Part 11

The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended reputation.

SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves, And the tempest around me is swelling; The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves, And the waves from their rocky dwelling; But my trim-built bark O'er the waters dark Bounds lightly along, And the mermaid lists to my echoing song. Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep, And the storm-bird above me is screaming; While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep The lightning is fearfully gleaming; But onward I dash, For the fitful flash Illumes me along, And the thunders chorus my echoing song. Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me; But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me; Then I, a true child Of the ocean wild, With a tuneful tongue Bear away with my prize and my conquering song. Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave-- I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!

I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home-- The home of the hurrying billow; But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam, But in peace lay me down on its pillow: The petrel will scream My requiem hymn, And the thunders prolong The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song, As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.

BOATMAN'S SONG.

Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea, The home of the rover, the bold and free; Land hath its charms, but those be mine, To row my boat through the sparkling brine-- To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow Of the bounding thing as we onward go-- To nerve the arm and bend the oar, Bearing away from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine: Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.

Gloomily creeping the mists appear In denser shade on the mountains drear; And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep, By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep; Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest, To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast; But all is still, save the lisping waves Washing the shells in the distant caves. Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me-- 'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove! Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.

Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar, And I love the splash of the bending oar, Playing amid the phosphoric fire, Seen as the eddying sparks retire. 'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam. The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more; Then away let us row from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea-- 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me; 'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free: Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.

LISETTE.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let the sun be sunk to rest Beneath the glowing wavelets Of the widely spreading west; Let half the world be hush'd In the drowsiness of sleep, And howlets scream the music Of the revels that they keep.

Let the gentle lady-moon, With her coldly drooping beams, Be dancing in the ripple Of the ever-laughing streams, Where the little elves disport In the stilly noon of night, And lave their limbs of ether In the mellow flood of light.

When we meet again, Lisette, Let it be in yonder pile, Beneath the massy fretting Of its darkly-shaded aisle, Where, through the crumbling arches The quaint old carvings loom, And saint and seraph keep their watch O'er many an ancient tomb.

ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.

Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor, with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals. At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled _The Rural Echo_, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant civil engineer.

THINGS MUST MEND.

The gloom of dark despondency At times will cloud the breast; Hope's eagle eye may shaded be, 'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd; But while we nurse an honest aim We shall not break nor bend, For when things are at the worst They must mend.

The gentle heart by hardship crush'd Will sing amid its tears, And though its voice awhile be hush'd, 'Tis tuned for coming years; A light from out the future shines With hope's tear-drops to blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

Amid life's danger and despair Still let our deeds be true, For nought but what is right and fair Can heal our hopeless view. The beautiful will soothe us, like The sunshine of a friend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

Oh, never leave life's morning dream, 'Tis whisper'd down from heaven, But trace its maze, though sorrow seem The sole reward that 's given; The joy is there, or not on earth, Which with our souls may blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend.

THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR.

Life's pleasure seems sadness and care, When dark is the bosom that feels, Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair Is the ray which our sorrow reveals; Though darkly at times flows the stream, It rows till its waters are clear-- And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

Afar in the wilderness blooms The flower that spreads beauty around, And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs And softens with balm every wound. Oh, call not our life sad nor vain, Wi' its joys that can ever endear, There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain, Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.

Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe And fair is the lone desert isle; Young Flora peeps gay from the snow; And dearest in grief is a smile; The dew-drop is bright with a star; Age glows when young memories appear; But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far Is the wee blink that shines in a tear.

FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.

Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved, When my wild heart was careless and free, But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved, Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me. Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves, Like songs of the dear olden time; Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast Of the home and the friends that were mine, In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest, Nor deem'd it should ever repine. I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been, And the spell brings the dear olden time When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see, I treasure a life all my own, And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee, For like thine half its beauty hath flown. I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again, And snatch back the dear olden time, When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain, Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!

JAMES MACFARLAN.

A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and "The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical _brochure_, entitled, "The Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.

Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the Glasgow Athenaeum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with the _Bulletin_, a daily journal published in Glasgow.

ISABELLE.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy voice is music of the heart-- Thy looks are rarest light! What time the silver dawn of dreams Lights up the dark of sleep, As yon pale moon lights up the heaven With beauty clear and deep, I see thee in the ebbing stars, I hear quaint voices swell, And dim and phantom winds that come And whisper, Isabelle.

Oh, beautiful and bright thou art! Oh, beautiful and bright! Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart, Like rich star-crowded night. As moonbeams silver on the wave Of some night-sadden'd river, So on my lonesome life thy love Would lie in light for ever. Yet wander on--oh, wander on, Cold river, to the sea, And, weary life, _thy_ ocean gain-- Undream'd eternity.

In vain the cruel curse of earth Hath torn our lives apart; The man-made barriers of gold Weigh down the humble heart. Oh, hadst thou been a village maid-- A simple wayside flower-- With nought to boast, save honest worth, And beauty all thy dower! Such might have been--such _should_ have been, But other lot befell; I am the lowly son of toil, And thou proud Isabelle.

It ever seems to me that love Should level all degrees; Pure honour, and a stainless heart Are Nature's heraldries. No scutcheon needs a noble soul (Alas! how thinks the age?); He is not poor who freedom hath For his broad heritage. Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil; Vain dreams of youth, farewell; The future hath its duty's prize-- The past, its Isabelle.

HOUSEHOLD GODS.

Built on Time's uneven sand, Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd; Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's hand Torn in wandering leaves are scatter'd. Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd, Old affections fondly cherish'd.

All our blossoms wither soon, While we dream the flower will strengthen, And across life's summer noon Death's dark shadow seems to lengthen. In that mighty shadow perish'd All we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.

Dear ones loved are lost in night; O'er the world we wander lonely, And the heart of all youth's light Holds one fading sunbeam only. Old affections vainly cherish'd, All except the memory perish'd.

POOR COMPANIONS.

Look up, old friend! why hang thy head? The world is all before us. Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet, Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us. Spring leans to us across the sea With affluent caressing, And autumn yet shall crown our toil With many a fruitful blessing. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, but we shall sing And journey on together.

You mourn that we are born so poor-- I would not change our treasure For all the thorn-concealing flowers That strew the path of pleasure. God only searches for the soul, Nor heeds the outward building; Believe me, friend, a noble heart Requires no aid of gilding. Then never let us pine in spring, We 've braved out wintry weather, We yet may touch a sweeter string When toiling on together.

What though our blood be tinged with mud, My lord's is simply purer; 'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make His seat in heaven surer. But should the noble deign to speak, We 'll hail him as a brother, And trace respective pedigrees To Eve, our common mother. Then why should we despair in spring, Who braved out wintry weather? Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing, And journey on together.

WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.

A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh. During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.

Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] See "Minstrel," vol. iv. p. 1.

LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]

No more by thy margin, dark Carron, Shall Wallace in solitude, wander, When tranquil the moon shines afar on Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur. For lost are to me Thy beauties for ever, Since fallen in thee Lie the faithful and free, To waken, ah, never!

And I, thus defeated, must suffer My country's reproach; yet, forsaken, A home to me nature may offer Among her green forests of braken. But home who can find For heart-rending sorrow? The wound who can bind When thus pierced is the mind By fate's ruthless arrow?

'Tis death that alone ever frees us Of woes too profound to be spoken, And nought but the grave ever eases The pangs of a heart that is broken. Then, oh! that my blood In Carron's dark water Had mix'd with the flood Of the warriors' shed 'Mid torrents of slaughter.

For woe to the day when desponding I read in thine aspect the story Of those that were slain when defending Their homes and their mountains of glory. And curst be the guile Of treacherous knavery That throws o'er our isle In its tyranny vile The mantle of slavery.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.

OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]

Oh! what is in this flaunting town That pleasure can impart, When native hills and native glens Are imaged on the heart, And fancy hears the ceaseless roar Of cataracts sublime, Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er The awful works of time?

What, what is all the city din? What all the bustling crowd That throngs these ways from morn to night Array'd in trappings proud? While fancy's eye still sees the scenes Around my mountain home, Oh! what 's to me yon turret high. And what yon splendid dome?

Ah! what except a mockery vain Of nature free as fair, That dazzles rather than delights The eye that meets its glare? Then bear me to the heathy hills Where I so loved to stray, There let me rove with footsteps free And sing the rural lay.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Composed at the age of fifteen.

MARGARET CRAWFORD.

The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of the _gloamin'_, when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and assumed the form in which they now appear."

MY NATIVE LAND.

My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand, In ancient Caledonia! How dear to me those gurgling rills That wander free amang the hills! How sweet to me the sang that fills The groves o' Caledonia!

They tell me o' a distant isle Where summer suns for ever smile; But frae my heart they 'll never wile My love for Caledonia! And what are a' their flowery plains, If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains? Nae foot o' slavery ever stains My native Caledonia!

Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes, Oh, let me spend my latest days In ancient Caledonia! My native land! my native land! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand-- True sons of Caledonia!

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness-- Far from my dear native country I roam; Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.

Far from the home of my childhood I wander, Far from the friends I may never meet more; Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder-- Visions that memory alone can restore.

Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever-- Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart; Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever, Affection and friendship can never depart.

Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness-- Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain! Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness? When shall I visit my country again?

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

Down by a crystal stream Musing I stray'd, As 'neath the summer beam Lightly it play'd, Winding by field and fen, Mountain and meadow, then Stealing through wood and glen, Soft'ning the shade.

Thus, then, methought, is life; Onward it flows-- Now mingling peace with strife, Toil with repose-- Now sparkling joyously Under the glare of day, Drinking each sunny ray, Purely it flows.

Now gliding peacefully, Calm and serene, Smoothly it takes its way, Softly I ween Murmur its waters past-- Oh, will that stillness last? See, rocks are nearing fast, Changing the scene.

Wildly it dashes now, Loudly it roars, Over the craggy brow Fiercely it pours. All in commotion lost, Wave over wave is toss'd; Spray, white as winter's frost, Up from it soars.

Yet where the conflict 's worst Brightest it gleams; Rays long in silence nursed Shoot forth in streams: Beauties before unknown Out from its breast are thrown; Light, like a golden zone, Brilliantly beams.

Thus in the Christian's breast Pure faith may lie, Hid in the day of rest Deep from the eye; But when life's shadows lower Faith lights the darkest hour, Driving, by heavenly power, Gloom from the sky.

DAY-DREAMS OF OTHER YEARS.

There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, And time long, long departed, like the present still appears; And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours, When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.

O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight! Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright; They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace, Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.

Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms, All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms-- Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth, When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.

Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still-- Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill; Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land-- Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!

Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow, And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now; We are tasting life in earnest--all its vain illusions gone-- And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.

Some are sleeping with their kindred--summer blossoms o'er them wave; Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave; While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore, And that happy, loving company shall meet--ah! never more.