20] Mackenzie's "Gaelic Poets," p. 56.
[21] Johnson's Works, vol. xii. p. 291.
[22] Poems, Chambers' People's Edition, p. 134.
[23] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 63.
[24] _Edinburgh Review_ on Mitford's "Harmony of Language," vol. vi. p. 383.
[25] Brown's "History of the Highlands," vol. i. p. 89.
[26] Armstrong's "Gaelic Dictionary," p. 64.
[27] See also Logan's "Scottish Gael," vol. ii. p. 252.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
JAMES HOGG, 1 Donald Macdonald, 48 Flora Macdonald's farewell, 50 Bonnie Prince Charlie, 51 The skylark, 52 Caledonia, 53 O Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye, 54 When the kye comes hame, 55 The women folk, 58 M'Lean's welcome, 59 Charlie is my darling, 61 Love is like a dizziness, 62 O weel befa' the maiden gay, 64 The flowers of Scotland, 66 Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, 67 Pull away, jolly boys, 69 O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine? 70 The auld Highlandman, 71 Ah, Peggy, since thou 'rt gane away, 72 Gang to the brakens wi' me, 74 Lock the door, Lariston, 75 I hae naebody now, 77 The moon was a-waning, 78 Good night, and joy, 79
JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D., 81 Bess the gawkie, 82 MRS AGNES LYON, 84 Neil Gow's farewell to whisky, 86 See the winter clouds around, 87 Within the towers of ancient Glammis, 88 My son George's departure, 90
ROBERT LOCHORE, 91 Now, Jenny lass, 92 Marriage, and the care o't, 94 Mary's twa lovers, 95 The forlorn shepherd, 96
JOHN ROBERTSON, 98 The toom meal pock, 99
ALEXANDER BALFOUR, 101 The bonnie lass o' Leven water, 104 Slighted love, 105
GEORGE MACINDOE, 106 Cheese and whisky, 108 The burn trout, 109
ALEXANDER DOUGLAS, 110 Fife, an' a' the land about it, 112
WILLIAM M'LAREN, 114 Now summer shines with gaudy pride, 116 And dost thou speak sincere, my love? 116 Say not the bard has turn'd old, 117
HAMILTON PAUL, 120 Helen Gray, 128 The bonnie lass of Barr, 129
ROBERT TANNAHILL, 131 Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane, 136 Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, 137 The lass of Arranteenie, 139 Yon burn side, 140 The braes o' Gleniffer, 141 Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, 142 The braes o' Balquhither, 143 Gloomy winter 's now awa', 145 O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? 146 Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow, 147 The dear Highland laddie, O, 148 The midges dance aboon the burn, 149 Barrochan Jean, 150 O, row thee in my Highland plaid, 151 Bonnie wood of Craigie lea, 153 Good night, and joy, 154
HENRY DUNCAN, D.D., 156 Curling song, 161 On the green sward, 163 The Ruthwell volunteers, 164 Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, 165 The roof of straw, 166 Thou kens't, Mary Hay, 167
ROBERT ALLAN, 169 Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, 171 Come awa, hie awa, 171 On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, 173 To a linnet, 174 The primrose is bonnie in spring, 174 The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee, 175 The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, 176 Her hair was like the Cromla mist, 177 O leeze me on the bonnie lass, 178 Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle, 179 When Charlie to the Highlands came, 180 Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, 181 The lovely maid of Ormadale, 183 A lassie cam' to our gate, 184 The thistle and the rose, 186 The Covenanter's lament, 187 Bonnie lassie, 188
ANDREW MERCER, 189 The hour of love, 190
JOHN LEYDEN, M.D., 191 Ode to the evening star, 196 The return after absence, 197 Lament for Rama, 197
JAMES SCADLOCK, 199 Along by Levern stream so clear, 201 Hark, hark, the skylark singing, 202 October winds, 203
SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART., 204 Jenny's bawbee, 208 Jenny dang the weaver, 210 The lass o' Isla, 211 Taste life's glad moments, 212 Good night, and joy be wi' ye a', 214 Old and new times, 215 Bannocks o' barley meal, 216
WILLIAM GILLESPIE, 218 The Highlander, 220 Ellen, 221
THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM, 223 Adown the burnie's flowery bank, 227 The hills o' Gallowa', 227 The braes o' Ballahun, 229 The unco grave, 230 Julia's grave, 231 Fareweel, ye streams, 232
JOHN STRUTHERS, 235 Admiring Nature's simple charms, 239 Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree, 240
RICHARD GALL, 241 How sweet is the scene, 243 Captain O'Kain, 243 My only jo and dearie, O, 244 The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e, 245 The braes o' Drumlee, 246 I winna gang back to my mammy again, 248 The bard, 249 Louisa in Lochaber, 249 The hazlewood witch, 250 Farewell to Ayrshire, 251
GEORGE SCOTT, 253 The flower of the Tyne, 254
THOMAS CAMPBELL, 255 Ye mariners of England, 262 Glenara, 263 The wounded hussar, 264 Battle of the Baltic, 265 Men of England, 268
MRS G. G. RICHARDSON, 269 The fairy dance, 273 Summer morning, 274 There 's music in the flowing tide, 275 Ah! faded is that lovely broom, 276
THOMAS BROWN, M.D., 278 Consolation of altered fortunes, 281 The faithless mourner, 282 The lute, 283
WILLIAM CHALMERS, 285 Sing on, 286 The Lomond braes, 287
JOSEPH TRAIN, 288 My doggie, 293 Blooming Jessie, 295 Old Scotia, 296
ROBERT JAMIESON, 297 My wife 's a winsome wee thing, 299 Go to him, then, if thou can'st go, 300
WALTER WATSON, 302 My Jockie 's far awa, 304 Maggie an' me, 305 Sit down, my cronie, 306 Braes o' Bedlay, 307 Jessie, 308
WILLIAM LAIDLAW, 310 Lucy's flittin', 314 Her bonnie black e'e, 316 Alake for the lassie, 317
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD, 321 The lion of Macdonald, 323 The brown dairy-maiden, 327 The praise of Morag, 329 News of Prince Charles, 335
JOHN ROY STUART, 340 Lament for Lady Macintosh, 341 The day of Culloden, 343
JOHN MORRISON, 346 My beauty dark, 347
ROBERT MACKAY, 349 The Highlander's home sickness, 349
* * * * *
GLOSSARY, 350
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
JAMES HOGG.
The last echoes of the older Border Minstrelsy were dying from the memory of the aged, and the spirit which had awakened the strains seemed to have sighed an eternal farewell to its loved haunts in the past, when, suddenly arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of inspiration, at the close of last century, over several sons of song, worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires. Of these, unquestionably the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated "The Ettrick Shepherd." This distinguished individual was born in the bosom of the romantic vale of Ettrick, in Selkirkshire,--one of the most mountainous and picturesque districts of Scotland. The family of Hogg claimed descent from Hougo, a Norwegian baron; and the poet's paternal ancestors at one period possessed the lands of Fauldshope in Ettrick Forest, and were followers, under the feudal system, of the Knights of Harden. For several generations they had adopted the simple occupation of shepherds. On the mother's side, the poet was descended from the respectable family of Laidlaw,--one of the oldest in Tweeddale, and of which all the representatives bore the reputation of excelling either in intellectual vigour or physical energy; they generally devoted themselves to the pastoral life. Robert Hogg, the poet's father, was a person of very ordinary sagacity, presenting in this respect a decided contrast to his wife, Margaret Laidlaw, a woman of superior energy and cultivated mind. Their family consisted of four sons, of whom the second was James, the subject of this Memoir. The precise date of his birth is unknown: he was baptised, according to the Baptismal Register of Ettrick, his native parish, on the 9th of December 1770.[28]
At the period of his marriage, Robert Hogg was in circumstances of considerable affluence; he had saved money as a shepherd, and, taking on lease the two adjoining pastoral farms of Ettrick-hall and Ettrick-house, he largely stocked them with sheep adapted both for the Scottish and English markets. During several years he continued to prosper; but a sudden depression in the market, and the absconding of a party who was indebted to him, at length exhausted his finances, and involved him in bankruptcy. The future poet was then in his sixth year. In this destitute condition, the family experienced the friendship and assistance of Mr Brydon, tenant of the neighbouring farm of Crosslee, who, leasing Ettrick-house, employed Robert Hogg as his shepherd. But the circumstances of the family were much straitened by recent reverses; and the second son, young as he was, and though he had only been three months at school, was engaged as a cow-herd, his wages for six months being only a ewe-lamb and a pair of shoes! Three months' further attendance at school, on the expiry of his engagement, completed the future bard's scholastic instructions. It was the poet's lot, with the exception of these six months' schooling, to receive his education among the romantic retreats and solitudes of Nature. First as a cow-herd, and subsequently through the various gradations of shepherd-life, his days, till advanced manhood, were all the year round passed upon the hills. And such hills! The mountains of Ettrick and Yarrow are impressed with every feature of Highland scenery, in its wildest and most striking aspects. There are stern summits, enveloped in cloud, and stretching heavenwards; huge broad crests, heathy and verdant, or torn by fissures and broken by the storms; deep ravines, jagged, precipitate, and darksome; and valleys sweetly reposing amidst the sublimity of the awful solitude. There are dark craggy mountains around the Grey-Mare's-Tail, echoing to the roar of its stupendous cataract; and romantic and beautiful green hills, and inaccessible heights, surrounding and towering over St Mary's Loch, and the Loch of the Lowes. To the sublimity of that vast academy, in which he had learned to invoke the Muse, the poet has referred in the "Queen's Wake":--
"The bard on Ettrick's mountain green, In Nature's bosom nursed had been; And oft had mark'd in forest lone The beauties on her mountain throne; Had seen her deck the wildwood tree, And star with snowy gems the lea; In loveliest colours paint the plain, And sow the moor with purple grain; By golden mead and mountain sheer, Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear, When shadowy flocks of purest snow Seem'd grazing in a world below."
Glorious as was his academy, the genius of the poet was not precocious. Forgetting everything he had learned at school, he spent his intervals of toil in desultory amusements, or in pursuing his own shadow upon the hills. As he grew older, he discovered the possession of a musical ear; and saving five shillings of his earnings, he purchased an old violin, upon which he learned to play his favourite tunes. He had now attained his fourteenth year; and in the constant hope of improving his circumstances, had served twelve masters.
The life of a cow-herd affords limited opportunities for mental improvement. And the early servitude of the Ettrick Shepherd was spent in excessive toil, which his propensities to fun and frolic served just to render tolerable. When he reached the respectable and comparatively easy position of a shepherd, he began to think of teaching himself to read. From Mrs Laidlaw, the wife of the farmer at Willinslee, on which he served, he was privileged with the loan of two works, of which the reputation had been familiar to him from childhood. These were Henry the Minstrel's "Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace," and the "Gentle Shepherd" of Allan Ramsay. On these the future poet with much difficulty learned to read, in his eighteenth year. He afterwards read a number of theological works, from his employer's collection of books; and among others of a speculative cast, "Burnet's Theory of the Conflagration of the Earth," the perusal of which, he has recorded, "nearly overturned his brain."
At Whitsunday 1790, in his twentieth year, Hogg entered the service, as shepherd, of Mr James Laidlaw, tenant of Blackhouse,--a farm situate on the Douglasburn in Yarrow. This proved the most signally fortunate step which he had yet taken. Mr Laidlaw was a man of singular shrewdness and of a highly cultivated mind; he readily perceived his shepherd's aptitude for learning, and gave him the use of his library. But the poet's connexion with Blackhouse was especially valuable in enabling him to form the intimacy of Mr William Laidlaw, his master's son, the future factor and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott. Though ten years his junior, and consequently a mere youth at the period of his coming to Blackhouse, young Laidlaw began early to sympathise with the Shepherd's predilections, and afterwards devoted a large portion of time to his society. The friendship which ensued proved useful to both. A MS. narrative of the poet's life by this unfailing friend, which has been made available in the preparation of this Memoir, enables us to supply an authentic account of this portion of his career. "He was not long," writes Mr Laidlaw, "in going through all the books belonging to my father; and learning from me that Mr Elder, bookseller, Peebles, had a large collection of books which he used as a circulating library, he forthwith became a subscriber, and by that means read Smollett's and Fielding's novels, and those voyages and travels which were published at the time, including those of Cook, Carteret, and others."
The progress of the Shepherd in learning was singularly tardy. He was, by a persevering course of reading, sufficiently familiar with the more esteemed writers in English literature, ere he attempted penmanship. He acquired the art upon the hill-side by copying the Italian alphabet, using his knees as his desk, and having his ink-bottle suspended from his button. In his twenty-sixth year he first essayed to write verses,--an effort attended, in the manual department, with amusing difficulty, for he stripped himself of his coat and vest to the undertaking, yet could record only a few lines at a sitting! But he was satisfied with the fame derived from his verses, as adequate compensation for the toil of their production; he wrote for the amusement of the shepherd maidens, who sung them to their favourite tunes, and bestowed on him the prized designation of "Jamie the Poeter." At the various gatherings of the lads and lasses in the different homesteads, then frequent in this pastoral district, he never failed to present himself, and had golden opportunities of winning the chaplet of applause, both for the strains of his minstrelsy, and the music of his violin. These _réunions_ were not without their influence in stimulating him to more ambitious efforts in versification.
The Shepherd's popularity, while tending the flocks of Mr Laidlaw at Blackhouse, was not wholly derived from his skill as a versifier, and capabilities as a musician, but, among the fairer portion of the creation, was perhaps scarcely less owing to the amenity of his disposition, combined with the handsomeness of his person. As a candidate for the honour of feminine approbation, he was successful alike in the hall and on the green: the rumour of his approach at any rural assemblage or merry-meeting was the watchword for increased mirth and happiness. If any malignant rival had hinted aught to his prejudice, the maidens of the whole district had assembled to vindicate his cause. His personal appearance at this early period is thus described by Mr William Laidlaw:--"About nineteen years of age, Hogg was rather above the middle height, of faultless symmetry of form; he was of almost unequalled agility and swiftness. His face was then round and full, and of a ruddy complexion, with bright blue eyes that beamed with gaiety, glee, and good-humour, the effect of the most exuberant animal spirits. His head was covered with a singular profusion of light-brown hair, which he was obliged to wear coiled up under his hat. On entering church on a Sunday (where he was all his life a regular attender) he used, on lifting his hat, to raise his right hand to assist a graceful shake of his head in laying back his long hair, which rolled down his back, and fell below his loins. And every female eye was upon him, as, with light step, he ascended the stair to the gallery where he sat."
As the committing of his thoughts to paper became a less irksome occupation, Hogg began, with commendable prudence, to attempt composition in prose; and in evidence of his success, he had the satisfaction to find short essays which he sent to the _Scots Magazine_ regularly inserted in that periodical. Poetry was cultivated at the same time with unabated ardour, though the bard did not yet venture to expose his verses beyond the friendly circle of his associates in Ettrick Forest. Of these, the most judicious was young Laidlaw; who, predicting his success, urged him to greater carefulness in composition. There was another stimulus to his improvement. Along with several shepherds in the forest, who were of studious inclinations, he formed a literary society, which proposed subjects for competition in verse, and adjudged encomiums of approbation to the successful competitors. Two spirited members of this literary conclave were Alexander Laidlaw, a shepherd, and afterwards tenant of Bowerhope, on the border of St Mary's Lake, and the poet's elder brother, William, a man of superior talent. Both these individuals subsequently acquired considerable distinction as intelligent contributors to the agricultural journals. For some years, William Hogg had rented the sheep-farm of Ettrick-house, and afforded shelter and support to his aged and indigent parents. In the year 1800, he resigned his lease to the poet, having taken another farm on the occasion of his marriage. James now established himself, along with his parents, at Ettrick-house, the place of his nativity, after a period of ten years' connexion with Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, whose conduct towards him, to use his own words, had proved "much more like that of a father than a master." It was during the course of a visit to Edinburgh in the same year, that an accidental circumstance gave a wider range to his poetical reputation. Spending an evening with a party of friends in the Crown Tavern, he was solicited for a song. He sung the last which he had composed; it was "Donald Macdonald." The reception was a roar of applause, and one of the party offered to get it set to music and published. The song was issued anonymously from the music establishment of Mr John Hamilton of Edinburgh. Within a few months it was sung in every district of the kingdom; and, at a period when the apprehended invasion of Napoleon filled the hearts of the nation with anxiety, it was hailed as an admirable stimulus to patriotism. In the preparation of the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," Scott had been largely indebted to the intelligent peasantry of the south. He was now engaged in making collections for his third volume, and had resolved to examine the pastoral inhabitants of Ettrick and Yarrow. Procuring a note of introduction from his friend Leyden to young Laidlaw, Scott arrived at Blackhouse during the summer of 1801, and in his native home formed the acquaintance of his future steward. To his visitor, Laidlaw commended Hogg as the best qualified in the forest to assist him in his researches; and Scott, who forthwith accompanied Laidlaw to Ettrick-house, was more than gratified by an interview with the shepherd-bard. "He found," writes his biographer, "a brother poet, a true son of nature and genius, hardly conscious of his powers.... As yet, his naturally kind and simple character had not been exposed to any of the dangerous flatteries of the world; his heart was pure; his enthusiasm buoyant as that of a happy child; and well as Scott knew that reflection, sagacity, wit and wisdom, were scattered abundantly among the humblest rangers of these pastoral solitudes, there was here a depth and a brightness that filled him with wonder, combined with a quaintness of humour, and a thousand little touches of absurdity, which afforded him more entertainment, as I have often heard him say, than the best comedy that ever set the pit in a roar." Scott remained several days in the forest, daily accompanied in his excursions by Hogg and Laidlaw, both of whom rapidly warmed in his regard. From the recitation of the Shepherd's mother, he obtained important and interesting accessions to his Minstrelsy.
With the exception of the song of "Donald Macdonald," Hogg had not yet published verses. His _début_ as an author was sufficiently unpropitious. Shortly after Scott's visit, he had been attending the Monday sheep-market in Edinburgh, and being unable to dispose of his entire stock, was necessitated to remain in the city till the following Wednesday. Having no acquaintances, he resolved to employ the interval in writing from recollection several of his poems for the press. Before his departure, he gave the pieces to a printer; and shortly after, he received intimation that a thousand copies were ready for delivery. On comparing the printed sheets with his MSS. at Ettrick, he had the mortification of discovering "many of the stanzas omitted, others misplaced, and typographical errors abounding in every page." The little _brochure_, imperfect as it was, sold rapidly in the district; for the Shepherd had now a considerable circle of admirers, and those who had ridiculed his verse-making, kept silent since Scott's visit to him. A copy of the pamphlet is preserved in the Advocates' Library; it consists of sixty-two pages octavo, and is entitled, "Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, &c., mostly written in the Dialect of the South, by James Hogg. Edinburgh: printed by John Taylor, Grassmarket, 1801. Price One Shilling." The various pieces evince poetic power, unhappily combined with a certain coarseness of sentiment. One of the longer ballads, "Willie and Keatie," supposed to be a narrative of one of his early amours, obtained a temporary popularity, and was copied into the periodicals. It is described by Allan Cunningham as a "plain, rough-spun pastoral, with some fine touches in it, to mark that better was coming."
The domestic circumstances of the Shepherd were meanwhile not prosperous; he was compelled to abandon the farm of Ettrick-house, which had been especially valuable to him, as affording a comfortable home to his venerated parents. In the hope of procuring a situation as an overseer of some extensive sheep-farm, he made several excursions into the northern Highlands, waiting upon many influential persons, to whom he had letters of recommendation. These journeys were eminently advantageous in acquainting him with many interesting and celebrated scenes, and in storing his mind with images drawn from the sublimities and wild scenery of nature, but were of no account as concerned the object for which they were undertaken. Without procuring employment, he returned, with very reduced finances, to Ettrick Forest. He published a rough narrative of his travels in the _Scots Magazine_; and wrote two essays on the rearing and management of sheep, for the Highland Society, which were acknowledged with premiums. Frustrated in an attempt to procure a farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, and declining an offer of Scott to appoint him to the charge of his small sheep-farm at Ashestiel, he was led to indulge in the scheme of settling in the island of Harris. It was in the expectation of being speedily separated from the loved haunts of his youth, that he composed his "Farewell to Ettrick," afterwards published in the "Mountain Bard," one of the most touching and pathetic ballads in the language. The Harris enterprise was not carried out; and the poet, "to avoid a great many disagreeable questions and explanations," went for several months to England. Fortune still frowned, and the ambitious but unsuccessful son of genius had to return to his former subordinate occupation as a shepherd. He entered the employment of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-Slack, in Nithsdale.
Dissatisfied with the imitations of ancient ballads in the third volume of "The Border Minstrelsy," Hogg proceeded to embody some curious traditions in this kind of composition. He transmitted specimens to Scott, who warmly commended them, and suggested their publication. The result appeared in the "Mountain Bard," a collection of poems and ballads, which he published in 1803, prefixed with an account of his life. From the profits of this volume, with the sum of eighty-six pounds paid him by Constable for the copyright of his two treatises on sheep, he became master of three hundred pounds. With this somewhat startling acquisition, visions of prosperity arose in his ardent and enthusiastic mind. He hastily took in lease the pastoral farm of Corfardin, in the parish of Tynron, Dumfriesshire, to which he afterwards added the lease of another large farm in the same neighbourhood. Misfortune still pursued him; he rented one of the farms at a sum exceeding its value, and his capital was much too limited for stocking the other, while a disastrous murrain decimated his flock. Within the space of three years he was again a penniless adventurer. Removing from the farm-homestead of Corfardin, he accepted the generous invitation of his hospitable neighbour, Mr James Macturk of Stenhouse, to reside in his house till some suitable employment might occur. At Stenhouse he remained three months; and he subsequently acknowledged the generosity of his friend, by honourably celebrating him in the "Queen's Wake." Writing to Mr Macturk, in 1814, he remarks, in reference to his farming at Corfardin, "But it pleased God to take away by death all my ewes and my lambs, and my long-horned cow, and my spotted bull, for if they had lived, and if I had kept the farm of Corfardin, I had been a lost man to the world, and mankind should never have known the half that was in me. Indeed, I can never see the design of Providence in taking me to your district at all, if it was not to breed my acquaintance with you and yours, which I hope will be one source of happiness to me as long as I live. Perhaps the very circumstance of being initiated into the mysteries of your character,[29] is of itself a sufficient compensation for all that I suffered in your country."
Disappointed in obtaining an ensigncy in a Militia Regiment, through the interest of Sir Walter Scott, and frustrated in every other attempt to retain the social position he had gained, he returned to Ettrick, once more to seek employment in his original occupation. But if friendship had somewhat failed him, on his proving unsuccessful at Ettrick-house, his _prestige_ was now completely gone; old friends received him coldly, and former employers declined his services. He found that, till he should redeem his reputation for business and good management, there was no home for him in Ettrick Forest. Hogg was not a man who would tamely surrender to the pressure of misfortune: amidst his losses he could claim the strictest honesty of intention, and he was not unconscious of his powers. With his plaid over his shoulders, he reached Edinburgh in the month of February 1810, to begin, in his fortieth year, the career of a man of letters. The scheme was singularly adventurous, but the die was cast; he was in the position of the man on the tread-wheel, and felt that he must write or perish.
It affords no matter of surprise that the Shepherd was received coldly by the booksellers, and that his offers of contributing to their periodicals were respectfully declined. His volume, "The Mountain Bard," had been forgotten; and though his literary fitness had been undisputed, his lengthened want of success in life seemed to imply a doubt of his general steadiness. Mr Constable, his former publisher, proved the most friendly; he consented to publish a collection of songs and ballads, which he had prepared, two-thirds being his own composition, and the remainder that of his ingenious friends. This publication, known as "The Forest Minstrel," had a slow sale, and conferred no benefit on the unfortunate author. What the booksellers would not do for him, Hogg resolved to do for himself; he originated a periodical, which he designated "The Spy," acting as his own publisher. The first number of this publication--a quarto weekly sheet, price fourpence--was issued on the first of September 1810. With varied popularity, this paper existed during the space of a year; and owing to the perseverance of the conductor might have subsisted a longer period, but for a certain ruggedness which occasionally disfigured it. As a whole, being chiefly the composition of a shepherd, who could only read at eighteen, and write at twenty-six, and who, to use his own words, "knew no more of human life or manners than a child," the work presented a remarkable record in the annals of literature. As a business concern, it did not much avail the projector, but it served indirectly towards improving his condition, by inducing the habit of composing readily, and with undeviating industry. A copy of "The Spy" is now rare.
From his literary exertions, Hogg was long, subsequent to his arrival in the metropolis, in deriving substantial pecuniary emolument. In these circumstances, he was fortunate in the friendship of Mr John Grieve, and his partner Mr Henry Scott, hat manufacturers in the city, who, fully appreciating his genius, aided him with money so long as he required their assistance. These are his own words, "They suffered me to want for nothing, either in money or clothes, and I did not even need to ask these." To Mr Grieve, Hogg was especially indebted; six months he was an inmate of his house, and afterwards he occupied comfortable lodgings, secured him by his friend's beneficence. Besides these two invaluable benefactors, the Shepherd soon acquired the regard and friendship of several respectable men of letters, both in Edinburgh and elsewhere. As contributors to "The Spy," he could record the names of James Gray of the High School, and his accomplished wife; Thomas Gillespie, afterwards Professor of Humanity in the University of St Andrews; J. Black, subsequently of the _Morning Chronicle_; William Gillespie, the ingenious minister of Kells; and John Sym, the renowned Timothy Tickler of the "_Noctes_." Of these literary friends, Mr James Gray was the more conspicuous and devoted. This excellent individual, the friend of so many literary aspirants, was a native of Dunse, and had the merit of raising himself from humble circumstances to the office of a master in the High School of Edinburgh. Possessed of elegant and refined tastes, an enthusiastic admirer of genius, and a poet himself,[30] Mr Gray entertained at his table the more esteemed wits of the capital; he had extended the hand of hospitality to Burns, and he received with equal warmth the author of "The Forest Minstrel." In the exercise of disinterested beneficence, he was aided and encouraged by his second wife, formerly Miss Peacock, who sympathised in the lettered tastes of her husband, and took delight in the society of men of letters. They together made annual pedestrian excursions into the Highlands, and the narrative of their adventures proved a source of delightful instruction to their friends. Mr Gray, after a lengthened period of residence in Edinburgh, accepted, in the year 1821, the Professorship of Latin in the Institution at Belfast; he subsequently took orders in the Church of England, and proceeded to India as a chaplain. In addition to his chaplaincy, he held the office of preceptor to one of the native princes of Hindostan. He died at Bhoog, in the kingdom of Cutch, on the 25th of September 1830; and if we add that he was a man of remarkable learning, his elegy may be transcribed from the "Queen's Wake:"--
"Alike to him the south and north, So high he held the minstrel worth; So high his ardent mind was wrought, Once of himself he never thought."
As the circle of the poet's friends increased, a scheme was originated among them, which was especially entertained by the juniors, of establishing a debating society for mutual improvement. This institution became known as the Forum; meetings were held weekly in a public hall of the city, and strangers were admitted to the discussions on the payment of sixpence a-head. The meetings were uniformly crowded; and the Shepherd, who held the office of secretary, made a point of taking a prominent lead in the discussions. He spoke once, and sometimes more frequently, at every meeting, making speeches, both studied and extemporaneous, on every variety of theme; and especially contributed, by his rough-spun eloquence, to the popularity of the institution. The society existed three years; and though yielding the secretary no pecuniary emolument, proved a new and effective mean of extending his acquaintance with general knowledge.
Hogg now took an interest in theatricals, and produced two dramas, one of which, a sort of musical farce, was intended as a burlesque on the prominent members of the Forum, himself included. This he was induced, on account of the marked personalities, to confine to his repositories; he submitted the other to Mr Siddons, who commended it, but it never was brought upon the stage. He was about to appear before the world in his most happy literary effort, "The Queen's Wake,"--a composition suggested by Mr Grieve. This ingenious individual had conceived the opinion that a republication of several of the Shepherd's ballads in "The Spy," in connexion with an original narrative poem, would arrest public attention as to the author's merits; while a narrative having reference to the landing of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen Mary, seemed admirably calculated to induce a general interest in the poem. The proposal, submitted to Allan Cunningham and Mr Gray, received their warm approbation; and in a few months the entire composition was ready for the press. Mr Constable at once consented to undertake the publication; but a more advantageous offer being made by Mr George Goldie, a young bookseller, "The Queen's Wake" issued from his establishment in the spring of 1813. Its success was complete; two editions were speedily circulated, and the fame of the author was established. With the exception of the _Eclectic Review_, every periodical accorded its warmest approbation to the performance; and vacillating friends, who began to doubt the Shepherd's power of sustaining the character he had assumed as a poet and a man of letters, ceased to entertain their misgivings, and accorded the warmest tributes to his genius. A commendatory article in the _Edinburgh Review_, in November 1814, hailed the advent of a third edition.
By the unexpected insolvency of his publisher, while the third edition was in process of sale, Hogg had nearly sustained a recurrence of pecuniary loss. This was, however, fortunately prevented by the considerate beneficence of Mr Goldie's trustees, who, on receiving payment of the printing expenses, made over the remainder of the impression to the author. One of the trustees was Mr Blackwood, afterwards the celebrated publisher of _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_. Hogg had now attained the unenviable reputation of a literary prodigy, and his studies were subject to constant interruption from admirers, and the curious who visited the capital. But he gave all a cordial reception, and was never less accessible amidst the most arduous literary occupation. There was one individual whose acquaintance he was especially desirous of forming; this was John Wilson, whose poem, "The Isle of Palms," published in 1812, had particularly arrested his admiration. Wilson had come to reside in Edinburgh during a portion of the year, but as yet had few acquaintances in the city. He was slightly known to Scott; but a peculiarity of his was a hesitation in granting letters of introduction. In despair of otherwise meeting him, Hogg, who had reviewed his poem in the _Scots Magazine_, sent him an invitation to dinner, which the Lake-poet was pleased cordially to accept. That dinner began one of the most interesting of the Shepherd's friendships; both the poets were pleased with each other, and the closest intimacy ensued. It was on his way to visit Wilson, at Elleray, his seat in Cumberland, during the autumn of 1814, that the Shepherd formed the acquaintance of the Poet-laureate. He had notified to Southey his arrival at one of the hotels in Keswick, and begged the privilege of a visit. Southey promptly acknowledged his summons, and insisted on his remaining a couple of days at Greta Hall to share his hospitality. Two years could not have more firmly rivetted their friendship. As a mark of his regard, on returning to Edinburgh Hogg sent the Laureate the third edition of "The Queen's Wake," then newly published, along with a copy of "The Spy." In acknowledging the receipt of these volumes, Southey addressed the following letter to the Shepherd, which is now for the first time published:--
"Keswick, _December 1, 1814._
"Dear Hogg,--Thank you for your books. I will not say that 'The Queen's Wake' has exceeded my expectations, because I have ever expected great things from you, since, in 1805, I heard Walter Scott, by his own fireside at Ashestiel, repeat 'Gilmanscleuch.'[31] When he came to that line--'I ga'e him a' my goud, father'--the look and the tone with which he gave it were not needed to make it go through me. But 'The Wake' has equalled all that I expected. The improvements in the new edition are very great, and they are in the two poems which were most deserving of improvement, as being the most impressive and the most original. Each is excellent in its way, but 'Kilmeny' is of the highest character; 'The Witch of Fife' is a real work of fancy--'Kilmeny' a fine one of imagination, which is a higher and rarer gift. These poems have given general pleasure throughout the house; my eldest girl often comes out with a stanza or two of 'The Witch,' but she wishes sometimes that you always wrote in English. 'The Spy' I shall go through more at leisure.
"I like your praise both of myself and my poem, because it comes from a good quarter. You saw me where and how a man is best seen--at home, and in his every-day wear and tear, mind and manners: I have no holiday suit, and never seek to shine: such as it is, my light is always burning. Somewhat of my character you may find in Chaucer's Clerk of Oxenford; and the concluding line of that description might be written, as the fittest motto, under my portrait--'Gladly would he learn, and gladly teach.' I have sinned enough to make me humble in myself, and indulgent toward others. I have suffered enough to find in religion not merely consolation, but hope and joy; and I have seen enough to be contented in, and thankful for, the state of life in which it has pleased God to place me.
"We hoped to have seen you on your way back from Ellery. I believe you did not get the ballad of the 'Devil and the Bishop,' which Hartley transcribed for you. I am reprinting my miscellaneous poems, collected into three volumes. Your projected publication[32] will have the start of it greatly, for the first volume is not nearly through the press, and there is a corrected copy of the ballad, with its introduction, in Ballantyne's hands, which you can make use of before it will be wanted in its place.
"You ask me why I am not intimate with Wilson. There is a sufficient reason in the distance between our respective abodes. I seldom go even to Wordworth's or Lloyd's; and Ellery is far enough from either of their houses, to make a visit the main business of a day. So it happens that except dining in his company once at Lloyd's many years ago, and breakfasting with him here not long afterwards, I have barely exchanged salutations once or twice when we met upon the road. Perhaps, however, I might have sought him had it not been for his passion for cock-fighting. But this is a thing which I regard with abhorrence.
"Would that 'Roderick' were in your hands for reviewing; I should desire no fairer nor more competent critic. But it is of little consequence what friends or enemies may do for it now; it will find its due place in time, which is slow but sure in its decisions. From the nature of my studies, I may almost be said to live in the past; it is to the future that I look for my reward, and it would be difficult to make any person who is not thoroughly intimate with me, understand how completely indifferent I am to the praise or censure of the present generation, farther than as it may affect my means of subsistence, which, thank God, it can no longer essentially do. There was a time when I was materially injured by unjust criticism; but even then I despised it, from a confidence in myself, and a natural buoyancy of spirit. It cannot injure me now, but I cannot hold it in more thorough contempt.
"Come and visit me when the warm weather returns. You can go nowhere that you will be more sincerely welcomed. And may God bless you.
"Robert Southey."
In waging war with the Lake school of poetry, the _Edinburgh Review_ had dealt harshly with Southey. His poems of "Madoc" and "The Curse of Kehama" had been rigorously censured, and very shortly before the appearance of "Roderick," his "Triumphal Ode" for 1814, which was published separately, had been assailed with a continuance of the same unmitigated severity. The Shepherd, who knew, notwithstanding the Laureate's professions of indifference to criticism, that his nature was sensitive, and who feared that the _Review_ would treat "Roderick" as it had done Southey's previous productions, ventured to recommend him to evince a less avowed hostility to Jeffrey, in the hope of subduing the bitterness of his censure. The letter of Southey, in answer to this counsel, will prove interesting, in connexion with the literary history of the period. The Bard of Keswick had hardly advanced to that happy condition which he fancied he had reached, of being "indulgent toward others," at least under the influence of strong provocation:--
"Keswick, _24th Dec. 1814._
"Dear Hogg,--I am truly obliged to you for the solicitude which you express concerning the treatment 'Roderick' may experience in the _Edinburgh Review_, and truly gratified by it, notwithstanding my perfect indifference as to the object in question. But you little know me, if you imagine that any thoughts of fear or favour would make me abstain from speaking publicly of Jeffrey as I think, and as he deserves. I despise his commendation, and I defy his malice. _He_ crush the 'Excursion!!!'[33] Tell him that he might as easily crush Skiddaw. For myself, _popularity_ is not the mark I shoot at; if it were, I should not write such poems as 'Roderick;' and Jeffrey can no more stand in my way to _fame_, than Tom Thumb could stand in my way in the street.
"He knows that he has dealt unfairly and maliciously by me; he knows that the world knows it, that his very friends know it, and that if he attacks 'Roderick' as he did 'Madoc' and 'Kehama,' it will be universally imputed to personal ill-will. On the other hand, he cannot commend this poem without the most flagrant inconsistency. This would be confessing that he has wronged me in the former instances; for no man will pretend to say that 'Madoc' does not bear marks of the same hand as 'Roderick;' it has the same character of language, thought, and feeling; it is of the same ore and mint; and if the one poem be bad, the other cannot possibly be otherwise. The irritation of the _nettling_ (as you term it), which he has already received [a portion of the letter is torn off and lost].... Whatever part he may take, my conduct towards him will be the same. I consider him a public nuisance, and shall deal with him accordingly.
"Nettling is a gentle term for what he has to undergo. In due season he shall be _scorpioned_ and _rattlesnaked_. When I take him in hand it shall be to dissect him alive, and make a preparation of him to be exhibited _in terrorem_, an example to all future pretenders to criticism. He has a forehead of native brass, and I will write upon it with aqua-fortis. I will serve him up to the public like a turkey's gizzard, sliced, scored, peppered, salted, cayanned, grilled, and bedevilled. I will bring him to justice; he shall be executed in prose, and gibbeted in verse....[34]
.... "'Roderick' has made good speed in the world, and ere long I shall send you the poem in a more commodious shape,[35] for Ballantyne is at this time reprinting it. I finished my official ode a few days ago. It is without rhyme, and as unlike other official odes in matter as in form; for its object is to recommend, as the two great objects of policy, general education and extensive colonization. At present, I am chiefly occupied upon 'The History of Brazil,' which is in the press--a work of great labour.
"The ladies here all desire to be kindly remembered to you. I have ordered 'The Pilgrims of the Sun,' and we look for it with expectation, which, I am sure, will not be disappointed. God bless you.--Yours very truly,
"Robert Southey."
A review of "Roderick" appeared in the _Edinburgh Review_ for June 1815, which on the whole was favourable, so that the wrath of the Laureate was appeased.
During the earlier period of his Edinburgh career, Hogg had formed the acquaintance of an estimable family in Athol, Mr and Mrs Izett, of Kinnaird House, and he had been in the habit of spending a portion of his time every summer at their hospitable residence. In the summer of 1814, while visiting there, he was seized with a severe cold, which compelled him to prolong his stay with his friends; and Mrs Izett, who took a warm interest in his welfare, suggested that he might turn his illness to account, by composing a poem, descriptive of the beauties of the surrounding scenery. The hint was sufficient; he commenced a descriptive poem in the Spenserian stanza, which was speedily completed, and given to the world under the title of "Mador of the Moor." It was well received; and the author is correct in asserting that it contains "some of his highest and most fortunate efforts in rhyme." "The Pilgrims of the Sun" was his next poem; it was originally intended as one of a series, to be contained in a poetical work, which he proposed to entitle "Midsummer Night Dreams," but which, on the advice of his friend, Mr James Park of Greenock, he was induced to abandon. From its peculiar strain, this poem had some difficulty in finding a publisher; it was ultimately published by Mr John Murray of London, who liberally recompensed the author, and it was well received by the press.
The circle of the Shepherd's literary friends rapidly extended. Lord Byron opened a correspondence with him, and continued to address him in long familiar letters, such as were likely to interest a shepherd-bard. Unfortunately, these letters have been lost; it was a peculiarity of Hogg to be careless in regard to his correspondence. With Wordsworth he became acquainted in the summer of 1815, when that poet was on his first visit to Edinburgh. They met at the house, in Queen Street, of the mother of his friend Wilson; and the Shepherd was at once interested and gratified by the intelligent conversation and agreeable manners of the great Lake-poet. They saw much of each other in the city, and afterwards journeyed together to St Mary's Loch; and the Shepherd had the satisfaction of entertaining his distinguished brother-bard with the homely fare of cakes and milk, in his father's cottage at Ettrick. Wordsworth afterwards made the journey memorable in his poem of "Yarrow Visited." The poets temporarily separated at Selkirk,--Wordsworth having secured the promise of a visit from his friend, at Mount Ryedale, prior to his return to Edinburgh. The promise was duly fulfilled; and the Shepherd had the pleasure of meeting, during his visit, Lloyd, and De Quincey, and his dear friend Wilson. A portion of the autumn of 1815 was spent by the Shepherd at Elleray. In the letter inviting his visit (dated September 1815), the author of "The Isle of Palms" indicates his opinion of the literary influence of his correspondent, by writing as follows:--"If you have occasion soon to write to Murray,[36] pray introduce something about 'The City of the Plague,' as I shall probably offer him that poem in about a fortnight, or sooner. Of course, I do not _wish_ you to say that the poem is utterly worthless. I think that a bold eulogy from you (if administered immediately), would be of service to me; but if you do write about it, do not tell him that I have any intention of offering it to him, but you may say, you hear I am going to offer it to a London bookseller."
The Shepherd's intimacy with the poets had induced him to entertain a somewhat plausible scheme of bettering his finances. He proposed to publish, in a handsome volume, a poem by each of the living bards of Great Britain. For this purpose, he had secured pieces from Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and some others; and had received promises of contributions from Lord Byron and Samuel Rogers. The plan was frustrated by Scott. He was opposed to his appearing to seek fresh laurels from the labours of others, and positively refused to make a contribution. This sadly mortified the Shepherd,[37] and entirely altered his plans. He had now recourse to a peculiar method of realising his original intention. In the short period of four weeks, he produced imitations of the more conspicuous bards, which speedily appeared in a volume entitled "The Poetic Mirror." This work, singularly illustrative of the versatility of his genius, was eminently successful, the first edition disappearing in the course of six weeks. The imitations of the bards were pronounced perfect, only that of Wordsworth was intentionally a caricature; the Shepherd had been provoked to it by a conceived slight of the Lake-poet, during his visit at Mount Ryedale.[38]
"The Poetic Mirror" appeared in 1816; and in the following year the Shepherd struck out a new path, by publishing two duodecimo volumes of "Dramatic Tales." This work proved unsuccessful. In 1813 he had dedicated his "Forest Minstrel" to the Countess of Dalkeith; and this amiable and excellent woman, afterwards better known as Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, had acknowledged the compliment by a gift of a hundred guineas, and several other donations. The Shepherd was, however, desirous of procuring the means of comfortable self-support, independently of his literary exertions; and had modestly preferred the request that he might receive a small farm in lease on the Buccleuch estates. The request was at length responded to. The Duchess, who took a deep interest in him, made a request to the Duke, on her death-bed, that something might be done for her ingenious protégé. After her decease, the late Charles, Duke of Buccleuch, gave the Shepherd a life-lease of the farm of Altrive Lake, in Yarrow, at a nominal rent, no portion of which was ever exacted. The Duke subsequently honoured him with his personal friendship, and made him frequently share of his hospitality.
From the time of his abandoning "The Spy," Hogg had contemplated the publication of a periodical on an extended scale. At length, finding a coadjutor in Mr Thomas Pringle, he explained their united proposal to his friend, Mr Blackwood, the publisher, who highly approved of the design. Preliminaries were arranged, and the afterwards celebrated _Blackwood's Magazine_ took its origin. Hogg was now resident at Altrive, and the editorship was entrusted to Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn. The vessel had scarcely been well launched, however, on the ocean of letters, when storms arose a-head; hot disputes occurred between the publisher and the editors, which ultimately terminated in the withdrawal of the latter from the concern, and their connexion with the _Edinburgh Magazine_, an opposition periodical established by Mr Constable. The combating parties had referred to the Shepherd, who was led to accord his support to Mr Blackwood. He conceived the idea of the "Chaldee Manuscript," as a means of ridiculing the oppositionists. Of this famous satire, the first thirty-seven verses of chapter first, with several other sentences throughout, were his own composition, the remaining portion being the joint fabrication of his friends Wilson and Lockhart.[39] This singular production produced a sensation in the capital unequalled in the history of any other literary performance; and though, from the evident personalities and the keenness of the satire, it had to be cancelled, so that a copy in the pages of the magazine is now a rarity, it sufficiently attained the purpose of directing public attention to the newly-established periodical. The "Chaldee Manuscript" appeared in the seventh number of _Blackwood's Magazine_, published in October 1817. To the magazine Hogg continued to be a regular contributor; and, among other interesting compositions, both in prose and verse, he produced in its pages his narrative of the "Shepherd's Calendar." His connexion with this popular periodical is more generally known from the position assigned him in the "_Noctes Ambrosianæ_" of Professor Wilson. In those interesting dialogues, the _Shepherd_ is represented as a character of marvellous shrewdness and sagacity, whose observations on men and manners, life and literature, uttered, as they are, in the homeliest phrases, contain a depth of philosophy and vigour of criticism rarely exhibited in the history of real or fictitious biography. "In wisdom," writes Professor Ferrier, "the Shepherd equals the Socrates of Plato; in humour, he surpasses the Falstaff of Shakspeare; clear and prompt, he might have stood up against Dr Johnson in close and peremptory argument; fertile and copious, he might have rivalled Burke in amplitude of declamation; while his opulent imagination and powers of comical description invest all that he utters, either with a picturesque mildness or a graphic quaintness peculiarly his own." These remarks, applicable to the Shepherd of the "_Noctes_," would, indeed, be much overstrained if applied to their prototype; yet it is equally certain that the leading features of the ideal Shepherd were depicted from those of the living Shepherd of Ettrick, by one who knew well how to estimate and appreciate human nature.
On taking possession of his farm of Altrive Lake, which extended to about seventy acres, Hogg built a small cottage on the place, in which he received his aged father, his mother having been previously called to her rest. In the stocking of the farm, he received very considerable assistance from the profits of a guinea edition of "The Queen's Wake," of which the subscribers' list was zealously promoted by Sir Walter Scott. At Altrive he continued literary composition with unabated ardour. In 1817, he published "The Brownie of Bodsbeck," a tale of the period of the Covenant, which attained a considerable measure of popularity. In 1819, he gave to the world the first volume of his "Jacobite Relics," the second volume not appearing till 1821. This work, which bears evidence of extensive labour and research, was favourably received; the notes are lengthy and copious, and many of the pieces, which are set to music, have long been popular. His "Winter Evening Tales" appeared in 1820: several of them were composed on the hills in early life.
The worldly circumstances of the Shepherd now were such as rendered him abundantly justifiable in entering into the married state. On the 28th April 1820, he espoused Miss Margaret Phillips, the youngest daughter of Mr Phillips, late of Longbridgemoor, in Annandale. By this union he became brother-in-law of his friend Mr James Gray, whose first wife was a sister of Mrs Hogg. At the period of his marriage, from the profits of his writings and his wife's dowry, he was master of nearly a thousand pounds and a well-stocked farm; and increasing annual gains by his writings, seemed to augur future independence. But the Shepherd, not perceiving that literature was his forte, resolved to embark further in farming speculations; he took in lease the extensive farm of Mount Benger, adjoining Altrive Lake, expending his entire capital in the stocking. The adventure proved almost ruinous.
The coronation of George IV. was fixed to take place on the 19th of July 1821; and Sir Walter Scott having resolved to be among the spectators, invited the Shepherd to accompany him to London on the occasion. Through Lord Sidmouth, the Secretary of State, he had procured accommodation for Hogg at the pageant, which his lordship had granted, with the additional favour of inviting both of them to dinner, to meet the Duke of York on the following day. The Shepherd had, however, begun to feel more enthusiastic as a farmer than a poet, and preferred to attend the sheep-market at St Boswells. For this seeming lack of loyalty, he afterwards made ample compensation; he celebrated the King's visit to Scotland, in August 1822, in "a Masque or Drama," which was published in a separate form. A copy of this production being laid before the King by Sir Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, then Secretary of State, received his Majesty's gracious command suitably to acknowledge it. In his official communication, Sir Robert thanked the Shepherd, in the King's name, "for the gratifying proof of his genius and loyalty." It had been Scott's desire to obtain a Civil List pension for the Shepherd, to aid him in his struggles at Mount Benger; and it was with something like hope that he informed him that Sir Robert Peel had expressed himself pleased with his writings. But the pension was never obtained.
Harassed by pecuniary difficulties, Hogg wrote rapidly, with the view of relieving himself. In 1822, he published a new edition of his best poems, in four volumes, for which he received the sum of £200; and in this and the following year, he produced two works of fiction, entitled, "The Three Perils of Man," and "The Three Perils of Women," which together yielded him £300. In 1824, he published "The Confessions of a Fanatic;" and, in 1826, he gave to the world his long narrative poem of "Queen Hynde." The last proved unequal to his former poetical efforts. In 1826, Mr J. G. Lockhart proceeded to London to edit the _Quarterly Review_, taking along with him, as his assistant, Robert Hogg, a son of the Shepherd's elder brother. The occasion afforded the poet an opportunity of renewing his correspondence with his old friend, Allan Cunningham. Allan wrote to him as follows:--
"27 Lower Belgrave Place, _16th Feb. 1826._
"My dear James,--It required neither present of book, nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render your letter a most welcome one. You are often present to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your nephew is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man, and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as yours. Your 'Queen Hynde,' for which I thank you, carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast of genius about her. One of your very happiest little things is in the Souvenir of this season--it is pure and graceful, warm, yet delicate; and we have nought in the language to compare to it, save everybody's 'Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been equalled, and sometimes surpassed; but in scenes which are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it--where fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are unrivalled.
"Often do I tread back to the foot of old Queensberry,[40] and meet you coming down amid the sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my sight--your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my feet--the 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' is in my hand, for the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as it really was--poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk, and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to Thornhill, and there whilst the glass goes round, and lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on verse, and still our speech is song. Poetry had then a charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me; yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest aspirations, and contents itself with purifying and completing the conceptions of early years.
"We are both a little older and a little graver than we were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh--at least so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might admonish me of change--of loss of bloom, and abatement of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier; he is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by Cæsar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School, and are distinguished in their classes; they climb to the head, and keep their places. The other three are at their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity for mirth and mischief.
"I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own reward; and one cannot always write for a barren smile, and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live; and the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six children fed now like the prophet Elijah--they are more likely to be devoured by critics, than fed by ravens. I cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I sing. So farewell to song for a season.
"My brother's[41] want of success has surprised me too. He had a fair share of talent; and, had he cultivated his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his fate would have been different. But he sees nature rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise of those who love singular and curious things. I have said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might have said much, for we hear her household prudence and her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my own dear country--a good assurance of a capital wife and an affectionate mother. My wife and I send her and you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in London during the summer.
"You have written much, but you must write more yet. What say you to a series of poems in your own original way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition, but purified from its grossness by your own genius and taste? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a yearly pastoral _Gazette_ in prose and verse for our _ain_ native Lowlands. The thing would take.
"The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now what it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue in every town--let it lay out its money in purchasing an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Wellington, and money could never be laid out more worthily.--I remain, dear James, your very faithful friend,
"Allan Cunningham."
One of the parties chiefly aggrieved in the matter of the Chaldee MS. was Thomas Pringle, one of the original editors of _Blackwood_. This ingenious person had lately returned from a period of residence in Southern Africa, and established himself in London as secretary to the Slave Abolition Society, and a man of letters. Forgetting past differences, he invited the Shepherd, in the following letter, to aid him in certain literary enterprises:--
"London, _May 19, 1827._
"My dear Sir,--I wrote you a hasty note some time ago, to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly publication, something in the shape of the _Literary Gazette_, to be entitled _The London Review_. The editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public, though he has been a contributor to several of the first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The editors, knowing that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to their work, either in verse or prose, and they will consider themselves pledged to pay for any contributions with which you may honour them at the same rate as _Blackwood_. May I hope, my dear sir, that you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them something for their first number, which is to appear in the beginning of June....
"I always read your '_Noctes_,' and have had many a hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern Africa; for though I detest _Blackwood's_ politics, and regret to see often such fine talents so sadly misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never permitted my own political predilections, far less any reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and beautifies so many delightful articles in that magazine.... Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very truly,
"Tho. Pringle."
A similar request for contributions was made the year following by William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of the Society of Friends.
"Nottingham, _12th mo., 20th, 1828._
"Respected Friend,--Herewith I forward, for thy acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony of the high estimation in which we have long held thy writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on foot through some parts of your beautiful country, that nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance prevented us.
"I am now preparing for the press 'The Book of the Seasons,' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he may look for in his garden, or his country walks; a notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons, and the beautiful in scenery,--of all that is pleasant in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a little time, both a pleasant and original volume, and one which may do its mite towards strengthening and diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so desirable in a great commercial country like this, where our manufacturing population are daily spreading over its face, and cut off themselves from the animating and heart-preserving influence of nature,--are also swallowing up our forests and heaths, those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may wander, without being continually offended and obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of anything characteristic of the seasons, in _mountainous_ scenery especially, I shall regard them as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether any particular customs or festivities are kept up in the sheep-districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time, as were wont of old all over England; and where is there a man who could solve such a problem like thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my request; but as my object is to promote the love of nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists; being more desirous to give to others that ardent attachment to the beauties of the country that has clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which all our real poets are so distinguished, than to realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me about your country life, or the impression which the scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should be proud to acknowledge, and should regard as the gems of my book. Whether or not, however, it be practicable or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary requests me to present to thee her respectful regards; and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect, thy friend,
"W. Howitt."
In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of "Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter, intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his contendings with adversity:--
"Devongrove, _27th June 1829._
"My dear Friend James Hogg,--I have never seen, spoken, whispered to, handled, or smelt you, since the King's visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh street, and inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath. How the Fates have since sundered us! How have you been going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to another of poetical perfection, while I have, under the chilling shade of the Ochil Hills, been dwindling down from one degree of poetical extenuation to another, till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of literary leanness! I should now wish to see you, and compare you as you are now with what you were in your 'Queen's Wake' days. For this purpose, I would be very fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you indeed, at times, in the _Literary Journal_; I see you in _Blackwood_, fighting, and reaping a harvest of beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you in the looking-glass of my own facetious and song-recalling memory--but I should wish to see you in the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your own person, standing before me in my own house, at my own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Shakspeare cellars[42]--but you may rest yourself under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space, and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me, will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.
"To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take a trip up this way some time during the summer. I understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again to see your fist at least, though the Fates should forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have in seeing you at Devongrove.... Be sure to write me now, James, in answer to this; and believe me to be, ever most sincerely yours,
"Wm. Tennant."
The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns, published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his songs, which received a wide circulation. On account of some unfortunate difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication of his whole works. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his fame; he was courted with avidity by all the literary circles, and fêted at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of letters, was given him in Freemasons' Hall, on the anniversary of the birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its present owner, Mr Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a publisher for his works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising bookseller in Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of March 1832, under the designation of the "Altrive Tales." By the unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that the unfortunate Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from a three months' residence in London.
Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour; and, though his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and morals, under the title of "Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number of _Blackwood's Magazine_ for 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated "_Noctes_," which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subject we are privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by Professor Wilson:--
"_30th April._
"My dear Mr Hogg,--After frequent reflection on the estrangement that has so long subsisted between those who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced that _I_ ought to put an end to it on my own responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you or Mr Blackwood, I have written a '_Noctes_,' in which my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I have done right. I intend to write six within the year; and it is just, and no more than just, that you should receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for No. I. of the new series.
"If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which at present there is no room, write a 'Series of Letters to Christopher North,' or, 'Flowers and Weeds from the Forest,' or, 'My Life at Altrive,' embodying your opinions and sentiments on all things, _angling_, shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic style, it will be easy for you to add £50 per annum to the £50 which you will receive for your '_Noctes_.' I hope you will do so.
"I have taken upon myself a responsibility which nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced me to do. You may be angry; you may misjudge my motives; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made to it; and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent anything happening that can be disagreeable to your feelings.--With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours,
"John Wilson."
During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both of Scotland and the sister kingdom. The dinner took place at Peebles, the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could exclaim that surely he had found it at last!
The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety, as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London, a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and, though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman. He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks, he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill." The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.
The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the district. Of his literary friends--owing to the remoteness of the locality--Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen appeared in the _Athenæum_ of the 12th of December:--
"When first descending from the moorlands, I saw the stream of Yarrow glide, Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
"When last along its banks I wander'd, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathway, My steps the Border Minstrel led.
"The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; And death, upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes.
* * * * *
"No more of old romantic sorrows, For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid, With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead!"
Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory has been erected by his widow. "When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Riddell, "pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land, many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. And a verse of one of the songs of his early days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified, when he says--
'Flow, my Ettrick! it was thee Into my life that first did drop me; Thee I 'll sing, and when I dee, Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me. Pausing swains will say, and weep, Here our Shepherd lies asleep.'"
As formerly described, Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking and well-formed. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features. His countenance[43] presented the peculiarity of a straight cheekbone; his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with gray. He was rather above the middle height, and was well-built; his chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well-rounded. He disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel: on holidays he wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its ways; in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language, from the honesty of the narrator; never before did man of letters so minutely reveal the history of his foibles and failings. He was entirely unselfish and thoroughly benevolent; the homeless wanderer was sure of shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way. Towards his aged parents his filial affection was of the most devoted kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man of letters in the land.[44] Fond of conviviality, he loved the intercourse of congenial minds; the voice of friendship was always more precious to him than the claims of business. He was somewhat expert in conversation; he talked Scotch on account of long habit, and because it was familiar to him. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs; and the enthusiasm with which he sung amply compensated for the somewhat discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education; and he built a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit of the children of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he was in the present a devoted loyalist, and strongly maintained that the stability of the state was bound up in the support of the monarchy; he had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit, he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language of fervency and faith. From the strict rules of morality he may have sometimes deviated, but it would be the worst exercise of uncharitableness to doubt of his repentance.
It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the envenomed shafts of calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of the principles of his life. He has been broadly accused[45] of doing an injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was one of his best benefactors; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact? Hogg strained his utmost effort to do honour to the dust of his illustrious friend! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume, and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy:--"He had a clear head as well as a benevolent heart; was a good man, an anxiously kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a just judge, and a punctual correspondent.... Such is the man we have lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an extraordinary man,--the greatest man in the world."[46] Was ever more panegyrical language used in biography? But Hogg ventured to publish his recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger biography; perhaps some connexion may be traced between this fact and the indignation of Scott's literary executor! Possessed, withal, of a genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions of displeasure; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of such achievements?
Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most distinguished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people: in the region of the imagination he stands supreme. A child of the forest, nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were calculated to awaken. "Living for years in solitude," writes Professor Wilson,[47] "he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth, inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faëry: the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius. His ballad of "Kilmeny," in the "Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order; never did bard conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer, or more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. "The Witch of Fife," another ballad in "The Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and terror; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to be found in any poetry than in some passages of "The Pilgrims of the Sun." His ballads, generally in his peculiar vein of the romantic and supernatural, are all indicative of power; his songs are exquisitely sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though he had written only "When the kye comes hame," and "Flora Macdonald's Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Scottish song had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high; many of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are too frequently disfigured by a rugged coarseness; yet his pastoral experiences in the "Shepherd's Calendar" will continue to find readers and admirers while a love for rural habits, and the amusing arts of pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart.
Of the Shepherd it has been recorded by one[48] who knew him well, that at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who had ever attained his age; he was possessed of a buoyancy which misfortune might temporarily depress, but could not subdue. To the close of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and field exercises of his youth; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running, been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir; in his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he was famous alike on the moor and by the river; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills; and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with enthusiasm into their concerns; many poets ushered their volumes into the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points; but his worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was "the most remarkable man that ever wore the _maud_ of a Shepherd."[49]
Hogg left some MSS. which are still unpublished,--the journals of his Highland tours being in the possession of Mr Peter Cunningham of London. Since his death, a uniform edition of many of his best works, illustrated with engravings from sketches by Mr D. O. Hill, has been published, with the concurrence of the family, by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow, in eleven volumes duodecimo. A Memoir, undertaken for that edition by the late Professor Wilson, was indefinitely postponed. A pension on the Civil List of £50 was conferred by the Queen on Mrs Hogg, the poet's widow, in October 1853; and since her husband's death, she has received an annuity of £40 from the Duke of Buccleuch. Of a family of five, one son and three daughters survive, some of whom are comfortably settled in life.
[28] The Shepherd entertained the belief that he was born on the 25th of January 1772.
[29] Mr Macturk is well remembered in Dumfriesshire as a person of remarkable shrewdness and unbounded generosity.
[30] Mr Gray was the author of "Cona, or the Vale of Clywyd," "A Sabbath among the Mountains," and other poems.
[31] The ballad of "Gilmanscleuch" appeared in "The Mountain Bard." See "The Ettrick Shepherd's Poems," vol. ii., p. 203. Blackie and Son.
[32] "The Poetic Mirror," for which the Shepherd had begun to collect contributions.
[33] Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth's "Excursion" in the _Edinburgh Review_ for November 1814, and certainly had never used more declamatory language against any poem.
[34] In a letter to Mr Grosvenor C. Bedford, dated Keswick, December 22, 1814, Southey thus writes:--"Had you not better wait for Jeffrey's attack upon 'Roderick.' I have a most curious letter upon this subject from Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a worthy fellow, and a man of very extraordinary powers. Living in Edinburgh, he thinks Jeffrey the greatest man in the world--an intellectual Bonaparte, whom nobody and nothing can resist. But Hogg, notwithstanding this, has fallen in liking with me, and is a great admirer of 'Roderick.' And this letter is to request that I will not do anything to _nettle_ Jeffrey while he is deliberating concerning 'Roderick,' for he seems favourably disposed towards me! Morbleu! it is a rich letter! Hogg requested that he himself might review it, and gives me an extract from Jeffrey's answer, refusing him. 'I have, as well as you, a great respect for Southey,' he says, 'but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth.' But he shall be happy to talk to Hogg upon this and other _kindred_ subjects, and he should be very glad to give me a lavish allowance of praise, if I would afford him occasion, &c.; but he must do what he thinks his duty, &c.! I laugh to think of the effect my reply will produce upon Hogg. How it will make every bristle to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine!"--_Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, edited by his Son_, vol. iv., p. 93. London: 6 vols. 8vo.
[35] The first edition of "Roderick" was in quarto,--a shape which the Shepherd deemed unsuitable for poetry.
[36] Murray of Abermarle Street, the famous publisher.
[37] Hogg evinced his strong displeasure with Sir Walter for his refusal, by writing him a declamatory letter, and withdrawing from his society for several months. The kind inquiries which his old benefactor had made regarding him during a severe illness, afterwards led to a complete reconciliation,--the Shepherd apologising by letter for his former rashness, and his illustrious friend telling him "to think no more of the business, and come to breakfast next morning."
[38] See Hogg's autobiography, prefixed to the fifth volume of Blackie's edition of his poems, p. 107.
[39] See the Works of Professor Wilson, edited by his Son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, vol. i., p. xvi. Edinburgh: 1855. 8vo.
[40] When the Shepherd was tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of Mitchel-slack, on the great hill of Queensberry, in Nithsdale, he was visited by Allan Cunningham, then a lad of eighteen, who came to see him, moved with admiration for his genius.--(See Memoir of Allan Cunningham, _postea_). [Transcriber's Note: This Memoir appears in Volume III.]
[41] Thomas Mouncey Cunningham. See _postea_.
[42] The Shakspeare Club of Alloa, which is here referred to, took its origin early in the century--being composed of admirers of the illustrious dramatist, and lovers of general literature in that place. The anniversary meeting was usually held on the 23d of April, generally supposed to be the birth-day of the poet. The Shepherd was laureate of the club, and was present at many of the meetings. On these occasions he shared the hospitality of Mr Alexander Bald, now of Craigward Cottage--"the Father of the Club," and one of his own attached literary friends. Mr Bald formed the Shepherd's acquaintance in 1803, when on a visit to his friend Grieve, at Cacrabank. This venerable gentleman is in possession of the original M.S. of the "Ode to the Genius of Shakspeare," which Hogg wrote for the Alloa Club in 1815. In a letter, addressed to Mr Bald, accompanying that composition, he wrote as follows: "_Edin., April 23d, 1815._--Let the bust of Shakspeare be crowned with laurel on Thursday, for I expect it will be a memorable day for the club, as well as in the annals of literature,--for I yesterday got the promise of being accompanied by both _Wilson_, and _Campbell_, the bard of Hope. I must, however, remind you that it was very late, and over a bottle, when I extracted this promise--they both appeared, however, to swallow the proposal with great avidity, save that the latter, in conversing about our means of conveyance, took a mortal disgust at the word _steam_, as being a very improper agent in the wanderings of poets. I have not seen either of them to-day, and it is likely that they will be in very different spirits, yet I think it not improbable that one or both of them may be induced to come." The club did not on this occasion enjoy the society of any of the three poets.
[43] Hogg used to say that his face was "out of all rule of drawing," as an apology for artists, who so generally failed in transferring a correct representation of him to canvas. There were at least four oil-paintings of the poet: the first executed by Nicholson in 1817, for Mr Grieve; the second by Sir John Watson Gordon for Mr Blackwood; the third by a London artist for Allan Cunningham; and the fourth by Mr James Scott of Edinburgh, for the poet himself. The last is universally admitted to be the most striking likeness, and, with the permission of Mrs Hogg, it has been very successfully lithographed for the present volume.
[44] See "Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs Grant of Laggan." 1844.
[45] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."
[46] "The Domestic Memoirs and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, by James Hogg," p. 118. Glasgow, 1834. 16mo.
[47] _Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. iv., p. 521.
[48] Mr H. S. Riddell.
[49] Mr J. G. Lockhart.
DONALD MACDONALD.
AIR--_"Woo'd, and married, and a'."_
My name it is Donald Macdonald, I leeve in the Highlands sae grand; I hae follow'd our banner, and will do, Wherever my master[50] has land. When rankit amang the blue bonnets, Nae danger can fear me ava; I ken that my brethren around me Are either to conquer or fa': Brogues an' brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a'; An' is nae her very weel aff, Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a'?
What though we befriendit young Charlie?-- To tell it I dinna think shame; Poor lad! he cam to us but barely, An' reckon'd our mountains his hame. 'Twas true that our reason forbade us, But tenderness carried the day; Had Geordie come friendless amang us, Wi' him we had a' gane away. Sword an' buckler an' a', Buckler an' sword an' a'; Now for George we 'll encounter the devil, Wi' sword an' buckler and a'!
An' O, I wad eagerly press him The keys o' the East to retain; For should he gie up the possession, We 'll soon hae to force them again, Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour, Though it were my finishing blow, He aye may depend on Macdonald, Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row: Knees an' elbows an' a', Elbows an' knees an' a'; Depend upon Donald Macdonald, His knees an' elbows an' a'.
Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William, Auld Europe nae langer should grane; I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an wi' stane; Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny We 'd rattle him off frae our shore, Or lull him asleep in a cairny, An' sing him--"Lochaber no more!" Stanes an' bullets an a', Bullets an' stanes an' a'; We 'll finish the Corsican callan Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
For the Gordon is good in a hurry, An' Campbell is steel to the bane, An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray, An' Cameron will hurkle to nane; The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal, An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay; An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald, Shall ne'er be the last in the fray! Brogues and brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a'; An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt an' the feather an' a'.
[50] This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his lawful prince. The word "maker," which appears in former editions of the song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd never had the confidence to alter it.
FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL.[51]
Far over yon hills of the heather sae green, An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea, The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e. She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, Away on the wave, like a bird of the main; An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again! Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!
The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal, He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame; The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald, Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim; The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore, The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea, But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore, Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he: The conflict is past, and our name is no more-- There 's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!
The target is torn from the arm of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue, Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true? Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good! The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!
[51] Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow, junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was so agreeably astonished--I could hardly believe my senses that I had made so good a song without knowing it.--_Hogg._
BONNY PRINCE CHARLIE.
Cam ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry, Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie?
I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald; But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry! Health to M'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald-- For these are the men that will die for their Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
I 'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them, Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie; Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them, These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! &c.
Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore! Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely! Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore, Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie! Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee? Long hast thou loved and trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie?
THE SKYLARK.[52]
Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Bless'd is thy dwelling-place-- O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and mountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place-- O to abide in the desert with thee!
[52] For the fine original air, see Purdie's "Border Garland."--_Hogg._
CALEDONIA.[53]
Caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock, Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind-- Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak, Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind: Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens, Though bleak thy dun islands appear, Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans, That roam on these mountains so drear!
A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home, Could never thy ardour restrain; The marshall'd array of imperial Rome Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain! Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth, Of genius unshackled and free, The Muses have left all the vales of the south, My loved Caledonia, for thee!
Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps, Where loveliness slumbers at even, While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps, A calm little motionless heaven! Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill, Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave-- Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still, And the land of my forefathers' grave!
[53] An appropriate air has just been composed for this song by Mr Walter Burns of Cupar-Fife, which has been arranged with symphonies and accompaniments for the pianoforte by Mr Edward Salter, of St Andrews.
O, JEANIE, THERE 'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE!
AIR--_"Over the Border."_
O, my lassie, our joy to complete again, Meet me again i' the gloamin', my dearie; Low down in the dell let us meet again-- O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye! Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry, Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary; Love be thy sure defence, Beauty and innocence-- O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
Sweetly blaw the haw an' the rowan tree, Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery; Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be-- O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye! List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary, List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye, Then come with fairy haste, Light foot, an' beating breast-- O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
Far, far will the bogle and brownie be, Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it; Kind love is the tie of our unity, A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it. 'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery, Love gars a' Nature look bonny that 's near ye; That makes the rose sae sweet, Cowslip an' violet-- O, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye!
WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.[54]
AIR--_"Shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't."_
Come all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen, I 'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbour of the great-- 'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.
There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough, O, a happy bird is he; Where he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme, And he 'll woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.
When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonny lucken gowan Has fauldit up her e'e, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Doops down, an' thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.
See yonder pawkie shepherd, That lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld, An' his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, &c.
When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, An' the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, O there 's a joy sae dear That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame! When the kye comes hame, &c.
Then since all Nature joins In this love without alloy, O, wha would prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy? Or wha would choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes home, 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye comes hame!
[54] In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way, "When the kye come hame," when a tailor, scratching his head, said, "It was a terrible affectit way that!" I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.--_Hogg._
THE WOMEN FOLK.[55]
O sarely may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They hae plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flatter'd me at will, But aye, for a' their witchery, The pawky things I lo'e them still. O, the women folk! O, the women folk! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!
I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I 've studied them wi' a' my skill, I 've lo'ed them better than mysel, I 've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He 'll end at last where he began. O, the woman folk, &c.
That they hae gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree; An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud, An' e'en sae pauky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the clud-- But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair! O, the woman folk, &c.
Even but this night, nae farther gane, The date is neither lost nor lang, I tak ye witness ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they 've carried right or wrang, Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava. O, the woman folk! O, the woman folk! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be!
[55] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humorous song when forced by ladies to sing against my will, which too frequently happens; and notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again.--For the air, see the "Border Garland."--_Hogg._
M'LEAN'S WELCOME.[56]
Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean; And though you be weary, We 'll make your heart cheery, And welcome our Charlie, And his loyal train. We 'll bring down the track deer, We 'll bring down the black steer, The lamb from the braken, And doe from the glen, The salt sea we 'll harry, And bring to our Charlie The cream from the bothy And curd from the penn.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; Come o'er the sea, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean; And you shall drink freely The dews of Glen-sheerly, That stream in the starlight When kings do not ken; And deep be your meed Of the wine that is red, To drink to your sire, And his friend The M'Lean.
Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie; Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean; If aught will invite you Or more will delight you 'Tis ready, a troop of our bold Highlandmen, All ranged on the heather, With bonnet and feather, Strong arms and broad claymores, Three hundred and ten!
[56] I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in Glen-Lyon, from a scrap of prose said to be the translation, _verbatim_, of a Gaelic song, and to a Gaelic air, sung by one of the sweetest singers and most accomplished and angelic beings of the human race. But, alas! earthly happiness is not always the lot of those who, in our erring estimation, most deserve it. She is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to her memory. The air is arranged by Smith.--See the "Scottish Minstrel."--_Hogg._
CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.[57]
'Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie cam' to our town, The young Chevalier. An' Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier.
As Charlie he came up the gate, His face shone like the day; I grat to see the lad come back That had been lang away. An' Charlie is my darling, &c.
Then ilka bonny lassie sang, As to the door she ran, Our King shall hae his ain again, An' Charlie is the man: For Charlie he 's my darling, &c.
Out ow'r yon moory mountain, An' down the craggy glen, Of naething else our lasses sing, But Charlie an' his men. An' Charlie he 's my darling, &c.
Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, An' glow without a stain; Our Highland swords are metal keen, An' Charlie he 's our ain. An' Charlie he 's my darling, My darling, my darling; Charlie he 's my darling, The young Chevalier.
[57] Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published in the "Jacobite Relics."--_Hogg._
LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.
AIR--_"Paddy's Wedding."_
I lately lived in quiet ease, An' never wish'd to marry, O! But when I saw my Peggy's face, I felt a sad quandary, O! Though wild as ony Athol deer, She has trepann'd me fairly, O! Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear Torment me late an' early, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a poor body Gang about his business!
To tell my feats this single week, Would mak' a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart outow'r a dike, My horses in a miry, O! I wear my stockings white an' blue, My love 's sae fierce an' fiery, O! I drill the land that I should plough, An' plough the drills entirely, O! O, love, love, love! &c.
Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rose to theek the stable, O! I keust my coat an' plied away As fast as I was able, O! I wrought that morning out an' out, As I 'd been redding fire, O! When I had done an' look'd about, Gude faith, it was the byre, O! O, love, love, love! &c.
Her wily glance I 'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried wi' sport to drive 't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't. O, love, love, love! &c.
Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O! I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O! For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, O! I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I 'll dee for Peggy, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a poor body Gang about his business!
O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.[58]
O, weel befa' the maiden gay, In cottage, bught, or penn, An' weel befa' the bonny May That wons in yonder glen; Wha loes the modest truth sae weel, Wha 's aye kind, an' aye sae leal, An' pure as blooming asphodel Amang sae mony men. O, weel befa' the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen!
'Tis sweet to hear the music float Along the gloaming lea; 'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note Come pealing frae the tree; To see the lambkins lightsome race-- The speckled kid in wanton chase-- The young deer cower in lonely place, Deep in her flowing den; But sweeter far the bonny face That smiles in yonder glen!
O, had it no' been for the blush O' maiden's virgin flame, Dear beauty never had been known, An' never had a name; But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame Was modell'd by an angel's frame, The power o' beauty reigns supreme O'er a' the sons o' men; But deadliest far the sacred flame Burns in a lonely glen!
There 's beauty in the violet's vest-- There 's hinney in the haw-- There 's dew within the rose's breast, The sweetest o' them a'. The sun will rise an' set again, An' lace wi' burning goud the main-- The rainbow bend outow'r the plain, Sae lovely to the ken; But lovelier far the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen!
[58] This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day--a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, "Gude faith, it 's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.--_Hogg._
THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.
AIR--_"The Blue Bells of Scotland."_
What are the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel-- The lovely flowers of Scotland, All others that excel? The thistle's purple bonnet, And bonny heather-bell, O, they 're the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel!
Though England eyes her roses With pride she 'll ne'er forego, The rose has oft been trodden By foot of haughty foe; But the thistle in her bonnet blue, Still nods outow'r the fell, And dares the proudest foeman To tread the heather-bell.
For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland, Alack and well-a-day! For ilka hand is free to pu' An' steal the gem away. But the thistle in her bonnet blue Still bobs aboon them a'; At her the bravest darena blink, Or gie his mou' a thraw.
Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we 'll be. A foe had better brave the deil, Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather-bell.
LASS, AN' YE LO'E ME, TELL ME NOW.[59]
"Afore the muircock begin to craw, Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, The bonniest thing that ever ye saw, For I canna come every night to woo." "The gouden broom is bonny to see, An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw, The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea, But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'."
"Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat, Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now; It 's no the thing that I would be at, An' I canna come every night to woo! The lamb is bonny upon the brae, The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe, The bird is bonny upon the tree-- But which is the dearest of a' to you?"
"The thing that I lo'e best of a', Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now; The dearest thing that ever I saw, Though I canna come every night to woo, Is the kindly smile that beams on me, Whenever a gentle hand I press, And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess."
"Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see, What I lo'e best I 'll tell you now, The compliment that ye sought frae me, Though ye canna come every night to woo; Yet I would rather hae frae you A kindly look, an' a word witha', Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu', Than a' the lads that ever I saw."
"Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine, Sin' a' the truth ye hae tauld me now, Our hearts an' fortunes we 'll entwine, An' I 'll aye come every night to woo; For O, I canna descrive to thee The feeling o' love's and nature's law, How dear this world appears to me Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!"
[59] This song was suggested to the Shepherd by the words adapted to the formerly popular air, "Lass, gin ye lo'e me"--beginning, "I hae laid a herring in saut."
PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS!
Here we go upon the tide, Pull away, jolly boys! With heaven for our guide, Pull away! Here 's a weather-beaten tar, Britain's glory still his star, He has borne her thunders far, Pull away, jolly boys! To your gallant men-of-war, Pull away!
We 've with Nelson plough'd the main, Pull away, jolly boys! Now his signal flies again, Pull away! Brave hearts, then let us go To drub the haughty foe, Who once again shall know, Pull away, gallant boys! That our backs we never shew, Pull away!
We have fought and we have sped, Pull away, gallant boys! Where the rolling wave was red, Pull away! We 've stood many a mighty shock, Like the thunder-stricken oak, We 've been bent, but never broke, Pull away, gallant boys! We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke, Pull away!
Here we go upon the deep, Pull away, gallant boys! O'er the ocean let us sweep, Pull away! Round the earth our glory rings, At the thought my bosom springs, That whene'er our pennant swings, Pull away, gallant boys! Of the ocean we 're the kings, Pull away!
O, SAW YE THIS SWEET BONNY LASSIE O' MINE?
O, saw ye this sweet bonny lassie o' mine, Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine; Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e? Sure naebody e'er was so happy as me!
It 's no that she dances sae light on the green, It 's no the simplicity mark'd in her mien; But O, it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e, That makes me as happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees; To breathe out the soul of a saft melting kiss-- On earth here there 's naething is equal to this!
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, When friends circled round me, and nought to annoy; I have felt every joy that illumines the breast, When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd:
But O, there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm In life's early day, when the bosom is warm; When soul meets wi' soul in a saft melting kiss-- On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this!
THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN.
Hersell pe auchty years and twa, Te twenty-tird o' May, man; She twell amang te Heelan hills, Ayont the reefer Spey, man. Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir, She first peheld te licht, man; Tey shot my father in tat stoure-- A plaguit, vexin' spite, man.
I 've feucht in Scotland here at hame, In France and Shermanie, man; And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons, Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man. But wae licht on te nasty cun, Tat ever she pe porn, man; Phile koot klymore te tristle caird, Her leaves pe never torn, man.
Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot, Phane'er it cam my turn, man; Put a' te force tat I could gie, Te powter wadna purn, man. A filty loon cam wi' his cun, Resolvt to to me harm, man; And wi' te tirk upon her nose, Ke me a pluddy arm, man.
I flang my cun wi' a' my micht, And felt his nepour teit, man; Tan drew my swort, and at a straik Hewt aff te haf o 's heit, man. Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks; My oons pe nae tiscrace, man; Ter no pe yin pehint my back, Ter a pefore my face, man.
AH, PEGGIE, SINCE THOU 'RT GANE AWAY![60]
Ah, Peggie! since thou 'rt gane away, An' left me here to languish, I canna fend anither day In sic regretfu' anguish. My mind 's the aspen i' the vale, In ceaseless waving motion; 'Tis like a ship without a sail, On life's unstable ocean.
I downa bide to see the moon Blink owre the glen sae clearly; Aince on a bonnie face she shone-- A face that I lo'ed dearly! An' when beside yon water clear, At e'en I 'm lanely roaming, I sigh an' think, if ane was here, How sweet wad fa' the gloaming!
When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile, Thy words sae free an' kindly, Thy pawkie e'e's bewitching wile, The unbidden tear will blind me. The rose's deepest blushing hue Thy cheek could eithly borrow, But ae kiss o' thy cherry mou' Was worth a year o' sorrow.
Oh! in the slippery paths of love, Let prudence aye direct thee; Let virtue every step approve, An' virtue will respect thee. To ilka pleasure, ilka pang, Alak! I am nae stranger; An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang Is best aware o' danger.
May still thy heart be kind an' true, A' ither maids excelling; May heaven distil its purest dew Around thy rural dwelling. May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing Around thee late an' early; An' oft to thy remembrance bring The lad that loo'd thee dearly.
[60] This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who in nine years afterwards became the poet's wife.
GANG TO THE BRAKENS WI' ME.
I 'll sing of yon glen of red heather, An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame, Wha 's a' made o' love-life thegither, Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime, Love beckons in every sweet motion, Commanding due homage to gie; But the shrine o' my dearest devotion Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree.
I fleech'd an' I pray'd the dear lassie To gang to the brakens wi' me; But though neither lordly nor saucy, Her answer was--"Laith wad I be! I neither hae father nor mither, Sage counsel or caution to gie; An' prudence has whisper'd me never To gang to the brakens wi' thee."
"Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me, An' try your ain love to beguile? For ye are the richest young lady That ever gaid o'er the kirk-stile. Your smile that is blither than ony, The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree, An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny, Are five hunder thousand to me!"
She turn'd her around an' said, smiling, While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear, "You 're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing, For, O, you have valued it dear: Gae make out the lease, do not linger, Let the parson indorse the decree; An' then, for a wave of your finger, I 'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"
There 's joy in the bright blooming feature, When love lurks in every young line; There 's joy in the beauties of nature, There 's joy in the dance and the wine: But there 's a delight will ne'er perish, 'Mang pleasures all fleeting and vain, And that is to love and to cherish The fond little heart that's our ain!
LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON.
Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale, Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on, The Armstrongs are flying, Their widows are crying, The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone; Lock the door, Lariston,--high on the weather gleam, See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky, Yeoman and carbineer, Billman and halberdier; Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry.
Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar, Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey, Hedley and Howard there, Wandale and Windermere,-- Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay. Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston? Why do the joy-candles gleam in thine eye? Thou bold Border ranger Beware of thy danger-- Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.
Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace; "Ah, welcome, brave foemen, On earth there are no men More gallant to meet in the foray or chase! Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here, Little know you of our moss-troopers' might, Lindhope and Sorby true, Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manner, but lions in fight!
"I 've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array; Come, all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray." Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold; Many a bold martial eye Mirror'd that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold!
Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout, Lances and halberts in splinters were borne; Halberd and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere, Howard--ah! woe to thy hopes of the day! Hear the wide welkin rend, While the Scots' shouts ascend, "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"
I HAE NAEBODY NOW.
I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow, An' joy in her deep blue e'en; Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile, An' the dance o' the lightsome fay, An' the wee bit tale o' news the while That had happen'd when I was away.
I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now To clasp to my bosom at even, O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow, An' pray for a blessing from heaven. An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face In the morning, that met my eye, Where are they now, where are they now? In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.
There 's naebody kens, there 's naebody kens, An' O may they never prove, That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love-- To see a flower in its vernal hour By slow degrees decay, Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death, Breathe its sweet soul away.
O, dinna break, my poor auld heart! Nor at thy loss repine, For the unseen hand that threw the dart Was sent frae her Father and thine; Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn, Even till my latest day; For though my darling can never return, I can follow the sooner away.
THE MOON WAS A-WANING.
The moon was a-waning, The tempest was over; Fair was the maiden, And fond was the lover; But the snow was so deep, That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep, In the moorland so dreary.
Soft was the bed She had made for her lover, White were the sheets And embroider'd the cover; But his sheets are more white, And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps Where the hill foxes wander.
Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window; But long may you wait Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies, With a wreath on his bosom!
How painful the task, The sad tidings to tell you!-- An orphan you were Ere this misery befell you; And far in yon wild, Where the dead-tapers hover, So cold, cold and wan Lies the corpse of your lover!
GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.
The year is wearing to the wane, An' day is fading west awa', Loud raves the torrent an' the rain, And dark the cloud comes down the shaw; But let the tempest tout an' blaw Upon his loudest winter horn, Good night, and joy be wi' you a', We 'll maybe meet again the morn!
O, we hae wander'd far and wide O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell, An' mony a simple flower we 've cull'd, An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell! We 've ranged the dingle an' the dell, The hamlet an' the baron's ha', Now let us take a kind farewell,-- Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Though I was wayward, you were kind, And sorrow'd when I went astray; For O, my strains were often wild, As winds upon a winter day. If e'er I led you from the way, Forgie your Minstrel aince for a'; A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,-- Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
JAMES MUIRHEAD, D.D.
James Muirhead was born in 1742, in the parish of Buittle, and stewartry of Kirkcudbright. His father was owner of the estate of Logan, and representative of the family of Muirhead, who, for several centuries, were considerable landed proprietors in Galloway. He was educated at the Grammar School of Dumfries, and in the University of Edinburgh. Abandoning the legal profession, which he had originally chosen, he afterwards prosecuted theological study, and became, in 1769, a licentiate of the Established Church. After a probation of three years, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of Urr, a country parish in the stewartry. In 1794 he received the degree of D.D. from the University of Edinburgh. Warmly attached to his flock, he ministered at Urr till his death, which took place on the 16th of May 1806.
Dr Muirhead was a person of warm affections and remarkable humour; his scholarship was extensive and varied, and he maintained a correspondence with many of his literary contemporaries. As an author, he is not known to have written aught save the popular ballad of "Bess, the Gawkie,"--a production which has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham "a song of original merit, lively without extravagance, and gay without grossness,--the simplicity elegant, and the naïveté scarcely rivalled."[61]
[61] We have frequently had occasion to remark the ignorance of modern editors regarding the authorship of the most popular songs. Every collector of Scottish song has inserted "Bess, the Gawkie;" but scarcely one of them has correctly stated the authorship. The song has been generally ascribed to an anonymous "Rev. Mr Morehead;" by some to the "Rev. Robert Morehead;" and Allan Cunningham, who states that his father was acquainted with the real author, has described him as the "Rev. William Morehead!"
BESS, THE GAWKIE.
TUNE--_"Bess, the Gawkie."_
Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport a while wi' Jamie? Ah, na, lass, I 'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, For he 's ta'en up wi' Maggie.
For hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see young Jamie pass, Wi' mickle blytheness in his face, Out ower the muir to Maggie. I wat he gae her mony a kiss, And Maggie took them nae amiss; 'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this, That Bess was but a gawkie.
For when a civil kiss I seek, She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, And for an hour she 'll hardly speak; Wha 'd no ca' her a gawkie? But sure my Maggie has mair sense, She 'll gie a score without offence; Now gie me ane into the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie.
O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en, But I will never stand for ane Or twa when we do meet again; So ne'er think me a gawkie. Ah, na, lass, that canna be; Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me, Or ony thy sweet face that see, E'er to think thee a gawkie.
But, whisht, nae mair o' this we 'll speak, For yonder Jamie does us meet; Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, I trow he likes the gawkie. O, dear Bess! I hardly knew, When I cam' by, your gown sae new; I think you 've got it wet wi' dew! Quoth she, That 's like a gawkie!
It 's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, And I 'll get gowns when it is gane; Sae ye may gang the gate ye came, And tell it to your dawtie. The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek; He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet, If I should gang anither gate, I ne'er could meet my dawtie.
The lasses fast frae him they flew, And left poor Jamie sair to rue That ever Maggie's face he knew, Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. As they gaed ower the muir, they sang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.
MRS AGNES LYON.
A female contemporary of the Baroness Nairn, of kindred tastes, and of equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay L'Amy, of Dunkenny, in Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the year 1762. She was reputed for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for her hand; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon, minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January 1786. Of a highly cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early improved a taste for versifying, and acquired the habit of readily clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother of ten children; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous; in pathetic pieces she is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear, she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular request, the words to his popular tune "Farewell to Whisky,"--the only lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes.
Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, having survived her husband about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS. to the widow of one of her sons, to whom she was devotedly attached, accompanied by a request, inscribed in rhyme at the beginning of the first volume, that the compositions might not be printed, unless in the event of a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus described:--
"Written off-hand, as one may say, Perhaps upon a rainy day, Perhaps while at the cradle rocking. Instead of knitting at a stocking, She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink, And easily the verses clink. Perhaps a headache at a time Would make her on her bed recline, And rather than be merely idle, She 'd give her fancy rein and bridle. She neither wanted lamp nor oil, Nor found composing any toil; As for correction's iron wand, She never took it in her hand; And can, with conscience clear, declare, She ne'er neglected house affair, Nor put her little babes aside, To take on Pegasus a ride. Rather let pens and paper flame, Than any mother have the shame (Except at any _orra time_) To spend her hours in making rhyme."
In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation; and a retentive memory enabled her to render available the fruits of extensive reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth, and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety.
NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY.[62]
TUNE--_"Farewell to Whisky."_
You 've surely heard of famous Neil, The man who play'd the fiddle weel; He was a heartsome merry chiel', And weel he lo'ed the whisky, O! For e'er since he wore the tartan hose He dearly liket _Athole brose_![63] And grieved he was, you may suppose, To bid "farewell to whisky," O!
Alas! says Neil, I'm frail and auld, And whiles my hame is unco cauld; I think it makes me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland whisky, O! But a' the doctors do agree That whisky 's no the drink for me; I 'm fley'd they'll gar me tyne my glee, By parting me and whisky, O!
But I should mind on "auld lang syne," How Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind-- Forbid--like Highland whisky, O! Whilst I can get good wine and ale, And find my heart, and fingers hale, I 'll be content, though legs should fail, And though forbidden whisky, O!
I 'll tak' my fiddle in my hand, And screw its strings whilst they can stand, And mak' a lamentation grand For guid auld Highland whisky, O! Oh! all ye powers of music, come, For deed I think I 'm mighty glum, My fiddle-strings will hardly bum, To say, "farewell to whisky," O!
[62] In the Author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to this song:--"Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words following were composed, at his particular desire, to a lamentation he had just made." Mrs Lyon became acquainted with Gow when she was a young lady, attending the concerts in Dundee, at which the services of the great violinist were regularly required. The song is very inaccurately printed in some of the collections.
[63] A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky.
SEE THE WINTER CLOUDS AROUND.[64]
See the winter clouds around; See the leaves lie on the ground; Pretty little Robin comes, Seeking for his daily crumbs!
In the window near the tree, Little Robin you may see; There his slender board is fix'd, There his crumbs are bruised and mix'd.
View his taper limbs, how neat! And his eyes like beads of jet; See his pretty feathers shine! Little Robin haste and dine.
When sweet Robin leaves the space, Other birds will fill his place; See the Tit-mouse, pretty thing! See the Sparrow's sombre wing!
Great and grand disputes arise, For the crumbs of largest size, Which the bravest and the best Bear triumphant to their nest.
What a pleasure thus to feed Hungry mouths in time of need! For whether it be men or birds, Crumbs are better far than words.
[64] These simple stanzas, conveying such an excellent _morale_ at the close, were written, almost without premeditation, for the amusement and instruction of a little girl, the author's grandchild, who had been on a visit at the manse of Glammis. The allusion to the _board_ in the second verse refers to a little piece of timber which the amiable lady of the house had affixed on the outside of one of the windows, for holding a few crumbs which she daily spread on it for _Robin_, who regularly came to enjoy the bounty of his benefactress. This lyric, and those following, are printed for the first time.
WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.[65]
TUNE--_"Merry in the Hall."_
Within the towers of ancient Glammis Some merry men did dine, And their host took care they should richly fare In friendship, wit, and wine. But they sat too late, and mistook the gate, (For wine mounts to the brain); O, 'twas merry in the hall, when the beards wagg'd all; O, we hope they 'll be back again; We hope they 'll be back again!
Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door, To find the proper way, But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch, And on the steps it lay. So his wife took care of this nice affair, And she wiped it free from stain; For the knight was gone, nor the owner known, So he ne'er got the switch again; So he ne'er got the switch again.
This wondrous little whip[66] remains Within the lady's sight, (She crambo makes, with some mistakes, But hopes for further light). So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart, These thirty years her ain; Till the knight appear, it must just lie here, He will ne'er get his switch again; He will ne'er get his switch again!
[65] This lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April 1821, celebrates an amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the Castle of Glammis, in 1793. Sir Walter was hospitably entertained in the Castle, by Mr Peter Proctor, the factor, in the absence of the noble owner, the Earl of Strathmore, who did not reside in the family mansion; and the conjecture may be hazarded, that he dropt his whip at the manse door on the same evening that he drank an English pint of wine from the _lion beaker_ of Glammis, the prototype of the _silver bear_ of Tully-Veolan, "the _poculum potatorium_ of the valiant baron."--(See _Note_ to Waverley, and Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott).
[66] The whip is now in the custody of Mr George Lyon, of Stirling, the author's son.
MY SON GEORGE'S DEPARTURE.[67]
TUNE--_"Peggy Brown."_
The parting kiss, the soft embrace, I feel them at my heart! 'Twere joy to clasp you in those arms, But agony to part. But let us tranquillise our minds, And hope the time may be, When I shall see that face again, So loved, so dear to me!
Five tedious years have roll'd along, And griefs have had their sway, Though many comforts fill'd my cup, Yet thou wert far away. On pleasant days, when friends are met, Our sports are scarce begun, When I shall sigh, because I miss My George, my eldest son!
I owe my grateful thanks to Heaven, I 've seen thee well and gay, I 've heard the music of thy voice, I 've heard thee sweetly play. O try and cheer us with your strains Ere many twelvemonths be, And let us hear that voice again, So loved, so dear to me!
[67] This lay of affection is dated September 1820, when the author received a visit from her eldest son, who was then settled as a merchant in London. Mr George Lyon, the subject of the song, and the only surviving member of the family, is now resident at Snowdoun House, Stirling.
ROBERT LOCHORE.
Robert Lochore was descended from a branch of a Norman family of that name, long established in the neighbourhood of Biggar, and of which the representative was the House of Lochore de Lochore in Fifeshire. He was born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762, and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow. He early commenced business in the city on his own account. In carrying on public improvements he ever evinced a deep interest, and he frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the "Annuity Society,"--an institution attended with numerous benefits to the citizens of Glasgow.
Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He was
## particularly fond of poetical composition, and wrote verses with
facility, many of his letters to his intimate friends being composed in rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth, contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died in Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long life; and, latterly, found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of his family, his recollections of the past. He was universally beloved as a faithful friend, and was deeply imbued with a sense of religion.
NOW, JENNY LASS.
TUNE--_"Garryowen."_
Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird, My daddy 's dead, an' a' that; He 's snugly laid aneath the yird, And I 'm his heir, an' a' that; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that; His gear an' land 's at my command, And muckle mair than a' that.
He left me wi' his deein' breath, A dwallin' house, an' a' that; A burn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith-- A big peat-stack, an' a' that. A mare, a foal, an' a' that; A mare, a foal, an' a' that; Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby, An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.
A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas, An' stacks o' corn, an' a' that-- Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees, An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that; Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'-- A grecie, too, an' a' that.
I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days, For Sundays, too, an' a' that; I 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands, And siller, gowd, an' a' that. What think ye, lass, o' a' that? What think ye, lass, o' a' that? What want I noo, my dainty doo, But just a wife to a' that.
Now, Jenny dear, my errand here Is to seek ye to a' that; My heart 's a' loupin', while I speer Gin ye 'll tak me, wi' a' that. Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Mysel', my gear, an' a' that; Come, gie 's your loof to be a proof, Ye 'll be a wife to a' that.
Syne Jenny laid her neive in his-- Said, she 'd tak him wi' a' that; An' he gied her a hearty kiss, An' dauted her, an' a' that. They set a day, an' a' that; They set a day, an' a' that; Whan she 'd gang hame to be his dame, An' haud a rant, an' a' that.
MARRIAGE, AND THE CARE O'T.
TUNE--_"Whistle o'er the lave o't."_
Quoth Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I 've woo'd ye mair than half a-year, An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speer Wi' blateness, an' the care o't. Now to the point: sincere I 'm we 't; Will ye be my half-marrow sweet? Shake han's, and say a bargain be 't, An' ne'er think on the care o't.
Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, O' sic a snare I 'll aye be rede; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't! A single life 's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I 'll keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't.
Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die, For me, I 'll tak' nae care o't. Fareweel, for ever!--aff I hie;-- Sae took his leave without a sigh: Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I 'm yours, I 'll try The married life, an' care o't.
Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' gae her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage, an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek In marriage, wi' the care o't.
MARY'S TWA LOVERS.
TUNE--_"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."_
Dear Aunty, I 've been lang your care, Your counsels guid ha'e blest me; Now in a kittle case ance mair Wi' your advice assist me: Twa lovers frequent on me wait, An' baith I frankly speak wi'; Sae I 'm put in a puzzlin' strait Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.
There 's sonsy James, wha wears a wig, A widower fresh and canty, Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig, He 's rich, and rowes in plenty. Tam 's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh, A lad deserves regardin'; He 's clever, decent, sober too, But he 's no worth ae fardin'.
Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see, But 's cash will answer a' things; To be a lady pleases me, And buskit be wi' braw things. Tam I esteem, like him there 's few, His gait and looks entice me; But, aunty, I 'll now trust in you, And fix as ye advise me.
Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke, An' thus repliet to Mary: Unequal matches in a yoke Draw thrawart and camstrarie. Since gentle James ye dinna like, Wi 's gear ha'e nae connexion; Tam 's like yoursel', the bargain strike, Grup to him wi' affection.
THE FORLORN SHEPHERD.[68]
TUNE--_"Banks of the Dee."_
Ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin', For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree, If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin', Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me. Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,-- My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee, When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary, While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.
She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow, The day too was set, when our bridal should be; How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow, She 's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me. For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches, An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee, Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess, Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.
Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I 'm now wearie, An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree, Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary, Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me. Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I 'll wander, 'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee. Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder, To think on her vows, an' to think upon me.
[68] This song is here printed for the first time.
JOHN ROBERTSON.
John Robertson, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life.
THE TOOM MEAL POCK.
Preserve us a'! what shall we do, Thir dark, unhallow'd times; We 're surely dreeing penance now, For some most awfu' crimes. Sedition daurna now appear, In reality or joke; For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, O' a hinging, toom meal pock, And sing, Oh waes me!
When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, For sport and pastime free; I seem'd like ane in paradise, The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they all appear'd, Weel pouther'd were their locks; 'Twas easy dune, when at their hame, Wi' the shaking o' their pocks. And sing, Oh waes me!
How happy pass'd my former days, Wi' merry heartsome glee; When smiling Fortune held the cup, And Peace sat on my knee. Nae wants had I but were supplied; My heart wi' joy did knock, When in the neuk I smiling saw A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
Speak no ae word about reform, Nor petition Parliament; A wiser scheme I 'll now propose, I 'm sure ye 'll gi'e consent: Send up a chiel or twa like me, As a sample o' the flock, Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proof O' a hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
And should a sicht sae ghastly-like, Wi' rags, and banes, and skin, Hae nae impression on yon folks, But tell ye 'll stand ahin'; O what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glowrin' Lunnun folk, When in St James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
Then rear your head, and glowr, and stare, Before yon hills o' beef; Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief. Tell them ye are the vera best, Waled frae the fattest flock; Then raise your arms, and oh! display A hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me!
ALEXANDER BALFOUR.
Alexander Balfour, a poet, novelist and miscellaneous writer, was born on the 1st March 1767, at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances; and being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family, from whom he received such a religious training as exercised a highly beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the loom, and returned home to teach a school in his native parish. During the intervals of leisure, he wrote articles for the provincial miscellanies, the _British Chronicle_ newspaper, and _The Bee_, published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a sail-cloth manufacturer in Arbroath; and, on the death of his employer, soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained prosperity; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his literary studies, and maintaining a correspondence with several men of letters in the capital. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814, to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected with his own firm. This step was lamentably unfortunate; the house, in which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the general commercial disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Reduced to a condition of dependance, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a manufacturing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes, which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear, shortly after his removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career was that of a man of letters. During the interval which elapsed between his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under the title of "Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes; and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication was "The Farmer's Three Daughters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820, he published "Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo; which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled, "The Smuggler's Cave; or, The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To the _Scots Magazine_ he had long been a contributor; and, on the establishment of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_ in its stead, his assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His articles, contributed to this periodical during the nine years of its existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes: they are on every variety of theme, but especially the manners of Scottish rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous contributions in verse, a series entitled, "Characters omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825; and this production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the English poet.
In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of one hundred pounds was conferred on Mr Balfour by the premier, Mr Canning, in consideration of his genius. His last novel, "Highland Mary," in four volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after an illness of about two weeks' duration, on the 12th September 1829, in the sixty-third year of his age.
Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which, in more prosperous circumstances, he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore a perpetual smile. He joined in the amusements of the young, and took delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. His speech, somewhat affected by his complaint, became pleasant from the heartiness of his observations. He was an affectionate husband, and a devoted parent; his habits were strictly temperate, and he was influenced by a devout reverence for religion. A posthumous volume of his writings, under the title of "Weeds and Wild-flowers," was published under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first place; his songs are, however, to be remarked for deep and genuine pathos.
THE BONNY LASS O' LEVEN WATER.
Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea, An' dark the Dee 'mang Highland heather, Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee Are not sae dear as Leven Water: When Nature form'd our favourite isle, An' a' her sweets began to scatter, She look'd with fond approving smile, Alang the banks o' Leven Water.
On flowery braes, at gloamin' gray, 'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin'; Or through the woodlands green to stray, In ilka buss the mavis singin': But sweeter than the woodlands green, Or primrose painted fair by Nature, Is she wha smiles, a rural queen, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
The sunbeam in the siller dew, That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom, Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue; An' purer is her spotless bosom. Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast; There 's love an' truth in ilka feature; For her I 'm past baith wark an' rest, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
But I 'm a lad o' laigh degree, Her purse-proud daddy 's dour an' saucy; An' sair the carle wad scowl on me, For speakin' to his dawtit lassie: But were I laird o' Leven's glen, An' she a humble shepherd's daughter, I 'd kneel, an' court her for my ain, The bonny lass o' Leven Water!
SLIGHTED LOVE.
The rosebud blushing to the morn, The sna'-white flower that scents the thorn, When on thy gentle bosom worn, Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary! How blest was I, a little while, To deem that bosom free frae guile; When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile; Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary!
Though gear was scant, an' friends were few, My heart was leal, my love was true; I blest your e'en of heavenly blue, That glanced sae saft on me, Mary! But wealth has won your heart frae me; Yet I maun ever think of thee; May a' the bliss that gowd can gie, For ever wait on thee, Mary!
For me, nae mair on earth I crave, But that yon drooping willow wave Its branches o'er my early grave, Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary! An' when that hallow'd spot you tread, Where wild-flowers bloom above my head, O look not on my grassy bed, Lest thou shouldst sigh for me, Mary!
GEORGE MACINDOE.
George Macindoe, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes," a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was born at Partick, near Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less irksome duties of a hotel-keeper in Glasgow. His hotel was a corner tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate; and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the remainder of the evenings in conversation with the intelligent host. After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow, during a period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic, and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees.
Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open manly countenance was adorned with bushy locks, which in old age, becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of "incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume, "Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states, in the preface, he had laid before the public to gratify "the solicitations of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad entitled "A Million o' Potatoes," and the two songs which we have selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled "The Wandering Muse;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals. He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year, leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston, Glasgow. The following remarks, regarding Macindoe's songs, have been kindly supplied by Mr Robert Chambers:--
"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a real incident which it describes, namely, a supper, where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles to Glasgow by my father,[69] who, when learning his business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,' which contains some very droll verses, was written in compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then also a young manufacturer, but who died about two months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson--'Bachelor Willie'--and my father's social good-nature, are pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough as they are.
"_June 1, 1855._"
[69] Mr James Chambers, of Peebles, who died in 1824.
CHEESE AND WHISKY.
TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_
Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk, When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing, I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk, And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing, And ne'er was choked for leeing.
Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas, If e'er I thought worthy the preeing, Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese, May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing, May I sup porridge for leeing.
When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease, Can as weel keep a body frae deeing, As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese, I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing, I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.
Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze, I never could think about fleeing, But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese; Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing, Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.
THE BURN TROUT.
TUNE--_"The gude forgi' me for leein'."_
Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout, An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing; He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout, An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing, An' said it wad just be a preeing.
In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door This trout had lang been a dweller, Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.
This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail That grannie had reested her ham on, Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.
This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate, Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't; The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.
When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive, Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane, May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.
ALEXANDER DOUGLAS.
Alexander Douglas was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the village of Strathmiglo in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771. Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of studying for the ministry,--a laudable aspiration, which was unfortunately checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle to the farmers in the vicinity; and while so occupied, he read the Bible in the fields, and with a religious sense, remarkable for his years, engaged in daily prayer in some sequestered spot, for the Divine blessing to grant him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now assiduously sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and while busily plying the shuttle began to compose verses for his amusement. These compositions were jotted down during the periods of leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty, his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of this gentleman. A cordial recommendation to publish his verses was the result; and a large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume of "Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a profit of one hundred pounds.
Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow, who still survives. Three children, the issue of the first marriage, died in early life. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, Douglas had few pretensions as a poet; some of his songs have however obtained a more than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.
FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.[70]
TUNE--_"Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."_
Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
We 'll raise the song on highest key, Through every grove till echo shout it; The sweet enchantin' theme shall be, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her braid an' lang extended vales Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow; Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills; Her woods resound wi' music mellow. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her waters pastime sweet afford To ane an' a' wha like to angle; The seats o' mony a laird an' lord, Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
In ilka town an' village gay, Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin'; While to an' frae each port an' bay, See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
Her maids are frugal, modest, fair, As lilies by her burnies growin'; An' ilka swain may here repair, Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
In peace, her sons like lammies mild, Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin'; In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild, As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.
May auld an' young hae meat an' claes; May wark an' wages aye be plenty; An' may the sun to latest days See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.
Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.
[70] A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson.
WILLIAM M'LAREN.
William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill--an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend--to which is appended an _éloge_ on Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.
At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]
[71] Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for supplying curious and interesting information regarding several of the bards of the west, kindly furnished the particulars of the above memoir.
NOW SUMMER SHINES WITH GAUDY PRIDE.
Now summer shines with gaudy pride, By flowery vale and mountain side, And shepherds waste the sunny hours By cooling streams, and bushy bowers; While I, a victim to despair, Avoid the sun's offensive glare, And in sequester'd wilds deplore The perjured vows of Ella More.
Would Fate my injured heart provide Some cave beyond the mountain tide, Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh; I 'd there to woods and rocks complain, To rocks that skirt the angry main; For angry main, and rocky shore, Are kinder far than Ella More.
AND DOST THOU SPEAK SINCERE, MY LOVE?
TUNE--_"Lord Gregory."_
And dost thou speak sincere, my love? And must we ever part? And dost thou unrelenting see The anguish of my heart? Have e'er these doating eyes of mine, One wandering wish express'd? No; thou alone hast ever been Companion of my breast.
I saw thy face, angelic fair, I thought thy form divine, I sought thy love--I gave my heart, And hoped to conquer thine. But, ah! delusive, cruel hope! Hope now for ever gone! My Mary keeps the heart I gave, But with it keeps her own.
When many smiling summer suns Their silver light has shed, And wrinkled age her hoary hairs Waves lightly o'er my head; Even then, in life's declining hour, My heart will fondly trace The beauties of thy lovely form, And sweetly smiling face.
SAY NOT THE BARD HAS TURN'D OLD.
Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled, Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string, Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.
Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes; Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and bright As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright, In the hall of his chief, on a festival night, I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye, While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done, By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone, His strains then are various--now rapid, now slow, As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd, And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast, I list with delight to his rapturous strain, While the borrowing echo returns it again; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
But not summer's profusion alone can inspire His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre, But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow, When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven, Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven, And smile at the billows that angrily rave, Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.
When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart, Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart-- When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave, And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave, Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.
HAMILTON PAUL.
A man of fine intellect, a poet, and an elegant writer, Hamilton Paul has claims to remembrance. On the 10th April 1773, he was born in a small cottage on the banks of Girvan Water, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. In the same dwelling, Hugh Ainslie, another Scottish bard, was afterwards born. Receiving his elementary education at the parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Thomas Campbell, author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was a college contemporary; and their mutual love of poetry drew them closely to each other; they competed for academical rewards offered for the best compositions in verse, till frequent adjudication as to the equality of their merits, induced them to forbear contesting on the same subjects. At least on one occasion the verses of Paul were preferred to those of the Bard of Hope. The following lines, exhibiting a specimen of his poetical powers at this period, are from a translation of Claudian's "Epithalamium on the Marriage of Honorius and Maria," for which, in the Latin class, he gained a prize along with his friend:--
"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms, Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms; Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires, And in his breast awakens new desires. In love a novice, while his bosom glows With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows; The rural pastimes suited to his age, His late delight, no more his care engage; No more he wills to give his steed the reins In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains; No more he joys to bend the twanging bow, To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw; His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove, To wounds inflicted by the god of love. How oft, expressive of the inward smart, Did groans convulsive issue from his heart! How oft did blushes own the sacred flame, How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name! Now presents worthy of the plighted fair, And nuptial robes his busy train prepare-- Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired, And those bright dames that to the beds aspired Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid Requires no earthly ornamental aid To give her faultless form a single grace, Or add one charm to her bewitching face."
The circumstances of the young poets were far from affluent. Campbell
## particularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning
to the lodgings of his friend to request his opinion of some verses; they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the production:--
"Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite, That rode upon the storm of night, And loud the waves were heard to roar That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."
After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a family in Argyleshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the island of Mull. They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose and verse. "Your verses on the Unfortunate Lady," writes Campbell to his friend, "I read with sweet pleasure; for there is a joy in grief, when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad.... Morose as I am in judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion, I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan, written soon after my arrival in Mull:--
"Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering Jacob's grassy meads between, Lo! thy waters, gently wandering, Lave thy valleys rich and green.
"When the winter, keenly show'ring, Strips fair Salem's holy shade, Then thy current, broader flowing, Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.
"When, O! when shall light returning Gild the melancholy gloom, And the golden star of morning Jordan's solemn vault illume?
"When shall Freedom's holy charmer Cheer my long benighted soul? When shall Israel, proud in armour, Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.
"The similarity of the measure with that of your last made me think of sending you this piece. I am much hurried at present with my comedy, the 'Clouds of Aristophanes.' I have already finished my translation of the Choephoroe of Æschylus. I dreamt a dream about your being before Parnassus upon your trial for sedition and contumacy. I thought Thalia, Clio, &c. addressed you. Their speeches shall be nonsensified into rhyme, and shall be part of some other scrawl from your affectionate friend,
"THOMAS THE HERMIT."
In another epistle Campbell threatens to "send a formal message to the kind nymphs of Parnassus, telling them that, whereas Hamilton Paul, their favourite and admired laureate of the north, has been heard to express his admiration of certain nymphs in a certain place; and that the said Hamilton Paul has ungratefully and feloniously neglected to speak with due reverence of the ladies of Helicon; that said Hamilton Paul shall be deprived of all aid in future from these goddesses, and be sent to draw his inspiration from the dry fountain of earthly beauty; and that, furthermore, all the favours taken from the said Hamilton Paul shall accrue to the informer and petitioner!"
After two years' residence in the Highlands, both the poets returned to Glasgow to resume their academical studies: Campbell to qualify himself as a man of letters, and Paul to prepare for the ministry of the Scottish Church. "It would have been impossible, even during the last years of their college life," writes Mr Deans,[72] "to have predicted which of the two students would ultimately arrive at the greatest eminence. They were both excellent classical scholars; they were both ingenious poets; and Campbell does not appear to have surpassed his companion either in his original pieces or his translations; they both exhibited great versatility of talent; they were both playful and witty; and seem to have been possessed of great facilities in sport. During his latter years, when detailing the history of those joyous days, Mr Paul dwelt on them with peculiar delight, and seemed animated with youthful emotion when recalling the curious frolics and innocent and singular adventures in which Campbell and he had performed a principal part."
While resident at Inverary, Mr Paul composed several poems, which were much approved by his correspondent. Among these, a ballad entitled "The Maid of Inverary," in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Lady Bury, was set to music, and made the subject of elaborate criticism. On his return to the university, he composed with redoubled ardour, contributing verses on every variety of topic to the newspapers and periodicals. Several of his pieces, attracting the notice of some of the professors, received their warm commendation.
Obtaining licence to preach, the poet returned to his native county. During a probation of thirteen years, he was assistant to six parish ministers, and tutor in five different families. He became joint-proprietor and editor of the _Ayr Advertiser_, which he conducted for a period of three years. At Ayr he was a member of every literary circle; was connected with every club; chaplain to every society; a speaker at every meeting; the poet of every curious occurrence; and the welcome guest at every table. Besides editing his newspaper, he gave private instructions in languages, and preached on Sabbath. His metrical productions became widely known, and his songs were sung at the cottage hearths of the district. His presence at the social meeting was the sure indication of a prevalent good humour.
In 1813, Mr Paul attained the summit of his professional ambition; he was ordained to the pastoral office in the united parishes of Broughton, Glenholm, and Kilbucho, in Peeblesshire. Amidst due attention to his clerical duties, he still found leisure to engage in literary pursuits, and continued to contribute to the public journals both in prose and poetry. Of the poet Burns he was an enthusiastic admirer; he was laureate of the "Burns' Allowa' Club," and of the Glasgow Ayrshire Friendly Society, whose annual meetings were held on the Bard's anniversary; and the odes which he composed for these annual assemblages attracted wide and warm admiration. He therefore recommended himself as a suitable editor of the works of Burns, when a new edition was contemplated by Messrs Wilson and M'Cormick, booksellers in Ayr. In the performance of his editorial task, he was led, in an attempt to palliate the immoralities of Burns, to make some indiscreet allusions respecting his own clerical brethren; for this imprudence he narrowly escaped censure from the ecclesiastical courts. His memoir, though commended in _Blackwood's Magazine_, conducted by Professor Wilson, was severely censured by Dr Andrew Thomson in the _Christian Instructor_.
The pastoral parish of Broughton was in many respects suited for a person of Hamilton Paul's peculiar temperament and habits; in a more conspicuous position his talents might have shone with more brilliancy; but, after the burst of enthusiasm in his youth was past, he loved seclusion, and modestly sought the shade. No man was less conscious of his powers, or attached less value to his literary performances.[73] Of his numerous poetical compositions each was the work of a sitting, or had been uttered impromptu; and, unless secured by a friend, they were commonly laid aside never to be recollected. As a clergyman, he retained, during a lengthened incumbency, the respect and affection of his flock, chiefly, it may be remarked, from the acceptability of his private services, and the warmth and kindliness of his dispositions. His pulpit discourses were elegantly composed, and largely impressed with originality and learning; but were somewhat imperfectly pervaded with those clear and evangelical views of Divine truth which are best calculated to edify a Christian audience. In private society, he was universally beloved. "His society," writes Mr Deans, "was courted by the rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned. In every company he was alike kind, affable, and unostentatious; as a companion, he was the most engaging of men; he was the best story-teller of his day." His power of humour was unbounded; he had a joke for every occasion, a _bon-mot_ for every adventure. He had eminent power of satire when he chose to wield it; but he generally blended the complimentary with the pungent, and lessened the keenness of censure by the good-humour of its utterance. His anecdotes are familiar over a wide district, and many of his witty sayings have become proverbial. He was abundantly hospitable, and had even suffered embarrassments from its injudicious exercise; still he was always able, as he used to say--
"To invite the wanderer to the gate, And spread the couch of rest."
It was his earnest desire that he might live to pay his liabilities, and he was spared to accomplish the wish. He died on the 28th of February 1854, in the 81st year of his age.
In appearance, Hamilton Paul presented a handsome person, tall and erect; his countenance was regular and pleasant; and his eyes, which were partially concealed by overhanging eye-lashes, beamed with humour and intelligence. In conversation he particularly excelled, evincing on every topic the fruits of extensive reading and reflection. He was readily moved by the pathetic; at the most joyous hour, a melancholy incident would move him into tears. The tenderness of his heart was frequently imparted to his verses, which are uniformly distinguished for smoothness and simplicity.
[72] We are indebted to Mr W. Deans, author of a "History of the Ottoman Empire," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Deans was personally acquainted with Mr Hamilton Paul.
[73] "He never took any credit to himself," communicates his friend, Mr H. S. Riddell, "from the widely-known circumstance of his having carried off the prize from Campbell. He said that Campbell was at that period a very young man, much younger than he, and had much less experience in composition than himself."
HELEN GRAY.
Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed On yonder heath-clad hills, Where wild meandering crystal Tweed Collects his glassy rills. And sweet the buds that scent the air, And deck the breast of May; But none of these are sweet or fair, Compared to Helen Gray.
You see in Helen's face so mild, And in her bashful mien, The winning softness of the child, The blushes of fifteen. The witching smile, when prone to go, Arrests me, bids me stay; Nor joy, nor comfort can I know, When 'reft of Helen Gray.
I little thought the dark-brown moors, The dusky mountain's shade, Down which the wasting torrent pours, Conceal'd so sweet a maid; When sudden started from the plain A sylvan scene and gay, Where, pride of all the virgin train, I first saw Helen Gray.
* * * * *
May never Envy's venom'd breath, Blight thee, thou tender flower! And may thy head ne'er droop beneath Affliction's chilling shower! Though I, the victim of distress, Must wander far away; Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll bless The name of Helen Gray.
THE BONNIE LASS OF BARR.
Of streams that down the valley run, Or through the meadow glide, Or glitter to the summer sun, The Stinshar[74] is the pride. 'Tis not his banks of verdant hue, Though famed they be afar; Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue, Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew; 'Tis she that chiefly charms the view, The bonnie lass of Barr.
When rose the lark on early wing, The vernal tide to hail; When daisies deck'd the breast of spring, I sought her native vale. The beam that gilds the evening sky, And brighter morning star, That tells the king of day is nigh, With mimic splendour vainly try To reach the lustre of thine eye, Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
The sun behind yon misty isle, Did sweetly set yestreen; But not his parting dewy smile Could match the smile of Jean. Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe, Mine strove with tender war. On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow, While rivers to the ocean flow, With love of thee my heart shall glow, Thou bonnie lass of Barr.
[74] The English pronouncing the name of this river _Stinkar_, induced the poet Burns to change it to Lugar.
ROBERT TANNAHILL.
Robert Tannahill was born at Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His father, James Tannahill, a silk-gauze weaver, espoused Janet Pollock, daughter of Matthew Pollock, owner of the small property of Boghall, near Beith; their family consisted of six sons and one daughter, of whom the future poet was the fourth child. On his mother's side he inherited a poetical temperament; she was herself endowed with strong natural sagacity, and her maternal uncle Hugh Brodie of Langcroft, a small landowner in Lochwinnoch, evidenced poetic powers by composing "A Speech in Verse upon Husbandry."[75] When a mere youth, Tannahill wrote verses; and being unable, from a weakness in one of his limbs to join in the active sports of his school-fellows, he occasionally sought amusement by composing riddles in rhyme for their solution. As a specimen of these early compositions, we submit the following, which has been communicated to us by Mr Matthew Tannahill, the poet's surviving brother. It was composed on old grumbling Peter Anderson, the gardener of King's Street, a character still remembered in Paisley:--
"Wi' girnin' and chirmin', His days they hae been spent; When ither folk right thankfu' spoke, He never was content."
Along with poetry Tannahill early cultivated the kindred arts of music and song; a mere youth, he occasionally earned the payment of ten shillings for playing on the fife at the Greenock parades; he afterwards became eminent for his skill in the use of the flute. Having completed his education at school, which consisted of instruction in the elementary branches, he became apprenticed to a cotton-weaver. Collecting old or obscure airs, he began to adapt to them suitable words, which he jotted down as they occurred, upon a rude writing-desk he had attached to his loom. His spare hours were spent in the general improvement of his mind. For a period of two years at the commencement of the century, he prosecuted his handicraft occupation at Bolton in England. Returning to Paisley in the spring of 1802, he was offered the situation of overseer of a manufacturing establishment, but he preferred to resume the labours of the loom.
Hitherto Tannahill had not dreamt of becoming known as a song-writer; he cultivated his gift to relieve the monotony of an unintellectual occupation, and the usual auditor of his lays was his younger brother Matthew, who for some years was his companion in the workshop. The acquaintance of Robert Archibald Smith, the celebrated musical composer, which he was now fortunate in forming, was the means of stimulating his Muse to higher efforts and of awakening his ambition. Smith was at this period resident in Paisley; and along with one Ross, a teacher of music from Aberdeen, he set several of Tannahill's best songs to music. In 1805 he was invited to become a poetical contributor to a leading metropolitan periodical; and two years afterwards he published a volume of "Poems and Songs." Of this work a large impression was sold, and a number of the songs soon obtained celebrity. Encouraged by R. A. Smith and others, who, attracted by his fame, came to visit him, Tannahill began to feel concerned in respect of his reputation as a song-writer; he diligently composed new songs and re-wrote with attention those which he had already published. Some of these compositions he hoped would be accepted by his correspondent, Mr George Thomson, for his collection, and the others he expected would find a publisher in the famous bookselling firm of Constable & Co. The failure of both these schemes--for Constable's hands were full, and Thomson exhibited his wonted "fastidiousness"--preyed deeply on the mind of the sensitive bard. A temporary relief to his disappointed expectations was occasioned by a visit which, in the spring of 1810, he received from James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who made a journey to Paisley expressly to form his acquaintance. The visit is remembered by Mr Matthew Tannahill, who describes the enthusiasm with which his brother received such homage to his genius. The poets spent a night together; and in the morning Tannahill accompanied the Shepherd half-way to Glasgow. Their parting was memorable: "Farewell," said Tannahill, as he grasped the Shepherd's hand, "we shall never meet again! Farewell, I shall never see you more!"
The visit of the Ettrick Bard proved only an interlude amidst the depression which had permanently settled on the mind of poor Tannahill. The intercourse of admiring friends even became burdensome to him; and he stated to his brother Matthew his determination either to leave Paisley for a sequestered locality, or to canvass the country for subscribers to a new edition of his poems. Meanwhile, his person became emaciated, and he complained to his brother that he experienced a prickling sensation in the head. During a visit to a friend in Glasgow, he exhibited decided symptoms of insanity. On his return home, he complained of illness, and took to bed in his mother's house. He was visited by three of his brothers on the evening of the same day, and they left him about ten o'clock, when he appeared sufficiently composed. Returning about two hours afterwards to inquire for him, and for their mother, who lay sick in the next apartment, they found their brother's bed empty, and discovered that he had gone out. Arousing the neighbours, they made an immediate search, and at length they discovered the poet's lifeless body at a deep spot of the neighbouring brook. Tannahill terminated his own life on the 17th May 1810, at the age of thirty-six.
The victim of disappointments which his sensitive temperament could not endure, Tannahill was naturally of an easy and cheerful disposition. "He was happy himself," states his surviving brother, "and he wished to see every one happy around him." As a child, his brother informs us, his exemplary behaviour was so conspicuous, that mothers were satisfied of their children's safety, if they learned that they were in company with "_Bob_ Tannahill." Inoffensive in his own dispositions, he entertained every respect for the feelings of others. He enjoyed the intercourse of
## particular friends, but avoided general society; in company, he seldom
talked, and only with a neighbour; he shunned the acquaintance of persons of rank, because he disliked patronage, and dreaded the superciliousness of pride. His conversation was simple; he possessed, but seldom used, considerable powers of satire; but he applied his keenest shafts of declamation against the votaries of cruelty. In performing acts of kindness he took delight, but he was scrupulous of accepting favours; he was strong in the love of independence, and he had saved twenty pounds at the period of his death. His general appearance did not indicate intellectual superiority; his countenance was calm and meditative, his eyes were gray, and his hair a light-brown. In person, he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are much inferior to his songs; of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and graceful simplicity, they are pervaded by the gentlest pathos. Rich in description of beautiful landscapes, they softly tell the tale of man's affection and woman's love.[76]
[75] See Semple's "Continuation of Crawford's History of Renfrewshire," p. 116.
[76] Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular affection towards any of the fair sex. We have ascertained that, at different periods, he paid court to two females of his own rank. The first of these was Jean King, sister of his friend John King, one of the minor poets of Paisley; she afterwards married a person of the name of Pinkerton; and her son, Mr James Pinkerton, printer, Paisley, has frequently heard her refer to the fear she had entertained lest "Rob would write a song about her." His next sweetheart was Mary Allan, sister of the poet Robert Allan. This estimable woman was a sad mourner on the poet's death, and for many years wept aloud when her deceased lover was made the subject of conversation in her presence. She still survives, and a few years since, to join some relations, she emigrated to America. Some verses addressed to her by the poet she continues to retain with the fondest affection.
JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.[77]
The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
[77] "Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane" was published in 1808, and has since received an uncommon measure of popularity. The music, so suitable to the words, was composed by R. A. Smith. In the "Harp of Renfrewshire" (p. xxxvi), Mr Smith remarks that the song was at first composed in two stanzas, the third being subsequently added. "The Promethean fire," says Mr Smith, "must have been burning but _lownly_, when such commonplace ideas could be written, after the song had been so finely wound up with the beautiful apostrophe to the mavis, 'Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening.'" The heroine of the song was formerly a matter of speculation; many a "Jessie" had the credit assigned to her; and passengers by the old stage-coaches between Perth and the south, on passing through Dunblane, had pointed out to them, by the drivers, the house of Jessie's birth. One writer (in the _Musical Magazine_, for May 1835) records that he had actually been introduced at Dunblane to the individual Jessie, then an elderly female, of an appearance the reverse of prepossessing! Unfortunately for the curious in such inquiries, the heroine only existed in the imagination of the poet; he never was in Dunblane, which, if he had been, he would have discovered that the sun could not there be seen setting "o'er the lofty Benlomond." Mr Matthew Tannahill states that the song was composed to supplant an old one, entitled, "Bob o' Dumblane." Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, supplies the information, that in consequence of improvements suggested from time to time by R. A. Smith and William Maclaren, Tannahill wrote eighteen different versions of this song.
LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.[78]
AIR--_"Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland."_
Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, I maun lea' them a', lassie; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha would shun the field of danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca', lassie? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Hae seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie.
"Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love, and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."
O! resume thy wonted smile! O! suppress thy fears, lassie! Glorious honour crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie; Heaven will shield thy faithful lover, Till the vengeful strife is over, Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever, Till the day we die, lassie; 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes, We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days, As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.
[78] Tannahill wrote this song in honour of the Earl of Moira, afterwards Marquis of Hastings, and the Countess of Loudoun, to whom his Lordship had been shortly espoused, when he was called abroad in the service of his country.
THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.[79]
Far lone amang the Highland hills, 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens, With weary steps I wander. The langsome way, the darksome day, The mountain mist sae rainy, Are nought to me when gaun to thee, Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.
Yon mossy rosebud down the howe, Just op'ning fresh and bonny, Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, And 's scarcely seen by ony; Sae, sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Mair fair and gay than rosy May, The flower o' Arranteenie.
Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, I view the distant ocean, There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, Ambition courts promotion:-- Let Fortune pour her golden store, Her laurell'd favours many; Give me but this, my soul's first wish, The lass o' Arranteenie.
[79] This song was written on a young lady, whom a friend of the author met at Ardentinny, a retired spot on the margin of Loch Long.
YON BURN SIDE.[80]
AIR--_"The Brier-bush."_
We 'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we 'll meet--we 'll meet at e'en down by yon burn side.
I 'll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side, Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smoothes her theme, By the sweetly murm'ring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.
Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I 'll through the fields alane, There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.
[80] The poet and one of his particular friends, Charles Marshall (whose son, the Rev. Charles Marshall, of Dunfermline, is author of a respectable volume, entitled "Lays and Lectures"), had met one evening in a tavern, kept by Tom Buchanan, near the cross of Paisley. The evening was enlivened by song-singing; and the landlord, who was present, sung the old song, beginning, "There grows a bonny brier-bush," which he did with effect. On their way home together, Marshall remarked that the words of the landlord's song were vastly inferior to the tune, and humorously suggested the following burlesque parody of the first stanza:--
"There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, They were set by Charlie Marshall, And pu'd by Nannie Laird, Yet there 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard."
He added that Tannahill would do well to compose suitable words for the music. The hint sufficed; the friends met after a fortnight's interval, when the poet produced and read the song of "Yon burn side." It immediately became popular. Marshall used to relate this anecdote with much feeling. He died in March 1851, at the age of fourscore.
THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.[81]
AIR--_"Bonny Dundee."_
Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw: The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me.
Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.
Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae; While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.
'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e, For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan', The dark days o' winter were summer to me!
[81] The Braes of Gleniffer are a tract of hilly ground, to the south of Paisley. They are otherwise known as Stanley Braes.
THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.[82]
AIR--_"Crockston Castle."_
Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary; Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary. Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure; But I will ford the whirling deep, That roars between me and my treasure. Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave, Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee, Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie; But when the lonesome way is past, I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary! Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave, With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, The wildest dreary night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
[82] The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated on the brow of a gentle eminence, about three miles south-east of Paisley. The Castle, in the twelfth century, was possessed by a Norman family, of the name of Croc; it passed, in the following century, by the marriage of the heiress, into a younger branch of the House of Stewart, who were afterwards ennobled as Earls of Lennox. According to tradition, Queen Mary and Lord Darnley occasionally resided in the castle; and it is reported that the unfortunate princess witnessed from its walls the fall of her fortunes at the battle of Langside. Crockston Castle is now the possession of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Pollock.
THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.[83]
AIR--_"The Three Carls o' Buchanan."_
Let us go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I 'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my dearie.
When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling; So merrily we 'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.
[83] A clerical friend has communicated to us the following stanza, which he heard sung by an old Highlander, as an addition to the "Braes o' Balquhither:"--
"While the lads of the south Toil for bare worldly treasure-- To the lads of the north Every day brings its pleasure: Oh, blithe are the joys That the Highlandman possesses, He feels no annoys, For he fears no distresses."
GLOOMY WINTER 'S NOW AWA'.
AIR--_"Lord Balgonie's Favourite."_
Gloomy winter 's now awa' Saft the westling breezes blaw, 'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw, The mavis sings fu' cheery, O! Sweet the crawflower's early bell Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, Blooming like thy bonny sel', My young, my artless dearie, O!
Come, my lassie, let us stray O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, Blithely spend the gowden day, 'Midst joys that never weary, O! Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds, Siller saughs, wi' downy buds, Adorn the banks sae briery, O!
Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheery, O! Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!
O! ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?
AIR--_"Sleepy Maggie."_
O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie? O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
Mirk and rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carry;[84] Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive wi' winter's fury. O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
Fearful soughs the bourtree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and dreary, Loud the iron yate does clank, And cry of howlets makes me eerie. O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
Aboon my breath I daurna' speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie, Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek, O rise, rise, my bonny lady! O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.
She opt the door, she let him in, He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie: "Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."
Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie! Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie! What care I for howlet's cry, For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?
[84] This expression commonly means, the direction in which the clouds are carried by the wind, but it is here used to denote the firmament.
NOW WINTER, WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.
AIR--_"Forneth House."_
Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow, Is far ayont yon mountains; And Spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains: Now, on the budding slaethorn bank, She spreads her early blossom, And wooes the mirly-breasted birds To nestle in her bosom.
But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, Sae darksome, dull, and dreary; Now laverocks sing to hail the spring, And Nature all is cheery. Then let us leave the town, my love, And seek our country dwelling, Where waving woods, and spreading flowers, On every side are smiling.
We 'll tread again the daisied green, Where first your beauty moved me; We 'll trace again the woodland scene, Where first ye own'd ye loved me; We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear these pleasures a', When shared with thee, my Nancy.
THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O!
GAELIC AIR--_"Mor nian à Ghibarlan."_
Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O! Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O! Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O! And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!
But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O! The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O! Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O! That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!
The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O! Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O! Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O! The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!
He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen: He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen; He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O! Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!
Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O! Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O! Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O! I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!
THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.
AIR--_"The Shepherd's Son."_
The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa'; The pairtricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting, gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloamin' sky, The mavis mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day. While weary yeldrins seem to wail, Their little nestlings torn; The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry-- The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.
BARROCHAN JEAN.[85]
AIR--_"Johnnie M'Gill."_
'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation, She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.
The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins, The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen; The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!
Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen; The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie, Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!
The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en; They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie, For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean!
The doctors declared it was past their descriving, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin; But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean!
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin; A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs, E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan Jean!"
The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean; Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels, Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean!
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie, The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green, He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.
[85] Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill remarks:--"You will, no doubt, have frequently observed how much some old people are given to magnify the occurrences of their young days. 'Barrochan Jean' was written on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch parish, relating a story something similar to the subject of the song; perhaps I have heightened her colouring a little."
O, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID!
Lowland lassie, wilt thou go Where the hills are clad with snow; Where, beneath the icy steep, The hardy shepherd tends his sheep? Ill nor wae shall thee betide, When row'd within my Highland plaid.
Soon the voice of cheery spring Will gar a' our plantin's ring, Soon our bonny heather braes Will put on their summer claes; On the mountain's sunny side, We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.
When the summer spreads the flowers, Busks the glens in leafy bowers, Then we 'll seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose bed; While the burning hours preside, I 'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Then we 'll leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonny boat, Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee; When chilly breezes sweep the tide, I 'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Lowland lads may dress mair fine, Woo in words mair saft than mine; Lowland lads hae mair of art, A' my boast 's an honest heart, Whilk shall ever be my pride;-- O, row thee in my Highland plaid!
"Bonny lad, ye 've been sae leal, My heart would break at our fareweel; Lang your love has made me fain; Take me--take me for your ain!" Across the Firth, away they glide, Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.[86]
Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Near thee I pass'd life's early day, And won my Mary's heart in thee.
The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea, And a' the sweets that ane can wish Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.
Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade, The cooshat croodles am'rously, The mavis, down thy bughted glade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Thou bonny wood, &c.
Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee! They 'll sing you yet a canty sang, Then, O, in pity, let them be! Thou bonny woods, &c.
When winter blaws in sleety showers, Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie, He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers, As laith to harm a flower in thee. Thou bonny wood, &c.
Though Fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea; The happy hours I 'll ever mind, That I, in youth, hae spent in thee. Thou bonny wood, &c.
[86] Craigie Lea is situated to the north-west of Paisley.
GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.[87]
AIR--_"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."_
The weary sun 's gaen down the west, The birds sit nodding on the tree; All nature now prepares for rest, But rest prepared there 's none for me. The trumpet sounds to war's alarms, The drums they beat, the fifes they play,-- Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms, For the morn I will be far away.
Good night, and joy--good night, and joy, Good night, and joy be wi' you a'; For since its so that I must go, Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
I grieve to leave my comrades dear, I mourn to leave my native shore; To leave my aged parents here, And the bonnie lass whom I adore. But tender thoughts maun now be hush'd, When danger calls I must obey. The transport waits us on the coast, And the morn I will be far away. Good night, and joy, &c.
Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast! Though bleak and drear thy mountains be, When on the heaving ocean tost, I 'll cast a wishful look to thee! And now, dear Mary, fare thee well, May Providence thy guardian be! Or in the camp, or on the field, I 'll heave a sigh, and think on thee! Good night, and joy, &c.
[87] We have been favoured, by Mr Matthew Tannahill, with a copy of the above song of his late gifted brother. It is not included in any edition of his poems, but has been printed, through the favour of Mr M. Tannahill, in the "Book of Scottish Song."
HENRY DUNCAN, D.D.
Dr Henry Duncan the distinguished founder of Savings' Banks, and the promoter of various schemes of social economy, we are enabled to record among the contributors to Caledonian minstrelsy. He was descended through both parents from a succession of respectable clergymen of the Scottish Church. His father George Duncan, was minister of Lochrutton in the stewartry of Kircudbright, and the subject of this memoir was born in the manse of that parish, on the 8th October 1774. After a period of training at home under a private tutor, he was sent to the Academy of Dumfries to complete his preparation for the University. At the age of fourteen, he entered as a student the United College of St Andrews, but after an attendance of two years at that seat of learning, he was induced, on the invitation of his relative Dr Currie, to proceed to Liverpool, there to prepare himself for a mercantile profession, by occupying a situation in the banking office of Messrs Heywood. After a trial of three years, he found the avocations of business decidedly uncongenial, and firmly resolved to follow the profession of his progenitors, by studying for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. He had already afforded evidence of ability to grapple with questions of controversial theology, by printing a tract against the errors of Socinianism, which, published anonymously, attracted in the city of Liverpool much attention from the originality with which the usual arguments were illustrated and enforced. Of the concluding five years of his academical course, the first and two last were spent at the University of Edinburgh, the other two at that of Glasgow. In 1797, he was enrolled as a member of the Speculative Society of the University of Edinburgh, and there took his turn in debate with Henry Brougham, Francis Horner, Lord Henry Petty afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, and other young men of genius, who then adorned the academic halls of the Scottish capital. With John Leyden, W. Gillespie afterwards minister of Kells, and Robert Lundie the future minister of Kelso, he formed habits of particular intimacy. From the Presbytery of Dumfries, he obtained licence as a probationer in the spring of 1798, and he thereafter accepted the situation of tutor in the family of Colonel Erskine afterwards Earl of Mar, who then resided at Dalhonzie, near Crieff. In this post he distinguished himself by inducing the inhabitants of the district to take up arms in the defence of the country, during the excitement, which then prevailed respecting an invasion. In the spring of 1799, the parishes of Lochmaben and Ruthwell, both in the gift of the Earl of Mansfield, became simultaneously vacant, and the choice of them was accorded to Mr Duncan by the noble patron. He preferred Ruthwell, and was ordained to the charge of that parish, on the 19th September.
In preferring the parish of Ruthwell to the better position and wider field of ministerial usefulness presented at Lochmaben, Mr Duncan was influenced by the consideration, that the population of the former parish was such as would enable him to extend the pastoral superintendence to every individual of his flock. In this respect he realised his wishes; but not content with efficiently discharging the more sacred duties of a parochial clergyman, he sought with devoted assiduity, the amelioration of the physical condition of his people. Relieving an immediate destitution in the parish, by a supply of Indian corn brought on his own adventure, he was led to devise means of preventing the recurrence of any similar period of depression. With this intention, he established two friendly societies in the place, and afterwards a local bank for the savings of the industrious. The latter proved the parent of those admirable institutions for the working classes, known as _Savings' Banks_, which have since become so numerous throughout Europe and the United States of America. The Ruthwell Savings' Bank was established in 1810. Numerous difficulties attended the early operation of the system, on its general adoption throughout the country, but these were obviated and removed by the skill and promptitude of the ingenious projector. At one period his correspondence on the subject cost him in postages an annual expenditure of one hundred pounds, a sum nearly equal to half the yearly emoluments of his parochial cure. The Act of Parliament establishing Savings' Banks in Scotland, which was passed in July 1819, was procured through his indomitable exertions, and likewise the Act of 1835, providing for the better regulation of these institutions.
At Ruthwell, Dr Duncan introduced the system of popular lectures on science, which has since been adopted by Mechanics' Institutes. Further to extend the benefits of popular instruction and entertainment, he edited a series of tracts entitled "The Scottish Cheap Repository," one of the first of those periodicals devoted to the moral improvement of the people. A narrative designated "The Cottager's Fireside," which he originally contributed to this series, was afterwards published separately, and commanded a wide circulation. In 1809, Dr Duncan originated the _Dumfries and Galloway Courier_, a weekly newspaper which he conducted during the first seven years of its existence. He was a frequent contributor to "The Christian Instructor," and wrote the articles "Blair" and "Blacklock" for the _Edinburgh Encyclopædia_. At the request of Lord Brougham, he composed two treatises on Savings' Banks and Friendly Societies, for publication by the "Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge." In 1819, he published the "Young Country Weaver," a tale calculated to disseminate just political views among the manufacturing classes; and in 1826 a tale of the times of the Covenant in three volumes, with the title of "William Douglas, or the Scottish Exiles." Deeply interested in the question of Slave Emancipation, he contributed a series of letters on the subject to the _Dumfries Courier_, which, afterwards published in the form of a pamphlet, excited no inconsiderable attention. His most valuable and successful publication, the "Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons" appeared in 1836-7 in four duodecimo volumes.
As a man of science, the name of Dr Duncan is associated with the discovery of footprints of four-footed animals in the New Red-Sandstone. He made this curious geological discovery in a quarry at Corncocklemuir, about fifteen miles distant from his parochial manse. In 1823, he received the degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews. In 1839, he was raised to the Moderator's chair in the General Assembly. In church politics, he had early espoused liberal opinions; at the Disruption in 1843, he resigned his charge and united himself to the Free Church. He continued to minister in the parish of Ruthwell, till the appointment of an assistant and successor a short time before his decease. Revisiting the scene of his ministerial labours after a brief absence, he was struck with paralysis while conducting service at a prayer-meeting, and two days afterwards expired. He died at Comlongon, the residence of his brother-in-law Mr Phillips, on the 12th February 1846, and his remains were committed to the church-yard of Ruthwell, in which he had ministered during an incumbency of upwards of forty-six years.
Dr Duncan was twice married; first in 1804, to Miss Craig, the only surviving daughter of his predecessor, and secondly in 1836, to Mrs Lundie, the relict of his friend Mr Lundie, minister of Kelso. His memoirs have been published by his son, the Rev. George John C. Duncan, minister of the Free Church, Greenwich. A man of fine intellect, extensive and varied scholarship, and highly benevolent dispositions, Dr Duncan was much cherished and beloved alike by his parishioners and his gifted contemporaries. Pious and exemplary as became his profession, he was expert in business, and was largely endowed with an inventive genius. Though hitherto scarcely known as a poet, he wrote verses so early as his eleventh year, which are described by his biographer as having "evinced a maturity of taste, a refinement of thought, and an ease of diction which astonished and delighted his friends," and the specimens of his more mature lyrical compositions, which we have been privileged to publish from his MSS. are such as to induce some regret that they were not sooner given to the public.
CURLING SONG.
The music o' the year is hush'd, In bonny glen and shaw, man; And winter spreads o'er nature dead A winding sheet o' snaw, man. O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost, A crystal brig has laid, man; The wild geese screaming wi' surprise, The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.
Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm, And leave your coaxing wife, man; Gae get your besom, tramps and stane, And join the friendly strife, man. For on the water's face are met, Wi' mony a merry joke, man; The tenant and his jolly laird, The pastor and his flock, man.
The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd, The bonspiel is begun, man; The ice is true, the stanes are keen, Huzza for glorious fun, man! The skips are standing at the tee, To guide the eager game, man; Hush, not a word, but mark the broom, And tak' a steady aim, man.
There draw a shot, there lay a guard, And here beside him lie, man; Now let him feel a gamester's hand, Now in his bosom die, man; Then fill the port, and block the ice, We sit upon the tee, man; Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat, And mak' their winner flee, man.
How stands the game? Its eight and eight, Now for the winning shot, man; Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim, I 'll sweep you to the spot, man. The stane is thrown, it glides along, The besoms ply it in, man; Wi' twisting back the player stands, And eager breathless grin, man.
A moment's silence, still as death, Pervades the anxious thrang, man; When sudden bursts the victor's shout, With holla's loud and lang, man. Triumphant besom's wave in air, And friendly banters fly, man; Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn, Wi' eager steps they hie, man.
Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane, And drink wi' social glee, man, May curlers on life's slippery rink, Frae cruel rubs be free, man; Or should a treacherous bias lead Their erring course ajee, man, Some friendly in-ring may they meet, To guide them to the tee, man.
ON THE GREEN SWARD.[88]
TUNE--_"Arniston House."_
On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended, To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him; But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended, And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd--
"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty, Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me; A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty, My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.
"Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive, Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine; Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive, I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.
"But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever, Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me; No hope to support, and no friend to deliver, Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain.
"And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish, New poison does mix in my cup of affliction, For honour forbids (though without thee I languish) To make thee a partner of sorrow and want."
"Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee, I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit; Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee, My portion is ample--that portion is thine."
[88] Composed in 1804. This song and those following, by Dr Duncan, are here published for the first time.
THE RUTHWELL VOLUNTEERS.[89]
Hark! the martial drums resound, Valiant brothers, welcome all, Crowd the royal standard round, 'Tis your injured country's call. See, see, the robbers come, Ruin seize the ruthless foe; For your altars, for your homes, Heroes lay the tyrants low!
He whom dastard fears abash, He was born to be a slave-- Let him feel the despot's lash, And sink inglorious to the grave. See, see, &c.
He who spurns a coward's life, He whose bosom freedom warms, Let him share the glorious strife, We 'll take the hero to our arms. See, see, &c.
Spirits of the valiant dead, Who fought and bled at Freedom's call, In the path you dared to tread, We, your sons, will stand or fall. See, see, &c.
Bending from your airy halls, Turn on us a guardian eye-- Lead where Fame or Honour calls, And teach to conquer or to die! See, see, &c.
[89] Written in 1805, when the nation was in apprehension of the French invasion.
EXILED FAR FROM SCENES OF PLEASURE.[90]
TUNE--_"Blythe, Blythe and Merry was she."_
Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, Love sincere and friendship true, Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance, Trembling in the midnight dew.
Sad and lonely, sad and lonely, Musing on the tints decay, On the maid I love so dearly, And on pleasure's fleeting day.
Bright the moonbeams, when we parted, Mark'd the solemn midnight hour, Clothing with a robe of silver Hill, and dale, and shady bower.
Then our mutual faith we plighted, Vows of true love to repeat, Lonely oft the pale orb watching, At this hour to lovers sweet.
On thy silent face, with fondness, Let me gaze, fair queen of night, For my Annie's tears of sorrow Sparkle in thy soften'd light.
When I think my Annie views thee, Dearly do I love thy rays, For the distance that divides us Seems to vanish as I gaze.
[90] Composed in 1807.
THE ROOF OF STRAW.
I ask no lordling's titled name, Nor miser's hoarded store; I ask to live with those I love, Contented though I 'm poor. From joyless pomp and heartless mirth I gladly will withdraw, And hide me in this lowly vale, Beneath my roof of straw.
To hear my Nancy's lips pronounce A husband's cherish'd name, To press my children to my heart Are titles, wealth and fame. Let kings and conquerors delight To hold the world in awe, Be mine to find content and peace Beneath my roof of straw.
When round the winters' warm fireside We meet with social joy, The glance of love to every heart Shall speak from every eye. More lovely far such such scenes of bliss Than monarch ever saw, Even angels might delight to dwell Beneath my roof of straw.
THOU KEN'ST, MARY HAY.[91]
TUNE--_"Bonny Mary Hay."_
Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel, My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal, Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e, And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?
Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek, And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek? For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane, Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.
But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim, An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb, My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee, For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.
The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold, The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old, And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay, As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.
We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done, But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon, Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e, And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?
[91] Composed in 1830.
ROBERT ALLAN.
Robert Allan was the son of a respectable flax-dresser in the village of Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire. The third of a family of ten children, he was born on the 4th of November 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of Tannahill and Robert Archibald Smith. With Tannahill he lived on terms of the most cordial friendship. He followed the occupation of a muslin weaver in his native place, and composed many of his best verses at the loom. He was an extensive contributor to the "Scottish Minstrel," published by R. A. Smith, his songs being set to music by the editor. In 1820, a number of his songs appeared in the "Harp of Renfrewshire." His only separate volume was published in 1836, under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy, teacher of elocution in Glasgow.
In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and benevolent dispositions, became peculiarly irritable; he fancied that his merits as a poet had been overlooked, and the feeling preyed deeply upon his mind. He entertained extreme political opinions, and conceived a dislike to his native country, which he deemed had not sufficiently estimated his genius. Much in opposition to the wishes of his friends, he sailed for New York in his 67th year. He survived the passage only six days; he died at New York on the 1st June 1841.
Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of Scottish song; all his lyrics evince a correct appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and of the pure and elevated in sentiment. Several of his lays are unsurpassed in genuine pathos.[92]
[92] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr John Macgregor, of Paisley, son-in-law of Mr Allan, for most of the particulars contained in this short memoir. Mr Macgregor prepared an extended life of the poet for our use, which, however, was scarcely suited for our purpose. A number of Mr Allan's songs, transcribed from his manuscripts, in the possession of his son in New York, were likewise communicated by Mr Macgregor. These being, in point of merit, unequal to the other productions of the bard, we have not ventured on their publication.
BLINK OVER THE BURN, MY SWEET BETTY.
Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, Blink over the burn, love, to me; O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty, To get but a blink o' thine e'e. The birds are a' sporting around us, And sweetly they sing on the tree; But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty, I trow, is far dearer to me.
The ringlets, my lovely young Betty, That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree, I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain, That blossom sae sweetly, like thee. Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty, Come over the burn, love, to me; O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty, To live in the blink o' thine e'e.
COME AWA, HIE AWA.
AIR--_"Haud awa frae me, Donald."_
Come awa, hie awa, Come and be mine ain, lassie; Row thee in my tartan plaid, An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie. A gowden brooch, an' siller belt, Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie, Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame, For Highland hills wi' me, lassie. Come awa, &c.
A bonnie bower shall be thy hame, And drest in silken sheen, lassie. Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha', And gayest on the green, lassie. Come awa, &c.
ANSWER.
Haud awa, bide awa, Haud awa frae me, Donald; What care I for a' your wealth, And a' that ye can gie, Donald?
I wadna lea' my Lowland lad For a' your gowd and gear, Donald; Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill, An' stay nae langer here, Donald. Haud awa, &c.
My Jamie is a gallant youth, I lo'e but him alane, Donald, And in bonnie Scotland's isle, Like him there is nane, Donald; Haud awa, &c.
He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose, Nor garters at his knee, Donald; But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart, And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.
Sae haud awa, bide awa, Come nae mair at e'en, Donald; I wadna break my Jamie's heart, To be a Highland Queen, Donald.
ON THEE, ELIZA, DWELL MY THOUGHTS.
AIR--_"In yon garden fine and gay."_
On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, While straying was the moon's pale beam; At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep, I see thy form in fancy's dream.
I see thee in the rosy morn, Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen; The morning smiles, but thou art lost, Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.
Still fancy fondly dwells on thee, And adds another day of care; What bliss were mine could fancy paint Thee true, as she can paint thee fair!
O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams! Ye silken cords that bind the heart;-- Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine, And smile and triumph in the smart?
TO A LINNET.
AIR--_"M'Gilchrist's Lament."_
Chaunt no more thy roundelay, Lovely minstrel of the grove, Charm no more the hours away, With thine artless tale of love; Chaunt no more thy roundelay, Sad it steals upon mine ear; Leave, O leave thy leafy spray, Till the smiling morn appear.
Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song, As the welkin's shadows low'r; Whilst the beetle wheels along, Humming to the twilight hour. Not like thee I quit the scene, To enjoy night's balmy dream; Not like thee I wake again, Smiling with the morning beam.
THE PRIMROSE IS BONNY IN SPRING.
AIR--_"The Banks of Eswal."_
The primrose is bonnie in spring, And the rose it is sweet in June; It 's bonnie where leaves are green, I' the sunny afternoon. It 's bonny when the sun gaes down, An' glints on the hoary knowe; It 's bonnie to see the cloud Sae red in the dazzling lowe.
When the night is a' sae calm, An' comes the sweet twilight gloom, Oh! it cheers my heart to meet My lassie amang the broom, When the birds in bush and brake, Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang; Oh! what an hour to sit The gay gowden links amang.
THE BONNIE LASS O' WOODHOUSELEE.
AIR--_"Hey the rantin' Murray's Ha'."_
The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, But sweeter far on Woodhouselee, And dear I like his setting beam For sake o' ane sae dear to me. It was na simmer's fairy scenes, In a' their charming luxury, But Beauty's sel' that won my heart, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile, Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e, Sae sairly wounded was my heart, That had na wist sic ills to dree; In vain I strave in beauty's chains, I cou'd na keep my fancy free, She gat my heart sae in her thrall, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a', Where aft is heard the hum of bee, The meadow green, and breezy hill, Where lambkins sport sae merrilie, May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain, When e'enin' sun dips in the sea, But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn, Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.
The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn, And dew-clad gowans on the lea, The water-lily on the lake, Are but sweet emblems a' of thee; And while in simmer smiles they bloom, Sae lovely, and sae fair to see, I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.
THE SUN IS SETTING ON SWEET GLENGARRY.
The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Doun yon glen ye never will weary, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
The water is wimpling by fu' clearly, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.
HER HAIR WAS LIKE THE CROMLA MIST.
_Gaelic Air._
Her hair was like the Cromla mist, When evening sun beams from the west, Bright was the eye of Morna; When beauty wept the warrior's fall, Then low and dark was Fingal's hall, Sad was the lovely Morna.
O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid That sung peace to the warrior's shade, But none so fair as Morna. The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake, That waved beside dark Orna's lake, Where wander'd lovely Morna.
Sad was the hoary minstrel's song, That died the rustling heath among, Where sat the lovely Morna; It slumber'd on the placid wave, It echoed through the warrior's cave, And sigh'd again to Morna.
The hero's plumes were lowly laid; In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid Sang peace and rest to Morna; The harp's wild strain was past and gone, No more it whisper'd to the moan Of lovely, dying Morna.
O LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS.
AIR--_"Hodgart's Delight."_
O leeze me on the bonnie lass That I lo'e best o' a'; O leeze me on my Marion, The pride o' Lockershaw. O weel I like my Marion, For love blinks in her e'e, And she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me.
The flowers grow bonnie on the bank, Where doun the waters fa'; The birds sing bonnie in the bower, Where red, red roses blaw. An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart, When day has closed his e'e, I wander wi' my Marion, Wha lo'es na ane but me.
Sic luve as mine an' Marion's, O, may it never fa'! But blume aye like the fairest flower, That grows in Lockershaw. My Marion I will ne'er forget Until the day I dee, For she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me.
QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.
_Highland Boat-air._
Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now 's the time, and the hour of need! To oars, to oars, and trim the bark, Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark! Yon light that plays round the castle's moat Is only the warder's random shot! Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need!
Those pond'rous keys[93] shall the kelpies keep, And lodge in their caverns dark and deep; Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall, Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall; Or be the haunt of traitors, sold, While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold; Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need!
Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung, And the warder's voice hath treason sung; The echoes to the falconet's roar, Chime swiftly to the dashing oar. Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam, We steer by the light of the tapers' beam; For Scotland and Mary, on with speed, Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!
[93] The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the lake.
WHEN CHARLIE TO THE HIGHLANDS CAME.
AIR--_"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."_
When Charlie to the Highlands came, It was a' joy and gladness, We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon Wad broken be wi' sadness.
Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown, And break our hearts wi' sorrow; Oh! it will never smile again, And bring a gladsome morrow!
Our dwellings, and our outlay gear, Lie smoking, and in ruin; Our bravest youths, like mountain deer, The foe is oft pursuing.
Our home is now the barren rock, As if by Heaven forsaken; Our shelter and our canopy, The heather and the bracken.
Oh! we maun wander far and near, And foreign lands maun hide in; Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear, We daurna langer bide in.
LORD RONALD CAME TO HIS LADY'S BOWER.
Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, When the moon was in her wane; Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour, And to her bower is gane. He saftly stept in his sandal shoon, And saftly laid him doun; "It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore, "Sin ye maun wauken soon.
"Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock Shall flap his siller wing, An' saftly ye maun ope the gate, An' loose the silken string." "O Ellenore, my fairest fair, O Ellenore, my bride! How can ye fear when my merry men a' Are on the mountain side."
The moon was hid, the night was sped, But Ellenore's heart was wae; She heard the cock flap his siller wing, An' she watched the morning ray: "Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear, The mornin' opes its e'e; Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower, And safe, safe may thou be."
But there was a page, a little fause page, Lord Ronald did espy, An' he has told his baron all, Where the hind and hart did lie. "It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald, Thy father's deeds o' weir; But since the hind has come to my faul', His blood shall dim my spear."
Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore, And press'd her lily hand; Sic a comely knight and comely dame Ne'er met in wedlock's band: But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch, And kiss'd again his bride; And with his spear, in deadly ire, He pierced Lord Ronald's side.
The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek, She look'd all wan and ghast; She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side, An' the blood was rinnin' fast: She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue, But his life she cou'dna stay; Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb, An' their spirits baith fled away.
THE LOVELY MAID OF ORMADALE.
AIR--_"Highland Lassie."_
When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, To blaze upon the western wave; When peace and love possess the grove, And echo sleeps within the cave; Led by love's soft endearing charms, I stray the pathless winding vale, And hail the hour that gives to me The lovely maid of Ormadale.
Her eyes outshine the star of night, Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue; And pure as flower in summer shade, Low bending in the pearly dew: Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure, Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail; As angel-smile she aye will be Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.
Let fortune soothe the heart of care, And wealth to all its votaries give; Be mine the rosy smile of love, And in its blissful arms to live. I would resign fair India's wealth, And sweet Arabia's spicy gale, For balmy eve and Scotian bower, With thee, loved maid of Ormadale.
A LASSIE CAM' TO OUR GATE.
A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen, An' low she curtsied doun; She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see, Then a' our ladies roun'.
Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? But her heart, I trow, was liken to break, An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.
I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-- I haena a hame, nor ha'; Fain here wad I rest my weary feet, For the night begins to fa'.
I took her into our tapestry ha', An' we drank the ruddy wine; An' aye I strave, but fand my heart Fast bound wi' Love's silken twine.
I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen She was sae jimp and sma'; And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue e'e Fell ower twa heaps o' snaw.
Oh, whare do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo? An' whare may your dwelling be? Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind Blaw cauld on sic as ye?
I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-- I haena a ha' nor hame; My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men, An' him I daurna name.
Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin, Frae this ye mauna gae; An' gin ye 'll consent to be my ain, Nae marrow ye shall hae.
Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup, Sae fu' o' the damask wine, An' press it to your cherrie lip, For ye shall aye be mine.
An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health, An' a' your kin sae dear; Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.
THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.
There grew in bonnie Scotland A thistle and a brier, And aye they twined and clasp'd, Like sisters, kind and dear. The rose it was sae bonnie, It could ilk bosom charm; The thistle spread its thorny leaf, To keep the rose frae harm.
A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' and late; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate; And the leal hearts of Scotland Pray'd it might never fa', The thistle was sae bonny green, The rose sae like the snaw.
But the weird sisters sat Where Hope's fair emblems grew; They drapt a drap upon the rose O' bitter, blasting dew; And aye they twined the mystic thread,-- But ere their task was done, The snaw-white shade it disappear'd, And wither'd in the sun!
A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' an' late; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate; But the thistle tap it wither'd, Winds bore it far awa', And Scotland's heart was broken, For the rose sae like the snaw!
THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT.
TUNE--_"The Martyr's Grave."_
There 's nae Covenant now, lassie! There 's nae Covenant now! The Solemn League and Covenant Are a' broken through! There 's nae Renwick now, lassie, There 's nae gude Cargill, Nor holy Sabbath preaching Upon the Martyrs' Hill!
It 's naething but a sword, lassie! A bluidy, bluidy ane! Waving owre poor Scotland, For her rebellious sin. Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie, Scotland 's a' wrang-- It 's neither to the hill nor glen, Lassie, we daur gang.
The Martyrs' Hill 's forsaken, In simmer's dusk sae calm; There 's nae gathering now, lassie, To sing the e'ening psalm! But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie, Aboon the warrior's cairn; An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie, Aneath the waving fern!
BONNIE LASSIE.
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling, Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
Fondly wooing, fondly sueing, Let me love, nor love in vain; Fate shall never fond hearts sever, Hearts still bound by true love's chain.
Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming, Shall each day life's feast renew; Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure, Still to live and love more true.
Mirth and folly, joys unholy, Never shall our thoughts employ; Smiles inviting, hearts uniting, Love and bliss without alloy.
Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling, Ye hae stown my heart frae me.
ANDREW MERCER.
Andrew Mercer was born at Selkirk, in 1775. By his father, who was a respectable tradesman, he was destined for the pulpit of the United Secession Church. He became a student in the University of Edinburgh, in 1790, and was the class-fellow and friend of John Leyden, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the future philologist. At the house of Dr Robert Anderson, he formed the intimacy of Thomas Campbell; he also numbered among his early associates Thomas Brown and Mungo Park. Abandoning theological study, he cultivated a taste for the fine arts; and he endeavoured to establish himself in the capital in the twofold capacity of a miniature-painter, and a man of letters. With respect to both avocations, he proved unfortunate. In 1804, a periodical entitled the _North British Magazine_ was originated and supported by his friends, on his behalf; but the publication terminated at the end of thirteen months. At a subsequent period, he removed to Dunfermline, where he was engaged in teaching, and in drawing patterns for the manufacturers. In 1828, he published a "History of Dunfermline," in a duodecimo volume; and, at an interval of ten years, a volume of poems, entitled "Summer Months among the Mountains." A man of considerable ingenuity and scholarship, he lacked industry and steadiness of application. His latter years were clouded by poverty. He died at Dunfermline on the 11th of June 1842, in his 67th year.
THE HOUR OF LOVE.
When the fair one and the dear one-- Her lover by her side-- Strays or sits as fancy flits, Where yellow streamlets glide; Gleams illuming--flowers perfuming Where'er her footsteps rove; Time beguiling with her smiling, Oh! that 's the hour of love.
When the fair one and the dear one, Amid a moonlight scene, Where grove and glade, and light and shade, Are all around serene; Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy, While coos the turtle-dove, And in soft strains appeals--complains, Oh! that 's the hour of love.
Should the fair one and the dear one The sigh of pity lend For human woe, that presses low A stranger, or a friend, Tears descending, sweetly blending, As down her cheeks they rove; Beauty's charms in pity's arms-- Oh! that 's the hour of love.
When the fair one and the dear one Appears in morning dreams, In flowing vest by fancy drest, And all the angel beams; The heavenly mien, and look serene, Confess her from above; While rising sighs and dewy eyes Say, that 's the hour of love!
JOHN LEYDEN, M.D.
John Leyden was born on the 8th September 1775, at Denholm, a hamlet in the parish of Cavers, Roxburghshire. His ancestors, for several generations, were farmers, but his father followed the humble occupation of a shepherd. Of four brothers and two sisters, John was the eldest. About a year after his birth, his father removed to Henlawshiel, a solitary cottage,[94] about three miles from Denholm, on the margin of the heath stretching down from the "stormy Ruberslaw." He received the rudiments of knowledge from his paternal grandmother; and discovering a remarkable aptitude for learning, his father determined to afford him the advantages of a liberal education. He was sent to the parish school of Kirkton, and afterwards placed under the tutorship of a Cameronian clergyman, in Denholm, reputed as a classical scholar. In 1790, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he soon acquired distinction for his classical attainments and devotedness to general learning. His last session of college attendance was spent at St Andrews, where he became a tutor. By the Presbytery of St Andrews, in May 1798, he was licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church. On obtaining his licence, he returned to the capital, where his reputation as a scholar had secured him many friends. He now accepted the editorship of the _Scots Magazine_, to which he had formerly been a contributor, and otherwise employed himself in literary pursuits. In 1799, he published, in a duodecimo volume, "An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Central Africa, at the Close of the Eighteenth Century." "The Complaynt of Scotland," a curious political treatise of the sixteenth century, next appeared under his editorial care, with an ingenious introduction, and notes. In 1801, he contributed the ballad of "The Elf-king," to Lewis' "Tales of Wonder;" and, about the same period, wrote several ballads for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." The dissertation on "Fairy Superstition," in the second volume of the latter work, slightly altered by Scott, proceeded from his pen. In 1802, he edited a small volume, entitled, "Scottish Descriptive Poems," consisting of a new edition of Wilson's "Clyde," and a reprint of "Albania,"--a curious poem, in blank verse, by an anonymous writer of the beginning of the eighteenth century.
A wide circle of influential friends were earnestly desirous of his promotion. In 1800, the opposition of the aged incumbent prevented his appointment as assistant and successor in the ministerial charge of his native parish. A proposal to appoint him Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh also failed. He now resolved to proceed to Africa, to explore the interior, under the auspices of the African Association; but some of his friends meanwhile procured him an appointment as a surgeon in the East India Company's establishment at Madras. During his course at the University, he had attended some of the medical classes; and he now resumed the study of medicine, with such an amount of success, that in six weeks he qualified himself for a surgeon's diploma. About the same time, the degree of M.D. was conferred on him by the University of St Andrews.
Before his departure for the East, Leyden finished his longest poem, the "Scenes of Infancy," the publication of which he entrusted to his friend, Dr Thomas Brown. His last winter in Britain he passed in London, enjoying the society of many distinguished men of letters, to whom he was introduced by his former friend, Mr Richard Heber. He sailed for India[95] on the 7th April 1803, and arrived at Madras on the 19th August. In Hindostan, his talents and extraordinary capabilities in forming an acquaintance with the native tongues gained him numerous friends. He was successively appointed surgeon to the commissioners for surveying the provinces in Mysore, recently conquered from Tippoo Sultan; professor of Hindostan in the College of Calcutta; judge of the twenty-four pargunnahs of Calcutta; a commissioner of the Court of Requests in Calcutta; and assay-master of the mint. His literary services being required by the Governor-General, he left Calcutta for Madras, and afterwards proceeded along with the army in the expedition against Java. On the capture of the town of Batavia, having gone to examine the library of the place, in which he expected to find some curious Indian MSS., he caught a malignant fever from the tainted air of the apartment. He survived only three days, terminating a life of much promise, on the 28th of August 1811, in the thirty-sixth year of his age.
In John Leyden an unconquerable perseverance was united to remarkable native genius, and a memory of singular retentiveness. Eminent as a linguist, he was an able and accurate philologist; in a knowledge of the many languages of India he stood unrivalled. During his residence in the East, he published a "Dissertation on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chinese Nations," in the tenth volume of the "Asiatic Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with oriental learning. He was early a votary of the Muse; and, in youth, was familiar with the older Scottish bards. In April 1795, he appeared in the _Edinburgh Literary Magazine_ as author of an elegy "On the Death of a Sister;" and subsequently became a regular contributor of verses to the periodicals of the capital. His more esteemed poetical productions are the "Scenes of Infancy," and the ballads which he composed for the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." Of the latter, the supernatural machinery is singularly striking; in the former poem, much smooth and elegant versification is combined with powerful and vigorous description. There are, indeed, occasional repetitions and numerous digressions; but amidst these marks of hasty composition, every sentence bears evidence of a masculine intellect and powerful imagination. His lyrical effusions are pervaded with simplicity and tenderness.
Like some other sons of genius, Leyden was of rather eccentric habits. He affected to despise artificial manners; and, though frequenting polished circles in Edinburgh, then in London, and afterwards in Madras and Calcutta, he persevered in an indomitable aversion to the use of the English tongue, which he so well knew how to write with precision and power. He spoke the broadest provincial Scotch with singular pertinacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly unconscious of the defect, he talked loud; and if engaged in argument, raised his voice to a pitch which frequently proved more powerful than the strength of his reasoning. He was dogmatical in maintaining his opinions, and prone to monopolise conversation; his gesticulations were awkward and even offensive. Peculiar as were his habits, few of the distinguished persons who sought his acquaintance ever desired to renounce his friendship.[96] In his domestic habits, he was temperate often to abstinence; he was frugal, but not mean--careful, but not penurious. He was generous towards his aged parents; was deeply imbued with a sense of religion, and was the foe of vice in every form. He was of a slight figure, and of middle stature; his countenance was peculiarly expressive of intelligence. His hair was auburn, his eyes dark, and his complexion clear and sanguine. He was considerably robust, and took delight in practising gymnastics; he desired fame, not less for feats of running and leaping, than in the sedate pursuits of literature. His premature death was the subject of general lamentation; in the "Lord of the Isles," Scott introduced the following stanza in tribute to his memory:--
"His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strain; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour; A distant and a deadly shore Has Leyden's cold remains."
[94] We lately visited the spot. Not a vestige of the cottage remains. A wilder and more desolate locality hardly ever nourished the youthful imagination of a poet.
[95] Leyden was assisted in his outfit for India by Sir Walter Scott and Sydney Smith, the latter contributing forty pounds. (See "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i. p. 21. London: 1855. 2 vols. 8vo.)
[96] Thomas Campbell was one of Leyden's early literary friends; they had quarrelled, but continued to respect each other's talents. The following anecdote is recorded by Sir Walter Scott in his diary:--"When I repeated 'Hohenlinden' to Leyden, he said, 'Dash it, man, tell the fellow that I hate him; but, dash him, he has written the finest verses that have been published these fifty years.' I did mine errand as faithful as one of Homer's messengers, and had for answer:--'Tell Leyden that I detest him, but I know the value of his critical approbation.'"--_Lockhart's Life of Scott._
ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.
How sweet thy modest light to view, Fair star! to love and lovers dear; While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through a tear.
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream, To mark that image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam, To see thy lovely face so fair.
Though, blazing o'er the arch of night, The moon thy timid beams outshine As far as thine each starry light, Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft, enchanting hours When twilight lingers on the plain, And whispers to the closing flowers That soon the sun will rise again.
Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland As music, wafts the lover's sigh, And bids the yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstasy.
Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain, Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love-- But sweeter to be loved again.
THE RETURN AFTER ABSENCE.
Oh! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet, Warm breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet; And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam, Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home; The white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed, Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed.
Rejoice, O Bokhara, and flourish for aye! Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay. Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies, Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise-- Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king, In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring.
LAMENT FOR RAMA.
FROM THE BENGALI.
I warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh, For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly; Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array, Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away.
All the people are flocking to see him pass by; They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye: From the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves, And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves.
His fine locks are matted, no raiment has he For the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree; And of all his gay splendour, you nought may behold, Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold.
Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal array Before his proud squadrons his banners display, And the voice of the people exulting to own Their sovereign assuming the purple and crown; But the time has gone by, my hope is despair,-- One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care.
Our light is departing, and darkness returns, Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns; Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain, And fame is delusive, and glory is vain.
JAMES SCADLOCK.
James Scadlock, a poet of considerable power, and an associate of Tannahill, was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1775. His father, an operative weaver, was a person of considerable shrewdness; and the poet M'Laren, who became his biographer, was his uterine brother. Apprenticed to the loom, he renounced weaving in the course of a year, and thereafter was employed in the establishment of a bookbinder. At the age of nineteen he entered on an indenture of seven years to a firm of copperplate engravers at Ferenize. He had early been inclined to verse-making, and, having formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, he was led to cultivate with ardour his native predilection. He likewise stimulated his ingenious friend to higher and more ambitious efforts in poetry. Accomplished in the elegant arts of drawing and painting, Scadlock began the study of classical literature and the modern languages. A general stagnation of trade, which threw him out of employment, checked his aspirations in learning. After an interval attended with some privations, he heard of a professional opening at Perth, which he proceeded to occupy. He returned to Paisley, after the absence of one year; and having married in 1808, his attention became more concentrated in domestic concerns. He died of fever on the 4th July 1818, leaving a family of four children.
Scadlock was an upright member of society, a sincere friend, a benevolent neighbour, and an intelligent companion. In the performance of his religious duties he was regular and exemplary. Desirious of excelling in conversation, he was prone to evince an undue formality of expression. His poetry, occasionally deficient in power, is uniformly distinguished for smoothness of versification.
ALONG BY LEVERN STREAM SO CLEAR.[97]
Along by Levern stream so clear, When Spring adorns the infant year, And music charms the list'ning ear, I 'll wander with my Mary, My bonny blooming Mary; Not Spring itself to me is dear, When absent from my Mary.
When Summer's sun pours on my head His sultry rays, I 'll seek the shade, Unseen upon a primrose bed I 'll sit with little Mary, My bonny blooming Mary, Where fragrant flowers around are spread, To charm my little Mary.
She 's mild 's the sun through April shower That glances on the leafy bower, She 's sweet as Flora's fav'rite flower, My bonny little Mary, My blooming little Mary; Give me but her, no other dower I 'll ask with little Mary.
Should fickle fortune frown on me, And leave me bare 's the naked tree, Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be, My lovely little Mary, My bonny blooming Mary; From gloomy care and sorrow free, I 'd ever keep my Mary.
[97] Set to music by R. A. Smith.
HARK, HARK, THE SKYLARK SINGING.
WELSH AIR--_"The rising of the Lark."_
Hark, hark the skylark singing, While the early clouds are bringing Fragrance on their wings; Still, still on high he 's soaring, Through the liquid haze exploring, Fainter now he sings. Where the purple dawn is breaking, Fast approaches morning's ray, From his wings the dew he 's shaking, As he joyful hails the day, While echo, from his slumbers waking, Imitates his lay.
See, see the ruddy morning, With his blushing locks adorning Mountain, wood, and vale; Clear, clear the dew-drop 's glancing, As the rising sun 's advancing O'er the eastern hill; Now the distant summits clearing, As the vapours steal their way, And his heath-clad breast 's appearing, Tinged with Phoebus' golden ray, Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheering Morning with her lay.
Come, then, let us be straying, Where the hazel boughs are playing, O'er yon summits gray; Mild now the breeze is blowing, And the crystal streamlet 's flowing Gently on its way. On its banks the wild rose springing Welcomes in the sunny ray, Wet with dew its head is hinging, Bending low the prickly spray; Then haste, my love, while birds are singing, To the newborn day.
OCTOBER WINDS.
AIR--_"Oh, my love's bonnie."_
October winds, wi' biting breath, Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading; Nae gowans glint upon the green, Alas! they 're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading. As through the woods I musing gang, Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes, Save little robin's lanely sang, Wild warbling where the burnie gushes.
The sun is jogging down the brae, Dimly through the mist he 's shining, And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass, As Day resigns his throne to E'ening. Oft let me walk at twilight gray, To view the face of dying nature, Till Spring again, wi' mantle green, Delights the heart o' ilka creature.
SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART.
Alexander Boswell was the eldest son of James Boswell, the celebrated biographer of Dr Johnson, and grandson of Lord Auchinleck, one of the senators of the College of Justice. He was born on the 9th October 1775. His mother, a daughter of Sir Walter Montgomery, Bart., of Lainshaw, was a woman of superior intelligence, and of agreeable and dignified manners. Along with his only brother James, he received his education at Westminster School and the University of Oxford. In 1795, on the death of his father, he succeeded to the paternal estate of Auchinleck. He now made the tour of Europe, and on his return took up his residence in the family mansion.
Inheriting his father's love of literature, and deriving from his mother a taste for elegant accomplishments, Alexander Boswell diligently applied himself to the cultivation of his mind, by an examination of the stores of the famous "Auchinleck Library." From his youth he had been ardent in his admiration of Burns, and had written verses for the amusement of his friends. A wooer of the lyric Muse, many of his lays rapidly obtained circulation, and were sung with a gusto not inferior to that inspired by the songs of the Bard of Coila. In 1803 he published, without his name, in a thin octavo volume, "Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," and subsequently contributed a number of lyrics of various merit to the Musical Collection of Mr George Thomson, and Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology." Several other poetical works proceeded from his pen. In 1803, shortly after the appearance of his songs, he published a ballad entitled "The Spirit of Tintoc; or, Johnnie Bell and the Kelpie," with notes, 16 pp. 8vo: Mundell and Son, Edinburgh. This performance, in which are humorously related the adventures of a drunken tailor with the brownies and other denizens of the unseen world, on the summit of Tintoc Hill, was followed in 1810 by another amusing poem, bearing the title of "Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty, a Sketch of Former Manners, with Notes by Simon Gray." In this poem, the changes which had occurred in the habits of the citizens of Edinburgh are pourtrayed in a colloquy between an old farmer and his city friend. In 1811 appeared "Clan-Alpin's Vow, a Fragment," with the author's name prefixed. This production, founded upon a horrible tragedy connected with the history of the Clan Macgregor, proved one of the most popular of the author's works; it was reprinted in 1817, by Bentley and Son, London. His future publications may be simply enumerated; they were generally issued from a printing press which he established in the mansion of Auchinleck. In 1812 he printed, for private circulation, a poetical fragment entitled "Sir Albon," intended to burlesque the peculiar style and rhythm of Sir Walter Scott; in 1815, "The Tyrant's Fall," a poem on the battle of Waterloo; in 1816, "Skeldon Haughs, or the Sow is Flitted," a tale in verse founded on an old Ayrshire tradition; and in the same year another poetical tale, after the manner of Allan Ramsay's "Monk and Miller's Wife," entitled, "The Woo'-creel, or the Bull o' Bashun." From his printing office at Auchinleck, besides his poetical tales and pasquinades, he issued many curious and interesting works, chiefly reprints of scarce tracts on different subjects, preserved in the Auchinleck Library. Of these the most remarkable was the disputation between John Knox and Quentin Kennedy, at Maybole, in 1562, of which the only copy then known to exist was deposited in his paternal library.[98]
Amidst his devotedness to the pursuits of elegant literature, Mr Boswell bestowed much attention on public affairs. He was M.P. for the county of Ayr; and though silent in the House of Commons, was otherwise indefatigable in maintaining his political sentiments. He supported strict conservative principles, and was not without the apprehension of civil disturbance through the impetuosity of the advocates of reform. As Lieutenant-Colonel of the Ayrshire Yeomanry Cavalry, he was painstaking in the training of his troops; the corps afterwards acknowledging his services by the presentation of a testimonial. In 1821, his zeal for the public interest was rewarded by his receiving the honour of a Baronetcy.
One of the most substantial of Sir Alexander's patriotic achievements was the erection of an elegant monument to Robert Burns on the banks of the Doon. The mode in which the object was accomplished is sufficiently interesting. Along with a friend who warmly approved of the design, Sir Alexander advertised in the public prints that a meeting would be held at Ayr, on a particular day, to take into consideration the proposal of rearing a monument to the great national bard. The day and hour arrived, but, save the projectors, not a single individual attended. Nothing disheartened, Sir Alexander took the chair, and his friend proceeded to act as clerk; resolutions were proposed, seconded, and recorded, thanks were voted to the chairman, and the meeting separated. These resolutions being printed and circulated, were the means of raising by public subscription the sum of nearly two thousand pounds for the erection of the monument. Sir Alexander laid the foundation stone on the 25th of January 1820.
The literary and patriotic career of Sir Alexander Boswell was brought to a sudden termination. Prone to indulge a strong natural tendency for sarcasm, especially against his political opponents, he published, in a Glasgow newspaper, a severe poetical pasquinade against Mr James Stuart, younger of Dunearn, a leading member of the Liberal party in Edinburgh. The discovery of the authorship was followed by a challenge from Mr Stuart, which being accepted, the hostile parties met near the village of Auchtertool, in Fife. Sir Alexander fell, the ball from the pistol of his antagonist having entered near the root of his neck on the right side. He was immediately carried to Balmuto, a seat of his ancestors in the vicinity, where he expired the following day. The duel took place on the 26th March 1822.
The remains of the deceased Baronet were solemnly deposited in the family vault of Auchinleck. In personal appearance, Sir Alexander presented a powerful muscular figure; in society, he was fond of anecdote and humour. In his youth he was keen on the turf and in field sports; he subsequently found his chief entertainment in literary avocations. As a poet, he had been better known if his efforts had been of a less fragmentary character. The general tendency of his Muse was drollery, but some of his lyrics are sufficiently touching.
[98] Another copy has since been discovered.
JENNY'S BAWBEE.
I met four chaps yon birks amang, Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang; I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang, Wha 's they I see? Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel' Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil, And here they cam awa' to steal Jenny's bawbee.
The first, a Captain to his trade, Wi' ill-lined skull, but back weel clade, March'd round the barn, and by the shed, And papped on his knee: Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen, Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en! Though ne'er a beauty he had seen But Jenny's bawbee.
A Norland Laird neist trotted up, Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup; Cried--There 's my beast, lad, haud the grup, Or tie it to a tree. What 's gowd to me? I 've wealth o' lan', Bestow on ane o' worth your han': He thought to pay what he was awn Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab, Wha speeches wove like ony wab; O' ilk ane's corn aye took a dab, And a' for a fee; Accounts he owed through a' the toun, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown; But now he thought to clout his goun Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs, A fool came neist; but life has rubs; Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs, And jaupit a' was he: He danced up, squintin' through a glass, And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass! He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, Jenny's bawbee.
She bade the laird gae kaim his wig, The sodger not to strut sae big, The lawyer not to be a prig; The fool he cried, Te-hee! I kenn'd that I could never fail! But she pinn'd the dishclout to his tail, And soused him frae the water-pail, And kept her bawbee.
Then Johnnie came, a lad o' sense, Although he had na mony pence; And took young Jenny to the spence, Wi' her to crack a wee. Now Johnnie was a clever chiel', And here his suit he press'd sae weel That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel, And she birl'd her bawbee.[99]
[99] The last stanza does not appear in the original version of the song; it is here added from Allan Cunningham's collection. The idea of the song, Cunningham remarks, was probably suggested to the author by an old fragment, which still lives among the peasantry:--
"And a' that e'er my Jenny had, My Jenny had, my Jenny had, A' that e'er my Jenny had, Was ae bawbee. There 's your plack and my plack, And your plack and my plack, And my plack and your plack, And Jenny's bawbee.
We 'll put it in the pint stoup, The pint stoup, the pint stoup, We 'll put it in the pint stoup, And birl 't a' three."
JENNY DANG THE WEAVER.[100]
At Willie's weddin' o' the green, The lasses, bonnie witches, Were busked out in aprons clean, And snaw-white Sunday mutches; Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent, But Jock wad na believe her; But soon the fool his folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver.
In ilka country dance and reel Wi' her he wad be babbin'; When she sat down, then he sat down, And till her wad be gabbin'; Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben, The coof wad never leave her, Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen, But Jenny dang the weaver.
Quoth he, My lass, to speak my mind, In troth I needna swither, Ye 've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye 're kind, I needna court anither! He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried "pheugh," And bade the coof no deave her, Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and leugh, And dang the silly weaver.
[100] The origin of the air is somewhat amusing. The Rev. Mr Gardner, minister of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, known for his humour and musical talents, was one evening playing over on his Cremona the notes of an air he had previously jotted down, when a curious scene arrested his attention in the courtyard of the manse. His man "Jock," who had lately been a weaver in the neighbouring village, had rudely declined to wipe the minister's shoes, as requested by Mrs Gardner, when the enraged matron, snatching a culinary utensil, administered a hearty drubbing to the shoulders of the impudent boor, and compelled him to execute her orders. The minister witnessing the proceeding from the window, was highly diverted, and gave the air he had just completed the title of "Jenny Dang the Weaver." This incident is said to have occurred in the year 1746.
THE LASS O' ISLA.
"Ah, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell! My hopes are flown, for a 's to wreck; Heaven guard you, love, and heal your heart, Though mine, alas, alas! maun break."
"Dearest lad, what ills betide? Is Willie to his love untrue? Engaged the morn to be his bride, Ah! hae ye, hae ye, ta'en the rue?"
"Ye canna wear a ragged gown, Or beggar wed wi' nought ava; My kye are drown'd, my house is down, My last sheep lies aneath the snaw."
"Tell na me o' storm or flood, Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill; For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed, Though poor, ye are my Willie still."
"Ye canna thole the wind and rain, Or wander friendless far frae hame; Cheer, cheer your heart, some other swain Will soon blot out lost Willie's name."
"I 'll tak my bundle in my hand, An' wipe the dew-drop frae my e'e; I 'll wander wi' ye ower the land; I 'll venture wi' ye ower the sea."
"Forgi'e me, love, 'twas all a snare, My flocks are safe, we needna part; I 'd forfeit them and ten times mair To clasp thee, Mary, to my heart."
"How could ye wi' my feelings sport, Or doubt a heart sae warm and true? I maist could wish ye mischief for 't, But canna wish ought ill to you."
TASTE LIFE'S GLAD MOMENTS.[101]
Taste life's glad moments, Whilst the wasting taper glows; Pluck, ere it withers, The quickly-fading rose.
Man blindly follows grief and care, He seeks for thorns, and finds his share, Whilst violets to the passing air Unheeded shed their blossoms. Taste life's, &c.
When tim'rous Nature veils her form, And rolling thunder spreads alarm, Then, ah! how sweet, when lull'd the storm, The sun shines forth at even. Taste life's, &c.
How spleen and envy anxious flies, And meek content, in humble guise, Improves the shrub, a tree shall rise, Which golden fruits shall yield him. Taste life's, &c.
Who fosters faith in upright breast, And freely gives to the distress'd, There sweet contentment builds her nest, And flutters round his bosom. Taste life's, &c.
And when life's path grows dark and strait, And pressing ills on ills await, Then friendship, sorrow to abate, The helping hand will offer. Taste life's, &c.
She dries his tears, she strews his way, E'en to the grave, with flow'rets gay, Turns night to morn, and morn to day, And pleasure still increases. Taste life's, &c.
Of life she is the fairest band, Joins brothers truly hand in hand, Thus, onward to a better land, Man journeys light and cheerly. Taste life's, &c.
[101] These verses, which form a translation of _Freùt euch des Libens_, were written at Leipsig in 1795, when the author was on his continental tour. He was then in his twentieth year.
GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'.
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a', Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart; May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw; In sorrow may ye never part! My spirit lives, but strength is gone, The mountain-fires now blaze in vain; Remember, sons, the deeds I 've done, And in your deeds I 'll live again!
When on yon muir our gallant clan, Frae boasting foes their banners tore; Wha shew'd himself a better man, Or fiercer waved the red claymore? But when in peace--then mark me there-- When through the glen the wand'rer came, I gave him of our lordly fare, I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear; Be cantie, but be gude and leal; Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear, Anither's aye hae heart to feel. So, ere I set, I 'll see ye shine; I 'll see ye triumph ere I fa'; My parting breath shall boast you mine-- Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'!
OLD AND NEW TIMES.[102]
AIR--_"Kellyburn Braes."_
Hech! what a change hae we now in this town! The lads a' sae braw, the lasses sae glancin', Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the roun' For deil a haet 's done now but feastin' and dancin'.
Gowd 's no that scanty in ilk siller pock, When ilka bit laddie maun hae his bit staigie; But I kent the day when there was nae a Jock, But trotted about upon honest shank's naigie.
Little was stown then, and less gaed to waste, Barely a mullin for mice or for rattens; The thrifty housewife to the flesh-market paced, Her equipage a'--just a gude pair o' pattens.
Folk were as good then, and friends were as leal, Though coaches were scant, wi' their cattle a-cantrin'; Right air we were tell 't by the housemaid or chiel', Sir, an' ye please, here 's your lass and a lantern.
The town may be clouted and pieced, till it meets A' neebours benorth and besouth, without haltin'; Brigs may be biggit ower lums and ower streets, The Nor' Loch itsel' heapêd heigh as the Calton.
But whar is true friendship, and whar will you see, A' that is gude, honest, modest, and thrifty? Tak' gray hairs and wrinkles, and hirple wi' me, And think on the seventeen hundred and fifty.
[102] Contributed to the fourth volume of Mr George Thomson's Collection.
BANNOCKS O' BARLEY MEAL.[103]
AIR--_"Bannocks o' Barley Meal."_
Argyle is my name, and you may think it strange To live at a court, and yet never to change; To faction, or tyranny, equally foe, The good of the land 's the sole motive I know. The foes of my country and king I have faced, In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced; I 've done what I could for my country's weal, Now I 'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
Ye riots and revels of London, adieu! And folly, ye foplings, I leave her to you! For Scotland, I mingled in bustle and strife; For myself, I seek peace and an innocent life: I 'll haste to the Highlands, and visit each scene, With Maggie, my love, in her rockley o' green; On the banks of Glenary what pleasure I 'll feel, While she shares my bannock o' barley meal!
And if it chance Maggie should bring me a son, He shall fight for his king, as his father has done; I 'll hang up my sword with an old soldier's pride-- O! may he be worthy to wear 't on his side. I pant for the breeze of my loved native place; I long for the smile of each welcoming face; I 'll aff to the Highlands as fast 's I can reel, And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.
[103] This song was contributed by Sir Alexander Boswell to the third volume of Thomson's Collection. It is not wholly original, but an improved version of former words to the same air, which are understood to be the composition of John Campbell, the celebrated Duke of Argyle and Greenwich, who died on the 4th October 1743.
WILLIAM GILLESPIE.
William Gillespie was born in the manse of Kells, in Galloway, on the 18th February 1776. His father, John Gillespie, minister of Kells, was the intimate friend of Robert Burns; and likewise an early patron of John Low, the ingenious, but unfortunate author of "Mary's Dream." Receiving the rudiments of education at the parish school, William proceeded, in 1792, to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for the Church. Obtaining licence as a probationer, he was, in 1801, ordained assistant and successor to his father, on whose death, in 1806, he succeeded to the full benefits of the charge. Inheriting from his father an elegant turn of mind and a devotedness to literary composition, he was induced to publish, in his twenty-ninth year, an allegorical poem, entitled "The Progress of Refinement." A higher effort from his pen appeared in 1815, under the title of "Consolation, and other Poems." This volume, which abounds in vigorous sentiment and rich poetical description, evincing on the part of the author a high appreciation of the beauties of nature, considerably extended his reputation. He formed habits of intimacy with many of his poetical contemporaries, by whom he was beloved for the amenity of his disposition. He largely contributed to various periodicals, especially the agricultural journals; and was a zealous member of the Highland Society of Scotland.
In July 1825, Mr Gillespie espoused Miss Charlotte Hoggan. Soon after this event, he was attacked with erysipelas,--a complaint which, resulting in general inflammation, terminated his promising career on the 15th of October, in his fiftieth year. The following lyrics evince fancy and deep pathos, causing a regret that the author did not more amply devote himself to the composition of songs.
THE HIGHLANDER.[104]
From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, The Highlander sped to his youthful abode; Fair visions of home cheer'd the desert so dreary, Though fierce was the noon-beam, and steep was the road.
Till spent with the march that still lengthen'd before him, He stopp'd by the way in a sylvan retreat; The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him, The stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet.
He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended, On dreams of his childhood his fancy past o'er; But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended, The sound of the bagpipes shall wake him no more.
No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, Though war launch'd her thunder in fury to kill; Now the Angel of Death in the desert has found him, And stretch'd him in peace by the stream of the hill.
Pale Autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest, The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest; And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moistens the heath-bell that weeps on his breast.
[104] Many years ago, a poor Highland soldier, on his return to his native hills, fatigued, as was supposed, by the length of the march and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch tree on the solitary road of Lowran, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken, in Galloway. Here he was found dead; and this incident forms the subject of these verses.--_Note by the Author._ "The Highlander" is set to a Gaelic air in the fifth volume of R. A. Smith's "Scottish Minstrel."
ELLEN.
The moon shone in fits, And the tempest was roaring, The Storm Spirit shriek'd, And the fierce rain was pouring; Alone in her chamber, Fair Ellen sat sighing, The tapers burn'd dim, And the embers were dying.
"The drawbridge is down, That spans the wide river; Can tempests divide, Whom death cannot sever? Unclosed is the gate, And those arms long to fold thee, 'Tis midnight, my love; O say, what can hold thee?"
But scarce flew her words, When the bridge reft asunder, The horseman was crossing, 'Mid lightning and thunder, And loud was the yell, As he plunged in the billow, The maid knew it well, As she sprang from her pillow.
She scream'd o'er the wall, But no help was beside her; And thrice to her view Rose the horse and his rider. She gazed at the moon, But the dark cloud pass'd over; She plunged in the stream, And she sunk to her lover.
Say, what is that flame, O'er the midnight deep beaming? And whose are those forms, In the wan moonlight gleaming? That flame gilds the wave, Which their pale corses cover; And those forms are the ghosts Of the maid and her lover.
THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM.
Thomas Mounsey Cunningham, an elder brother of Allan Cunningham, is entitled to commemoration among the modern song-writers of his country. His ancestors were lords of that district of Ayrshire which still bears their family name; and a small inheritance in that county, which belonged to his more immediate progenitors, was lost to the name and race by the head of the family having espoused the cause and joined the army of the Duke of Montrose. For several generations his forefathers were farmers at Gogar, in the parish of Ratho, Midlothian. John Cunningham, his father, was born at Gogar on the 26th March 1743, whence he removed in his twenty-third year to fill the situation of land-steward on the estate of Lumley, in the parish of Chester, and county of Durham. He next became overseer on the property of Mr Mounsey of Ramerscales, near Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire. He married Elizabeth Harley, a lady of good connexions and of elegant personal accomplishments, and with the view of acquiring a more decided independence in his new condition, took in lease the farm of Culfaud, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright. Of a family of ten, Thomas was the second son; he was born at Culfaud on the 25th June 1776. During his infancy the farming speculations of his father proved unfortunate, and the lease of Culfaud was abandoned. Returning to his former occupation as a land-steward, John Cunningham was employed in succession by the proprietors of Barncaillie and Collieston, and latterly by the ingenious Mr Miller of Dalswinton.
Thomas was educated at the village-school of Kellieston, and subsequently at the academy of Dumfries. The circumstances of his parents required that he should choose a manual profession; and he was apprenticed by his own desire to a neighbouring mill-wright. It was during his intervals of leisure, while acquiring a knowledge of this laborious occupation, that he first essayed the composition of verses; he submitted his poems to his father, who mingled judicious criticism with words of encouragement. "The Har'st Home," one of his earliest pieces of merit, was privileged with insertion in the series of "Poetry, Original and Selected," published by Brash & Reid, booksellers in Glasgow. Proceeding to England in 1797, he entered the workshop of a mill-wright in Rotherham. Under the same employer he afterwards pursued his craft at King's Lynn; in 1800 he removed to Wiltshire, and soon after to the neighbourhood of Cambridge. He next received employment at Dover, and thence proceeded to London, where he occupied a situation in the establishment of Rennie, the celebrated engineer. He afterwards became foreman to one Dickson, an engineer, and superintendent of Fowler's chain-cable manufactory. In 1812 he returned to Rennie's establishment as a clerk, with a liberal salary. On leaving his father's house to seek his fortune in the south, he had been strongly counselled by Mr Miller of Dalswinton to abjure the gratification of his poetical tendencies, and he seems to have resolved on the faithful observance of this injunction. For a period of nine years his muse was silent; at length, in 1806, he appeared in the _Scots Magazine_ as the contributor of some of the best verses which had ever adorned the pages of that periodical. The editor was eloquent in his commendations; and the Ettrick Shepherd, who was already a contributor to the magazine, took pains to discover the author, and addressed him a lengthened poetical epistle, expressive of his admiration. A private intimacy ensued between the two rising poets; and when the Shepherd, in 1809, planned the "Forest Minstrel," he made application to his ingenious friend for contributions. Cunningham sanctioned the republication of such of his lyrics as had appeared in the _Scots Magazine_, and these proved the best ornaments of the work.
Impatient of criticism, and of a whimsical turn of mind, Cunningham was incapable of steadfastly pursuing the career of a man of letters. Just as his name was becoming known by his verses in the _Scots Magazine_, he took offence at some incidental allusions to his style, and suddenly stopped his contributions. Silent for a second period of nine years, the circumstance of the appropriation of one of his songs in the "Nithsdale Minstrel," a provincial collection of poetry, published at Dumfries, again aroused him to authorship. He made the publishers the subject of a satirical poem in the _Scots Magazine_ of 1815. On the origin of the _Edinburgh Magazine_, in 1817, he became a contributor, and under the title of the "Literary Legacy," wrote many curious snatches of antiquities, sketches of modern society, and scraps of song and ballad, which imparted a racy interest to the pages of the new periodical. A slight difference with the editor at length induced him to relapse into silence. Fitful and unsettled as a cultivator of literature, he was in the business of life a model of regularity and perseverance. He was much esteemed by his employer, and was ultimately promoted to the chief clerkship in his establishment. He fell a victim to the Asiatic cholera on the 28th October 1834, in the 58th year of his age. During his latter years he was in the habit of examining at certain intervals the MSS. of prose and poetry, which at a former period he had accumulated. On those occasions he uniformly destroyed some which he deemed unworthy of further preservation. During one of these purgations, he hastily committed to the flames a poem on which he had bestowed much labour, and which contained a humorous description of scenes and characters familiar to him in youth. The poem was entitled "Braken Fell;" and his ingenious brother Allan, in a memoir of the author, has referred to its destruction in terms of regret.[105] The style of Thomas Cunningham seems, however, to have been lyrical, and it may be presumed that his songs afford the best evidence of his power. In private life he was much cherished by a circle of friends, and his society was gay and animated. He was rather above the middle height, and latterly was corpulent. He married in 1804, and has left a family.
[105] See _Scottish Monthly Magazine_, August 1836.
ADOWN THE BURNIE'S FLOWERY BANK.[106]
Adown the burnie's flowery bank, Or through the shady grove, Or 'mang the bonnie scroggie braes, Come, Peggy, let us rove. See where the stream out ower the linn Deep headlong foamin' pours, There let us gang and stray amang The bloomin' hawthorn bowers.
We 'll pu' the rose frae aff the brier, The lily frae the brae; We 'll hear the birdies blithely sing, As up the glen we gae. His yellow haughs o' wavin' grain The farmer likes to see, But my ain Peggy's artless smile Is far mair dear to me.
[106] Written when the author was quite a youth.
THE HILLS O' GALLOWA'.[107]
TUNE--_"The Lea Rig."_
Amang the birks sae blithe an' gay, I met my Julia hameward gaun; The linties chantit on the spray, The lammies loupit on the lawn; On ilka swaird the hay was mawn, The braes wi' gowans buskit bra', An' ev'ning's plaid o' gray was thrawn Out ower the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang, An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea, As down we sat the flowers amang, Upon the banks o' stately Dee. My Julia's arms encircled me, An' saftly slade the hours awa', Till dawning coost a glimm'rin' e'e Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye, It isna gowd, it isna gear, This lifted e'e wad hae, quo' I, The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer; But gie to me my Julia dear, Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba', An' oh, sae blithe through life I 'll steer, Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
When gloamin' daunders up the hill, An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, Wi' her I 'll trace the mossy rill That through the muir meand'ring rowes; Or tint amang the scroggie knowes, My birken pipe I 'll sweetly blaw, An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.
An' when auld Scotland's heathy hills, Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains, Her flowery wilds an' wimpling rills, Awake nae mair my canty strains; Where friendship dwells an' freedom reigns, Where heather blooms an' muircocks craw, Oh, dig my grave, and lay my banes Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.
[107] Like many other Scottish songs composed early in the century, and which at the time of publication were unacknowledged by their authors, the "Hills o' Gallowa'" came to be attributed to Burns. It is included among his songs in Orphoot's edition of his poetical works, which was published at Edinburgh in 1820. In the "Harp of Caledonia," the editor, Mr Struthers, assigns it to the Ettrick Shepherd. Along with those which follow, the song appeared in the "Forest Minstrel." The heroine was Julia Curtis, a maiden in Galloway, to whom Cunningham was early attached. She is also celebrated by the poet in the "Braes of Ballahun," and her early demise is lamented in the tender stanzas of "Julia's Grave." The latter composition first appeared in the _Scots Magazine_ for 1807, p. 448.
THE BRAES OF BALLAHUN.[108]
TUNE--_"Roslin Castle."_
Now smiling summer's balmy breeze, Soft whispering, fans the leafy trees; The linnet greets the rosy morn, Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn; The bee hums round the woodbine bower, Collecting sweets from every flower; And pure the crystal streamlets run Among the braes of Ballahun.
Oh, blissful days, for ever fled, When wand'ring wild, as fancy led, I ranged the bushy bosom'd glen, The scroggie shaw, the rugged linn, And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush, Where nestling sat the speckled thrush; Or, careless roaming, wander'd on Among the braes of Ballahun.
Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh, When hills and dales rebound with joy? The flowery glen and lilied lea, In vain display their charms to me. I joyless roam the heathy waste, To soothe this sad, this troubled breast; And seek the haunts of men to shun, Among the braes of Ballahun.
The virgin blush of lovely youth, The angel smile of artless truth, This breast illumed with heavenly joy, Which lyart time can ne'er destroy. Oh, Julia dear! the parting look, The sad farewell we sorrowing took, Still haunt me as I stray alone, Among the braes of Ballahun.
[108] Ballahun is a romantic glen, near Blackwood House, on the river Nith.
THE UNCO GRAVE.[109]
TUNE--_"Crazy Jane."_
Bonnie Clouden, as ye wander Hills, an' haughs, an' muirs amang, Ilka knowe an' green meander, Learn my sad, my dulefu' sang! Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather, Howms whare rows the gowden wave; Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever! I maun seek an unco grave.
Sair I pled, though fate, unfriendly, Stang'd my heart wi' waes and dules, That some faithfu' hand might kindly Lay 't among my native mools. Cronies dear, wha late an' early Aye to soothe my sorrows strave, Think on ane wha lo'es ye dearly, Doom'd to seek an unco grave.
Torn awa' frae Scotia's mountains, Far frae a' that 's dear to dwall, Mak's my e'en twa gushin' fountains, Dings a dirk in my puir saul. Braes o' breckan, hills o' heather, Howms whare rows the gowden wave, Blissful scenes, fareweel for ever! I maun seek an unco grave.
[109] The Clouden is a stream which flows into the Nith, at Lincluden College, near Dumfries.
JULIA'S GRAVE.
TUNE--_"Logan Water."_
Ye briery bields, where roses blaw! Ye flowery fells, and sunny braes, Whase scroggie bosoms foster'd a' The pleasures o' my youthfu' days! Amang your leafy simmer claes, And blushing blooms, the zephyr flies, Syne wings awa', and wanton plays Around the grave whare Julia lies.
Nae mair your bonnie birken bowers, Your streamlets fair, and woodlands gay, Can cheer the weary winged hours, As up the glen I joyless stray; For a' my hopes hae flown away, And when they reach'd their native skies, Left me amid the world o' wae, To weet the grave where Julia lies.
It is na beauty's fairest bloom, It is na maiden charms consign'd, And hurried to an early tomb, That wrings my heart and clouds my mind; But sparkling wit, and sense refined, And spotless truth, without disguise, Make me with sighs enrich the wind That fans the grave whare Julia lies.
FAREWEEL, YE STREAMS.
AIR--_"Lassie wi' the Yellow Coatie."_
Fareweel, ye streams sae dear to me, My bonnie Clouden, Kith, and Dee; Ye burns that row sae bonnily, Your siller waves nae mair I 'll see. Yet though frae your green banks I 'm driven, My saul away could ne'er be riven; For still she lifts her e'en to heaven, An' sighs to be again wi' thee.
Ye canty bards ayont the Tweed, Your skins wi' claes o' tartan cleed, An' lilt alang the verdant mead, Or blithely on your whistles blaw, An' sing auld Scotia's barns an ha's, Her bourtree dykes an mossy wa's, Her faulds, her bughts, an' birken shaws, Whare love an' freedom sweeten a'.
Sing o' her carles teuch an' auld, Her carlines grim that flyte an' scauld, Her wabsters blithe, an' souters bauld, Her flocks an' herds sae fair to see. Sing o' her mountains bleak an high; Her fords, whare neigh'rin' kelpies ply; Her glens, the haunts o' rural joy; Her lasses lilting o'er the lea.
To you the darling theme belangs, That frae my heart exulting spangs; Oh, mind, amang your bonnie sangs, The lads that bled for liberty. Think o' our auld forbears o' yore, Wha dyed the muir wi' hostile gore; Wha slavery's bands indignant tore, An' bravely fell for you an' me.
My gallant brithers, brave an' bauld, Wha haud the pleugh, or wake the fauld, Until your dearest bluid rin cauld, Aye true unto your country be. Wi' daring look her dirk she drew, An' coost a mither's e'e on you; Then let na ony spulzien crew Her dear-bought freedom wrest frae thee.
JOHN STRUTHERS.
John Struthers, whose name is familiar as the author of "The Poor Man's Sabbath," was born on the 18th July 1776, in the parish of East Kilbride, Lanarkshire. His parents were of the humbler rank, and were unable to send him to school; but his mother, a woman of superior intelligence, was unremitting in her efforts to teach him at home. She was aided in her good work by a benevolent lady of the neighbourhood, who, interested by the boy's precocity, often sent for him to read to her. This kind-hearted individual was Mrs Baillie, widow of the Rev. Dr Baillie of Hamilton, who was then resident at Longcalderwood, and whose celebrated daughter, Joanna Baillie, afterwards took a warm interest in the fame and fortunes of her mother's _protégé_. From the age of eight to fourteen, young Struthers was engaged as a cowherd and in general work about a farm; he then apprenticed himself to a shoemaker. On the completion of his indenture, he practised his craft several years in his native village till September 1801, when he sought a wider field of business in Glasgow. In 1804, he produced his first and most celebrated poem, "The Poor Man's Sabbath," which, printed at his own risk, was well received, and rapidly passed through two editions. On the recommendation of Sir Walter Scott, to whom the poem was made known by Joanna Baillie, Constable published a third edition in 1808, handing the author thirty pounds for the copyright. Actively employed in his trade, Struthers continued to devote his leisure hours to composition. In 1816 he published a pamphlet "On the State of the Labouring Poor." A more ambitious literary effort was carried out in 1819; he edited a collection of the national songs, which was published at Glasgow, under the title of "The Harp of Caledonia," in three vols. 18mo. To this work Joanna Baillie, Mrs John Hunter, and Mr William Smyth of Cambridge contributed songs, while Scott and others permitted the re-publication of such of their lyrics as the author chose to select.
Struthers married early in life. About the year 1818 his wife and two of his children were snatched from him by death, and these bereavements so affected him, as to render him unable to prosecute his labours as a tradesman. He now procured employment as a corrector of the press, in the printing-office of Khull, Blackie, & Co. During his connexion with this establishment he assisted in preparing an edition of "Wodrow's History," and produced a "History of Scotland" from the political Union in 1707 to the year 1827, the date of its publication. These works--the latter extending to two octavo volumes--were published by his employers. On a dissolution of their co-partnership, in 1827, Struthers was thrown out of employment till his appointment, in 1832, to the Keepership of Stirling's Library, a respectable institution in Glasgow. This situation, which yielded him a salary of about £50 a-year, he retained till 1847, when he was led to tender his resignation. In his seventy-first year he returned to his original trade, after being thirty years occupied with literary concerns. He died suddenly on the 30th July 1853, at the advanced age of seventy-seven.
A man of strong intellect and vigorous imagination, John Struthers was industrious in his trade, and persevering as an author, yet he failed to obtain a competency for the winter of life; his wants, however, were few, and he never sought to complain. Inheriting pious dispositions from his parents, he excelled in familiarity with the text of Scripture, and held strong opinions on the subject of morality. Educated in the communion of the Original Secession Church, he afterwards joined the Establishment, and ultimately retired from it at the Disruption in 1843. He was a zealous member of the Free Church, and being admitted to the eldership, was on two occasions sent as a representative to the General Assembly of that body. An enthusiast respecting the beauties of external nature, he was in the habit of undertaking lengthened pedestrian excursions into the country, and took especial delight in rambling by the sea-shore, or climbing the mountain-tops. His person was tall and slight, though abundantly muscular, and capable of undergoing the toil of extended journeys. Three times married, he left a widow, who has lately emigrated to America; of his children two sons and two daughters survive.
Besides the works already enumerated, Struthers was the author of other compositions, both in prose and verse. He wrote an octavo pamphlet of 96 pages in favour of National Church Establishments; contributed memoirs of James Hogg, minister of Carnock, and Principal Robertson to the _Christian Instructor_, and prepared various lives of deceased worthies, which were included in the "Illustrious and Distinguished Scotsmen," edited by Mr Robert Chambers. At the period of his death, he was engaged in preparing a continuation of his "History of Scotland," to the era of the Disruption; he also meditated the publication of a volume of essays. His poetical works, which appeared at various intervals, were re-published in 1850, in two duodecimo volumes, with an interesting autobiographical sketch. Of his poems those most deserving of notice, next to the "Sabbath," are "The House of Mourning, or the Peasant's Death," and "The Plough," both evincing grave and elevated sentiment, expressed in correct poetical language. The following songs are favourable specimens of his lyrical compositions.
ADMIRING NATURE'S SIMPLE CHARMS.
TUNE--_"Gramachre."_
Admiring Nature's simple charms, I left my humble home, Awhile my country's peaceful plains With pilgrim step to roam. I mark'd the leafy summer wave On flowing Irvine's side, But richer far 's the robe she wears Within the vale of Clyde.
I roam'd the braes o' bonnie Doon, The winding banks o' Ayr, Where flutters many a small bird gay, Blooms many a flow'ret fair. But dearer far to me the stem That once was Calder's pride, And blossoms now the fairest flower Within the vale of Clyde.
Avaunt, thou life-repressing north, Ye withering east winds too; But come, thou all-reviving west, Breathe soft thy genial dew. Till at the last, in peaceful age, This lovely flow'ret shed Its last green leaf upon my grave, Within the vale of Clyde.
OH, BONNIE BUDS YON BIRCHEN TREE.
TUNE--_"The mill, mill, O."_
Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree, The western breeze perfuming; And softly smiles yon sunny brae, Wi' gowans gaily blooming. But sweeter than yon birchen tree, Or gowans gaily blooming, Is she, in blushing modesty, Wha meets me there at gloaming.
Oh, happy, happy there yestreen, In mutual transport ranging, Among these lovely scenes, unseen, Our vows of love exchanging. The moon, with clear, unclouded face, Seem'd bending to behold us; And breathing birks, with soft embrace, Most kindly to enfold us.
We bade each tree record our vows, And each surrounding mountain, With every star on high that glows From light's o'erflowing fountain. But gloaming gray bedims the vale, On day's bright beam encroaching; With rapture once again I hail The trysting hour approaching.
RICHARD GALL.
Richard Gall was born in December 1776, at Linkhouse, near Dunbar. His father was a notary; but, being in poor circumstances, he apprenticed his son, in his eleventh year, to a relative, who followed the conjoined business of a builder and house-carpenter. The drudgery of heavy manual labour proved very uncongenial; and the apprentice suddenly took his departure, walking a long distance to Edinburgh, whither his parents had removed their residence. He now selected the profession of a printer, and entered on an indenture to Mr David Ramsay of the _Edinburgh Evening Courant_. At the close of his apprenticeship, he became Mr Ramsay's travelling clerk.
In the ordinary branches of education, young Gall had been instructed in a school at Haddington; he took lessons in the more advanced departments from a private tutor during his apprenticeship. He wrote verses from his youth, and several of his songs became popular, and were set to music. His poetical talents attracted the attention of Robert Burns and Hector Macneill, both of whom cherished his friendship,--the former becoming his correspondent. He also shared the intimacy of Thomas Campbell, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the distinguished philologist.
His promising career was brief; an abscess broke out in his breast, which medical skill could not subdue. After a lingering illness, he died on the 10th of May 1801, in his twenty-fifth year. He had joined a Highland volunteer regiment; and his remains were accompanied by his companions-in-arms to the Calton burial-ground, and there interred with military honours.
Possessed of a lively and vigorous fancy, a generous warmth of temperament, and feelings of extreme sensibility, Richard Gall gave promise of adorning the poetical literature of his country. Patriotism and the beauties of external nature were the favourite subjects of his muse, which, as if premonished of his early fate, loved to sing in plaintive strains. Gall occasionally lacks power, but is always pleasing; in his songs (two of which have frequently been assigned to Burns) he is uniformly graceful. He loved poetry with the ardour of an enthusiast; during his last illness he inscribed verses with a pencil, when no longer able to wield the pen. He was thoroughly devoid of personal vanity, and sought to advance the poetical reputation of his country rather than his own. In his lifetime, his pieces were printed separately; a selection of his poems and songs, with a memoir by Alexander Balfour, was published in 1819.
HOW SWEET IS THE SCENE.
How sweet is the scene at the waking o' morning! How fair ilka object that lives in the view! Dame Nature the valley an' hillock adorning, The wild-rose an' blue-bell yet wet wi' the dew. How sweet in the morning o' life is my Anna! Her smiles like the sunbeam that glints on the lea; To wander an' leave the dear lassie, I canna; Frae Truth, Love, an' Beauty, I never can flee.
O lang hae I lo'ed her, and lo'ed her fu' dearly, For saft is the smile o' her bonny sweet mou'; An' aft hae I read in her e'en, glancing clearly, A language that bade me be constant an' true. Then ithers may doat on their gowd an' their treasure; For pelf, silly pelf, they may brave the rude sea; To lo'e my sweet lassie, be mine the dear pleasure; Wi' her let me live, an' wi' her let me die.
CAPTAIN O'KAIN.
Flow saftly, thou stream, through the wild spangled valley; Oh green be thy banks, ever bonny an' fair! Sing sweetly, ye birds, as ye wanton fu' gaily, Yet strangers to sorrow, untroubled by care. The weary day lang I list to your sang, An' waste ilka moment, sad, cheerless, alane; Each sweet little treasure O' heart-cheering pleasure, Far fled frae my bosom wi' Captain O'Kain.
Fu' aft on thy banks hae we pu'd the wild gowan, An' twisted a garland beneath the hawthorn; Ah! then each fond moment wi' pleasure was glowing, Sweet days o' delight, which can never return! Now ever, wae's me! The tear fills my e'e, An sair is my heart wi' the rigour o' pain; Nae prospect returning, To gladden life's morning, For green waves the willow o'er Captain O'Kain.
MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O'.
Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, My only jo an' dearie, O; Thy neck is like the siller dew Upon the banks sae briery, O; Thy teeth are o' the ivory, O, sweet 's the twinkle o' thine e'e! Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, My only jo an' dearie, O.
The birdie sings upon the thorn, Its sang o' joy, fu' cheerie, O, Rejoicing in the simmer morn, Nae care to make it eerie, O; But little kens the sangster sweet, Ought o' the care I hae to meet, That gars my restless bosom beat, My only jo an' dearie, O.
Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, An' youth was blinking bonny, O, Aft we wad daff the lee lang day, Our joys fu' sweet an' mony, O; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, An' round about the thorny tree; Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo an' dearie, O.
I hae a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O; I wish that thou wert ever mine, An' never mair to leave me, O; Then I wad dawt thee night an' day, Nae ither warldly care wad hae, Till life's warm stream forgat to play, My only jo an' dearie, O.
THE BONNIE BLINK O' MARY'S E'E.[110]
Now bank an' brae are clad in green, An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring; By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream, The birdies flit on wanton wing; By Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's, There let my Mary meet wi' me, There catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.
The chiel' wha boasts o' warld's wealth Is aften laird o' meikle care; But Mary she is a' my ain, An' Fortune canna gie me mair. Then let me stray by Cassillis' banks, Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, An' catch her ilka glance o' love, The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e.
[110] Cromeck in his "Reliques," erroneously attributes this song to Burns.
THE BRAES O' DRUMLEE.
Ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me down, Or reft me o' life's youthfu' bloom, How aft hae I gane, wi' a heart louping light, To the knowes yellow tappit wi' broom! How aft hae I sat i' the beild o' the knowe, While the laverock mounted sae hie, An' the mavis sang sweet in the plantings around, On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth, We see na' the blasts that destroy; We count na' upon the fell waes that may come, An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy. I saw na the fause face that fortune can wear, Till forced from my country to flee; Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, "Farewell, To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!
"Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth, Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair; Ye 'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist, Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care. Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh, While the flood gushes down frae my e'e; For never again shall the tear weet my cheek, On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
"O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee! Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"-- Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa', Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind. Oh, sair is the heart of the mither to twin, Wi' the baby that sits on her knee; But sairer the pang, when I took a last peep, O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa, But naething could banish my care; An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past, Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair. But now, wae 's my heart! whan I 'm lyart an' auld, An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee, I 'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life, To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken The haunts that were dear ance to me; I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth, An' the mavis now sings on the tree. But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae; For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee, To think how at last my auld banes they will rest, Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.
I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY AGAIN.
I winna gang back to my mammy again, I 'll never gae back to my mammy again; I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again. I 've held by her apron, &c.
Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo, Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue: "O come awa, lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;" An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen. "O come awa, lassie," &c.
He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo, An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou'; While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain, An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!" While I fell on his bosom, &c.
Some lasses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e, Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree; Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane, Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again. Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.
For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea, My mammy was kind as a mither could be; I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again. I 've held by her apron, &c.
THE BARD.
IRISH AIR--_"The Brown Maid."_
The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang, Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear; While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang, An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear; But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys, Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control, On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays, An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!
Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier, That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen; When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer, A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken. What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays! The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole! On the strings o' my heart she bewitchingly plays, An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul!
LOUISA IN LOCHABER.
Can ought be constant as the sun, That makes the world sae cheerie? Yes, a' the powers can witness be, The love I bear my dearie. But what can make the hours seem lang, An' rin sae wondrous dreary? What but the space that lies between Me an' my only dearie.
Then fare ye weel, wha saw me aft, Sae blythe, baith late and early; An' fareweel scenes o' former joys, That cherish life sae rarely; Baith love an' beauty bid me flee, Nor linger lang an' eerie, But haste, an' in my arms enfauld, My only pride an' dearie.
I 'll hail Lochaber's valleys green, Where many a rill meanders; I 'll hail wi' joy, its birken bowers, For there Louisa wanders. There will I clasp her to my breast, An' tent her smile fu' cheerie; An' thus, without a wish or want, Live happy wi' my dearie.
THE HAZELWOOD WITCH.
For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannie Of brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa', Of auld wither'd hags that were never thought cannie, An' fairies that danced till they heard the cock caw. I leugh at her tales; an' last owk, i' the gloamin', I daunder'd, alane, down the hazelwood green; Alas! I was reckless, and rue sair my roamin', For I met a young witch, wi' twa bonnie black e'en.
I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing, Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless an' blue; I looked again, an' my heart fell a-dancing, When I wad hae spoken, she glamour'd my mou'. O wae to her cantrips! for dumpish I wander, At kirk or at market there 's nought to be seen; For she dances afore me wherever I daunder, The hazelwood witch wi' the bonnie black e'en.
FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.[111]
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu! Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin', Fare thee weel before I gang; Bonny Doon, whare, early roamin', First I weaved the rustic sang.
Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying, First enthrall'd this heart o' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying, Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine. Friends sae near my bosom ever, Ye hae render'd moments dear; But, alas! when forced to sever, Then the stroke, O how severe!
Friends, that parting tear reserve it, Though 'tis doubly dear to me; Could I think I did deserve it, How much happier would I be. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu!
[111] This is another song of Richard Gall which has been assigned to Burns; it has even been included in Dr Currie's edition of his works. It was communicated anonymously by Gall to the publisher of the "Scots Musical Museum," and first appeared in that work. The original MS. of the song was in the possession of Mr Stark, the author of a memoir of Gall in the "Biographia Scotica."
GEORGE SCOTT.
George Scott was the son of a small landowner in Roxburghshire. He was born at Dingleton, near Melrose, in 1777; and after attending the parish-schools of Melrose and Galashiels, became a student in the University of Edinburgh. On completing a curriculum of classical study, he was in his twenty-second year appointed parochial schoolmaster of Livingstone, West Lothian; and in six years afterwards was preferred to the parish-school of Lilliesleaf, in his native county. He was an accomplished scholar, and had the honour of educating many individuals who afterwards attained distinction. With Sir Walter Scott, who appreciated his scholarship, he maintained a friendly correspondence. In 1820, he published a small volume of poems, entitled, "Heath Flowers; or, Mountain Melodies," which exhibits considerable poetical talent. Having discharged the duties of an instructor of youth for half a century, he retired from his public avocations in November 1850. He survived till the 23d of February 1853, having attained his seventy-sixth year.
THE FLOWER OF THE TYNE.
AIR--_"Bonnie Dundee."_
Now rests the red sun in his caves of the ocean, Now closed every eye but of misery and mine; While, led by the moonbeam, in fondest devotion, I doat on her image, the Flower of the Tyne. Her cheek far outrivals the rose's rich blossom, Her eyes the bright gems of Golconda outshine; The snow-drop and lily are lost on her bosom, For beauty unmatched is the Flower of the Tyne.
So charming each feature, so guileless her nature, A thousand fond voices pronounce her divine; So witchingly pretty, so modestly witty, That sweet is thy thraldom, fair Flower of the Tyne! Thine aspect so noble, yet sweetly inviting, The loves and the graces thy temples entwine; In manners the saint and the syren uniting, Bloom on, dear Louisa, the Flower of the Tyne.
Though fair, Caledonia, the nymphs of thy mountains, And graceful and straight as thine own silver pine, Though fresh as thy breezes, and pure as thy fountains, Yet fairer to me is the Flower of the Tyne. This poor throbbing heart as an offering I give her, A temple to love is this bosom of mine; Then smile on thy victim, Louisa, for ever, I 'll kneel at thine altar, sweet Flower of the Tyne.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Thomas Campbell, author of the "Pleasures of Hope," was descended from a race of landed proprietors in Argyleshire, who claimed ancestry in Macallummore, the great head of clan Campbell, and consequent propinquity to the noble House of Argyle. Alexander Campbell, the poet's father, had carried on a prosperous trade as a Virginian merchant, but had suffered unhappy embarrassments, at the outbreak of the American war. Of his eleven children, Thomas was the youngest. He was born on the 27th July 1777, in his father's house, High Street, Glasgow, and was baptised by the celebrated Dr Thomas Reid, after whom he received his Christian name. The favourite child of his parents, peculiar care was bestowed upon his upbringing; he was taught to read by his eldest sister, who was nineteen years his senior, and had an example of energy set before him by his mother, a woman of remarkable decision. He afforded early indication of genius; as a child, he was fond of ballad poetry, and in his tenth year he wrote verses. At the age of eight he became a pupil in the grammar school, having already made some proficiency in classical learning. During the first session of attendance at the University, he gained two prizes and a bursary on Archbishop Leighton's foundation. As a classical scholar, he acquired rapid distinction; he took especial delight in the dramatic literature of Greece, and his metrical translations from the Greek plays were pronounced excellent specimens of poetical composition. He invoked the muse on many themes, and occasionally printed verses, which were purchased by his comrades. From the commencement of his curriculum he chiefly supported himself by teaching; at the close of his fourth session, he accepted a tutorship in the island of Mull. There he prosecuted verse-making, and continued his translations from the Greek dramatists. He conducted a poetical correspondence with Hamilton Paul; and the following lines addressed to this early friend, and entitled "An Elegy written in Mull," may be quoted in evidence of his poetical talent in his seventeenth year. These lines do not occur in any edition of his works:
"The tempest blackens on the dusky moor, And billows lash the long-resounding shore; In pensive mood I roam the desert ground, And vainly sigh for scenes no longer found. Oh, whither fled the pleasurable hours That chased each care, and fired the muse's powers; The classic haunts of youth, for ever gay Where mirth and friendship cheer'd the close of day, The well-known valleys where I wont to roam, The native sports, the nameless joys of home? Far different scenes allure my wondering eye: The white wave foaming to the distant sky; The cloudy heavens, unblest by summer's smile; The sounding storm that sweeps the rugged isle, The chill, bleak summit of eternal snow, The wide, wild glen, the pathless plains below, The dark blue rocks, in barren grandeur piled, The cuckoo sighing to the pensive wild! Far different these from all that charm'd before, The grassy banks of Clutha's winding shore: The sloping vales, with waving forests lined; Her smooth blue lakes, unruffled by the wind. Hail, happy Clutha! glad shall I survey Thy gilded turrets from the distant way! Thy sight shall cheer the weary traveller's toil, And joy shall hail me to my native soil." He remained at Mull five months; and subsequently became tutor in the family of Sir William Napier, at Downie, near Loch Fyne. On completing a fifth session at the University, he experienced anxiety regarding the choice of a profession, chiefly with the desire of being able speedily to aid in the support of his necessitous parents. He first thought of a mercantile life, and then weighed the respective advantages of the clerical, medical, and legal professions. For a period, he attempted law, but soon tired of the drudgery which it threatened to impose. In Edinburgh, during a brief period of legal study, he formed the acquaintance of Dr Robert Anderson, through whose favour he became known to the rising wits of the capital. Among his earlier friends he reckoned the names of Francis Jeffrey, Henry Brougham, Thomas Brown, James Graham, and David Irving.
In 1798, Campbell induced his parents to remove to Edinburgh, where he calculated on literary employment. He had already composed the draught of the "Pleasures of Hope," but he did not hazard its publication till he had exhausted every effort in its improvement. His care was well repaid; his poem produced one universal outburst of admiration, and one edition after another rapidly sold. He had not completed his twenty-second year when he gained a place among the most distinguished poets of his country. For the copyright Mundell and Company allowed him only two hundred copies in quires, which yielded him about fifty pounds; but they presented him with twenty-five pounds on the appearance of each successive edition. He was afterwards permitted to publish an edition on his own account,--a privilege which brought him the sum of six hundred pounds. Resolving to follow literature as a profession, he was desirous of becoming personally acquainted with the distinguished men of letters in Germany; in June 1800 he embarked at Leith for Hamburg. He visited Ratisbon, Munich, and Leipsic; had an interview with the poet Klopstock, then in his seventy-seventh year, and witnessed a battle between the French and Germans, near Ratisbon. At Hamburg he formed the acquaintance of Anthony M'Cann, who had been driven into exile by the Irish Government in 1798, on the accusation of being a leader in the rebellion. Of this individual he formed a favourable opinion, and his condition suggested the exquisite poem, "The Exile of Erin." After some months' residence at Altona, he sailed for England; the vessel narrowly escaping capture by a privateer, landed him at Yarmouth, whence he proceeded to London. He had been in correspondence with Perry of the _Morning Chronicle_, who introduced him to Lord Holland, Sir James Macintosh, and Samuel Rogers. Receiving tidings of his father's death, he returned to Edinburgh. Not a little to his concern, he found that warrants had been issued for his apprehension on the charge of high treason; he was accused of attending Jacobin clubs at Hamburg, and of conspiring with General Moreau and the Irish exiles to land troops in Ireland! The seizure of his travelling trunk led to the ample vindication of his loyalty; it was found to contain the first draught of the "Mariners of England." Besides a magnificent quarto edition of the "Pleasures of Hope," he now prepared a work in three volumes, entitled "Annals of Great Britain;" for which the sum of three hundred pounds was paid him by Mundell and Company. Through Professor Dugald Stewart, he obtained the friendship of Lord Minto, who invited him to London, and afterwards entertained him at Minto.
In 1803, Campbell resolved to settle in London; in his progress to the metropolis he visited his friends Roscoe and Currie, at Liverpool. On the 10th September, 1803, he espoused his fair cousin, Matilda Sinclair, and established his residence in Upper Eaton Street, Pimlico. In the following year, he sought refuge from the noise of the busy world in London, by renting a house at Sydenham. His reputation readily secured him a sufficiency of literary employment; he translated for the _Star_, with a salary of two hundred pounds per annum, and became a contributor to the _Philosophical Magazine_. He declined the offer of the Regent's chair in the University of Wilna, in Russian-Poland; but shortly after had conferred on him, by the premier, Charles Fox, a civil-list pension of two hundred pounds. In 1809, he published his poem, "Gertrude of Wyoming," along with the "Battle of the Baltic," the "Mariners of England," "Hohenlinden," "Glenara," and others of his best lyrics. This volume was well received, and added largely to his laurels. In 1811, he delivered five lectures on poetry, in the Royal Institution.
Campbell was now a visitor in the first literary circles, and was welcomed at the tables of persons of opulence. From the commencement of his residence in London, he had known John Kemble, and his accomplished sister, Mrs Siddons. He became intimate with Lord Byron and Thomas Moore; and had the honour of frequent invitations to the residence of the Princess of Wales, at Blackheath. In 1814, he visited Paris, where he was introduced to the Duke of Wellington; dined with Humboldt and Schlegel, and met his former friend and correspondent, Madame de Staël. A proposal of Sir Walter Scott, in 1816, to secure him a chair in the University of Edinburgh, was not attended with success. The "Specimens of the British Poets," a work he had undertaken for Mr Murray, appeared in 1819. In 1820, he accepted the editorship of the _New Monthly Magazine_, with a salary of six hundred pounds per annum. A second visit to Germany, which he accomplished immediately after the commencement of his editorial duties, suggested to him the idea of the London University; and this scheme, warmly supported by his literary friends, and advocated by Lord Brougham, led in 1825 to the establishment of the institution. In the year subsequent to this happy consummation of his exertions on behalf of learning in the south, he received intelligence of his having been elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. This honour was the most valued of his life; it was afterwards enhanced by his re-election to office for the third time,--a rare occurrence in the history of the College.
The future career of the poet was not remarkable for any decided achievements in literature or poetry. In 1831, he allowed his name to be used as the conductor of the _Metropolitan_, a short-lived periodical. He published in 1834 a "Life of Mrs Siddons," in two volumes, but this performance did not prove equal to public expectation. One of his last efforts was the preparation of an edition of the "Pleasures of Hope," which was illustrated with engravings from drawings by Turner. Subsequent to the death of Mrs Campbell, which took place in May 1828, he became unsettled in his domestic habits, evincing a mania for change of residence. In 1834, he proceeded to Algiers, in Africa; and returning by Paris, was presented to King Louis Philippe. On his health failing, some years afterwards, he tried the baths of Wiesbaden, and latterly established his residence at Boulogne. After a prostrating illness of several months, he expired at Boulogne, on the 15th of June 1844, in his 67th year.
Of the poetry of Thomas Campbell, "The Pleasures of Hope" is one of the most finished epics in the language; it is alike faultless in respect of conception and versification. His lyrics are equally sustained in power of thought and loftiness of diction; they have been more frequently quoted than the poems of any other modern author, and are translated into various European languages. Few men evinced more jealousy in regard to their reputation; he was keenly sensitive to criticism, and fastidious in judging of his own composition. As a prose writer, though he wrote with elegance, he is less likely to be remembered. Latterly a native unsteadiness of purpose degenerated into inaction; during the period of his unabated vigour, it prevented his carrying out many literary schemes. A bad money manager, he had under no circumstances become rich; at one period he was in the receipt of fifteen hundred pounds per annum, yet he felt poverty. He had a strong feeling of independence, and he never received a favour without considering whether he might be able to repay it. He was abundantly charitable, and could not resist the solicitations of indigence. Of slavery and oppression in every form he entertained an abhorrence; his zeal in the cause of liberty led him while a youth to be present in Edinburgh at the trial of Gerard and others, for maintaining liberal opinions, and to support in his maturer years the cause of the Polish refugees. Naturally cheerful, he was subject to moods of despondency, and his temper was ardent in circumstances of provocation. In personal appearance he was rather under the middle height, and he dressed with precision and neatness. His countenance was pleasing, but was only expressive of power when lit up by congenial conversation. He was fond of society and talked with fluency. His remains rest close by the ashes of Sheridan, in Westminster Abbey, and over them a handsome monument has lately been erected to his memory.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave; For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,-- As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow, To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.
GLENARA.
Oh! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.
Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They march'd all in silence, they look'd on the ground.
In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor, To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar. "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn; Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse! Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain. No answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem. Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."
Oh! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn-- 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem. Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne-- Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.
Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube, Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er. "O, whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my lover, Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!" All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When, bleeding and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded hussar!
From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war!
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded hussar?"
"Thou shalt live," she replied; "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound shall forbid me to mourn!" "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving; No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!" His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sank in her arms--the poor wounded hussar.
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.
But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our Captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.
Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom; Then ceased, and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave-- "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save. So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe! thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King."
Then Denmark bless'd our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.
Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride, Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou, Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!
MEN OF ENGLAND.
Men of England, who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood,
By the foes you 've fought uncounted, By the glorious deeds ye 've done, Trophies captured, breaches mounted, Navies conquer'd, kingdoms won.
Yet, remember, England gathers Hence but fruitless wreathes of fame, If the freedom of your fathers Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery, Whence no public virtues bloom? What avail in lands of slavery, Trophied temples, arch and tomb?
Pageants!--Let the world revere us For our people's rights and laws, And the breasts of civic heroes, Bared in Freedom's holy cause.
Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours, Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a hundred Agincourts!
We 're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny; They defied the field and scaffold For their birthrights--so will we!
MRS G. G. RICHARDSON.[112]
Caroline Eliza Scott, better known as Mrs G. G. Richardson, the daughter of a gentleman of considerable property in the south of Scotland, was born at Forge, her father's family residence, in the parish of Canonbie, on the 24th of November 1777, and spent her childhood and early youth amidst Border scenes, Border traditions, and Border minstrelsy. It is probable that these influences fostered the poetic temperament, while they fed the imaginative element of her mind, as she very early gave expression to her thoughts and feelings in romance and poetry. Born to a condition of favourable circumstances, and associating with parents themselves educated and intellectual, the young poetess enjoyed advantages of development rarely owned by the sons and daughters of genius. The flow of her mind was allowed to take its natural course; and some of her early anonymous writings are quite as remarkable as any of her acknowledged productions. Her conversational powers were lively and entertaining, but never oppressive. She was ever ready to discern and do homage to the merits of her contemporaries, while she never failed to fan the faintest flame of latent poesy in the aspirations of the timid or unknown. Affectionate and cheerful in her dispositions, she was a loving and dutiful daughter, and shewed the tenderest attachment to a numerous family of brothers and sisters. She was married to her cousin, Gilbert Geddes Richardson, on the 29th of April 1799, at Fort George, Madras; where she was then living with her uncle, General, afterwards Lord Harris; and the connexion proved, in all respects, a suitable and happy one. Her husband, at that time captain of an Indiaman, was one of a number of brothers, natives of the south of Scotland, who all sought their fortunes in India, and one of whom, Lieutenant-Colonel Richardson, became known in literature as an able translator of Sanscrit poetry, and contributor to the "Asiatic Researches." He was lost at sea, with his wife and six children, on their homeward voyage; and this distressing event, accompanied as it was by protracted suspense and anxiety, was long and deeply deplored by his gifted sister-in-law.
Young, beautiful, and doubly attractive from the warmth of her heart, and the fascination of her manners, Mrs Richardson was not only loved and appreciated by her husband, and his family, but greatly admired in a refined circle of Anglo-Indian society; and the few years of her married life were marked by almost uninterrupted felicity. But death struck down the husband and father in the very prime of manhood; and the widow returned with her five children (all of whom survived her), to seek from the scenes and friends of her early days such consolation as they might minister to a grief which only those who have experienced it can measure. She never brought her own peculiar sorrows before the public; but there is a tone of gentle mournfulness pervading many of her poems, that may be traced to this cause; and there are touching allusions to "one of rare endowments," that no one who remembered her husband's character could fail to recognise. Her intense love of nature happily remained unchanged; and the green hills, the flowing river, and the tangled wildwood, could still soothe a soul that, but for its susceptibility to these beneficent charms, might have said in its sadness of everything earthly, "miserable comforters are ye all." Continuing to reside at Forge while her children were young, she devoted herself to the direction of their education, the cultivation of her own pure tastes, and the peaceful enjoyments of a country life; and when she afterwards removed to London, and reappeared in brilliant and distinguished society, she often reverted, with regret, to the bright skies and cottage homes of Canonbie. In 1821, Mrs Richardson again returned to Scotland, and took up her abode at Dumfries, partly from the desire of being near her connexions, and partly for the sake of the beautiful scenery surrounding that pretty county town. In 1828 she published, by subscription, her first volume of miscellaneous poems, which was well received by the public, favourably noticed by the leading journals, and received a circulation even beyond the range of 1700 subscribers. A second edition, in a larger form, soon followed; and, in 1834, after finally settling in her native parish, she published a second volume, dedicated to the Duchess of Buccleuch, and which was also remarkably successful. From this time she employed her talents in the composition of prose; she published "Adonia," a novel, in three volumes; and various tales, essays, and fugitive pieces, forming contributions to popular serials. Her later poems remain in manuscript. She maintained an extensive correspondence with her literary friends, and spent much of her time in reading and study, and in the practice of sincere and unostentatious piety. Her faculties were vigorous and unimpared, until the seizure of her last illness, which quickly terminated in death, on the 9th October 1853, when she had nearly completed her seventy-sixth year. She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her own beloved Canonbie.
[112] The memoir of Mrs G. G. Richardson has been kindly supplied by her accomplished relative, Mrs Macarthur, Hillhead, near Glasgow.
THE FAIRY DANCE.
The fairies are dancing--how nimbly they bound! They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground; Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight, All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.
Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear-- 'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,-- The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes, And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.
How featly they trip it! how happy are they Who pass all their moments in frolic and play, Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares, And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!
But where have they vanish'd?--a cloud 's o'er the moon, I 'll hie to the spot,--they 'll be seen again soon-- I hasten--'tis lighter,--and what do I view?-- The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew.
And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth; Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud, Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.
SUMMER MORNING.
How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away, O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,-- To have all this silence and lightness my own, And revel with Nature, alone,--all alone!
What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around, In this calm, holy sunshine, and stillness profound! The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care, And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there.
The herbage, the blossoms, the branches, the skies, That shower on the river their beautiful dyes, The far misty mountains, the wide waving fields, What healthful enjoyment surveying them yields!
Yes, this is the hour Nature's lovers partake, The manna that melts when Life's vapours awake; Another, and thoughts will be busy, oh how Unlike the pure vision they 're ranging in now!
Lo! the hare scudding forth, lo! the trout in the stream Gently splashing, are stirring the folds of my dream, The cattle are rising, and hark, the first bird,-- And now in full chorus the woodlands are heard.
Oh, who on the summer-clad landscape can gaze, In the orison hour, nor break forth into praise,-- Who, through this fair garden contemplative rove, Nor feel that the Author and Ruler is love?
I ask no hewn temple, sufficient is here; I ask not art's anthems, the woodland is near; The breeze is all risen, each leaf at his call Has a tear drop of gratitude ready to fall!
THERE 'S MUSIC IN THE FLOWING TIDE.
There 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air, There 's music in the swallow's wing, that skims so lightly there, There 's music in each waving tress of grove, and bower, and tree, To eye and ear 'tis music all where Nature revels free.
There 's discord in the gilded halls where lordly rivals meet, There 's discord where the harpers ring to beauty's glancing feet, There 's discord 'neath the jewell'd robe, the wreath, the plume, the crest, Wherever Fashion waves her wand, there discord rules the breast.
There 's music 'neath the cottage eaves, when, at the close of day, Kind-hearted mirth and social ease the toiling hour repay; Though coarse the fare, though rude the jest, that cheer that lowly board, There loving hearts and honest lips sweet harmony afford!
Oh! who the music of the groves, the music of the heart, Would barter for the city's din, the frigid tones of art? The virtues flourish fresh and fair, where rural waters glide. They shrink and wither, droop and die, where rolls that turbid tide.
AH! FADED IS THAT LOVELY BLOOM.
_Written to an Italian Air._
Ah! faded is that lovely bloom, And closed in death that speaking eye, And buried in a green grass tomb, What once breathed life and harmony! Surely the sky is all too dark, And chilly blows the summer air,-- And, where 's thy song now, sprightly lark, That used to wake my slumb'ring fair?
Ah! never shalt thou wake her more! And thou, bright sun, shalt ne'er again, On inland mead, or sea-girt shore, Salute the darling of the plain. Maiden! they bade me o'er thy fate Numbers and strains mellifluous swell, They knew the love I bore thee great,-- They knew not what I ne'er can tell.
The unstrung heart to others leaves The music of a feebler woe, Her numbers are the sighs she heaves, Her off'ring tears that ever flow. Where could I gather fancies now? They 're with'ring on thy lowly tomb,-- My summer was thy cheek and brow, And perish'd is that lovely bloom!
THOMAS BROWN, M.D.
Illustrious as a metaphysician, Dr Thomas Brown is entitled to a place in the poetical literature of his country. He was the youngest son of Samuel Brown, minister of Kirkmabreck, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, and was born in the manse of that parish, on the 9th January 1778. His father dying when he was only a year old, his childhood was superintended solely by his mother, who established her abode in Edinburgh. Evincing an uncommon aptitude for knowledge, he could read and understand the Scriptures ere he had completed his fifth year. At the age of seven he was committed to the charge of a maternal uncle in London, who placed him at the schools of Camberwell and Chiswick, and afterwards at two other classical seminaries, in all of which he exhibited remarkable precocity in learning. On the death of his relative he returned to Edinburgh, and in his fourteenth year entered the University of that city. During a visit to Liverpool, in the summer of 1793, he was introduced to Dr Currie, who, presenting him with a copy of Dugald Stewart's "Elements of Philosophy," was the means of directing his attention to metaphysical inquiries. The following session he became a student in Professor Stewart's class; and differing from a theory advanced in one of the lectures, he modestly read his sentiments on the subject to his venerable preceptor. The philosopher and pupil were henceforth intimate friends.
In his nineteenth year, Brown became a member of the "Academy of Physics," a philosophical association established by the scientific youths of the University, and afterwards known to the world as having given origin to the _Edinburgh Review_. As a member of this society he formed the intimacy of Brougham, Jeffrey, Leyden, Logan, Sydney Smith, and other literary aspirants. In 1778 he published "Observations on the Zoonomia of Dr Darwin,"--a pamphlet replete with deep philosophical sentiment, and which so attracted the notice of his friends that they used every effort, though unsuccessfully, to secure him the chair of rhetoric in the University during the vacancy which soon afterwards occurred. His professional views were originally directed to the bar, but disgusted with the law after a twelve-month's trial, he entered on a medical course, to qualify himself as physician, and in 1803 received his diploma. His new profession was scarcely more congenial than that which he had abandoned, nor did the prospects of success, on being assumed as a partner by Dr Gregory, reconcile him to his duties. His favourite pursuits were philosophy and poetry; he published in 1804 two volumes of miscellaneous poems which he had chiefly written at college, and he was among the original contributors to the _Edinburgh Review_, the opening article in the second number, on "Kant's Philosophy," proceeding from his pen. An essay on Hume's "Theory of Causation," which he produced during the struggle attendant on Mr Leslie's appointment to the mathematical chair, established his hitherto growing reputation; and the public in the capital afterwards learned, with more than satisfaction, that he had consented to act as substitute for Professor Dugald Stewart, when increasing infirmities had compelled that distinguished individual to retire from the active business of his chair. In this new sphere he fully realised the expectations of his admirers; he read his own lectures, which, though hastily composed, often during the evenings prior to their delivery, were listened to with an overpowering interest, not only by the regular students, but by many professional persons in the city. Such distinction had its corresponding reward; after assisting in the moral philosophy class for two years, he was in 1810 appointed to the joint professorship.
Successful as a philosopher, Dr Brown was desirous of establishing a reputation as a poet. In 1814 he published anonymously the "Paradise of Coquettes," a poem which was favourably received. "The Wanderer of Norway," a poem, appeared in 1816, and "Agnes" and "Emily," two other distinct volumes of poems, in the two following years. He died at Brompton, near London, on the 2d April 1820, and his remains were conveyed for interment to the churchyard of his native parish. Amidst a flow of ornate and graceful language, the poetry of Dr Brown is disfigured by a morbid sensibility and a philosophy which dims rather than enlightens. He possessed, however, many of the mental concomitants of a great poet; he loved rural retirement and romantic scenery; well appreciated the beautiful both in nature and in art; was conversant with the workings of the human heart and the history of nations; was influenced by generous emotions, and luxuriated in a bold and lofty imagination.[113]
[113] Margaret Brown, one of the three sisters of Dr Brown, published "Lays of Affection." Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. She was a woman of gentle and unobtrusive manners and of pious disposition. Her poems constitute a respectable memorial of her virtues.
CONSOLATION OF ALTERED FORTUNES.
Yes! the shades we must leave which my childhood has haunted, Each charm by endearing remembrance improved; These walks of our love, the sweet bower thou hast planted,-- We must leave them to eyes that will view them unmoved.
Oh, weep not, my Fanny! though changed be our dwelling, We bear with us all, in the home of our mind; In virtues will glow that heart, fondly swelling, Affection's best treasure we leave not behind.
I shall labour, but still by thy image attended-- Can toil be severe which a smile can repay? How glad shall we meet! every care will be ended; And our evening of bliss will be more than a day.
Content's cheerful beam will our cottage enlighten; New charms the new cares of thy love will inspire; Thy smiles, 'mid the smiles of our offspring, will lighten; I shall see it--and oh, can I feel a desire?
THE FAITHLESS MOURNER.
When thy smile was still clouded in gloom, When the tear was still dim in thine eye, I thought of the virtues, scarce cold in the tomb, And I spoke not of love to thy sigh!
I spoke not of love; yet the breast, Which mark'd thy long anguish,--deplore The sire, whom in sickness, in age, thou hadst bless'd, Though silent, was loving thee more!
How soon wert thou pledged to my arms, Thou hadst vow'd, but I urged not the day; And thine eye grateful turn'd, oh, so sweet were its charms, That it more than atoned the delay.
I fear'd not, too slow of belief-- I fear'd not, too proud of thy heart, That another would steal on the hour of thy grief, That thy grief would be soft to his art.
Thou heardst--and how easy allured, Every vow of the past to forsware; The love, which for thee would all pangs have endured, Thou couldst smile, as thou gav'st to despair.
Ah, think not my passion has flown! Why say that my vows now are free? Why say--yes! I feel that my heart is my own; I feel it is breaking for thee.
THE LUTE.
Ah! do not bid me wake the lute, It once was dear to Henry's ear. Now be its voice for ever mute, The voice which Henry ne'er can hear.
Though many a month has pass'd since Spring, His grave's wan turf has bloom'd anew, One whisper of those chords would bring, In all its grief, our last adieu.
The songs he loved--'twere sure profane To careless Pleasure's laughing brow To breathe; and oh! what other strain To Henry's lute could love allow?
Though not a sound thy soul hath caught, To mine it looks, thus softly dead, A sweeter tenderness of thought Than all its living strings have shed.
Then ask me not--the charm was broke; With each loved vision must I part; If gay to every ear it spoke, 'Twould speak no longer to my heart.
Yet once too blest!--the moonlit grot, Where last I gave its tones to swell; Ah! the _last_ tones--thou heardst them not-- From other hands than mine they fell.
Still, silent slumbering, let it keep That sacred touch! And oh! as dim To life, would, would that I could sleep, Could sleep, and only dream of _him_!
WILLIAM CHALMERS.
William Chalmers was born at Paisley in 1779. He carried on the business of a tobacconist and grocer in his native town, and for a period enjoyed considerable prosperity. Unfortunate reverses caused him afterwards to abandon merchandise, and engage in a variety of occupations. At different times he sought employment as a dentist, a drysalter, and a
## book distributor; he sold small stationery as a travelling merchant, and
ultimately became keeper of the refreshment booth at the Paisley railway station. He died at Paisley on the 3d of November 1843. Chalmers wrote respectable verses on a number of subjects, but his muse was especially of a humorous tendency. Possessed of a certain versatility of talent, he published, in 1839, a curious production with the quaint title, "Observations on the Weather in Scotland, shewing what kinds of weather the various winds produce, and what winds are most likely to prevail in each month of the year." His compositions in verse were chiefly contributed to the local periodicals and newspapers.
SING ON.
AIR--_"The Pride of the Broomlands."_
Sing on, thou little bird, Thy wild notes sae loud, O sing, sweetly sing frae the tree; Aft beneath thy birken bow'r I have met at e'ening hour My young Jamie that 's far o'er the sea.
On yon bonnie heather knowes We pledged our mutual vows, And dear is the spot unto me; Though pleasure I hae nane, While I wander alane, And my Jamie is far o'er the sea.
But why should I mourn, The seasons will return, And verdure again clothe the lea; The flow'rets shall spring, And the saft breeze shall bring, My dear laddie again back to me.
Thou star! give thy light, Guide my lover aright, Frae rocks and frae shoals keep him free; Now gold I hae in store, He shall wander no more, No, no more shall he sail o'er the sea.
THE LOMOND BRAES.
"O, lassie, wilt thou go To the Lomond wi' me? The wild thyme 's in bloom. And the flower 's on the lea; Wilt thou go my dearest love? I will ever constant prove, I 'll range each hill and grove On the Lomond wi' thee."
"O young men are fickle, Nor trusted to be, And many a native gem Shines fair on the lea: Thou mayst see some lovely flower, Of a more attractive power, And may take her to thy bower On the Lomond wi' thee."
"The hynd shall forsake, On the mountain the doe, The stream of the fountain Shall cease for to flow; Ben-Lomond shall bend His high brow to the sea, Ere I take to my bower Any flower, love, but thee."
She 's taken her mantle, He 's taken his plaid; He coft her a ring, And he made her his bride: They 're far o'er yon hills, To spend their happy days, And range the woody glens 'Mang the Lomond braes.
JOSEPH TRAIN.
A zealous and respectable antiquary and cultivator of historical literature, Joseph Train is likewise worthy of a niche in the temple of Scottish minstrelsy. His ancestors were for several generations land-stewards on the estate of Gilmilnscroft, in the parish of Sorn, and county of Ayr, where he was born on the 6th November 1779. When he was eight years old, his parents removed to Ayr, where, after a short attendance at school, he was apprenticed to a mechanical occupation. His leisure hours were sedulously devoted to reading and mental improvement. In 1799, he was balloted for the Ayrshire Militia; in which he served for three years till the regiment was disbanded on the peace of Amiens. When he was stationed at Inverness, he had commissioned through a bookseller a copy of Currie's edition of the "Works of Burns," then sold at three half-guineas, and this circumstance becoming incidentally known to the Colonel of the regiment, Sir David Hunter Blair, he caused the copy to be elegantly bound and delivered free of expense. Much pleased with his intelligence and attainments, Sir David, on the disembodiment of the regiment, actively sought his preferment; he procured him an agency at Ayr for the important manufacturing house of Finlay and Co., Glasgow, and in 1808, secured him an appointment in the Excise. In 1810, Train was sometime placed on service as a supernumerary in Perthshire; he was in the year following settled as an excise officer at Largs, from which place in 1813 he was transferred to Newton Stewart. The latter location, from the numerous objects of interest which were presented in the surrounding district, was highly suitable for his inclinations and pursuits. Recovering many curious legends, he embodied some of them in metrical tales, which, along with a few lyrical pieces, he published in 1814, in a thin octavo volume,[114] under the title of "Strains of the Mountain Muse." While the sheets were passing through the press, some of them were accidentally seen by Sir Walter Scott, who, warmly approving of the author's tastes, procured his address, and communicated his desire to become a subscriber for the volume.
Gratified by the attention of Sir Walter, Mr Train transmitted for his consideration several curious Galloway traditions, which he had recovered. These Sir Walter politely acknowledged, and begged the favour of his endeavouring to procure for him some account of the present condition of Turnberry Castle, for his poem the "Lord of the Isles," which he was then engaged in composing. Mr Train amply fulfilled the request by visiting the ruined structure situated on the coast of Ayrshire; and he thereafter transmitted to his illustrious correspondent those particulars regarding it, and of the landing of Robert Bruce, and the Hospital founded by that monarch, at King's Case, near Prestwick, which are given by Sir Walter in the notes to the fifth canto of the poem. During a succession of years he regularly transmitted legendary tales and scraps to Sir Walter, which were turned to excellent account by the great novelist. The fruits of his communications appear in the "Chronicles of the Canongate," "Guy Mannering," "Old Mortality," "The Heart of Mid Lothian," "The Fair Maid of Perth," "Peveril of the Peak," "Quintin Durward," "The Surgeon's Daughter," and "Redgauntlet." He likewise supplied those materials on which Sir Walter founded his dramas of the "Doom of Devorgoil," and "Macduff's Cross."
When Sir Walter was engaged, a few years previous to his death, in preparing the Abbotsford or first uniform edition of his works, Mr Train communicated for his use many additional particulars regarding a number of the characters in the Waverley Novels, of which he had originally introduced the prototypes to the distinguished author. His most interesting narrative was an account of the family of Robert Paterson, the original "Old Mortality," which is so remarkable in its nature, that we owe no apology for introducing it. Mr Train received his information from Robert, a son of "Old Mortality," then in his seventy-fifth year, and residing at Dalry, in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright. According to the testimony of this individual, his brother John sailed for America in 1774, where he made a fortune during the American War. He afterwards settled at Baltimore, where he married, and lived in prosperous circumstances. He had a son named Robert, after "Old Mortality," his father, and a daughter named Elizabeth; Robert espoused an American lady, who, surviving him, was married to the Marquis of Wellesley, and Elizabeth became the first wife of Prince Jerome Bonaparte.[115]
On his first connexion with the Excise, Mr Train turned his attention to the most efficient means of checking illicit distillation in the Highlands; and an essay which he prepared, suggesting improved legislation on the subject, was in 1815 laid before the Board of Excise and Customs, and transmitted with their approval to the Lords of the Treasury. His suggestions afterwards became the subject of statutory enactment. At this period, he began a correspondence with Mr George Chalmers, author of the "Caledonia," supplying him with much valuable information for the third volume of that great work. He had shortly before traced the course of an ancient wall known as the "Deil's Dyke," for a distance of eighty miles from the margin of Lochryan, in Wigtonshire, to Hightae, in Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire, and an account of this remarkable structure, together with a narrative of his discovery of Roman remains in Wigtonshire, greatly interested his indefatigable correspondent. In 1820, through the kindly offices of Sir Walter, he was appointed Supervisor. In this position he was employed to officiate at Cupar-Fife and at Kirkintilloch. He was stationed in succession at South Queensferry, Falkirk, Wigton, Dumfries, and Castle-Douglas. From these various districts he procured curious gleanings for Sir Walter, and objects of antiquity for the armory at Abbotsford.
Mr Train contributed to the periodicals both in prose and verse. Many of his compositions were published in the _Dumfries Magazine_, _Bennett's Glasgow Magazine_, and the _Ayr Courier_ and _Dumfries Courier_ newspapers. An interesting tale from his pen, entitled "Mysie and the Minister," appeared in the thirtieth number of _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_; he contributed the legend of "Sir Ulrick Macwhirter" to Mr Robert Chambers' "Picture of Scotland," and made several gleanings in Galloway for the "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," published by the same gentleman. He had long contemplated the publication of a description of Galloway, and he ultimately afforded valuable assistance to the Rev. William Mackenzie in preparing his history of that district. Mr Train likewise rendered useful aid to several clergymen in Galloway, in drawing up the statistical accounts of their parishes,--a service which was suitably acknowledged by the writers.
Having obtained from Sir Walter Scott a copy of Waldron's "Description of the Isle of Man," a very scarce and curious work, Mr Train conceived the idea of writing a history of that island. In the course of his researches, he accidentally discovered a M.S. volume containing one hundred and eight acts of the Manx Legislature, prior to the accession of the Atholl family to that kingdom. Of this acquisition he transmitted a transcript to Sir Walter, along with several Manx traditions, as an appropriate acknowledgment for the donation he had received. In 1845 he published his "History of the Isle of Man," in two large octavo volumes. His last work was a curious and interesting history of a religious sect, well known in the south of Scotland by the name of "The Buchanites." After a period of twenty-eight years' service in the Excise, Mr Train had his name placed on the retired list. He continued to reside at Castle-Douglas, in a cottage pleasantly situated on the banks of Carlingwark Lake. To the close of his career, he experienced pleasure in literary composition. He died at Lochvale, Castle-Douglas, on the 7th December 1852. His widow, with one son and one daughter, survive. A few months after his death, a pension of fifty pounds on the Civil List was conferred by the Queen on his widow and daughter, "in consequence of his personal services to literature, and the valuable aid derived by the late Sir Walter Scott from his antiquarian and literary researches prosecuted under Sir Walter's direction."
[114] Mr Train published, in 1806, a small volume, entitled "Poetical Reveries."
[115] Sir Walter Scott was convinced of the accuracy of the statement, regarding the extraordinary connexion between the Wellesley and Bonaparte families, and deferred publishing it only to avoid giving offence to his intimate friend, the Duke of Wellington.
MY DOGGIE.
AIR--_"There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen."_
The neighbours a' they wonder how I am sae ta'en wi' Maggie, But ah! they little ken, I trow, How kind she 's to my doggie. Yestreen as we linked o'er the lea, To meet her in the gloamin'; She fondly on my Bawtie cried, Whene'er she saw us comin'.
But was the tyke not e'en as kind, Though fast she beck'd to pat him; He louped up and slaked her cheek, Afore she could win at him. But save us, sirs, when I gaed in, To lean me on the settle, Atween my Bawtie and the cat There rose an awfu' battle.
An' though that Maggie saw him lay His lugs in bawthron's coggie, She wi' the besom lounged poor chit, And syne she clapp'd my doggie. Sae weel do I this kindness feel, Though Mag she isna bonnie, An' though she 's feckly twice my age, I lo'e her best of ony.
May not this simple ditty show, How oft affection catches, And from what silly sources, too, Proceed unseemly matches; An' eke the lover he may see, Albeit his joe seem saucy, If she is kind unto his dog, He 'll win at length the lassie.
BLOOMING JESSIE.
On this unfrequented plain, What can gar thee sigh alane, Bonnie blue-eyed lassie? Is thy mammy dead and gane, Or thy loving Jamie slain? Wed anither, mak nae main, Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Though I sob and sigh alane, I was never wed to ane, Quo' the blue-eyed lassie. But if loving Jamie's slain, Farewell pleasure, welcome pain, A' the joy wi' him is gane O' poor hapless Jessie.
Ere he cross'd the raging sea, Was he ever true to thee, Bonnie, blooming Jessie? Was he ever frank and free? Swore he constant aye to be? Did he on the roseate lea Ca' thee blooming Jessie?
Ere he cross'd the raging sea, Aft he on the dewy lea, Ca'd me blue-eyed lassie. Weel I mind his words to me, Were, if he abroad should die, His last throb and sigh should be, Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
Far frae hame, and far frae thee, I saw loving Jamie die, Bonnie blue-eyed lassie. Fast a cannon ball did flee, Laid him stretch'd upo' the lea, Soon in death he closed his e'e, Crying, "Blooming Jessie."
Swelling with a smother'd sigh, Rose the snowy bosom high Of the blue-eyed lassie. Fleeter than the streamers fly, When they flit athwart the sky, Went and came the rosy dye On the cheeks of Jessie.
Longer wi' sic grief oppress'd Jamie couldna sae distress'd See the blue-eyed lassie. Fast he clasp'd her to his breast, Told her a' his dangers past, Vow'd that he would wed at last Bonnie, blooming Jessie.
OLD SCOTIA.
I 've loved thee, old Scotia, and love thee I will, Till the heart that now beats in my bosom is still. My forefathers loved thee, for often they drew Their dirks in defence of thy banners of blue; Though murky thy glens, where the wolf prowl'd of yore, And craggy thy mountains, where cataracts roar, The race of old Albyn, when danger was nigh, For thee stood resolved still to conquer or die.
I love yet to roam where the beacon-light rose, Where echoed thy slogan, or gather'd thy foes, Whilst forth rush'd thy heroic sons to the fight, Opposing the stranger who came in his might. I love through thy time-fretted castles to stray, The mould'ring halls of thy chiefs to survey; To grope through the keep, and the turret explore, Where waved the blue flag when the battle was o'er.
I love yet to roam o'er each field of thy fame, Where valour has gain'd thee a glorious name; I love where the cairn or the cromlach is made, To ponder, for low there the mighty are laid. Were these fall'n heroes to rise from their graves, They might deem us dastards, they might deem us slaves; But let a foe face thee, raise fire on each hill, Thy sons, my dear Scotia, will fight for thee still!
ROBERT JAMIESON.
An intelligent antiquary, an elegant scholar, and a respectable writer of verses, Robert Jamieson was born in Morayshire about the year 1780. At an early age he became classical assistant in the school of Macclesfield in Cheshire. About the year 1800 he proceeded to the shores of the Baltic, to occupy an appointment in the Academy of Riga. Prior to his departure, he had formed the scheme of publishing a collection of ballads recovered from tradition, and on his return to Scotland he resumed his plan with the ardour of an enthusiast. In 1806 he published, in two octavo volumes, "Popular Ballads and Songs, from Tradition, Manuscripts, and Scarce Editions; with Translations of Similar Pieces from the Ancient Danish Language, and a few Originals by the Editor." In the preparation of this work, he acknowledges his obligations to Dr Jamieson, author of the "History of the Culdees," Dr Robert Anderson, editor of the "British Poets," Dr John Leyden, and some others. On the recommendation of Sir Walter Scott he was received into the General Register House, as assistant to the Deputy-Clerk-Register, in the publication of the public records. He held this office till 1836, during a period of thirty years. Subsequently he resided at Newhaven, near Edinburgh, and ultimately in London, where he died on the 24th of September 1844. Familiar with the northern languages, he edited, conjointly with Sir Walter Scott and Henry Weber, a learned work, entitled "Illustrations of Northern Antiquities from the Earlier Teutonic and Scandinavian Romances." Edinburgh, 1814, quarto. In 1818 he published, with some contributions from Scott, a new edition of Burt's "Letters from the North of Scotland."
Mr Jamieson was of the middle size, of muscular form, and of strongly-marked features. As a literary antiquary, he was held in high estimation by the men of learning in the capital. As a poet he composed several songs in early life, which are worthy of a place among the modern minstrelsy of his country.
MY WIFE 'S A WINSOME WEE THING.
TUNE--_"My Wife 's a wanton wee Thing."_
My wife 's a winsome wee thing, A bonnie, blythesome wee thing, My dear, my constant wee thing, And evermair sall be; It warms my heart to view her, I canna choose but lo'e her, And oh! weel may I trow her How dearly she lo'es me!
For though her face sae fair be, As nane could ever mair be; And though her wit sae rare be, As seenil do we see; Her beauty ne'er had gain'd me, Her wit had ne'er enchain'd me, Nor baith sae lang retain'd me, But for her love to me.
When wealth and pride disown'd me, A' views were dark around me, And sad and laigh she found me, As friendless worth could be; When ither hope gaed frae me, Her pity kind did stay me, And love for love she ga'e me; And that 's the love for me.
And, till this heart is cald, I That charm of life will hald by; And, though my wife grow auld, my Leal love aye young will be; For she 's my winsome wee thing, My canty, blythesome wee thing, My tender, constant wee thing, And evermair sall be.
GO TO HIM, THEN, IF THOU CAN'ST GO.
Go to him, then, if thou can'st go, Waste not a thought on me; My heart and mind are a' my store, And they were dear to thee. But there is music in his gold (I ne'er sae sweet could sing), That finds a chord in every breast In unison to ring.
The modest virtues dread the spell, The honest loves retire, The purer sympathies of soul Far other charms require. The breathings of my plaintive reed Sink dying in despair, The still small voice of gratitude, Even that is heard nae mair.
But, if thy heart can suffer thee, The powerful call obey, And mount the splendid bed that wealth And pride for thee display. Then gaily bid farewell to a' Love's trembling hopes and fears, While I my lanely pillow here Wash with unceasing tears.
Yet, in the fremmit arms of him That half thy worth ne'er knew, Oh! think na on my lang-tried love, How tender and how true! For sure 'twould break thy gentle heart My breaking heart to see, Wi' a' the wrangs and waes it 's tholed, And yet maun thole for thee.
WALTER WATSON.
Walter Watson was the son of a handloom weaver in the village of Chryston, in the parish of Calder, and county of Lanark, where he was born, on the 29th March 1780. Having a family of other two sons and four daughters, his parents could only afford to send him two years to school; when at the age of eight, he was engaged as a cow-herd. During the winter months he still continued to receive instructions from the village schoolmaster. At the age of eleven his father apprenticed him to a weaver; but he had contracted a love for the fields, and after a few years at the loom he hired himself as a farm-servant. In the hope of improving his circumstances, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed as a sawyer. He now enlisted in the Scots Greys; but after a service of only three years, he was discharged, in June 1802, on the reduction of the army, subsequent to the peace of Amiens. At Chryston he resumed his earliest occupation, and, having married, resolved to employ himself for life at the loom. His spare hours were dedicated to the muse, and his compositions were submitted to criticism at the social meetings of his friends. Encouraged by their approval, he published in 1808 a small volume of poems and songs, which, well received, gained him considerable reputation as a versifier. Some of the songs at once became popular. In 1820 he removed from Chryston, and accepted employment as a sawyer in the villages of Banton and Arnbrae, in Kilsyth; in 1826 he proceeded to Kirkintilloch, where he resumed the labours of the loom; in 1830 he changed his abode to Craigdarroch, in the parish of Calder, from which, in other five years, he removed to Lennoxtown of Campsie, where he and several of his family were employed in an extensive printwork. To Craigdarroch he returned at the end of two years; in other seven years he made a further change to Auchinairn which, in 1849, he left for Duntiblae, in Kirkintilloch. He died at the latter place on the 13th September 1854, in his seventy-fifth year. His remains were interred at Chryston, within a few yards of the house in which he was born. His widow, the "Maggie" of his songs, still survives, with only four of their ten children.
Besides the volume already mentioned, Watson published a small collection of miscellaneous poems in 1823, and a third volume in 1843. A selection of his best pieces was published during the year previous to his death, under the superintendence of several friends in Glasgow, with a biographical preface by Mr Hugh Macdonald. The proceeds of this volume, which was published by subscription, tended to the comfort of the last months of the poet's life. On two different occasions during his advanced years, he received public entertainments, and was presented with substantial tokens of esteem. Of amiable dispositions, modest demeanour, and industrious habits, he was beloved by all to whom he was known. His poems generally abound in genuine Scottish humour, but his reputation will rest upon a few of his songs, which have deservedly obtained a place in the affections of his countrymen.
MY JOCKIE 'S FAR AWA'.
Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers, The woods wi' leaves so green, An' little burds around their bowers In harmony convene; The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree, While saft the zephyrs blaw, But what are a' thae joys to me, When Jockie 's far awa'? When Jockie 's far awa' on sea, When Jockie 's far awa'; But what are a' thae joys to me, When Jockie 's far awa'?
Last May mornin', how sweet to see The little lambkins play, Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me, Did kindly walk this way! On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd, To busk my bosom braw; Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd, But now he 's far awa'. But now, &c.
O gentle peace, return again, Bring Jockie to my arms, Frae dangers on the raging main, An' cruel war's alarms; Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll part While we hae breath to draw; Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart, My Jockie 's far awa'; My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.
MAGGIE AN' ME.
AIR--_"The Banks o' the Dee."_
The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander Amang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea, An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander, To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea; The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin', As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein', An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin' Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.
The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty, The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree, While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty, As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee. Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant, The future, by thee, is made almost the present; Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant, Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.
Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances, An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e, We needit nae art to engage our young fancies, 'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee. Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither, We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither, An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither, Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.
SIT DOWN, MY CRONIE.[116]
Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack, Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back, Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit, We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet; An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet, We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.
Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale, It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale, We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit, We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet, An' sae will we yet, &c.
Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime, Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time; Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit, We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet, An' sae will we yet, &c.
[116] The last stanza of this song has, on account of its Bacchanalian tendency, been omitted.
BRAES O' BEDLAY.[117]
AIR--_"Hills o' Glenorchy."_
When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie, My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day; My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sang Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay. How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes, When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes, Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes That screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.
There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie, An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay," Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane, An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay. I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller, Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her, Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her, It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.
We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie, Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray, Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiled By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay. Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story, Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory, Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary, Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.
[117] The braes of Bedlay are in the neighbourhood of Chryston, about seven miles north of Glasgow.
JESSIE.
AIR--_"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."_
Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie, Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell, Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy, An' luve lilts his tale through the dell? O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie, Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw; The lassies hae doubts about Jessie, Her charms steal their luvers awa'.
I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin', Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean, Your wooers are aften complainin' O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en. I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee, Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast; May luve wi' his blessins abide thee, For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.
I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie, For fear some young laird o' degree May come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy, An' ding a' my prospects agee. There 's naething like gowd to the miser, There 's naething like light to the e'e, But they canna gie me ony pleasure, If Jessie prove faithless to me.
Let us meet on the border, my Jessie, Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye, Though my words may be scant to address ye, My heart will be loupin' wi' joy. If ance I were wedded to Jessie, An' that may be ere it be lang, I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassie That ere was the theme o' a sang.
WILLIAM LAIDLAW.
As the confidential friend, factor, and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, William Laidlaw has a claim to remembrance; the authorship of "Lucy's Flittin'" entitles him to rank among the minstrels of his country. His ancestors on the father's side were, for a course of centuries, substantial farmers in Tweedside, and his father, James Laidlaw, with his wife, Catherine Ballantyne, rented from the Earl of Traquair the pastoral farm of Blackhouse, in Yarrow. William, the eldest of a family of three sons, was born in November 1780. His education was latterly conducted at the Grammar School of Peebles. James Hogg kept sheep on his father's farm, and a strong inclination for ballad-poetry led young Laidlaw to cultivate his society. They became inseparable friends--the Shepherd guiding the fancy of the youth, who, on the other hand, encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.
In the summer of 1801, Laidlaw formed the acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. In quest of materials for the third volume of the "Border Minstrelsy," Scott made an excursion into the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow; he was directed to Blackhouse by Leyden, who had been informed of young Laidlaw's zeal for the ancient ballad. The visit was an eventful one: Scott found in Laidlaw an intelligent friend and his future steward, and through his means formed, on the same day, the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. The ballad of "Auld Maitland," in the third volume of the "Minstrelsy," was furnished by Laidlaw; he recovered it from the recitation of "Will of Phawhope," the maternal uncle of the Shepherd. A correspondence with Scott speedily ripened into friendship; the great poet rapidly passing the epistolary forms of "Sir," and "Dear Sir," into "Dear Mr Laidlaw," and ultimately into "Dear Willie,"--a familiarity of address which he only used as expressive of affection. Struck with his originality and the extent of his acquirements, Scott earnestly recommended him to select a different profession from the simple art of his fathers, especially suggesting the study of medicine. But Laidlaw deemed himself too ripe in years to think of change; he took a farm at Traquair, and subsequently removed to a larger farm at Liberton, near Edinburgh.
The sudden fall in the price of grain at the close of the war, which so severely affected many tenant-farmers, pressed heavily on Laidlaw, and compelled him to abandon his lease. He now accepted the offer of Sir Walter to become steward at Abbotsford, and, accordingly, removed his family in 1817 to Kaeside, a cottage on the estate comfortably fitted up for their reception. Through Scott's recommendation, he was employed to prepare the chronicle of events and publications for the _Edinburgh Annual Register_; and for a short period he furnished a similar record to _Blackwood's Magazine_. He did not persevere in literary labours, his time becoming wholly occupied in superintending improvements at Abbotsford. When Sir Walter was in the country, he was privileged with his daily intercourse, and was uniformly invited to meet those literary characters who visited the mansion. When official duties detained Scott in the capital, Laidlaw was his confidential correspondent. Sir Walter early communicated to him the unfortunate event of his commercial embarrassments, in a letter honourable to his heart. After feelingly expressing his apprehension lest his misfortunes should result in depriving his correspondent of the factorship, Sir Walter proceeds in his letter: "You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to observe the most strict privacy, the better to save expense, and also time. I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all that society can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit." Laidlaw was too conscientious to remain at Abbotsford, to be a burden on his illustrious friend; he removed to his native district, and for three years employed himself in a variety of occupations till 1830, when the promise of brighter days to his benefactor warranted his return. Scott had felt his departure severely, characterising it as "a most melancholy blank," and his return was hailed with corresponding joy. He was now chiefly employed as Sir Walter's amanuensis. During his last illness, Laidlaw was constant in his attendance, and his presence was a source of peculiar pleasure to the distinguished sufferer. After the funeral, Sir Walter's eldest son and his lady presented him with a brooch, their marriage gift to their revered father, which he wore at the time of his decease; it was afterwards worn by his affectionate steward to the close of his life. The death of Scott took place on the 21st of September 1832, and shortly thereafter Laidlaw bade adieu to Abbotsford. He was appointed factor on the Ross-shire property of Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth,--a situation which he subsequently exchanged for the factorship of Sir Charles Lockhart Ross of Balnagowan, in the same county. Compelled to resign the latter appointment from impaired health, he ultimately took up his residence with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw, tenant at Contin, near Dingwall, in whose house he expired on the 18th of May 1845, having attained his sixty-fifth year. At an early age he espoused his cousin, Miss Ballantyne, by whom he had a numerous family. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a sequestered spot under the shade of the elevated Tor-Achilty, amidst the most interesting Highland scenery.
A man of superior shrewdness, and well acquainted with literature and rural affairs, Laidlaw was especially devoted to speculations in science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and entomology, and a considerable geologist. He prepared a statistical account of Innerleithen, wrote a geological description of Selkirkshire, and contributed several articles to the "Edinburgh Encyclopedia." In youth, he was an enthusiast in ballad-lore; and he was especially expert in filling up blanks in the compositions of the elder minstrels. His original metrical productions are limited to those which appear in the present work. "Lucy's Flittin'" is his masterpiece; we know not a more exquisitely touching ballad in the language, with the single exception of "Robin Gray." Laidlaw was a devoted friend, and a most intelligent companion; he spoke the provincial vernacular, but his manners were polished and pleasing. He was somewhat under the middle height, but was well formed and slightly athletic, and his fresh-coloured complexion beamed a generous benignity.
LUCY'S FLITTIN'.[118]
AIR--_"Paddy O'Rafferty."_
'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in', And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't, And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear. For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer; She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.
She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in', Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see. Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in, The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin', Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang. She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.
Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither; Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.
Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me; Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin', I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see, He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.
The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit; The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea, But Lucy likes Jamie;--she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.
[118] This exquisite ballad was contributed by Laidlaw to Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." There are two accounts as to the subject of it, both of which we subjoin, as they were narrated to us during the course of a recent excursion in Tweedside. According to one version, Lucy had been in the service of Mr Laidlaw, sen., at Blackhouse, and had by her beauty attracted the romantic fancy of one of the poet's brothers. In the other account Lucy is described as having served on a farm in "The Glen" of Traquair, and as having been beloved by her master's son, who afterwards deserted her, when she died of a broken heart. The last stanza was added by Hogg, who used to assert that he alone was responsible for the death of poor Lucy. "The Glen" is a beautiful mountain valley opening on the Tweed, near Innerleithen; it formerly belonged to Mr Alexander Allan, but it is now the possession of Charles Tennent, Esq., Glasgow.
HER BONNIE BLACK E'E.
AIR--_"Saw ye my Wee Thing."_
On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander, The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me; I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws, An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree; I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November, The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea; Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain, I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses, Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me; I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes, When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin', When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see; Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin', Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.
Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry, Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be; Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie, An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.
Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never, She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me; An' this is my wish, may I leave it if ever She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.
ALAKE FOR THE LASSIE!
AIR--_"Logie o' Buchan."_
Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a', That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa'; But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain That lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.
The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fain To see my dear laddie, to see him again; My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thought O' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.
The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e, When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee; I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair, For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.
I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw, I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw; I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see, In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.
He never wad see me in ony ae place, At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face; I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa, He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.
My neebour lads strave to entice me awa'; They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw; But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair, For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.
His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind! He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind; An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me-- I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD.
Alexander Macdonald, who has been termed the Byron of Highland Bards, was born on the farm of Dalilea, in Moidart. His father was a non-juring clergyman of the same name; hence the poet is popularly known as _Mac-vaistir-Alaister_, or Alexander the parson's son. The precise date of his birth is unknown, but he seems to have been born about the first decade of the last century. He was employed as a catechist by the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, under whose auspices he afterwards published a vocabulary, for the use of Gaelic schools. This work, which was the first of the kind in the language, was published at Edinburgh in 1741. Macdonald was subsequently elected schoolmaster of his native parish of Ardnamurchan, and was ordained an elder in the parish church. But the most eventful part of his life was yet to come. On the tidings of the landing of Prince Charles Edward, he awoke his muse to excite a rising, buckled on his broadsword, and, to complete his duty to his Prince, apostatised to the Catholic religion. In the army of the Prince he bore an officer's commission. At the close of the Rebellion, he at first sought shelter in Borodale and Arisaig; he afterwards proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of teaching children in the Jacobite connexion. The latter course was attended with this advantage; it enabled him by subscription to print a volume of Gaelic poetry, which contains all his best productions. Returning to his native district, he attempted farming without success, and ultimately he became dependent on the liberality of his relations. He died sometime subsequent to the middle of the century.
Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the descriptive, in which his reading made him largely a borrower; the lyrical in which he excelled; the satirical, in which he was personal and licentious; and the Jacobitical, in which he issued forth treason of the most pestilential character. He has disfigured his verses by incessant appeals to the Muses, and repeated references to the heathen mythology; but his melody is in the Gaelic tongue wholly unsurpassed.
THE LION OF MACDONALD.
This composition was suggested by the success of Caberfae, the clan song of the Mackenzies. Macdonald was ambitious of rivaling, or excelling that famous composition, which contained a provoking allusion to a branch of his own clan. In the original, the song is prefaced by a tremendous philippic against the hero of Caberfae. The bard then strikes into the following strain of eulogy on his own tribe, which is still remarkably popular among the Gael.
Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown, Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119] blossoms crown; Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air, And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare. Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious, To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious; How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle, As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle! Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming, O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right assuming! I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming, As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming. The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing, Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in. A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side, And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide? The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith, And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death. Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind? They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind. Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold, And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told; O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour, And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger; And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara, Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow. Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following, Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing. Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them, Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found all eyes though scanning them. They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever. Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying, And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying. Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan, How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran. O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave, Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive; Nor wants their course the speed, the force, --nor wants their gallant stature, This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water, Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell, So fierce they gush--the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well. Clandonuil's[124] root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem, What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them? Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared; Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard? What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd, in that cloud burst of steel, That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel, While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along, And stranger[125] notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among! Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather, So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather; Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true, Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew, Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed, And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on, And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan. O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud, The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd, Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim, Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126] limb. Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127] Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy; The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best, Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste! That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,-- Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.
[119] The clan badge is a tuft of heather.
[120] The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.
[121] A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.
[122] Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, _Old King Coul_; Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.
[123] The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed to animate the combatants, during the period of excitement.
[124] The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are not quite ascertained; as Sleat, Clanronald, Glengarry, Keppoch, and Glencoe.
[125] _Lit._ Lowland or stranger. Killiecrankie and Sheriff Muir, not to mention Innerlochy and Tippermuir, must have blended the dying shrieks of Lowlanders with the triumphant shouts of the Gael. The image is a fine one.
[126] The armorial emblem was gules.
[127] Prince Charles Edward was expected.
THE BROWN DAIRY-MAIDEN.
Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted the air for his "Banks of the Devon."
My brown dairy, brown dairy, Brown dairy-maiden; Brown dairy-maiden, Bell of the heather!
A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling; Thy glove[128] there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover; When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis, As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over; Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee, And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover. To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing, Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover. My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all, For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy! White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending, And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry; Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in, An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry; At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying, From the tresses[129] they 're playing of the maid of the dairy. My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming, And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming. Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common. Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining, How their lustre is shining in union becoming! My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer, O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding, When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever! The music of milking, with melodies lilting, While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over, Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becoming As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover. My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.
[128] Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a great figure in their poetry.
[129] The most frequent of all song-images in Gaelic, is the description of yellow or auburn hair.
THE PRAISE OF MORAG.
This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or Amaryllis _ideal_ of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the "Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best modern composition in their language.
URLAR.
O that I were the shaw in,[130] When Morag was there, Lots to be drawing For the prize of the fair! Mingling in your glee, Merry maidens! We Rolicking would be The flow'rets along; Time would pass away In the oblivion of our play, As we cropp'd the primrose gay, The rock-clefts among; Then in mock we 'd fight, Then we 'd take to flight, Then we 'd lose us quite, Where the cliffs overhung.
Like the dew-drop blue In the mist of morn So thine eye, and thy hue Put the blossom to scorn. All beauties they shower On thy person their dower; Above is the flower, Beneath is the stem; 'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers, 'Tis a star 'mid the streamers, 'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers The foremost of them! Darkens eye-sight at thy ray! As we wonder, still we say Can it be a thing of clay We see in that gem?
Since thy first feature Sparkled before me, Fair! not a creature Was like thy glory.[131]....
[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed.
[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in the poet's eye.
SIUBHAL.
Away with all, away with all, Away with all but Morag, A maid whose grace and mensefulness Still carries all before it. You shall not find her marrow, For beauty without furrow, Though you search the islands thorough From Muile[132] to the Lewis; So modest is each feature, So void of pride her nature, And every inch of stature To perfect grace so true is.[133]
* * * * *
O that drift, like a pillow, We madden to share it; O that white of the lily, 'Tis passion to near it; Every charm in a cluster, The rose adds its lustre-- Can it be but such muster Should banish the Spirit!
URLAR.
We would strike the note of joy In the morning, The dawn with its orangery The hill-tops adorning. To bush and fell resorting, While the shades conceal'd our courting, Would not be lack of sporting Or gleeful _phrenesie_; Like the roebuck and his mate, In their woodland haunts elate The race we would debate Around the tendril tree.
SIUBHAL.
Thou bright star of maidens, A beam without haze, No murkiness saddens, No disk-spot bewrays. The swan-down to feeling, The snow of the gaillin,[134] Thy limbs all excelling, Unite to amaze. The queen, I would name thee, Of maidenly muster; Thy stem is so seemly, So rich is its cluster Of members complete, Adroit at each feat, And thy temper so sweet, Without banning or bluster. My grief has press'd on Since the vision of Morag, As the heavy millstone On the cross-tree that bore it. In vain the world over, Seek her match may the rover; A shaft, thy poor lover, First struck overpowering.
When thy ringlets of gold, With the crooks of their fold, Thy neck-wards were roll'd All weavy and showering. Like stars that are ring'd, Like gems that are string'd Are those locks, while, as wing'd From the sun, blends a ray Of his yellowest beams; And the gold of his gleams Behold how he streams 'Mid those tresses to play. In thy limbs like the canna,[135] Thy cinnamon kiss, Thy bright kirtle, we ken a' New phoenix of bliss. In thy sweetness of tone, All the woman we own, Nor a sneer nor a frown On thy features appear; When the crowd is in motion For Sabbath devotion,[136] As an angel, arose on Their vision, my fair With her meekness of grace, And the flakes of her dress, As they stream, might express Such loveliness there. When endow'd at thy birth We marvel that earth From its mould, should yield worth Of a fashion so rare.
URLAR.
I never dream'd would sink On a peak that mounts world's brink, Of sunlight, such a blink, Morag! as thine. As the charmings of a spell, Working in their cell, So dissolves the heart where dwell Thy graces divine.
SIUBHAL.
Come, counsel me, my comrades, While dizzy fancy lingers, Did ever flute become, lads, The motion of such fingers? Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137] Or see or hear, before her, Such gracefulness, adore her Yet, woes me, how concealing From her I 've wedded, dare I? Still, homeward bound, I tarry, And Jeanie's eye is weary, Her truant unrevealing. The glow of love I feel, Not all the linns of Sheil, Nor Cruachan's snow avail To cool to congealing.[138]....
CRUNLUATH.
My very brain is humming, sirs, As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs, And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs, My passion such a flame is. My very eyes are blinding, sirs, Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs, Nor height nor distance minding, sirs, The crag, as Corrie, tame is....
[132] Mull.
[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.
[134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation and periodic visits to the Islands.
[135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors.
[136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion.
[137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders.
NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.
Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the mask of civility.
Glad tidings for the Highlands! To arms a ringing call-- Hammers storming, targets forming, Orb-like as a ball.[139] Withers dismay the pale array, That guards the Hanoverian; Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er, The help is nigh we weary on. From friendly east a breeze shall haste The fruit-freight of our prayer-- With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140] A prince to do and dare; Stuart his name, his sire's the same, For his riffled crown appealing, Strong his right in, soon shall Britain Be humbled to the kneeling. Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield, And firearms play defiance; Forwards they fly, and still their cry, Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions. Make ready for your travel, Be sharp-set, and be willing, There will be a dreadful revel, And liquor red be spilling. O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife, Are burning for the slaughter, Would let their volley, like fire to holly, Blaze on the usurping traitor. Full many a soldier arming, Is laggard in his spirit, E'er his blood the flag is warming Of the King that should inherit. He may be loon or coward, That spur scarce touch would nearly-- The colours shew, he 's in a glow, Like the stubble of the barley. Onward, gallants! onward speed ye, Flower and bulwark of the Gael; Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy, Rosy-red, and do not quail. Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous, As your princely strain beseems, In your hands, alert for conflict, While the Spanish weapon gleams.-- Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143] Humming music to the gale; Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144] Proud the banner staff to bear. A slashing weapon on his thigh, He tends his charge unfearing; Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh, To the gristle nostrils sheering. Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight, The finger white, the clever, he That gives the war-pipe his embrace To raise the storm of bravery. A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring Battle-sounding breeze of her Would stir the spirit of the clans To rake the heart of Lucifer. March ye, without feint and dolour, By the banner of your clan, In your garb of many a colour, Quelling onset to a man. Then, to see you swiftly baring From the sheath the manly glaive, Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing Marrow-showering of the brave! Woe the clattering, weapon-battering Answering to the piobrach's yell! When your racing speeds the chasing, Wide and far the clamours swell. Hard blows whistle from the bristle Of the temples to the thigh, Heavy handed as the land-flood, Who will turn ye, or make fly? Many a man has drunk an ocean Healths to Charlie, to the gorge, Broken many a glass proposing Weal to him and woe to George; But, 'tis feat of greater glory Far, than stoups of wine to trowl, One draught of vengeance deep and gory, Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl! Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all, Join ye to your clans your cheer! Nor heed though wife and child pursue all, Bidding you to fight, forbear. Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty, Gallant in your loyal pride, By your hacking, low as bracken Stretch the foe the turf beside. Our stinging kerne of aspect stern That love the fatal game, That revel rife till drunk with strife, And dye their cheeks with flame, Are strange to fear;--their broadswords shear Their foemen's crested brows, The red-coats feel the barb of steel, And hot its venom glows. The few have won fields, many a one, In grappling conflicts' play; Then let us march, nor let our hearts A start of fear betray. Come gushing forth, the trusty North, Macshimei,[145] loyal Gordon; And prances high their chivalry, And death-dew sits each sword on.
[138] Here Morag's musical performance on the flute, form the subject of a panegyric, in which Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath are imitated.
[139] "Round as the shield of my fathers."--_Ossian_.
[140] The French military costume, distinguished by its white colour, was assumed by the Jacobites.
[141] "Come, and I will give you flesh," a Highland war-cry invoking the birds and beasts of prey to their bloody revel.
[142] Macdonald of Sleat, Macleod, and others, first hesitated, and finally withheld themselves from the party of the white cockade.
[143] Flag.
[144] Warrior.
[145] Lovat and his clan.
JOHN ROY STUART.
John Roy Stuart was a distinguished officer in the Jacobite army of 1745. He was the son of a farmer in Strathspey, who gave him a good education, and procured him a commission in a Highland regiment, which at the period served in Flanders. His military experiences abroad proved serviceable in the cause to which he afterwards devoted himself. In the army of Prince Charles Edward, he was entrusted with important commands at Gladsmuir, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; and he was deemed of sufficient consequence to be pursued by the government with an amount of vigilance which rendered his escape almost an approach to the miraculous. An able military commander, he was an excellent poet. His "Lament for Lady Macintosh" has supplied one of the most beautiful airs in Highland music.[146] In the second of his pieces on the battle of Culloden, translated for the present work, the lamentation for the absence of the missing clans, and the night march to the field, are executed with the skill and address of a genuine bard, while the story of the battle is recited with the fervour of an honourable partisan. Stuart died abroad in circumstances not differing from those of the best and bravest, who were engaged in the same unhappy enterprise.
[146] See the Rev. Patrick Macdonald's Collection, No. 106.
LAMENT FOR LADY MACINTOSH.
This is the celebrated heroine who defended her castle of Moy, in the absence of her husband, and, with other exploits, achieved the surprisal of Lord Loudon's party in their attempt to seize Prince Charles Edward, when he was her guest. Information had been conveyed by some friendly unknown party, of a kind so particular as to induce the lady to have recourse to the following stratagem. She sent the blacksmith on her estate, at the head of a party of other seven persons, with instructions to lie in ambush, and at a particular juncture to call out to the clans to come on and hew to pieces "the scarlet soldiers," as were termed the royalist troops. The feint succeeded, and is known in Jacobite story as the "Route of Moy." The exploit is pointedly alluded to in the Elegy, which is replete with beauty and pathos.
Does grief appeal to you, ye leal, Heaven's tears with ours to blend? The halo's veil is on, and pale The beams of light descend. The wife repines, the babe declines, The leaves prolong their bend, Above, below, all signs are woe, The heifer moans her friend.
The taper's glow of waxen snow, The ray when noon is nigh, Was far out-peer'd, till disappear'd Our star of morn, as high The southern west its blast released, And drown'd in floods the sky-- Ah woe! was gone the star that shone, Nor left a visage dry For her, who won as win could none The people's love so well. O, welaway! the dirging lay That rung from Moy its knell; Alas, the hue, where orbs of blue, With roses wont to dwell! How can we think, nor swooning sink, To earth them in the cell?
Silk wrapp'd thy frame, as lily stem, And snowy as its flower, So once, and now must love allow, The grave chest such a dower! The fairest shoot of noble root A blast could overpower; 'Tis woman's meed for chieftain's deed, That bids our eyes to shower.
Beseems his grief the princely chief, Who reins the charger's pride, And gives the gale the silken sail, That flaps the standard's side; Who from the hall where sheds at call, The generous shell its tide, And from the tower where Meiners'[147] power Prevails, brought home such bride.
[147] She was a daughter of Menzies of that Ilk, in Perthshire. The founder of the family was a De Moyeners, in the reign of William the Lion. The name in Gaelic continued to testify to its original, being _Meini_, or _Meinarach_.
THE DAY OF CULLODEN.
Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust, And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground; So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear, Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound. For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown; The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued, While the base-born[148] by hosts is secured on the throne? Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace, Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small, Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight, But the musters that failed at the moment of call-- Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world, Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day; Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril, Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array? Where the sons of the glen,[149] the Clan-gregor, in vain That never were hail'd to the carnage of war-- Where Macvurich,[150] the child of victory styled? How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar! Clan-donuil,[151] my bosom friend, woe that the blossom That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd, Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd! And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's[152] command, And the Farquharsons[153] bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd, So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand. But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead, As I think of Clan-chattan,[154] the foremost in fight; Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime, And woe that the left[155] had not stood at the right! Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn, And Alister Rua the king of the feast; And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart, Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased. In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright, Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced; Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning, When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast. As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil, Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather, That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor, Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed, And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun, Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger, And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.[156] Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong To our forces, the wiles of the traitor[157] have wrought; To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought. His gorget he spurns, and his mantle[158] he turns, And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue; But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal, From the south or the north, the award of his due. And fell William,[159] the son of the man on the throne, Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree; May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be As barren and bare--not a partner to share, Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace; Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour, Like Egypt, the darkness and loss of his race! Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high, And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey, And the lieges each one, from the child to the man, The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.
[148] George the First's Queen was a divorcée. The Jacobites retorted the alleged spuriousness of the Chevalier de St George, on George II., the reigning Sovereign.
[149] _Glengyle_, and his Macgregors, were on their way from the Sutherland expedition, but did not reach in time to take part in the
## action.
[150] Macpherson of Clunie, the hero of the night skirmish at Clifton, and with his clan, greatly distinguished in the Jacobite wars.
[151] Macdonald of the Isles refused to join the Prince.
[152] Of the routed army, the division whereof the Frazers formed the greater number fled to Inverness. Being the least considerable in force, they were pursued by the Duke of Cumberland's light horse, and almost entirely massacred.
[153] The Farquharsons formed part of the unfortunate right wing in the battle, and suffered severely.
[154] The Mackintoshes, whose impetuosity hurried the right wing into
## action before the order to engage had been transmitted over the lines.
They were of course the principal sufferers.
[155] An allusion to the provocation given to the Macdonalds of Clanranald, Glengarry, and Keppoch, by being deprived of their usual position--the right wing. Their motions are supposed to have been tardy in consequence. The poet was himself in the right wing.
[156] The unfortunate night-march of the Highlanders is described with historic truth and great poetic effect.
[157] Roy Stuart lived and died in the belief (most unfounded, it seems), that Lord George Murray was bribed and his army betrayed.
[158] Military orders received from the Court of St Germains.
[159] The Duke of Cumberland.
JOHN MORRISON.
John Morrison was a native of Perthshire. Sometime before 1745 he was settled as missionary at Amulree, a muirland district near Dunkeld. In 1759 he became minister of Petty, a parish in the county of Inverness. He obtained his preferment in consequence of an interesting incident in his history. The proprietor of Delvine in Perthshire, who was likewise a Writer to the Signet, was employed in a legal process, which required _a diligence_ to be executed against one of the clan Frazer. A design to waylay and murder the official employed in the _diligence_ had been concerted. This came to the knowledge of a clergyman who ministered in a parish chiefly inhabited by the Lovat tenantry. The minister, afraid of openly divulging the design, on account of the unsettled nature of his flock, begged an immediate visit from his friend, Mr Morrison, who speedily returned to Perthshire with information to the laird of Delvine. The Frazers found the authority of the law supported by a sufficient force; and Mr Morrison was rewarded by being presented, through the influence of the laird of Delvine, to the parish of Petty. Amidst professional engagements discharged with zeal and acceptance, Morrison found leisure for the composition of verses. Two of his lyrics are highly popular among the Gael; one of them we offer as a specimen, and an improved version of the other will afterwards appear in the present work. Mr Morrison died in November 1774.
MY BEAUTY DARK.
The heroine of this piece was a young lady who became the author's wife, upon an acquaintance originally formed by the administration of the ordinance of baptism to her in infancy.
My beauty dark, my glossy bright, Dark beauty, do not leave me; They call thee dark, but to my sight Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.
'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,[160] Came tirling at my door, The image of a lovely lass That haunts me evermore.
Beside my sleeping couch she stood, And now she mars my rest; Still as I try the solemn mood, She hunts it from my breast.
At lecture and at study That ankle white I span, Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,-- A fay I seem to scan.
Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray That dashes to the side, Or like the silver-tail'd that play Their gambols in the tide.
As heaps of snow on mountain brow When shed the clouds their fleece, Or churn of waves when tempest raves, Thy swelling limbs in grace.
Thy eyes are black as berries, Thy cheeks are waxen dyed, And on thy temple tarries The raven's dusk, my pride!
Gives light below each slim eye-brow A swelling orb of blue, In April meads so glance the beads, In May the honey-dew.
Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap, But sheaf-like, neatly bound Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream As bright thine ears around.
Those raven spires of hair, that fair, That turret-bosom's shine! False friends! from me that banish'd thee, Who fain would call thee mine.
No lilts I spin, their love to win, The viol strings I shun, But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear My wisdom, dearest one!
[160] Evidently a Valentine morning surprise.
ROBERT MACKAY.
THE HIGHLANDER'S HOME SICKNESS.
We have been favoured by Mr William Sinclair with the following spirited translation of Mackay's first address to the fair-haired Anna, the heroine of the "Forsaken Drover" (vol. i. p. 315). In the enclosures of Crieff, the Highland bard laments his separation from the hills of Sutherland, and the object of his love.
Easy is my pillow press'd But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest; Northwards do the shrill winds blow-- Thither do my musings go!
Better far with thee in groves, Where the young deers sportive roam, Than where, counting cattle droves, I must sickly sigh for home. Great the love I bear for her Where the north winds wander free, Sportive, kindly is her air, Pride and folly none hath she!
Were I hiding from my foes, Aye, though fifty men were near, I should find concealment close In the shieling of my dear. Beauty's daughter! oh, to see Days when homewards I 'll repair-- Joyful time to thee and me-- Fair girl with the waving hair!
Glorious all for hunting then, The rocky ridge, the hill, the fern; Sweet to drag the deer that 's slain Downwards by the piper's cairn! By the west field 'twas I told My love, with parting on my tongue; Long she 'll linger in that fold, With the kine assembled long!
Dear to me the woods I know, Far from Crieff my musings are; Still with sheep my memories go, On our heath of knolls afar: Oh, for red-streak'd rocks so lone! Where, in spring, the young fawns leap, And the crags where winds have blown-- Cheaply I should find my sleep.
END OF VOL. II.
GLOSSARY.
_Aboon_, above.
_Ava_, at all.
_Baldron_, name for a cat.
_Bauld_, bold.
_Bawbee_, halfpenny.
_Bawsint_, a white spot on the forehead of cow or horse.
_Bawtie_, name for a dog.
_Beild_, shelter, refuge, protection.
_Ben_, the spence or parlour.
_Blethers_, nonsensical talk.
_Blewart_, a flower, the blue bottle, witch bells.
_Bob_, nosegay, bunch, or tuft; also to curtsey.
_Bobbin_, a weaver's quill or pirn.
_Bonspiel_, a match at archery, curling, golf, or foot-ball.
_Bourtree_, the elder tree or shrub.
_Braggin_, boasting.
_Braken_, the female fern (_pterisaquilina_, Linn.)
_Bree_, the eyebrow.
_Brochin_, oatmeal boiled in water till somewhat thicker than gruel.
_Brogues_, shoes made of sheepskin.
_Bught_, a pen for sheep.
_Burn_, a stream.
_Buskit_, dressed tidily.
_Buss_, a bush.
_Cairny_, heap of stones.
_Camstrarie_, froward, cross, and unmanageable.
_Cantrips_, spells, charms, incantations.
_Carline_, an old woman.
_Chap_, a blow, also a young fellow.
_Cleading_, clothing.
_Cleck_, to hatch, to breed.
_Clout_, to strike with the hand, also to mend a hole in clothes or shoes.
_Coof_, a fool.
_Coost_, cast.
_Corrie_, a hollow in a hill.
_Cosie_, warm, snug.
_Cower_, to crouch, to stoop.
_Cranreugh_, the hoarfrost.
_Croodle_, to coo as a dove, to sing with a low voice.
_Crowdy_, meal and cold water stirred together.
_Dab_, to peck as birds do.
_Daddy_, father.
_Daff_, to make sport.
_Dantit_, subdued, tamed down.
_Dawtie_, a pet, a darling.
_Doo_, dove.
_Dool_, grief.
_Doops_, dives down.
_Downa_, expressive of inability.
_Dreeping_, dripping, wet.
_Drucket_, drenched.
_Drumly_, muddy.
_Dub_, a mire.
_Dumpish_, short and thick.
_Eild_, old.
_Eirie_, dreading things supernatural.
_Eithly_, easily.
_Ettled_, aimed.
_Fardin_, farthing.
_Feckly_, mostly.
_Fend_, to provide for oneself, also to defend.
_Fleeched_, flattered, deceived.
_Forby_, besides.
_Freenge_, fringe.
_Fremmit_, strange, foreign.
_Gabbin_, jeering.
_Ganger_, a pedestrian.
_Gar_, compel.
_Gaucie_, plump, jolly.
_Gawkie_, a foolish female.
_Gie_, give.
_Glamour_, the influence of a charm.
_Glint_, a glance.
_Gloaming_, the evening twilight.
_Glower_, to look staringly.
_Glum_, gloomy.
_Gowd_, gold.
_Graffs_, graves.
_Graith_, gear.
_Grane_, groan.
_Grat_, wept.
_Grecie_, a little pig.
_Grup_, grasp.
_Haet_, a whit.
_Hauds_, holds.
_Hecht_, called, named.
_Heftit_, familiarised to a place.
_Hie_, high.
_Hinney_, honey, also a term of endearment.
_Hirple_, to walk haltingly.
_Howe_, hollow.
_Howkit_, dug.
_Howlet_, an owl.
_Hurkle_, to bow down to.
_Ilka_, each.
_Jaupit_, bespattered.
_Jeel_, jelly.
_Jimp_, neat, slender.
_Kaim_, comb.
_Ken_, know.
_Keust_, threw off.
_Kippered_, salmon salted, hung and dried.
_Kith_, acquaintance.
_Kittle_, difficult, uncertain.
_Kye_, cows.
_Laigh_, low.
_Laith_, loth.
_Lapt_, enwrapped.
_Leeve_, live.
_Leeze me_, a term of congratulatory endearment.
_Lift_, the sky.
_Loof_, the palm of the hands.
_Lowe_, flame.
_Lucken_, webbed.
_Lugs_, ears.
_Lum_, a chimney.
_Lure_, allure.
_Lyart_, of a mixed colour, gray.
_Mawn_, mown, a basket.
_May_, maiden.
_Mense_, honour, discretion.
_Mickle_, much.
_Mim_, prim, prudish.
_Mirk_, darkness.
_Mools_, dust, the earth of the grave.
_Mullin_, crumb.
_Mutch_, woman's cap.
_Naig_, a castrated horse.
_Neive_, the fist.
_Niddered_, stunted in growth.
_Niffer_, to exchange.
_Nip_, to pinch.
_Oons_, wounds.
_Opt_, opened.
_Outower_, outover, also moreover.
_Owk_, week.
_Owsen_, oxen.
_Paitrick_, partridge.
_Pawkie_, cunning, sly.
_Pleugh_, plough.
_Pliskie_, a trick.
_Rax_, reach.
_Rede_, to counsel--advice, wisdom.
_Reefer_, river.
_Reft_, bereft, deprived.
_Rocklay_, a short cloak or surplice.
_Roke_, a distaff, also to swing.
_Rowes_, rolls.
_Runts_, the trunks of trees, the stem of colewort.
_Saughs_, willow-trees.
_Scowl_, to frown.
_Scrimpit_, contracted.
_Scroggie_, abounding with stunted bushes.
_Shanks-naigie,_ to travel on foot.
_Sheiling_, a temporary cottage or hut.
_Sinsyne_, after that period.
_Skipt_, went lightly and swiftly along.
_Sleekit_, cunning.
_Slockin_, to allay thirst.
_Smoored_, smothered.
_Soughs_, applied to the breathing a tune, also the sighing of the wind.
_Sowdie_, a heterogeneous mess.
_Speer_, ask.
_Spulzien_, spoiling.
_Squinting_, looking obliquely.
_Staigie_, the diminutive of staig, a young horse.
_Starn_, star.
_Swither_, to hesitate.
_Tane_, the one of two.
_Tent_, care.
_Tether_, halter.
_Teuch_, tough.
_Theek_, thatch.
_Thole_, to endure.
_Thraw_, to throw, to twist.
_Thrawart_, froward, perverse.
_Timmer_, timber.
_Tint_, lost.
_Toom_, empty.
_Tout_, shout.
_Tramps_, heavy-footed travellers.
_Trig_, neat, trim.
_Trow_, to make believe.
_Tyne_, lose.
_Wabster_, weaver.
_Wae_, sad, sorrowful.
_Warsled_, wrestled.
_Wat_, wet, also to know.
_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.
_Weir_, war, also to herd.
_Whilk_, which.
_Wysed_, enticed.
_Yate_, gate.
_Yeldrin_, a yellow hammer.
_Yird_, earth, soil.
_Yirthen_, earthen.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.
Project Gutenberg's The Modern Scottish Minstrel, Volume III, by Various
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[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D. F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. III.
ABBOTSFORD
EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Allan Cunningham.
Lithographed for the Modern Scottish Minstrel, by Schenck & McFarlane.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D., F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL. III
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY. M.DCCC.LVI.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PAUL'S WORK.
TO
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL SIR JAMES EDWARD ALEXANDER, K.L.S., AND K.ST.J.,
A DISTINGUISHED TRAVELLER, A GALLANT OFFICER, AND A PATRIOTIC SCOTSMAN,
THIS THIRD VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SENTIMENTS OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT, FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
SCOTTISH AND HELLENIC MINSTRELSY:
An Essay.
BY JAMES DONALDSON, A.M.
Men who compare themselves with their nearest neighbours are almost invariably conceited, speak boastingly of themselves, and disrespectfully of others. But if a man extend his survey, if he mingle largely with people whose feelings and opinions have been modified by quite different circumstances, the result is generally beneficial. The very act of accommodating his mind to foreign modes of thought expands his nature; and he becomes more liberal in his sentiments, more charitable in his construction of deeds, and more capable of perceiving real goodness under whatever shape it may present itself. So when a Scotsman criticises Scotch poetry viewed by itself alone, he is apt to be carried away by his patriotism,--he sees only the delightful side of the subject, and he ventures on assertions which flatter himself and his country at the expense of all other nations. If, however, we place the productions of our own country side by side with those of another, the excellences and the deficiencies of both are seen in stronger relief; the contrasts strike the mind, and the heart is widened by sympathising with goodness and beauty diversely conceived and diversely portrayed. For this reason, we shall attempt a brief comparison of Hellenic and Scottish songs.
Before we enter on our characterisation of these, we must glance at the materials which we have to survey. Greek lyric poetry arose about the beginning of the eighth century before the Christian era, and continued in full bloom down to the time when it passed into drama on the Athenian stage. The names of the poets are universally known, and have become, indeed, almost part of our poetic language. Every one speaks of an Anacreon, a Sappho, and a Pindar; and the names of Archilochus, Alcman, Alcæus, Stesichorus, Simonides, Ibycus, and Bacchylides, if not so often used, are yet familiar to most. Few of these lyrists belonged to Greece proper. They belonged to Greece only in the sense in which the Greeks themselves used the word, as including all the colonies which had gone forth from the motherland. Most of the early Greek song-writers dwelt in Asia Minor--some were born in the islands of the Cyclades, and some in Southern Italy; but all of them were proud of their Greek origin, all of them were thorough Greeks in their hearts. It is only the later bards who were born and brought up on the Greek mainland, and most of these lived to see the day when almost all the lyric poets took their grandest flights in the choral odes of their dramas. These odes, however, do not fall within the province of our comparison. The lyrical efforts both of Æschylus and Sophocles were inwoven with the structure of their plays, the chorus in Æschylus being generally one of the actors; and they have their modern representatives, not in the songs of the people, but in the arias of operas. Setting these aside, we have few genuine efforts of the Greek lyric muse belonging to the dramatic period--the most important being several songs sung by the Greeks at their banquets, which have fortunately been preserved. After this era, we have no lyric poems of the Greeks worth mentioning. The verse-writers took henceforth to epigrams--epigrams on everything on the face of the earth. These have been collected into the "Greek Anthology;" but the greater part of them are contemptible in a poetic point of view. They are interesting as throwing light on the times; but they are weak and vapid as expressions of the beatings of the human heart, and they are full of conceits. Besides these, there are the Anacreontic odes, known to all Greek scholars and to a great number of English, since they have been frequently translated. With one or two exceptions, they were all written between the third and twelfth centuries of the Christian era, though some scholars have boldly asserted that they were forgeries even of a later date. Most of them seem to be expansions of lines of Anacreon. They are in general neat, pretty, and gaysome, but tame and insincere. There is nothing like earnestness in them, nothing like genuine deep feeling; but thus they are all the more suited for a certain class of lovers and drinkers, who do not wish to be greatly moved by anything under the sun.
Scotch lyric poetry may be said to commence with the lyrics attributed to James I., or with those of Henryson. There is clear proof, indeed, that long before this time the Scotch were much given to song-making and song-singing; but of these early popular lilts, almost nothing remains. Henryson's lyrics, however, belonged more to the class that were intended to be read than to be sung, and this is true of a considerable number of his successors, such as Dunbar, and Maitland of Lethington, who were learned men, and wrote with a learned air, even when writing for the people. The Reformation, as surely as it threw down every carved stone, shut up the mouth of every profane songster. Wedderburne's "Haly Ballats" may have been spared for a time by the iconoclasts, because they had helped to build up their own temple; but they could not survive long,--they were cast in a profane mould, they were sung to profane tunes, and away they must go into oblivion. Our song-writers, for a long time after, are unknown minstrels, who had no character to lose by making or singing profane songs,--they were of the people, and sang for them. So matters continued, until, at the commencement of the eighteenth century, Scottish songs began to be the rage both in England and Scotland, and an eager desire arose to gather up old snatches and preserve them. Henceforth Scotch poetry held up its head, and a few remarkable poets won their way into the hearts of large masses of the people. At last appeared the emancipator of Scottish song in the form of a ploughman, stirring the deepest feelings of all classes with songs that may be justly styled the best of all national popular songs, and for ever settling the claims of a song-writer to one of the highest niches in the temple of Fame.
The first thing that strikes us, on dipping into a book of Greek songs, and then a book of Scotch, is the different position of the poets. The Greek poet was regarded as a kind of superior being--an interpreter between gods and men; and, supposed to be under the special protection of Divinity, he was highly honoured and reverenced wherever he went. The Scotch bard, on the other hand, is a poor wanderer, whose name is unknown, who received little respect, and whose knowledge of God and the higher purposes of life cannot be reckoned in any way great. There may be a few exceptions. We find nobles sometimes writing popular songs, and occasionally a learned man may have contributed strains; but these are generally not superior either in wit, pathos, or morality, to the verses of the unknown and hard-toiling. This striking contrast arises from a change that had taken place in the history of song. In Greece, all the teeming ideas of the fertile-minded people found expression in harmonious measures, and their songs touched every chord of their varied existence. This was partly owing to their innate love of melody, and
## partly to the public life which they led. From the earliest ages, they
were fond of sweet sounds; and their continual public gatherings gave innumerable opportunities for using their vocal powers unitedly, and turning music to all its best and noblest purposes. They sang sacred songs as they marched in procession to their temples; and on entering, they hymned the praises of the gods. When they rushed on to battle, they shouted their inspiring war-songs; and if victory crowned the fight, the battle-field rang with their joyous pæans, and their poets tuned their lyres in honour of the brave that had fallen. A victor in the Olympic games would have lost one of his greatest rewards, if no poet had sung his fame. Then, in their banquets, the Greeks amused themselves in stringing together pretty verses, and joined in merry and jovial drinking-songs. If there happened to be a marriage, the young people assembled round the house, and late in the evening and early in the morning sang the praises of bride and bridegroom, prayed for blessings on the couple, and sometimes discussed the comparative blessedness of single and married life. Or if a notable person happened to die, his dirge was sung, and the poet composed an encomium on him, full of wise reflections on destiny, and the fate that awaits all. There was, in fact, no public occasion which the Greeks did not beautify with song.
It is entirely different with us. Our minister now performs the function of the Greek poet at marriages and funerals. Our funeral sermons and newspaper paragraphs have taken the place of the Greek encomiums. Our fiddles or piano do duty instead of the Greek dithyrambs, hyporchems, and other dancing songs. Our warriors are either left unsung, or celebrated in verse that reads much better than it sings. The members of the "Benevolent Pugilistic Association" do not stand so high in the British opinion as the wrestlers of old stood in the Greek; and our jockeys have fallen frightfully from the grand position which the Greek racers occupied in the plains of Olympia. Very few in these days would think the champion of England, or the winner of the Derby, worth a noble ode full of old traditions and exalted religious aspirations. Through various causes, song has thus come to be very circumscribed in its limits, and to perform duty within a comparatively small sphere in modern life.
Indeed, song in these days does exactly what the Greeks rarely attempted: it concerns itself with private life, and especially with that most characteristic feature of modern private life--love. Love is, consequently, the main topic of Scottish song. It is a theme of which neither the song-writer nor the song-singer ever wearies. It is the one great passion with which the universal modern mind sympathises, and from the expressions of which it quaffs inexhaustible delight. This holds true even of the cynical people who profess a distaste for love and lovers. For love has for them its comic side,--it appears to them exquisitely humorous in the human weakness it causes and brings to light; and if they do not enjoy the song in its praise, they seldom fail to laugh heartily at the description of the plights into which it leads its devotees.
Perhaps no country contains a richer collection of love-songs than Scotland. We have a song for every phase of the motley-faced passion,--from its ludicrous aspect to its highest and most rapturous form. Every pulsation of the heart, as moved by love, has had its poetic expression; and we have lovers pouring out the depths of their souls to all kinds of maids, and in all kinds of situations. And maids are represented as bodying forth their feelings, also, under the sway of love. Many of these feminine lyrics are written by women themselves. Some of them exult in the full return which their love meets; but for the most part, it is a keen sorrow that forces women to poetic composition. They thus contribute our most pathetic songs--wails sometimes over blasted hopes and blighted love, as in "Waly, Waly;" or over the death of a deeply-loved one, as in Miss Blamire's "Waefu' Heart;" or over the loss of the brave who have fallen in battle, as in Miss Jane Elliot's "Flowers of the Forest."
Peculiarly characteristic of Scotland are the songs that describe the development of love, after the lovers have been married. Here the comical phase is most predominant. For the most part, the Scottish songster delights in describing the quarrels between the goodman and the goodwife--the goodwife in the early poems invariably succeeding in making John yield to her. Sometimes, however, there is a deeper and purer current of feeling, to which Burns especially has given expression. How intensely beautiful is the affection in "John Anderson, my Jo!" And we have in "Are ye sure the news is true?" the whole character of a very loving wife brought out by a simple incident in her life,--the expected return of her husband. Some of these songs also have been written by poetesses, such as Lady Nairn's exquisite "Land of the Leal;" and really there is such delicacy, such minute accuracy in the portrayal of a woman's feelings in "Are ye sure the news is true?" that one cannot help thinking it must have been written by Jean Adams, or some woman, rather than by Mickle:--
"His very foot has music in 't, As he comes up the stair."
What man has an ear so delicate as to hear such music?
The contrast between Greek poetry and Scotch is very marked in this point. There is not one Greek lyric devoted to what we should designate love, with perhaps something like an exception in Alcman. In fact, while moderns rarely make a tragedy or comedy, a poem or novel, without some love-concern which is the pivot of the whole, all the great poems and dramas of the ancients revolve on entirely different passions. Love, such as we speak of, was of rather rare occurrence. Women were in such a low position, that it was a condescension to notice them,--there was no chivalrous feeling in regard to them; they were made to feel the dominion of their absolute lords and masters. Besides this, the greater number of them were confined to their private chambers, and seldom saw any man who was not nearly related. Those who were on free terms of intercourse with men, were for the most part strangers, whose morals were low, and who could not be expected to win the respectful esteem of true lovers. The men enjoyed the society of these--their tumbling, dancing, singing, and lively chat; but the distance was too great to permit that deep devotion which characterises modern love. Moreover, when a Greek speaks of love, we have to remember that he fell in love as often with a male companion as with a woman--he admired the beauty of a fair youth, and he felt in his presence very much as a modern lover feels in the presence of his sweetheart. We have, therefore, to examine expressions of love cautiously. Anacreon says, for instance, that love clave him with an axe, like a smith; but it seems far more likely that the reference is to the affection excited by some charming youth.[1] We have a specimen remaining of the nonchalant style in which he addressed a woman, in the ode commencing "O Thracian mare!"--Schneidewin, Poet. Lyr. Anac. fr. 47.
The great poet of Love was not Anacreon, but Sappho, whose heart and mind were both of the finest. Her life is involved in obscurity, but it is probable that she was a strong advocate of woman's rights in her own land; and as she found men falling in love with other men, so she took special pains to win the affections of the young Æolian ladies, to train them in all the accomplishments suited to woman's nature, and to initiate them into the art of poetry,--that art without which, she says, a woman's memory would be for ever forgotten, and she would go to the house of Hades, to dwell with the shadowy dead, uncared for and unknown. We have two poems of hers which have come down to us tolerably complete, both, we think, addressed to some of her female friends, and both remarkably sweet, touching, and beautiful.
The Scottish songs devoted to other subjects than love are few, and almost exclusively descriptive. Our sense of the humorous gives us a delight in queer and odd characters, in which the Greeks probably would not have participated. Though they had an abundance of wit, and a keen perception of the ridiculous, no songs have reached us which are intended to please by their pure absurdity and good-natured foolishness. Archilochus and Hipponax wrote many a jocular song; but the fun of the thing would have been lost, had the sting which they contained been extracted.
Nor do the Greeks seem to have cared much for descriptive songs. They frequently introduced their heroes into their odes, but these were ever living, ever present to their minds; and several of the songs written on
## particular occasions were probably sung when the singer had no connexion
with the events. But they lived, like boys, too much in the present, to throw themselves back into the past. They wished to give utterance to the feelings of the moment in their own persons, and directly; while we are content to be mere listeners, and are often as much pleased by the occurrences of another's life as by the sentiments of our own hearts.
We are remarkably deficient in what are called class-songs. The Greeks had none of these, for there scarcely existed any classes but free and slave. The people were all one--had the same interests and the same emotions. There was far less of individuality with them than with us, and there was still less of that feeling which divides society into exclusive circles. A Greek turned his hand to anything that came in his way, while division of labour has reached its utmost limit among us. We can find, therefore, no contrast here between Greek and Scotch songs; but we find a very marked one between Scotch and German. We have no student-songs, very few expressive of the feelings of soldiers (Lockhart's are almost the only), sailors, or of any other class.
Indeed, we are deficient not only in class-songs, but in social-songs. The Scotch propensity to indulge in drink is, unfortunately, notorious; and yet our drinking-songs of a really social nature would be comprised in a few pages. One sings of his coggie, as if he were in the custom of gulping his whisky all alone; many describe the boisterous carousals in which they made fools of themselves; not a few extol the power and properties of whisky, and incite to Bacchanalian pleasures; and we have several good songs suitable for singing at the close of an evening pleasantly spent, but almost none which express the feelings that naturally well-up when one sees his friends around him, becomes exhilarated through pleasant social intercourse, and finds the path of life smoothed and sweetened by the aid of his brothers.
The reason of this peculiar circumstance is not far to seek. It lies in the distinctive character of the two great classes into which the Scotch have been divided since the Reformation, called, at the early period of Scottish song, the Covenanters and the Cavaliers. The one party bowed before religion, most scrupulously abstained from all worldly pleasures, and regarded and denounced as sin, or something akin to it, every approach to levity or frivolity. The other party was a wild rebound from this. Sanctimoniousness was hateful in their eye; and not being able to find a medium, they abjured religion, and rushed into the pleasures of this life with headlong zest. The poets, in accordance with their joy-loving natures, allied themselves to the latter class. There was thus in Scotland a deep, dark gulf between the religious and the poetical or beautiful, which has not yet been completely bridged over. The consequence is, that the elder Scottish songs, of all songs, contain the fewest references to the Divine Being. The name of God is never mentioned unless in the caricatures of the Covenanters; and a foreigner, taking up a book of Scottish songs written since the Reformation, and judging of the religion of the Scotch from them alone, would be prone to suppose that, if Scotland had any religion at all, it consisted in using the name of the devil occasionally with respect or with dread. The Cavaliers, in their most energetic moods, swore by him and by no other; while the Covenanters had no songs at all, scarcely any poetry of any kind, and doubtless would have regarded as impious the tracing of any but the most spiritual pleasures to God. The words, for instance, which Allan Cunningham puts into the mouth of a Covenanter, "I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie" (p. 17 of this volume), would still be regarded by many people as profane.
The case was the very opposite with the Greeks. Every joy, every sorrow, was traced to the gods. They almost never opened their lips without an allusion to their divinities. They sang their praises in their processions and in all their public ceremonials. Wine was a gift from a kind and beneficent god, to cheer their hearts and soothe the sorrows of life. And they delighted in invoking his presence, in celebrating his adventures, and in using moderately and piously the blessings which he bestowed on them. Then, again, when love seized them, it was a god that had taken possession of their minds. They at once recognised a superior power, and they worshipped him in song with heart and soul. In fact, whatever be the subject of song, the gods are recognised as the rulers of the destinies of men, and the causes of all their joys and sorrows. We cannot expect such a strong infusion of the supernatural in modern lays, but still we have enough of it in German songs to form a remarkable contrast to Scotch. Take any German song-book, and you will immediately come upon a recognition of a higher power as the spring of our joys, and upon an expressed desire to use them, so as to bring us nearer one another, and to make us more honest, upright, happy, and contented men. Let this one verse, taken from a song of Schiller's, in singing which a German's heart is sure to glow, suffice:--
"Joy sparkles to us from the bowl! Behold the juice, whose golden colour To meekness melts the savage soul, And gives despair a hero's valour!
"Up, brothers! Lo, we crown the cup! Lo, the wine flashes to the brim! Let the bright foam spring heavenward! 'Up!' TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--this glass to HIM!
_Chorus._
"Praised by the ever-whirling ring Of stars and tuneful seraphim-- TO THE GOOD SPIRIT--the Father-king In heaven!--this glass to Him!"[2]
We meet with the contrast in the Reformers of the respective nations--Knox and Luther. Knox, ever stern, frowning on all the amusements of the palace and the people, and indifferent to every species of poetry; Luther, often drinking his mug of ale in a tavern, making and singing his tunes and songs, and though frequently enough tormented by devils, yet still ready to throw aside the cares of life for a while, and enjoy himself in hearty intercourse with the various classes of the people. Who would have expected the German Reformer to be the author of the couplet--
"He who loves not women, wine, and song, Will be a fool his whole life long."
And yet he was. And his songs, sacred though most of them be, have a place in German song-books to this day.
Though Scottish songs seldom refer to a Divine Being, yet they are very far from being without their noble sentiments and inspirations. On the contrary, they have frequently sustained the moral life of a man. "Who dare measure in doubt," says William Thom in his "Recollections," "the restraining influences of these very songs? To us, they were all instead of sermons.... Poets were indeed our priests. But for those, the last relict of our moral existence would have surely passed away!"
Yet there is a marked contrast between the very aims of Scottish and Greek song-writers. The Scottish wish merely to please, and consequently never concern themselves with any of the deeper subjects of this life or the life to come. There is seldom an allusion to death, or to any of the great realities that sternly meet the gaze of a contemplative man. There may be a few exceptions in the case of pious song-writers, like Lady Nairn; but even such poets are shy of making songs the vehicle of what is serious or profound. The Greeks, on the other hand, regarding their poets as inspired, expected from them the deepest wisdom, and in fact delighted in any verse which threw light on the great mysteries of life and death. Thus it happens that the remains of the Greek lyric poets, especially the later, such as Simonides and Bacchylides, are principally of a deeply moral cast. The Greeks do not seem to have had the extravagant rage which now prevails for merely figurative language. They sought for truth itself, and the man became a poet who clothed living truths in the most appropriate and expressive words.
There is a remarkable contrast between the Scotch and Greeks in their historical songs. The lyric muse sings at great epochs, because then the deepest emotions of the human heart are roused. But since, in Greece, the states were small, and every emotion thrilled through all the free citizens, there was more of determined and unanimous feeling than with us, and consequently a greater desire to see the heroic deeds of themselves or their fellows wedded to verse. And then, too, the poet did not live apart; he was one of the people, a soldier and a citizen as well as others, and animated by exactly the same feelings, though with greater rapture. This is the reason why the Greeks abounded in songs in honour of their brave. At the time of the resistance to the Persian invasion, there was no end to the encomiums and pæans. Almost every individual hero was celebrated, and these songs were made by the acknowledged masters of the lyre, such as Æschylus and Simonides. With us, great deeds have to wait their poets. Distance of time must first throw around them a poetic hue; and after the hero has sunk unnoticed into a nameless grave, the bard showers his praises on him, and his worth is universally recognised. Or if his merits are discerned before his death, song is not one of the appointed organs through which our people demand that he should be praised. If a heroic action gets its poet, the people will listen; but if it pass unsung, none will regret it. Besides, we do not discern the poetry of the present so strongly as the Greeks did. Everything with them seems to have been capable of finding its way into verse. Alcman delights in speaking of his porridge, and Alcæus of the various implements of war which adorned his hall. The real world in which the Greeks moved had the most powerful attraction for them. This is also, in a great measure, true of the unknown poets, who have contributed so much to Scottish minstrelsy in the days of the later Stuarts. There is no squeamishness about the introduction of realities, whatever they be; and the people took delight in a mere series of names skilfully strung together, or even in an enumeration of household articles or dishes.[3]
This pleasure in the contemplation of the actual things around us, is not nearly so great in modern cultivated minds. We are continually trying to get out of ourselves, to transport ourselves to other times, and to throw ourselves into bygone scenes and characters. Hence it is that almost all our best historical songs, written in these days, have their basis in the past; and the one which moves us most powerfully, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," actually carries us back to the times of Robert the Bruce.
It is rather singular that most of the Scottish songs which refer to our history, are essentially aristocratic, and favourable to the divine right of kings. The Covenanters--our true freemen--disdained the use of the poet's pen. They uttered none of their aspirations for freedom in song, and thus the Royalists had the whole field of song-writing to themselves. Such was the state of matters until Burns rose from amidst the people, and sang in his own grand way of the inherent dignity of man as man, and of the rights of labour. It is one of the frequent contradictions which we see in human nature, that the very same people who sing "A Man's a Man for a' that," and "Scots wha hae," mourn over the unfortunate fate of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and lament his disasters, as if his succession to the throne of Scotland would have been a blessing. Notwithstanding, however, what Burns has done, Scotland is still deficient in songs embodying her ardent love of freedom. Liberty and her blessings are still unsung. It was not so in Greece, especially in Athens. The whole city echoed with hymns in its praise, and the people wiled away their leisure in making little chants on the men who they fancied had given the death-blow to tyranny. The scolia of Callistratus, beginning, "I'll wreathe my sword in myrtle bow," are well known.
Few of the patriotic songs of the Greeks are extant, and it is probable that they were not so numerous as ours. Institutions had a more powerful hold on them than localities. They were proud of themselves as Greeks, and of their traditions; but wherever they wandered, they carried Greece with them, for they were part of Greece themselves. Thus we may account for the absence of Greek songs expressive of longing for their native land, and of attachment to their native soil. We, on the other hand, have very many patriotic songs, full of that warm enthusiasm which every Scotsman justly feels for his country, and containing frequently a much higher estimate of ourselves and our position than other nations would reckon true or fair. In these songs, we are exceedingly confined in our sympathies. The nationality is stronger than the humanity. We have no such songs as the German, "Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland?"
Perhaps there is no point in which the Greeks contrast with the Scotch and all moderns more strikingly than in their mode of describing nature. This contrast holds good only between the cultivated Greek and the cultivated modern; for the cultivated Greek and the uncultivated Scotsman are one in this respect. Perhaps we should state it most correctly, if we say that the Greek never pictures natural scenery with words--the modern often makes the attempt. There is no song like Burns's "Birks o' Aberfeldy," or even like the "Welcome to May"[4] of early Scottish poetry, in the Greek lyric poets. The Greek poet seizes one or two characteristic traits in which he himself finds pleasure; but his descriptions are not nicely shaded, minute, or calculated to bring the landscape before the mind's eye. No doubt, the Greek was led to this course by an instinct. For, first, his interest in inanimate nature was nothing as compared to his strong sympathies with man. He had not discovered that "God made the country, and man made the town." The gods, according to his notion, ruled the destinies of man, and every thought and device of man were inspirations from above. He saw infinitely more of deity in his fellow-men--in his and their pleasures, pursuits, and hopes--than in all the insentient things on the face of the earth; and consequently he clung to men. He delighted in representations of them; and in embodying his conceptions of the gods, he gave them the human form as the noblest and most beautiful of all forms. Nature was merely a background exquisitely beautiful, but not to be enjoyed without the presence of man. And, secondly, though the Greeks may not have enunciated the principle, that poetry is not the art suited for picturing nature, still they probably had an instinctive feeling of its truth. Poetry, as Lessing pointed out in his Laocoon, has the element of time in it, and is therefore inapplicable in the description of those things which, while composed of various parts, must be comprehended at one glance before the right impression is produced. Look how our modern poet goes to work! He has a fair scene before his fancy. He paints every part of it, with no reason why one part should be placed before another,--and as you read it, you have to piece each part together, as in a child's dissected map; and after you have constructed the whole out of the fragments, you have to imagine the effect. The Greek told you the effect at once,--he gave up the attempt to picture the scene in words. But when he had to deal with any part of nature that had life or motion in it--in fact, any element of time--then he was as minute as the most thorough Wordsworthian could wish. How admirably, for instance, does Homer describe the advance of a foam-crested wave, or the rush of a lion, the swoop of an eagle, or the trail of a serpent!
The Greeks were as much gladdened by the sight of flowers as moderns. Did they not use them continually on all festive occasions, public and private? But minuteness of detail was out of the question in poetry. The poet was not to play the painter or the naturalist. And it had not yet become the fashion to profess a mysterious inexpressible joy in the observation of natural scenery. Nor had men as yet retired from human society in disgust, or in search of freedom from sin, and betaken themselves to the love of pure inanimate objects instead of the love of sin-stained man. It had not yet become unlawful, as it did with the Arabs afterwards, to represent the human form in sculpture. Human nature was not looked on as so contemptible, that it would be appropriate to represent human bodies writhing under gargoyles, as in Gothic churches, or beneath pillars, as in Stirling Palace. The human form was then considered diviner than the forms of lions or flowers.
In bold personification of natural objects, the Greeks could not be easily surpassed. In reality, it was not personification with them,--it was simply the result of the ideas they had formed regarding causation. If a river flowed down, fringed with flowery banks, they imagined there must be some cause for this, and so they summoned up before their fancy a beautiful river-god crowned with a garland. Even in the more common process of making nature pour back on us the sentiments we unconsciously lend her, the Greeks were very far from deficient. The passage in which Alcman describes the hills, and all the tribes of living things as asleep,[5] and the celebrated fragment of Simonides on Danae, where she says, "Let the deep sleep, let immeasurable evil sleep," are only two out of very many instances that might be quoted.
Perhaps the most marked instance of the poetic instinct of the Greeks, is their avoiding descriptions of personal beauty. Though they were permeated by the idea, and thrillingly sensitive to it, it is easier to tell what a Scotch poet regards as elements of beauty than what a Greek did. A beautiful person with the Greek is a beautiful person; and that is all he says about the matter. This is not true of the Anacreontics, or of the Latin poets. Now, in Scotland, again, there is little feeling of beauty of any kind. A Scottish boy wantonly mars a beautiful object for mere fun. There is not a monument set up, not a fine building or ornament, but will soon have a chip struck off it, if a Scotch boy can get near it. And the Scotsman, as a general matter, sees beauty nowhere except in a "bonnie lassie." Even then, when he comes to define what he thinks beautiful features, he is at fault, and there are songs in praise of the narrow waist, and other enormities--
"She 's backet like a peacock; She 's breasted like a swan; She 's jimp about the middle, Her waist you weel may span-- Her waist you weel may span; And she has a rolling e'e, And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay down my head and die."
It is needless to say that we are very far from having exhausted our subject. Few contrasts could be greater than that which exists between Greek and Scotch songs, and perhaps mainly for this reason, that Scotland has felt so very little of the influence of Greek literature. German poetry had its origin in a revived study of the great Greek classics; and such a study is the very thing required to give breadth to our character, and to supplement its most striking deficiencies.
[1] Later writers attributed to Anacreon immoralities in Paiderastia of which they themselves were guilty, but of which there is not the slightest trace in him, or indeed in any of the early bards. Welcker (Sappho von einem herrschenden Vorurtheile befreit) has successfully defended the character of Sappho from the accusations of a later age, and it would be easy to do the same both for Alcæus and Anacreon.
[2] Schiller's Poems and Ballads, by Bulwer, vol. ii., p. 122. The whole song should be read. Bulwer calls it a "Hymn to Joy," Schiller himself, simply, "To Joy."
[3] There is a curious instance of this in the song, "The Blithesome Bridal."--Chambers's "Scottish Songs," p. 71.
[4] Sibbald's "Chronicle of Scottish Poetry," vol. iii., p. 193.
[5] Campbell has translated this fragment, but he has not retained the simplicity of the original.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, 1 She 's gane to dwall in heaven, 9 The lovely lass of Preston mill, 10 Gane were but the winter cauld, 12 It's hame, and it's hame, 13 The lovely lass of Inverness, 14 A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 15 The bonnie bark, 16 Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 17 Young Eliza, 19 Lovely woman, 20
EBENEZER PICKEN, 22 Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e, 24 Woo me again, 25
STUART LEWIS, 27 Lanark mills, 30 O'er the muir, 31
DAVID DRUMMOND, 34 The bonnie lass o' Levenside, 36
JAMES AFFLECK, 38 How blest were the days, 39
JAMES STIRRAT, 40 Henry, 41 Mary, 42
JOHN GRIEVE, 43 Culloden; or, Lochiel's Farewell, 46 Lovely Mary, 48 Her blue rollin' e'e, 48
CHARLES GRAY, 50 Maggie Lauder, 52 Charlie is my darling, 53 The black-e'ed lassie, 54 Grim winter was howlin', 55
JOHN FINLAY, 57 O! come with me, 59 'Tis not the rose upon the cheek, 60 I heard the evening linnet's voice, 61 Oh! dear were the joys, 62
WILLIAM NICHOLSON, 63 The braes of Galloway, 65 The hills of the Highlands, 66 The banks of Tarf, 67 O! will ye go to yon burn-side? 68
ALEXANDER RODGER, 71 Sweet Bet of Aberdeen, 73 Behave yoursel' before folk, 74 Lovely maiden, 76 The peasant's fireside, 78 Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell," 79
JOHN WILSON, 81 Mary Gray's song, 86 The three seasons of love, 88 Prayer to Sleep, 90
DAVID WEBSTER, 91 Tak it, man; tak it, 92 Oh, sweet were the hours, 94 Pate Birnie, 95
WILLIAM PARK, 97 The patriot's song, 99
THOMAS PRINGLE, 102 Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, 106 The exile's lament, 107 Love and solitude, 108 Come awa', come awa', 109 Dearest love, believe me, 110
WILLIAM KNOX, 112 The dear Land o' Cakes, 114 The lament, 116 To Mary, 116
WILLIAM THOM, 118 Jeanie's grave, 121 They speak o' wiles, 122 The mitherless bairn, 123 The lass o' Kintore, 124 My hameless ha', 125
WILLIAM GLEN, 126 Waes me for Prince Charlie! 128 Mary of sweet Aberfoyle, 129 The battle-song, 131 The maid of Oronsey, 134 Jess M'Lean, 136 How eerily, how drearily, 137 The battle of Vittoria, 139 Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 140 Fareweel to Aberfoyle, 141
DAVID VEDDER, 143 Jeanie's welcome hame, 146 I neither got promise of siller, 147 There is a pang for every heart, 148 The first of May, 149 Song of the Scottish exile, 150 The tempest is raging, 151 The temple of nature, 152
JOHN M'DIARMID, 155 Nithside, 158 Evening, 159
PETER BUCHAN, 162 Thou gloomy Feberwar, 164
WILLIAM FINLAY, 166 The breaking heart, 167 The auld emigrant's fareweel to Scotland, 167 O'er mountain and valley, 169
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, 171 Broadswords of Scotland, 177 Captain Paton's lament, 178 Canadian boat-song, 183
THOMAS MATHERS, 184 Early love, 185
JAMES BROWN, 186 My Peggy's far away, 187 Love brought me a bough, 188 How 's a' wi' ye, 189 Oh! sair I feel the witching power, 192
DANIEL WEIR, 194 See the moon, 196 Love is timid, 196 Raven's stream, 197 Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours, 198 Could we but look beyond our sphere, 199 In the morning of life, 200 On the death of a promising child, 201 The dying hour, 202 The midnight wind, 203
ROBERT DAVIDSON, 206 Farewell to Caledonia, 207 On visiting the scenes of early days, 208 To wander lang in foreign lands, 210
PETER ROGER, 212 Lovely Jean, 214
JOHN MALCOLM, 215 The music of the night, 217 The sea, 218
ERSKINE CONOLLY, 220 Mary Macneil, 221 There 's a thrill of emotion, 222
GEORGE MENZIES, 223 The braes of Auchinblae, 224 Fare thee weel, 225
JOHN SIM, 226 Nae mair we 'll meet, 227 Bonnie Peggy, 227 Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er, 229
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL, 230 Jeanie Morrison, 233 Wearie's Well, 236 Wae be to the orders, 238 The midnight wind, 239 He is gone! he is gone! 240
DAVID MACBETH MOIR, 242 Casa Wappy, 245 Farewell, our fathers' land, 249 Heigh ho, 250
ROBERT FRASER, 252 Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, 253
JAMES HISLOP, 254 The Cameronian's dream, 257 How sweet the dewy bell is spread, 259
ROBERT GILFILLAN, 261 Manor braes, 262 Fare thee well, 263 The first rose of summer, 264 The exile's song, 264 The happy days o' youth, 266 'Tis sair to dream, 267
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
WILLIAM ROSS, 271 The Highland May, 272 The Celt and the stranger, 274 Cormac's cure, 274 The last lay of love, 276
LACHLAN MACVURICH, 279 The exile of Cluny, 280
JAMES M'LAGGAN, 282 Song of the royal Highland regiment, 284
* * * * *
GLOSSARY, 287
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
Allan Cunningham was born at Blackwood, in Nithside, Dumfriesshire, on the 7th December 1784. Of his ancestry, some account has been given in the memoir of his elder brother Thomas.[6] He was the fourth son of his parents, and from both of them inherited shrewdness and strong talent.[7] Receiving an ordinary elementary education at a school, taught by an enthusiastic Cameronian, he was apprenticed in his eleventh year to his eldest brother James as a stone-mason. His hours of leisure were applied to mental improvement; he read diligently the considerable collection of books possessed by his father, and listened to the numerous legendary tales which his mother took delight in narrating at the family hearth. A native love for verse-making, which he possessed in common with his brother Thomas, was fostered and strengthened by his being early brought into personal contact with the poet Burns. In 1790, his father removed to Dalswinton, in the capacity of land-steward to Mr Miller, the proprietor, and Burns' farm of Ellisland lay on the opposite side of the Nith. The two families in consequence met very frequently; and Allan, though a mere boy, was sufficiently sagacious to appreciate the merits of the great bard. Though, at the period of Burns' death, in 1796, he was only twelve years old, the appearance and habits of the poet had left an indelible impression on his mind.
In his fifteenth year, Allan had the misfortune to lose his father, who had sunk to the grave under the pressure of poverty and misfortune; he thus became necessitated to assist in the general support of the family. At the age of eighteen he obtained the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd; Hogg was then tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of Mitchelslack, in Nithsdale, and Cunningham, who had read some of his stray ballads, formed a high estimate of his genius. Along with his elder brother James, he paid a visit to the Shepherd one autumn afternoon on the great hill of Queensberry; and the circumstances of the meeting, Hogg has been at pains minutely to record. James Cunningham came forward and frankly addressed the Shepherd, asking if his name was Hogg, and at the same time supplying his own; he then introduced his brother Allan, who diffidently lagged behind, and proceeded to assure the Shepherd that he had brought to see him "the greatest admirer he had on earth, and himself a young aspiring poet of some promise." Hogg warmly saluted his brother bard, and, taking both the strangers to his booth on the hill-side, the three spent the afternoon happily together, rejoicing over the viands of a small bag of provisions, and a bottle of milk, and another of whisky. Hogg often afterwards visited the Cunninghams at Dalswinton, and was forcibly struck with Allan's luxuriant though unpruned fancy. He had already written some ingenious imitations of Ossian, and of the elder Scottish bards.
On the publication of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," in 1805, Cunningham contrived to save twenty-four shillings of his wages to purchase it, and forthwith committed the poem to memory. On perusing the poem of "Marmion," his enthusiasm was boundless; he undertook a journey to Edinburgh that he might look upon the person of the illustrious author. In a manner sufficiently singular, his wish was realised. Passing and repassing in front of Scott's house in North Castle Street, he was noticed by a lady from the window of the adjoining house, who addressed him by name, and caused her servant to admit him. The lady was a person of some consideration from his native district, who had fixed her residence in the capital. He had just explained to her the object of his Edinburgh visit, when Scott made his appearance in the street. Passing his own door, he knocked at that of the house from the window of which his young admirer was anxiously gazing on his stalwart figure. As the lady of the house had not made Scott's acquaintance, she gently laid hold on Allan's arm, inducing him to be silent, to notice the result of the proceeding. Scott, in a reverie of thought, had passed his own door; observing a number of children's bonnets in the lobby, he suddenly perceived his mistake, and, apologising to the servant, hastily withdrew.
Cunningham's elder brother Thomas, and his friend Hogg, were already contributors to the _Scots' Magazine_. Allan made offer of some poetical pieces to that periodical which were accepted. He first appears in the magazine in 1807, under the signature of _Hidallan_. In 1809, Mr Cromek, the London engraver, visited Dumfries, in the course of collecting materials for his "Reliques of Robert Burns;" he was directed to Allan Cunningham, as one who, having known Burns personally, and being himself a poet, was likely to be useful in his researches. On forming his acquaintance, Cromek at once perceived his important acquisition with respect to his immediate object, but expressed a desire first to examine some of his own compositions. Allan acceded to the request, but received only a moderate share of praise from the pedantic antiquary. Cromek urged him to collect the elder minstrelsy of Nithsdale and Galloway as an exercise more profitable than the composition of verses. On returning to London, Cromek received from his young friend packets of "old songs," which called forth his warmest encomiums. He entreated him to come to London to push his fortune,--an invitation which was readily accepted. For some time Cunningham was an inmate of Cromek's house, when he was entrusted with passing through the press the materials which he had transmitted, with others collected from different sources; and which, formed into a volume, under the title of "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," were published in 1810 by Messrs Cadell and Davies. The work excited no inconsiderable attention, though most of the readers perceived, what Cromek had not even suspected, that the greater part of the ballads were of modern origin. Cromek did not survive to be made cognizant of the amusing imposition which had been practised on his credulity.
Fortune did not smile on Cunningham's first entrance into business in London. He was compelled to resume his former occupation as a mason, and is said to have laid pavement in Newgate Street. From this humble position he rose to a situation in the studio of Bubb, the sculptor; and through the counsel of Eugenius Roche, the former editor of the "Literary Recreations," and then the conductor of _The Day_ newspaper, he was induced to lay aside the trowel and undertake the duties of reporter to that journal. _The Day_ soon falling into the hands of other proprietors, Cunningham felt his situation uncomfortable, and returned to his original vocation, attaching himself to Francis Chantrey, then a young sculptor just commencing business. Chantrey soon rose, and ultimately attained the summit of professional reputation; Cunningham continued by him as the superintendent of his establishment till the period of his death, long afterwards.
Devoted to business, and not unfrequently occupied in the studio from eight o'clock morning till six o'clock evening, Cunningham perseveringly followed the career of a poet and man of letters. In 1813, he published a volume of lyrics, entitled "Songs, chiefly in the Rural Language of Scotland." After an interval of nine years, sedulously improved by an ample course of reading, he produced in 1822 "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a Dramatic Poem." In this work, which is much commended by Sir Walter Scott in the preface to the "Fortunes of Nigel," he depicts the manners and traditions he had seen and heard on the banks of the Nith. In 1819, he began to contribute to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and from 1822 to 1824 wrote largely for the _London Magazine_. Two collected volumes of his contributions to these periodicals were afterwards published, under the title of "Traditional Tales." In 1825, he gave to the world "The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, with an Introduction and Notes," in four volumes 8vo. This work abounds in much valuable and curious criticism. "Paul Jones," a romance in three volumes, was the product of 1826; it was eminently successful. A second romance from his pen, "Sir Michael Scott," published in 1828, in three volumes, did not succeed. "The Anniversary," a miscellany which appeared in the winter of that year, under his editorial superintendence, obtained an excellent reception. From 1829 to 1833, he produced for "Murray's Family Library" his most esteemed prose work, "The Lives of the Most Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects," in six volumes. "The Maid of Elvar," an epic poem in the Spenserian stanza, connected with the chivalrous enterprise displayed in the warfare between Scotland and England, during the reign of Henry VIII., was published in 1832. His admirable edition of the works of Robert Burns appeared in 1834, and 5000 copies were speedily sold.[8] In 1836, he published "Lord Roldan," a romance. From 1830 to 1834, he was a constant writer in _The Athenæum_, to which, among many interesting articles, he contributed his sentiments regarding the literary characters of the times, in a series of papers entitled "Literature of the Last Fifty Years." He wrote a series of prose descriptions for "Major's Cabinet Gallery," a "History of the Rise and Progress of the Fine Arts," for the "Popular Encyclopædia;" an introduction, and a few additional lives, for "Pilkington's Painters," and a life of Thomson for Tilt's illustrated edition of "The Seasons." He contemplated a great work, to be entitled "Lives of the British Poets," and this design, which he did not live to accomplish, is likely to be realised by his son, Mr Peter Cunningham. His last publication was the "Life of Sir David Wilkie," which he completed just two days before his death. He was suddenly seized with an apoplectic attack, and died after a brief illness on the 29th October 1842. His remains were interred in Kensal-green Cemetery. He had married, in July 1811, Miss Jane Walker of Preston Mill, near Dumfries, who still survives. Of a family of four sons and one daughter, three of the sons held military appointments in India, and the fourth, who fills a post in Somerset House, is well known for his contributions to literature.
Allan Cunningham ranks next to Hogg as a writer of Scottish song. He sung of the influences of beauty, and of the hills and vales of his own dear Scotland. His songs abound in warmth of expression, simplicity of sentiment, and luxuriousness of fancy. Of his skill as a Scottish poet, Hogg has thus testified his appreciation in the "Queen's Wake":--
"Of the old elm his harp was made, That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade; No gilded sculpture round her flamed, For his own hand that harp had framed, In stolen hours, when, labour done, He stray'd to view the parting sun.
* * * * *
That harp could make the matron stare, Bristle the peasant's hoary hair, Make patriot breasts with ardour glow, And warrior pant to meet the foe; And long by Nith the maidens young Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung. At ewe-bught, or at evening fold, When resting on the daisied wold, Combing their locks of waving gold, Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name Their lost, their darling Cunninghame; His was a song beloved in youth, A tale of weir, a tale of truth."
As a prose writer, Cunningham was believed by Southey to have the best style ever attained by any one born north of the Tweed, Hume only excepted. His moral qualities were well appreciated by Sir Walter Scott, who commonly spoke of him as "Honest Allan." His person was broad and powerful, and his countenance wore a fine intelligence.
[6] See vol. ii., p. 223.
[7] Besides Thomas and Allan, the other members of the family afforded evidence of talent. James, the eldest son, with a limited education, was intimately familiar with general literature, and occasionally contributed to the periodicals. He began his career as a stone-mason, and by his ability and perseverance rose to the respectable position of a master builder. He died at Dalswinton, near Dumfries, on the 27th July 1832. John, the third brother, who died in early life, evinced a turn for mechanism, and wrote respectable verses. Peter, the fifth son, studied medicine, and became a surgeon in the navy; he still survives, resident at Greenwich, and is known as the author of two respectable works, bearing the titles, "Two Years in New South Wales," and "Hints to Australian Emigrants." Of the five daughters, one of whom only survives, all gave evidence of intellectual ability.
[8] Writing to Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, in January 1834, along with a copy of the first volume, Cunningham remarks, "I hope you will like the Life; a third of it is new, so are many of the anecdotes, and I am willing to stand or fall as an author by it." Mr Neil, it may be added, contributed to Cunningham a great deal of original information as to the life of the poet, and also some of his unpublished poems.
SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.
She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She 's gane to dwall in heaven: "Ye 're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God, "For dwalling out o' heaven!"
Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie? Oh, what 'll she do in heaven? She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs, And make them mair meet for heaven.
She was beloved by a', my lassie, She was beloved by a'; But an angel fell in love wi' her, An' took her frae us a'.
Lowly there thou lies, my lassie, Lowly there thou lies; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise!
Fu' soon I 'll follow thee, my lassie, Fu' soon I 'll follow thee; Thou left me naught to covet ahin', But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.
I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I look'd on thy death-cold face; Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place.
I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, I look'd on thy death-shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.
Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven, That sang the evening psalm.
There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie, There 's naught but dust now mine; My soul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'?
THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.
The lark had left the evening cloud, The dew was soft, the wind was lowne, The gentle breath amang the flowers Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down; The dappled swallow left the pool, The stars were blinking owre the hill, As I met amang the hawthorns green The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Her naked feet, amang the grass, Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair; Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks, Dark curling owre her shoulders bare; Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth; Her lips had words and wit at will, And heaven seem'd looking through her een, The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me, Where blackcocks crow, and plovers cry? Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep, Six vales are lowing wi' my kye: I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd lass, By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;" She hung her head like a dew-bent rose, The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down, But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:" A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up, And the tears were drapping frae her e'e: "I hae a lad, wha 's far awa', That weel could win a woman's will; My heart 's already fu' o' love," Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass, To seek for love in a far countrie?" Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew: I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e. I took but ane o' her comely cheek; "For pity's sake, kind sir, be still! My heart is fu' o' ither love," Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e-- "Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God, Or light is gladsome to my e'e; While woods grow green, and burns rin clear, Till my last drap o' blood be still, My heart shall haud nae other love," Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.
There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks, And Nith's romantic vale is fu'; By lanely Cluden's hermit stream Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow. Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind, As ever shone on vale or hill; But there 's a light puts them a' out, The lovely lass of Preston Mill.
GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.
Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw.
Cauld 's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death 's at my een, Closing them to sleep.
Let nane tell my father, Or my mither dear: I 'll meet them baith in heaven, At the spring o' the year.
IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.
It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a': But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save, But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save, The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e: "I 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." It 's hame, an' it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.
There lived a lass in Inverness, She was the pride of a' the town; Blithe as the lark on gowan-tap, When frae the nest but newly flown. At kirk she won the auld folks' love, At dance she was the young men's een; She was the blithest aye o' the blithe, At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.
As I came in by Inverness, The simmer-sun was sinking down; Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass, And she was greeting through the town: The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets, And auld dames crying, (sad to see!) "The flower o' the lads of Inverness Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"
She tore her haffet-links of gowd, And dighted aye her comely e'e; "My father's head 's on Carlisle wall, At Preston sleep my brethren three! I thought my heart could haud nae mair, Mae tears could ever blin' my e'e; But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart, A dearer ane there couldna be!
"He trysted me o' love yestreen, Of love-tokens he gave me three; But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir, Oh, ne'er again to think o' me! The forest flowers shall be my bed, My food shall be the wild berrie, The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld, And wauken'd again I winna be."
Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames, Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e; Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles, But naked corses, sad to see. Oh spring is blithesome to the year, Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie; But oh! what spring can raise them up, That lie on dread Culloden-lee?
The hand o' God hung heavy here, And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie; It struck the righteous to the ground, And lifted the destroyer hie. "But there 's a day," quo' my God in prayer, "When righteousness shall bear the gree; I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust, And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!"
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.
Oh for a soft and gentle wind! I hear a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.
There 's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.
THE BONNIE BARK.
O come, my bonnie bark! O'er the waves let us go, With thy neck like the swan, And thy wings like the snow. Spread thy plumes to the wind, For a gentle one soon Must welcome us home, Ere the wane of the moon.
The proud oak that built thee Was nursed in the dew, Where my gentle one dwells, And stately it grew. I hew'd its beauty down; Now it swims on the sea, And wafts spice and perfume, My fair one, to thee.
Oh, sweet, sweet 's her voice, As a low warbled tune; And sweet, sweet her lips, Like the rose-bud of June. She looks to sea, and sighs, As the foamy wave flows, And treads on men's strength, As in glory she goes.
Oh haste, my bonnie bark, O'er the waves let us bound, As the deer from the horn, Or the hare from the hound. Pluck down thy white plumes, Sink thy keel in the sand, Whene'er ye see my love, And the wave of her hand.
THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.
Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, By that pretty white hand o' thine, And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, That thou would aye be mine; And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, And by that kind heart o' thine, By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, That thou would aye be mine.
Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands, And the heart that would part sic love; But there 's nae hand can loose my band But the finger o' God above. Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, And my claithing e'er sae mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.
Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, Fu' safter than the down; And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, And sweetly I 'll sleep, an' soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my love, Come here and kneel wi' me; The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, And I canna pray without thee.
The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie; Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke, And a blithe auld bodie is he. The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie, And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, And I will speak o' thee.
YOUNG ELIZA.[9]
Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow, This day of rest I 'll give to you, And clasp thy waist with many a vow, My loved, my young Eliza.
'Tis not that cheek, that bosom bare, That high arch'd eye, that long brown hair, That fair form'd foot, thine angel air,-- But 'tis thy mind, Eliza.
Think not to charm me with thine eye, Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh, My heart 's charm'd with a nobler tie,-- It is thy mind, Eliza.
This heart, which every love could warm, Which every pretty face could charm, No more will beat the sweet alarm, But to my young Eliza.
The peasant lad unyokes his car, The star of even shines bright and far, And lights me to the flood-torn scaur, To meet my young Eliza.
There is the smile to please, where truth And soft persuasion fills her mouth, While warm with all the fire of youth, She clasps me, young Eliza.
My heart's blood warms in stronger flow, My cheeks are tinged with redder glow, When sober matron, Evening slow, Bids me to meet Eliza.
The bard can kindle his soul to flame, The patriot hunts a deathless name; Give me the peasant's humble fame, And give me young Eliza.
The warlock glen has tint its gloom, The fairie burn the witching broom, All wear a lovelier, sweeter bloom, For there I meet Eliza.
Then come that mind, so finely form'd, By native truth and virtue warm'd, With love's soft simplest lay is charm'd, Come to my breast, Eliza.
[9] This song, which is a juvenile production of the poet, has been communicated by his niece, Miss Pagan of Dumfries. The heroine of the song, Eliza Neilson, eldest daughter of the Reverend Mr Neilson of Kirkbean, still lives, and is resident in Dumfries.
LOVELY WOMAN.[10]
I 've rock'd me on the giddy mast, Through seas tempestuous foamin', I 've braved the toil of mountain storm, From dawning to the gloamin'; Round the green bosom'd earth, sea-swept, In search of pleasure roamin', And found the world a wilderness, Without thee, lovely woman!
The farmer reaps his golden fields, The merchant sweeps the ocean; The soldier's steed, gore-fetlock'd, snorts Through war-field's wild commotion; All combat in eternal toil, Mirk midnight, day, and gloamin', To pleasure Heaven's divinest gift, Thee, lovely, conquering woman!
The savage in the desert dark, The monster's den exploring; The sceptre-swaying prince, who rules The nations round adoring; Nay, even the laurell'd-templed bard Dew-footed at the gloamin', Melodious wooes the world's ear, To please thee, lovely woman!
[10] This song appeared in the _London Magazine_, new edit., No. xxx. It was addressed to Mrs Pagan of Curriestanes, the poet's sister, who, it may be remarked, possessed a large share of the family talent. She died on the 5th February 1854, and her remains rest in the Pagan family's burying-ground, in Terregles' churchyard.
EBENEZER PICKEN.
Ebenezer Picken was the only son of a silk-weaver in Paisley, who bore the same Christian name. He was born at the _Well-meadow_ of that town, about the year 1769. Intending to follow the profession of a clergyman, he proceeded to the University of Glasgow, which he attended during five or six sessions. With talents of a high order, he permitted an enthusiastic attachment to verse-making to interfere with his severer studies and retard his progress in learning. Contrary to the counsel of his father and other friends, he published, in 1788, while only in his nineteenth year, a thin octavo volume of poems; and afterwards gave to the gay intercourse of lovers of the muse, many precious hours which ought to have been applied to mental improvement. Early in 1791 he became teacher of a school at Falkirk; and on the 14th of April of the same year appeared at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, where he delivered an oration in blank verse on the comparative merits of Ramsay and Fergusson, assigning the pre-eminence to the former poet. In this debate his fellow-townsman and friend, Alexander Wilson, the future ornithologist, advocated in verse the merits of Fergusson; and the productions of both the youthful adventurers were printed in a pamphlet entitled the "Laurel Disputed." In occupying the position of schoolmaster at Falkirk, Picken proposed to raise funds to aid him in the prosecution of his theological studies; but the circumstance of his having formed a matrimonial union with a young lady, a daughter of Mr Beveridge of the Burgher congregation in Falkirk, by involving him in the expenses of a family, proved fatal to his clerical aspirations. He accepted the situation of teacher of an endowed school at Carron, where he remained till 1796, when he removed to Edinburgh. In the capital he found employment as manager of a mercantile establishment, and afterwards on his own account commenced business as a draper. Unsuccessful in this branch of business, he subsequently sought a livelihood as a music-seller and a teacher of languages. In 1813, with the view of bettering his circumstances, he published, by subscription, two duodecimo volumes of "Poems and Songs," in which are included the pieces contained in his first published volume. His death took place in 1816.
Picken is remembered as a person of gentlemanly appearance, endeavouring to confront the pressure of unmitigated poverty. His dispositions were eminently social, and his love of poetry amounted to a passion. He is commemorated in the poetical works of his early friend, Wilson, who has addressed to him a lengthened poetical epistle. In 1818, a dictionary of Scottish words, which he had occupied some years in preparing, was published at Edinburgh by "James Sawers, Calton Street," and this publication was found of essential service by Dr Jamieson in the preparation of his "Supplement" to his "Dictionary of the Scottish Language." Among Picken's poetical compositions are a few pieces bearing the impress of genius.[11]
[11] Andrew Picken, the only son of Ebenezer, a person of somewhat unprepossessing appearance, contrived to derive a tolerable livelihood by following the conjunct occupation of an itinerant player and portrait-painter. He was the writer of some good poetry, and about 1827 published a respectable volume of verses, entitled, "The Bedouin, and other Poems." He soon afterwards proceeded to America.
PEGGIE WI' THE GLANCIN' E'E.
Walkin' out ae mornin' early, Ken ye wha I chanced to see? But my lassie, gay and frisky, Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e. Phoebus, left the lap o' Thetis, Fast was lickin' up the dew, Whan, ayont a risin' hilloc, First my Peggie came in view.
Hark ye, I gaed up to meet her; But whane'er my face she saw, Up her plaidin' coat she kiltit, And in daffin' scour'd awa'. Weel kent I that though my Peggie Ran sae fast out owre the mead, She was wantin' me to follow-- Yes, ye swains, an' sae I did.
At yon burnie I o'ertook her, Whare the shinin' pebbles lie; Whare the flowers, that fringe the border, Soup the stream, that wimples by. While wi' her I sat reclinin', Frae her lips I staw a kiss; While she blush'd, I took anither,-- Shepherds, was there ill in this?
Could a lass, sae sweet an' comely, Ever bless a lover's arms? Could the bonnie wife o' Vulcan Ever boast o' hauf the charms? While the zephyrs fan the meadows, While the flow'rets crown the lea, While they paint the gowden simmer, Wha sae blest as her an' me?
WOO ME AGAIN.
TUNE--_"On a Primrosy Bank."_
Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth: Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth; His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain, But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere, And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear: My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane; But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind, But I counted his proffers as light as the wind; I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain; But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae, And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae; I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane; But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!
Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve, An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave; Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen, I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!
Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined, My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind; But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen, An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.
Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate, Despise not the heart you may value too late; Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain; With you it may never be sunshine again.
The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa', An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw; Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain, That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.
STUART LEWIS.
Stuart Lewis, the mendicant bard, was the eldest son of an innkeeper at Ecclefechan in Annandale, where he was born about the year 1756. A zealous Jacobite, his father gave him the name of Stuart, in honour of Prince Charles Edward. At the parish school, taught by one Irving, an ingenious and learned person of eccentric habits, he received a respectable ground-work of education; but the early deprivation of his father, who died bankrupt, compelled him to relinquish the pursuit of learning. At the age of fifteen, with the view of aiding in the support of his widowed mother, with her destitute family of other five children, he accepted manual employment from a relation in the vicinity of Chester. Subsequently, along with a partner, he established himself as a merchant-tailor in the town of Chester, where he remained some years, when his partner absconded to America with a considerable amount, leaving him to meet the demands of the firm. Surrendering his effects to his creditors, he returned to his native place, almost penniless, and suffering mental depression from his misfortunes, which he recklessly sought to remove by the delusive remedy of the bottle. The habit of intemperance thus produced, became his scourge through life. At Ecclefechan he commenced business as a tailor, and married a young country girl, for whom he had formed a devoted attachment. He established a village library, and debating club, became a diligent reader, a leader in every literary movement in the district, and a writer of poetry of some merit. A poem on the melancholy story of "Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," which he composed at this period, obtained a somewhat extensive popularity. To aid his finances, he became an itinerant seller of cloth,--a mode of life which gave him an opportunity of studying character, and visiting interesting scenery. The pressure of poverty afterwards induced him to enlist, as a recruit, in the Hopetoun Fencibles; and, in this humble position, he contrived to augment his scanty pay by composing acrostics and madrigals for the officers, who rewarded him with small gratuities. On the regiment being disbanded in 1799, he was entrusted by a merchant with the sale of goods, as a pedlar, in the west of England; but this employment ceased on his being robbed, while in a state of inebriety. Still descending in the social scale, he became an umbrella-maker in Manchester, while his wife was employed in some of the manufactories. Some other odd and irregular occupations were severally attempted without success, till at length, about his fiftieth year, he finally settled into the humble condition of a wandering poet. He composed verses on every variety of theme, and readily parted with his compositions for food or whisky. His field of wandering included the entire Lowlands, and he occasionally penetrated into Highland districts. In his wanderings he was accompanied by his wife, who, though a severe sufferer on his account, along with her family of five or six children, continued most devoted in her attachment to him. On her death, which took place in the Cowgate, Edinburgh, early in 1817, he became almost distracted, and never recovered his former composure. He now roamed wildly through the country, seldom remaining more than one night in the same place. He finally returned to Dumfriesshire, his native county; and accidentally falling into the Nith, caught an inflammatory fever, of which he died, in the village of Ruthwell, on the 22d September 1818. Lewis was slender, and of low stature. His countenance was sharp, and his eye intelligent, though frenzied with excitement. He always expressed himself in the language of enthusiasm, despised prudence and common sense, and commended the impulsive and fanciful. He published, in 1816, a small volume, entitled "The African Slave; with other Poems and Songs." Some of his lyrics are not unworthy of a place in the national minstrelsy.
LANARK MILLS.
AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff."_
Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde, Where oft I 've spent the joyful day; Now, weary wand'ring on thy side, I pour the plaintive, joyless lay. To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove, The thought with grief my bosom fills; Why am I forced to leave my love, And wander far from Lanark Mills?
Can I forget th' ecstatic hours, When ('scaped the village evening din) I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers, Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn! While close I clasp'd her to my breast, (Th' idea still with rapture thrills!) I thought myself completely blest, By all the lads of Lanark Mills.
Deceitful, dear, delusive dream, Thou 'rt fled--alas! I know not where, And vanish'd is each blissful gleam, And left behind a load of care. Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde, A long farewell, ye rising hills; No more I 'll wander on your side, Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.
While Tintock stands the pride of hills, While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea, So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills, May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee. A last adieu! my Mary dear, The briny tear my eye distils; While reason's powers continue clear, I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.
O'ER THE MUIR.[12]
Ae morn of May, when fields were gay, Serene and charming was the weather, I chanced to roam some miles frae home, Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather, How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs, And brush the dew from vernal heather.
I walk'd along, and humm'd a song, My heart was light as ony feather, And soon did pass a lovely lass, Was wading barefoot through the heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather; The bonniest lass that e'er I saw I met ae morn amang the heather.
Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine, Than the most clear unclouded ether; A fairer form did ne'er adorn A brighter scene than blooming heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather; There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle, Can vie with her amang the heather.
I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid; Pray sit you down, let 's talk together; For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear, You 've stole my heart amang the heather." O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather; Ye swains, beware of yonder muir, You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.
She answer'd me, right modestly, "I go, kind sir, to seek my father, Whose fleecy charge he tends at large, On yon green hills beyond the heather." O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather; Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine, Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.
Away she flew out of my view, Her home or name I ne'er could gather, But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine For that sweet lass amang the heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather, While vital heat glows in my heart, I 'll love the lass amang the heather.
[12] The more popular words to the same tune and chorus, beginning, "Comin' through the Craigs o' Kyle," are believed, on the authority of Burns, to have been the composition of Jean Glover, a girl of respectable parentage, born at Kilmarnock in 1758, who became attached to a company of strolling players. Lewis is said to have claimed priority for his verses, and the point is not likely ever to be decided. This much may be said in favour of Lewis's claims, that he had long been the writer of respectable lyrics; while Jean Glover, though well skilled as a musician, is not otherwise known to have composed verses. One of the songs is evidently an echo of the other.
DAVID DRUMMOND.
David Drummond, author of "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff, Perthshire. Along with his four brothers, he settled in Fifeshire, about the beginning of the century, having obtained the situation of clerk in the Kirkland works, near Leven. In 1812, he proceeded to India, and afterwards attained considerable wealth as the conductor of an academy and boarding establishment at Calcutta. A man of vigorous mind and respectable scholarship, he had early cultivated a taste for literature and poetry, and latterly became an extensive contributor to the public journals and periodical publications of Calcutta. The song with which his name has been chiefly associated, was composed during the period of his employment at the Kirkland works,--the heroine being Miss Wilson, daughter of the proprietor of Pirnie, near Leven, a young lady of great personal attractions, to whom he was devotedly attached. The sequel of his history, in connexion with this lady, forms the subject of a romance, in which he has been made to figure much to the injury of his fame. The correct version of this story, in which Drummond has been represented as faithless to the object of his former affections, we have received from a gentleman to whom the circumstances were intimately known. In consequence of a proposal to become his wife, Miss Wilson sailed for Calcutta in 1816. On her arrival, she was kindly received by her affianced lover, who conducted her to the house of a respectable female friend, till arrangements might be completed for the nuptial ceremony. In the interval, she became desirous of withdrawing from her engagement; and Drummond, observing her coldness, offered to pay the expense of her passage back to Scotland. Meanwhile, she was seized with fever, of which she died. Report erroneously alleged that she had died of a broken heart on account of her lover being unfaithful, and hence the memory of poor Drummond has been most unjustly aspersed. Drummond died, at Calcutta, in 1845, about the age of seventy. He was much respected among a wide circle of friends and admirers. His personal appearance was unprepossessing, almost approaching to deformity,--a circumstance which may explain the ultimate hesitation of Miss Wilson to accept his hand. "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,[13] an obscure rhymster of the capital.
[13] Glass was a house-painter in Edinburgh; he ultimately became very dissipated, and died in circumstances of penury about 1840. He published, in 1811, "The Album, a Collection of Poems and Songs," 12mo; in 1814, "Scenes of Gloamin'," 12mo; and in 1816, a third volume, entitled "Songs of Edina." The last is dedicated, by permission, to the Duke of Gordon. In the "Scenes of Gloamin'," Glass has included the "Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," as a song of his own composition.
THE BONNIE LASS O' LEVENSIDE.
AIR--_"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."_
How sweet are Leven's silver streams, Around her banks the wild flowers blooming; On every bush the warblers vie, In strains of bosom-soothing joy. But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra, And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy, Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw, An 't were not for my darling lassie; Her presence fills them a' wi' pride, The bonnie lass o' Levenside.
When sober eve begins her reign, The little birds to cease their singing, The flowers their beauty to renew, Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew; When far behind the Lomonds high, The wheels of day are downwards rowing, And a' the western closing sky Wi' varied tints of glory lowing, 'Tis then my eager steps I guide, To meet the lass o' Levenside.
The solemn sweetness nature spreads, The kindly hour to bliss inviting, Within our happy bosoms move, The softest sigh o' purest love; Reclined upon the velvet grass, Beneath the balmy, birken blossom, What words could a' my joy express, When clasped to her beating bosom; How swells my heart with rapture's tide, When wi' the lass o' Levenside.
She never saw the splendid ball, She never blazed in courtly grandeur, But like her native lily's bloom, She cheerfu' gilds her humble home; The pert reply, the modish air, To soothe the soul were never granted, When modest sense and love are there, The guise o' art may well be wanted; O Fate! gi'e me to be my bride The bonnie lass o' Levenside.
JAMES AFFLECK.
The "Posthumous Poetical Works" of James Affleck, tailor in Biggar, with a memoir of his life by his son, were published at Edinburgh in 1836. Affleck was born in the village of Drummelzier, in Peeblesshire, on the 8th September 1776. His education was scanty; and after some years' occupation as a cowherd, he was apprenticed to a tailor in his native village. He afterwards prosecuted his trade in the parish of Crawfordjohn, and in the town of Ayr. In 1793, he established himself as master tailor in Biggar. Fond of society, he joined the district lodge of freemasons, and became a leading member of that fraternity. He composed verses for the entertainment of his friends, which he was induced to give to the world in two separate publications. He possessed considerable poetical talent, but his compositions are generally marked by the absence of refinement. The song selected for the present work is the most happy effort in his posthumous volume. His death took place at Biggar, on the 8th September 1835.
HOW BLEST WERE THE DAYS!
How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie! Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie; Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy, Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.
Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes, Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes; The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow, What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.
The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored, And plundering bykes was the game I adored; My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady, Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.
The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases; When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces; But view him at once baith the husband and daddie, He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.
When childhood was over my prospects were greater, I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature! The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment-- Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.
But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd, How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd! I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie; How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!
JAMES STIRRAT.
James Stirrat was born in the village of Dalry, Ayrshire, on the 28th March 1781. His father was owner of several houses in the place, and was employed in business as a haberdasher. Young Stirrat was educated at the village school; in his 17th year, he composed verses which afforded some indication of power. Of a delicate constitution, he accepted the easy appointment of village postmaster. He died in March 1843, in his sixty-second year. Stirrat wrote much poetry, but never ventured on a publication. Several of his songs appeared at intervals in the public journals, the "Book of Scottish Song," and the "Contemporaries of Burns." The latter work contains a brief sketch of his life. He left a considerable number of MSS., which are now in the possession of a relative in Ayr. Possessed of a knowledge of music, he excelled in playing many of the national airs on the guitar. His dispositions were social, yet in society he seldom talked; among his associates, he frequently expressed his hope of posthumous fame. He was enthusiastic in his admiration of female beauty, but died unmarried.
HENRY.[14]
AIR--_"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."_
Can my dearest Henry leave me? Why, ah! why would he deceive me? Whence this cold and cruel change, That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?
Can he the hours of love forget, The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever, When down the burn we fondly met, And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever? Will my Henry then deceive me, Faithless laddie, can he leave me? Ne'er till now did fancy dream, My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.
And will he then me aye forsake? Must I for ever, ever lose him? And can he leave this heart to break, That swells and bursts within my bosom? Never, Henry, could I leave thee, Never could this heart deceive thee, Why then, laddie, me forsake, And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?
[14] This song and that following are printed from the original MSS.
MARY.[15]
"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high, And youthfu' love's endearing tie Gave rapture to the mutual sigh, Within the arms of Mary, My ain dear Mary; Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky, Could equal mine wi' Mary.
The sacred hours like moments flew, Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through, The warl' evanish'd frae my view Within the arms of Mary, My ain dear Mary; Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew Within the arms of Mary.
Young fancy spread her visions gay, Love fondly view'd the fair display, Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day, And I was rapt with Mary, My ain dear Mary; The flowers of Eden strew'd the way That led me to my Mary.
But life is now a dreary waste, I lanely wander sair depress'd, For cold and lifeless is that breast Where throbb'd the heart of Mary, My ain dear Mary; She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest, And I hae lost my Mary.
[15] This song was set to music by R. A. Smith.
JOHN GRIEVE.
John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve, minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet, hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.
Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the more respectable periodicals.[16] In his youth he had been a votary of the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve, he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem "Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:--
"The bard that night who foremost came Was not enroll'd, nor known his name; A youth he was of manly mould, Gentle as lamb, as lion bold; But his fair face, and forehead high, Glow'd with intrusive modesty. 'Twas said by bank of southland stream Glided his youth in soothing dream; The harp he loved, and wont to stray Far to the wilds and woods away, And sing to brooks that gurgled by Of maiden's form and maiden's eye; That when this dream of youth was past, Deep in the shade his harp he cast; In busy life his cares beguiled, His heart was true, and fortune smiled."
Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily resort of the _savans_ of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the 4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]
[16] In the "Key to the Chaldee MS.," he is described as the author of "The White Cottage, a Tale;" this was not written by him, but was the production of one More, a native of Berwickshire, whose literary aspirations he had promoted.
[17] For a number of particulars in this memoir, we are indebted to our venerated friend Mr Alexander Bald, of Alloa.
CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.
AIR--_"Fingal's Lament."_
Culloden, on thy swarthy brow Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair; Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow, More than the freezing wintry air. For once thou drank'st the hero's blood, And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore; Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd, Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.
From Beauly's wild and woodland glens, How proudly Lovat's banners soar! How fierce the plaided Highland clans Rush onward with the broad claymore! Those hearts that high with honour heave, The volleying thunder there laid low; Or scatter'd like the forest leaves, When wintry winds begin to blow!
Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel? The braided plumes torn from thy brow, What must thy haughty spirit feel, When skulking like the mountain roe! While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers, On April eve, their loves and joys, The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers To foreign lands an exile flies.
To his blue hills that rose in view, As o'er the deep his galley bore, He often look'd and cried, "Adieu! I 'll never see Lochaber more! Though now thy wounds I cannot feel, My dear, my injured native land, In other climes thy foe shall feel The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.
"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray, Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung! Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day, That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung. Where once they ruled and roam'd at will, Free as their own dark mountain game, Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel A longing for their father's fame.
"Shades of the mighty and the brave, Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell! No trophies mark your common grave, Nor dirges to your memory swell. But generous hearts will weep your fate, When far has roll'd the tide of time; And bards unborn shall renovate Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."
LOVELY MARY.[18]
AIR--_"Gowd in gowpens."_
I 've seen the lily of the wold, I 've seen the opening marigold, Their fairest hues at morn unfold, But fairer is my Mary. How sweet the fringe of mountain burn, With opening flowers at spring's return! How sweet the scent of flowery thorn! But sweeter is my Mary.
Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind; Her form 's not fairer than her mind; Two sister beauties rarely join'd, But join'd in lovely Mary. As music from the distant steep, As starlight on the silent deep, So are my passions lull'd asleep By love for bonnie Mary.
[18] This song was written during the author's first residence at Alloa. The heroine was Miss Mary Douglas, a young lady of great personal attractions, daughter of Captain Douglas, of the East India Company's Marine Service, who resided in the village of Sauchie, in the vicinity. She became the wife of a Mr Rhind, an Edinburgh gentleman, but died soon after her marriage. Her remains were brought for interment to the churchyard of Alloa.
HER BLUE ROLLIN' E'E.
AIR--_"Banks of the Devon."_
My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee; Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning, As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e. O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain? Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie? Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain, An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.
See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood, Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree, 'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood, An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e. Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd; Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea; Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd; Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.
Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour, When down by yon greenwood she promised to be; When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower, A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee. Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures; Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie; As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures, In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.
CHARLES GRAY.
Charles Gray was born at Anstruther-wester, on the 10th March 1782. He was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr William Tennant, the author of "Anster Fair," who were both natives of Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation; but in 1805, through the influence of Major-General Burn,[19] his maternal uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of "Poems and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in establishing the "Musomanik Society of Anstruther,"--an association which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of respectable verses.[20] After thirty-six years' active service in the Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in compliance with the wishes of numerous friends, expressed in the form of a _Round Robin_, he published a second volume of verses, with the title of "Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo, illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his birthplace. In the _Glasgow Citizen_ newspaper, he subsequently published "Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the "Songs of Scotland."
Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits; and he enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have deservedly attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate the style of the great national bard. In person he was of low stature; his gray weather-beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died, after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. He married early in life, and his only son is now a Captain of Marines.
[19] A memoir of this estimable individual, chiefly from materials found in his Diary, has been published by the London Tract Society.
[20] This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled "Bouts-Rimés, or Poetical Pastimes of a few Hobblers round the base of Parnassus;" it is dedicated "To the Lovers of Rhyme, Fun, and Good-Fellowship throughout the British Empire."
MAGGIE LAUDER.[21]
The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head, And Winter yet did blaud her, When the Ranter came to Anster fair, And speir'd for Maggie Lauder; A snug wee house in the East Green,[22] Its shelter kindly lent her; Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane, Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!
Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride, And to the kirk they ranted; He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;" And merry Maggie vaunted, That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring, Nor blew sae weel his chanter, For he made Anster town to ring-- And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?
For a' the talk and loud reports, That ever gaed against her, Meg proves a true and carefu' wife, As ever was in Anster; And since the marriage-knot was tied, Rob swears he coudna want her; For he loves Maggie as his life, And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.
[21] These stanzas are an appropriate addition to the well-known song of "Maggie Lauder," composed by Francis Semple, about 1660.
[22] The _East Green_ of Anstruther is now a low street connecting the town with the adjoining village of Cellardyke. The site of Maggie Lauder's house,--which is said to have been a cot of one storey,--is pointed out in a small garden opposite a tannery, and on the north side of the street. Maggie Lauder is the heroine of Dr Tennant's poem of "Anster Fair."
CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.
O Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; O Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier!
When first his standard caught the eye, His pibroch met the ear, Our hearts were light, our hopes were high For the young Chevalier. O Charlie is my darling, &c.
The plaided chiefs cam frae afar, Nae doubts their bosoms steir; They nobly drew the sword for war And the young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, &c.
But he wha trusts to fortune's smile Has meikle cause to fear; She blinket blithe but to beguile The young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, &c.
O dark Culloden--fatal field! Fell source o' mony a tear; There Albyn tint her sword and shield, And the young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, &c.
Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;" Her forest trees are sere; Her Royal Oak is gane for aye, The young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; O Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier.
THE BLACK-E'ED LASSIE.[23]
AIR--_"My only Jo and Dearie O!"_
Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell, But dinna ye be saucy, O! Or a' my love I winna tell To thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O! It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue, It 's no thy little cherrie mou'; Its a' because thy heart 's sae true, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e, Though few for that surpass ye, O! That maks ye aye sae dear to me, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O! It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin, It 's no love's dimple on thy chin; Its a' thy modest worth within, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind, That a' wish to caress ye, O! But O! how I admire thy mind, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O! I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear, Shine dimly through soft pity's tear; These are the charms that mak thee dear, To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!
[23] The heroine of this song subsequently became the author's wife.
GRIM WINTER WAS HOWLIN'.
AIR--_"Bonnie Dundee."_
Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain, And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea; The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain, As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee. Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie, And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree; For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary, Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!
Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river, I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea; And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever, Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee. There, glowrin' about, I saw in his station Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee; When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation, The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!
O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie, I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be; I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy; They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee! O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour; Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be; And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her-- The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!
JOHN FINLAY.
John Finlay, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born at Glasgow in 1782. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they contrived to afford him the advantages of a good education. From the academy of Mr Hall, an efficient teacher in the city, he was sent, in his fourteenth year, to the University. There he distinguished himself both in the literary and philosophical classes; he became intimately acquainted with the Latin and Greek classics, and wrote elegant essays on the subjects prescribed. His poetical talents first appeared in the composition of odes on classical subjects, which were distinguished alike by power of thought and smoothness of versification. In 1802, while still pursuing his studies at college, he published a volume entitled "Wallace, or the Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition[24] appeared, with considerable additions. Soon after, he published an edition of Blair's "Grave," with many excellent notes; produced a learned life of Cervantes; and superintended the publication of a new edition of Smith's "Wealth of Nations." In the hope of procuring a situation in one of the public offices, he proceeded to London in 1807, where he contributed many learned articles, particularly on antiquarian subjects, to different periodicals. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable post in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1808; and the same year published, in two duodecimo volumes, a collection of "Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads." This work is chiefly valuable from some interesting notes, and an ingenious preliminary dissertation on early romantic composition in Scotland. About this period, Professor Richardson, of Glasgow, himself an elegant poet, offered him the advance of sufficient capital to enable him to obtain a share in a printing establishment, and undertook to secure for the firm the appointment of printers to the University; he declined, however, to undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of 1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at Elleray, in Cumberland, to consult with him on the subject of his views. He only reached the distance of Moffat; he was there struck with an apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship, and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy aspirations, and was amply qualified for success; for his energies were co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best production is the poem of "Wallace," written in his nineteenth year; though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of external nature, and displays much vigour of versification. His lyrics are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country.
[24] A third edition was published at Glasgow, by R. Chapman, in 1817.
O! COME WITH ME.
TUNE--_"Roslin Castle."_
O! come with me, for the queen of night Is throned on high in her beauty bright: 'Tis now the silent hour of even, When all is still in earth an' heaven; The cold flowers which the valleys strew Are sparking bright wi' pearly dew, And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum, Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.
The opening blue-bell--Scotland's pride-- In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed; The daisy meek frae the dewy dale, The wild thyme, and the primrose pale, Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake, Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make, And bind them 'mid the locks that flow In rich luxuriance from thy brow.
O, love, without thee, what were life? A bustling scene of care and strife; A waste, where no green flowery glade Is found for shelter or for shade. But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share We can with calm composure bear; For the darkest nicht o' care and toil. Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.
'TIS NOT THE ROSE UPON THE CHEEK.
'Tis not the rose upon the cheek, Nor eyes in langour soft that roll, That fix the lover's timid glance, And fire his wilder'd soul.
But 'tis the eye that swims in tears, Diffusing soft a joy all holy; So soothing to the heart of love, And yet so melancholy.
The note that falters on the tongue, Sweet as the dying voice of eve, That calms the throbbing breast of pain, Yet makes it love to grieve!
The hand, alternate fiery warm And icy cold, the bursting sigh, The look that hopes, yet seems to fear, Pale cheek and burning eye.
These, these the magic circle twine, The lover's thoughts and feelings seize; 'Till scarce a son of earth he seems, But lives in what he sees.
I HEARD THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE.
AIR--_"Gramachree."_
I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among, Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song; So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul, The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.
I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade, And mingled in the melody that Isabella made; Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart, Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.
I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky, Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye; Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year, Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.
All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved, How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved! Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more, As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.
OH! DEAR WERE THE JOYS.
AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I love dear."_
Oh! dear were the joys that are past! Oh! dear were the joys that are past! Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn, Or a cloud of the night on the blast!
How dear was the breath of the eve, When bearing thy fond faithless sigh! And the moonbeam how dear that betray'd The love that illumined thine eye!
Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine, Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light; But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky, It hid the pale queen of the night.
Thou hast broken thy plighted faith, And broken a fond lover's heart; Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray I would trust more than thee and thy art!
I am wretched to think on the past-- Even hope now my peace cannot save; Thou hast given to my rival thy hand, But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.
WILLIAM NICHOLSON.
William Nicholson, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the occupation of a carrier; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a tavern. Of a family of eight children, William was the youngest; he inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which, sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, and Dr Alexander Murray, the famous philologist, these gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers; and in 1814 appeared as the author of "Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised £100, but this sum was diminished by certain imprudent excesses. With the balance, he republished some tracts on the subject of Universal Redemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826 he proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was engaged for a short time as assistant to a cattle-driver. In 1828, he published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Henry, now Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a gaberlunzie; he played at merrymakings on his bagpipes, for snuff and whisky. For sometime his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board at Kirk-Andrews, in his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849. He was rather above the middle size, and well formed. His countenance was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song-writer he claims a place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled "The Country Lass," in the same measure as the "Queen's Wake," contains much simple and graphic delineation of life; while the ballad of "The Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true to nature.
THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.
TUNE--_"White Cockade."_
O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me, And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie-- Thy former friens and sweethearts a', And gang wi' me to Gallowa'? O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom, And heather-bells in bonnie bloom; There 's lordly seats, and livins braw, Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!
There 's stately woods on mony a brae, Where burns and birds in concert play; The waukrife echo answers a', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c.
The simmer shiel I 'll build for thee Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee, Half circlin' roun' my father's ha', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c.
When autumn waves her flowin' horn, And fields o' gowden grain are shorn, I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw, To join the dance in Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c.
At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight, And lanely, langsome is the night, Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw, Play "A' the way to Gallowa'." O Gallowa' braes, &c.
Should fickle fortune on us frown, Nae lack o' gear our love should drown; Content should shield our haddin' sma', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. Come while the blossom 's on the broom, And heather bells sae bonnie bloom; Come let us be the happiest twa On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!
THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.
TUNE--_"Ewe Bughts, Marion."_
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary, And visit our haughs and our glens? There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's, That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.
'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses, Nae lilies grow wild on the lea; But the heather its sweet scent discloses, And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin', Whose summits are shaded wi' blue; There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin', Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin', Whan shepherds return frae the hill, Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon', While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.
Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams, That points owre the quivering stream; But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary, And kinder the blinks o' her een.
THE BANKS OF TARF.
TUNE--_"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."_
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows; And mony a greenwood cluster grows, And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O! Below a spreadin' hazle lea, Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see, While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e, I met my bonnie Annie, O!
Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue, Her lips like roses wet wi' dew; But O! her e'e, o' azure blue, Was past expression bonnie, O! Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair, That lightly wanton'd wi' the air; But vain were a' my rhymin' ware To tell the charms o' Annie, O!
While smilin' in my arms she lay, She whisperin' in my ear did say, "Oh, how could I survive the day, Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?" "While spangled fish glide to the main, While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain, Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain, I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"
The Beltan winds blew loud and lang, And ripplin' raised the spray alang; We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang, The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O! Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay, And blithe the blinks o' summer day; I fear nae winter cauld and blae, If blest wi' love and Annie, O!
O! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE.
TUNE--_"Will ye walk the woods with me?"_
O! will ye go to yon burn side, Amang the new-made hay; And sport upon the flowery swaird, My ain dear May?
The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side, Whar lambkins lightly play, The wild bird whistles to his mate, My ain dear May.
The waving woods, wi' mantle green, Shall shield us in the bower, Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May, O' mony a bonnie flower. My father maws ayont the burn, My mammy spins at hame; And should they see thee here wi' me, I 'd better been my lane.
The lightsome lammie little kens What troubles it await-- Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er, The fause bird lea'es its mate. The flowers will fade, the woods decay, And lose their bonnie green; The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast, Before that it be e'en.
Ilk thing is in its season sweet; So love is in its noon: But cankering time may soil the flower, And spoil its bonnie bloom. Oh, come then, while the summer shines, And love is young and gay; Ere age his withering, wintry blast Blaws o'er me and my May.
For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks, Or haud the halesome plough; And nightly clasp thee to my breast, And prove aye leal and true. The blush o'erspread her bonnie face, She had nae mair to say, But gae her hand and walk'd alang, The youthfu', bloomin' May.
ALEXANDER RODGER.
Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder, Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village inn; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to Hamburgh. Alexander was apprenticed in his twelfth year to a silversmith in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country, in 1797, he joined his maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a weaver. He married in his twenty-second year; and contrived to add to the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led in 1819 to afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of promoting disaffection and revolt. The connexion was attended with serious consequences; he was convicted of revolutionary practices, and sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the Barrowfield Works, as an inspector of cloths used for printing and dyeing. He held this office during eleven years; he subsequently acted as a pawnbroker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different newspapers. In 1836 he became assistant in the publishing office of the _Reformers' Gazette_, a situation which he held till his death. This event took place on the 26th September 1846.
Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of "Poems and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are disfigured by coarse political allusions. Several of his songs are of a high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of external nature than of the domestic affections; and, himself possessed of a lively sympathy with the humbler classes, he took delight in celebrating the simple joys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the pathetic, his muse sometimes assumed a sportive gaiety, when the laugh is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation; he was fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836, about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained him at a public festival and handed him a small box of sovereigns; and some admiring friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow.
SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.
How brightly beams the bonnie moon, Frae out the azure sky; While ilka little star aboon Seems sparkling bright wi' joy. How calm the eve, how blest the hour! How soft the silvan scene! How fit to meet thee, lovely flower, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
Now let us wander through the broom, And o'er the flowery lea; While simmer wafts her rich perfume, Frae yonder hawthorn tree: There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest, Where we 've sae aften been; Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast-- Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
How sweet to view that face so meek-- That dark expressive eye-- To kiss that lovely blushing cheek-- Those lips of coral dye! But O! to hear thy seraph strains, Thy maiden sighs between, Makes rapture thrill through all my veins-- Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
O! what to us is wealth or rank? Or what is pomp or power? More dear this velvet mossy bank-- This blest ecstatic hour! I 'd covet not the monarch's throne, Nor diamond-studded Queen, While blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!
BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.
AIR--_"Good-morrow to your night-cap."_
Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.
It wad na gie me meikle pain, 'Gin we were seen and heard by nane To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane, But, guid sake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er you do when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.
Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they 'll mak O' naething but a simple smack That 's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, Nor gie the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.
It 's no through hatred o' a kiss That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we 're our lane ye may tak ane, But fient a ane before folk.
I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I 'll ne'er submit again to it-- So mind you that--before folk.
Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae--I dinna care-- But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair As ye hae done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk.
Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it 's hardly meet, To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place, But surely no before folk.
But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae get a licence frae the priest, And mak me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane, Ye may tak ten before folk.[25]
[25] "The Answer" is of inferior merit, and has therefore been omitted.
LOVELY MAIDEN.
Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping? Wake, and fly with me, my love, While the moon is proudly sweeping, Through the ether fields above; While her mellow'd light is streaming Full on mountain, moon, and lake. Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming? 'Tis thy true-love calls awake.
All is hush'd around thy dwelling, Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep; Hark! the clock the hour is knelling, Wilt thou then thy promise keep? Yes, I hear her softly coming, Now her window 's gently raised; There she stands, an angel blooming, Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!
Fear not, love, thy rigid father Soundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine; 'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder, To his care thyself resign! Now my arms enfold a treasure, Which for worlds I 'd not forego; Now our bosoms feel that pleasure, Faithful bosoms only know.
Long have our true-loves been thwarted, By the stern decrees of pride, Which would doom us to be parted, And make thee another's bride; But behold, my steeds are ready, Soon they 'll post us far away; Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady, Long before the dawn of day.
THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.
AIR--_"For lack o' gowd."_
How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside, Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside; Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee, Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside! Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside; Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside; In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind, To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.
When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside, What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside, A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles At their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside; And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside, In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside, Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd, He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.
When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside, And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside, She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet, While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside. When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside, And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside, With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days, As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.
And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside, What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside? With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop, Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside. Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside; Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside; May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath, Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.
AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAREWELL."
Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell," 'T would pierce my bosom through; And to this heart 't were death's dread knell, To hear thee sigh "Adieu." Though soul and body both must part, Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever, For more to me than soul thou art, And oh! I 'll quit thee never.
Whate'er through life may be thy fate, That fate with thee I 'll share, If prosperous, be moderate; If adverse, meekly bear; This bosom shall thy pillow be, In every change whatever, And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee, But oh! forsake thee, never.
One home, one hearth, shall ours be still, And one our daily fare; One altar, too, where we may kneel, And breathe our humble prayer; And one our praise, that shall ascend, To one all-bounteous Giver; And one our will, our aim, our end, For oh! we 'll sunder never.
And when that solemn hour shall come, That sees thee breathe thy last, That hour shall also fix my doom, And seal my eyelids fast. One grave shall hold us, side by side, One shroud our clay shall cover; And one then may we mount and glide, Through realms of love, for ever.
JOHN WILSON.
John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers, and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old building, bore the name of _Prior's Croft_; it was taken down in 1787, when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley, which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father. His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns, and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of _Blackwood's Magazine_. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In 1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he became master of a fortune of about £30,000, which accrued to him from his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies; he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of Palms," a poem in four cantos.
Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry. But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches, entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and "The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."
On the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, in 1817, Wilson was one of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. _Blackwood's Magazine_ attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literary _nom-de-guerre_, became a monthly treasure of interest and entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianæ," a series of dialogues on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in _Blackwood_ from 1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion with _Blackwood's Magazine_, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."
Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake," have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the following year a civil-list pension of £300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his memory.
Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream. Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty; and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood.
MARY GRAY'S SONG.
I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd; But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.
I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.
By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken, And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!
Sic silence--sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering! I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children, Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.
I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.
I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing, Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.
I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming, Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute; 'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming, Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.
To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!
Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.
Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.
The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping, I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.
The morning smiled on--but nae kirk-bell was ringing, Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.
I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling, The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.
The infant had died at the breast o' its mither; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.
Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea, When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.
But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices, And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!
THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.
With laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heart-felt revelry; And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May, Chanting glad Nature's roundelay; Circled by joy like planet bright That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, Thy image such, in former time, When thou, just entering on thy prime, And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!
Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace: Though happy still, yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow and soft thy tread, As if round thy hush'd infant's bed! And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears!
By thy glad youth and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary Time; For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When, earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode, Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in immortality.
PRAYER TO SLEEP.
O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head For one little hour on thy lover's bed, And none but the silent stars of night Shall witness be to our delight?
Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be Of the eider-down that is spread for thee, So I in my sorrow must lie alone, For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.
Music to thee I know is dear; Then the saddest of music is ever here, For Grief sits with me in my cell, And she is a syren who singeth well.
But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs, And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers, When the bells of merriment are ringing, And bliss with liquid voice is singing.
Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd, No rival hast thou in my solitude, Be mine, my love! and we two will lie Embraced for ever, or awake to die!
Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour, Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow; But thou art Joy's faithful paramour, And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.
DAVID WEBSTER.
David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]
[26] The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles Fleming, of Paisley.
TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.
TUNE--_"Brose and Butter."_
When I was a miller in Fife, Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it racket; For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair, While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill and the kill, The garland and gear for my cogie, Hey for the whisky and yill, That washes the dust frae my craigie.
Although it 's been lang in repute For rogues to mak rich by deceiving, Yet I see that it does not weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving; For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it; Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't, Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.
A man that 's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper; Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what 's said by the happer. I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit? But when I grew dry for a horn, It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.
The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks, Cause they kent that I liked a bicker; Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor. I had lang been accustom'd to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clappertie clink Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.
But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't, Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't; I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't; Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it. Hey the mill, &c.
Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter, There 's men mair notorious to fame, Mair greedy than me or the muter; For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety the half we may mak it, Had some speaking happer within, That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.
OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.
AIR--_"Gregor Arora."_
Oh, sweet were the hours That I spent wi' my Flora, In yon gay shady bowers, Roun' the linn o' the Cora!
Her breath was the zephyrs That waft frae the roses, And skim o'er the heath As the summer day closes.
I told her my love-tale, Which seem'd to her cheering; Then she breathed on the soft gale Her song so endearing.
The rock echoes ringing Seem'd charm'd wi' my story; And the birds, sweetly singing, Replied to my Flora.
The sweet zephyr her breath As it wafts frae the roses, And skims o'er the heath As the summer day closes.
PATE BIRNIE.[27]
Our minstrels a', frae south to north, To Edin cam to try their worth, And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth, Whase name was Patie Birnie. This Patie, wi' superior art, Made notes to ring through head and heart, Till citizens a' set apart Their praise to Patie Birnie. Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth, Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth, Aye when she would enhance her worth, To sing o' Patie Birnie.
His merits mak _Auld Reekie_[28] ring, Mak rustic poets o' him sing; For nane can touch the fiddle-string Sae weel as Patie Birnie. He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad, Maks youngsters a rin louping mad, Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad, Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.
The witching tones o' Patie's therm, Mak farmer chiels forget their farm, Sailors forget the howling storm, When dancing to Pate Birnie. Pate maks the fool forget his freaks, Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes, And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks, And follow Patie Birnie.
When Patie taks his strolling rounds, To feasts or fairs in ither towns, Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun, To hear the famous Birnie. The crabbit carles forget to snarl, The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel, And gilphies forget the stock and horle, And dance to Patie Birnie.
[27] Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in Kinghorn, Fifeshire.
[28] An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the Scottish poets.
WILLIAM PARK.
William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James, who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and editor of a newspaper, called the _St George's Chronicle_. In the year 1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the farm of Cassock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29] minister of Eskdalemuir, and continued to occupy the position of _minister's man_ till the death of that clergyman, many years afterwards.
From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo. About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers. On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton, and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the _Dumfries Standard_ newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the 5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their numerous family, some have emigrated to America.
Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song," which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.
[29] William Brown, D.D., author of "Antiquities of the Jews." Lond., 1825, 2 vols. 8vo.
THE PATRIOT'S SONG.
Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear, Ere I know aught of toil or of woe, For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear, And a thousand endearments forego?
Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife? Must I friendship's just claims disallow? No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life, As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.
'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound In the wide-spreading plains of the west; That there an asylum of peace shall be found Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.
That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride In the forest unfading and deep; That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide, Encircling broad realms in its sweep.
But is there a spot in that far distant land Where fancy or feeling may dwell? Or how shall the heart of the exile expand, Untouch'd by Society's spell?
Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear, As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam, Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere-- I have found 'mong these mountains a home.
How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears, As it streams from the eye of the morn! And how comely the garment that evening wears When the day of its glories is shorn!
Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind, Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore; The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind, By the bravest, was trodden before.
Nor is there a field--not a foot of thy soil, In dale or in mountain-land dun, Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil, Ere concord its conquest had won.
The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours, It comes from the glen on the gale, For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs, And their names are revered in the vale.
How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath, O'er the bones of the righteous was laid, Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith, When the banner of truth was display'd!
And sweet are the songs of the land of my love, And soothing their tones to the soul, Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above, Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.
While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste, A gaudier garb may assume, My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste, And thy glories immortally bloom.
No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay! The scorn of the stranger to brave; O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray, And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.
THOMAS PRINGLE.
Thomas Pringle was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors had been tenants for a succession of generations. By an accident in infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading, and during his attendance at college he formed the resolution of adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811--in connexion with his ingenious friend, Robert Story, the present minister of Roseneath--a poem entitled, "The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of Sir Walter Scott for Hogg's "Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede the _Scots' Magazine_, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwood the proposal was well received; a periodical was originated under the title of the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, and Pringle relinquished his post in the Register House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the materials being kindly supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher, however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had commenced so prosperously; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal: a new series, under the title of _Blackwood's Magazine_, appeared in October, under the literary superintendence of Wilson; while, in the August preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr Constable, _The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_, as a new series of the _Scots' Magazine_. In the first number of Mr Blackwood's new series appeared the celebrated "Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade, chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards cancelled.
Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the editorship of _The Star_, a bi-weekly newspaper; but he was led soon to renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the "Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems;" but finding, in spite of every effort, that he was unable to support himself by literature, he resumed, early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House.
When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family. He formed the resolution of emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his wife's relatives and his own consented to accompany him. In February 1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the upper part of the valley of Baaviars river, a tributary of the Great Fish river. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden, Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government library, with a salary of £75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing educational establishment. He now established a periodical, which he designated the _South African Commercial Advertiser_, and became editor of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures: in consequence of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826; and failing to obtain from the home government a reparation of his losses in the colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from literature. An article which he had written on slavery, in the _New Monthly Magazine_, led to his appointment as secretary to the Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June 1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in Bunhill-field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory.
As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification, perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition, and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions; and to this peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person he was under the middle height; his countenance was open and benignant, with a well developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow.
FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.
Our native land--our native vale-- A long, a last adieu; Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue!
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Ye streams renown'd in song; Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads, Our hearts have loved so long!
Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow; Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe!
The mossy cave and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dells; The martyr's grave and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!
Home of our love--our fathers' home-- Land of the brave and free-- The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore, Beyond the western main; We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land--our native vale-- A long, a last adieu! Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue!
THE EXILE'S LAMENT.
By the lone Mankayana's margin gray A Scottish maiden sung; And mournfully pour'd her melting lay In Teviot's border-tongue: O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes, And the birk in Clifton dale; And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes, By the briery banks o' Cayle!
Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom May enchant the traveller's eye; But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom, To the exile who comes to die! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Far round and round spreads the howling waste, Where the wild beast roams at will; And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced, Where the savage lurks to kill! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green My dreaming fancy strays; But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene That scowls on my aching gaze! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state, On Scotland's peaceful strand, Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate, In this wild and weary land! O bonnie grows the broom, &c.
LOVE AND SOLITUDE.
I love the free ridge of the mountain, When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye; I love the old ash by the fountain, When noon's summer fervours are high: And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloaming Adown the dim valley glides slowly along, And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming, A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.
When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters Over ocean her silvery light, And the whisper of woodlands and waters Comes soft through the silence of night-- I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger, A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given, And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger, The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.
Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing, Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh-- I yearn for the sympathies glowing, When hearts to each other reply! Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion, To worship with me by wild mountain and grove; O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion, With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!
COME AWA', COME AWA'.
Come awa', come awa', An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie; Leave your southren wooers a', My winsome bride to be, lassie! Lands nor gear I proffer you, Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie; But I 've a heart that 's leal and true, And a' that heart is thine, lassie!
Come awa', come awa', And see the kindly north, lassie, Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair, And by the Links o' Forth, lassie! And when we tread the heather-bell, Aboon Demayat lea, lassie, You 'll view the land o' flood and fell, The noble north countrie, lassie!
Come awa', come awa', And leave your southland hame, lassie; The kirk is near, the ring is here, And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie! Rock and reel and spinning-wheel, And English cottage trig, lassie; Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!
Come awa', come awa', I ken your heart is mine, lassie, And true love shall make up for a' For whilk ye might repine, lassie! Your father he has gi'en consent, Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie; O that our feet were on the bent, An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!
Come awa', come awa', Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie; My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw, By bonnie Avondhu, lassie! There 's birk and slae on ilka brae, And brackens waving fair, lassie, And gleaming lochs and mountains gray-- Can aught wi' them compare, lassie? Come awa', come awa', &c.
DEAREST LOVE, BELIEVE ME!
Dearest love, believe me, Though all else depart, Nought shall e'er deceive thee In this faithful heart. Beauty may be blighted-- Youth must pass away; But the vows we plighted Ne'er shall know decay.
Tempests may assail us From affliction's coast, Fortune's breeze may fail us When we need it most; Fairest hopes may perish, Firmest friends may change, But the love we cherish Nothing shall estrange.
Dreams of fame and grandeur End in bitter tears; Love grows only fonder With the lapse of years; Time, and change, and trouble, Weaker ties unbind, But the bands redouble True affection twined.
WILLIAM KNOX.
William Knox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August 1789. His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a country gentleman, Mr Pott of Todrig, in Selkirkshire; and of this marriage, William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of Wrae, near Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but his habits were not those of a thriving farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published "The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.
Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis, and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by his executors.
Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious anecdotes.
THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.
O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends, Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds; Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west, And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast. Here social pleasure enlivens each heart, And friendship is ready its warmth to impart; The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes, To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.
Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills, Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills; Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers, There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours. Though our island is beat by the storms of the north, There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth; There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes.
O valour! thou guardian of freedom and truth, Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth! Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid. And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land; Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes, When call'd in defence of the dear land of cakes.
Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud, When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud, See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay, And leave to our foemen the pride of the day? No, by heavens we will stand to our honour and trust! Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust, Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks, Beneath the brown heath of the dear land of cakes.
O, peace to the ashes of those that have bled For the land where the proud thistle raises its head! O, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth, In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth! Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains, And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins; Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes, For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes.
Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart, From our word, from our trust, let us never depart; Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd, And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound; And still to our bosom be honesty dear, And still to our loves and our friendships sincere; And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes, May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes.
THE LAMENT.
She was mine when the leaves of the forest were green, When the rose-blossoms hung on the tree; And dear, dear to me were the joys that had been, And I dreamt of enjoyments to be.
But she faded more fast than the blossoms could fade, No human attention could save; And when the green leaves of the forest decay'd, The winds strew'd them over her grave.
TO MARY.
Farewell! and though my steps depart From scenes for ever dear, O Mary! I must leave my heart And all my pleasures here; And I must cherish in my mind, Where'er my lot shall be, A thought of her I leave behind-- A hopeless thought of thee.
O Mary! I can ne'er forget The charm thy presence brought; No hour has pass'd since first we met, But thou hast shared my thought. At early morn, at sultry noon, Beneath the spreading tree, And, wandering by the evening moon, Still, still I think of thee.
Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream, And bid me grieve no more, But at the morn's returning gleam, I sorrow'd as before; Yet thou shalt still partake my care, And when I bend the knee, And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer, I will remember thee.
Farewell! and when my steps depart, Though many a grief be mine, And though I may conceal my own, I 'll weep to hear of thine. Though from thy memory soon depart Each little trace of me, 'Tis only in the grave this heart Can cease to think of thee.
WILLIAM THOM.
William Thom, commonly styled "The Inverury Poet," was born at Aberdeen in 1789. His father, who was a shopkeeper, dying during his infancy, he was placed by his mother at a school taught by a female, from whom he received the greater amount of his juvenile education. At the age of ten, he was put to a cotton-factory, where he served an apprenticeship of four years. He was subsequently employed, during a period of nearly twenty years, in the large weaving-factory of Gordon, Barron, & Co. In 1827, he removed to Dundee; and shortly after to the village of Newtyle, in Strathmore, at both of these places working as a hand-loom weaver. Thrown out of employment, in consequence of a stagnation in the manufacturing world, he was subjected, in his person and family, to much penury and suffering. At length, disposing of his articles of household furniture, he purchased a few wares, and taking his wife and children along with him, commenced the precarious life of a pedlar. In his published "Recollections," he has supplied a heart-rending narrative of the privations attendant on his career as a wanderer; his lodgings were frequently in the farmer's barn, and, on one of these occasions, one of his children perished from cold and starvation. The contents of his pack becoming exhausted, he derived the means of subsistence by playing on the flute, and disposing of copies of verses. After wandering over a wide district as a pedlar, flute-player, and itinerant poet, he resumed his original occupation of weaving in Kinross. He subsequently sought employment as a weaver in Aberdeen, where he remained about a year. In 1840 he proceeded to Inverury; and it was while he was resident in this place that his beautiful stanzas, entitled "The Blind Boy's Pranks," appeared in the columns of the _Aberdeen Herald_ newspaper. These verses were copied into many of the public journals: they particularly arrested the attention of Mr Gordon of Knockespock, a landed proprietor in Aberdeenshire, who, ascertaining the indigent circumstances of the author, transmitted to him a handsome donation, and desired to form his personal acquaintance. The poet afterwards accompanied Mr Gordon to London, who introduced him as a man of genius to the fashionable and literary circles of the metropolis. In 1844 he published a small volume of poems and songs, with a brief autobiography, under the title of "Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver." This volume was well received; and on a second visit to London, Thom was entertained at a public dinner by many distinguished literary persons of the metropolis. From admirers, both in India and America, he received pecuniary acknowledgments of his genius. He now attempted to establish himself in London in connexion with the press, but without success. Returning to Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee; where, after a period of distress and penury, he breathed his last on the 29th February 1848, in his 59th year. His remains were interred in the public cemetery of the town; and it is pleasing to add, that an enthusiastic admirer of his genius has planted flowers upon his grave. Though long in publishing, Thom early wrote verses; in Gordon, Barron, & Co.'s factory in Aberdeen, his fellow-workmen were astonished and interested by the power and vigour of his poems. That he did not publish sooner, is probably attributable to his lengthened career of poverty, and his carelessness regarding intellectual honours.
In respect of pure and simple pathos, some of his lyrics are unequalled among the compositions of any of the national bards. Than "The Mitherless Bairn," it may be questioned whether there is to be found in the language any lyrical composition more delicately plaintive. It is lamentable to think that one who could write so tenderly should, by a dissolute life, have been the author of many of his own misfortunes, and a constant barrier to every attempt for his permanent elevation in the social circle. In person, he was rather below the middle stature; his countenance was thoughtful, but marked with the effects of bodily suffering. Owing to a club-foot, his gait was singularly awkward. He excelled in conversation, and his manner was pleasing and conciliatory.
JEANIE'S GRAVE.
I saw my true-love first on the banks of queenly Tay, Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away; I feasted on her deep, dark eye, and loved it more and more, For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before!
I heard my true-love sing, and she taught me many a strain, But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again. In all our friendless wanderings--in homeless penury-- Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me.
I saw my true-love fade--I heard her latest sigh; I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye: Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave.
Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed, And I 'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread; For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea, Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.
THEY SPEAK O' WILES.
AIR--_"Gin a bodie meet a bodie."_
They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, An' ruin in her e'e; I ken they bring a pang at whiles That 's unco sair to dree; But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss, The first fond fa'in' tear, Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends, An' tints o' heaven here.
When two leal hearts in fondness meet, Life's tempests howl in vain; The very tears o' love are sweet When paid with tears again. Shall hapless prudence shake its pow, Shall cauldrife caution fear, Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe, That lichts a heaven here!
What though we 're ca'd a wee before The stale "three score an' ten," When Joy keeks kindly at your door, Aye bid her welcome ben. About yon blissfu' bowers above Let doubtfu' mortals speir; Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love," Since love makes heaven here.
THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.[30]
When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'Tis the puir doited loonie--the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed Now rests in the mools whare her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Oh! speak him na' harshly--he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
[30] An Inverury correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn;' I quote his own words--'When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', "Ye hussie, will ye kick a mitherless bairn!" I hobbled up the stair, and wrote the sang afore sleepin'.'"
THE LASS O' KINTORE.
AIR--_"Oh, as I was kiss'd yestreen."_
At hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone, I 'm dull on the Ury, an' droop by the Don; Their murmur is noisy, and fashious to hear, An' the lay o' the lintie fa's dead on my ear. I hide frae the morn, and whaur naebody sees; I greet to the burnie, an' sich to the breeze; Though I sich till I 'm silly, an' greet till I dee, Kintore is the spot in this world for me. But the lass o' Kintore, oh! the lass o' Kintore, Be warned awa' frae the lass o' Kintore; There 's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore.
They bid me forget her, oh! how can it be? In kindness or scorn she 's ever wi' me; I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue, An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue. I try to forget her, but canna forget, I 've liked her lang, an' I aye like her yet; My poor heart may wither, may waste to its core, But forget her, oh never! the lass o' Kintore! Oh the wood o' Kintore, the holmes o' Kintore! The love-lichtin' e'e that I ken at Kintore; I 'll wander afar, an' I 'll never look more On the gray glance o' Peggy, or bonnie Kintore!
MY HAMELESS HA'.
Oh! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha'? The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa'; An' aye the nicht sae drearie, Ere the dowie morn daw, Whan I canna win to see you, My Jamie, ava'.
Though mony miles between us, an' far, far frae me, The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld warl's e'e, Its leaves may waste and wither, But its branches winna fa'; An' hearts may haud thegither, Though frien's drap awa'.
Ye promised to speak o' me to the lanesome moon, An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun'; I doat upon that moon Till my very heart fills fu', An' aye yon birdie's tune Gars me greet for you.
Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'? A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa'! 'Tween leavin' o' you, Jamie, An' ills that sorrow me, I 'm wearie o' the warl', An' carena though I dee.
WILLIAM GLEN.[31]
William Glen, whose name simply has hitherto been known to the lovers of Scottish song, is entitled to an honourable place in the song-literature of his country. His progenitors were persons of consideration in the county of Renfrew.[32] His father, Alexander Glen, a Glasgow merchant in the Russian trade, married Jane Burns, sister of the Rev. Dr Burns, minister of Renfrew; and of a family of three sons, the poet was the eldest. He was born in Queen Street, Glasgow, on the 14th of November 1789. In 1803, when the regiment of Glasgow Volunteer Sharp-shooters was formed, he joined the corps as a lieutenant. He afterwards followed the mercantile profession, and engaged in the West India trade. For some time he resided in one of the West India islands. In 1814 he became one of the managers of the "Merchants' House" of Glasgow, and also a director of the "Chamber of Commerce and Manufactures." During the same year, being unfortunate in merchandise, he was induced to abandon the concerns of business. He afterwards derived the means of support from an uncle who resided in Russia; but his circumstances were ultimately much clouded by misfortune. During the last eight years of his career, his summers were spent at Reinagour, in the parish of Aberfoyle, where he resided with an uncle of his wife. After several years of delicate health, he died in Edwin Place, Gorbals, Glasgow, in December 1826. His widow and daughter continue to reside at Craigmuick, parish of Aberfoyle.
William Glen was about six feet in height; his person, which was originally slender, afterwards became portly. He was of a fair complexion, and his countenance generally wore a smile. His manners were pleasing, and he cherished a keen relish for congenial society. In 1815 he published a thin duodecimo volume of verses, entitled "Poems, chiefly Lyrical;" but the majority of his metrical compositions seem to have been confined to his repositories. A quarto volume of his MSS., numbered "Volume Third," is now in the possession of Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, who has kindly made it available in the preparation of this work. Interspersed with the poetry in the MS. volume, are pious reflections on the trials and disappointments incident to human life; with some spirited appeals to those fair ones who at different times had attracted the poet's fancy. Of his songs inserted in the present work, seven have been printed from the MS. volume, and the two last from the printed volume. Four of the songs have not been previously published. The whole are pervaded by simplicity and exquisite pathos. The song, "Waes me for Prince Charlie," is one of the most touching and popular of modern Jacobite ditties.
[31] To Mr James C. Roger, of Glasgow, we have to acknowledge our obligations for much diligent inquiry on the subject of this memoir.
[32] Allanus Glen, _armiger_, is witness to an instrument conveying the fishing of Crockat-shot to the "Monks of Pasly," in 1452. James Glen, the successor of this person, obtained from Robert, abbot of Paisley, the lands of Bar, Bridge-end, and Lyntehels, within the Lordship of Paisley. James Glen of Bar joined the troops of Queen Mary at the battle of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Regent, but was restored in 1573 by the treaty of Perth. Archibald Glen, a younger son of the proprietor of Bar, was minister of Carmunnock, and died in February 1614. Of two sons, Robert, the eldest, succeeded him in the living of Carmunnock; the other, named Thomas, was a prosperous trader in the Saltmarket of Glasgow; he died in 1735. His son Alexander was the poet's father.
WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.[33]
TUNE--_"Johnnie Faa."_
A wee bird cam to our ha' door, He warbled sweet an' clearly, An' aye the owercome o' his sang Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie." Oh! whan I heard the bonnie soun', The tears cam drappin' rarely; I took my bannet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.
Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow? Are thae some words ye 've learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?" "Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang, "I 've flown sin' mornin' early, But sic' a day o' wind and rain!-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.
"On hills that are by right his ain, He roves a lanely stranger; On every side he 's press'd by want, On every side is danger. Yestreen I saw him in a glen, My heart maist burstit fairly, For sadly changed indeed was he-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.
"Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd Loud o'er the hills an' valleys; An' whare wast that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should been a palace? He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Which cover'd him but sparely, An' slept beneath a bush o' broom-- Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie."
But now the bird saw some red-coats, An' he shook his wings wi' anger: "Oh! this is no a land for me, I 'll tarry here nae langer." He hover'd on the wing a while, Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the farewell strain Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."
[33] This song is understood to be a favourite with her present Majesty.
MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.[34]
The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow, The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene; As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow, An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane. Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic, An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile; But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic, An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood, Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view; An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood, An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew. Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling, Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile; Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling, Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
Now far in the east the sun slowly rising, Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree; And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising, As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee. But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion, The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd; I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean, And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning, An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine; White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning, An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine. Were I as free as an Indian chieftain, Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while; But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin', An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers, An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before; Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers, An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore. Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden, (Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile), Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden, Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.
[34] This song was composed while the author resided in the West Indies. It is here printed for the first time.
THE BATTLE-SONG.[35]
Raise high the battle-song To the heroes of our land; Strike the bold notes loud and long To Great Britain's warlike band. Burst away like a whirlwind of flame, Wild as the lightning's wing; Strike the boldest, sweetest string, And deathless glory sing-- To their fame.
See Corunna's bloody bed! 'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene; There the imperial eagle fled, And there our chief was slain. Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast, High honour seal'd his doom, And eternal laurels bloom Round the poor and lowly tomb Of his rest.
Strong was his arm of might, When the war-flag was unfurl'd; But his soul when peace shone bright, Beam'd love to all the world. And his name, through endless ages shall endure; High deeds are written fair, In that scroll, which time must spare, And thy fame 's recorded there-- Noble Moore.
Yonder 's Barossa's height Rising full upon my view, Where was fought the bloodiest fight That Iberia ever knew, Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led. With bay'nets levell'd low, They rush'd upon the foe, Like an avalanche of snow From its bed.
Sons of the "Lonely Isle," Your native courage rose, When surrounded for a while By the thousands of your foes. But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war, He resistless led ye on, Till the bloody field was won, And the dying battle-groan Sunk afar.
Our song Balgowan share, Home of the chieftain's rest; For thou art a lily fair In Caledonia's breast. Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain, For beauty there doth dwell, In the mountain, flood, or fell, And throws her witching spell O'er the scene.
But not Balgowan's charms Could hire the chief to stay; For the foe were up in arms, In a country far away. He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame; Ages may pass by, Fleet as the summer's sigh, But thy name shall never die-- Gallant Græme.[36]
Strike again the boldest strings, To our great commander's praise; Who to our memory brings "The deeds of other days." Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain; The blaze of hope illumes Iberia's deepest glooms, And the eagle shakes his plumes There in vain.
High is the foemen's pride, For they are sons of war; But our chieftain rolls the tide, Of battle back afar. A braver hero in the field ne'er shone; Let bards with loud acclaim, Heap laurels on his fame, "Singing glory" to the name Of Wellington.
Could I with soul of fire Guide my wild unsteady hand, I would strike the quivering wire, Till it rung throughout the land. Of all its warlike heroes would I sing; Were powers to soar thus given, By the blast of genius driven, I would sweep the highest heaven With my wing.
Yet still this trembling flight May point a bolder way, Ere the lonely beam of night Steals on my setting day. Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree; And when I come again, Thou wilt not sound in vain, For I 'll strike thy highest strain-- Bold and free.
[35] Printed for the first time, from the author's MS. volume.
[36] The "gallant Græme," Lord Lynedoch, on hearing this song at a Glasgow theatre, was so moved by the touching reference of the poet to his achievements, and the circumstances of his joining the army, that he openly burst into tears.
THE MAID OF ORONSEY.[37]
Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain, Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows; Sweet bird, oh! warble it again, Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes; Oh! lull me with it to repose, I 'll dream of her who 's far away, And fancy, as my eyelids close, Will meet the maid of Oronsey.
Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief, Sweet bird, thou 'dst leave thy native grove, And fly to bring my soul relief, To where my warmest wishes rove; Soft as the cooings of the dove, Thou 'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay, And melt to pity and to love The bonnie maid of Oronsey.
Well may I sigh and sairly weep, The song sad recollections bring; Oh! fly across the roaring deep, And to my maiden sweetly sing; 'Twill to her faithless bosom fling Remembrance of a sacred day; But feeble is thy wee bit wing, And far 's the isle of Oronsey.
Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear, I 'll mourn beside this hoary thorn, And thou wilt find me sitting here, Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn; Then high on airy pinions borne, Thou 'lt chant a sang o' love an' wae, An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn, Of the sweet maid of Oronsey.
And when around my weary head, Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie, Death shall eternal poppies spread, An' close for aye my tearfu' eye; Perch'd on some bonnie branch on high, Thou 'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay, And soothe my "spirit, passing by" To meet the maid of Oronsey.
[37] Printed for the first time.
JESS M'LEAN.[38]
Her eyes were red with weeping, Her lover was no more, Beneath the billows sleeping, Near Ireland's rocky shore; She oft pray'd for her Willy, But it was all in vain, And pale as any lily Grew lovely Jess M'Lean.
She sat beside some willows That overhung the sea, And as she view'd the billows, She moan'd most piteously; The storm in all its rigour Swept the bosom of the main, And shook the sylph-like figure Of lovely Jess M'Lean.
Her auburn hair was waving In ringlets on the gale, And the tempest join'd its raving, To the hapless maiden's wail; Wild was the storm's commotion, Yet careless of the scene, Like the spirit of the ocean Sat lovely Jess M'Lean.
She look'd upon her bosom Where Willy's picture hung, 'Twas like a rosy blossom On a bed of lilies flung; She kiss'd the red cheeks over, And look'd, and kiss'd again; Then told the winds her lover Was true to Jess M'Lean.
But a blast like bursting thunder Bent down each willow tree, Snapp'd the picture clasp asunder, And flung it in the sea; She started from the willows The image to regain, And low beneath the billows Lies lovely Jess M'Lean.
Her bones are changed to coral Of the purest virgin white, Her teeth are finest pearl, And her eyes are diamonds bright; The breeze oft sweeps the willows In a sad and mournful strain, And moaning o'er the billows Sings the dirge of Jess M'Lean.
[38] Printed for the first time.
HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY.
How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine, When my love 's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine; Three years hae come an' gane, sin' first he said to me, That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live an' dee; The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild an' drear, An' every hour that passes by I water wi' a tear.
I kiss my bonnie baby, I clasp it to my breast, Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace, it's father hath me press'd! An' whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies on my knee, The crystal draps upon its cheeks will fa' frae ilka ee; Oh! mony a, mony a burning tear upon its cheeks will fa', For oh! its like my bonnie love, and he is far awa'.
Whan the spring time had gane by, an' the rose began to blaw, An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie shaw; 'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart, An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae me part; But though he 's in a foreign land far, far across the sea, I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.
Ye wastlin win's upon the main blaw wi' a steady breeze, And waft my Jamie hame again across the roaring seas; Oh! whan he clasps me in his arms in a' his manly pride, I 'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the warl' beside; Then blaw a steady gale, ye win's, waft him across the sea, And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn an' me.
THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.[39]
AIR--_"Whistle o'er the lave o 't."_
Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim, High glory gie to gallant Graham, Heap laurels on our marshal's fame Wha conquer'd at Vittoria. Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain, An' raised her stately form again, Whan the British lion shook his mane On the mountains of Vittoria.
Let blustering Suchet crousely crack, Let Joseph rin the coward's track, An' Jourdan wish his baton back He left upon Vittoria. If e'er they meet their worthy king, Let them dance roun' him in a ring, An' some Scots piper play the spring He blew them at Vittoria.
Gie truth and honour to the Dane, Gie German's monarch heart and brain, But aye in sic a cause as Spain Gie Britain a Vittoria. The English rose was ne'er sae red, The shamrock waved whare glory led, An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head In joy upon Vittoria.
Loud was the battle's stormy swell, Whare thousands fought an' many fell, But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell At the battle of Vittoria. The Paris maids may ban them a', Their lads are maistly wede awa', An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw They lie upon Vittoria.
Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave, Let all their trophies for them wave, And green be our Cadogan's grave Upon thy fields, Vittoria. Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain, And fill a bumper up again, Pledge to the leading star o' Spain, The hero of Vittoria.
[39] At the battle of Vittoria, the 71st, or Glasgow Regiment, bore a distinguished part. On this song, celebrating their achievements, being produced at the Glasgow theatre, it was received with rapturous applause; it was nightly called for during the season.
BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY.
AIR--_"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty."_
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee; Though father and mither forbade it, Forbidden I wadna be; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud, Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew, Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn, Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue; Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet, Disclosing a pearly row; Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosom Is white as the mountain snow.
But it isna her beauty that hauds me, A glitterin' chain winna lang bind; 'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness, An' the graces adornin' her mind; She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeam Is dear to the summer's morn, An' she says, though her father forbade it, She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.
Her father's a canker'd auld carle, He swears he will ne'er gie consent; Such carles should never get daughters, Unless they can mak them content; But she says, though her father forbade it, Forbidden she winna be; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.
FAREWEEL TO ABERFOYLE.
AIR--_"Highland Plaid."_
My tortured bosom long shall feel The pangs o' this last sad fareweel; Far, far to foreign lands I stray, To spend my hours in deepest wae; Fareweel, my dear, my native soil, Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!
An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love, Into whatever lands I rove, Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh, The warmest tear ere wet my eye; An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile, I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.
When far upon the raging sea, As thunders roar, and lightnings flee, When sweepin' storms the ship assail, I 'll bless the music o' the gale, An' think, while listenin' a' the while, I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.
Kitty, my only love, fareweel; What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel, While straying through the Indian groves, Weepin' our woes or early loves; I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil, Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!
DAVID VEDDER.
David Vedder was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness, Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first officer of an armed cruiser, and in five years afterwards was raised to the post of tide-surveyor. He first discharged the duties of this office at Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith.
A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers; but before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume, under the title of "Orcadian Sketches." This work, a _melange_ of prose and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse; and several of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description. In 1839, he edited the "Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced with an interesting memoir.
Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled "Lays and Lithographs," published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh, the distinguished lithographer. His last work was a new English version of the quaint old story of "Reynard the Fox," which was published with elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials he was in the habit of contributing; articles from his pen adorned the pages of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_, the _Christian Herald_, _Tait's Magazine_, and _Chambers's Journal_. He wrote the letterpress for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year. His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.
Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits, he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries. Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos and genuine simplicity.
JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.
Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, While plaudits shake the vaulted fane; Let warriors rush through flood and fire, A never-dying name to gain; Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing, Pursue some high or holy theme: Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!
Sweet is the morn of flowery May, When incense breathes from heath and wold-- When laverocks hymn the matin lay, And mountain peaks are bathed in gold-- And swallows, frae some foreign strand, Are wheeling o'er the winding stream; But sweeter to extend my hand, And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!
Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog, Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes; And baudrons, on the ingle rug, Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums." The mavis, frae our apple-tree, Shall warble forth a joyous strain; The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy Shall welcome Jeanie hame again!
Like dew-drops on a fading rose, Maternal tears shall start for thee, And low-breathed blessings rise like those Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy. Come to my arms, my timid dove! I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more; The fountain of thy father's love Is welling all its banks out o'er!
I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER.
AIR--_"Todlin' hame."_
I neither got promise of siller nor land With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand; But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride, And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my dear fireside, There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!
Ambition once pointed my view towards rank, To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank: 'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!
Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air; And purity reigns in her bosom so fair; She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride, Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!
Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam, I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home; Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide, What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside? My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside, There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!
THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.
AIR--_"Gramachree."_
There is a pang for every heart, A tear for every eye; There is a knell for every ear, For every breast a sigh. There 's anguish in the happiest state, Humanity can prove; But oh! the torture of the soul Is unrequited love!
The reptile haunts the sweetest bower, The rose blooms on the thorn; There 's poison in the fairest flower That greets the opening morn. The hemlock and the night-shade spring In garden and in grove; But oh! the upas of the soul Is unrequited love!
Ah! lady, thine inconstancy Hath made my peace depart; The unwonted coldness of thine eye Hath froze thy lover's heart. Yet with the fibres of that heart Thine image dear is wove; Nor can they sever till I die Of unrequited love!
THE FIRST OF MAY.
AIR--_"The Braes of Balquhidder."_
Now the beams of May morn On the mountains are streaming, And the dews on the corn Are like diamond-drops gleaming; And the birds from the bowers Are in gladness ascending; And the breath of sweet flowers With the zephyrs is blending.
And the rose-linnet's thrill, Overflowing with gladness, And the wood-pigeon's bill, Though their notes seem of sadness; And the jessamine rich Its soft tendrils is shooting, From pear and from peach The bright blossoms are sprouting.
And the lambs on the lea Are in playfulness bounding, And the voice of the sea Is in harmony sounding; And the streamlet on high In the morning beam dances, For all Nature is joy As sweet summer advances.
Then, my Mary, let 's stray Where the wild-flowers are glowing, By the banks of the Tay In its melody flowing; Thou shalt bathe in May-dew, Like a sweet mountain blossom, For 'tis bright like thy brow, And 'tis pure as thy bosom!
SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.
Oh! the sunny peaches glow, And the grapes in clusters blush; And the cooling silver streams From their sylvan fountains rush; There is music in the grove, And there 's fragrance on the gale; But there 's nought so dear to me As my own Highland vale.
Oh! the queen-like virgin rose, Of the dew and sunlight born, And the azure violet, Spread their beauties to the morn; So does the hyacinth, And the lily pure and pale; But I love the daisy best In my own Highland vale.
Hark! hark! those thrilling notes! 'Tis the nightingale complains; Oh! the soul of music breathes In those more than plaintive strains; But they 're not so dear to me As the murmur of the rill, And the bleating of the lambs On my own Highland hill.
Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow, And the juicy fruits may blush, And the beauteous birds may sing, And the crystal streamlets rush; And the verdant meads may smile, And the cloudless sun may beam, But there 's nought beneath the skies Like my own Highland home.
THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.
AIR--_"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."_
The tempest is raging And rending the shrouds; The ocean is waging A war with the clouds; The cordage is breaking, The canvas is torn, The timbers are creaking-- The seamen forlorn.
The water is gushing Through hatches and seams; 'Tis roaring and rushing O'er keelson and beams; And nought save the lightning On mainmast or boom, At intervals brightening The palpable gloom.
Though horrors beset me, And hurricanes howl, I may not forget thee, Beloved of my soul! Though soon I must perish In ocean beneath, Thine image I 'll cherish, Adored one! in death.
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]
Talk not of temples--there is one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven; Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity-- All nature worships there!
The Alps array'd in stainless snow, The Andean ranges yet untrod, At sunrise and at sunset glow Like altar-fires to God. A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, As if with hallow'd victims rare; And thunder lifts its voice in praise-- All nature worships there!
The ocean heaves resistlessly, And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves--the priesthood of the sea-- Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth, And there emit a hollow sound, As if they murmur'd praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy ground-- All nature worships there!
The grateful earth her odours yield In homage, Mighty One! to thee; From herbs and flowers in every field, From fruit on every tree, The balmy dew at morn and even Seems like the penitential tear, Shed only in the sight of heaven-- All nature worships there!
The cedar and the mountain pine, The willow on the fountain's brim, The tulip and the eglantine, In reverence bend to Him; The song-birds pour their sweetest lays, From tower, and tree, and middle air; The rushing river murmurs praise-- All nature worships there!
Then talk not of a fane, save one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun, And all the stars of heaven. Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair, The dome is vast immensity-- All nature worships there!
[40] This admirable composition was an especial favourite of Dr Thomas Chalmers, who was in the habit of quoting it to his students in the course of his theological prelections.
JOHN M'DIARMID.
The son of the Rev. Hugh M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church, Glasgow, John M'Diarmid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a respectable elementary education; but, deprived of his father at an early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some time he acted as clerk in connexion with a bleachfield at Roslin, and subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He now attended some classes in the University, while his other spare time was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the College debating societies he improved himself as a public speaker, and subsequently took an active part in the discussions of the "Forum." Fond of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling interest in the public mind; the consequence was, the immediate establishment of his reputation. His services were sought by several of the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of the _Edinburgh Review_ offered to receive contributions from his pen. In 1816 he compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver and Boyd, and towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In January 1817, he accepted the editorship of the _Dumfries and Galloway Courier_--a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual.
As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the promptitude and business-habits which, in connexion with literary ability, are essential for such an office. The _Dumfries Courier_, which had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with illustrations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. "The Scrap-Book," a work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823 he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the "Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. The _Dumfries Magazine_ was originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he published "Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the illustration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and Galloway. "The Picture of Dumfries," an illustrated work, appeared in 1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered the editorship of the _Caledonian Mercury_, the first established of the Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He ultimately became sole proprietor of the _Courier_, which, under his superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November 1852, in his sixty-third year.
A man of social and generous dispositions, M'Diarmid was esteemed among a wide circle of friends; he was in habits of intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, Lockhart, the Ettrick Shepherd, Dr Thomas Gillespie, and many others of his distinguished contemporaries. To his kindly patronage, many young men of genius were indebted for positions of honour and emolument. An elegant prose-writer, his compositions in verse are pervaded by a graceful smoothness and lively fancy.
NITHSIDE.
AIR--_"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."_
When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree, The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee; The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied, How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!
When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown, And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown, To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride, How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!
When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue, And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue; While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide, Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!
When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee, And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea; And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride, How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!
When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear, The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year; And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide, Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!
And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow, And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below, You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide, Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!
EVENING.
Hush, ye songsters! day is done, See how sweet the setting sun Gilds the welkin's boundless breast, Smiling as he sinks to rest; Now the swallow down the dell, Issuing from her noontide cell, Mocks the deftest marksman's aim Jumbling in fantastic game: Sweet inhabitant of air, Sure thy bosom holds no care; Not the fowler full of wrath, Skilful in the deeds of death-- Not the darting hawk on high (Ruthless tyrant of the sky!) Owns one art of cruelty Fit to fell or fetter thee, Gayest, freest of the free!
Ruling, whistling shrill on high, Where yon turrets kiss the sky, Teasing with thy idle din Drowsy daws at rest within; Long thou lov'st to sport and spring On thy never-wearying wing. Lower now 'midst foliage cool Swift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool, Where the speckled trout at play, Rising, shares thy dancing prey, While the treach'rous circles swell Wide and wider where it fell, Guiding sure the angler's arm Where to find the puny swarm; And with artificial fly, Best to lure the victim's eye, Till, emerging from the brook, Brisk it bites the barbed hook; Struggling in the unequal strife, With its death, disguised as life, Till it breathless beats the shore Ne'er to cleave the current more!
Peace! creation's gloomy queen, Darkest Night, invests the scene! Silence, Evening's handmaid mild, Leaves her home amid the wild, Tripping soft with dewy feet, Summer's flowery carpet sweet, Morpheus--drowsy power--to meet. Ruler of the midnight hour, In thy plenitude of power, From this burthen'd bosom throw Half its leaden load of woe. Since thy envied art supplies What reality denies, Let thy cheerless suppliant see Dreams of bliss inspired by thee-- Let before his wond'ring eyes Fancy's brightest visions rise-- Long lost happiness restore, None can need thy bounty more.
PETER BUCHAN.
The indefatigable collector of the elder national minstrelsy, Peter Buchan, was born in Peterhead in the year 1790. Of a somewhat distinguished descent, he was on the father's side remotely connected with the noble house of Buchan, and his mother was a lineal descendant of the Irvines of Drum, an old powerful family in Aberdeenshire. Though he was disposed to follow a seafaring life, and had obtained a commission in the Navy, he abandoned his early intentions at the urgent solicitation of his parents, and thereafter employed himself as a copperplate engraver, and was the inventor of an ingenious revolving press for copperplate printing. At Edinburgh and Stirling, he afterwards qualified himself for the business of a letterpress printer, and in 1816 opened a printing-office in his native town. In 1819, he compiled the "Annals of Peterhead," a duodecimo volume, which he printed at a press of his own contrivance. His next publication appeared shortly after, under the title, "An Historical Account of the Ancient and Noble Family of Keith, Earls-Marischal of Scotland."
After a period of residence in London, where he held for some time a remunerative situation, Buchan returned to his native town. In the metropolis, he had been painfully impressed by the harsh treatment frequently inflicted on the inferior animals, and as a corrective for the evil, he published at Peterhead, in 1824, a treatise, dedicated to his son, in which he endeavoured to prove that brutes are possessed of souls, and are immortal. His succeeding publication, which appeared in 1828, proved the most successful effort of his life; it was entitled, "Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto Unpublished, with Explanatory Notes," Edinburgh, two vols. 8vo. This work occupied upwards of ten years in preparation. Among his other publications may be enumerated, a volume of "Poems and Songs," printed in 1814; "The Peterhead Smugglers, an original Melodrama," published in 1834; "The Eglinton Tournament, &c.;" "Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads;" and the "Wanderings of Prince Charles Stuart and Miss Flora Macdonald," the latter being published from an old MS.
At different periods Buchan resided in Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Glasgow. For a short period he owned the small property of Buchanstone, near Dennyloanhead, Stirlingshire, which being sold, he proceeded to Ireland in 1852, where he resided for some time at Strandhill, county of Leitrim. In the early part of 1854, he went to London, with the view of effecting arrangements for the publication of another volume of "Ancient Scottish Ballads;" he was there seized with illness, of which he died on the 19th September of the same year. His remains were interred in the beautiful cemetery of Norwood, near London.
Mr Buchan was justly esteemed as a zealous and industrious collector of the elder Scottish minstrelsy. His labours received the special commendation of Sir Walter Scott, and he was a frequent guest at Abbotsford. He was also honoured with diplomas of membership from some of the leading literary societies of Scotland and England. Two unpublished volumes of his "Ballad Collections" are now in the possession of Dr Charles Mackay of London, and may at a future period be submitted to the public. His son, the Rev. Dr Charles Forbes Buchan, minister of Fordoun, is the author of several theological publications.
THOU GLOOMY FEBERWAR.[41]
Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar, Oh! gin thou wert awa'! I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds, I 'm wae to see thy snaw; For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman, The lad I lo'e sae dear, Has vow'd to come and see me In the spring o' the year.
A silken ban' he gae me, To bin' my gowden hair; A siller brooch and tartan plaid, A' for his sake to wear; And oh! my heart was like to break, (For partin' sorrow 's sair) As he vow'd to come and see me In the spring o' the year.
Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky, I wander out alane, Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins, Around the trystin' stane; 'Twas there he press'd me to his heart, And kiss'd awa' the tear, As he vow'd to come and see me In the spring o' the year.
Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw, And cleed anew the wuds; Ye laverocks lilt your cheerie sangs, Amang the fleecy cluds; Till Feberwar and a' his train, Affrighted disappear, I 'll hail wi' you the blithesome change, The spring-time o' the year.
[41] The first stanza of this song is the composition of Robert Tannahill.
WILLIAM FINLAY.
William Finlay was the son of an operative shawl manufacturer in Paisley, where he was born in 1792. He received a classical education at the Grammar-school, and was afterwards apprenticed to his father's trade. For a period of twenty years he prosecuted the labours of the loom; but finding the occupation injurious to his health, he accepted employment in the cotton mills of Duntocher. He afterwards obtained a situation in a printing-office in Paisley, where he remained during eight years. Ultimately, he was employed at Nethercraigs' bleachfield, at the base of Gleniffer braes, about two miles to the south of Paisley. He died of fever on the 5th November 1847, leaving a family of five children.
Finlay was in the practice of contributing verses to the local prints. In 1846, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Poems, Humorous and Sentimental." His poetical characteristics are simplicity and pathos, combined with considerable power of satirical drollery. Delighting in music, and fond of society, he was occasionally led to indulge in excesses, of which, at other times, he was heartily ashamed, and which he has feelingly lamented in some of his poems. Few Scottish poets have more touchingly depicted the evils of intemperance.
THE BREAKING HEART.
I mark'd her look of agony, I heard her broken sigh, I saw the colour leave her cheek, The lustre leave her eye; I saw the radiant ray of hope Her sadden'd soul forsaking; And, by these tokens, well I knew The maiden's heart was breaking.
It is not from the hand of Heaven Her bitter grief proceeds; 'Tis not for sins that she hath done, Her bosom inly bleeds; 'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soul In shades of dark despair, But man--deceitful man--whose hand A thorn hath planted there.
THE AULD EMIGRANT'S FAREWEEL TO SCOTLAND.
Land of my fathers! night's dark gloom Now shades thee from my view-- Land of my birth! my hearth, my home, A long, a last adieu! Thy sparkling streams, thy plantin's green, That ring with melodie, Thy flowery vales, thy hills and dales, Again I 'll never see.
How aft have I thy heathy hills Climb'd in life's early day! Or pierced the dark depths of thy woods To pu' the nit or slae; Or lain beneath the spreading thorn, Hid frae the sun's bright beams, While on my raptured ear was borne The music of thy streams!
And aft, when frae the schule set free, I 've join'd a merry ban', Whase hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee, Fresh as the morning's dawn, And waunert, Cruikston, by thy tower, Or through thy leafy shaw, The livelang day, nor thocht o' hame Till nicht began to fa'.
But now the buoyancy o' youth, And a' its joys are gane-- My children scatter'd far and wide, And I am left alane; For she who was my hope and stay, And soothed me when distress'd, Within the narrow house of death Has lang been laid at rest.
And puirtith's cloud doth me enshroud; Sae, after a' my toil, I 'm gaun to lay my puir auld clay Within a foreign soil. Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotia dear! A last fareweel to thee! Thy tinkling rills, thy heath-clad hills, Again I 'll never see!
O'ER MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY.
O'er mountain and valley Morn gladly did gleam; The streamlets danced gaily Beneath its bright beam; The daisies were springing To life at my feet; The woodlands were ringing With melody sweet.
But the sky became low'ring, And clouds big with rain, Their treasures outpouring, Soon deluged the plain. The late merry woodlands Grew silent and lone; And red from the muirlands The river rush'd down.
Thus life, too, is chequer'd With sunshine and gloom; Of change 'tis the record-- Now blight and now bloom. Oft morn rises brightly, With promise to last, But long, long ere noontide The sky is o'ercast.
Yet much of the trouble 'Neath which mortals groan, They contrive to make double By whims of their own. Oh! it makes the heart tingle With anguish to think, That our own hands oft mingle The bitters we drink.
JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.
John Gibson Lockhart, the distinguished editor of the _Quarterly Review_, and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was born in the Manse of Cambusnethan, on the 14th of June 1794. From both his parents he inherited an honourable descent. His father, John Lockhart, D.D., was the second son of William Lockhart of Birkhill, the head of an old family in Lanarkshire, lineally descended from Sir Stephen Lockhart of Cleghorn, a member of the Privy Council, and armour-bearer to James III. His mother was Elizabeth Gibson, daughter of the Rev. John Gibson, senior minister of St Cuthbert's, Edinburgh; her maternal grandmother was the Honourable Mary Erskine, second daughter of Henry, third Lord Cardross, and sister of David, ninth Earl of Buchan. In 1796, Dr Lockhart was translated from Cambusnethan to the College church, Glasgow; and the early education of his son was consequently conducted in that city.
During the third year of his attendance at the Grammar-school, young Lockhart, though naturally possessed of a sound constitution, was seized with a severe illness, which, it was feared, might terminate in pulmonary consumption. After a period of physical prostration, he satisfactorily rallied, when it was found by his teacher that he had attained such proficiency in classical learning, during his confinement, as to be qualified for the University, without the usual attendance of a fourth session at the Grammar-school. At the University of Glasgow, his progress fully realised his excellent promise in the academy. The youngest member of his various classes, he was uniformly a successful competitor for honours. He gave indication of poetical ability in a metrical translation of a part of Lucan's "Pharsalia," which was rewarded with a prize, and received warm encomiums from the professors. On one of the Snell Exhibitions to Baliol College, Oxford, becoming vacant, during the session of 1808-9, it was unanimously conferred on him by the faculty. Entering Baliol College in 1809, his classical attainments were such, that Dr Jenkins, the master of the college, was led to predict that he would reflect honour on that institution, and on the University of Glasgow. At his graduation, on the completion of his attendance at Baliol, he realised the expectations of his admiring preceptor; the youngest of all who graduated on the occasion, being in his eighteenth year, he was numbered in the _first class_,--an honour rarely attained by the most accomplished Oxonians. In the choice of a profession he evinced considerable hesitation; but was at length induced by a relative, a member of the legal faculty, to qualify himself for practice at the Scottish Bar. Besides affording a suitable scope for his talents and acquirements, it was deemed that the Parliament House of Edinburgh had certain hereditary claims on his services. Through his paternal grandmother, he was descended from Sir James Lockhart of Lee, Lord Justice-Clerk in the reign of Charles II., and father of the celebrated Sir George Lockhart of Carnwath, Lord President of the Court of Session; and of another judge, Sir John Lockhart, Lord Castlehill.
Having completed a curriculum of classical and philosophical study at Oxford, and made a tour on the Continent, Lockhart proceeded to Edinburgh, to prosecute the study of Scottish law. In 1816 he passed advocate. Well-skilled in the details of legal knowledge, and in the preparation of written pleadings, he lacked a fluency of utterance, so entirely essential to success as a pleader at the Bar. He felt his deficiency, but did not strive to surmount it. Joining himself to a literary circle, of which John Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd were the more conspicuous members, he resolved to follow the career of a man of letters. In 1817, he became one of the original contributors to _Blackwood's Magazine_; and by his learned and ingenious articles essentially promoted the early reputation of that subsequently popular periodical. In 1819 appeared his first separate publication, entitled, "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,"--a work of three octavo volumes, in which an imaginary Doctor Morris humorously and pungently delineates the manners and characteristics of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the period; and which, by exciting some angry criticism, attracted general attention to the real author.[42] In May of the previous year, at the residence in Edinburgh of Mr Home Drummond of Blair-Drummond, he was introduced to the personal acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. Their acquaintance ripened into a speedy intimacy; and on the 29th April 1820, Lockhart became the son-in-law of his illustrious friend, by espousing his eldest daughter, Sophia. Continuing to furnish sparkling contributions to _Blackwood's Magazine_, Lockhart now began to exhibit powers of prolific authorship. In the course of a few years he produced "Valerius," a tale descriptive of ancient Rome; "Reginald Dalton," a novel founded on his personal experiences at Oxford; the interesting romance of "Matthew Wald," and "Adam Blair," a Scottish story. The last of these works, it may be interesting to notice, took origin in the following manner. During a visit to his parents at Glasgow, his father had incidentally mentioned, after dinner, that Mr Adam, a former minister of Cathcart, had been deprived for certain immoralities, and afterwards reponed, at the entreaty of his parishioners, on the death of the individual who had succeeded him after his deposition. On hearing the narrative, Lockhart retired to his apartment and drew up the plan of his tale, which was ready for the press within the short space of three weeks. In 1823, he became known as an elegant versifier, by the publication of his translations from the "Spanish Ballads." He subsequently published a "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte," in "Murray's Family Library;" and produced a "Life of Robert Burns," for "Constable's Miscellany." At this period he chiefly resided in Edinburgh, spending some of the summer months at Chiefswood, a cottage about two miles from Abbotsford. But Lockhart's growing reputation ere long secured him a more advantageous and lucrative position. In 1825, he was appointed to the editorship of the _Quarterly Review_; and thus, at the age of thirty-one, became the successor of Gifford, in conducting one of the most powerful literary organs of the age. He now removed to London. On the 15th of June 1834, the degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred on him by the University of Oxford.
During the last illness of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart was eminently dutiful in his attendance on the illustrious sufferer. As the literary executor of the deceased, he was zealous even to indiscretion; his "Life of Scott," notwithstanding its ill-judged personalities, is one of the most interesting biographical works in the language. His own latter history affords few materials for observation; he frequented the higher literary circles of the metropolis, and well sustained the reputation of the _Quarterly Review_. He retired from his editorial duties in 1853, having suffered previously from impaired health. The progress of his malady was accelerated by a succession of family trials and bereavements, which preyed heavily on his mind. His eldest son, John Hugh Lockhart (the Hugh Littlejohn of Scott's "Tales of a Grandfather,") died in 1831; his amiable wife in 1837; and of his two remaining children, a son and a daughter, the former, Walter Scott Lockhart Scott, Lieutenant, 16th Lancers, who had succeeded to the estate of Abbotsford on the death of his uncle, the second Sir Walter Scott, died in 1853. In 1847, his daughter and only surviving child was married to James Robert Hope, Esquire, Q.C., son of General the Honourable Sir Alexander Hope, and nephew of the late Earl of Hopetoun, of peninsular fame; and shortly before her father's death, this lady, along with her husband, abjured the Protestant faith.
In the autumn of 1853, in accordance with the advice of his medical advisers, Lockhart proceeded to Italy; but on his return the following summer, he appeared rather to have lost than gained strength. Arranging his affairs in London, he took up his abode with his elder brother, Mr Lockhart, M.P., at Milton-Lockhart, on the banks of the Clyde, and in the parish adjoining that of his birth. Here he suffered an attack of cholera, which much debilitated his already wasted strength. In October he was visited by Dr Ferguson of London, who conveyed him to Abbotsford to be tended by his daughter; there he breathed his last on the 25th November 1854, in his 61st year. His remains were interred in Dryburgh Abbey, beside those of his illustrious father-in-law, with whom his name will continue to be associated. The estate of Abbotsford is now in the possession of his daughter and her husband, who, in terms of the Abbotsford entail, have assumed the name of Scott. Their infant daughter, Mary Monica, along with her mother, are the only surviving lineal representatives of the Author of "Waverley."
Possessed of a vigorous intellect, varied talents, and accurate scholarship, Lockhart was impatient of contradiction, and was prone to censure keenly those who had offended him. To strangers his manners were somewhat uninviting, and in society he was liable to periods of taciturnity. He loved the ironical and facetious; and did not scruple to indulge in ridicule even at the expense of his intimate associates. With many peculiarities of manner, and a temper somewhat fretful and impulsive, we have good authority for recording, that many unfortunate men of genius derived support from his bounty. Ardent in temperament, he was severe in resenting a real or fancied wrong; but among those to whom he gave his confidence, he was found to be possessed of affectionate and generous dispositions. He has complained, in a testamentary document, that his course of procedure was often misunderstood, and the complaint is probably well-founded. He was personally of a handsome and agreeable presence, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.
[42] In his Life of Scott, Lockhart states that "Peter's Letters" "were not wholly the work of one hand."
BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND.[43]
TUNE--_"Oh, the roast beef of Old England."_
Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea, Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee. Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland! And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave-- Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave, Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave. Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Though he died not like him amid victory's roar, Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore; Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim, We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name, The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham. All the broadswords, &c.
Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth-- Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north; Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth. All the broadswords, &c.
The highest in splendour, the humblest in place, Stand united in glory, as kindred in race; For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. Oh, the broadswords, &c.
Then sacred to each and to all let it be, Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee. Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland! And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.
[43] This song, with several others of ephemeral interest, was composed by Lockhart, to be sung at the mess of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry, of which he was a member. Of the songs produced for these festive occasions, a collection for private circulation was printed in 1825, at the Ballantyne press, with the title, "Songs of the Edinburgh Troop," pp. 28. In this collection, the "Broadswords" song bears date July 1821; it was published with music in 1822, in the third volume of Thomson's Collection.
CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.[44]
Touch once more a sober measure, And let punch and tears be shed, For a prince of good old fellows, That, alack-a-day! is dead; For a prince of worthy fellows, And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket, In sorrow, grief, and woe. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His waistcoat, coat, and breeches Were all cut off the same web, Of a beautiful snuff-colour, Of a modest genty drab; The blue stripe in his stocking, Round his neat slim leg did go, And his ruffles of the cambric fine, They were whiter than the snow. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His hair was curled in order, At the rising of the sun, In comely rows and buckles smart, That about his ears did run; And before there was a toupee, That some inches up did grow, And behind there was a long queue, That did o'er his shoulders flow. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And whenever we forgather'd, He took off his wee three-cockit; And he proffer'd you his snuff-box, Which he drew from his side-pocket; And on Burdett or Bonaparte He would make a remark or so, And then along the plainstones Like a provost he would go. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
In dirty days he picked well His footsteps with his rattan; Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck On the shoes of Captain Paton. And on entering the coffee-room About two, all men did know They would see him with his _Courier_ In the middle of the row. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Now and then, upon a Sunday, He invited me to dine On a herring and a mutton chop, Which his maid dress'd very fine. There was also a little Malmsay, And a bottle of Bordeaux, Which, between me and the captain, Pass'd nimbly to and fro! Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or, if a bowl was mentioned, The captain he would ring, And bid Nelly run to the Westport, And a stoup of water bring. Then would he mix the genuine stuff, As they made it long ago, With limes that on his property In Trinidad did grow! Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e!
And then all the time he would discourse So sensible and courteous, Perhaps talking of last sermon He had heard from Dr Porteous; Of some little bit of scandal About Mrs So-and-So, Which he scarce could credit, having heard The _con._ but not the _pro._! Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or when the candles were brought forth, And the night was fairly setting in, He would tell some fine old stories About Minden-field or Dettingen; How he fought with a French major, And dispatch'd him at a blow, While his blood ran out like water On the soft grass below! Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!
But at last the captain sickened, And grew worse from day to day, And all miss'd him in the coffee-room, From which now he staid away; On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk Made a melancholy show, All for wanting of the presence Of our venerable beau! Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And in spite of all that Cleghorn And Corkindale could do, It was plain, from twenty symptoms, That death was in his view; So the captain made his test'ment, And submitted to his foe, And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk-- 'Tis the way we all must go! Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Join all in chorus, jolly boys, And let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of good old fellows That, alack-a-day! is dead; For this prince of worthy fellows-- And a pretty man also-- That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe! For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
[44] This humorous elegy was first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for September 1819. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow. The son of Dr David Paton, a physician in that city, he obtained a commission in a regiment raised in Scotland for the Dutch service. He afterwards resided with his two maiden sisters, and an old servant Nelly, in a tenement opposite the Old Exchange at the Cross, which had been left him by his father. The following graphic account of the Captain, we transcribe from Dr Strang's interesting work, "Glasgow and its Clubs," recently published:--"Every sunshine day, and sometimes even amid shower and storm, about the close of the past and the commencement of the present century, was the worthy Captain in the Dutch service seen parading the _plainstanes_, opposite his own residence in the Trongate, donned in a suit of snuff-coloured brown or 'genty drab,' his long spare limbs encased in blue striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, and sporting ruffles of the finest cambric at his wrists, while adown his back hung a long queue, and on his head was perched a small three-cocked hat, which, with a _politesse tout à fait Francais_, he invariably took off when saluting a friend. Captain Paton, while a denizen of the camp, had studied well the noble art of fence, and was looked upon as a most accomplished swordsman, which might easily be discovered from his happy but threatening manner of holding his cane, when sallying from his own domicile towards the coffee-room, which he usually entered about two o'clock, to study the news of the day in the pages of the _Courier_. The gallant Captain frequently indulged, like Othello, in speaking--
'Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach.'
And of his own brave doings on the tented field, 'at Minden and at Dettingen,' particularly when seated round a bowl of his favourite cold punch, made with limes from his own estate in Trinidad, and with water newly drawn from the Westport well." It remains to be added, that this "prince of worthy fellows" died in July 1807, at the age of sixty-eight.
CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.[45]
_From the Gaelic._
Listen to me, as when ye heard our father Sing, long ago, the song of other shores; Listen to me, and then in chorus gather All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars: Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand; But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
From the lone shieling of the misty island Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas; Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland, And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.
We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley, Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream, In arms around the patriach-banner rally, Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.
* * * * *
Come, foreign rage!--let discord burst in slaughter! Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore! The hearts that would have given their blood like water Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar! Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand; But we are exiles from our fathers' land!
[45] This simple and interesting lyric appears in No. XLVI. of the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," and has, we believe, on sufficient grounds, been attributed to Lockhart.
THOMAS MATHERS.
Thomas Mathers, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire, in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest branches, he chose the seafaring life, and connected himself with the merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord Byron,--a circumstance which he was in the habit of narrating with enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much alleviated, however, by the invocation of the muse. He contributed verses for a series of years to several of the public journals; and his compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the ambition of publishing a volume of poems; and the desire at length was gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Musings in Verse, by Sea and Shore," which, however, had only been put into shape when the author was called to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a song-writer, the following lyric, entitled "Early Love," is a favourable specimen.
EARLY LOVE.
There 's nae love like early love, Sae lasting an' sae leal; It wins upon the youthfu' heart, An' sets its magic seal. The die that 's cast in early life, Is nae vain airy dream; But makes thee still in after years The subject of my theme.
But years o' shade an' sunshine Have flung alternately Their fleeting shadows as they pass'd Athwart life's changing sky. Like troubled waters, too, the mind 'S been ruffled an' distress'd; But with the placid calm return'd Thine image to my breast.
Still I hae seen a fairer face, Though fairer anes are few, An' I hae marked kinder smiles Than e'er I gat frae you. But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen, Leave not a trace behind; While early love has forged chains The freest heart to bind.
The mind from tyrant fetters Is free as air to rove; But powerful are the links that chain The heart to early love. Affections, like the ivy In nature's leafy screen, Entwine the boughs o' early love Wi' foliage "ever green."
JAMES BROWN.
James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of Lanarkshire, on the 1st of July 1796. His father, the miller of Libberton-mill, was a person of superior intelligence, and his mother, Grizzel Anderson, was esteemed for her amiable dispositions. Deprived of his father while only six years old, he was early apprenticed to a hand-loom weaver. On the completion of his indenture, he removed to Symington, a village situate at the base of Tintock hill. His leisure hours were devoted to reading and an extensive correspondence with his friends. He formed a club for literary discussion, which assembled periodically at his house. Enthusiastic in his love of nature, he rejoiced in solitary rambles on the heights of Tintock and Dungavel; he made a pilgrimage to the Border and Ettrick Forest. In 1823 he removed to Glasgow, where he was employed in the warehouse of a manufacturing firm; he afterwards became agent of the house at Biggar, where he died on the 12th September 1836. Though the writer of much poetry of merit, Brown was indifferent to literary reputation; and chiefly intrusted his compositions to the keeping of his friends. His songs in the present work have been recovered by his early friend, Mr Scott Riddell, who has supplied these particulars of his life. Austere in manner, he was possessed of genial and benevolent dispositions; he became ultimately impressed with earnest religious convictions.
MY PEGGY 'S FAR AWAY.
Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde, A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied, Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae, For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.
Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha', Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa'; My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May, But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.
Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde, And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side, How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day, Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang, And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang, A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae, Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn, Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return; I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring, Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring, E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms, Might add to, but tak not away from her charms, The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean, And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen, But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they, Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.
Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er, And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore? It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay, And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.
LOVE BROUGHT ME A BOUGH.
Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green That waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen; And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue, It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew; It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear, That false was the lassie my bosom held dear; Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue-- If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mind The days that are gane, when my lassie was kind, A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now, My soul was enraptured--I canna tell how. Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been, And why should I start at the glance o' her een, Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?-- If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!
Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill, I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill, I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air, And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair; She says I deceived her, how can it be sae? The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae, And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue, Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.
She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing, Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring. Gae fame to the hero, and gowd to the Jew, And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few; A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined, And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind, I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do, For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.
HOW 'S A' WI' YE.
AIR--_"Jenny's Bawbee."_
Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed, A bannet happ'd my daddie's head, Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread, Folk scunner'd a' at tea; When cronies met they didna stand, To rule their words by manners grand, But warmly clasping hand in hand, Said, How 's a' wi' ye.
But now there 's nought but shy finesse, And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress, That scarce a hand a hand will press Wi' ought o' feeling free; A cauldrife pride aside has laid The hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid, And a' is changed since neebors said Just, How 's a' wi' ye.
Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood, The maiden's gown was worset guid, And kept her ringlets in a snood Aboon her pawkie e'e; Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun', She flaunts it in her silken gown, That scarce ane dare by glen or town Say, How 's a' wi' ye.
I watna how they manage now Their brides in lighted ha's to woo, But it is caulder wark, I trow, Than e'er it was wi' me; Aye true unto the trysts we set, When we among the hawthorns met, Love-warm, true love wad scarce us let Say, How 's a' wi' ye.
Wae-worth their haughty state and style, That drive true feeling frae our isle! In saxty years o' care and toil, What ferlies do we see! The lowliest heart a pride displays, Unkent in our ain early days, Ilk kind and canty thing decays, Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
When back we look on bygane years, Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears, The cauld mool mony a bosom bears, Ance dear to you and me; Yet I will neither chafe nor chide, While ane comes to my ingle side, Whose bosom glows wi' honest pride At, How 's a' wi' ye.
Newfangled guffs may things arrange For further and still further change, But strange things shall to me be strange, While I can hear and see. And when I gang, as I 'll do soon, To join the leal in hames aboon, I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon, Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.
OH! SAIR I FEEL THE WITCHING POWER.
TUNE--_"Miller of Dron," improved set._
Oh, sair I feel the witching power O' that sweet pawkie e'e, And sair I 'll rue the luckless hour That e'er it shone on me; Unless sic love as wounds this heart Come frae that heart again, And teach for aye the kindly ray To blink on me alane. Thy modest cheek aye mantling glows Whene'er I talk o' love, As rainbow rays upon the rose Its native sweets improve; Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower, And gloamin' vails the glen, Will ye gang to the birken bower When nane on earth can ken? Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting, Heartfelt pleasures len', And oh! how fain to meet alane, When nane on earth can ken!
Amang the lave I manna speak, And when I look the while, The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seek Their watching to beguile; But leave, dear lassie, leave them a', And frae this heart sae leal Thou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw, It canna mair conceal. My plaid shall shield thy peerless charms Frae evening's fanning gale, And saft shall be my circling arms, And true my simple tale; And seated by the murmuring brook, Within the flowery den, If love 's reveal'd in word or look, There 's nane on earth can ken. Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting, Heartfelt pleasures len', And oh! how fain to meet alane, When nane on earth can ken.
There 's music in the lighted ha', And looks in laughing een, That seem affection forth to show, That less is felt than seen. But silent in the faithfu' heart The charm o' love shall reign, Or words shall but its power impart To make it mair our ain. Let worldlings doat upon their wealth, And spendthrifts hae their glee, Not a' the state o' a' the great, Shall draw a wish frae me; Away wi' thee by glen an' bower, Far frae the haunts o' men, Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this, The world can never ken. Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting, Heartfelt pleasures len', And aye how fain we 'll meet again, When nane on earth can ken.
DANIEL WEIR.
Daniel Weir was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father, John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in 1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own account.
Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses. To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith, he contributed several respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of "The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume, illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his thirty-fifth year.
Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit upon the recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion."
SEE THE MOON.
See the moon o'er cloudless Jura Shining in the lake below; See the distant mountain tow'ring Like a pyramid of snow. Scenes of grandeur--scenes of childhood-- Scenes so dear to love and me! Let us roam by bower and wildwood-- All is lovelier when with thee.
On Leman's breast the winds are sighing; All is silent in the grove; And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning, Sparkle like the eye of love. Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless; Blessed night to love and me! Let us roam by bower and fountain-- All is lovelier when with thee.
LOVE IS TIMID.
Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why? Ah! tell me why true love should be Afraid to meet the kindly smile Of him she loves, from him would flee, Yet thinks upon him all the while? Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why? True love, they say, delights to dwell In some sequester'd, lonely bow'r, With him she loves, where none can tell Her tender look in passion's hour. Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy?
Love is timid, love is shy, Can you tell me, tell me why? Love, like the lonely nightingale, Will pour her heart, when all is lone; Nor will repeat, amidst the vale, Her notes to any, but to one. Can you tell me, tell me why Love is timid, love is shy?
RAVEN'S STREAM.
My love, come let us wander Where Raven's streams meander, And where, in simple grandeur, The daisy decks the plain. Peace and joy our hours shall measure; Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure! Then how sweet, and then how cheerie, Raven's braes will be, my dearie.
The silver moon is beaming, On Clyde her light is streaming; And, while the world is dreaming, We 'll talk of love, my dear. None, my Jean, will share this bosom, Where thine image loves to blossom; And no storm will ever sever That dear flow'r, or part us ever.
OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.
AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_
Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours Ne'er come again-- Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers, And primrose plain! With other days, Ambitious rays May flash upon our mind; But give me back the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined; As it sweetly broke on bower and hill, And youth's gay mind!
Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot On life's dark sea, And memory hails that sacred spot Where'er we be; It leaves all joys, And fondly sighs As youth comes on the mind, And looks upon the morn of life With fond thoughts, &c.
When age will come, with locks of gray, To quench youth's spark, And its stream runs cold along the way Where all seems dark, 'Twill smiling gaze, As memory's blaze Breaks on its wavering mind; But 'twill never bring the morn of life, With fond thoughts, &c.
COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.
Could we but look beyond our sphere, And trace, along the azure sky, The myriads that were inmates here Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high-- Then might we tell of those who see Our wand'rings from eternity!
But human frailty cannot gaze On such a cloud of splendid light As heaven's sacred court displays, Of blessed spirits clothed in white, Who from the fears of death are free, And look from an eternity.
They look, but ne'er return again To tell the secrets of their home; And kindliest tears for them are vain-- For never, never shall they come, Till Time's pale light begin to flee Before a bright eternity!
Could we but gaze beyond our sphere, Within the golden porch of heaven, And see those spirits which appear Like stars upon the robe of even! But no! unseen to us they see Our wanderings from eternity!
The crimes of men which Heaven saw, And pitied with a parent's eye, Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw In mercy from its home on high; They look, but all they know or see Is silent as eternity!
At noonday hour, or midnight deep, No bright inhabitant draws nigh; And though a parent's offspring weep, No whisper echoes from the sky; Though friends may gaze, yet all they see Is known but in eternity!
Yet we may look beyond our sphere On One who shines among the throng; And we by faith may also hear The triumphs of a glorious song; And while we gaze on Him, we see The path to this eternity!
IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.
In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest; We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!
But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd, Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away; While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide, Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!
Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain, Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true; Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain A sunshine as bright and as promising too?
Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs, Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest; For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies, Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!
ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.
Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on; 'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs, Has fled like a dream when the morn appears; While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, No more to revisit this valley of tears: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Few, few were his years; but, had they been more, The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away, And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here; But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn, Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes; Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day? Who would not rejoice at his journey's end, When perils and toils encompass'd his way? Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!
THE DYING HOUR.
Why does the day, whose date is brief, Smile sadly o'er the western sea? Why does the brown autumnal leaf Hang restless on its parent tree? Why does the rose, with drooping head, Send richer fragrance from the bow'r? Their golden time of life had fled-- It was their dying hour!
Why does the swan's melodious song Come thrilling on the gentle gale? Why does the lamb, which stray'd along, Lie down to tell its mournful tale? Why does the deer, when wounded, fly To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r? Their time was past--they lived to die-- It was their dying hour!
Why does the dolphin change its hues, Like that aërial child of light? Why does the cloud of night refuse To meet the morn with beams so bright? Why does the man we saw to-day, To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r? All earth can give must pass away-- It was their dying hour!
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, Which seem'd, to fancy's ear, The mournful music of the mind, The echo of a tear; And still methought the hollow sound Which, melting, swept along, The voice of other days had found, With all the powers of song.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue-- Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined, That nought could e'er undo; Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright-- Of joys which fancy gave-- Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light Were darken'd in the grave.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind When all was still as death; When nought was heard before, behind-- Not e'en the sleeper's breath. And I have sat at such an hour And heard the sick man's sigh; Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r, At that lone moment die.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And wept for others' woe; Nor could the heart such music find To bid its tear-drops flow. The melting voice of one we loved, Whose voice was heard no more, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved, Still breathing as before.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead, And felt those movings of the mind Which own a secret dread. The ticking clock, which told the hour, Had then a sadder chime; And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r, Which sung the dirge of time.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Its rudest blasts did rave. Oh! there was something in the sound-- A mournful, melting tone-- Which led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone.
I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. And even when slumber, soft and deep, Has seen the eyelid close, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, Has stray'd till morning rose.
ROBERT DAVIDSON.
Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.
FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.
Adieu! a lang and last adieu, My native Caledonia! For while your shores were in my view, I steadfast gazed upon ye, O! Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold, Fit emblem of your sons of old, Whose valour, more than mines of gold, Has honour'd Caledonia.
I think how happy I could be, To live and die upon ye, O! Though distant many miles from thee, My heart still hovers o'er ye, O! My fancy haunts your mountains steep, Your forests fair, an' valleys deep, Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep To gladden Caledonia.
Still mem'ry turns to where I spent Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O! Though by misfortune from it rent, It 's dearer still than ony, O! In vain I 'm told our vessel hies To fertile fields an' kindly skies; But still they want the charm that ties My heart to Caledonia.
My breast had early learn'd to glow At name of Caledonia; Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe, She never bow'd to ony, O! A land of heroes, famed an' brave-- A land our fathers bled to save, Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave-- Adieu to Caledonia!
ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS.
Ye daisied glens and briery braes, Haunts of my happy early days, Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes And flow'rets fair, Before my heart was scathed wi' waes Or worldly care.
Now recollection's airy train Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain, And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain, Like friends appear, That, lang, lang lost, now found again, Are doubly dear.
But many a dauted object 's fled; Low lies my once paternal shed; Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread The ruin'd heap; Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread, The echoes sleep.
Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams, When warm'd with summer's glowing beams, Have often laved my tender limbs, When my employ Was chasing childhood's airy whims From joy to joy.
Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray, I 've often join'd in cheerful play, Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay, Whose magic art, Remember'd at this distant day, Still warms the heart.
Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost! Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd, By adverse winds and currents cross'd, By watching worn, Some landed on that silent coast, Ne'er to return!
Howe'er the path of life may lie, If poorly low, or proudly high, When scenes of childhood meet our eye, Their charms we own, And yield the tribute of a sigh To days long gone.
TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS.
AIR--_"Auld Langsyne."_
To wander lang in foreign lands, It was my destinie; I joyful was at my return, My native hills to see. My step grew light, my heart grew fain, I thought my cares to tine, Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.
I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh; Likewise the bank aboon the burn, Where broom and hawthorns grew. A lonely tree, whose aged trunk The ivy did entwine, Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met, In cheerful sports langsyne.
I mixèd with the village train, Yet still I seem'd alane; Nae kindly hand did welcome me, For a' my friends were gane. Those friends who oft in foreign lands Did haunt this heart o' mine, And brought to mind the happy days I spent wi' them langsyne.
In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca', I braved the billows' roar; I 've now seen thirty simmer suns Blink on a distant shore; And I have stood where honour call'd, In the embattled line, And there left many gallant lads, The cronies o' langsyne.
I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear, Yet still I fortune blame; I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days, And now I 'm ane at hame. I have nae friend but what my gowd Can draw to mammon's shrine; But how unlike the guileless hearts That wish'd me weel langsyne!
PETER ROGER.
Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792. For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:--
"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man.... He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes' _crack_ with his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds--Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud--whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'
"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts--for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal--you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour to _Picus_ himself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. The _in-door_ entertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air--and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad.
"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits. Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."
LOVELY JEAN.
AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell."_
'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw, An' fair as summer's rosy beam, There 's ane the bonniest o' them a', That dwells by Manor's mountain stream. Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face, An' ilka time new beauties seen; For aye some new discover'd grace Endears to me my lovely Jean.
An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang, When a' alane she gently strays The yellow waving broom amang, That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes-- Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear, Afar in yonder bower sae green, The mavis quits her lay to hear A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.
But it 's no her peerless face nor form, It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear, That keeps my love to her sae warm, An' maks her every day mair dear; It 's just the beauties o' her mind, Her easy, winning, modest mien, Her truth and constancy, which bind My heart and soul to lovely Jean.
JOHN MALCOLM.
John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795. Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign. Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed to _Constable's Magazine_, and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the _Edinburgh Weekly Journal_. In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from his pen, under the title of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of the _Edinburgh Observer_ newspaper, which he held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835.
Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification.
THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.
The music of the night, Upon its lonely flight Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands; That muffled music seems Like voices heard in dreams, Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.
Amid the stillness round, As 'twere the shade of sound, Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones; Such as from trembling wire Of sweet Æolian lyre, With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.
Oh! melting on the ear, What solemn chords are there! The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh; And thine, majestic main! Great Nature's organ strain, Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.
And songs unsung by day-- The nightingale's lone lay. From lady's bower, the lover's serenade; And dirge of hermit-bird From haunts of ruin heard, The only voice that wails above the dead.
To them that sail the deep, When winds have sunk to sleep, The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on; Say, does their mystic hum, So vague and varied, come From distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?
In them might fancy's ear Earth's dying echoes hear, Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods; Or songs of festal halls, Or sound of waterfalls, Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.
Joy breathes in morning song, And happy things among Her choral bowers wake matins of delight; But dearer unto me The dirge-like harmony Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.
THE SEA.
The sea--the deep, deep sea-- That awful mystery! Was there a time of old ere it was born, Or e'er the dawn of light, Coeval with the night-- Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?
Till the Great Spirit's word Its sullen waters heard, And their wild voices, through the void profound, Gave deep responsive roar; But silent never more Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!
Earth's echoes faint and die; Sunk down into a sigh, Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way; And desert silence reigns Upon the mighty plains Where battles' thunders peal'd--and where are they?
But still from age to age Upon its pilgrimage, When many a glorious strain the world hath flown; And while her echoes sleep In darkness, the great deep, Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.
ERSKINE CONOLLY.
Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the _Edinburgh Intelligencer_ of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.
MARY MACNEIL.
AIR--_"Kinloch of Kinloch."_
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel; An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil. A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover, Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal; And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily, That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her; She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill; She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder, To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in', Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal. The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein'; The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel'; The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!
THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.
There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet, When the object of untold affection we meet, But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief, As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.
There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread, When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread; But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne, Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.
There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above, When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love, Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings, The longest, the last of terrestrial things.
GEORGE MENZIES.
George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and editor of the _Woodstock Herald_ newspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty-first year.
Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled, "Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.
THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.
As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, As gay the grove, the vale as green; But, oh! the days that we have seen Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!
Oh! we have often fondly stray'd In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade, And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!
Since then, full many a year and day With me have slowly pass'd away, Far from the braes of Auchinblae, And far from love and thee, Mary!
And we must part again, my dear, It is not mine to linger here; Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear, We meet not here again, Mary!
For on Culloden's bloody field, Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd-- Last night to me it was reveal'd Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!
And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine Upon the heights of Galloquhine, A thousand victims at the shrine Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!
Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come-- I go; but wheresoe'er I roam, With thee my heart remains at home-- Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!
FARE THEE WEEL.
Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie; Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie! Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
By yon starry heavens I vow it! By my love!--(I mayna rue it)-- By this hour in which we sever! I will love but thee for ever.
Should the hand of death arrest me, Think my latest prayer hath blest thee; As the parting pang draws nearer, I will love thee aye the dearer.
Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish-- 'Tis a spark that winna perish; Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
JOHN SIM.
John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown.
Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment.
NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.
AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_
Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side-- Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side-- Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day, Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.
Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side, O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side; Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.
Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side, Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side; And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow, Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.
BONNIE PEGGY.[46]
AIR--_"Bonnie lassie, O."_
Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O! On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O! Where the waters smoothly rin, Far aneath the roarin' linn, Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O! When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O! In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O! And a sky of azure blue, Deck'd with stars of golden hue, Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O! When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O! On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O! We have heard in echoes die, While the wave that rippled by, Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O! Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O! Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast To my beating heart I press'd, Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O! Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O! Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O! Oh! never again, I ween, Will we meet at summer e'en On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O! Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O! As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O! Then with bosom, oh, how light, Had I hail'd the coming night, And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!
[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work, Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song--by the poet Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See Memoir of Mr Lyle, _postea_.)
NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]
_Gaelic Air._
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er-- The war of pride and love; And, Mary, now we meet no more, Unless we meet above.
Too well thou know'st how much I loved! Thou knew'st my hopes how fair! But all these hopes are blighted now, They point but to despair.
Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love, I haste to India's shore; For here how can I longer stay, And call thee mine no more?
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er; And though I still must love, Yet, Mary, here we meet no more, Oh, may we meet above!
[47] This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was attached, and who had agreed to marry him on an improvement in his worldly circumstances. A desire speedily to gain her hand is said to have been the cause of his proceeding to the West Indies. The prediction in the song was sadly realised.
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.
From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"--a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the _Paisley Magazine_, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of the _Paisley Advertiser_, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the _Glasgow Courier_, a more influential journal in the same political interests.
On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. To _The Day_, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson. Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November 1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory.
Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.
JEANIE MORRISON.[48]
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears; They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears; And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson--but My lesson was in thee.
Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skailt at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes-- The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thoughts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang!
Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin o' the wood, The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled--unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me! Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine heart, as it does mine; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, I 've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day.
Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me!
[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now (Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.
WEARIE'S WELL.
In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met, By Wearie's cauld well. We sat on the broom bank, And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn.
The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And the wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour.
We heard and we saw nought, Above or around; We felt that our luve lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on your sweet face Till tears fill'd my e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof-- A warld's wealth to me.
Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the cauld wind is strippin' Ilk leaf aff the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart.
You 've waled out anither Your bridegroom to be; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee? Ye 'll get biggings and mailins, And mony braw claes; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days.
Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last; May thy joys be to come-- Mine live in the past. In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee!
WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.
Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa', Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.
The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day, And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.
Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth! And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e, When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.
I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in; But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie, And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.
I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.
My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e, Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years-- Of hopes that bloom'd to die-- Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan; It stirs some chord of memory, In each dull heavy tone: The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon-- All, all my fond heart cherished, Ere death hath made it lone.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint pensive minstrelsy, Hope's passionate farewell. To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears Start at that parting knell!
HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!
He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, Or the down that is blown By the wind o'er the lea. He is fled--the light-hearted! Yet a tear must have started To his eye when he parted From love-stricken me!
He is fled! he is fled! Like a gallant so free-- Plumed cap on his head, And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers flutter'd, Surely something he mutter'd-- He at least must have utter'd A farewell to me!
He 's away! he 's away! To far lands o'er the sea, And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances Amid thronging lances, Sure he 'll think of the glances That love stole from me!
He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me; For I dream of him ever-- His buff-coat and beaver, And long sword, oh! never Are absent from me!
DAVID MACBETH MOIR.
David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the _Cheap Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_. Soon after the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary _nom de guerre_, the Greek letter Delta ([Greek: Delta]), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chapters to _Blackwood_, and afterwards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled, "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir.
CASA WAPPY.[49]
And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy-- The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth, Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy!
Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony, Casa Wappy!
Thou wert a vision of delight To bless us given; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy!
Thy bright, brief day knew no decline-- 'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy!
Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child! Humbly we bow to fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy!
Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still, A form of light. I feel thy breath upon my cheek, I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, Till, oh! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy!
* * * * *
The nursery shews thy pictured wall, Thy bat, thy bow, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; But where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy!
* * * * *
We mourn for thee when blind, blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee when morn's first light Reddens the hills; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea-- All--to the wallflower and wild pea-- Are changed--we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy!
* * * * *
Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below-- The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and "the busy bee," Return, but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy!
'Tis so! but can it be--(while flowers Revive again)-- Man's doom in death--that we and ours For aye remain? Oh! can it be that o'er the grave The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save? Casa Wappy!
It cannot be; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery--thought were woe, And truth a lie-- Heaven were a coinage of the brain-- Religion frenzy--virtue vain, And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy!
Then be to us, O dear, lost child! With beam of love, A star--death's uncongenial wild-- Smiling above! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy!
Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy, That heaven is God's, and thou art there With him in joy! There past are death and all its woes, There beauty's stream for ever flows, And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy!
Farewell, then--for a while farewell, Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart-- Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy!
[49] This touching elegiac poem (which is not unsuitable for music) was written by Mr Moir on the death of his favourite child, Charles Bell--familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy"--who died in February 1838, at the age of four and a half years.
FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.
Farewell, our fathers' land, Valley and fountain! Farewell, old Scotland's strand, Forest and mountain! Then hush the drum and hush the flute, And be the stirring bagpipe mute-- Such sounds may not with sorrow suit-- And fare thee well, Lochaber!
This plume and plaid no more will see, Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee, Nor even the broadswords which Dundee Bade flash at Killiecrankie. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Now when of yore, on bank and brae, Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay; Far downward scowls Bennevis gray, On sheep-walks spreading lonely. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
For now we cross the stormy sea, Ah! never more to look on thee, Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free, From Etive glens to Morven. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe; The household sword shall eat the sheath, While rave the wild winds o'er the heath Where our gray sires are sleeping. Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
HEIGH-HO!
A pretty young maiden sat on the grass-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- And by a blithe young shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, "My lass, will you go with me, My cot to keep and my bride to be; Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely?"
"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- And bashfully turn'd aside her head, On that summer morning so early. "My mother is old, my mother is frail, Our cottage it lies in yon green dale; I dare not list to any such tale, For I love my kind mother rarely."
The shepherd took her lily-white hand-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave Alone in her frail old age to grieve; But my home can hold us all, believe-- Will that not please thee fairly?"
"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"-- Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!-- "I dare not list to a young man's tongue, On a summer morning so early." But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent; Oft she strove to go, but she never went; And at length she fondly blush'd consent-- Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.
ROBERT FRASER.
Robert Fraser was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the 24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was prosperous in merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed both in prose and verse to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and other periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, when he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His "Poetical Remains," with a memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable power.
OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, How weel I canna tell; Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd, Lang ere I wist mysel'. At the school amang the lave, If I wrestled or I ran, I cared na' for the prize, If she saw me when I wan.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, When thae gleesome days were gane; 'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude, To match her saw I nane. Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam, Wi' its cumber an' its toil, My day-tide dool was a' forgot, In her blithe e'enin' smile.
Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain; An' though mony cam to woo, Wha to won her wad been fain, Yet to me she aye was true. She grat wi' very joy When our waddin' day was set; An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled, She 's my darling lassie yet.
JAMES HISLOP.
James Hislop, a short-lived poet of considerable promise, was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798. Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety and worth, he taught himself to read. When little more than a child, he became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his birth-place. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling, which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he became a shepherd and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II. and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of poetry; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of "The Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of indiscriminate reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble pastoral associates; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to the _Edinburgh Magazine_, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been interested by his poetry.
The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed "The Cameronian's Dream," which appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for February 1821, and attracted much attention. He now commenced teaching in Edinburgh; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to mental improvement; and on his return from a three years' cruise along the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the _Edinburgh Magazine_, a series of papers, under the title of "Letters from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In 1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and J. G. Lockhart. For some time, he reported to one of the London newspapers; but this employment proving uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London--an office which, at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the "Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands, Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop, proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.
Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character, Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of "The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of his country.
THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.
In a dream of the night, I was wafted away To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood, And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.
And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud, The song of the lark was melodious and loud; And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep, Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings-- Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings-- And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd, But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed; With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of salvation.
The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing; But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter, As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling, As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended; Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining; And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding; Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye-- A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!
HOW SWEET THE DEWY BELL IS SPREAD.
How sweet the dewy bell is spread Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin' The heathery locks o' deepenin' red, Around the mountain brow aye wavin'! Here, on the sunny mountain side, Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither; Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed, Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.
Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid, Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye; And now, aneath my tartan plaid, How blest I lie wi' you aside me! And art thou happy--dearest, speak-- Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie? Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek, Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.
The saftness o' the gentle dove, Its eyes in dying sweetness closin', Is like thae languid eyes o' love, Sae fondly on my heart reposin'. When simmer suns the flowers expand, In a' their silken beauties shinin', They 're no sae saft as thy white hand, Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.
While thus, aneath my tartan plaid, Sae warmly to my lips I press ye; That hinnied bloom o' dewy red Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie! Reclined on love's soft crimson bed, Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither; Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread, How happy, happy 'mang the heather!
ROBERT GILFILLAN.
A respectable contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith; and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the office of Collector of Poor's-rates in Leith, and continued to hold this appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December 1850, in his fifty-second year.
A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music, and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for graceful simplicity.
MANOR BRAES.
TUNE--_"Logan Water."_
Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear, And Castlehill's white wa's appear, I spent ae day, aboon a' days, By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. The purple heath was just in bloom, And bonnie waved the upland broom, The flocks on flowery braes lay still, Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.
'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose, Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, I met a maiden fair to see, Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e; Her beauty to the mind did bring A morn where summer blends wi' spring, So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 'Twas bliss to look--to linger there!
Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm, Wi' love to win and sense to charm, So much of nature, nought of art, She 'll live enthroned within my heart! Aboon her head the laverock sang, And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang; Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays, By Manor stream an' Manor braes.
I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care? She said her heart frae love was free, But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e. The parting cam, as partings come, Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb; Yet I 'll return, ere many days, To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.
FARE THEE WELL.
TUNE--_"Roy's Wife."_
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee; But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine--believe me!
We part--but by those dew-drops clear, My love for thee will last for ever; I leave thee--but thy image dear, Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. Fare thee well, &c.
Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow-- One farewell smile before we sever; The only balm for parting woe Is--fondly hope 'tis not for ever. Fare thee well, &c.
Though dark and dreary lowers the night, Calm and serene may be the morrow; The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright, Without some mingling drops of sorrow! Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine--believe me!
THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.
'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne-- 'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom, Art thou here to assure us that summer is come? The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon), Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky, The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.
Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay, But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away; And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair-- Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.
THE EXILE'S SONG.
TUNE--_"My ain Countrie."_
Oh! why left I my hame, Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea; But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn; For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie, But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie!
There 's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There 's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!
THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.
Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky; An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw, When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?
They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears; Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine, For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.
I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, For the blithe happy days that never can return; When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue, An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.
Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet, Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet; The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.
Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain-- There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain; Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee! The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.
'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sall never see; Yet oh! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me! I thought we sat beside the burn That wimples down the flowery glen, Where, in our early days o' love, We met that ne'er sall meet again.
The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave, And gladden'd wi' his parting ray The woodland wild and valley green, Fast fading into gloamin' gray. He talk'd of days o' future joy, And yet my heart was haflins sair; For when his eye it beam'd on me, A withering death-like glance was there!
I thought him dead, and then I thought That life was young and love was free; For o'er our heads the mavis sang, And hameward hied the janty bee! We pledged our love and plighted troth, But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave; When, starting from my dream, I found His troth was plighted to the grave!
I canna weep, for hope is fled, And nought would do but silent mourn, Were 't no for dreams that should na come, To whisper back my love's return. 'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sall never see; Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me!
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
WILLIAM ROSS.
William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (_uisg-bea_) in several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to the too susceptible poet.
THE HIGHLAND MAY.