Part 5

William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to the _Dumfries Courier_, edited by the ingenious John M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _Dumfries Magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826, he became editor of the _Glasgow Free Press_, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established the _Glasgow Constitutional_, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;" and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.

Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.

BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.

Blest be the hour of night, When, his toils over, The swain, with a heart so light, Meets with his lover! Sweet the moon gilds their path, Arm in arm straying; Clouds never rise in wrath, Chiding their staying.

Gently they whisper low: Unseen beside them, Good angels watch, that no Ill may betide them. Silence is everywhere, Save when the sighing Is heard, of the breeze's fall, Fitfully dying.

How the maid's bosom glows, While her swain 's telling The love, that 's been long, she knows, In his heart swelling! How, when his arms are thrown Tenderly round her, Fears she, in words to own What he hath found her!

When the first peep of dawn Warns them of parting, And from each dewy lawn Blythe birds are starting, Fondly she hears her swain Vow, though they sever, Soon they shall meet again, Mated for ever.

THE ROSE OF BEAUTY.

Amang the breezy heights and howes Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly, A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows, A Rose I lo'e most dearly.

Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun How blooms my Rose divinely! And lang ere blaws the winter wun', This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.

May heaven's dew aye freshly weet My Rose at ilka gloamin', And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet Be near it ever roamin'!

I soon shall buy a snug wee cot, And hae my Rose brought thither; And then, in that lowne sunny spot, We'll bloom and fade thegither.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] A beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the Annan, between Ecclefechan and Lockerbie.

I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE.

I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark Hath borne thee far across the deep; And, as the sky is bright or dark, 'Twill be my fate to smile or weep; For oh, when winds and waters keep In trust so dear a charge as thee, My anxious fears can never sleep Till thou again art safe with me!

I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour Of twilight comes, with pensive mood, And silence, like a spell of power, Rests, in its depth, on field and wood; And as the mingling shadows brood Still closer o'er the lonely sea, Here, on the beach where first we woo'd, I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.

Then haply on the breeze's wing, That to me steals across the wave, Some angel's voice may answer bring That list'ning heaven consents to save. And oh, the further boon I crave Perchance may also granted be, That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave The wanderer's perils on the sea!

THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.

There 's music in a mother's voice, More sweet than breezes sighing; There 's kindness in a mother's glance, Too pure for ever dying.

There 's love within a mother's breast, So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing, And for her own a tender care, That 's ever, ever growing.

And when a mother kneels to heaven, And for her child is praying, Oh, who shall half the fervour tell That burns in all she 's saying!

A mother, when she, like a star, Sets into heaven before us, From that bright home of love, all pure, Still minds and watches o'er us.

THE BRIG OF ALLAN.

Come, memory, paint, though far away, The wimpling stream, the broomy brae, The upland wood, the hill-top gray, Whereon the sky seems fallin'; Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row Of shelter'd cots, the woods below, Where Airthrie's healing waters flow By bonny Brig of Allan.

Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime, The Roman eagles could not climb, And Stirling, crown'd in after time With Royalty's proud dwallin'; These, with the Ochils, sentry keep, Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep, Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep At bonny Brig of Allan.

Oh, lovely, when the rising sun Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun, And silver Forth's calm breast upon The golden beams are fallin'! Then, trotting down to join his flood, Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood, How bright, in morning's joyous mood, Appears the stream of Allan!

Upon its banks how sweet to stray, With rod and line, the livelong day, Or trace each rural charm, away From cark of every callin'! There dove-like, o'er my path would brood The spirit pure of solitude; For native each rapt, genial mood Is to the beauteous Allan.

Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright As is its cloudless summer light, Be still its maids, the soul's delight Of every truthful callan'! Be health around it ever spread, To light the eye, to lift the head, And joy on every heart be shed That beats by Brig of Allan!

GEORGE OUTRAM.

The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _Glasgow Herald_, and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the 16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.

Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.

CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY.[7]

AIR--_"Duncan Davidson."_

I gaed to spend a week in Fife, An unco week it proved to be, For there I met a waesome wife, Lamenting her viduity. Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell; And, I was sae left to mysel, I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh, She just was turned o' saxty-three; I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane; The auld wife 's growing young again Since she got her annuity.

She 's crined awa to bane an' skin, But that it seems is nought to me; She 's like to live, although she 's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums, But comes--as sure as Christmas comes-- To ca' for her annuity.

She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack, As spunkie as a growin' flea; An' there she sits upon my back A livin' perpetuity. She hurkles by her ingle side, An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide; Lord kens how lang she yet may bide To ca' for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi' care For an Insurance Company; Her chance o' life was stated there Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here, or tables there, She 's lived ten years beyond her share; An 's like to live a dozen mair To ca' for her annuity.

I gat the loon that drew the deed, We spell'd it ower richt carefully; In vain he yerk'd his souple head To find an ambiguity. It 's dated, tested, a' complete; The proper stamp, nae word delete; And diligence, as on decreet, May pass for her annuity.

* * * * *

I thought that grief might gar her quit, Her only son was lost at sea; But aff her wits behuved to flit An' leave her in fatuity. She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet For a' the tellin' she can get; But catch the doited wife forget To ca' for her annuity.

If there 's a sough o' cholera Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she! She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity! She doesna need--she's fever proof-- The pest walked o'er her very roof; She tauld me sae, and then her loof Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell, her arm she brak, A compound fracture as could be; Nae leech the cure wad undertak, Whate'er was the gratuity. It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail, It does as weel in bits as hale; But I 'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesh and banes can be, She beats the taeds that live in stanes An' fatten in vacuity! They die when they 're exposed to air, They canna thole the atmosphere; But her! expose her onywhere, She lives for her annuity.

* * * * *

The water-drap wears out the rock As this eternal jade wears me; I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It 's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me evermair; I 'll gang demented wi' despair; I 'm _charged_ for her annuity.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This facetious composition, in the original form, extends to considerably greater length.

HENRY INGLIS.

Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire. Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published "Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work, entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.

The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on the field of Preston in 1745.

WEEP AWAY.

Weep away, heart, weep away! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid.

The lofty sky weeps in cloud, The earth weeps in dews From its core; The diamond brooks weep aloud, The flowers change the hues Which they wore.

The grass mourns in the sunbeam, In gums weep the trees And in dye; And if mourn meadow and stream-- Inanimate these-- May not I?

The wood-pigeon mourns his mate, The caged birds bewail Freedom gone; Shall not man mourn over fate? Dumb sorrow assail Him alone?

Then weep on, heart, weep away! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid.

JAMES MANSON.

James Manson, one of the conductors of the _Glasgow Herald_, has composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year 1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he wrought industriously during a course of years.

OCEAN.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

ON SHORE--CALM.

Summer Ocean, Placid Ocean, Soft and sweet thy lullaby; Shadows lightly, Sunbeams brightly, Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.

Resting gently on thy bosom, Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings, While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom, Float around the strain the skylark sings.

Love's emotion, Summer Ocean, Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies, Glances brightly, Dances lightly Till the fond illusion flies.

AT SEA--STORM.

Winter Ocean, Furious Ocean, Fierce and loud thy choral lay: Storm-clouds soaring, Whirlwinds roaring O'er thy breast in madness play.

Homeless petrels shriek their omen Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar; Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.

War's commotion, Winter Ocean, Like thyself, when tempest driven, By passion hurl'd, Would wreck the world, And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.

THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

_Set to Music by Herr Kuecken._

When loud the horn is sounding Along the distant hills, Then would I rove, ne'er weary, The Hunter's Daughter near me, By flowery margin'd rills.

'Mid stately pines embosom'd There stands the Hunter's cot, From which this maiden daily At morning peeps so gaily, Contented with her lot.

This Hunter and his Daughter Make everything their prey; He slays the wild roe bounding, Her eyes young hearts are wounding-- No shafts so sure as they!

AN INVITATION.

_Music arranged by Julius Siligmann._

The skylark sings his matin lay, The waking flowers at dawning day, With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Hark, the wing'd warblers singing, Come with me; Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging, Wait for thee!

The sunlight sleeps upon the lea, And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea, The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me-- Come and gather luscious berries, Come with me; Clustering grapes and melting cherries Wait for thee!

My bird of love, my beauteous flower, Come, reign the queen of yonder bower, 'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, then, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Life's first fairest hours are fleeting-- Come with me; Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting Wait for thee!

CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose, (_Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._) With fond delight his bosom glows, (_How softly fall the flakes of snow._) Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips, Then nearer to the Rose he trips; (_The stately oak will soon lie low._)

Young Love was fond and bashful too, (_Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._) He sigh'd and knew not what to do; (_Life like an arrow flies away._) Then whispering low his cherish'd wish, The Rose-bud trembled on her bush, While redder grew her maiden blush; (_Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._)

To pull this Rose young Love then tried; (_'Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._) Her blush of hope she strove to hide; (_Joy soars aloft on painted wing._) Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast, He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest; (_'Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._)

ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.

TUNE--_"The Brave Old Oak."_

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, And joyous songs abound; Our log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round. The merry laugh, and the jocund tale, And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe, Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale That wreaths the new fallen snow. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright, And joyous thoughts abound; The log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire Forgets his weight of years; He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire Beams through his unbidden tears. With tremulous tenor he joins the strain-- The song of his manhood's prime; For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again, While his aged head nods time. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart Beats high with a new delight, And youths and maidens, with guileless art, Make merry the livelong night. The time flies on with gladsome cheer, And welcomes pass around-- 'Tis the warmest night of all the year, Though winter hath chain'd the ground. 'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

JAMES HEDDERWICK.

James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the _Scotsman_ newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the _Scotsman_, were copied into _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these, entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer in _Fraser's Magazine_. Others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry." In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the _Glasgow Citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation.

MY BARK AT SEA.

Away, away, like a child at play, Like a living ocean-child, Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way To the billows' music wild; The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground, And the waves around her leap, As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound, She dances o'er the deep!

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast, She lies with folded wing, But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd, She moves a joyous thing! And away she flies all gleaming bright, While a wave in lofty pride, Like a gallant knight, in plumage white, Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath, And she wanders bold and free, And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath Are her mighty minstrelsy! A queen the crested waves among, A light and graceful form, She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song, Like the genius of the storm!

SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song, And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne Ere they gush in whiteness; Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers When in tears they waken; Earth enjoys refreshing showers When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought In its deepest waters; From the darkest mines are brought Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock Limpid water breaketh; 'Tis but when the chords are struck That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd, All their sweets surrender; Gold must brook the fiery test Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp, Gloom and silence bringeth, Then the glow-worm lights its lamp, And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud Draws as Daylight fainteth; Only on the tearful cloud God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances; Sorrow is the source of song And of gentle fancies.

THE LAND FOR ME.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep When the wind had died away, And like an Ocean-god asleep The bark majestic lay; But lovelier is the varied scene, The hill, the lake, the tree, When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen; The land! the land! for me.

The glancing waves I 've glided o'er When gently blew the breeze; But sweeter was the distant shore, The zephyr 'mong the trees. The murmur of the mountain rill, The blossoms waving free, The song of birds on every hill; The land! the land! for me.

The billows I have been among When they roll'd in mountains dark, And Night her blackest curtain hung Around our heaving bark; But give me, when the storm is fierce, My home and fireside glee, Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; The land! the land! for me.

And when around the lightning flash'd I 've been upon the deep, And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd Adown the liquid steep; But now that I am safe on shore, There let me ever be; The sea let others wander o'er; The land! the land! for me.

THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, And eerie the face of the fast-falling night, But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish! We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark; Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river, Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; From kindred and friends they had parted for ever, But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking; We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers, But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking, A past of delight and a future of tears.

And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze, On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell, Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas, And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy, As we shut out the night and its darkness once more; But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy, Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.